synopsis: A winter getaway was supposed to be a relaxing break, but a room mix-up leaves you sharing a small room with your ex. Between the mountain air and the shared space, the distance you spent seven months creating starts to crumble before the weekend is even over.
The blue light of your phone screen was the only thing illuminating your bedroom as you stared at the Winter trip! RSVP list for the tenth time. It was a minimalist app Nanami had insisted on using, and it was currently the bane of your existence.
Everyone was marked in green. Nanami, Geto, Shoko, and Haibara. They had all confirmed their rides and their grocery contributions. But there was the final name at the bottom of the list.
Gojo Satoru. Status: Undecided.
You bit your lip, thumb hovering over the screen. It had been seven months. Seven months of untangling your life from his, of learning how to sleep in the middle of the bed again, of ignoring the headlines when his firm made another billion. You were doing fine. You swear. But your hands said differently.
They scrambled to open your messages with Shoko.
you: hey is satoru gonna go on the trip? the stupid app says heâs still undecided
shoko-pie: honestly? no clue. heâs been in london for meetings & he hasnât replied to us in days. knowing him he probably forgot the password to the app
you: i really dont want to ruin the trip if heâs going⊠i can just sit this one out
shoko-pie: donât be boring >:( heâs probably 4,000 miles away & even if he does decide to come, heâll be late and probably stay at a hotel because heâs a snob and u know it. just come!!! i need someone to help me drink this case of wine
You took a breath. He hasnât decided. In Satoru-speak, that usually meant he had something better to do. After an eternity, you tapped the green check mark and deleted the app, desperate for some relief from the stress.
The drive to the mountains was supposed to be relieving. But as the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks and the snow began to smear the windshield into a blurry mess of white, the drive felt more like an isolation ward. The GPS led you deeper into the woods, down a gravel driveway that ended at a sprawling, cabin-style house that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.
You parked, grabbed your bags, and ran for the porch to escape the snowstorm. Inside, the house was alive. The smell of steak and expensive wine hit you first. You heard Haibaraâs boisterous laughter and the rhythmic thrum of a playlist.
"I made it!" you called out, kicking your shoes off by the door. "And I brought the good vodka."
"In the kitchen!" Shokoâs voice drifted out.
You rounded the corner, a smile already forming on your face, ready to drop your bags and melt into the safety of your friends. But the smile died before it could fully form. Standing at the kitchen island, a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass of water in the other, was Satoru.
He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in a black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows; his hair was a mess, white strands sticking up in every direction, like heâd been running his hands through it. He looked up as you entered. For the first time in your life, you saw Satoru look utterly blindsided.
He choked on his water, coughing as he slammed the glass onto the marble counter.
"Youâre here?" he gasped, his blue eyes wide and darting toward Shoko, then back to you.Â
"Youâre here? You didnât even RSVP!" you snapped, the shock finally giving way to a prickling flare of anger. You turned to Shoko, who was leaning against the fridge, looking entirely too relaxed. "Shoko. You said he was going to be in London."
"He was," Shoko said, tilting her head toward Satoru. "Then he took a private jet because he missed the mountain air. He showed up like thirty minutes ago. Don't look at me, I didnât know either."
"I checked the app before I boarded!" Satoru defended, his voice hitting that defensive pitch that always came out when he was caught off guard. "It didn't update. I thought I was safe."
"Safe?" You dropped your bag with a heavy thud.
"Well, you're both here now," Nanamiâs voice cut through the tension as he walked in, looking exhausted. "And unfortunately, because you both were the last to arrive and everyone else has already unpacked, youâre the only ones left for the loft."
Your heart did a painful somersault. "The loft?"
"The house is overbooked," Nanami said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There are four bedrooms. Three are taken. Shoko has the fourth. But, thereâs a finished loft upstairs with a king bed. It was supposed to be for one of you. Now, apparently, itâs for both of you."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Satoru looked at the ceiling, then at you, then at his beer.
"I can sleep on the couch," Satoru muttered. He didnât look at you when he said it. He was focused on the label of his beer, picking at the corner with his thumb. It was a classic Satoru move, offering a sacrifice that sounded noble but was practically a dare. He wanted you to tell him no.
"Good," you said immediately, your voice clipping the end of his sentence. "Because I'm taking the bed."
Satoru finally looked up, his eyebrows arching. Heâd expected a fight, or at least a polite are you sure?
"Right," he said, a slightly forced smirk spreading across his face. "The couch it is. I'll just⊠You know⊠Fold myself into a crane or something. It'll be a fun challenge."
"Satoru," Nanami interrupted, his voice like a cold splash of logic. "The couch in the loft is a mid-century loveseat. Itâs barely five feet long. Your legs are basically the length of the entire thing."
"I'm very flexible, Nanami," Satoru chirped, though the bravado felt a little thinner than usual. He glanced at you, his blue eyes searching yours for a hint of softening. "Unless you're worried I'll get a cramp and have to scream for help in the middle of the night?"
"Iâm worried you're going to spend the whole weekend sighing loudly so everyone knows how uncomfortable you are," you countered, crossing your arms. "But that's your problem. Iâm not sharing a bed with you."
Shoko cleared her throat.
"Well, now that the seating chart is settled," she said dryly, "let's eat. I didn't spend three hours on this spread to watch it get cold while you two play chicken."
The dining table was a polished slab of oak that seemed to stretch for miles, even though Satoru was sitting directly across from you. The air in the cabin was warm, smelling of roasted garlic and the expensive wine Shoko had been pouring with a heavy hand, but to you, the air had felt thin. Oxygen was hard to come by when every breath felt like it was being shared with him.
You kept your eyes on your plate, tracing the ceramic pattern with your fork. You didn't trust yourself to speak. If you opened your mouth, you weren't sure if a sob or a scream would come out, so you settled for a practiced silence.
"So, Satoru," Geto chirped, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting beneath the table. "How was the London trip? Did you actually do any work, or did you just spend the whole time playing tourist?"
"Work, unfortunately," Satoru replied. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its typical theatricality. "Meetings, contracts, the usual boring stuff."
"It couldn't have been that boring," Nanami interjected, his voice calm and clinical as he cut a piece of steak. "You seemed fairly distracted when we had dinner last month. I assume it was that woman you were seeing? The architect?"
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
The architect. The words echoed in your mind, loud and distorted. You felt a cold, prickling sensation crawl up the back of your neck. You didn't look up, but you could feel Satoruâs gaze snap to you, then away, his silhouette tensing in your peripheral vision.
Of course, heâs seeing someone. You were exes; heâs allowed to see other people. Itâs been months. Heâs Satoru Gojo. He doesn't sit in empty apartments and wonder why the silence is so loud. He fills the space. He moves on. He finds an architect. You pictured her, someone with clean lines and a logical mind. Someone who didn't fight him about how he pushed people away.Â
"It was just a few dinners, Nanami," Satoru said, and you could hear the subtle edge of a warning in his tone. "Nothing worth mentioning."
"You mentioned her plenty at the time," Nanami said, entirely without malice. He was just stating facts, his mind already moving on to the next topic. "You said it was nice to be with someone who didn't know your history. You know, a fresh start."
A fresh start. You wished the wine in your glass were poison, but when you lifted it to your lips, it betrayed you by tasting like nothing more than wine. You felt Shokoâs eyes on the side of your face, the perceptive gaze that saw through every one of your defenses, but you refused to crumble. You stared at a small knot in the wood of the table, memorizing its shape, its grain, anything to keep from looking at him.
You wondered if he took the architect to that Italian place. The one with the dim lighting where heâd first told you he loved you. Or maybe he was smarter than that. Maybe he was building a whole new world where you didn't exist as a ghost, or even as a mere memory.
"The food is great, Shoko," you finally said, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. It was the first thing youâd said in ten minutes.
"Glad you like it," Shoko replied, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She knew. They all knew. The silence that followed was heavy with the collective realization that a wound reopened without anyone meaning to touch it.
You fled upstairs under the guise of exhaustion, the wooden steps creaking under your feet like a countdown. After you got ready for bed, the loft settled into a silence that felt unbearable. The skylight showed a world of black and gray, snow falling against the glass in a frantic pulse.
You heard him coming up the stairs a few minutes later. You didn't turn around. You stood by the sliding door, watching a single snowflake race down the glass. Satoru entered the room, and the space immediately felt half its size. He didn't say anything. He went straight to the small loveseat in the corner. You heard the rustle of his bag, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor.
"You're not going to fit on that," you said, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.
"I'll manage," he said. He sounded tired. Not the tiredness that comes after a long flight, but the bone-deep weariness of a man who was tired of his own skin.
You finally turned. He was sitting on the tiny sofa, his knees nearly hitting his chest, his long arms draped awkwardly over the sides. He looked absurd. He looked like a giant calico critter in a minuscule dollhouse. You climbed into the bed, the sheets cold against your skin. You rolled onto your side, facing the glass door, putting your back to him. The silence was so thick you could almost hear the thoughts racing in his head. Or maybe they were yours.
Creak. He shifted his weight. Thud. His heels hit the floor as he tried to find a place for his legs. Sigh. A shaky exhale that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the mattress. You gripped the edge of the duvet, your knuckles white. You wanted to tell him to shut up. You wanted to tell him to sleep in his car. But mostly, you wanted to ask him if that damn architect made him laugh.
"The snowâs really coming down," Satoru said. His voice was thin, stripped of its usual richness. It wasn't an opening for a conversation; it wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It was just a hollow observation, a way to puncture the suffocating silence before it choked him.
"I can see that," you whispered. You didn't turn around. You didn't want him to see the way your eyes were stinging. Another long, agonizing stretch of time passed. You heard him stand up, the floorboards groaning under his height. You tensed, your fingers curling into the fabric of the duvet. You expected him to walk toward the bed, to explain, to lie, to say anything about the architect that would make it hurt less.
But he didn't.
He walked to the sliding glass door and pushed it open just a few inches. A sudden, sharp blade of mountain air sliced into the room, smelling of ice and dead pine. It was cold, but it was better than the recycled air of the loft. He stood there, a towering silhouette against the ghostly white of the storm outside. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie.Â
He looks lonely, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow. You wanted to hate him for the fresh start. You wanted to be disgusted that heâd tried to replace you with someone logical. But as you watched him stand there, looking out into a white-out that offered no answers, all you felt was the echoing grief of two people who had forgotten how to exist in the same space.
The draft from the balcony vanished as Satoru slid the glass door shut. The click of the lock felt final, echoing through the muffled silence of the snowy night. You watched his silhouette move, a dark shape against the pale moonlight reflecting off the drifts outside.
He didn't even look at the loveseat. He didn't try to make it work a second time. Instead, he walked past the foot of the bed toward the linen closet in the corner. You heard the door creak, the rustle of him pulling out one of those complimentary, cheap, scratchy wool blankets, the kind that were meant for decoration, not for comfort.
Then, the sound of him sinking.
It wasn't a graceful movement. It was the heavy, thudding weight of a man who had reached his limit. You heard the rustle of the wool as he spread it out on the hardwood floor, right next to the bed. The floor. Your heart twisted. Satoru Gojo, a man who spent his life surrounded by the finest things, who slept on silk sheets and lived in penthouses, was lying on a dusty wooden floor because the air between you was too toxic to breathe.
You lay perfectly still, your eyes wide in the dark. You could hear everything. The soft friction of his hoodie against the floor. The sharp, chilly exhale as he tried to find a position that didn't hurt. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a rhythmic protest.
You wanted to tell him to get up. You wanted to tell him that you weren't that heartless, that the king-sized bed was big enough for two people who stayed on their own sides. But the words were stuck in your throat, choked by the memory of Nanamiâs voice. A fresh start. If Satoru wants a fresh start, youâll let him have it. Let him feel the cold. Let him feel the hardness of the floor, just like youâd felt the hardness of the silence heâd left you with seven months ago.
But as the minutes ticked by, the silence of the snow outside seemed to seep into the room. The house was dead quiet. And then, you heard it.
A shiver.
It was faint, the involuntary rattle of his teeth, the sharp intake of breath as his body tried to generate heat. The loft was poorly insulated, and with the heater struggling against the mountain storm, the floor was likely ice-cold.Â
Don't look, you commanded yourself. Heâs a grown man. He made his choice. But you knew Satoru. You knew that even when he was freezing, even when he was miserable, he would never admit it. He would stay on that floor until his bones turned to ice just to prove that he could. He was stubborn, arrogant, and currently, he was shivering three feet away from you.
You rolled onto your stomach, staring at the dark heap of him beside the bed. He was curled on his side, his long legs tucked in, the thin blanket barely covering his shoulders. He looked like a shadow of himself.
"Satoru," you whispered.
The shivering stopped instantly. He didn't move. "Go to sleep."
"You're going to catch pneumonia."
"I'm fine," he said, his voice tight and vibrating with the cold he was trying to hide. "The floor is... solid. Good for the back."
"You're a bad liar," you said, your voice cracking just a little. "You're freezing."
He finally shifted, rolling onto his back to look up at the dark ceiling. In the faint light, you could see the glint of his eyes. He looked exhausted. "Even if I am, itâs better than the couch. And itâs better than..." He trailed off, the rest of the sentence, better than being near you and knowing I can't touch you, hanging in the air between you, heavy and unspoken.
"Satoru," you said, your voice louder this time.
The shivering stopped, but he didn't answer.Â
"Get up," you commanded, sitting up and pushing the heavy duvet aside. The cold air of the loft immediately bit at your shoulders, giving you a taste of what heâd been enduring for the last half hour. "Get off the floor. Now."
"I told you, I'm-"
"If you say you're fine one more time, I will actually kick you," you snapped. You reached down, grabbing the corner of the scratchy wool blanket he was huddled under and yanking it. "Get in the bed. Itâs a king, Satoru. Stay on your side and don't say a word. Just get up before you get sick."
A long silence followed. Then, the agonizing sound of him unfolding his cramped limbs. He stood up, his tall frame a wavering shadow in the moonlight. He looked unsteady, his shoulders pulled up to his ears as he shook.
He didn't argue. He walked to the empty side of the bed and climbed in, moving with a cautiousness that was entirely uncharacteristic. He stayed right on the edge, his back to you, leaving an empty expanse of white linen between your bodies. As he settled, the mattress dipped under his weight. The heat radiating off him was immediate, even through the distance. He was like a furnace that had been left out in the snow.
"Thank you," he whispered. His voice was raw, the bravado finally extinguished by the cold.
"Don't thank me," you said, pulling the duvet up to your chin and rolling onto your side, facing away from him. "I just don't want to explain to Shoko why thereâs a frozen corpse in the room tomorrow morning."
Logically, the problem was solved. He was warm; you were safe. But the physical proximity was torture of its own. You were acutely aware of him. You knew exactly where his heels were resting, the way his shoulders took up too much space, the rhythmic puff of air against the pillowcase.
For seven months, you had practiced the art of not thinking about his scent, that mix of expensive laundry soap and something uniquely him. Now, it was filling your lungs, digging up memories you had worked so hard to bury.
You thought about the architect again. Did he hold her the way he held you? Did he pull the covers over her shoulders in the middle of the night? The fresh start Nanami mentioned felt like a physical wall between you, thicker than the two feet of mattress separating your spines.
Satoru shifted. The bed creaked.
"You're still awake," he murmured. It wasn't a question. He always knew, after months, he still had a sensory map of you that heâd never quite be able to forget.
"It's hard to sleep when there's a giant in the bed," you replied, your voice flat.
"I'm staying on my side."
"I know."
"I really didn't know you were coming." He spoke to the ceiling, his voice low and vibrating through the mattress. "If I had known, I wouldn't have put you in this position."
"It doesn't matter," you said instead. âWeâll be out of here in a few days, and we can go back to pretending we donât exist to each other.â
A heavy silence followed. You expected him to agree, crack a joke, or fall asleep. But he didn't.
"Is that what you've been doing?" he asked softly. "Pretending I don't exist?"
"Itâs the only way to move on, Satoru. Some of us don't find architects to fill the gaps."
You regretted it the second it left your mouth. It was too revealing; it showed him exactly where the wound was. You heard him turn over, the mattress groaning as he shifted to face your back. You didn't move, but your heart began to hammer against your ribs.
"So that's what this is," he said, and you could hear the realization in his voice. "Nanami and his big mouth."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"There is no architect."
"Well, no- there was an architect," Satoru said, his voice flat, echoing against the slanted wooden ceiling. "I went on dates. I sat through dinners."
You waited for the punchline. You waited for him to say he missed you, or that it was a mistake. But the silence stretched, filled only by the muffled thud of snow sliding off the roof.
"And?" you finally prompted, your voice barely a whisper.
"And nothing," he said. He let out a heavy breath that sounded like a tire losing air. "I didn't like her. Not like that. Not even a little bit, really. She was perfectly fine, but we had nothing to talk about once we got past the what do you do for a living part. I sat there for two hours checking my watch and wondering if I had enough milk in the fridge for coffee the next morning."
A strange, bitter knot formed in your stomach. You should have felt relieved. You should have felt a sense of victory that the architect hadn't won. But instead, you felt worse. He tried to find a way out, but he just found a wall. But what if he had broken through the wall and discovered there was still something worth saving on the other side?
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you asked, turning your head to look at him. The moonlight reflected off the white snow outside, casting a pale light over his features.Â
"No," Satoru said, turning his head to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dull in the shadows. "It wasn't for you. It was for me. I wanted it to work. I wanted to be that guy who goes on a date with a professional woman and has a nice, professional life. I wanted to be someone who doesn't come to a cabin in the mountains and spend the whole night staring at the ceiling."
He shifted, his arm brushing against the duvet.
"But Iâm not that guy," he continued, a hint of his usual edge returning, though it was tinged with self-loathing. "Iâm just me. And she was just her. It was a chore. Everything feels like a chore lately."
You looked back at the ceiling. Everything feels like a chore. You understood that feeling. Since the breakup, your own life has felt like a series of boxes to check. Wake up. Go to work. Eat something that doesn't require much cleaning. Call Shoko. Sleep. Repeat. You hadn't gone on dates with architects, but you had spent plenty of nights staring at your phone, wondering if you should download dating apps, only to realize the thought of explaining your favorite movie to a stranger felt like climbing a mountain.
The architect wasn't a threat because she was better than you. She was a threat because she was proof that Satoru was trying to be done with you. But it still upset you, because the fact that he failed didn't mean he was yours again. It just meant you were both stuck in this liminal space, unable to move forward and unable to go back. Seven months of thinking he was off living some grand, redesigned life, only to find out heâs just as stagnant as you are.
"Why did you come, Satoru?" you asked. "If you had any doubt, why didn't you just stay in London?"
"I told you," he said, and for the first time, he sounded defensive. "I wanted the mountain air. I wanted to see Shoko, Geto, and you know, everyone. Iâm allowed to have friends."
"You didn't come for the air."
"Fine," he snapped. His presence was suddenly a physical heat. "I came because I was tired of the silence. I was tired of feeling alone. I thought seeing everyone would make me feel like a person again. I didn't think youâd be the one assigned to the loft. I thought Iâd be drinking with Geto until 4:00 am and sleeping on a rug."
"Instead, I'm here," he whispered. "With you."
With the windows cleared of the nightâs heavy snow by a sudden gust of wind, the loft was instantly flooded with a light so white and aggressive it felt like a physical weight. You squinted, the back of your eyes throbbing with the remains of a restless sleep.
For a second, you forgot. You reached out to pull the duvet higher, your hand sweeping across the vast expanse of the king-sized mattress, until it hit something warm and solid.
You froze.
Satoru was still there. He had drifted during the night; now he was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his white hair a chaotic halo against the pillowcase. He looked younger when he was asleep, the cynical lines of his face smoothed out by the sheer exhaustion of the night.
You watched him for a moment, your heart doing a painful roll in your chest. Even in sleep, he looked like he was bracing for something. You pulled your hand back, sliding out of the bed with the stealth of a thief. But every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot. You grabbed your bag and ducked into the bathroom, the click of the lock the only thing that made you feel like you could breathe again.
The bathroom was freezing, the tiles like ice under your bare feet. You stared at yourself in the mirror. You looked exactly how you felt. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were puffy, and there was a faint, lingering scent of sandalwood on your skin, Satoruâs cologne. You dress in layers, anything to create a barrier between your skin and the world. When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He was awake, staring at the floor where heâd tried to sleep just a few hours earlier.
"Morning," he said. His voice was a gravelly wreck, a remnant of the cold and the late-night talking.
"Morning." You didn't look at him. You focused on zipping your bag. "Shoko's probably making coffee. We should go down before she starts screaming."
"Right." Satoru stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his hoodie lifted, revealing the lean strength of his torso, a sight that used to be as familiar to you as your own reflection. He caught you looking. "You okay?"
The house was full of the domestic sounds of people who hadn't spent the night wrestling with the ghosts of their exes, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the air.
"Look whoâs alive!" Haibara shouted from the stove, waving around a spatula. "We thought we might have to send a search party into the loft."
Shoko was at the kitchen island, leaning on her elbows and holding a mug. Her eyes flicked from you to Satoru, then back at you again. She didn't miss the way you were standing three feet apart, or the way Satoru was unusually subdued.
"How was the couch, Satoru?" she asked, her voice dripping with dry amusement.
"The loveseat is a war crime," Satoru said, sliding into a chair at the far end of the island. He reached for the coffee pot, his movements slow. "Iâm pretty sure my spine is permanently shaped like a question mark."
"I told you to take the bed," Nanami said, not looking up from his newspaper. "But you always were a fan of unnecessary drama."
You sat next to Shoko, clutching your cup like a lifeline, âReady to snowboard, âKo?â
The group moved like a bright, noisy wave down the ridge, but Satoru remained hushed. He didn't speak. He didn't offer the hand youâd expected. He simply adjusted his goggles, the reflective surface hiding his eyes, and kicked off his board.
You followed. The sound of the mountain was dominated by the sound of steel edges carving through the crusty top layer of snow. In the silence, every other sound was magnified: the wind whistling through the vents of your helmet, the rhythmic puff of your own breath, and the confident thud of Satoruâs board landing a jump a few yards ahead of you.
Heâs not even trying, watching the fluid way his body shifts. You remembered a time when he would have been doing spins just to make you laugh, or spraying you with a wall of snow as he skidded to a stop. Now, he was just a black silhouette against the blinding white, a memory in high-end gear. You hated how much you still knew about him. You knew by the way he was standing that his left knee was probably aching from the cold. You knew that he was thirsty but was too stubborn to ask for the water bottle tucked in your side pocket.Â
He looked back then, his goggles catching the sun. For a second, you thought he was going to say something. The air felt heavy, expectant. You prepared your "fine" and your "Iâm okay," ready to shut him down before he could start.
But he didn't speak. He just gave a single, curt nod, a "you good?" translated into a movement, and then he dropped over the edge of the next steep incline, disappearing into a cloud of white powder.
The slopes stretched ahead, sun glinting off untouched powder and jagged edges, trails weaving through the forest like ribbons of white. Shadows from the pines cut across the snow in sharp lines, and the crisp mountain air carried the faint scent of pine and ice. Every incline and drop seemed alive, waiting silently for someone to carve through it. Riders streaked down the slopes, leaving trails of powder in their wake. A blur of neon jackets and helmets darted between trees, carving tight turns and launching off hidden lips. Laughter and shouts bounced off the cliffs, mingling with the hiss of boards on snow and the occasional thud of a wipeout.
The teenager in front of you had been a blur of fluorescent neon and bad judgment for the last three runs. He was doing 180-degree flat-ground spins on a crowded trail, catching edges and laughing with a group of friends who were filming him on their phones.
You saw him a split second before the world turned upside down.
He tried a trick he didn't have the balance for, caught the front edge of his board, and became a human projectile. He slammed into your side with a sickening thud, the weight of his momentum sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the hard-packed snow shoulder-first, your helmet bouncing off the ground with a hollow crack that echoed inside your skull.
For a few seconds, the world was just white noise and the smell of churned-up ice.
"Hey! Watch where youâre going!" the kid yelled, his voice cracking with the defensive adrenaline of someone who knew they were wrong. He was already scrambling up, more worried about his GoPro than the person heâd just attacked.
Then, the air in the valley seemed to drop ten degrees.
Satoru decelerated with a violence that sprayed a wall of ice over the teenager. He was off his board before the mist had even settled. He didn't look at you first; he looked at the kid.
"Hey," Satoru said.
It wasn't his playful voice. It wasn't the voice he used in boardrooms or the one he used to tease Shoko. It was a vibrating growl that made the teenager freeze mid-sentence. Satoru stepped into the kid's personal space, his towering height casting a predatory shadow over the neon jacket.
The kid went pale, his mouth hanging open. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't see her!" the kid stammered, his eyes darting to you where you lay in the snow.
Satoru didn't acknowledge the apology. Not even a second later, he was on the ground beside you.
"What the hell happened?" Shoko and Geto slid to a halt beside you, their boards throwing up twin sprays of snow. Shoko was off her gear in an instant, her medical instincts overriding the vacation haze.
"Kid was being a moron," Satoru snapped, not looking up from you. "Check her shoulder, Shoko. She hit the ice hard."
Shoko knelt on your other side, her cold fingers expertly feeling along your collarbone. "Deep breaths," she muttered to you, her eyes flicking to Satoru. "Relax, Satoru. Youâre vibrating so hard the snow is melting under her."
Geto stood over the group, his arms crossed as he watched the teenager and his friends scurry away down the mountain. He looked back at Satoru with a heavy expression.
"I'll go talk to the patrol. Satoru, let Shoko work. Youâre crowding her."
"Sheâs fine," Shoko announced after a moment, though her face remained serious. "Strained joint, maybe some bruising. But weâre done for the day. Letâs get her back to the house and get some ice on this."
"I'll carry her," Satoru said immediately.
"I can walk," you protested, trying to sit up, but the world did a slow, nauseating tilt.
"You're not walking," Satoru said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. He looked at Shoko, then at Geto, a silent communication passing between the three of them. Satoru slid his arms under you, lifting you with an ease that made you feel small. He didn't look at the mountains. He just looked at you, his jaw set in a line of unadulterated terror that he was trying and failing to hide.
The cabin was warm, smelling of cedar and the leftover coffee from the morning, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Satoru had carried you through the front door as if you were made of glass, ignoring your protests and Getoâs quiet suggestions that he let you sit on the chair. Instead, he deposited you directly onto the kitchen island counter, his hands lingering on your waist a second too long before he stepped back, pacing the length of the tiles like a caged animal.
"Ice," Satoru muttered, his movements jerky. He started opening cupboards at random. "Where is theâ?"
"Bottom drawer of the freezer, Satoru. Same place itâs been since we got here," Geto said, leaning against the doorframe. He looked at you with a knowing exhaustion. He knew Satoru was spiraling; heâd seen this version of his best friend before, usually right before something, or someone, broke.
Shoko walked in, having already shed her snow gear. She dropped a medical kit on the marble counter next to your hip and pointed a finger at Satoru.
"Out," she said simply.
Satoru froze, a bag of frozen peas in one hand and a dish towel in the other. "Iâm helping."
"Go pace on the porch. Go anywhere that isn't here while I check on her.
 "I'm staying," Satoru said, his voice dropping into that stubborn pitch. He didn't look at Shoko; he looked at you.Â
"Satoru," you said softly, your first words since entering the house. "I'm okay. Just let Shoko work."
He flinched at the sound of your voice. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders was so high you thought he might actually snap. Then, with a sharp, frustrated exhale, he slammed the peas onto the counter and walked out, his boots thudding heavily as he retreated toward the living room. Geto gave you a small nod and followed him, likely to keep him from putting a fist through a wall.
The silence that followed was heavy. Shoko began to gently peel back the layers of your sweater, her hands cool and steady. You hissed as she manipulated your shoulder, the pain sharp and hot.
"Deep breaths," Shoko murmured. "Nothingâs broken. Just a nasty strain. Youâre going to be colorful tomorrow."
You watched Shoko work, your mind drifting back to the mountain, the way Satoru had looked.
"He hasn't slept, you know," Shoko said suddenly, not looking up as she taped a cold compress to your skin.
"What?"
"Since the breakup. He acts like heâs fine, better than fine, actually. The dates, the London trips." Shoko finally looked at you, her dark eyes tired. "But Iâve seen him when the lights go down."
"Everything is a chore for him right now," Shoko said, packing her kit. "Heâs never learned how to be alone. Seeing you hit the snow today, I think it broke the last bit of his resolve. Heâs in the other room trying to figure out how to be your ex when he clearly still feels like your boyfriend."
She patted your knee and stood up. "Don't let him back in here until you're ready to deal with him."
The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled voices of Geto and Haibara out on the porch, discussing the snow chains for the tires. Satoru didn't barge back in. He lingered in the doorway first, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He had taken off his heavy outer gear, standing now in just his black t-shirt.Â
"Shoko says you'll be fine," he said. His voice was casual, but there was a softness to it that hadn't been there all weekend. He walked over to the counter, not standing too close, and picked up the bag of frozen peas heâd discarded earlier.
"I heard her," you said, shifting slightly on the counter. The pain in your shoulder had settled into a manageable throb. "Itâs just a bruise. Iâve had worse."
"Yeah," he murmured. He reached out and gently nudged the ice pack Shoko had taped to you, making sure it was centered. It was a small gesture. "You always were a bit of a magnet for trouble on the slopes. Remember that time in Switzerland?"
A ghost of a smile pulled at your lips despite yourself. "I hit a tree, Satoru. A very large and stationary tree."
"And you tried to apologize to the tree," he added, a genuine huff of laughter escaping him.
The silence that followed wasn't the sharp, jagged one from the night before. It was comfortable.
"Nanamiâs a gossip," Satoru said suddenly, leaning his elbows on the marble island beside you. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking at his own hands. "He makes it sound like Iâm out there building a new life. I wasn't. I was just... bored. And lonely, I guess."
"I know," you said quietly. "I think we both are."
"She didn't get my jokes," he said, tilting his head to look at you. His blue eyes were clear, the frantic energy from the mountain gone. "Iâd say something, and sheâd just look at me like- I donât even know."
You looked at him and saw the man youâd left. He hadn't changed, but the space between you had. "I'm going to drive your car back when we go home," he said, shifting back to that helpful tone. "Your shoulder is going to be too stiff to handle the gear by the time we hit the highway. Geto can drive my car."
"Satoru, you really don't have to-"
"I want to," he interrupted, pushing off the counter. He reached out and briefly, almost tentatively, squeezed your hand. It was a quick touch, gone before it could become something, but the heat of it lingered on your skin.Â
He walked out, his steps light on the wooden floor.
The next morning arrived with a stillness that only exists in the mountains after a storm. Because of your shoulder, the planned hike for today was scrapped, and the group fell into a lazy, unhurried rhythm that felt like a throwback to your university days.
The afternoon dissolved into a haze of board games and competitive bickering. You were glued to the sofa, propped up by a mountain of wool pillows, watching as Geto and Satoru nearly came to blows over a game of Monopoly. It was a sight youâd seen a thousand times, Satoru leaning back with a smug, infuriating grin as he bought up every utility on the board, and Geto methodically counting his remaining cash with a dangerous, quiet focus.
"You're cheating," Geto said, his voice a calm contrast to the way he was crushing a small plastic hotel between his fingers. "There is no physical way you rolled three doubles in a row with those dice."
"It's not cheating, Suguru, it's destiny," Satoru chirped, though he didn't look at the board. His eyes flicked to you every few minutes, checking the height of your ice pack or the way you were shifting your weight.
Later, the games were pushed aside for a makeshift lunch. Shoko sat on the floor by your feet, peeling oranges and passing the slices up to you without a word. There was a comfort in the silence, the kind that only comes from people who have seen each other at their worst and decided to stay anyway. You watched Haibara try to teach Satoru how to knit with a pair of pencils and some spare twine, a disastrous endeavor that ended with Satoru accidentally tangling himself in a limitless knot of yarn.
You realized then that while Satoru had been looking for a fresh start in London, he had left the only people who actually knew how to handle his edges right here in this room. You caught his eye as he struggled with the yarn, and for the first time all weekend, he didn't look away. He just gave you a small, sheepish shrug; the most powerful businessman in the country was defeated by six feet of cheap acrylic wool.
The next day, you welcomed your last night at the cabin. The snow had stopped, leaving the mountain in crystalline perfection. In the fire pit behind the house, Suguru had built a blaze that roared against the freezing night air, the orange light dancing off the snowbanks like flickers of gold.
Everyone was gathered around. Shoko was wrapped in three blankets, nursing a glass of whiskey, Haibara was trying to roast a marshmallow to a perfect golden brown, and Nanami was staring into the flames with the profound exhaustion of a man who knew he had to be back at his desk in thirty-six hours.
You were tucked into a low porch chair, your injured shoulder propped up by a cushion. And Satoru, in his typical fashion, wasn't sitting in a chair. He was perched on the stone rim of the fire pit itself, the heat of the flames at his back, his face half-hidden in the shadows.
"I don't want to go back," Haibara sighed, his marshmallow finally catching fire. "I think I could live here. Just me, the snow, and enough cocoa to drown in."
"You'd last three days before you missed the city's noise," Shoko deadpanned. She flicked an ash toward the fire and looked at you. "Howâs the shoulder holding up?"
"Itâs fine," you said, the word feeling familiar now. "Just stiff."
You felt Satoruâs eyes on you. He didn't say anything, but he reached into the cooler at his feet, pulled out a fresh bottle of water, and leaned over to set it on the small table next to your good arm. It was a silent, casual check-in, the kind that didn't require a thank you.
You watched the sparks fly upward, disappearing into the black void of the mountain sky. This was always the part of the trip where the real world started to bleed back in. Tomorrow, youâll be in your apartment. Satoru will be in his. You wonât be sharing a loft or a kitchen island. You looked at Satoru. He was poking at a log with a stick, his expression unreadable.Â
"I think I'm moving," Geto said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
The group shifted. Even Satoru looked up, his interest piqued. "Moving where?"
"Further downtown. Closer to the park," Geto shrugged. "New start. The old place has too many ghosts."
He didn't look at anyone when he said it, but the implication was heavy. Everyone at this fire had ghosts. You all were untangling yourselves from the lives you've lived together for a decade.
"Ghosts are fine," Satoru said, his voice surprisingly soft. He tossed the stick into the heart of the fire. "They remind you that you actually lived somewhere. The new places are just empty. No matter how much logic you put into the blueprint." He wasn't looking for a fresh start. He was just trying to find a way to live with the ghosts he already had.
"I like my apartment," you said, finding your voice. "Even the ghosts. They make it less quiet."
Satoruâs head tilted toward you. For a second, the rest of the group seemed to fade into the background. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, the slight curve of a smile that wasn't arrogant.
"Yeah," he whispered. "The quiet is the worst part."
The loft was colder on this final night, the heater downstairs finally giving up against the sub-zero mountain air. The skylight was a dark window into a universe that felt much too big, and the only sound was the heavy thump of snow sliding off the roof.
You were already under the covers, your back to the empty side of the bed. Your shoulder was throbbing in a way that made sleep feel like a distant country.
The floorboards groaned.
You didn't turn around, but you felt the mattress dip as Satoru climbed in. He didn't hesitate tonight. He simply slid under the duvet, his movements slow and careful, mindful of the invisible line that still ran down the center of the bed. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just lay there in the dark, two silhouettes in a house full of sleeping friends.
"I'm not going to pretend I didn't see you hit the snow the other day," Satoru said suddenly. His voice was low, vibrating through the mattress and into your spine, cutting through the heavy silence of the loft. The incident had happened days ago. The board games, the shared meals, and the quiet afternoons on the sofa had happened since, but hearing him say it days after made the pain in your shoulder flare up again.
"And I'm not going to pretend," he continued, his tone dropping into a jagged tone, "that seeing you hurt hasn't been the only thing I've thought about every second since. It made me want to level the entire mountain just for being under your feet."
You squeezed your eyes shut. "Satoru, it was just an accident."
"It wasn't just an accident to me," he murmured, and you felt him shift in the dark, his heat drawing closer to you. "It was a reminder that Iâm not there anymore. And I havenât been able to breathe right since."
"I'm not asking for anything," he whispered, and for once, his voice lacked any hint of his usual arrogance. "I know weâre where we are for a reason. And I know Iâm a lot to handle."
You rolled onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. "It wasn't just you. It was both of us. We just⊠ran out of room."
"Yeah," he murmured, propping his head up on his hand. He wasn't crossing to your side of the bed, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "But this room feels pretty big tonight."
You looked at him in the shadows. His eyes looked softer, more vulnerable without a veil. You wanted to say it. You wanted to tell him that youâd spent the last seven months looking for his face in every crowd, or waiting for him to call your phone again. You wanted to tell him that hearing about him trying to move on had felt like a physical wound.
But you didn't.
Because a confession wouldn't fix the reasons why heâd left. It wouldn't fix the way his life tended to swallow yours whole, or the way the silence between you sometimes felt like an abyss. Instead, you just let the air exist between you.
This is enough. Being able to breathe in the same room is enough.
"We're leaving early tomorrow," you said, your voice finally steady. âWe need to leave before the next snowfall hits.â
"I'll have the car warmed up," Satoru replied. He reached out, his hand hovering over the sheets between you. He didn't grab your hand; he just let his fingers rest on the mattress, an inch away from yours.
"Thank you."
The morning was a blur of frantic packing and the smell of exhaust fumes in the freezing air.Â
You were in the passenger seat of your car, your arm in a sling, watching Satoru load the last of the bags into the trunk. He moved with that same effortless grace, his white hair bright against the morning sun. He looked back at the cabin one last time, then hopped into the driver's seat beside you.
"Ready?" he asked, his hand on the gear shift.
"Ready," you said.
As the car pulled out of the gravel driveway, you looked in the side mirror. You saw Shoko and Geto standing on the porch, waving as the house got smaller and smaller. Satoru didn't look at you as he drove, but he reached over and turned on the seat heater for you without being asked. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, navigating the winding mountain curves with a focus that felt like a promise.
The highway was a grey ribbon cutting through enclosures of white powder. Inside the car, it was warm, almost too warm. Satoru drove with a relaxed precision, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. The silence was comfortable until his phone, currently mounted on the dashboard, buzzed with a persistent vibration.
He glanced at it, a flicker of that familiar, high-stakes focus crossing his face.
"Don't," you said softly, staring at the passing trees. "It's Sunday, Satoru."
"It's the Tokyo-Hong Kong merger," he muttered, though he didn't reach for the phone. "Theyâve been trying to close the logistics gap for six months. If I don't answer, theyâll lose the window for the spring quarter."
The words hit you like a physical weight. The spring quarter. The logistics gap. It was the same language, the same tone, the same relentless urgency that had been the background noise of your entire relationship.
"It sounds just like the Singapore deal," you said, your voice sounding flat even to your own ears.
Satoruâs grip on the wheel tightened. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Singapore deal had been the beginning of the end. It was the night of your third anniversary, the night heâd left you at a table for two for five hours because the so-called window was closing. By the time heâd come home, exhilarated by the win, youâd already packed half your clothes.
"I remember," he said quietly.
"You came home at 3:00 am," you continued, "you were so high on the adrenaline of the deal that you didn't even notice I was sitting in the dark. You started telling me about the contract terms before you even asked why I wasn't in bed."
"I was doing it for us," he said, but even he sounded like he didn't believe the lie anymore. "I thought if I just finished that one, if I just secured that last bit of the market, I could finally stop."
"But you never stop, Satoru. Thatâs the problem. Thereâs always another window, another quarter, another merger.â He hasn't changed, you realized. He still hears the buzz of the phone like a siren call. You thought about the months after the breakup, how the silence of your apartment had been terrifying at first, but then it had become a relief. You didn't have to check your watch. You didn't have to wonder if a meeting was more important than your dinner plans.
But seeing him now, driving your car, caring for your injured shoulder... It was a reminder that the man who forgot your anniversary was also the only man who knew how you liked your seat heater set. It was a cruel, complicated thing.
"I didn't take the Hong Kong call last night," Satoru said suddenly.
You turned your head to look at him. "What?"
"In the loft. My phone buzzed three times while you were asleep. I didn't answer it. I didn't even check the preview." He glanced at you, his eyes honest. "Itâs not much, I know." But it's a start. Iâm trying to learn how to separate work and my life."
You noticed the way his thumb traced a small arc on the steering wheel, a restless habit he only had when he was truly present. You felt a strange, flickering sense of safety in the shared space of your car. Satoru was quiet, his profile sharp against the passing streetlamps, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The highway had slowed to a crawl, a sea of red brake lights reflecting off the slushy pavement. Inside the car, the heater hummed a steady note that made the world outside feel distant and unimportant. It was a fragile peace, but it was enough to make you want to offer him a piece of the life you had built in his absence.
"Iâve started going to the supermarket on Sunday mornings," you said. The statement was so mundane it almost felt like a challenge to the air in the car. Satoru didn't jump in with a joke; he simply tilted his head, eyes still on the car in front of him, letting the silence open up to receive the words.
"At 8:00 am," you continued, watching the rhythmic arc of the windshield wipers. "The city is dead then. I spend twenty minutes picking out the right kind of apples. I stand in the aisle and read the labels on things I don't even plan to buy. Itâs calm, and itâs slow."
Satoru let the car roll forward a few inches as the traffic breathed. "That sounds... peaceful."
"It is," you said, turning your head to look at him. "I used to think I needed a lot of noise and a lot of movement to feel like I was getting somewhere. But lately, Iâve found that Iâm perfectly fine just being the person who knows which grocery store has the best light in the morning."
You didn't mention the mornings you used to spend with him. You didn't mention the late dinners or the missed calls. You just gave him a glimpse of the person you had become while he was away.
"I think Iâve forgotten how to do that," Satoru said softly. "Everything I do has a deadline. I don't think Iâve looked at an apple in three years. I just eat whatever someone puts in front of me between meetings."
"You should try it," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips. "But find your own store. I like having mine to myself."
Satoru let out a real, bright laugh, âfair enough."
He watched the reflection of the red brake lights in the rearview mirror and felt the jagged edges of his own restlessness finally begin to blunt. For the first time since heâd packed his bags for London, he wasn't thinking about the next quarter; he was just thinking about the way your voice sounded when you talked about something as simple as apples. It was a terrifyingly quiet realization, but it gave him the courage to offer up a piece of his own clumsy attempt at a life without you, a small, unpolished truth that he hadnât even told Shoko.
"I tried to buy a plant last month," he said.
"A plant?" you repeated, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on your shoulder. "You don't even have a watering can, Satoru. Youâre never home long enough to even keep a cactus alive."
"I know," he said, and for the first time, there was no defensive edge to his voice. "I stood in the shop for like forty-five minutes. The guy kept asking if I needed help."
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, a restless motion. "I ended up leaving with nothing. I realized I didn't know if the windows in my new place even got enough light. Iâve lived there for like six months, and I couldn't tell you which direction the living room faces."
You watched a single snowflake melt against the side mirror. In the past, you would have filled that silence. You would have told him which plants were easiest, or offered to go back to the shop with him. You would have managed his life for him, because thatâs what you did; you were the anchor.
But now, you just listened.
Heâs realizing he doesn't know how to live. It wasn't a satisfying realization; it was just sad. He was the most powerful man in his field, a person who could move markets with a phone call, and he was defeated by the orientation of his own windows. It showed how much of his life had been a carefully constructed stage: work, you, and nothing else. Take away his work, and he feels empty. Take away you, heâs not only empty, but he doesnât even know where to begin with a plant.
"My apartment has south-facing windows," you said, your voice quiet. "The light is great for ferns. But theyâre finicky. Youâd have to mist them every morning."
"Every morning," he repeated, as if memorizing a mantra. "That sounds very consistent."
The car crawled another few feet, the wipers clearing away a fresh layer of sleet. The city felt closer now, the air was getting thicker with the hum of sirens and the smell of wet asphalt.
"How was London?" you asked. It was a neutral question, the kind youâd ask a distant colleague.
"Gray," he said after a moment. "It was mostly just gray."
"The city or the meetings?"
"Both." He let out a dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "I stayed in a hotel for three weeks. Five stars. Floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see the entire skyline, but I spent most of the time staring at the minibar and wondering why the television had so many channels."
"Nanami said you were doing great," you said, looking at his profile.
"Nanami sees what he wants to see," Satoru replied. He looked at the red brake lights ahead. "I did the work. I met the people. I went to dinners at those places where the plates are too big, and the portions are too small. I even went to museums on my off days because I thought I was supposed to be expanding my horizons." He paused, his jaw setting.
"I stood in front of a massive oil painting in a museum for forty minutes. I tried to feel something, inspiration, awe, even just boredom. But all I could think about was that the room was too cold and I didn't have anyone to tell about the weird brushstrokes in the left corner of the canvas."
You could almost hear your own voice in that cold museum air, whispering a joke about the artistâs messy technique just to see the corner of Satoruâs mouth twitch. He was lonely, you can tell. The kind where you have all the money and power in the world, but no one to share a mediocre museum trip with. You thought about the London trip you both went on years ago, how youâd dragged him to a tiny bookstore in the rain, and heâd complained the whole time until you bought him a hot chocolate. Back then, the gray didn't matter because you were the color in his world.
"Did you find what you were looking for there?" you asked softly. "In the museums? Or the dinners?"
"No," he said, and the finality in his voice was absolute. "I was still me. I was still the guy who works too much and forgets to eat. London didn't change the architecture of my head. It just taught me a different view of my life."
The traffic finally broke, the red river of brake lights dissolving into the familiar, flickering lights of your neighborhood. The transition felt jarring; the mountainâs muffled white world had been replaced by the metallic screech of the subway and the smell of exhaust and damp concrete.
Satoru pulled the car up to your parking spot in your apartment building. He didnât kill the engine immediately; he let it idle, the vibrations of the car a low hum between you. In the harsh, yellow glow of the parking structure, he looked exhausted.
"We're here," he said softly.
"We're here," you repeated.
He stepped out of the car and walked around to the trunk. You watched him through the side mirror, his tall frame cutting through the parking garageâs shadows. He moved with quiet efficiency as he lifted your bag. He met you at the passenger door, holding it open as you navigated the parking lot with your stiff shoulder. He didn't reach out to grab you, but he stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body.
"I'll walk you to the elevator," he said.
The lobby was bright and smelled of floor wax. The doorman gave you a professional nod of recognition, a sign that your life here had continued without interruption while you were away. Satoru sets your bag down by the elevator bank. He looked out of place in the lobby, too large and too vivid for the beige walls and the quiet atmosphere.
"Take the ice pack Shoko gave you," he said, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. "And don't try to unpack tonight. Itâs just clothes. They can wait."
"Right."
He nodded, his eyes lingering on the bandage visible at the collar of your sweater. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something about London, or the grocery store, or the months of silence, but he caught himself. He wasn't going to break the peace.
"I'm gonna call my Uber now. Iâll also see if I can find that supermarket of mine."
"Good luck," you said, and for the first time, the smile you gave him was entirely real. "Try green apples first. Theyâre harder to mess up."
He let out a short, genuine huff of laughter. "I'll keep that in mind."
The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open with a mechanical sigh. You stepped inside and turned around. Satoru was still standing there. He didn't wave, and he didn't wait for the doors to close. He just gave you that same, curt nod from the mountain, a silent acknowledgment that the space between you was still there, but at least it was peaceful.
As the elevator rose, you watched the floor numbers climb in the silence. You walked into your apartment, dropped your bags, dropped your keys on the bowl by the door, and listened. It was empty. It was calm. You moved through the rooms in a daze, turning on lamps that cast long, lonely shadows and adjusting a stack of mail you didn't care about, trying to reclaim the space that had felt so vital to your independence just a few days ago. To fill the calm you claimed was so healing, you found yourself chasing the low hum of the kitchen lights and throwing the windows wide, desperate to let the frantic honks of the city traffic drown out a quiet that had become far too loud.
You had only been home for twenty minutes. The radiator was still clanking as it struggled to wake up while you stood in the kitchen staring at the kettle on the stove. Yet, even with the artificial buzz of the apartment and the outside, it was still too quiet; the world couldn't compete with the deafening roar of your own mind, replaying every look Satoru gave you and every word youâd left unsaid.
But then, the knock came.
It wasn't the measured tap of a neighbor. It was heavy, hurried, and persistent. Your heart did a slow, painful thud against your ribs.
When you pulled the door open, Satoru was standing there, still in his coat, his hair tousled by the wind. His eyes were wide, bright, and terrifyingly bloodshot, as though he hadnât spent his time waiting for his Uber at all, but fighting a silent war with himself and losing instead.
"I can't do it," he said, his voice raw. He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into your space, forcing you to back up into the hallway. "I took one step outside, and I realized I was just going back to an empty box of an apartment. Iâm tired of being alone, Iâm tired of the silence."
"Satoru, we talked about this-"
"No, you talked. I listened. And I tried to be the guy who could just let you leave." He let out a frustrated breath, his hands shaking as he reached out, not to touch you, but as if he were trying to grab the tension between you. "But Iâm not that guy. I sat in London for weeks thinking about how to be better, how to be less, how to be someone who doesn't leave you at the table."
He moved closer, his height suddenly overwhelming in the small confines of your apartment. He looked smaller than he ever had, in the way that his shoulders were hunched, the way his gaze was searching yours with a terrifying vulnerability.
"Please," he whispered. The word was a wreck. "Don't make me go back to where I don't even know which way the windows face. I don't want a fresh start with anyone. I don't want a fresh start at all. I want the mess we had. I want to try again, but actually try this time."
You wanted to tell him that he was too late, seven months too late. But as you looked at him, you saw the man who had stayed awake in a freezing loft just to make sure you were comfortable. You saw the man who had watched you hit the snow and looked like his soul had left his body.
"It won't be different just because you want it to be," you said, your voice trembling. "Work is still there."
"I'll give it up," he said instantly, an irrational edge to his voice. "I'll give the mergers to Nanami. Iâll quit the firm. Iâll go to the supermarket at 8:00 am every single Sunday for the rest of my life if it means I get to come home to you."
He took a step forward, finally closing the gap. He dropped his forehead against your good shoulder, his weight leaning into you, his hands clutching the fabric of your sweater like a lifeline.
"Just a second chance," he choked out against your skin. "A real one. Please. Iâm dying out here."
You didn't say yes. You didn't throw yourself into his arms. Instead, you reached up, your fingers grazing the damp strands of his white hair.
"Go sit on the sofa," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "The tea is almost done."
The kettle whistles in the kitchen, a domestic scream that cuts through the raw tension of the hallway. Satoru didn't move. He stayed hunched over, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breathing ragged. He was waiting for a verdict.
"Go sit down, Satoru," you said again, your voice firmer this time.
He obeyed, though he moved like a man in a trance. He walked into your living room and sank onto your couch, the one heâd helped pick out years ago, the one that still held the faint indentation of where he used to sit. When you walked in with the mugs, the air was different. In his place was just a man in a damp hoodie, looking at your bookshelves as if they were a foreign language he was desperate to relearn. You set his sweet tea on a coaster and sat in the armchair opposite him. You needed the distance to think.
"You can't give it all up, Satoru," you said, cutting through the silence. "Don't lie to me. Youâd be miserable in a week if you didn't have a market to move. Iâd have to watch you fade away."
"I don't care about work anymore," he argued, his voice cracking. "I told you, London was gray. Everything is gray."
âBecause you think itâs all or nothing. You think youâre either the most powerful guy in business or youâre just a guy buying apples. The reality is, I wanted a partner. I wanted someone who understood that the meetings werenât more important than the person sitting across from him at dinner."
"If we do this," you said, your voice dropping an octave, "there are no more windows to close. There are no more midnight mergers that I find out about in news articles. You donât get to be Mr. Gojo in this apartment. You just get to be Satoru. And Satoru has to show up."
Satoru looked at you, the blue of his eyes finally focusing, sharp and clear. "Iâll show up. Iâll show up every day until youâre sick of me. Iâll pass the Hong Kong deal. Iâll pass all of them if I have to. I just... I just need you. Please."
You looked at the space on the sofa next to him, the space youâd kept clear for months, even when you told yourself you were moving on.
"Come here," you whispered.
He didn't hesitate. He set the mug down with a clatter and was across the room in a heartbeat, but he didn't grab you. He knelt on the floor by your chair, his hands resting on the armrests, looking up at you with a hope so fragile it made your chest ache. You reached out, your fingers sinking into the white shock of his hair. It was soft, cool from the city air, and so incredibly familiar that it felt like a physical homecoming.
"We aren't fixed," you warned him, even as you leaned down to press your forehead against his. "Itâs going to be hard. Youâre going to mess up, Iâm going to mess up and be angry, and the world is still going to try to pull you away."
"Let it try," he breathed, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. "Iâm not going anywhere again." He stood up then, pulling you with him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He was heavy, solid, and warm, a stark contrast to the cold gray of the mountain. You held him back, your good arm hooked around his neck, finally letting the weight of the last seven months drop.
The radiator in your bedroom was clicking a rhythmic pulse, and the city outside was a muffled hum of distant sirens and falling sleet.
Satoru was asleep. Truly asleep. Not the guarded rest heâd been having the last few months. He was sprawled across the mattress, his heavy limbs taking up nearly three-quarters of the space. You lie on your side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your shoulder was still stiff, a dull reminder of the collision, but the ache in your chest had finally quieted.
Then, the nightstand vibrated.
The sound was sharp and intrusive, the aggressive, persistent buzz of a high-priority work alert. In the silence of the room, it sounded like a siren. You didn't move, but you felt Satoruâs body tingle beside you. His eyes didn't snap open, but he shifted, his hand moving instinctively toward the noise.
The screen of his phone lit up the room in a cold glow. You could see the preview from where you lay: Tokyo Logistics â Final Confirmation Required. Urgent. It was the window. The one he had told you about in the car. The one that used to be more important than your sleep, your dinners, and your life together.
Satoruâs fingers brushed the phone. He squinted at the screen, the blue light reflecting in the iris of his eyes. You held your breath, the old fear, the one about the Singapore deal and the three years of being second best, rushing back into your throat.
Heâs going to take it, you thought. Heâs going to slip out of bed, go into the kitchen, and be Mr. Gojo again.
But Satoru didn't take the call.
He didn't even unlock the phone. He looked at the notification for a split second, his jaw tightening, and then he did something he had never done in the three years you were together. He swiped the notification away, pressed the button to silence the ringer entirely, and flipped the phone face-down on the wood of your nightstand.
The blue light vanished. The room returned to the heavy darkness. He turned over, his large frame shifting toward you. He didnât say anything; he just buried his face in the crook of your neck.Â
The sunlight hit the kitchen tiles in a sharp, geometric slant, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was 7:45 am on a Sunday. Three months ago, this hour would have been a hollow victory, a quiet apartment, and a solo trip to the store. Now, it was a negotiation.
Satoru was leaning against the counter, still in his sleep-muddled state, his white hair a mess of static and gravity. He was staring at the grocery list youâd stuck to the fridge with the intensity of a man deciphering a high-level security code.
"We don't need the organic apples," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "I checked the ones in the bowl last night. Theyâre still crisp. Itâs the milk weâre low on. And that specific granola you like that always sells out by nine."
You leaned against the doorway, a mug of that tea in your hands, watching him. He was just Satoru, the man who now knew exactly which shelf held your favorite snacks and which burner on the stove was the finicky one.
"Youâre over-optimizing the grocery run again," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"Iâm not over-optimizing," he countered, finally looking at you. The blue of his eyes was soft. "I'm applying logistics to the most important deal of the week. If we miss that granola, the whole morning ecosystem collapses."
It wasn't always this light. There were still nights where the phone vibrated at 11:00 pm, and you saw that familiar and sharp hunger for the win flash in his eyes. There were days when your shoulder ached from a long day at work, and you found yourself snapping at him just because he took up too much space in a room. Last Tuesday, he stayed late at the office. Youâd sat at the dining table, the food getting cold, and felt the familiar bile of the Singapore deal rising in your throat. Youâd almost packed a bag. Youâd almost called Shoko to tell her it was a mistake.
But then, at 8:30 pm, the door had opened. He hadn't come in with excuses about the workload. He had walked straight to you, dropped his bag, and sat on the floor at your feet.
"I'm late," he had said, resting his head on your knee. "I let the meeting run over. Iâm sorry. I'm learning."
And that was the difference. He was a man who was willing to be seen failing, as long as he was failing in your direction.
"Ready to go?" Satoru asked, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door after you both got ready for your usual Sunday routine. Heâd added a small keychain of a tiny mountain, a silent ode to the winter trip mistake that had started it all.
"Ready," you said, reaching for your coat.
As you walked to the elevator, he reached out and took your hand. It was a firm, grounding weight. It was an anchor. The city was waking up below, the same gray, frantic world he had tried to outrun. But as the elevator doors opened and you stepped out into the 8 am light, you realized that in the end, Satoru didnât have to quit his job or dismantle the parts of himself that made him, him. You also didn't have to be perfectly okay with every late dinner or missed phone call.
The work meetings still ran over, and the phone still buzzed at dinner, but you stopped looking at those moments as reasons to leave. He learned to stop treating his life like a series of winnable contracts, and you stopped trying to make yourself small enough to fit into the gaps of his schedule. You just learned how to exist alongside the parts of each other that were simply always going to be there. It wasn't a perfect fix, but it was finally enough to just be home.
author's note: heheheh i love when a man grovels and yearns!!! BUT! whatever u do... DO NOT go back to ur ex!!!! ( `Ď ) overall i had a great time writing this piece even tho it was difficult to write an ending that felt Right. but as always, let me know what u think! <3
đđđ đŹ: he's down bad (he can't seem to get you out of his head), yearning?, slowburnish, tutoring trope, fluff, happy ending, slightly rushed if you can notice, hes stalkerish, literally runs away from you, you're also quite weird too, hes a nervous wreck around you, suggestive?, mutual pining, povs switch mid-way, and then turns back into third person (just a heads up), a looooot of kissing, nerdy gojo !!
đ°đšđ«đ đđšđźđ§đ: 26k
đđâË- đ§đąđ'đŹ đ§đšđđđŹ: after two weeks, its finally set free, this was so cute i was smiling while writing this, but whew i am tired..i may write short drabbles of these two. hes so clark kent coded omg, also i am so pissed off bc the ending wasn't supposed to be like that but i hope you guys enjoy this !!
satoru was never good at being put on the spotlight.
in childhood, he was a curious infant, always rubbing his small, nimble fingers at things children should never touch. in adolescence, he developed a craze for chemicals or how and why lights flicker at a rapid pace.
in high school, this seemed to flourish more. in the hushed sanctuary of his make-shift lab, with sodium seeping from the broken conical flask resting haphazardly in the corner, shards catching the natural sunlight through the windows, a maniacal grin splits his face. hands moving with the practiced precision of a thousand repetitions, measuring which volume is critical, which compound will birth the reaction he's been chasing for weeks.
and then it happensâelement 119, stable for exactly 4.7 seconds before decay, long enough to be measured, to be real. the scientific community erupts. at seventeen, satoru stands on a stage in stockholm, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his ill-fitting suit jacket, squinting under lights that burn hotter than any bunsen burner. the applause crashes over him like a physical weight. he mumbles his acceptance speech, eyes fixed on his scuffed shoes rather than the sea of faces. the medal feels foreign against his chest, heavy with expectation. all he can think about is the failed experiment waiting back home, the one that should have worked, the mystery that matters more than any prize ever could. what complications a physicist has.
now he's twenty, a university student like any otherâexcept for the medal gathering dust in his childhood bedroom, except for the papers published with his name, except for the way professors look at him with expectation heavy enough to crush.
he's giving a thesis presentation. routine. nothing like stockholm's lights and global audience. just a university auditorium, some faculty, some students fulfilling requirements.
....so why was his mouth suddenly sealed shut?
it was because of you - you sat right in the middle of the auditorium with wide, curious eyes that were begging him to open his brilliant mouth, a genuine hunger for his ideas. knuckles turning white from the amount of pressure you applied to the edges of the heavy fabricated chair.
(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)
"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.
that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?
you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rollingâbarely, but he caught itâand the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.
he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admirationâ you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.
that destroyed him completely.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 101
the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.
not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyesâyour face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.
he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.
he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.
his heart stops.
then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dryâthat same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.
he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.
you never look up. you never see him.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 102
tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.
the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowdâstudents who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a spaceâdeodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.
the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.
then he hears your voice.
"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."
his entire body locks up.
you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfumeâsomething floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.
the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.
you grab your coffee, check your phone, turnâ
he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.
he doesn't get coffee.
goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.
sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.
later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagramâprivate, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.
he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.
he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 103
the library becomes dangerous territory.
he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titlesâbeing and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickersâcoffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lipâthree times, pause, three times againâwhile you think.
he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.
the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustratedâalways the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.
you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.
his phone buzzes.
his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.
when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.
he stays until they kick him out at 2am.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken againâhas been for a weekâso satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw awayâsomething with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.
"you're doing it again."
satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glareâactually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"
"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."
"I'm fine, suguru."
"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bedâthe glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."
suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartmentâold springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.
"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."
satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."
"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's notâ"
"it's not about the presentation."
"then what?"
how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?
wait. no. not love. he's notâ
"nothing. forget it."
suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this isâwhoever this isâyou need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keepâ" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "âwhatever this is. it's not sustainable."
"I know."
"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."
it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.
and reality showed him otherwise.
reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.
"I'll figure it out," satoru says.
"when?"
"eventually." he huffs
suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."
satoru doesn't sleep.
he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.
types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 104
he starts taking different routes to class.
the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutesâpast the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.
he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pmâhe knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.
mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.
but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.
he sees you anyway.
he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warmâtoo warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.
he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.
then he sees you.
three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacketâthat green one, the one he's seen beforeârides up with the movement.
he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.
his brain short-circuits.
you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated soundâhe can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.
someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.
he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.
you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.
your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.
panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already movingâbackwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.
the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.
he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.
that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.
he's so fucked.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 105
he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.
the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional foodâsomething with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.
he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.
he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leaveâ
and then he sees you.
you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friendsâthree other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.
you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talkâquick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen beforeâdark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.
one of your friendsâa girl with dark curly hairâsays something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.
you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.
it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.
you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.
he doesn't fit anywhere.
he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into himâ"excuse you"âannoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.
your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.
your eyes are going to land on him.
he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him againâit's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.
there's an outdoor seating areaâempty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.
he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.
the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.
through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.
and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."
"no one died."
"then why do you look like you're grieving?"
satoru doesn't have an answer.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
the haunting 106
he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.
the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacketâhe didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.
there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.
and then he sees you.
you're walking toward him. not directly toward himâyou don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.
your breath makes clouds in the cold airâlittle puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket againâthe one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.
you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.
you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize himâexcept you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.
or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realizeâ
his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.
fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.
there's a path to the right. barely a pathâmore like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.
the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.
he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.
he's going to be late. he's never late.
he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.
he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.
he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.
and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.
--
every time, his body has the same response.
heart rate spikesâhe can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.
fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.
he always, always chooses flight.
he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.
and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.
running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.
running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
twenty-four weeks. six months.
he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formulaâtuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.
he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.
and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?
the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.
past security, the entry hall opens upâhigh ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrialâblue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.
the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the cornerâhumming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.
it smells like desperation in physical form. coffeeâalways coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.
the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversationsâthose are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.
the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.
satoru is on the third floorâthe quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are denseâfloor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.
he's got a table near the window. can see the campus belowâstreetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.
and then you walk in.
he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atriumâthe library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.
you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.
you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.
physics for non-majors.
even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.
you're struggling.
he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.
but you're struggling with physics.
and he knows physics.
and you look like you're about to cry.
and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his bodyâ
he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.
his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.
but you need help.
and he can help.
and maybeâmaybeâthis time will be different.
and just like that, everything changes.
just like that, he gets his second chance.
just like that, he's more fucked than ever.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.
the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.
it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.
the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessivelyâclick click click clickâuntil someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.
you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.
the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.
you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.
"you're using the wrong equation."
you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him beforeâthe library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.
white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothesâblack shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.
he's not looking at youâeyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.
"what?"
"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."
his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.
you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptopâtap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.
"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."
"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can Iâ" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"
you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmlessâawkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.
and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.
"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.
he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.
"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."
the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."
he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tallâyou hadn't registered that beforeâall long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.
he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something cleanâlaundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.
but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.
"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."
"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm justâsorry."
he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.
his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interestingâlong fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.
"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."
you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.
"I... think so?"
"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neatâprecise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."
he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paperâthat specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.
his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.
he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading facesâwhen your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.
"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"
no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.
until something clicks.
"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."
the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuineâsurprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"
"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.
he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractiveâfeatures almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"
"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I justâ"
"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can youâwould youâ" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."
something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."
"I can't just take up your time for free."
"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."
there's something in the way he says itâlike he's trying to convince himself as much as you.
you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.
it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.
"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."
"most nights? do you sleep?"
a half-smile. "not really."
you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.
"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"
he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."
he doesn't ask your name. he already knows itâsaw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.
you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.
but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session one
you show up the next night with two coffees.
"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I canâ"
"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yoursâsoft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."
it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffeeâalways has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.
you settle into the chair beside himâthe same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'mâ"
"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbonesâa faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i meanâyou're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."
a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.
"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebookâthe pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directoryâwhat's your name?"
"satoru. gojo satoru."
something flickers across your faceâbrief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"
you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred togetherâjust another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.
he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.
the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter indexâyou notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.
It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentumâsweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbitsâthe way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.
"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."
his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.
"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."
"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, Iâ" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.
"stage fright?"
"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the pageâonce, twice, a nervous rhythm.
you want to push, but something in his expression stops youâa guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.
lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session four
it's been two weeks. your exam came and wentâyou got a B, which felt like a miracle.
when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiledânot his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."
his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face thoughâtransparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.
you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.
you come anyway.
the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual tableâthe one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).
"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of hisâyou can smell the caramel syrup from here.
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his faceâa subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.
"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"
the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyesâyou hadn't even noticed it was thereâmelts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anythingâjust rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.
you settle into what's become your chairâthe one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typingâhis rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitantâand the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.
after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.
you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on youâa pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."
"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.
you blink. "you know Heidegger?"
"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he usesâsomething clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."
"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."
"i'm not most physics majors."
it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in itâlike he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.
"okay, ĂŒbermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"
he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cupâa soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physicsâmore animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.
"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dyingâwe're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."
you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."
"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile nowâbarely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.
"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."
"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth nowâstraight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.
you laughâreally laughâand the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing againâgoing bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."
"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyesâa flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."
you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking itâyou can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.
when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.
(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session eight
you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.
you both reach for it.
his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a secondâbarely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skinâbut you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.
"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'llâ" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breathâstill too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.
you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."
the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everythingâthe hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.
"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."
"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. likeâyou know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"
you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chappedâit's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.
"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing againâthat impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."
"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.
he runs a hand through his hairâa nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"
"no, Iâ" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"
"exactly." his face lights upâthat transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."
the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.
"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.
your phone buzzes against the tableâa harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at itâ12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.
"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.
he goes very still. you see every muscle tenseâshoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.
"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"
something crosses his faceâcaught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.
"at 11pm."
"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.
"every night?"
"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's notâi mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."
(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffeeâyours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way onceâand makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.
he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)
you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attentionâlike you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.
"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."
his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.
"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."
you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely thereâjust a point of warmth through two layers of denimâbut you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t
he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touchingâelbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.
when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something elseâsomething unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chestâhe does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.
the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavementâhis heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.
"hey satoru?" you call out.
"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.
"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."
you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.
"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you alwaysâ" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."
"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."
there's something in his voiceârelief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"
"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.
inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long momentâthirty seconds, a minuteâjust looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.
then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.
huh, you think.
you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.
you don't mention it on tuesday.
but when you get to the library at 10:45âfifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it shouldâhe's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.
like he's been waiting for you.
(he has.)
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session ten
it's thursday and you're not doing physics.
"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thudâheavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and Iâ" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concernâyou can't quite read it. "what's it on?"
"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place andâ"
"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."
there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.
you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued thatâ"
"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."
something about the way he's looking at youâfocused, interested, no judgment in his expressionâmakes your shoulders relax slightly.
"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purposeâa chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cutâhumans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."
you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.
he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.
"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, butâ" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "âfor all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"
"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.
"what?"
"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean toâyou're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanityâit's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."
you can't help itâyou laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."
"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"
you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of itâ" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."
his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."
"right. likeâ" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."
"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you rememberâlucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.
"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.
the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.
"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."
"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."
"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."
you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like thisâsitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialismâis exactly where he wants to be.
"okay," you say. "from the top?"
"from the top."
you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.
"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactlyâ" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."
"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."
the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."
"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"
"i should probablyâ" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."
"chapter seven?"
"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."
he grinsâquick and bright and almost playful. "liar."
"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"
"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."
you move your chair closerâclose enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.
"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skatersâ"
"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."
"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layersâpale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"
"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."
you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouthâquick, involuntary, like he couldn't help itâbefore snapping back up.
he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we shouldâthe quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."
"right. yeah. practice problems."
but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.
the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.
when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.
at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks awayâthe correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.
you don't know.
(you're starting to want to.)
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session twelve
it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.
this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks nowâthree button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logoâand tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.
"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.
"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warmâwhich means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"
you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."
(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)
"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."
"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"
"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"
his face does that thingâthat full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you wereâ" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."
there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.
you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.
"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.
"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."
"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergentâhe changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."
"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"
"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yoursâjust for a secondâand you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."
you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."
"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inchesâ
you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.
then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."
"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.
his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.
the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"
"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.
you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.
and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contactâjust a brush of fingers, a bump of elbowsâyou both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.
it's searing.
"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.
"fine. justâ" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."
"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.
"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."
"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."
he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.
"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which meansâare you listening?"
"yes," you lie.
"what did I just say?"
"...something about equilibrium?"
he laughsâquiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."
"I am. I'm justâ" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."
"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.
he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've beenâfor weeks now, I can'tâ" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."
"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.
"nothing. it'sâ" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."
"tell me anyway."
he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense forâ" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."
your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."
"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that'sâI'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can justâ"
"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework andâ" you stop. this is too much. too honest.
he's staring at you now. "really?"
"really."
"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt becauseâ" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."
"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."
the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouthâjust for a secondâand your stomach flips.
then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.
"we shouldâ" he starts.
"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.
but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.
you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.
his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.
you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.
"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."
"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."
"and when the system is in equilibriumâ" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "âthe net torque is zero."
"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.
you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.
eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.
"I shouldâ" you start. "it's late. I should probablyâ"
"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."
"you don't have toâ"
"I want to."
the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.
at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.
"so," he says.
"so," you echo.
"same time thursday?"
"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks forâfor the help. with physics."
"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."
you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'llâthursday."
"thursday," he confirms.
neither of you moves.
"I shouldâ" you gesture at the door.
"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."
"goodnight, satoru."
you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.
"Iâ" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."
"you too."
you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.
you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.
this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.
you can't wait until thursday.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
library session fourteen
it's thursday and satoru isn't here.
you arrive at 11pm exactlyâmaybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)âand the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.
you wait.
you sit down in your chairâthe wobbly one you've gotten used toâand pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
11:15. nothing.
the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.
11:30. you text him. you coming?
you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.
your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.
11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.
"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."
his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.
beep.
"hey, it's me. justâwondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.
you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaperâa photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.
by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materialsâ
or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding youâ
no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.
but what if he would?
you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.
you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrationalâ
you're already walking.
the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hoursâprobably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.
warren hall is on the far side of campusâa solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.
warren hall is newer than your buildingâmaybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leavesâa tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyesâslip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.
the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.
you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.
fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.
you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.
you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.
what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like thisâ
you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
nothing.
the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.
you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"
more silence.
you try the handleâjust to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you triedâand it turns.
unlocked...
your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?
"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead orâ"
the room is empty.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
it's smallâbarely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literatureâyou spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).
barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his deskâthe kind where each element is color-coded by categoryâand a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.
his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.
you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this isâ
but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?
you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaosâprinted papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.
the laptop screen shows a documentâacademic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.
your eyes catch on the title at the top.
Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions
Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science
Nakamura, T., Department of Physics
Submitted to: Physical Review Letters
your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.
element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.
that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientistâespecially one who made such a groundbreaking discoveryâbe so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.
you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:
...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...
...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...
...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...
there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.
"oh my god," you breathe.
you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."
and thenâ
a folder labeled "papers to read."
you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stopâ
your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.
you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwritingâsmall, precise, the letters cramped.
this is a really interesting point about authenticity
hadn't thought about it this way before
I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?
you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.
an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellowâsomething about self-deception and avoiding freedom.
an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.
a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.
and thenâ
a document titled simply "notes."
you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.
you open it.
it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.
âtakes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)
âgets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own
âchews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic
âbirthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)
âwants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics
âthinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)
âlaughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard
âshe wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things
your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.
âasked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.
then more, scattered observations:
âshe came back. didn't have to. chose to.
âremembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later
âbit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum
âI think I'm in trouble
the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.
âshe wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.
âheld her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted toâ
âI think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.
âshe makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.
âI'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for themâthen yes. definitely. unequivocally.
âI'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'llâ
it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.
you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.
"âjust need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predictedâ"
the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.
he's wearing his lab coatâwhite, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhaustedâeyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.
there's an older man behind himâlate fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.
satoru's eyesâthose impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and moodâgo wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.
his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.
"Iâ" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."
professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll justâ" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."
the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.
he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.
you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.
he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him tremblingâjust slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.
"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."
"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and Iâ" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."
it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.
"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."
"yes." barely a whisper.
"you synthesized a new element. you discoveredâno, createdâsomething that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."
"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.
"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angryâyou should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lectureâwhy didn't you say it was you?"
"becauseâ" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you toâ" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'mâ"
his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.
"âlike I'm some kind of genius or prodigy orâor like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel lessâ"
he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.
"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."
he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.
"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were justâyou were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."
the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.
"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."
if possible, he goes even paler. "that'sâthose were private. I wasn'tâ" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I justâI wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I justâ"
he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.
"âyou're always on my mind. you're alwaysâgod, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better orâ"
he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.
"âand tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and Iâ"
he stops. puts his hands over his face.
"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially notâ"
his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.
"âespecially not you. you'reâyou're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you justâyou just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and Iâ"
he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.
"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've neverâI don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and Iâ"
his voice cracks.
"âI'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm notâthat I don'tâ"
you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.
he makes a shocked sound against your mouthâhigh and surprised, almost a squeakâand freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.
his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffeeâthe cheap lab coffee, bitter and burntâand something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.
you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."
"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "Iâwhat?"
"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it justâ"
you laugh softly.
"âit makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."
you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's justâthat's you."
"you're notâ" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"
"why would I be mad?"
"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because Iâ" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."
"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palmâjust for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."
you meet his eyes.
"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."
he laughsâshaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"
"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."
"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.
"adorable. even whenâespecially whenâyou got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was soâ"
you search for the word.
"âso genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were justâyou were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."
his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."
"then why did you not act on it?"
he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything elseâintensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.
you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.
"tell me about it," you say.
"about what?" his voice is rough.
"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."
"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"
"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."
"Iâ" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."
"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.
"it'sâfusion ofâ" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes whichâwhich are more stableâ"
you pull back to look at him. "keep going."
his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon andâand fired at the berkelium targetâ"
you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.
"and then?" you prompt against his lips.
"and thenâif the energy is rightâthe nuclei fuse. create element 119 forâfor approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decayâ"
his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.
"âwe detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 whichâwhichâ"
you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.
"which what?" you murmur against his skin.
"IâI don'tâwhat was I saying?"
you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."
"right. right. decay chain. eachâeach alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."
his voice is getting progressively less steady.
"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors andâandâ"
you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.
"âand fast data acquisition. which is whyâwhy we useâ"
he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.
"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."
"you're trying to make me lose my mind."
"can't I do both?"
he laughsâbreathless and genuineâand kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.
"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.
he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."
"you timed how long we held hands."
"I have a very accurate internal clock."
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it." he's smiling nowâthat full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.
"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."
"I need toâ" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."
"alright." you respond in a whiny tone â like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.
"but afterâ" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we couldâwe don't have to do physics. we could justâ"
"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"
"I don't know how to be normal."
"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."
he makes a soft soundâwant and frustration and something that might be relief.
"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."
"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.
"I'll wait."
his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.
"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hourâ" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.
"satoru."
"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're reallyâyou're not mad about the notes?"
"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."
he laughsâbright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.
he kisses you one more timeâquick and clumsy and perfectâand then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like himâeucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.
'I'm in love with her.'
element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universeâexpanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledgeâand what scared him was admitting he liked you.
you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.
· · â ·ÊÉ· â · ·
date session one
it's thursday and everything is different.
you arrive at 11pmâexactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again andâ"
okay. it's not the same as always.
your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.
everything has changed.
the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted exceptâthere. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.
satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thingâthat transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.
but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.
"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.
"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."
"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I justâI wanted to make sureâ"
he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to itâthree library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.
this is excruciating.
"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.
"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.
"are we going to be weird about this?"
"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how toâI've neverâ"
"me neither."
"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."
"extremely weird."
"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."
he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.
you laughârelieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of youâand the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positionsâhim on one side of the table, you on the otherâexcept now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.
you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfectâexactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.
you catch each other's eyes and laughânervous, slightly hysterical.
"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.
"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"
"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."
"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."
"maybe I just like having you explain things."
the words hang between you. that'sâthat's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.
his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"
"yeah."
the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seenâno careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. Iâokay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking handsâyou can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."
the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.
you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightlyâthe wheels squeakâand you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.
he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changesâshallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.
"is this okay?" you ask quietly.
"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you canâyou're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."
you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirtâhe's wearing that blue one again, the new oneâand you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.
"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.
"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."
"right. andâand if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, whichâ"
he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossiblyâor maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.
"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.
"which meansâI don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"
you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"doing what?"
"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."
"I can moveâ" you start to pull back.
"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm justâI'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed toâif we'reâ"
"satoru."
"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.
"you can kiss me if you want to."
"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lipsânervous habit.
"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.
"what about the physics homeworkâ"
you cup his face and kiss him.
he makes that sound againâsoft and surprised and pleased, high in his throatâand then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this isâtender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.
when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.
"hi," you whisper.
his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."
"better?"
"so much better. can weâcan we do that again?"
you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly differentâthis one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.
"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need toâphysics. we should do physics."
"should we?"
"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.
"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."
"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsibleâ"
you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.
"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it."
"I really do."
you slide off the deskâreluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to beâbut instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.
"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this isâyeah. this works."
it works better than works.
you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patienceâthat way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things clickâbut now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your templeâjust a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.
"you're not listening," he says fondly.
"I am listening."
"you're staring at my mouth."
"I can do both."
"that'sâ" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."
"says who?"
"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly whichâ"
you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.
the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehowâyou're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it wasâhis arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.
you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.
"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.
"are you complaining?"
"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."
"good teacher."
"biased student."
you turn in his lap to face himâcareful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.
"hey," you say.
"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.
"I have a question," you say.
"about physics?"
"about you."
"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."
"when did you know? that youâ" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"
he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.
"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."
his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.
"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinkingâ"
he pauses, swallows hard.
"âI remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"
his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.
"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because youâbecause you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or justâtooâ"
his voice cracks.
"âbut you kept coming back. and I thinkâI think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."
"a problem?"
"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you'reâyou're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. justâsatoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."
"your coffee is genuinely terrible."
"I know. I hate sweet coffee."
he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.
"what?"
"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.
"but you've been ordering it sweet forâ" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"
"yeah."
"satoru, that'sâ" you don't have words. "why?"
"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked soâ" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I justâ"
he shrugs helplessly.
"âI said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want toâ" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meantâif it meantâ"
he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.
"âif it meant you kept coming back."
you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised soundâhigh and breathlessâand then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.
"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.
"I'm aware."
"three months of terrible coffee."
"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'dâ"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.
"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."
you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.
you're thoroughly distractedâlost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gentlyâwhen someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.
you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.
there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisleâolder guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.
"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."
"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were justâstudying."
"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."
he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.
you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.
"oh my god," you say.
"that wasâ"
"mortifying."
"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."
"absolutely worth it."
"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"
"satoru, I was literally in your lap."
"right. yes. that'sâthat's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."
"you didn't object."
"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offerâ" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.
you climb off his lapâreluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weirdâand start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.
when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.
the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.
"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.
"so."
"I'll walk you back."
"it's not on your way."
"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."
you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.
the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.
it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly emptyâjust a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.
"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.
"always."
"do youâ" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can beâa lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won'tâI don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."
you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."
you squeeze his hand.
"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we'reâ" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."
"boyfrâ" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are weâis thatâcan Iâ"
"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."
the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've neverâI've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."
your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.
he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promiseâunhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
when he pulls backâjust far enough to see you, foreheads still touchingâhis eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tearsâyou can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump togetherâdefinitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "forâfor as long as you want. I'mâI'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and thisâ"
he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.
"âthis I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that'sâif that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I justâI need you to know that I'mâI'm serious about this. about you. about us."
"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."
he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouthâactually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.
his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibilityâthe lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.
when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pinkâfrom cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.
at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.
"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, noâ"
"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"
his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"
"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you couldâyou could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could justâ"
"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.
"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.
"I wouldâ" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. andâand as many days as you'll let me. I'llâI'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we canâwe can figure out what I actually like."
"it's a date."
"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"
"or earlier. if you want."
"earlier. definitely earlier. I'llâhow about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. orâor snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring optionsâ"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."
"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.
"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."
"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.
"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.
"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.
"you have to let go of my hand first."
"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.
you squeeze his hand onceâfirm and groundingâshake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.
you take the stairs up to the third floorâfaster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.
he stands there for a long momentâthirty seconds, a minuteâjust looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.
then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smilingâyou can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.
finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this timeâtoward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.
he sees you thereâyou're not even trying to hide nowâand his whole face lights up. he wavesâenthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.
you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.
he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.
finallyâreluctantlyâhe turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.
when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.
satoru gojo. element 119. the most brilliant person you've ever met. and somehow, impossibly, wonderfullyâhe's yours.
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
trope. best friends to lovers. college au. slow burn. angst. fluff.
synopsis. it takes you a while to realize being known is being loved, and kim seungmin just so happens to be an expert in the study of you.
word count: 19.8k words
warnings. just extreme slow burn. some curse words. sexual jokes. drinking and being intoxicated.Â
note. again my self indulgent take on seungmin in college :)
one.
Kim Seungmin has a habit of blowing up your phone every chance he gets. So, it really isnât anything new to wake up to a million notifications from your best friend.
The range of apps from which he bothers you is astronomical.
(Instagram): _seungmin mentioned you in a comment: @ynbread lmao this video reminded me of u cos ure an idiot
(Tiktok): seungmin mentioned you in a comment: @ynbread us
(Twitter): seungmin replied to your tweet: Iâm hungry can u reply to my messages
But nothing, absolutely nothing, can beat the 56 messages and 9 missed calls on your phone. Youâd think it was an emergency if not for his last message, shining brightly through your screen.
minnie: i need a new face wash come with me so i can shut up about it đĄ
You roll your eyes to yourself, skimming through the notifications on your lock screen without really opening them. Itâs mostly just a series of Seungmin asking you if you were awake every hour with a few whining in between about how heâs bored and how you need to wake up.Â
While youâre laughing at his overdramatic messages (has he been hanging out with Hyunjin too much these days?), you accidentally unleash a storm upon yourself.
You hadnât meant to click on one of the notifications, and now a taunting âreadâ is on the bottom of his messages.
Big mistake.
All hell is about to break lose.
The moment Kim Seungmin receives the small indication that youâre finally awake, his face flashes on your screen almost immediately in a Facetime call. Itâs tempting to decline his call in favor of burying your face back into your pillows, but the clock reads 11am and you have an annoying best friend that needs your attention. You know never to ignore Seungmin. Youâve learned that the hard way.
Swiping on accept, his head of fluffy hair pops up on your screen. âFinally! What took you so long?â His phone angle shifts so his face shows now â it seems like heâs outside as heâs looking left and right before crossing somewhere.Â
âSleeping.â You rub your eyes, propping your phone against a box of tissues so he can see you while you fix your bed.Â
âDidnât wanna wake up cause you were dreaming of me?â You can hear the laughter in his voice.
Appropriately, you respond by gifting him your middle finger. âYou wish.â
âDid you sleep well?â You hum in response even though you doubt he could hear you amidst the noise outside and the shuffling of your bedsheets. âWhat did you need?â You grab your phone from your nightstand, walking towards your refrigerator to get a glass of water.Â
âFace wash. Youâre coming with me. Oh, and bring an umbrella, itâs drizzling a little.â
bangchan who, despite his busy schedules and workaholic nature, thrives on pleasing you. you ask for something and heâll do anything for you to have it âthatâs just the type of person he is. especially since his love knows no bounds.
youâre just as giving as he is⊠you need to be. to truly empathize with why he does everything that he does for you and for everyone else
chan leans on you when heâs exhausted and overworkedâŠalmost at the brink of burnout. youâre the only person who knows how to soothe him.Â
sometimes he will pull up to your house after leaving work at 2am⊠sometimes even later, hesitant to know if youâll welcome him with open arms. you always do.
âchannieâŠâ you coo as he sulkily walks towards your bed, âitâs been a couple of tough days, huh?â he nods, burying his head on your chest.
his hands fist at the neckline of your tank, silently dragging it down. his plump lips kiss over your breasts, gently attaching themselves onto your nipple, sucking softly.Â
nothing soothes chan more than to be nestled between your breasts, sucking on your nipples as you caress his long locks âthe only way heâs guaranteed to fall asleep almost instantly.Â
âm-mommyâŠâ he murmurs as he drifts away to sleep.
you'll always take care of him <3
a/n: another drabble bc tbh seeing chan call that genshin character mommy made me feel a lot </3
pairing: hyunjin x afab reader | wordcount: 17k | genre: coworkers to friends to lovers, romance, smut | general warnings: multiple povs, mentions of a breakup (not hj x reader), angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, only one bed trope, mutual pining/fantasizing, food/drinking, explicit sexual content. more warnings under the cut. Just a chill, uneventful little one-shot for winter vibes ⥠18+ only.
It's time for the yearly winter getaway organized by your boss. You haven't participated in a little while, but this year you're determined to spend some quality time with your coworkers.
Smut warnings: Hyunjin has explicit fantasies about reader (oral sex, fingering + daydreaming about her body) and masturbates to the thought of her, foot massage/appreciation of feet, very low key exhibitionism but I'm adding it just in case, tipsy sex, oral sex (m + f receiving), handjob/vaginal fingering, unprotected & fully consensual sex. Vanilla for the most part, just on the rough side (a few slaps of reader's ass, hair grabbing, etc), creampie (not accidental) / some cumplay.
Terms of endearment used: baby, slut (affectionate)
You had thought there would be something cathartic to crying outside in the cold with the crisp breeze blowing over your face. But there was nothing liberating about it and it did not feel like an epiphany. The tears did not freeze at the corner of your eyes, the blizzard had no impact on your sorrow. It just felt like you were crying, and that also it was cold.
Quite an underwhelming experience, actually. If you were to give it a rating, it would go a little like this:
â â ââââ â Better than crying in front of everybody, I guess, but not by much. â
You walked around the cabin, the snow crunching under the soles of your boots. You hadnât even bothered with zipping them up before rushing outside, away from your friends.Â
Another gust of wind blasted over you and you wrapped your cardigan closer around your body, but it did not do much against the strong squall. Still, you welcomed it, welcomed the cold, you let that occupy your mind instead of the thoughts that were troubling you.Â
You passed a window as you walked and couldnât resist peeking inside the cabin that your boss had rented for this yearâs winter getaway. The place was lost in the mountains, and from here in the dark you couldnât see much except some trees and the lights from other cabins a little farther away.Â
The game was still going strong inside, with Jisung currently standing in the middle of the living room, doing his best to act out whatever charade the others had to guess. You watched for an instant, wiping off your tears to see better. Still, you couldnât guess the riddle for the life of you, and it seemed the same was happening to the rest of the groupâeven from here, you could see Jisung growing more impatient by the second.Â
From out here, it looked cozy in there. A fireplace with a little fire in it, string lights all over the place, mugs of mulled wine warming up fingers or cooling off on coffee tables. Cushions and pillows and fleece blankets. Remnants of dessert all over the place, crumbs of cake on empty plates. The cake that you baked, your favorite winter dessertâchocolate-cinnamon cake with mandarin cream cheese frosting and candied cranberries to decorate it. You made it every year.Â
Friends laughing, phones out filming Jisungâs tantrum. Some of these friends were more entangled together than othersâhands holding other hands or arms passed over shoulders, quick pecks here and there, eyes full of bliss, of wine, of love.Â
The voice coming from the hidden corner of the cabin startled you, but at least it was soft. âHey, I know youâre out there, come back inside, youâll catch the flu! Where are you? Itâs so fucking cold!âÂ
âYou canât get the flu from the cold, Hyunjin,â you pointed out. âItâs a virus.â
Hyunjin appeared after turning the corner of the large wooden cabin. Your coworker, your friend. Not necessarily a close friend, but you werenât sure you had one of those anyway. So much for keeping your circle small. He had quickly put on his coat around his broad shoulders and was holding something as he walked towards you.
He stopped when he made it to you and stood with you by the window. âLetâs not argue over semantics, shall we?âÂ
âSemantics? Thatâs biology, man. Not the same. You just canât catch a virus because of the coldââÂ
âI brought a blanket.â Hyunjin cut you off in the middle of your counter-argument as if you hadnât been talking at all, but the warm lighting from the window revealed a soft expression on his face. And concern, too. âHere. Flu or not, you shouldnât be out in the cold dressed like that.âÂ
He wrapped the fuzzy blanket around you, making sure to tuck you in tightly. You observed him as he did so, the dark pools of his eyes, his soft cheekbones turned pink with the second mug of mulled wine, which had also stained his full lips a little.Â
Hyunjin wasnât like the others. Not that there was anything wrong with the others, of course notâbut he was different. His aura had not only a unique color to it, but it also had a very distinct texture. As if Hyunjin was surrounded by soft, satiny, petal-like material. As if he brought tranquility wherever he went.Â
âWill you come back inside?â he asked gently, rubbing your arms over the blanket with his big hands to help warm you up sooner.Â
âYou go.â You breathed deeply. âIâll go in a minute or two.âÂ
âFine. Iâll stay for a minute or two, then. Wonât say a word.â He let go of you and returned to his observation of the charade game going on inside.Â
Hyunjin, with his striking beauty, his dorky laugh, his wisdom, his insight, his politeness. His sense of humor. His profound kindness. His sensitive heart, which he tried to conceal under his mysterious demeanor. A handsome man with a delicate soul, who moved with grace, elegance, and purpose no matter what he did. When he wrapped you in the blanket just then, when he got out of his car as he arrived for his shift at the restaurant, or when he mixed the drinks at the bar section. Nobody did anything like him, which you knew explained the fuzzy feelings that you had when he was around you or when you thought about him. Because, maybe, you hadnât felt for anybody this way before, and it was strange.
Still. Hyunjin was your friend, and you felt safe around him. âI shouldnât have come, Hyun. I knew it was a bad idea.â
He clicked his tongue and leaned against the wood exterior of the cabin. He was away from the light then and you couldnât make out his facial expression, but you could see that he had cocked his head to the side. âOr not,â he offered. âMaybe this is how you move on, you know?âÂ
Moving on. Fucking moving on.Â
One of the many things in life you seem to consistently fail at.Â
You did not love him anymore. Minho. Your boss, the owner of the restaurant where you worked at.Â
Your ex.Â
You were there from the beginning, along with Chan, Jisung, and Si-yeon. Si-yeon had found a promising position at a company soon after and hadnât stayed at Godâs Menu. Still, the restaurant had gained popularity quite quickly. One night, after closing time, Minho had kissed you as you two were looking at color swatches to repaint the main room. Then he had fucked you on his desk, and again against the wall of his office.Â
You had dated Minho for some timeânine months to be more exact. Towards the end of the relationship, he was closed off, distant, often choosing to come in specifically when you werenât scheduled to work. When confronted about it, he admitted that he had been struggling with the fact that he was dating one of his employees, that it had affected his feelings for you.Â
He had fallen out of love with you, despite him trying not to. You believed himâMinho did not tell lies. Besides, you could see it on his face. The shame, the disappointment in himself. You knew he had a strong work ethic, you liked that about him. But neither you nor he had expected it would cause the end of your relationship.
But that was a while ago now. The breakup had occurred almost two years ago. You had taken the painful decision to stay at the restaurant. You liked the atmosphere there and were friends with most of the staff. You liked that you had seen it become something so grand when it started from basically nothing. You had painted those walls, you had typed the damn words on the menu before sending it to the print shop. You had tasted Chanâs million versions of his dishes to help him select the ultimate ones. Your blood, sweat, and tears were in there, and it felt wrong to leave it just because of a breakup.Â
It also felt wrong to stay. Still, you stayed, like the stubborn motherfucker you were.
Minho started dating Si-yeon. After all, she was not one of his employees. So it was okay.
That drink was now on the bar sectionâs menu, as well as many other of Hyunjinâs creations.Â
And maybe this was why your feelings for Hyunjin didnât have any clear boundaries. He had entered your life when you were at a very vulnerable place, so maybe your heart had wanted to find wonder again in this too-pretty-to-be-real boy, the one who mixed âspecialâ drinks for you after closing time if he thought you seemed in a bad mood. He would never say that, of course, heâd just hand you a glass and tell you what ingredients were in it and tell you it was a magic potion for serotonin. Often, it was just fruit juice with a dash of smoky tea in an extravagantly decorated glass.Â
But hey, it kind of worked.Â
You did not miss him, did not love Minho anymoreâmaybe you hadnât even loved him anymore when you confronted him about his lack of response in your relationship, all this time ago. But still, it had hit you like a train when, just now, he had told you that he and Si-yeon were engaged. He had told you first, which you thought was admirable and adult and respectful, before telling the rest of the group between two charades.Â
And now you were outside, hoping that crying in the cold would be better than locking yourself in a bathroom to sob and it wasnât. It just wasnât.
You did not love him anymore, but you hadnât been able to move on like Minho had. He had started dating Si-yeon not long after the breakup while you had developed a stupid crush on a bartender who gave you fruit juice and was way out of your fucking league. Minho had moved in with his new girlfriend, a thing he had never voiced he even wanted to do with you, and they were living a good life. You were happy for them, truly. You werenât jealous in the sense that you wanted Minho back, no, it wasnât that.
You stayed in your small but cozy apartment, you did not do much. You watched TV series or movies, you read books. You baked for fun, to share the sweet treats with your friends, coworkers and family. You went on a handful of dates but did not care much for that. You had ended up in the bed of two of those dates, and you hadnât cared much for that either.Â
Minho had moved on and you were stagnating, unable to figure out what you were supposed to do next. Your mother had suggested moving. Maybe a new environment would help you see beyond your routine. She had also suggestedâmany timesâgetting a new job. Your friends all said the same. Still, you stayed at Godâs Menu. Like the stubborn motherfucker you were.Â
âI think it was a good idea that you did come,â Hyunjin said. You had avoided the yearly winter getaways since the breakup, figuring it was best not to end up stuck with Minho and your coworkers in a cabin up north for a couple of days. âIt was brave, donât you think? You couldnât have known he was gonna drop the bomb on usâon youâlike that.âÂ
Hyunjinâs hair fell over his eyes when he straightened up his neck and his back, pushing himself away from the wall he leaned on. The blue shade of it was invisible to the eye in the darkness. He walked a few steps away from you, motioning you to follow him, but you didnât. You stayed there, at the window, shivering in the cold, watching Minhoâs charade. You knew he was trying to act out âpickpocketingâ, but nobody, not even Si-yeon, seemed to pick up on that. Just like Jisung, he was becoming frustrated. It was funny. You smiled a little as you wiped what you hoped was the last of your tears for tonight.Â
âIâm happy for them, you know.â There was a lump in your throat and it didnât seem to budge one bit. âI donât even love him anymore. Why am I crying then?âÂ
Hyunjin closed in the distance between the two of you and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in for a one-armed hug. âItâs a lot to process.â Hyunjinâs voice was low, but you still heard him clearly over the gusts of wind. âYou have to give yourself some time. HeâŠâ Hyunjin sighed, hesitating. âI think Minho was a bit of a coward to just break up with you instead of trying to work it out. Maybe your subconscious thinks like that, too. Unresolved frustration and shit. Youâll be alright, just be patient with yourself.âÂ
âAt this rate, youâll have to start charging me for therapy fees.â Hyunjin chuckled with you, but you went on. âIs it extra for all of the serotonin potions, or were these part of the bundle?â
âNo, theyâre actually free because theyâre experimental. You were the first and only patient of our very important clinical study.â Hyunjin pulled away then so that he could look into your eyes. He was warm against you, though, and it felt nice. He smelled good, too, as usual. âUnfortunately, it seems that our product did not meet our expectations.âÂ
He brought the back of his fingers to your face, gently wiping away the few tears that were still rolling on your cheek. You shivered at the contact, blaming the cold despite knowing very well it was something else causing your sudden emotion and state of high alert. It happened every time Hyunjin touched you like that.Â
âDid you mean it?â You held onto the blanket around you, doing your best to calm both your fluttering heart and your rapid breathing. âThat Iâll be alright?â
Hyunjin smiled at you. His arm returned around your waist, no longer giving you the choiceâhe dragged you away with him as he made his way back towards the front door. âI meant it, yeah, but itâll only work if you actually donât die of hypothermia. So letâs go.âÂ
When you got in the cabin again, the conversation and laughter were still going on just like before you had gone outside. From the small entrance, you couldnât see anyone though, and turned to Hyunjin as he was hanging his coat on the wall. âIs it obvious that I cried?â you asked him. âAre my eyes red and puffy?â
Hyunjin squinted a little, observing you carefully. Then, he shook his head. âActually, not that bad.â He pulled on the sleeve of his sweater and finished drying your cheeks, dabbing your skin carefully so as not to leave any marks. âMaybe the cold prevented the inflammation.âÂ
Then you ought to change your rating on the whole crying outside experience.
â â â â ââ â Better than crying in front of everybody and served as a free, complimentary eye mask at the same time. Will go back for sure! â
Hyunjin took your hand in his and led you not to the living room where the game was still happeningâalthough you could hear Changbin voicing his complaints that he was tired of itâbut to the kitchen. Most of the dishes had been cleaned.
âYou didnât eat dessert,â Hyunjin pointed out, opening the fridge. âAnd you made it! So weâre gonna eat some cake and finish the mulled wine, how about that for serotonin?â
âCake?â you raised your eyebrows, surprised at how easily a smile painted itself on your lips. âIs this the second phase of the clinical trial, by any chance?â
âGuilty.â Hyunjin let the fridge door close itself as he brought what was left of your cake to the counter. You sat at one of the stools near him, watching his agile fingers hold the knife carefully as he sliced the dessert. âBut Iâm more than confident that we will see some improvement this time. The person who made the cake is one hell of a baker.â
âAh, are they really that good or is this just a rumor?â You giggled as Hyunjinâs soothing aura was piercing its way through the gloomy mist around you.
Hyunjin placed the slices of cake on two small plates. He had icing on two of his fingers, and you found yourself wishing youâd lick it off him. Before your brain could even process that thought, Hyunjin had brought the fingers to his mouth to get the job done himselfâof course. That was the normal thing to do anywayâitâs not like he was going to push his fingers into your mouth andâ
âTheyâre really good, yeah,â he went on, pulling his fingers from between his plush lips, leaving a small speck of icing on them. âThat person baked me a cake for my birthday last year actually, and it was the best cake I ever had.âÂ
What if I kissed him. What if I kissed the icing off his lips?
No, no, no. Fucking hell. How was it possible that, five minutes ago, you were crying because your ex is getting engaged, and now you wanted to kiss your friend because he had icing on his pretty mouth?Â
You ate a bite of cake, remembering the one you had baked for Hyunjinâs birthdayâa matcha cheesecake with raspberry coulis. He had talked about that cake for months, and you had promised yourself youâd make another one for his next birthday too.Â
âThanks, Hyunjin.â He ate a little too before leaving you to pour the last of the mulled wine into two mugs, which you clinked together before emptying their content.Â
âI think Iâve had a little too much of that,â he admitted with a laugh. In the other room, the volume of the conversations seemed to have dialed down a little. Changbin had apparently won his battle to end the gameâand it was most likely because he and his girlfriend were the losing team. In fact, you could hear her call him out on it gently, her voice dripping with love. âI think youâve had too much too, your cheeks are all rosy. Are you feeling a little warmer?â Hyunjin inquired, returning to his seat next to you.Â
âYes, Iâm alright.â You touched your cheek, not surprised to find it so warm. It made you blush even more to think that Hyunjin was seeing you like that.
âDonât worry, it looks pretty,â Hyunjin commented in between bites of cake. âSounds like theyâre gonna watch a movie. Do you want to join?âÂ
You stared at the half-eaten slice of cake on your plate before turning to Hyunjin. He looked especially handsome tonight in a simple hoodie and jeans outfit. His desaturated dark blue hair looked soft to the touch, silky smooth, and you had to resist the urge to run your fingers through it. You couldnât help but notice that it had grown a little longer since he had gotten this haircut. You liked it, though. You didnât think this man had it in him to look anything but gorgeous.Â
âOh, yeah, why not?â You actually felt like it, too. Hopefully the movie would be funâŠ
Changbin, Jisung and Si-yeon entered the kitchen as you were finishing your slice of cake. Hyunjin was already done and was rinsing his plate in the sink.
âThatâs where you guys were!â Jisung exclaimed, taking the seat that Hyunjin had occupied just a few seconds ago. âHiding to stuff your face with cake, keeping it all to yourself!â
âHey, you had two slices,â you pointed out, âand I made the damn cake! Think that entitles me to someâŠâÂ
âSheâs right, Ji,â Si-yeon said as she grabbed a clean glass from the cupboard next to the sink. âYou stuffed your round little cheeks more than anyone in this cabin!â
âYou all can go to hell, whatever!â Jisung scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. âIâm hungrier than all of you because I had to be the one starting the fire in the fireplace.â
Changbin leaned against the counter right across from you and smiled playfully. âYou tried to start the fire, Han Jisung. But you couldnât. Minho actually lit it up, remember?â
âNo, I have no recollection of that. Hyunjin, what the hell did you put in that mulled wine to make me black out like this?âÂ
The whole room burst into laughter. Yours was a little shy, a little quieter, but you found it comforting to know that you could find things funny even when Si-yeon was around. She was a lovely person anyway.Â
She had actually turned Minho down initially, feeling like going on a date with him would be crossing a line. You respected that, some kind of unspoken rule had been observed there. But when your group of college friends had met a couple of weeks later for drinks, Si-yeon had told you about it, and you had immediately assured her that it would be totally okay if she went out with Minho. So really, you could not understand what troubled you so much tonight. This had all happened so long ago.
Was your mother right? Did you need to put space between the past and you?Â
âAre you guys gonna watch the movie with us?â Si-yeon asked, but she really was staring at you. She could probably tell that you had cried, and was testing the waters with you.
âWhat kind of movie?â you replied. âIâd be in the mood for some mindless sci-fi, you know?â
âActually sounds lovely, Iâll go start up the TV.â She disappeared from the kitchen without using the clean glass she had taken out of the cabinet.
You filled it for her with water from the fridge while Hyunjin was making a late-night round of drinks for everyoneâsweet vermouth with maraschino and chartreuse liqueur. He diluted it with ice, claiming he did not want to be responsible for everyoneâs liver to fail as he had stirred up several rounds of drinks tonight for the group as well as the mulled wine.Â
Soon later, as everyone was getting settled in the living room to watch a superhero movie, Minho smiled worriedly at you over his glass. You tasted the drink too, finding it refreshing after a few mugs of spiced wine. Si-yeon sat beside him, but she was having a deep conversation about the looks of two of the actors from the movie with Changbin and Ha-ri, his girlfriend.Â
You smiled back at him, at Minho, and raised your glass just slightly at him. He had hurt you and you had hurt him, too, but you couldnât hold it against him that he had moved on. That he had allowed himself to fall in love again while you so obstinately refused to. Like the stubborn motherfucker you were.
Hyunjin took the seat next to you on one of the many couches in the big living room. He had brought with him the blanket he had given you earlier, outside, and laid it on both of you. You wanted to rest your head against him, too. You wanted to touch his blue hair, look into his espresso eyes.Â
Instead, you sipped your drink, complimenting him on it as it was genuinely delicious, and watched the movie by his side. And it felt good. Like something in your chest had evaporated, and instead of a thick storm, you only felt a gentle mist.Â
Nineteen months ago, Hyunjin had met Lee Minho in his restaurant which he had boldly named Godâs Menu. Hyunjin admired that about Minhoâhis confidence that he was always doing his best, and that his best was enough, yet that he still could and should improve. Few people in life displayed such reason and determination, so Hyunjin wasnât surprised that Minho was successful. That night, Minho sat with him after closing time and they chatted. Chan was also thereâhe had made them a delicious pasta meal and they were eating together. Minho seemed rather inclined to at least give Hyunjin a chance. Still, he asked him if he had a few signature drinks and if he would be willing to mix one for them tonight.
Hyunjin had a few drinks of the sort, but his true specialty was to âremixâ cocktail recipes to elevate them. As Minho was requesting a signature drink from him, Hyunjinâs eyes had fallen upon the bottle of Campari behind the bar, and the inspiration for Red Lights had come to him instantly. That night was the first night he mixed that drink, inventing it on the spot and improvising the whole time. But it had been the drink that had gotten him the job, in the end, and now Hyunjin had a reputation in townâhe was known for his mixology skills, which was still surreal for him.Â
Nobody knew. That he had never made the drink before that.Â
Two days later, he met you. The restaurant assistant-manager who liked to do some waiting at the tables even though she did not have to. A soft smile on softer lips, big eyes, kindness in every word you spoke. After closing time, you always sent the waiters home early and took on some of their chores. âKeeps my mind busy,â you had told Hyunjin, one night after he asked why. You had music playing in your section of the restaurant for your ears only, and liked to hum along to the songs. The volume was low but Hyunjin could hear you as he took inventory of the bar section, as he wiped down tables and surfaces. If he had to describe you at that point, he would have said that you were interesting.Â
Sixteen months ago, he noticed that the melancholy in your eyes did not dissipate. Still, you regularly brought baked goods for the employees, bought fresh flowers for the staff room, you sported a smile on your face, no matter how painful it was to do it.
âIf I were you, Iâd forget her,â Seungmin had told him one night when, after closing time, Hyunjin was doing some prep for the next day. You were in the other section singing along to a pop song and sweeping the floor. In your own little world. Seungmin had noticed him staring at you. âSheâs the bossâ ex and she still loves him, everyone knows that.â
âIsnât Minho seeing someone?â Hyunjin had asked the restaurantâs accountant. âIâm pretty sure he mentioned a girl.â
âOh, Si-yeon? Yeah, theyâre seeing each other.â Hyunjin would never forget Seungminâs shrug, how perfectly synchronized it had been with the beat of the song you were listening to. Coincidences like that were like lifeâs way of reminding one about its intricacies. âDoesnât change the fact that it would be a bad idea to fuck your bossâ ex, doesnât it? Besides, sheâs really hung up on him, not sure you even stand a chance.âÂ
If he had to describe you at that point, he would have said that you were interesting, sad, pretty. That you were a skilled baker.Â
Ten months ago, Hyunjin caught the flu. He was very sick and stayed at home for over a week being miserable in his bed. One evening, he received a text message from you. âIâm coming over, please unlock your door.â He objectedâthe last thing he wanted was to make you sick too, but you insisted. He unlocked his door and you came in with paperwork for him to sign for the restaurant and two large bags of groceries. You made him sit on his couch with peppermint tea, a blanket, and a light-hearted drama while you cooked chicken noodle soup and black bean sauce for him, chatting with him while you did so. You left as soon as you had split the food in small containers and put them in his fridge, making him promise to get plenty of rest and eat three meals a day. Making him promise to call you if he needed something.
The whole rest of the week, Hyunjin was waiting for a good reason to make that call, but he didnât run out of medicine or food, or anything. Unfortunately.
If he had to describe you at that point, he would have said that you were kind, generous, interesting, beautiful. Sweet. That your heart was heavy but you made sure that others felt joy every day.Â
Nine months ago, Hyunjin was working and it was his birthday. He did not mind thatâhis parents would have him for dinner the next day and he had another dinner planned with friends from work and from outside work, too. Halfway through his busy shift, the music playing in the restaurant stopped, immediately replaced by his coworkersâ voices singing him âHappy Birthdayâ. He had been moved by that, as all of them surrounded him and hugged him. Changbin was holding a plate with a cheesecake on it. The cake had a satiny raspberry coulis on top and was a pretty soft-green color on the inside.Â
âMake a wish, quick! Or else the candle will melt and ruin y/n decorations on the cake!â Chan had pointed out. Hyunjin hadnât known what to wish for, he didnât like to wish for things. But he had wished that you would bake him another cake for his birthday next year, too.Â
He hoped that wish would come true because it was the best cake he had ever tasted. The crust was crispy, not too sweet, and the coulis was divine. You had made it yourself, for him. Later that night, there had been a little gathering after the restaurant had closed. Everybody indulged in the cake and some drinks. He found you outside in the cold, shivering but determined to stay away from the others. He had given you his jacket, pretending he wasnât cold at all. âI just wanted some quiet, Hyunjin. Sorry. Happy birthday, though.â
Hyunjin had wanted to kiss you then but did not have the balls to do it. You were Minhoâs ex, and your eyes were still veiled by your heartbreak. Part of him knew he was just looking for excuses to stay in his comfort zone but still, he did not insist. He stood with you at the back of the restaurant until you decided to go back with the others.Â
If he had to describe you at that point, he would have said that you were hurt, but that you had found a way to make beauty out of that hurt. He would have said that you were beautiful, charming, alluring. That he thought of you, often, of the way your mouth looked when you sucked on a maraschino cherry, the sound of your laugh, the outline of your tits in your white shirts, the way your skirts hugged your legs. He would have said that you were smart, interesting, kind, that he made sure to be very slow at his closing routine so that youâd offer to help him once you were done with yours, and heâd just chat with you for a while.Â
He always put maraschino cherries in your drinks. Thank you drinks, serotonin boost drinks, Iâm sorry I fucked up the liquor order shipment and weâre definitely running out of vodka before the end of the month drinksâŠÂ
He always stared at you when you ate the cherries, too, imagining that you were playing with his tongue instead of fruit. How wrong it felt when he closed his eyes at night, fist closed around his cock in his bed or the shower, thinking of bending you over and fucking you against the large counter of the bar section, or on his couch, in his car, anywhere. How good it felt when he came thinking of you.Â
One month ago, Minho had come in just before dinner service, telling the staff currently working that the yearly winter getaway would indeed take place. He had rented a bigger cabin this year, and everybody was welcome to have a plus one with them, something that hadnât been the case beforeâto keep things simple, he always said. Minho always needed to make sure things were running smoothly. He had asked everyone to confirm their attendance within two days. If too few people were interested, heâd rent something smaller.Â
Hyunjin's heart had jumped when he saw your name in the group chat for the getaway. You were working that day, so he had told you about it later. âItâs cool that youâre going this year.âÂ
âI think itâs a bad idea, Hyunjin,â you had admitted. That night, Hyunjin could make out the lace of your bra under your shirt and it had made his cock twitch in his pants. âMaybe I shouldnât go. Because of Minho.â
By then, the two of you had grown close enough that you had trusted him with the whole story behind the breakup. To this day, Hyunjin thought Minho had been a coward not to try harder. If you were his girlfriend, he would try to keep you. âIâm glad youâre going,â was all Hyunjin had managed to tell you. He understood how you felt, but he was happy with the perspective of spending some time with you, away from work, away from the city. âIâll make you plenty of serotonin drinks, promise.âÂ
You had hugged him after that, thanking him. Later that night, Hyunjin had watched his cum disappear down the drain of his shower, forehead against the ceramic tile. It was wrong. He had to do something about it.
If he couldnât have you, then maybe he should find another job. Go somewhere else where he would not see you so often. Go somewhere else, so that you didnât hug him so tight, your body flush with him, your tits pressed against his chest.Â
If he had to describe you at that point, he wouldnât have known which words to use. A friend, a crush, the girl he liked. Something else, something stronger. Something he was afraid to admit even to himself.Â
Something he couldnât have.Â
Tonight, at the cabin, Hyunjin watched the movie by your side. He had seen it twice already, mostly because it was one of the default movies his roommate would put on when he didnât know what to watch. He liked it, but he liked watching you more.
The way you would close your eyes sometimes, to rest them maybe, or because you were sleepy. The little glances and smiles you had for him after you laughed at a joke. How you tried to conceal your tears at the sad scene in the middle of the film.Â
How your thigh brushed against him when you shifted your weight on the couch. Hyunjin was hoping you would fall asleep and lay against him, but you didnât. You watched the whole movie.Â
A few people announced they were going to sleepâJisung, Si-yeon, Jeongin and his girlfriend Hye-ja as well as Min-seo. They immediately earned themselves playful complaints from the ones who said they would finish the dishes and clean up the kitchen. You were among those, and Hyunjin wanted to go with you, but Minho and Seungmin had other plans for himâthey asked him to join them in a discussion that had started before the movie, when Seungmin was telling the story about the time he visited a whiskey distillery with his friends. Minho wanted to know Hyunjinâs opinion on whiskeys, as he considered investing in a few exclusive bottles but wanted to make the right choice.
But Hyunjin indulged them. He liked whiskey, liked to see the light filter through a good whiskey as he poured it into a Glencairn glass. Minho promised him a brand new set of those, as well as to bring him on his shopping quest for some fancy whiskey.Â
From where he sat in the living room, Hyunjin could see a little of the kitchen. He saw Changbin and Ha-ri leave for the basement where their room was locatedâChangbin looked so tired that his poor girlfriend almost had to carry him down there. He, of course, blamed it on washing the dishes by hand.Â
The smell of coffee was spreading all the way here, and Hyunjin observed you. You were grabbing a handful of small mugs from a cupboard while Chan sat on the counter. You two were having a lively conversation about something Hyunjin couldnât quite understand, as you were speaking in low voices, most likely out of respect for those who had gone to sleep.Â
âI would like a coffee,â Seungmin pointed out while Minho was scrolling something on his phone. Hyunjin was still staring at you, trying to decide if Chan was openly flirting with you or if he was being subtle about it. âShould we go with the others?â
âI better get upstairs,â Minho commented with a self-deprecating laugh. âIf I donât go to sleep soon after Si-yeon, sheâll turn into an actual human-sized ice cube and try to steal all of my warmth.â
Seungmin laughed about that on his way to the kitchen, but Hyunjin stayed on the couch. He had a nice view of you here, and he saw how you responded to Chanâs compliments. He could tell that Chan was asking about your baking. He heard him complain that baking had never been his strength, that it was why the dessert menu wasnât particularly elaborate.Â
As if he had known you would glance at him, Hyunjin looked away just in time but still saw from the corner of his eyes that you were now the one observing him. He simply stared at the TV where some boring infomercial was on. He did not hear your response, but he heard Seungmin making a comment about the cheesecake.Â
Seungmin left soon after, telling everyone he was going to watch a drama with his coffee, as his room was equipped with a TV. He politely invited him, but Hyunjin refused, pretending he was too tired for it.Â
But he just wanted to keep watching you.
You, snacking on a sugar cookie as you listened to Chan. The way you held the mug, not by its handle, to warm up your hands. The way your tits bounced a little when you laughed, or when you pushed your hair behind to come see something that Chan was showing you on his phone, revealing your neck and some of your shoulder. Hyunjin could not describe you, but he knew he would miss you if he left Godâs Menu. When he left it.
He didnât know what he wanted anymore.
But he knew that your bare neck made him hard. He knew that the sight of your tongue licking off powdered sugar on your velvety lips made his cock twitch. Maybe it was all the wine, but Hyunjin was certain that if he stayed here in your vicinity, he would make a mess in his pants.Â
He got up and, without a word, made his way to his room. So what if you fucked Chan? He was a nice guy, after all. Maybe tonight had been eye-opening for you. Maybe Minho and Si-yeonâs engagement had helped you find some peace, finally. And if that was the case, Hyunjin was glad.Â
But he also wanted to be the one in the kitchen with you, wanted you to teach him how to make sugar cookies. He wanted to taste them in your mouth, wanted to kiss your lips, your neck, your pussy.Â
Hyunjin painfully made it to his room. He had lucked outâhe did not have to share it, but his room wasnât particularly big, it was on the highest floor and had a large window that showed the beautiful scenery around. It was also equipped with a private bathroom, which would come in handy right about now because he needed to relieve his aching cock and also needed to wash himself offâhe always felt so fucking filthy when you made him hard like that.
He couldnât help it. And it was why he figured it might be best if he just left.
Hyunjin unzipped his pants and left them on the floor by the door with his boxer briefs. Spitting into his palm as he let the shower warm up, Hyunjin took himself in his hand, not even glancing down at his shame. He knew what heâd see anyway, and if he stared too much at his flushed, leaking cock, he would imagine it between your legs or in your mouth. Your tongue swirling around his tipâŠ
Hyunjin whimpered at that thought as he squeezed himself tighter before leaving his cock to fondle his balls gently. He twitched at that and entered the shower stall, letting the warm water calm him down for a while as he rubbed his now fully hard cock.Â
He didnât want this to be elaborate or anythingâhe couldnât wait to cum anyway. Maybe he should sleep with his noise-canceling headphones in case you did fuck Chan. If he heard, even faintly, a moan from you, it might be enough to make him lose his mind.Â
Hyunjin fucked his hand, legs going weaker and weaker the more he went, hoping the sound of running water would muffle his whines. You were so fucking pretty. He had a semi during the movie just from sitting next to you and smelling you, feeling the warmth of your body against his. He wondered how your tits would feel in his hands, wondered how they would look if he sucked on them while fucking your cunt with his fingers.Â
Most of the time, he was able to suppress those thoughts, especially in public settings. But not tonightâthat was just too much. Earlier, when you were crying outside, he wanted to kiss you and take you away from this place, make you see how you deserved to be loved. Make you see that you were worth fighting for.
If only youâd let him.
If only it were your hand around him, working him to build up his release. Would you let him flood your mouth with his cum? He always came so much if it was to the thought of youâŠÂ
And thatâs what made him cum tonightâthe thought of filling your cute little mouth with his cum, so much that your eyes would water. So much that it would spill from your lips and roll down your chin, all the way to your tits. Hyunjin felt a strong throb, almost losing his balance, and fucked his hand hard as he came, spurting white ropes that landed on the ceramic wall in front of him.Â
He continued to stroke himself gently as he came down from his high and used the showerhead to clean up his mess.Â
But even the shower gel didnât wash off the shame. He felt bad. He was your friend, and he shouldnât think things like that. It wasnât his fault that he had fallen for you like that⊠But it wasnât yours either.Â
He really, really didnât want to leave. But he also didnât really have a choice, did he?
Hyunjin did put on his noise-canceling headphones after his shower. He listened to some music while he relaxed on his bed, staring at the snow lazily falling outside. He almost wanted to go out there. After all, thatâs what you had done earlierâfleeing outside to escape the overwhelming feelings of the moment. Yeah, maybe he should do that. Might just clear his mind a little and allow him to get some rest.Â
Hyunjin put on a pair of sweatpants to go along with his t-shirt and found woolen socks too. He made his way downstairs, where all the lights had been turned off. You were supposed to share a room with Min-seo, but something told him you werenât with your friend. You were probably with Châ
Hyunjin nearly died of a heart attack when he saw a shadow move on the couch. In the dark like that, it might have been a ghoul, a spirit, or something worse. But it turned out to be you.Â
He turned off his music and left the headphones hanging around his neck.
âOh, sorry Hyun⊠Did I scare you?â You asked him, your voice full of concern. âI thought everyone had gone to bed.âÂ
You had scared him but Hyunjin pretended he was completely calm. âI thought so too.â He chuckled nervously. His eyes were getting accustomed to the dark, so he was able to see that you were on the couch, which you had turned into a makeshift bed with the help of cushions and throw blankets. âWhat are you doing here anyway?âÂ
You sighed. A sound so delightful it made Hyunjin forget why he was downstairs in the first place. He went to sit with you, on the space of the couch that you didnât occupy. Your toes brushed against his thigh, and he couldnât help but notice that they were a little cool. He pulled on the blanket covering you to make sure it could warm up your feet well and placed his hands on top to provide some kind of heat. You sighed again, and it made Hyunjin want to punch the wall.Â
âYouâre so warm,â you commented, snuggling with the blanket. âThanks, Hyunjin. Without the fire, it got cool pretty quickly in here.âÂ
âDid Min-seo throw you out?â Hyunjin squeezed your feet a little, massaging them gently. He liked physical contact with you and there was no denying that, but more importantly he liked that it never felt forced or strangeâsomething that was quite new to him who didnât particularly enjoy any sort of skinship. âWere you perhaps snoring?â
âNo!â You gave him a soft kick in his side. It didnât hurt. It felt like a hug more than an attack. âGod, Iâm almost embarrassed to say it but⊠The door is locked, and⊠I think sheâs in there with Jisung. If you know what I mean.âÂ
Hyunjin laughed and you attempted another playful kick again, except this time he held your feet down, pressing his thumbs onto them and kneading carefully. He knew this wasnât exactly the sort of thing that normal friends did, but he had pretty much made up his mind about leaving. And if tonight was the only chance he got at giving you a foot massage, then he would fucking grasp it.Â
âOh, Hyunjin, fuckââ You moaned when his massaging reached the exact center of your feet. His brain heard the moan and sent a truckload of blood to his crotch, but Hyunjin took a deep breath to try and calm down. How fucking pathetic was itâyou did a thing, he got hard, he jerked off. Rinse, repeat. You were his friend. He liked you for more than⊠this. He hated that his body seemed to disagree with that. âOh, thatâs really nice, hmmâŠâÂ
He remembered catching a peek of the lavender nail polish on your toes earlier. âWe do get sore feet from our jobs, donât we?â he whispered, watching you get comfortable in the cushions. âI like your nail polish, itâs pretty.â You had pretty feet. Hyunjin liked it when you wore heeled sandals in the summer.Â
âYou really donât have to give me a foot massage, Hyunjin.â But you let him do it and he kept doing it. âOr is this part of the clinical study along with the magic potions and cake?â
âAbsolutely it is.â Hyunjin was relieved for the touch of humorâit helped diffuse the tension he felt in his chest. However, it did not do much for the pressure he felt in his loins. âOn the house!âÂ
You didnât laugh, but you hummed your appreciation again at his handling of your feet. Hyunjin decided to push the blanket a little so he could massage you directly, his skin touching yours. You were warming up but he did not want to stop, did not want to get up from this couch.Â
âIâm not really surprised,â he said, âfor Ji and Min-seo, I mean.â
âNeither am I,â you grunted. âJust wish theyâd have the decency to take my stuff out of the room before locking me out of it! Sleeping on the couch is one thing, but my toothbrush is in there, my clothes, my towel for a showerâŠâÂ
You got a little more comfortable and put your feet on his thighs instead of next to him, and that concluded Hyunjinâs worst fearâhaving your feet inches away from his cock was enough to give him a semi.Â
Hyunjin wasnât sure if it was his cock or his heart that spoke next, and he was greatly displeased with himself for that. âThereâs a bathroom in my bedroom,â he reminded you. âI have extra towels and extra clothes⊠And Iâm willing to bet Chan has an extra toothbrush somewhere.â
You thought about it. âChan is the mom of the group.â You giggled. âReally? Iâd just need a t-shirt and some shorts I guess⊠I hate going to sleep without a shower.â
âLetâs go.â Hyunjin didnât like the idea of not touching your feet anymore, but he released them and you sat upright on the couch to gather your phone and phone charger. While you werenât looking, he adjusted his cock in his pants, pretty confident that his loose t-shirt would hide the worst of it. âThere are fees for the shower, though.â
âOh really?â You followed him into the staircase, your footsteps as quiet as a catâs. He liked to think that he had helped your sore feet a little. âA foot massage was free, but not a shower? What would warrant you charging for it? Are you gonna get in there and lather me?â
âThat would be way out of your budget, no offense.â But Hyunjinâs cock twitched painfully in his underwear. God, thatâs what he wanted to do, slide his hands all over you, foam dripping on your tits. He wanted to make you moan again. Still, he kept his friendly, lighthearted tone. âUnless you want to send the bill to Minho. One shower, one lathering, one rinse, one hair lathering, one hair rinsing⊠Fees would be piling up. Heâd be broke, youâd ruin his wedding⊠Is that what you want?â
Instead of responding, you simply shoved Hyunjin against the wall and walked past him to get into his room before he did. But you laughed at his joke. You laughed. Could you really be over him, over Minho? What had happened between earlier tonight and now?Â
Hyunjin didnât want to cultivate false hopes, and he was certain he would be more rational about it if there was more blood going through his brain. Instead, he went to his suitcase while you sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
âYou do have the best view,â you commented. âLook at the mountainsâŠâ
âAfter your shower, you can take the bed.â Hyunjin had found what he was looking for in this stuffâjust a plain white t-shirt, but it was the softest he owned. âIâll take the couch.â
âOh, no, I didnâtâI didnât mean it like that, Iâll be just fine downstairs.â You took the shirt from him as well as the pair of black sweat shorts he handed you. âDonât worry, Hyun.âÂ
He figured he could just leave the room while you were in the shower and saw no point in arguing. Instead, he showed you the bathroom and gave you clean towels, assuring you heâd find a toothbrush for you somewhere. You stood in the bathroom for a while, staring up at him. A strand of your hair fell over your face and Hyunjin gently pushed it away. âClean up,â he murmured. âTake all the time you need.âÂ
He could not find the exact words to describe you, but he knew it felt like a soft summer day when he looked at you. Like a glass of ice-cold lemonade on a hot day. Like listening to his favorite song for the first time. Like listening to his favorite song for the thousandth time.Â
He was almost glad to exit the room but made sure to text Chan before knocking at his door to see if he was asleep. What a foolish that was thoughâto think that Chan would sleep. Not only was he awake, but he also had a few toothbrushes still in their packagingâhe had bought a few extras for the group.Â
Of course.
âJisung and Min-seo, eh?â Chan snorted after Hyunjin explained the situation. âWe all saw that coming I guess.â
âWe sure did.â Hyunjin took the toothbrush that Chan gave him and looked around the room. It was the smallest in the cabin, but it was cozy enough and had a TV. Chan had been watching a movie by the looks of it. âBetter get going then, thanks Chan.âÂ
âNo problem.â Chan walked him to the door which, considering the size of the room, took about 0.02 seconds. âSheâs in your room now, then?â Chanâs voice was full of acknowledgment.Â
Hyunjin froze for a second, barely daring to face Chan. In the end, he did turn to him, thankful for the darkness that concealed the color on his cheeks and whatever the hell was going on in his pants. âYeah, she is.â
Chanâs face lit up with a warm smile. âAre you gonna shoot your shot then, or are you gonna keep staring at her from afar?â
Hyunjinâs fist closed around the cardboard packaging of the toothbrush, crumpling it a little. âWhat? Iââ
âOh come on, Hwang.â Chan gave him a gentle bump on the shoulder. âItâs pretty obvious. I donât know if you thought you were being low key⊠But you were not.â
Hyunjin gulped. There was no point in denying anything, then. âI donât think she⊠feels that way, Chan.â
Chan squinted, observing him carefully. âYouâll never know if you donât give it a shot, will you?â
Hyunjin had never even considered itâconfessing his feelings to you. You were too precious to him, you were a friend he did not want to lose. But Chan was right. Hyunjin was struggling to live a normal life because of how strongly he felt for you, and he knew that even if he left the restaurant, those feelings wouldnât magically disappear.Â
âWerenât you hitting on her earlier?â Hyunjin pointed out.Â
âNot really.â Chan shrugged. âShe doesnât see me like that. She wouldnât even give me the recipe for the cake she baked for your birthday. She said it was a special creation for you.â Again, Chan gave him a bump on the shoulder but also shoved him farther into the hallway. âGet the girl, man. Or else youâll regret it for a long time I think.â
Hyunjin stared at the door long after Chan had closed it. He trusted his friend, trusted that he wouldnât give it this advice if it was a bad idea⊠But if Hyunjinâs crush on you was so obvious, you must have noticed it, too. And Minho and the othersâŠ
But you. You hadnât changed anything in the way you treated him, had you? Which, to Hyunjin, made it obvious that you did not reciprocate his feelings.
But Chan was right. Those feelings had a right to be spoken out loud. Hyunjin feared that if he kept them all to him, they would drown him someday.
So he returned to his room and left the toothbrush on a desk near the bathroom door. He sat on his bed, eyes fixated on the wall in front of him. He tried turning on the TV but nothing was interesting. The sound of his heartbeat became deafening when the shower stopped running and he heard you move around in the bathroom. He cleared his throat and told you that he left a toothbrush by the door for you and that you were welcome to use his toothpaste. He still had its minty aftertaste in his mouth.Â
When you came out of the bathroom for good, Hyunjin noticed many things at once. Your hair looked so pretty when it was damp and messy. It had dripped a little on the white shirt and it made the fabric wet a little. The clothes he had given you looked good on you, and you looked comfortable in themâit suited you. You were not wearing a bra under the shirt. You were also not wearing socks, and Hyunjinâs brain jumped to the conclusion that you must not be wearing underwear either since all of your stuff was locked in your room.Â
Maybe that was it. Maybe the reason behind his insatiable lust for you was that he had kept all of these feelings bottled up for too long.
âThanks for the shower, the shirtâŠâ You were holding your neatly folded clothes. âI bet Iâll sleep much better now.â
âYou can leave your clothes here if you want,â Hyunjin offered. âActually⊠I was thinking this bed is big enough for the two of us. If you want. I can go downstairs and sleep on the couch too, itâs totally fineââ
âNo, itâs okay.â For a second there, Hyunjin thought you were going to say no. He couldnât read the expression on your face. It looked as if you were trying to understand a language you did not speak. âYouâre right, the bed is kind of big. How come you got that room anyway? Itâs the nicest in the whole place!â
âJust sheer luck.â Hyunjin shrugged, feeling a burst of relief.Â
âMore like ass-kisser shit, you mean.â You laughed at that, making your way to the other side of the bed. Hyunjin had made sure you had the side that was closest to the window. âMinho this, Minho thatâŠâÂ
âYou could try not to sound so jealous, you know?â Hyunjin wondered how far he should go with the joke, but the spiced wine and sweet vermouth had softened his edges. âSome time ago you would have been the one to Minho this, Minho that, and most likely did kiss his ass in the very literal sense of the term, soââ
âShut the fuck up, Hwang!â The sound of your laughter at that moment reminded Hyunjin of an upbeat violin melody. âMaybe youâre jealous because you never sucked his dick!â
There was a silence after that but, as if on cue, Hyunjin and you laughed entirely too loudly for the hour of the night. You tried to muffle the sound of your voice by essentially burying your face into a pillow while Hyunjin pressed his fist to his mouth.Â
âYouâre the worst,â Hyunjin concluded after the laughter episode had died down, which took several minutes. âI offer you shelter and this is how you thank meâŠâÂ
âOh, please.â You threw the pillow at him and gave him a shove for good measure. âFucking drama queen.âÂ
Hyunjin threw the pillow back at you and you simply put it back where you took it. Instead of sitting against it again, you lay down. You really did not have a bra on and Hyunjin could see your nipples. Fuck, he could almost feel them with his eyes, could only imagine how nice it must feel to rub them through the soft fabric of the white shirt.Â
After turning off the only source of lighting in the room, his bedside lamp, Hyunjin pulled the blankets over you gently before laying next to you and getting under the covers himself. There was still some light coming from outside, but just a little.
You looked so beautiful in the moonlight. Hyunjin wanted to kiss you. Wanted to hear all the stories from your childhood. Wanted to play with your hair and give you a million foot massages. He thought about what Chan had told him. He thought about the words he wanted to tell you, but they got stuck in his throat as if they were trying to choke him. Instead of trying to say anything, Hyunjin respectfully turned away from you and pushed himself a little farther on the bed.Â
It was quiet except for the ventilation system, his heartbeat, and your breathing. Steady, pretty. He wished he was still facing you. He wished he would smell mint in your mouth. His toothpaste. It was his toothpaste on your lips, his shirt hugging your enticing body.
Why did it mess with his head so much? Why did it make a difference that your nipples poked against the fabric of his shirt? Why did it make a difference that your hair smelled like his shampoo, that you were in his bed right now? Why did it make a difference that it was his shorts that hugged your ass, your hips, your pussy?Â
Because he had wanted this for so long. He had wished for thisâsomething like thisâfor a long time. Something disgustingly domestic, like waking up next to you in the morning and making you breakfast or fucking you or offering to go take a walk with you. Doing your laundry with his laundry. Picking up dinner and eating it quietly with a glass of wine before making love to you in your living room, and then again in the bed he shared with you.
The problem with unspoken feelings is they grow and grow and grow. Much like any type of flora wouldâevery smile, every word, every whiff of your perfume, every bite of a dessert you made, every time he thought of you, it just fed them, those feelings. And so they grew. You were the sunshine and the rainfall. Hyunjin wanted to mix drinks and name them after you, or after the small pink scar behind your ear.Â
He never knew how you got it. That scar. Heâd never know, right? Why would he ask about a half-centimeter long scar that he definitely should not have noticed?
Torture. The sweetest kind of it.Â
Hyunjin heard the brushing of your body against the sheets. He expected you to turn your back to him as well, so his heart jumped hard in his chest when he felt your hand reach for him under the covers. You squeezed his arm. âHyunjin,â you whispered, âgoodnight. Thank you for everything.âÂ
You didnât move, so Hyunjin didâhe brought his other hand to rest it on top of yours. âYou donât have to thank me. Goodnight, and donât hesitate to pull the blankets back your way if I steal them.âÂ
You giggled softly. God, you were so fucking beautiful, even your giggles were beautiful, and you were right there, your hand on him. His cock twitched, reminding him that he was pretty much living his fantasy right nowâso why was he stunned like that?Â
âNo, thank you for everything.â There was more brushing of fabric and Hyunjin felt the warmth from your body closer to his. You pulled your hand away from him but rested your head on his side. He suppressed a whimper, and couldnât help but cup his crotch under the blanketsâhis underwear was starting to feel a little tight. âYouâre always so kind to me. You always come find me when I think I want to be alone. And I do, but itâs better with you. I donât know how Iâd do it without you. So, yeah. Thanks. For being my friend. For the drinks with the maraschino cherries. For everything.â
The delightful weight of your head disappeared from him, but you stayed close anyway, close enough that he felt your breath against the nape of his neck. Faintly. But it was there. âYou donât have to thank me for that. Youâre⊠important to me.â
In the silence of the room, Hyunjin heard you gulp. Your fingers found him again as you traced a heart on his back. âYouâre important to me too, you know. I meant what I said. I donât think I would still be working at the restaurant if it werenât for you.â
Hyunjin could have jumped out the window and landed in a pile of snow and it would have had about the same effect as you saying this to him, today, tonight. Your warmth embracing him. The smell of his shampoo on your hair.
He took a deep breath, thinking about the text message he had gotten from Felix earlier this afternoon. The text message that, seemingly, Hyunjin had been hoping to get for weeks.Â
Felix, his friend, his roommate, worked at a big real estate office. He was the main assistant of an agent who specialized in small businesses.Â
One month ago, Hyunjin had realized that he was in love with you.Â
He wanted to know about the scar. He wanted to hold your hand. He wanted to whisper things into your ear that would make you blush, that would make you wet. He wanted to introduce you to his parents.Â
One month ago, you told Hyunjin that you didnât think it would be a good idea to come here, with the rest of them, with Minho. One month ago, you told Hyunjin, âI donât love him anymore. Minho. I really donât. I donât think itâs for me. Love.â
This afternoon, Felix texted him this: âWe found a nice location. In a hip neighborhood, good market value, would be worth checking out absolutely, it might sell fast. I see it there, Hyunjin. Your bar. Itâs perfect for it.â
âWhat if I didnât work there?â Hyunjin asked you, his voice barely a whisper at all. âWhat if I left?â
You remained quiet for such a long time that Hyunjin thought maybe you hadnât heard him, or had fallen asleep. He wished your hand was still on his arm, your cool fingers reminding him of the first day of spring. âWhy are you saying that? Are you⊠are you leaving the restaurant?âÂ
Hyunjin bit his lip and rolled into the bed until he faced you again. God. If he had to describe you now, he would say you looked like the love of his life. Hyunjin had never been particularly good at restraining his feelings.Â
âI⊠I thought⊠Maybe I should pursue something else,â Hyunjin admitted, and he did not mean his own business versus the restaurant, he meant to keep going on in his life versusâŠÂ you. âIâFelix found a small place, where I could have my own bar. You know?â
A long sequence of discernable emotions went through your eyes. Shock, pride, disappointment. Happiness, sadness.
Sadness. Sadness.
Melancholy. Sorrow. Sorrow.
âYour own barâŠâ Your voice was strangled and Hyunjin was almost sure it was tears he was seeing in your eyes. Understandableâhe did spend a lot of time with you at and outside work, and it was normal to fear a change in your routine. âI mean, thatâs⊠thatâs amazing, Hyunjinâyouâll do amazing, youâll be so great, Iââ
He saw the tear roll down your cheek and he wasnât fast enough to reach it, but he managed to stop the second one before it made it to your chin. Your hair was spread around your head on the pillow and you stared at him, trying so hard to conceal your disappointment. âHey there, why the tears?â he asked, sliding his face closer to yours.Â
You shook your head. âNo, donât mind me, Iâm⊠Iâm really happy for you, Hyunjin, I mean it, I just⊠Iâll miss you. Iâll miss you a lot.â You cupped his face, sending a shockwave through Hyunjinâs whole body. âBut you should absolutely do what makes you happy.â
âI havenât decided for sure,â Hyunjin revealed, wishing you would brush your thumb over his mouth. He would take it in between his lips and suck on it, twirl his tongue around it. âIâm⊠I like the restaurant too.â
âBut itâs okay to want more,â you insisted, letting go of his face. âYou make the best drinks. Why would you want to stay when you could have your own bar?â
Why would Hyunjin want to stay?Â
And when the words he wanted to say took too much space in his heart, in his throat, they became sick. Much like planting flowers in a pot that was too small for them. They would die, no matter how much sunshine and rain they get. Or maybe the flowers find a way to surviveâmaybe their roots find their way out, thriving in harsh conditions but staying.Â
So Hyunjin just told the truth. âI donât want to leave you.â
You stared at him, stared at his eyes, your mouth parted open. âMe?â You licked your lips, a small frown appearing between your brows. âBut⊠weâd still be friends even if you worked some other place, right?â
The problem with the truth is you canât just say a little of it. Once it started coming out, the spill couldnât be stopped. It just kept going. âMaybe, but you deserve better friends than me.â
âThatâs ridiculous, Hyunjin, Iââ
âYou said love wasnât for you.â Finally. Finally, he was reaching the focal point of it, of the strings that tugged at his heart. âAnd itâs okay. But that means I canât stay.â
You opened your mouth to say something but closed it back immediately. You pulled away from him, just slightly, your eyes trailing down somewhere, but all that Hyunjin could feel was the weight lifting off his heart, his mind.Â
You opened your mouth again so he looked at it. He wanted to see the shape of your lips when you would speak to him again, wanted to see your tongue dance the words into existence. He had dreamt about that mouth, about the feeling of it on his skin. But if those lips said his name and called him your friend, that was okay. Hyunjin should have known. That your maraschino cherry mouth would remain a place he would only visit in his mind.Â
âHyunjin.â He had never noticed the shape of your lips when you spoke his name, the way they barely moved, the way his name rolled off them like an accident.Â
âHow did you get the scar?â Hyunjin asked. âThe scar behind your ear.â
You took a deep breath, and Hyunjin noticed there were still a few rogue tears staining your cheeks. He thumbed them off slowly, and he thought you were going to pull his hand away from you, but you didnât. âThe scar?â
He let go of your face so that the tip of his fingers touched the exact spot where he knew the scar was. You breathed in again, your eyes wide, full of tears, like lakes under the moonlight. âThe scar?â Your voice was trembling. âI⊠fell off my bike, when I was twelve⊠and the pendant of my necklaceâŠâÂ
Your lips moved like trees in the wind, and Hyunjin couldnât look away from them. You brought your hand to rest on top of his. It felt good. He liked it when you touched him.Â
âDid it hurt? When you fell?â He knew it was a stupid question, but the scar had bothered his curious nature for a while.
âI scraped my knees, and⊠yes, it hurt, but not too much.â You sighed, biting your lip gently. âAre you really leaving because of me?âÂ
Hyunjin sighed. âItâs ok,â he said under his breath. âYou donât have to say anything. Iâll go sleep downstairs, yeah?â
âButââ You slid closer to him on the bed, so close that he smelled mint on your breath. âHyunjin, no⊠stay with me. Donât go.â
Hyunjin couldnât help it. He ran his hand through your damp hair. âYouâre so beautiful.âÂ
Your hands made their way to him, clinging to his shirt, tugging gently as if you were afraid of falling. âWhy did you say that?â you questioned, and your eyes were on his mouth, and his on yours. âAbout me, about love?âÂ
âYou know why, donât you?â He trailed his hand down from your hair to the side of your neck. You raised your chin, exposing your skin further to him. An invitation or an act of defiance, he couldnât tell. âYou know why I always put the maraschino cherries in your drinks.âÂ
âSay it.â Hyunjin wasnât sure if he heard you speak the words or if he read them on your lips, but he understood anyway. âSay it, Hyun.â
Hyunjinâs heart threatened to spill out from his mouth, but he managed to keep his breathing steady. There was still some truth to be spoken, so he obliged. âI donât like you the way you like me,â he said. But what he wanted to say was that he loved you.Â
âYou donât know that,â you pointed out, pressing yourself closer to him. âYou donât know.â
Hyunjin settled his hand right where your neck met your face, holding you there. Half of your face basked in the moonlight and the other half of it was in the dark. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Your lips were calling for him. Your beauty begging to be witnessed, your tongue demanding freedom.Â
So, Hyunjin pulled you close, and he kissed you. Gently at first, just pressing his lips against your mouth, but it was enough to make him reach another plane of existence. The smell of you was stronger from so close, your lips so soft against him.Â
But it wasnât enough.Â
Your lips were warm, wet, smooth. Hyunjin deepened the kiss, opening his mouth to devour yours. You moaned into his mouth, just a low hum, but it almost made him cum in his pants. He pressed you against his chest, your tits flush with him as you kissed him more and more and more, enough to make him dizzy. That sweet mouth of yours, that pretty mouth of yours.Â
Your tongue teased his, just the way you played with the maraschino cherries. Hyunjin lapped at your mouth, desperate, tasting you, breathing your air, his fingers sinking into your waist. You moaned again, louder, responding to the kiss with your whole body.Â
Your hands ran under his shirt, gliding on his skin. You lifted your leg just enough to pass it over his, deepening the kiss even further, exploring his mouth, his chest, him.Â
You dug your nails into his back when you felt him against your crotch.Â
âFuckââ you managed, your mouth still on his. The sounds of the kiss were enough to drive him crazy. Soft, wet sounds, as if each twirl of your tongue was a symphony, each sigh a crescendo that would surely lead to his demise.Â
Painfully, Hyunjin pulled away from you but kept your face in his hand. You leaned into it, the tears in your eyes all gone, replaced by something darker, something purple and deep. âHold onâare you⊠are you sure about this? WeâŠâ He sighed. It was hard to think with your body so close to his, but he didnât want you to wake up with regret tomorrow. Not for any reason, but certainly not because of him.
âIâm sure.â You kissed him again, but not for longâyour mouth trailed down from his to settle in his neck, kissing him there, sucking his skin between your lips while your hands ran marathons on his body, teasing the waistband of his pants. âDo you want this, Hyunjin?â
He did not hesitate. âI want you. Iâve always wanted you.âÂ
You left his neck to look him in the eyes. He could feel you growing warmer by the second, as you rubbed yourself onto him, softly, barely. âThen take me.â You kissed him once, twice, as if testing the waters of him.Â
He kissed you back, holding your head in both of his hands. If you needed to breathe, it would waitâhe had been waiting a long time for this, not daring to even hope he would ever be the reason you sighed, the reason your skin flushed with heat.Â
Without breaking the kiss, Hyunjin rolled until he lay on his back and pulled you along with him. You bit into his lower lip as you settled onto him, straddling him with your knees on either side of his thighs. Your weight rested all onto his aching cock. He bucked his hips into you and you moaned again. God, he would never fucking get tired of that sound. Just you, your voice. Needy.Â
âI donât have protection.â In hindsight, that was stupid, but at least he was honest about his stupid decision. He slid his hands under your shirt to feel up your tits. They occupied a nice space in his palms, your nipples hard and nice, tickling him.Â
âI donât want it,â you replied, diving down to kiss him. âDo you? Itâs okay. Iâll suck you off, HyunâŠâÂ
âNâno, no I want it. I want you.â It was true. He vaguely knew from overheard conversations that you were on contraceptives. He also knew that neither of you had an actual sex life⊠âYouâre sure?âÂ
 âYes. Please fuck me. Please fill me.â It was Hyunjinâs turn to moan then, his eyelids fluttering at your words. âI feel you, so hard, Hyun.âÂ
He nodded with a hum. âFeel me with your hands if you want,â he invited. He pleaded. He begged. So that it would feel real. Because it did not now. It did not feel real.
Your hands left his abdomen and disappeared somewhere between your legs. You cupped him at first, then squeezed him. Hyunjin whimpered, squeezing your tits in return, but you squeezed him harder, and harder, and harder. Not too hard. Hard enough to make him throb and groan and rut against you quicker. You let him, you let him fuck your hand through the fabric.Â
âLet me see you.â You slid down a little, exposing his very noticeable hard on. You took in the sight of his bulge before pulling down on his waistband to free his cock. He wasnât just hard, he was about to cum. He stared with you at his flushed length. âHyunâŠâÂ
You leaned down a little, just a little, and pulled his chin back up to make him look at you. You made eye contact with him as you released a large amount of spit that landed directly on his cock.Â
âSo big,â you commented, closing your hand around his base, squeezing him a little, feeling him. âYouâre so fucking big.â You gave him a gentle stroke to smear your saliva around. âYour cock is so pretty, Hyun.âÂ
He twitched in your hand and he could tell that you felt it. While you rubbed him, Hyunjin pulled your shirt off, exposing you. Finally, he saw you. Your tits, so pretty, round, perfect. They moved with you as you kept jerking him off slowly, observing him to find his favorite spots. Your other hand played with his balls, cupping them, palming them.Â
âI⊠I wonâtâŠâ
âClose already?â You cocked your head to the side, not stopping one bit from what you were doing. If anything, you only got faster, spitting disrespectfully on his cock again to facilitate your job further. âYou want to show me your load, Hyun? Want me to see how much you cum for me?âÂ
No, no, he wanted to fuck you all night. Until you were a mess, a sloppy mess of his cum and yours, and until the both of you were reduced to nothing. But his cock had other plans. He twitched in your palm again, harder, painfully, with a moan. âI wonât last,â he whined, going back to feel up your tits again.Â
âYou feel me too, Hyun.â You thumbed precum off his tip in a slow, meaningful swipe. âFeel how wet you made me already.âÂ
Hyunjin reached between your legs, brushing the fabric there only to find it soaked. He slid his hand through the leg opening to feel you directly, skin to skin. Your bare pussy felt like the softest velvet. He touched you, again and again, gentle caresses that made you flinch. That made you squeeze his cock.
You brought your head closer to his navel, kissing him there first before kissing the base of his cock. You opened your mouth wide to suck on his skin there, your hand working on the upper half of his length.Â
Hyunjin wouldnât be able to take it for much longer, but he let go. The pressure between his legs was too grand, the ache only getting worse, the pleasure only getting bigger and better. Uncontrollable. He left his three fingers pressed on your pussy so that you could grind against themâand you did. You rolled your hips to the same rhythm of your handjob, seeking something out of it too.
Time slowed down when you went back up to take him in your mouth. Hyunjin felt you clench when you swiped your tongue on him, tasting him. You bobbed your head around him, swallowing as much of him as you could. Hyunjinâs free hand closed into a fist in your hair as he rolled his hips just a little, helping you.Â
Your mouth was warm, so wet. He watched his cock disappear between your swollen lips, and that was enough for him. He felt the throb, felt his whole soul shatterâbut when he tried to pull out, you didnât let him, so he fucked your mouth erratically. He never wanted this to stop, but his balls were so tight that they hurt him.Â
âSoâfuckingâprettyââ he grunted in between thrusts. At that, you raised your eyes to stare at him, opening your mouth wider, spreading your legs wider, too, allowing him better access to your hole, to your clit. You were dripping wet though, and you clenched again when he rubbed circles on your clit, moaning around his cock.
He cameâof course. The vibrations of your voice sent him to the stratosphere, and Hyunjin thrust into you, the roof of your mouth hitting his tip. Soft, wet. Your tongue was twirling on the underside of his cock, your hand squeezing him at the base. Milking him. You were fucking milking him, and looking like a slut doing so. On your knees, ass up in the air, tits exposedâa mouth meant to be filled with his thick cum.
He throbbed again and cried out when he released the first spurt of it, then there was another, and another. It was coming out from the corner of your lips, dripping on your chin. You gagged a few times and there were tears in your eyes, but you kept him in your mouth until he descended from his high.
When you were sure he was done, you released his cock, coughing a little, and waited until he was staring at you before swallowing his load. He didnât let you wipe the rest of it from your lipsâhe kissed you instead, hard, your mouth full with the taste of him, lips raw and swollen.
âI taste nasty,â he whispered against your mouth, his fingers still teasing your dripping cunt.Â
âSort of, but I like it.â You pressed your forehead against him, almost collapsing when he changed the angle at which he was touching you. He needed more than that. Than just touching you like thatâif post-nut clarity was real, it had hit him, but not in the usual meaning of it.
He removed his hand from you and kissed you before making you lay on your back. He got rid of his clothes and pulled his shorts off you too. His cock hadnât even had time to soften and he felt it becoming hard again at the sight of your pussy.
âFucking perfect,â he whispered. âOpen your legs will you, baby? Show me how wet you are.â He could smell you from here, and even your scent was unreal. âSo pretty.â
Even in this little light, there was no denying that you were aroused. Hyunjin pushed your legs open a little more, brushing his thumb over your pussy. It made a wet sound when he touched you, even barely. You rolled your hips to get more contact, your back arching already.
Unreal. Itâs all that Hyunjin could think as he watched you writhe in this bed, tits moving lazily with you, face twisted in anticipation. He had thought about this moment a lot and he was afraid it was slipping through his fingers. He was afraid it wasnât real, he was afraid he was dreaming it. That he would wake up tomorrow in an empty bed, without the sweet scent of your cunt on his fingers.Â
He straddled you much like you had straddled him earlier, bending down to kiss you while he parted your pussy open, allowing him better access to it, and watched carefully as he coated his fingers with your cream. Even that was pretty about you, creamy, nice.Â
Hyunjin observed your face at the very moment he slid two fingers in your dripping cunt. The way it made more of your arousal gush around his digits was lewd, but the look on your face was betterâhow you were trying to hold back, to keep it together, but you were already clenching, your hips bucking to meet him halfway.
âSo tight, baby, can you feel that?â Hyunjin sank his fingers deeper, twirling them carefully, stretching you. âOpen your legs wider, I wanna see.âÂ
Yes, much better. He watched his fingers as he fucked you with them before pressing his thumb on your clit, rubbing it delicately. You let out a few more moans and Hyunjin wondered if anyone could hear you from up here.
They probably could.
Maybe some perverted part of him hoped Minho would hear him ruin his exâs pretty little cunt. What a fool he was for letting you go. If that pussy had been his, Hyunjin would have tried harder to make it work.Â
Hyunjin kissed you, fucking you diligently with his fingers as your hands ventured on his body. Your touches were slow, meaningful, electric, made him moan or hiss if you touched him in a sensitive place.Â
He left your lips to kiss your neck but moved onto your tits quickly, leaving wet kisses and a trail of spit behind him. He took your nipple in his lips, twirling his tongue around it, loving the way you reacted to him. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, fucking his hand from below. Your arousal pooled beneath you, smeared all over your inner thighs and his hand, all the way to his wrist.Â
You moaned when Hyunjin sucked on your nipple hard enough to leave a bruise. He thought about the scar, how a fall from your bike had marked you forever. Maybe he wanted that his falling in love with you left a scar, too, in the most delightful way. So that you would wear his love on your body, like perfume, a reminder, a warning.Â
When he left your tits it was to settle comfortably with his face between your legs. He kissed your inner thighs, inhaling you. âHow come you smell so fucking good baby?â He kissed all over your thighs and mons, finally pulling his fingers out of your hole. âBet you taste even better.â
âPlease, I need you nowâŠâ But Hyunjin took his time, still using his thumb and index finger to open up your pussy for him.Â
You glistened under the moonlight, inviting, beautiful. Swollen clit, a pussy meant to be licked, tasted, experienced. He brought his face closer to your core, giving your clit a quick kiss before going tongue first, dragging it along your slit in one swipe, filling his mouth with you. Fuck, you tasted good. Sweet, with just enough of a tang to make him want more.Â
He pressed his face flush into your cunt, slurping you clean, swallowing you whole. âFucking hellâŠâ but he said it into your pussy, because he didnât want to get out of there, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his face coated with your sweet cream.
Hyunjin lapped at you, listening to the sounds of his mouth against you, your sighs, your moans. When he cocked his head to the side, delving deeper into you, pushing his tongue into your hole, he felt your walls flutter against him, around his tongue, felt your legs tense up. âClose, baby?â he muttered into your cunt, and you responded by bringing your knees together, trapping him between your legs. Fine. Perfect, even. There was not a place on earth where Hyunjin wanted to be more than the heaven that your cunt was.Â
Hyunjin coated two of his fingers againâit wasnât hard, considering the amount you were soaking, considering that he was literally drooling all over your pussyâand pushed them into you before closing his lips around your clit, carefully, as if you were made of the finest porcelain. The calm before the stormâHyunjin intended on making you scream.Â
You hugged his fingers so nicely that he almost forgot to suck on your clit. He flicked his tongue on it first, gently with small licks, his eyes on you. On how beautiful you looked with your mouth parted open, eyes closed. He was used to the sound of your voice but not like this, not hurried whispers, not soft-spoken pleas. It messed with his mind, as in, he liked it a little too much.Â
But he sucked on your clit, unbothered by your increasingly loud moans, your squirming, and his own heart racing in his chest. Or by how tightly your thighs kept him there, making him a prisoner of the loveliest prison. It almost made him blow on the spot when you pulled harder on his hair to grind against his face and impaled yourself onto his hand at a quicker pace.Â
Hyunjin knew you were close so he rotated his fingers upwards and bent them just enough, searching for your most sensitive spot. He couldnât help releasing your clit for one second, just the time it took for him to press his tongue flat against your pussy to collect as much of your arousal as he could. Just to swallow more of it, in the hopes that it would coat his throat, that his body would absorb some of it somehow, and that you would become a part of him, just like he had become a part of you.
âCum for me,â he said, looking into your eyes, although you couldnât keep yours open for very long. âLet me feel you, baby. Please.âÂ
You dug your nails into his scalp when Hyunjinâs lips returned to your clit and he tenderly sucked on it, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, too. Your head hit the pillow behind you and you cried out, your whole body coming alive. âYes yes yes donât stop donât stopââÂ
Hyunjin savored you, savored the way your back arched for him, savored every drop that you gave him and the scratches you were undoubtedly leaving on his scalp. He moaned with you as your climax came, as he rubbed his fingers on the spot of your cunt that made you react the most, his free hand holding you down to make sure that you werenât escaping his hungry mouth.Â
âIâmââ You couldnât say it but you didnât need toâHyunjin felt the throb, somewhere deep within your body, felt it like a wave, then like a tsunami. It overtook you, shaking you from the inside out, as your voice filled the room. âYes, yes⊠FUCKâJinâHyâJinââ But you were just crying out nonsense, coating Hyunjinâs face with your sweet cream as your walls closed tight around his fingers, fluttering for a good while as he kept your clit enclosed in his mouth.Â
And he only released you when your high had passed. He licked you gently, selfishly, to drink you. To clean you up. To taste you. He kissed your pussy, admiring how much prettier it was when it was flushed like that and wet, so wet. âYou did so good, baby.â He kissed your thigh before climbing back up to kiss you. He felt you search for your own taste in his mouth and shared it with you eagerly, enjoying the way your flavor made his much more palatable.Â
âWill you fuck me now, Hyun?â Your voice was rough and your face flushed, but Hyunjin had never seen something as beautiful as that in his life.Â
âHow do you like it, baby?â He kissed you gently as your hands reached for his cock, tugging at it. You moaned when you found him fully hard, ready for you.Â
You kissed him with your mouth open, squeezing his erection. âHard.â Another kiss. âAs hard and as deep as you can. Donât be afraid to hurt me.â
It would have been enough to send him over the edge, but Hyunjin managed to roll you on your stomach. He wasted no time taking his cock into his hand and guiding it towards your entrance, making sure to coat it with your cream beforehand. Elegant. His cock was flushed dark, and the contrast of your essence on him was thatâelegant. Enticing. Addictive.Â
You were beautiful like that too, even if he missed the sight of your face and your tits. Your back was nice, smooth, your ass just perfect for him to grab at.Â
He gave your ass a gentle slap, eliciting a moan out of you. âHigher, baby.â He watched you adjust your position, arching your back in a way that allowed him the perfect angle. âYes, just like that.â He put one hand on your waist, squeezing your skin, aligning himself with your hole.Â
Hyunjin sank into you, losing more of his sanity the more of him you took. The deeper he buried himself in your intimacy, the more of himself he lost, the more of himself he found again. Maybe Hyunjin found god then, as he stretched your pretty little cunt with his cock.
âFucking hell, youâre tightââ He stayed there for a few seconds as you got adjusted to him. The sight of him disappearing with you had been a little too good.Â
âFuck me, Hyun.â Your voice was muffled by the pillow your face rested upon. Hyunjin slapped your ass again, a little harder.
You clenched around him, your walls responding to his touch.
So Hyunjin gave one thrust, then another, and another, fucking you steadily, his cock twitching menacingly. You were wet, gushing around him, and he couldnât stop staring at his length pounding into you, making a wet mess out of you. You whimpered every time he bottomed out, holding onto the wooden headboard with one hand, your other hand trying to reach for him behind you.Â
Hyunjin rolled his hips with broad and confident movements, making sure to hit that one spot that you had seemed to like earlier. You mewled, face twisted with pleasure. So vocal, so pretty.Â
âSuch a beautiful slut you are, baby.â Hyunjinâs hand left your waist to grab your hair, raising your face up. He wasnât going to let you muffle your voice when you creamed his cock. âClose, arenât you?â
The room smelled like sex and it made Hyunjin dizzy, or maybe it was just from the ache in his loins. Except notâhe was sure he was drunk on the scent of your cunt. Such a smooth pussy, perfect for his cock.Â
âHyunjinâŠâ Your voice was just a breath. Hyunjin kept fucking you as deep as he could, hand in your hair. He was where he had wanted to be for so longâballs deep in your pussy. And it was good, so good.Â
He let out a cry when he felt the telltale throb of his orgasm, his pounding becoming erratic. He would have tried to last longer but the second he glanced at your face and noticed how fucked out you lookedâswollen mouth, flushed cheeks, eyes rolling far at the back of your headâHyunjin just couldnât prevent it.Â
He pushed himself at your deepest point when he came just so he could empty his balls there, painting you white, fucking his cum deeper into you as you clenched, then came around him. He blacked out. All that he could feel what his cock and you, the squelching sounds of your filled cunt lewd enough to corrupt a monk. You pulsed for a long time, moaning his name, milking him for the second time tonight, until he was empty.Â
When Hyunjin let go of your hair, you collapsed onto the bed and he followed you, his spent cock sliding out of your sloppy cunt. It rested on his thigh as he lay on his side, facing you, watching you with a smile as you tried to even your breathing.Â
You smiled too and pulled him in for a kiss that tasted like sweat and like sex. He kissed you back with his mouth wide open. âAm I dreaming?â he asked against your mouth.Â
âNo, silly.â You clicked your tongue and gave him a playful shove.Â
âGod, youâre pretty. Youâre perfect.â He kissed you again and again before reaching the nightstand for a box of tissues.
You didnât let him clean you up. Instead, you rested your head in the crook of his neck, kissing him gently there. He shivered, his body covered in chills. âI like the feeling of it inside me, Hyun.â You giggled nervously. âJust leave it there for a while, yeah?â
âYouâre filthy.â But he laughed too. âI love it.â He kissed the top of your head and brought his hand between your legs, feeling his cum dripping from your swollen cunt.Â
Gently, he swiped the excess of it and pushed it back into your still sensitive hole using his fingers, making you hiss and moan against the supple skin of his neck. âNo waste,â he assured.Â
âNo waste,â you echoed, your voice sleepy. Still, you insisted on licking his fingers clean after he was done putting his cum back where it belonged. âCan I stay for the night? Iâm tired.â
âStay for the night, baby,â Hyunjin whispered into your hair, pulling the covers over your body. âStay for every night after today too, if you want.âÂ
You settled comfortably in his arms, tracing circles on his abdomen. âReally?â You looked up at him, your tired eyes big and hopeful.Â
âReally.â He kissed you, a gentle kiss. âSleep a little.â He could feel your heartbeat. Steady, strong. Like a song. Â
You nodded but didnât even have time to say goodnight before you drifted to sleep. Your body was warm against him and he could smell your pussy and his cum on both of you. He felt your gentle breathing on his skin. You would be in his bed when he would wake up later.Â
Maybe it was starting to feel real. Just maybe.
Three months later, Hyunjin left his car in the employee parking lot at God's Menu. It hit him then. It would be the last time he ever did that. He sat in the car, watching the spring sunset over him. He could hear the music playing in the restaurant from here, could see the clients through the window. He knew it wasnât the last time he ever set foot in this establishment, but Hyunjin couldnât help feeling emotional today.Â
His last day as an employee of this restaurant.
He entered through the staff door, immediately tackled violently by Chan who hugged him tightly, shaking him hard enough to cause brain damage. But Hyunjin hugged him back, and let Jisung and the rest of the kitchen staff hug him too.
Changbinâs welcome was unsurprisingly loud and over the top, but Hyunjin also let him go at it, laughing with him as Seungmin filmed the scene.Â
Felix was there too, amongst the clients, sitting at a table not too far, and he waved at Hyunjin excitedly when they made eye contact. He wasnât aloneâhe was drinking a red cocktail with someone who had ordered extra maraschino cherries in hers.Â
You got up from your chair and made your way to him, forcing Changbin to release him from his embrace.Â
âHey,â you said with a smile. You looked ravishing tonight in a black cocktail dress, your hair held in a messy bun. Maybe you hadnât had time to smooth it out after he had blown your back this morning, just before he left for his meetings. âHappy birthday, Hyun.âÂ
âHey baby.â Hyunjin pulled you close and kissed you as if you two had been alone in the restaurant or on this planet. You kissed him back, cocking your head to the side, mindfully taking his lips in yours. âYou look gorgeous.â He kissed you again.Â
âHow did the meetings go?â you asked, ignoring his compliment but taking his hand in yours. âAre we good?â
He noticed that the others had gathered around the two of you, all of the employees. Minho was there, too. âWeâre all set.â Hyunjin smiled at you, just you. âWeâll open in two months.âÂ
His bar. His little corner of the city where people would be welcome to sit down and unwind by having a drink while playing board games, or drawing, or hosting work meetings, even. His dream come true⊠well. Kind of.Â
How sappy would it make him if he ever admitted to youâor to himselfâthat you were the dream come true and that the bar came in second place?
The applause and loud, obnoxious congratulatory screams from his friends after his announcement soon switched into a familiar melody.
âHappy birthday HyunjinâŠâ
It may have been Min-seo that carried the plate, but Hyunjin recognized your matcha cheesecake with the raspberry coulis and a fancy candle. It was set in front of him at the counter of the bar section, and Hyunjin could feel warmth on his face as the whole restaurantâas in, the clientsâjoined the others to sing him Happy Birthday.Â
âMake a wish, Hyun,â you reminded him, your hand pressed on his lower back.Â
Hyunjin stared at the flame on the candle, thinking.
Last yearâs wish had been granted, after all. You had baked him this matcha cheesecake once again for his birthday. So maybe he ought to wish for something a little bolder.Â
He kissed you before blowing the candle out, hoping that it would bring him good luck.Â
The End
author's note:
Big thank you to my lovely friend Mari, @staytheword, for letting me find inspiration for this story in her bartender!hyunjin from her fic The Smell of Roses. He made a very strong impression on me and inspired this character âĄ
Thank you for reading this story! To those who choose to interact with it through a reblog, I am sending you a special thank you and extra love! ⥠As always, I am very grateful for my readers, and I hope everyone has been well and staying warm and healthy this December.
đȘ§ I do not allow the translation, reposting, rewriting or copying of any of my works of any kind, for any reason or on any platform. Thank you!
â ïž 18+ blog. minors are strictly prohibited from interacting with my content.
đ« I do not give permission for my work to be reposted or translated anywhere. All writing is my intellectual property and my own, original work.
Copyright âž 2023 by Moonjxsung. All rights reserved.
âćœĄ Bang Chan
° No Guts / No Glory
âł (44.4k) Conducting a series of interviews about up-and-coming boxer Bang Chan leading up to his title fight puts you in a complicated situation when you begin to develop feelings for him.
âćœĄ Lee Minho
° When the Rain Stops
âł (9.8k) A passing storm during a road trip forces you to seek shelter in a little dive bar on the outskirts of town, and you find yourself drawn to the bartender.
° Where the Storm Looms
âł (13k) Now living in the city he despises, Minho is determined to find you again- despite the sacrifices heâll have to make.
° Lost in Translation
âł (26.5k) The older brother of the boy you babysit is an enigma, in every sense of the word- and youâre determined to figure him out.
° Begged & Borrowed
âł (30.2k) A turn of events causes you and your longtime best friend Minho to confront your true feelings for each other- except youâre already getting married to somebody else.
âćœĄ Seo Changbin
thereâs nothing here yetâŠ
âćœĄ Hwang Hyunjin
° Snowed In
âł (7.9k) A snowstorm traps you inside with none other than your perplexing ex-boyfriend Hyunjin, leaving the two of you to contemplate the relationship you once had.
° Visions of You in Solitude
âł (26.5k) You were hired to paint him- not fall for him. But intentions quickly shift when Hyunjin finds himself infatuated with you and learns the secrets you harbor.
âćœĄ Han Jisung
° Reckless Convictions
âł (31.5k) Your senior year of college takes a strange turn when you develop a relationship with your professor.
âćœĄ Lee Felix
° Seasons
âł (24.1k) Seasons come and go like your love for Felix once did- but when he reappears in your life several years later, things are much different.
# - girl dad -âż- inspired by a tik tok with chan and the twins, and how he's a girl dad.
# - riding -â„ïž- this is the view from when you're riding him w.c 0.5k
# - mochi boyfriend channie -â„ïžâż-
# - outside clothes -â„ïž-
# - whiplash -âż- your boyfriend isn't thrilled when he finds out you've kick-started your caffeine addiction again.
# -little picasso -âż- chan takes care of his daughter alone for the first time while you have a night out
# - my darling -âż- chan enjoys some time with his family
# - little bird -âż- dad!chan; chan's eyes were closed, tears streaming down his cheeks as he held her close, listening to "little bird"
# - sweet mornings -â„ïž- morning sex with chan after heâs been away on tour.
# - face -â„ïžâŹ€- a little warning to your boyfriend who is insecure about his face; aka face riding, pussy eating.
# - let me in your ocean, swim -â„ïž- In which chan is a little self-conscious and a lot clueless, changbin is his therapist and his wingman, and you get really sick of waiting for chan to get his shit together.
# - size kink -â„ïž- chan trying to fit it in but he's too big and he's whispering all kinds of stuff trying to get you to take it and you're frustrated and needy
# - let me love you -â„ïžâŹ€- chris and you have been best friends for many years, slowly beginning to have feelings for each other but you two had never confessed it for fear of rejection, although you know how you both felt about each other.
# - insecure -â„ïžâŹ€- chan is feeling kind of insecure about himself and the reader ends up jerking him off while like cooing to him how pretty he is
# - asleep and adored -âż- a short sleepy drabble about bang chan when he gets tired
# - keep playing -â„ïž- you tease chan while he plays the piano. he returns te favor, nearly destroying his piano in the process. w.c 2.8k
# - let me in your ocean, swim -â„ïžâżâŹ€- In which chan is a little self-conscious and a lot clueless, changbin is his therapist and his wingman, and you get really sick of waiting for Chan to get his shit together. w.c 9.9k words
# - corruption -â„ïž- VIRGIN!FEM!READER, PERV!CHAN, BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS w.c 2.2K
# - push pull -â„ïžâŹ€- in which reader is distant and chan is upset
# - sweet -â„ïž- youâre his best friendâs little sister. heâs obsessed with you, and you him. he has very good self controlâuntil heâs forced to share a tent with you. forced proximity with corruption kink. w.c 4.1k
# - dream of you -â„ïžâżâŹ€- he cheated on youâ in your dreams, then took kiss it better too literally. w.c 4k
# - into it -â„ïž- the california sunset looks pretty damn good when you're on the hood of chan's car. w.c 3k
# - wish you would -⏀- he shouldn't love you, but he doesn't know how to make it stop. w.c 2.8k
# - myth -â„ïžâż- Skimming across the edge of being friends and something more with Chan is a dangerous game. Even more so when you're both sharing the same bed.
# - peaches + bangchan -âż- pregnant!y/n with bang chan
# - size kink -â„ïž-
# - kiss it better
# - to much tank tops
# - misunderstandings -⏀- in which you are hurt by something chan said.
# - bf!chan -â„ïžâż-
# - ten things -âż- ten things bang chan says when he thinks youâre asleep
# - the art of love -â„ïžâżâŹ€- series when chris texted an artist he found on instagram with the hopes of them designing an album cover for him, he never expected to fall head over heels in love with them.
âżSYNOPSIS. when chris texted an artist he found on instagram with the hopes of them designing an album cover for him, he never expected to fall head over heels in love with them.
PAIRING. bangchan x artist!reader
GENRE. smau, strangers to lovers
WARNINGS. little bit of suggestiveness, angst
CHAPTERS.
001. out now!
002. out now!
003. out now!
004. out now!
005. out now!
006. out now!
007. out now!
008. out now!
009. out now!
010. out now!
011. out now!
012. out now!
013. out now!
014. out now!
015. out now!
016. (final chapter) out now!
epilogue. out now!
A/N. this is dedicated to my favorite anon everrrr, aka đŠ anon, as a congratulations for graduating and getting a super cool job. LOVE YOU POOKIE AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS
Genre: friends with benefits to lovers, smut, fluff
Summary: You and Hyunjin have been doing this 'friends with benefits' thing for a while now. But let's be real. You love him. And when he starts showing similar feelings, you're terrified. And it leads to a whole lot of Hyunjin-style drama.
Call Me Yours
âFuck, princess,â Hyunjin groaned, voice wrecked, âyouâre so tight.â
He had you pinned to the bed, as he fucked you like the worldâs about to end. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust hitting so deep youâre seeing stars. Galaxies even. His lips were on your neck, sucking bruises - which would have your art class whispering for weeks.
You pressed your eyes shut, losing yourself in him completely. The way he moved in and out of you. The soft wet sounds that filled the room. And him whispering the filthiest things in your ear.
You were barely coherent, nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. Hyunjin had this glint in his eye, as he shifted slightly, hitting that spot, and you choked out a moan, tugging at his short dark strands.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and your orgasm hit you so hard, and you whimpered his name, clenching around him so tight, making him curse.
His thrusts turned sloppy as he whispered, âFuck, thatâs it,â
He came just as hard, burying himself deep inside you, and you were both panting, sweaty messes when he finally collapsed beside you. Pulling you close, he kissing your temple, and you let yourself enjoy it, just for a second.
It started about an year ago at a frat party you were dragged to by your friend, Jennie. Youâd been sulking in a corner, nursing a warm beer, when Hyunjin, already tipsy, waltzed over, and declared you âthe hottest grump heâd ever seen.â Youâd scoffed at him, but in less than ten minutes, you had somehow ended up making out in his room upstairs.
One thing led to another, and now you were in this absurd, hilarious mess called, friends with benefits.
---
Hyunjin: You left your glasses on my nightstand. I can bring it over
You: Bring it to class tomorrow
Hyunjin: Iâm keeping them hostage.Â
You: Hyunjin đ
Hyunjin: Sleepover tomorrow? Iâll make pancakes. Â
You: Maybe. But only for the pancakes. Â
Hyunjin: Liar. You want my pancakes and you know what.
Hyunjin: Night, Nerd Queen đ
You: Night, Hwang. Â
---
You smiled at your phone, heart doing that stupid flip again. You knew you shouldn't be feeling like this. You two were friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. But every time you were with him, you fell for his stupid smile and his childish self way harder than you liked to admit.Â
It was a Friday night, and you were curled up in your dorm, binge-watching a new series, when your phone started buzzing.
Hyunjin's frat was organizing a party, and he was probably charming the socks off everyone with his stupidly perfect face. You were trying to stay strong - no running to him tonight - because if you kept giving in to his every whim, he would surely figure out that you were completely, pathetically in love with his dramatic ass.Â
And that was a secret you kept locked in a vault.
But Hyunjin? He wasn't making it easy. Your phone lit up again, and you caved, glancing at the screen.
---
Hyunjin: Babbyyyyyy where are you đ This party sucks without you!Â
Hyunjin: Seriously, come over. I miss your face. Â
You: Youâre drunk, arenât you? Iâm staying in. Go flirt with your bros.Â
Hyunjin: Drunk? Me? Pshh. Ok maybe a lil. But I only wanna flirt with youuuu.
Hyunjin: Come over, Iâm lonely.
You: Lonely? Go cuddle Felix.
Hyunjin: Felix doesnât moan like u do.Â
You: Nope. Iâm in my PJs, and I'm comfy. Youâre on your own tonight. Â
Hyunjin: I'm coming to you then. Can't escape me. Â
You: Hyunjin, no. Stay at your party. Youâre too drunk to walk across campus. Â
Hyunjin: Too late. I'm on my way. Gonna cuddle you so hard you forget ur own name. đ€Â Â
You: Oh my god.Â
Hyunjin: I'm gonna climb into your bed and never leave.Â
You: Iâm locking my door. Â
Hyunjin: You won't. You love me too much. đ Be there in 10. Wear that sweater I like.
---
You groaned, tossing your phone onto your bed. You should lock your door, but you donât. Instead, you fix your hair, pull on that oversized sweater (the one he liked, because apparently youâre weak). Your heart did that stupid fluttery thing again, and you hated it. You were supposed to be the cool, studious introvert. But here you were.Â
Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on your door. You opened it, and there he was, looking like a dishevelled Greek god. His short hair and forehead glistening with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his leather jacket slipping off one shoulder.
He gave you a sunny smile, his eyes lighting up when he saw you.
âMy girl!â he slurred, stumbling forward and wrapping you in a sloppy hug. He smelled like beer and his cologne, and it was so unfairly intoxicating. âTold ya Iâd come. Missed you so much.â
âYouâre so drunk, Jinnie,â you said, but you were smiling as you guided him inside, shutting the door. âHow did you even make it across campus without falling into a bush?â
âLove,â he declared dramatically, flopping onto your bed. âLove gave me wings.â
He patted the bed, saying âCâmere, nerd. I need cuddles.â
Then he decided that he couldn't wait, and grabbed your wrist, tugging you down next to him. You landed with a squeak, and he immediately buried his face in your neck, nuzzling like a needy puppy.
âFuck, you smell so good. Like⊠home and sexy books.â
âSexy books?â You laughed, pushing at his chest, but heâs clinging to you like a koala. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âMaybe,â he mumbled. âGod, I love you.â
He's drunk, you remind yourself. He doesnât mean it. But your poor heart wished that he did. Meanwhile, his hands slid under your sweater, and you yelped as his cold fingers grazed you stomach to move up and cup your breasts.
âHyunjin! Your hands are freezing!â
âThen warm me up,â he whined, and before you could stop him, he was crawling under your sweater, tugging it up and burrowing into it. âLemme in, itâs cozy in there.â
âOh my god, you won't fit under my sweater!â you laughed.
He was wiggling, his head and shoulders all the way under the fabric.
âYouâre gonna rip it!â you squealed, but he just hummed, pressing his face into the space between your breasts.Â
âWorth it,â he mumbled, voice muffled. âWanna live here forever. Youâre so soft. And warm.â
You were dying, torn between shoving him off and melting at how stupidly cute he was. He was still trying to fit into your sweater, but finally gave up with a huff and whine and said, âFine.â
And then settled for wrapping his entire body around you instead. He threw a leg over yours, arms squeezing you tight, face buried in your chest (half submerged in your sweater).
âThisâll do. For now.â he said, and you hummed, stroking his back.Â
âYouâre such a baby,â you said, and you both remained silent as his breathing slowed and you thought he was falling asleep. But then he murmured, âLove youâŠso fucking much. Youâre my everything.â
Your heart stopped. You froze, hand still on his back, waiting for him to laugh it off or say something dumb. But he just snuggled closer, sighing like he was finally at peace. You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up.
You loved him too. His childish giggles, his unhinged texts - but saying it felt too big, too scary. So you just hold him, letting the moment linger.
âSleep, you idiot,â you whispered, kissing the top of his head (poking out through the neckline of your sweater). He hummed, already half-gone, and soon he was snoring softly, clinging to you like youâre his lifeline.
---
Hubby: Morning, wifey đ You're so cute when you sleep. Didn't wanna wanna wake you up. Let's go get some breakfast?
You: WIFEY? You changed your contact name to HUBBY? Hyunjin, Iâm going to murder you. Â
Hubby: Murder your husband? Harsh, babe.
You: Youâre not my husband. Youâre a silly boy who needs to stop stealing my phone. Â
Hubby: I donât have to steal anything. You're mine. Your phoneâs mine. Deal with it, nerd.
You rolled your eyes, yet you were grinning like an idiot before kicking your feet and squealing into your pillow.
---
Later that day, you were in the library, trying to study, but Hyunjin had other plans.Â
---
Hubby: Wifey, Iâm lonely đą Lets study together.Â
You: Stop calling me that. And Iâm not falling for your tricks. Iâm studying. Â
Hubby: Tricks? Don't be so mean my love
You: Iâm muting you. Â
Hubby: You canât mute your soulmate. Be real fir once, you can't resist me.Â
You:Â You're so full of yourself.
Hubby: Come over and you'll be full of me too đ
You: Omg HYUNJIN.Â
Hubby: Lmao you're so easy to rile up. Ok, Iâll be good. Love u, wifey.Â
---
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. He was so stupidly endearing, and you hated how much you loved it. You were about to reply when a shadow fell over your table. You looked up, and there stood Hyunjin, holding a coffee and grinning.Â
âSurprise, wifey!â he said, loud enough for it to echo through the library. He slid into the seat across from you, completely ignoring everyoneâs glares. âCoffee for my love.â
âYouâre not my husband,â you hissed, but you took the coffee. âAnd how are you even here? Donât you have class?â
âNope,â he said, leaning forward, chin in his hands. âHad to see you. I knew you'd be wearing those glasses and looking so cuteâŠmakes me wanna bend you over this table.â
Your jaw dropped, and you kicked him under the table. âHyunjin! Weâre in a library!â
He laughed, unbothered, and grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles.
âCanât help it.âÂ
You snatched your hand back, face burning.
âYouâre insane. Go away before I get kicked out.â
âNope,â he said again, scooting closer until his knee brushed yours. âIâm staying. Gotta protect my wife from nerdy predators.â
He winked, and you were so torn, because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe this was real. But this whole thing started off on sex. And you were worried that he'd get bored and he'd get over you.Â
You tried to focus on your notes, but Hyunjin was making it absolutely impossible - humming softly, doodling âMr. & Mrs. Hwangâ in your notebook. You give him a glare and yanked your book away, ruining the cute doodle he was working on.Â
He gave you a pouty look, and you narrowed your eyes at him. The usual Hyunjin would whine or tackle you into a hug. But he did none of that. Instead he stood up, putting your pen down as he held your gaze, and then just walked away.Â
You watched him disappear, and for the first time ever, you were terrified.Â
It has been three days since the library incident, and youâre losing your mind. No âwifey,â no texts about bending you over a library table.Â
Nothing. Just⊠silence. The worst part? You missed it. You missed his childish whining, his needy cuddles, his sweet face. You tried to play it cool, but by day four, you were a mess.
You had just finished class and were walking towards the campus cafe, when you spotted him. Hyunjin. Reading. You did a double take, nearly spilling your drink. Since when did Hwang Hyunjin, read a book that thick? He was sitting under a tree, leaning against the trunk, looking so soft in his hoodie and glasses (glasses?!). Your heart squeezed, but you were also annoyed.
You marched over, plopping down next to him. He glanced up, one eyebrow raised, and went back to his book. No grin, no nothing. Just a cool, âHey.â
âHey?â you repeated, incredulous. âThatâs it? Why are you ignoring me?â
He closed his book, looking at you with a neutral expression that was so unlike him it was creepy.
âIâm not ignoring you. Iâm just⊠reading.â
âReading?â You narrowed your eyes. âYou havenât spoken to me in days. Whatâs your deal?â
He shrugged, and said, âFigured you were sick of my âneedy bullshit.â You kept telling me to stop, so I stopped.â
You blinked, caught completely off guard. He was being⊠serious?
âI didnât mean stop everything. Youâre acting like weâre strangers.â you snapped.
âIâm giving you space,â he said, his voice is tight. âYou said I was too much. So, hereâs not-too-much Hyunjin. Happy?â
Happy? You were miserable. But he was staring at you, all sulky and gorgeous, and you realized that he was on strike. No kisses, no touching, no sex. He was punishing you for resisting, and oh, it was working.
âYouâre pouting,â you said, poking his cheek.
He swatted your hand away, but there was a flicker of his usual playfulness.
âAm not,â he muttered, turning back to his book. âGo study or whatever. Iâm fine.â
You stared, heart twisting. He was hurt, and you did this. You pushed him away, and now he has dialled it back to zero. But you weren't letting him win this. You needed your Hyunjin back, drama and all.
You couldn't take another day of this cold-shoulder nonsense. You mustered the courage for what you were about to do, and walked to the frat house. Ignoring the party raging downstairs, you headed straight for Hyunjinâs room. You didn't knock - you just barged in, and there he was, at his desk, sketching. He was in a loose tank top, hair messy, pencil moving with that focused intensity that made him look so unfairly hot. He glanced up, startled, then leaned back, crossing his arms.
âEver heard of knocking?â he asked, but there was a spark in his eyes, like he'd been waiting for you.
âNope,â you said, shutting the door. âWe need to talk.â
He raised an eyebrow, playing it cool, but that poutâs still there, lingering. âTalk then. Iâm listening.â
You took a deep breath, heart pounding. Youâve been resisting him for months, pretending you were not in love with him. But you were done fighting. You reached into your pocket and pull out the ring pop you had bought on a whim at the campus store - a cheap plastic band with a strawberry-flavored candy âdiamond.â It was ridiculous, but you were desperate.
âHyunjin,â you said, stepping closer. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to push you away. I was scared. Because I have wanted more for a while now. I don't want to be someone you sleep with. I wanna be more. I miss you. I miss being your wifey. I miss you so damn much.â
His eyes widened, but he didnât say anything, so you kept going, holding up the candy ring.
âYou wanna be my husband? Fine. Hereâs your ring. Marry me, you idiot.â
For a second, he just stared, and you felt like you'd broken him. Then his face blooms - eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, grin so wide it could overshadow the sun. He looked so happy, so Hyunjin, it was like the room got brighter.
âWifey,â he breathed, voice shaking. âYouâre proposing? With a candy ring? Fuck, thatâs so cute. I think I'm gonna cry.â
âPlease donât cry,â you said, but youâre grinning too, heart racing. âJust say yes so I can stop feeling like an idiot.â
âYes yes yes,â he said, jumping up and grabbing your face, kissing you so hard you stumbled back. His lips were soft and desperate, and you kissed him back, hands tangling in his hair, and it was like the world snapped back into place. He was yours, drama and all, and you were his.
The kiss deepened, all tongue and heat, and you were both gasping, pulling at each other like youâve been starved. He lifted you onto his desk, knocking over his pencils and sketchbooks, and you laughed against his mouth.
âCareful, Hubby,â you teased, and he groaned, kissing you harder.
âSay it again,â he murmured, hands sliding under your shirt, warm and needy. âPlease.â
âHubby,â you whispered and he practically whimpered, pressing himself closer, lips trailing down your neck. You made out for what felt like hours, all sloppy kisses and wandering hands, until your lips were swollen and your hearts pounding.
Finally, you pulled back, both of you panting. He had the candy ring on his finger, and he looked so genuinely happy and excited.
âI love you so much,â he said, holding up his hand to admire the ring. âStrawberryâs my favorite.â
âYouâre such a dork,â you mumbled, but you were beaming, because heâs your dork. âI love you, Jinnie.â
---
Hubby: My heartâs gonna explode. Â
You: You survived the strike, youâll live.
Hubby: Never. You looked so hot with that ring, though. Oh fuck, I'm hard again.Â
You: HYUNJIN. Behave for five seconds. Â
Hubby: Canât. Iâm married to the hottest nerd ever. Iâm gonna kiss you forever.
You: I love you baby
Hubby: Fuck, I love you. My wifey. My nerdy goddess. Iâm never shutting up again, you know that, right? Â
Hihi!! I love your work soso much, was wondering if you could do pervy hyunjin headcannons:)!
love love perv!hyune, this got kinda dark so please heed the warnings <33
cw. this post contains dark topics, reader discretion is advised. perv!hyunjin, noncon and dubcon, perversion, somnophilia, drugging, possessive and yandere behavior wc. 1300 minors dni.
perv!hyunjin who plays the part of your sweet best friend, the roommate who shares his ramyeon with you at 2 am and comforts you when you go through another shitty breakup. but in reality he spends every night staring at the thin wall that separates your rooms, jerking off to the sound of your muffled breathing and imagining you pressed into his mattress with nowhere to run.
perv!hyunjin who 'forgets' to knock before coming into your room, towel around his neck as if fresh out of the shower⊠pretending he needs to borrow a charger. lazy grin telling you to finish what you were doing; don't mind him, it'll only take a minute.
and don't mind his eyes roaming over your bare thighs, lingering long enough to etch ever dip and curve into his brain.
perv!hyunjin whose memories aren't enough. so he hoards pictures on his phone â pictures you've never posed for. panties peeking out when you're lounging on the couch. skirt riding up as you bend to grab something. your lips parted mid-yawn⊠each photo a precious keepsake he jerks off to over and over.
perv!hyunjin who steals your vibrator when you're not home. he jerks himself off with it, pressing the buzzing tip against his aching cock until he spills all over your sheets. then puts it neatly back in your drawer so next time you use it you'll be covered in his cum. he's so pussy drunk the thought alone gets him hard again. how pathetic </33
perv!hyunjin who lets you stay in his room when you have a nightmare. he curls behind you under the same blanket, grinding against your ass just enough to make you doubt yourself. whispering don't worry angel, you're safe with me while his arousal stains your shorts.
perv!hyunjin who convinces you to watch porn with him and his friends. it started as a drunken dare but now he's watching you like a hawk⊠memorizing the exact moments your thighs press together when the scene gets rougher. later, when he's alone, he plays the same scenarios out in his head, pretending it's you and him. pretending he's the one making you moan like a pornstar.
perv!hyunjin who sneaks under your blanket during movie nights, stroking himself while you're half-asleep on the couch beside him. biting his lip to stifle a groan as he cums all over your leg, smearing it into your skin so you'll wake sticky without knowing why. he loves it when you smell of him. it starts with him jerking off above your pillow or clothes, soiling the fabric so his scent clings to you everywhere you go. but it doesn't take long for him to take it a step further: cumming into your shampoo and bodywash, your skincare bottles, your lip balm⊠making sure you're always covered in him.
perv!hyunjin who fucks his throat with the handle of your toothbrush, moaning your name while drool drips down the brush and his chin. he imagines it's your taste coating his tongue, his cock hard and aching in his boxers. after he's done he puts it back wet for you to use again.
perv!hyunjin who asks to draw you for practice. he coaxes you to sit on the couch in shorts and a tanktop, acting all professional while his eyes drag down your bare legs. it's not as if he needs you to model for him; he's memorized the curve of your waist, the way your lips part when you sleep⊠he could sketch you naked from memory. but nothing beats watching you squirm under his heated gaze when he stares at you for too long.
his favorite evenings are the ones where he gets you drunk on wine, sketching and mapping every line of your body with his pencil. thinking about how he's going to touch you later when you're all buzzed and sleepy and can't keep your eyes open any longer.
perv!hyunjin who dips his paintbrush in a mixture of paint and his own cum, adding highlights to the wetness between your thighs on the canvas. dreaming of the day his paintings will become reality.
perv!hyunjin who leaves torn-out pages of his sketchbook littered around the apartment. sketches of you spread wide, gagged and dripping⊠just to see how flustered you get knowing he's been thinking about you like this all along.
perv!hyunjin who pretends to be drunk on nights out just so he can drape himself over you, grinding his half-hard cock against you as you hold him steady. murmuring filth into your ear: you smell so fucking good, bet your pussy tastes sweeter than those strawberry mojitos you love so much.
perv!hyunjin who gropes you under the excuse of play wrestling, pinning you down on the carpet with your wrists trapped in one of his big hands while the other slides between your thighs. his fingers rubbing your pussy through the thin fabric, laughing at how you wriggle and squeal. you're so cute when you try to fight back <33
perv!hyunjin who waits until you fall asleep on the couch to slide his hands under your shorts, fingers working into your panties and stroking you with slow circles until your body shifts unconsciously. little gasps slipping past your lips that make him rut against the cushions while forcing his fingers deeper. he can feel himself spiraling more and more, driven crazy by your pretty whimpers.
perv!hyunjin who holds your wrists above your head when you jolt awake, too weak and drowsy to fight him as he sucks on your nipples through your shirt. his tongue lapping at the wet fabric, voice low as he growls against you. how he's waited too long to touch what's his, how he'll make sure you'll never forget who you belong to.
perv!hyunjin who calls himself your protector in front of friends, always hovering around you, but at night he's the one who presses your knees into your chest. whispering you'll thank me for this later as he forces your legs apart and buries his face between them, sucking on your clit for hours while you cry and beg for him to stop.
perv!hyunjin who films his cock stretching your pretty cunt after slipping something in your drink. stroking your hair while your head lolls to the side, cooing such a pretty doll for me while he records everything for his private collection.
perv!hyunjin who can't stop once he's felt your tight cunt clench around him. cumming inside you over and over, licking up the sloppy mess he's made just to taste that sweet mixture of him and you. whispering promises into your slick skin, telling you you'll never get away from him now, not when your body fits him so perfectly.
perv!hyunjin who listens to you rant about your exes or one of many failed dates. he's a good listener, nodding attentively, softly stroking your arms when you cry⊠but every time you cling onto him confirms the lingering thought in the back of your mind that only he can make you feel wanted.
perv!hyunjin who, despite everything, is always there for you. who makes you crave the comfort of his arms until the thought of pushing him away feels wrong⊠until the wetness between your thighs when he kisses your neck convinces you that maybe you want this too. that maybe you wanted this all along.
perv!hyunjin who never lets you lock your door anymore, who makes sure you know there's no corner of the apartment that's really private. who reminds you every day with persistent touches and whispered promises that you belong to him now. forever <33
mentions of bullying, trauma, emotional isolation, insecurities, subtle possessiveness, drugging incident (non-graphic), overthinking, bruised knuckles, raw love confessions, emotionally protective chan, suggestive tension (neck kisses, touches), non-sexual intimacy, healing themes, 16+ (no smut), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.
synopsis âž»
he was her brotherâs quiet, hoodie-wearing roommate and bestfriend â isolated, unreadable, and always in the background. she wasnât supposed to notice him, but once she did, she couldnât look away. over late-night rides and unspoken glances, something raw and real begins to bloom. he falls first, hard â the kind of love that bruises, aches, and never backs down. a painfully slow story of obsession, healing, and finally being seen.
authorâs note đâïœĄ
this one is for the girls who love a quiet man in a hoodie with secrets stitched into his sleeves. for the ones who fall for the background character â the one who flinches when you touch his wrist but would burn the world for you in silence. nerdy biker!chan has been living rent-free in my head and now heâs yours too. expect tension, yearning, emotionally constipated glances, and a boy who journals about you instead of talking to you. and all the best for the tension âĄ
The air on campus hummed with a different kind of electricity than youâd ever known. It wasnât just the late summer heat clinging to the brick buildings, nor the distant clang of construction that seemed to be a permanent fixture of university life. No, it was the collective thrum of thousands of new beginnings, of nervous energy and burgeoning excitement, all bundled into one vibrant, sprawling space. You inhaled deeply, a mix of freshly cut grass, old library books, and the faint, sweet scent of something baking from the student union. This was it. Your first day, your first taste of true independence.
And then, a familiar, boisterous laugh cut through the general din, pulling you from your reverie. âThere she is! My little sister, finally gracing these hallowed halls!â
Your older brother, Mark, a third-year student with a perpetually rumpled shirt and a grin that could charm the socks off a stone gargoyle, strode towards you, arms outstretched. He was everything you werenât â loud, effortlessly charismatic, and seemingly born to command a room. He pulled you into a crushing hug, smelling faintly of stale coffee and something vaguely floral, probably from the latest girl he was attempting to impress.
âAlright, alright, let me breathe, you giant oaf,â you chuckled, pushing him back.
He just beamed, his eyes sparkling with genuine pride. âCome on, Iâve got to introduce you to the gang. Theyâve been dying to meet the legendary little sister.â
Markâs âgangâ wasnât a gang in the traditional sense, but rather a revolving constellation of equally loud, equally charming individuals who orbited him with a kind of fierce loyalty. They were wild, loud, and undeniably flirty, their conversations a rapid-fire volley of inside jokes, exaggerated anecdotes, and casual banter that always seemed to hover on the edge of something more. You were pulled into it instantly, a new satellite caught in their vibrant gravitational pull.
âGuys, this is [Your Name]! My sister! The one I told you about!â Mark announced, his arm slung around your shoulders as he steered you towards a cluster of students sprawled on the grass outside the engineering building. They were a kaleidoscope of bright clothes and even brighter smiles. There was Liam, with his perpetually messy blonde hair and a laugh that boomed across the quad; Chloe, whose sharp wit was only matched by her even sharper eyeliner; and Maya, who seemed to communicate solely through a series of dramatic eye-rolls and knowing glances.
They greeted you with an enthusiastic chorus of hellos, a flurry of handshakes and air kisses, making you feel instantly, if somewhat overwhelmingly, welcomed. You found yourself laughing along with their jokes, even when you didnât quite get the punchline, the sheer force of their collective energy sweeping you up. It was exhilarating, a stark contrast to the quieter, more reserved life youâd led up until now. You were part of something, part of their something, and it felt like the perfect start to university.
But then, your gaze drifted past the immediate circle, drawn by a subtle anomaly in the vibrant chaos. Tucked away on a low brick wall, slightly apart from the main group, was a figure hunched over a stack of papers. He was almost swallowed by an oversized dark hoodie, the hood pulled up, obscuring most of his face. His head was bowed, a lock of dark hair escaping the hood to fall over his forehead, and his fingers, surprisingly nimble, were rapidly typing on a laptop balanced precariously on his knees. He looked utterly absorbed, a quiet island in the boisterous sea of Markâs friends.
âWhoâs that?â you murmured, nudging Mark.
Mark glanced over, a dismissive wave of his hand. âOh, thatâs just Chan. Heâs fixing my thermodynamics assignment. Again.â He said it with a casualness that suggested this was a common occurrence, like mentioning the weather.
You watched Chan for another moment. He didnât look up, didnât acknowledge the groupâs presence, let alone Markâs comment. He was just⊠there, diligently working. Something about his quiet intensity, his almost invisible presence amidst the clamor, piqued your interest. Everyone else was performing, vying for attention, but he was simply being.
You felt an inexplicable pull, a quiet curiosity that nudged you forward. Slipping away from Markâs arm, you walked over to the brick wall. As you approached, you saw the meticulous way his fingers flew across the keyboard, the faint glow of the screen illuminating the sharp line of his jaw.
âHi,â you said softly, not wanting to startle him.
He paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. His head remained down, his gaze fixed on the screen, but you saw a slight stiffening in his shoulders. He didnât meet your eyes. Instead, he simply gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement that felt more like a reflex than a greeting. Then, his fingers resumed their rapid dance.
It was an odd interaction, so different from the effusive welcomes youâd just received. You stood there for a beat, feeling a little awkward, a little dismissed. But instead of turning away, a stubborn flicker of intrigue ignited within you. Everyone else brushed him off â âthatâs just Chan,â theyâd said, as if that explained everything, as if he were merely a fixture, a background character in their vibrant play. But even in that brief, non-interaction, you sensed there was more to him than a simple dismissive wave. He was always there, you noticed over the next few days, quietly helping, quietly observing. Heâd be the one who knew where the spare projector cable was, or who could troubleshoot a glitchy presentation just minutes before it was due. He wasnât part of the loud jokes, but he was the silent scaffolding that held Markâs chaotic academic life together.
A few weeks into the term, Mark, ever the social orchestrator, decided to throw a party. His dorm room, already cramped, was bursting at the seams with bodies, music, and the cloying scent of cheap beer and sweat. The bass throbbed through the floorboards, vibrating up through your feet, and the conversations morphed into shouts, then back into muffled murmurs as the music swelled. You were overwhelmed, the sheer volume and press of people a suffocating blanket, but you smiled anyway, pasting on the bright, enthusiastic expression expected of Markâs little sister. You circulated, made small talk, laughed at jokes you didnât quite catch, and felt the genuine exhaustion of sustained social performance begin to set in.
You spotted Chan earlier, before the main crowd descended. He was, predictably, helping set up. Heâd moved furniture with surprising strength, untangled fairy lights with methodical precision, and even helped Mark rig up a makeshift sound system that actually worked. But once the first wave of guests arrived, he retreated. He didnât party, didnât dance, didnât even stand near the snack table. He stayed in the corner, a shadow among the vibrant, moving bodies, nursing a single bottle of water, his hoodie still stubbornly up, a silent sentinel observing the chaos.
The air grew thick, the laughter louder, and your smile began to ache. You felt a familiar social burnout creeping in, the desire to simply be rather than perform. Your eyes sought out the quiet corner, and there he was, still. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped you, and you navigated through the throng, excusing yourself politely, until you reached the relative quiet of the wall where Chan was perched.
You slid down beside him, your back against the cool plaster, knees drawn up to your chest. The music was still deafening, but here, the vibrations were less intense, the shouts a little more distant. You didnât say anything at first, just closed your eyes for a moment, letting the wave of exhaustion wash over you.
You felt him shift away slightly, a subtle movement, as if your proximity was an unexpected intrusion. It wasnât hostile, more like an instinctual recoil, a quiet personâs natural defense mechanism. You opened your eyes, glancing at him. He was still staring straight ahead, his profile to you, but you could sense his awareness of your presence.
âCrazy party, huh?â you said, your voice a little hoarse from the noise.
He gave another one of his characteristic nods. No words. You waited. He didnât offer any.
âMark really outdid himself this time,â you continued, determined to break through the silence. âThough I think he might have used all the goodwill heâs built up with the dorm manager for the next year.â
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. He still didnât look at you, but you felt a slight softening in the air around him.
You tried a different tack. âSo, youâre usually the one who fixes Markâs assignments?â
He finally spoke, his voice a low rumble, almost lost in the music. âSomeone has to.â It wasnât a complaint, just a statement of fact.
âHeâd be lost without you, you know,â you said, genuinely.
He shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. âHe manages.â
You talked to him then, about anything and everything that came to mind. You talked about your classes, the surprisingly terrible cafeteria food, the confusing layout of the campus, the ridiculousness of some of your professors. You talked about your hometown, your anxieties about fitting in, your hopes for the next few years. He listened more than he replied, his gaze still mostly fixed on the swirling mass of partygoers, but you could feel his attention, a quiet, steady anchor in the storm. He didnât interrupt, didnât offer unsolicited advice, didnât try to fill the silence. He just listened, and it was a surprisingly comforting presence.
At one point, you were recounting a particularly embarrassing incident from your first week, involving a misplaced ID card and a very grumpy librarian. You exaggerated the details, adding dramatic pauses and comical inflections, and then, without warning, a sound escaped him. It was a soft, almost choked little exhale, a puff of air that quickly morphed into a genuine, if brief, laugh. It was a quiet, husky sound, almost like a secret, and it startled you. You paused, your own laughter dying in your throat, staring at him. He quickly clammed up, his shoulders tensing, as if heâd revealed something deeply private. His face was still mostly hidden by the hoodie, but you could feel the sudden self-consciousness radiating off him.
âYou laughed!â you exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face. âI made you laugh!â
He just nodded, his gaze darting away even more. But the small, almost-smile lingered for a fraction of a second longer than before.
Emboldened, you pressed on. âSo, Mark said youâre studying engineering? What kind?â
He hesitated, then, âMechanical. With a minor in music.â
âMusic?â You blinked, surprised. This quiet, almost reclusive figure, hunched over thermodynamics and engine parts, also studied music? It was an unexpected, fascinating detail. âWhat do you play?â
âJust⊠production,â he mumbled, vague.
âThatâs cool,â you said, genuinely impressed. âSo you build things and make music? Thatâs quite a combination.â
He didnât respond, but you felt a subtle shift, a tiny crack in the carefully constructed wall around him. Everyone else, you realized, seemed to forget he was there. Theyâd acknowledge him when they needed something, or when Mark pointed him out, but then heâd fade back into the background, a ghost in plain sight. You didnât. You couldnât. There was something undeniably intriguing about his quiet depth, the way he existed on the periphery, observing everything.
The party wound down, the crowd thinning as the night wore on. Mark, predictably, was passed out on a beanbag chair, surrounded by empty cups. His friends had long since drifted off, leaving a trail of discarded snacks and sticky spills. You were tired, ready for your own bed, but as you stood to leave, you saw him. Chan. He was already moving through the debris, methodically picking up trash, stacking empty bottles, his movements quiet and efficient. Alone.
You hesitated for a moment, then, a decision solidifying in your mind, you walked back over. âHey,â you said, bending down to pick up a crumpled paper plate.
He looked up, surprised, his hands full of discarded cans. âYou donât have to,â he said, his voice flat, devoid of expectation. It was a statement, not a question.
You met his gaze directly, a small, determined smile on your face. âBut I want to.â
He paused, his hands still, and for the first time, he truly looked at you. His eyes, usually hidden by the shadow of his hood or cast downwards, were a deep, dark brown, and in them, you saw a flicker of something. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was there: surprise, perhaps a hint of confusion, and then, something softer, something that might have been warmth, or even a fragile vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, his expression returning to its usual guarded neutrality, but youâd seen it. A tiny, almost imperceptible crack in his armor.
You worked in comfortable silence, the rhythmic rustle of trash bags and the occasional clink of bottles the only sounds. You didnât push for conversation, and he didnât offer any. But the shared task, the quiet companionship, felt more significant than any loud conversation youâd had all night. When the last bag was tied and the last surface wiped down, you stood together in the suddenly cavernous, quiet dorm room, the lingering scent of stale beer strangely comforting.
âThanks for the help,â he said, his voice still low, but softer now, less guarded.
âAnytime,â you replied, meaning it. You gave him a small wave, then turned to leave, a strange sense of contentment settling over you.
That night, long after the last party guest had stumbled home and the campus had settled into a quiet hum, Chan sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop screen the only light in his dorm room. He pulled out a small, worn leather-bound journal, its pages filled with neat, almost cramped handwriting. He flipped to a fresh page, his fingers lingering on the smooth paper. He didnât write much, didnât need to. Just one line, carefully etched in the quiet of the night, a single, potent memory:
~ She sat with me.
The memory of that night, cleaning up Markâs chaotic dorm room with Chan, lingered in your mind like the faint scent of old beer and something else, something indefinable, that was uniquely him. It wasnât a grand gesture, not a dramatic confession, but the quiet shared space, the unspoken understanding, had resonated with you far more profoundly than any boisterous party ever could. His journal entry, a single line you knew nothing about, was a silent testament to a connection you were only just beginning to perceive.
The days that followed were a blur of lectures, study groups, and the relentless social whirl of university life. You still spent time with Markâs friends, navigating their loud humor and easy flirtations, but a part of you felt increasingly detached, as if you were observing the performance rather than being a full participant. Your eyes, however, found themselves scanning the campus, unconsciously searching for a familiar dark hoodie, a bowed head, a quiet presence.
You found him, eventually, not in a lecture hall or hunched over an assignment, but in a place you hadnât expected. One drizzly afternoon, needing a break from a particularly mind-numbing economics lecture, you wandered aimlessly, your thoughts drifting. You found yourself near the edge of campus, where the sleek, modern buildings gave way to older, more utilitarian structures. A large, corrugated metal building, tucked away behind the sports complex, caught your eye. It had a faded sign above its wide bay doors: âCampus Motor Works â Repairs & Maintenance.â And through one of the open doors, bathed in the dim, oily light of the interior, you saw him.
Chan.
He was bent over a motorcycle, its frame stripped down to skeletal wires and gleaming engine parts. His hoodie was off, revealing a plain dark t-shirt stretched taut across his shoulders, and his hair, damp with what looked like sweat, curled slightly at the nape of his neck. He had a wrench in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration, and a smudge of grease adorned his cheek. He looked utterly in his element, a quiet craftsman in a world of gears and metal.
You hesitated at the entrance, unsure if you should intrude. The air inside was a rich, heady mix of oil, gasoline, and something metallic, a scent that was strangely appealing. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal punctuated the silence, a stark contrast to the constant chatter of campus.
He must have sensed your presence, because he slowly straightened up, turning his head. His eyes, usually downcast, met yours, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of surprise, almost shock, crossed his face. It was quickly masked, replaced by his usual guarded expression, but youâd seen it. He hadnât expected you.
âHi,â you said, a little breathlessly, stepping fully into the garage. The concrete floor was cool beneath your sneakers.
He just nodded, a silent invitation, or perhaps just a resignation. He didnât tell you to leave, didnât question why you were there. He simply let you stay.
You walked further in, past stacks of tires and shelves laden with tools, until you reached a sturdy wooden workbench near the bike he was working on. It was cluttered with spare parts, rags, and a scattering of nuts and bolts. You carefully cleared a small space and, feeling a sudden urge to be unobtrusive, sat cross-legged on the cool, worn surface, watching him.
The silence wasnât awkward. It was⊠comfortable. You watched the meticulous way he worked, his hands moving with a practiced ease, his fingers deftly manipulating small, intricate components. He seemed to possess an innate understanding of the machinery, a quiet dialogue between man and metal.
âWhat are you doing?â you asked, your voice soft, not wanting to break his concentration.
He paused, glancing at the engine. âReplacing the clutch cable.â His voice was low, almost a murmur, punctuated by the faint click of a tool.
âIs it hard?â
âDepends on the bike.â
âIs this one hard?â
He grunted, a sound that might have been an affirmative. He wasnât verbose, that much was clear. But you found yourself strangely content with his economy of words. You didnât need a torrent of conversation; his presence, his focused energy, was enough.
You continued to ask questions, small, simple inquiries about the tools, the parts, the process. He answered in few words, sometimes just a nod or a brief gesture, but he always answered. He never dismissed your curiosity, never made you feel foolish for not knowing. He simply provided the information, like a quiet teacher sharing his craft.
At one point, your gaze drifted to a gleaming, oddly shaped tool lying near your hand. It looked heavy, substantial, and you reached out, your fingers brushing against its cool, smooth surface. Before you could pick it up, his hand, quick as a flash, covered yours.
âCareful,â he murmured, his voice a low warning. He didnât snatch his hand away immediately. Instead, he gently, almost imperceptibly, guided your hand away from the tool, his fingers warm and firm against yours. He then picked up the tool himself, demonstrating its weight and how to hold it.
His hand. It was warm, surprisingly so, and calloused. Not soft, pampered hands, but hands that worked, that built, that fixed. They were strong, you realized, as he briefly held yours, a quiet power in their grip. The brief contact sent a strange, almost electric jolt up your arm, a warmth that lingered even after heâd released you.
You found yourself observing him more closely after that. The way his brow furrowed when he encountered a particularly stubborn bolt, the way his lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. He had a perpetually serious, almost grumpy expression when he was focused, and something in it made you smile.
âYou look like youâre trying to solve the mysteries of the universe with that wrench,â you teased, a soft laugh escaping you.
He paused, his head still bent, but you saw his eyes flick up, a quick, almost imperceptible glance towards your lips. It was so fast you almost imagined it, a fleeting moment of observation that made your breath catch. He didnât react beyond that, just returned to his work, but the image of his eyes, dark and intense, lingering on your mouth, stayed with you.
As the afternoon wore on, the bike slowly began to reassemble itself under his skilled hands. You found yourself drawn into the quiet rhythm of his work, the subtle sounds of metal and machinery becoming a comforting backdrop. When he finally tightened the last bolt, he stood back, wiping his hands on a rag, a faint sense of satisfaction radiating from him.
âWant to try it?â he asked, startling you. He gestured to another bike, a sleek, black model parked a few feet away, already fully assembled.
Your eyes widened. âReally?â
He nodded. He walked over to the black bike, picked up a spare helmet from a hook on the wall, and handed it to you. It was heavier than you expected, smelling faintly of leather and something clean. He then gestured for you to sit on the bike. You swung your leg over, feeling the cool leather of the seat beneath you, the solid weight of the machine. It was exhilarating, a sense of power humming beneath your fingertips. He stood beside you, offering quiet instructions on how to balance, how to feel the weight of the bike. He didnât push, didnât rush. He simply guided, his patience a stark contrast to Markâs usual whirlwind approach to everything.
You left the garage that day feeling a strange lightness, a sense of quiet triumph. Youâd spent hours in Chanâs world, a world of grease and metal and quiet focus, and it had felt surprisingly right.
Of course, secrets rarely stayed secret for long, especially when your older brother had a sixth sense for anything that might remotely involve your social life.
âSo,â Mark said, cornering you in the dorm common room a few days later, his arms crossed, a knowing glint in his eye. âHeard youâve been hanging out at the garage. With Chan.â
You shrugged, trying for nonchalance. âYeah, he works there. Itâs interesting.â
Markâs grin faded, replaced by a surprisingly serious expression. âLook, [Your Name], about ChanâŠâ He hesitated, then sighed. âHeâs⊠complicated.â
You frowned. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âIt means heâs not like us. Not like my friends. Heâs got a lot going on. A lot of⊠stuff. You should probably just⊠keep your distance.â
Your jaw tightened. The dismissive tone, the veiled warnings, ignited a spark of anger within you. âHeâs not a monster, Mark! Heâs just⊠quiet. And heâs been nothing but nice to me.â
âNice isnât the issue,â Mark countered, his voice low. âHeâs just⊠not someone you want to get involved with. Trust me on this.â
You argued back, your voice rising slightly. âWhy? Because he doesnât fit into your loud, perfect little world? Because he actually helps people instead of just talking about it?â
The argument escalated, your frustration boiling over. You were defending him, fiercely and instinctively, even though you barely knew him. Mark, for his part, seemed genuinely concerned, though his reasons felt flimsy and unfair.
What you didnât know, couldnât know, was that Chan was walking past the common room door just as your voice hit its peak. He paused, hidden from view, and heard it all. Heard Markâs warnings, heard your impassioned defense. He didnât react, didnât step in, didnât make his presence known. He simply stood there, listening, his face unreadable, then continued on his way, a silent shadow.
You were seething. Mad on his behalf. It wasnât fair. Markâs words, the casual dismissal, the thinly veiled judgment, felt like a personal affront. You knew, deep down, that Chan was more than just âcomplicated.â He was just⊠different. And you liked different.
Later that evening, a small, crinkly paper bag appeared by your dorm room door. No knock, no note, no name attached. Just the bag. You picked it up, a sense of quiet curiosity blooming in your chest. Inside, nestled among a few loose crumbs, was a packet of strawberry Pocky. Your favorite. You hadnât told anyone that. Youâd only mentioned it once, in passing, during that long, rambling conversation with Chan in the corner of Markâs party. Heâd just listened. And heâd remembered.
A warmth spread through you, a soft, unexpected comfort. He was confused why you cared, Mark had implied. But he cared too, in his own quiet way.
After that, you started noticing things. Small, almost imperceptible details that others would miss. You noticed the way he listened when you talked, not just hearing the words, but truly absorbing them. His head might be down, his eyes might be on his laptop or a wrench, but you could feel the weight of his attention, a focused intensity that made you feel truly heard. He remembered things, like the Pocky, or a throwaway comment youâd made about a difficult assignment. He was always present, always observing, even when he seemed to be a million miles away.
One afternoon, you found him in the library, hunched over a textbook, his fingers absently tapping a rhythm on the table. He was wearing his usual hoodie, but the sleeves were pushed up, revealing his forearms. They were lean but muscled, dusted with fine dark hair, and his hands⊠you found yourself staring at them. They were the hands of a craftsman, strong and capable, with long, elegant fingers (a/n: I can't digest the fact that chan doesn't like his hands. EXCUSE ME-) and neatly trimmed nails, despite the occasional smudge of grease.
âYour hands are really nice, Chan,â you blurted out, the compliment escaping before you could filter it.
He froze. His fingers, mid-tap, stopped. His head snapped up, and his eyes, wide with surprise, met yours. For a moment, he just stared, then, with a clumsy jolt, the wrench heâd been idly twirling in his other hand slipped from his grasp and clattered loudly onto the table, drawing a sharp hiss from a nearby student.
He flushed, a faint pink coloring his cheeks, and quickly snatched the wrench. âTheyâre just hands,â he mumbled, his voice unusually quiet, almost embarrassed.
You shook your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. âNo, theyâre not. Theyâre⊠strong, pretty⊠And precise. Theyâre good hands.â
He didnât respond, just looked down at them, a strange, almost vulnerable expression on his face. You disagreed with his assessment, fiercely. They were more than just hands. They were his hands, and they were beautiful.
Suddenly, Maya, with her usual dramatic flair, decided to turn her attention to Chan. She sauntered over to his table, leaning against it, her voice dripping with playful charm. âHey, Chan. Still hiding in your hoodie? Come join the fun. You know, youâre kinda cute when youâre all mysterious like that.â She reached out, her fingers playfully brushing his arm.
Chan went stone silent. His head, which had been slightly bowed over his laptop, snapped up. His eyes, usually so guarded, were suddenly sharp, almost cold. He didnât flinch away from her touch, but his entire body stiffened, a palpable tension radiating from him. He didnât say a word, didnât offer a smile, didnât even acknowledge her flirtation. He just stared at her, his expression utterly blank, his silence a wall. Maya, clearly unnerved by his complete lack of reaction, quickly retreated, muttering something about him being a âkilljoy.â
You watched the entire exchange, a strange mix of satisfaction and concern churning within you. The satisfaction was seeing Mayaâs flirtation fall flat, the concern was for Chanâs sudden, absolute withdrawal.
Later that week, you found him in the library again, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. You approached him cautiously, remembering the incident with Maya.
âHey,â you said, sitting in the chair opposite him.
He looked up, his expression neutral.
âAbout the other day,â you began, hesitantly. âWith Maya. You went really quiet.â
He sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He closed his laptop, finally giving you his full attention. His eyes, when they met yours, held a depth you were only just beginning to fathom.
âI hate being touched by people I donât trust,â he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, the words heavy with an unspoken history.
You froze. The air around you seemed to thicken, the quiet of the library suddenly amplified. His confession, so raw and unexpected, hit you with the force of a physical blow. It explained so much: his initial recoil, his guarded nature, the way he existed on the periphery.
Your heart pounded. A question, fragile and terrifying, formed on your lips. âDo you⊠do you trust me?â
He looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours, a profound stillness in his gaze. The silence stretched, taut and charged, filled with unspoken possibilities. You held your breath, waiting for his answer, for the verdict that felt impossibly important.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely audible. âI donât know yet.â
The words were a blow, a cold splash of reality. I donât know yet. It wasnât a denial, but it wasnât an affirmation either. It was the truth, unvarnished and stark. A tiny ache bloomed in your chest, a disappointment you hadnât realized you were bracing for.
He then reached for something on the table beside him. It was the spare helmet heâd given you to sit on his bike, which youâd forgotten to return. He picked it up, his fingers brushing the smooth plastic, and then, slowly, he extended it towards you. As you reached out to take it, his fingers lingered on the strap, just for a moment, a feather-light touch against your own. It was barely there, a fleeting contact, but it was enough. Enough to tell you that maybe, just maybe, âI donât know yetâ wasnât the end of the conversation. It was just the beginning.
The lingering touch of Chanâs fingers on the helmet strap, that fleeting, almost imperceptible contact, had been a silent promise. I donât know yet. The words had echoed in your mind, a fragile challenge, an open question. It wasnât a dismissal, not truly. It was an invitation, however hesitant, to prove yourself worthy of his trust. And you, with a stubbornness you hadnât known you possessed, were more than willing to accept.
The garage became your sanctuary. The loud, boisterous world of Markâs friends, the endless social expectations of university life, began to recede into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of machinery, the scent of oil and metal, and the profound, comforting silence shared with Chan. You started joining him there often, slipping in after classes, sometimes just for an hour, sometimes for the entire afternoon until the last sliver of daylight faded from the high windows.
Youâd bring food â a thermos of hot coffee on a chilly morning, a bag of pastries from the campus bakery, or a couple of pre-made sandwiches youâd pilfered from the dining hall. Heâd always look surprised, a faint, almost imperceptible widening of his dark eyes, but heâd accept them with a quiet nod, sometimes even offering a small, murmured âThanks.â Youâd play music from your phone, a carefully curated playlist of indie rock and mellow electronic beats that you hoped heâd appreciate, given his mysterious music minor. He never commented on your choices, but youâd sometimes catch his head nodding almost imperceptibly to a particularly intricate rhythm, or his fingers tapping a beat on a workbench.
You talked his ear off, a steady stream of observations, anecdotes, and random thoughts. You recounted the dayâs lectures, complained about a particularly frustrating group project, or simply mused about the absurdities of life. You didnât expect him to reply in kind; you knew his nature by now. He listened. He always listened. His focus, when you spoke, was absolute, a quiet intensity that made you feel utterly heard, utterly seen. It was a rare and precious thing, this gift of his attention, and you found yourself cherishing it more with each passing day.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the cracks in his armor began to show. It started with small comments, almost whispers, dropped into the quiet space between your chatter and the clang of his tools.
One afternoon, you were laughing at something ridiculous a professor had said, a genuine, uninhibited peal of amusement that echoed in the cavernous garage. He paused, a wrench suspended in mid-air, and looked at you. âYour⊠your smile is nice,â he mumbled, his gaze quickly dropping back to the engine. The words were so unexpected, so soft, that your laughter died, replaced by a sudden warmth that bloomed in your chest.
Another time, you were humming along to a song on your playlist, a gentle, melodic tune. He cleared his throat, a low sound. âYour voice⊠itâs⊠clear.â He didnât elaborate, didnât look at you, but the compliment, so simple and direct, felt like a profound revelation. It was as if he was noticing you, truly noticing you, beyond the surface, beyond the noise.
You, in turn, began to grow bolder, testing the boundaries of his quiet reserve. You found yourself teasing him, gently, playfully.
âStill trying to communicate solely through grunts, Chan?â youâd ask, a smirk playing on your lips as he wrestled with a particularly stubborn bolt.
Heâd pause, his shoulders tensing, and then, to your delight, a faint blush would creep up his neck, dusting his ears a soft pink. âYouâre⊠annoying,â heâd mutter, his voice gruff, but there was no real heat in it. It was a defense mechanism, you realized, a verbal shield, and it only made you grin wider. The fact that you could elicit such a reaction from him, that you could chip away at his stoic facade, was a small victory.
One particularly long afternoon, after a grueling exam and hours spent watching Chan meticulously rebuild a carburetor, exhaustion finally claimed you. You were curled up on the worn, dusty couch in the corner of the garage, ostensibly reading a textbook, but your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The rhythmic clinking of Chanâs tools, the low hum of the fluorescent lights, became a lullaby. You drifted off, your head resting against the rough fabric of the couch, your textbook sliding forgotten to the floor.
You woke slowly, disoriented for a moment. The garage was darker now, the outside world having faded into dusk. A soft, unexpected warmth enveloped you. You stirred, blinking, and realized something heavy and soft was draped over you. It was his hoodie. The dark, oversized one he always wore, smelling faintly of engine grease, and something else⊠something clean and uniquely him. It was comforting, a tangible sign of his quiet care.
You shifted, the hoodie rustling, and then you saw him. He was sitting on a low stool a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of a small work lamp. His head was bowed, and in his hands, he held a familiar leather-bound journal. He was writing. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across the page, completely absorbed.
Your heart gave a strange, soft lurch. He was writing. And you, curled beneath his hoodie, were watching him. The intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming. He wasnât just a quiet presence; he had a hidden world, a place where thoughts and feelings were committed to paper. And you wondered, with a sudden, aching curiosity, what he wrote about.
He must have sensed your gaze, because he suddenly stiffened, his head snapping up. His eyes, wide with alarm, met yours, and a deep flush spread across his face, staining his ears and neck a furious crimson. He quickly slammed the journal shut, almost instinctively tucking it behind his back, as if youâd caught him in a deeply private act.
âOh! Youâre awake,â he stammered, his voice unusually high, flustered and awkward. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, utterly exposed. He tried to explain, to make an excuse, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He was too flustered to explain it. You didnât ask. Yet. The moment was too fragile, too telling. You simply offered a soft, understanding smile.
Later, as you were gathering your things to leave, the hoodie still clutched in your hands, you felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude. For the quiet company, for the unexpected warmth of his hoodie, for the strawberry Pocky, for the way he listened, for the small, halting compliments. Without thinking, you stepped closer to him, and gently, tentatively, wrapped your arms around his waist.
He went completely stiff. His entire body became rigid, a solid, unyielding block of muscle. You felt his breath hitch, and for a terrifying second, you thought he would push you away, that you had crossed an invisible line. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension began to drain from him. His shoulders relaxed, his arms, which had been frozen at his sides, slowly, hesitantly, came up. And then, he melted. His head dropped onto your shoulder, a soft sigh escaping him, and his arms wrapped around you, a gentle, almost fragile embrace that tightened imperceptibly. It was a profound surrender, a quiet acceptance.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your heart pounding a soft rhythm against your ribs. His eyes were closed, a faint blush still lingering on his cheeks. âYou⊠you like hugs?â you asked, your voice a little breathless.
He opened his eyes, meeting yours. He shrugged, a small, almost embarrassed gesture. âFrom you,â he murmured, his voice barely audible.
The words hung in the air, a delicate, precious thing. From you. It was a distinction, a boundary he was willing to cross, just for you. It was a quiet declaration, a tiny crack in the dam heâd built around himself.
A few days later, a casual conversation with Mark about fitness led you to ask about the campus gym. âDo you ever go, Chan?â you asked, finding him in the library.
He went quiet, his gaze dropping to his textbook. A familiar tension settled around him. âYeah,â he said, after a long pause. âNightly.â
The brevity of his answer, the sudden shift in his demeanor, piqued your curiosity. He usually avoided talking about himself, but this felt different, more guarded, almost secretive. You didnât press him. Not then. But the seed of an idea had been planted.
That night, restless and curious, you found yourself sneaking out of your dorm. The campus was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. You walked with a sense of purpose, your heart thrumming with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, towards the campus gym. It was late, past midnight, and you hoped it would be mostly empty.
You pushed open the heavy glass doors, the sudden rush of cool, conditioned air a welcome sensation. The main gym floor was indeed deserted, the rows of treadmills and ellipticals standing silent and still. But from the weightlifting area, tucked away in a corner, you heard the faint clink of metal.
You walked quietly, cautiously, around a stack of exercise bikes, and then you saw him.
He was there, exactly as heâd said, in his element. He was bent over a barbell, his back to you, his muscles flexing and rippling under his skin as he lifted. His t-shirt was nowhere to be seen. He was shirtless.
You froze.
The sight of him, unburdened by his usual hoodie, was a revelation. His back was broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and his shoulders were surprisingly wide, sculpted with lean, defined muscle. His skin gleamed faintly with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the curve of his spine, the subtle flex of his biceps as he lowered the weight, was mesmerizing. He was strong, undeniably so, but it was a quiet strength, a power that was usually hidden beneath layers of fabric and reserve. He was beautiful like the gods emselves had spent extra time to sculpt his body.
He must have felt your gaze, because he suddenly stopped, the barbell clanking softly as he placed it back on the rack. He straightened up, slowly turning. His eyes, wide with surprise, met yours, and for the second time that week, a furious blush spread across his face. He quickly, almost instinctively, snatched a towel from a nearby bench and awkwardly wrapped it around his torso, as if to hide himself from your sight.
âOh! Um⊠hi,â you stammered, your mind a jumble of incoherent thoughts. Your cheeks felt hot, and you knew you were probably blushing just as furiously as he was. âI⊠I just⊠I was just⊠walking by and⊠and I thought Iâd⊠see if anyone was here. And you are. And⊠wow.â You mentally cringed at your own incoherence.
He just stood there, clutching the towel, his eyes darting away from yours, clearly mortified.
You forced yourself to articulate something, anything, that sounded like a coherent compliment. âYouâre⊠youâre really strong, Chan. I mean, wow. You⊠you look amazing.â The words tumbled out, clumsy and heartfelt, and you watched as his eyes widened even further. He seemed to short-circuit, his brain unable to process the unexpected praise. He mumbled something inaudible, his gaze fixed on the floor, and you could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.
That night, lying in your own bed, the image of him, shirtless and flustered, was burned into your mind. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that he was so much more than the quiet, reserved person he presented to the world.
And in his journal, in the quiet solitude of his dorm room, he wrote: She looked at me. Like I mattered.
The next day, you found him in the garage, back in his hoodie, back to his usual quiet self, but there was a subtle shift in the air between you, a new layer of awareness. You were watching him work on a different bike, a sleek, powerful machine with gleaming chrome and a roaring engine.
âYou know,â you said, a sudden thought sparking in your mind. âIâve always wanted to learn how to ride a bike.â
He froze, his hand still on the handlebars. He slowly turned, his eyes wide, almost shaken. âI⊠I donât let anyone near her,â he said, his voice low, a possessive edge to it that startled you. He wasnât talking about just any bike; he was talking about this bike, his bike, the one he clearly cherished. It was a glimpse into another layer of his guarded world.
You waited, your heart doing a strange little flutter. He stared at the bike, then at you, a silent battle raging in his eyes. The tension was palpable, thick with unspoken meaning. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around something small and metallic.
He pulled out a single key, gleaming silver, attached to a small, worn leather fob. He held it out to you, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly.
âLetâs start tomorrow,â he said, his voice rough, as if the words were physically difficult to utter. It was a monumental step, a profound act of trust. He was letting you into his most private world, letting you touch something he held so dear.
The smile you gave him then was brighter than the sun, a genuine, uninhibited burst of pure joy that lit up the dusty garage. You took the key, your fingers brushing his, and the warmth that spread through you was more potent than any engine heat. It wasnât just a key to a bike; it was a key to something more, something deeper, something that felt like a beginning.
He didnât sleep that night. The image of your beaming face, the feel of your fingers brushing his as you took the key, replayed in his mind, a relentless, beautiful loop. He was opening a door, a door heâd kept locked for so long, and the thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
The key felt impossibly heavy in your palm, a small, cold piece of metal that hummed with the promise of something vast and exhilarating. Chanâs words â âLetâs start tomorrowâ â had been a quiet earthquake, shifting the landscape of your world. Youâd left the garage that day in a daze, the smile plastered on your face so wide it made your cheeks ache. He didnât sleep that night, you knew, because you didnât either. The thought of learning to ride his bike, the one he guarded with such fierce protectiveness, filled you with a giddy, nervous energy that chased away any hope of slumber.
The next morning, the air was crisp and cool, hinting at the approaching autumn. You met him at a secluded, unused section of the campus parking lot, far from the usual foot traffic. The black motorcycle gleamed under the morning sun, a sleek, powerful beast that looked both intimidating and utterly alluring. Chan was already there, leaning against the bike, his hoodie up, but his posture seemed less guarded than usual, a subtle anticipation in the air around him.
He straightened as you approached, and for the first time, you noticed a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands as he adjusted his grip on the handlebars. He was nervous too. The realization sent a strange warmth through you, a shared vulnerability that felt incredibly intimate.
âReady?â he asked, his voice a low rumble, softer than usual, almost hesitant.
You nodded, a little too enthusiastically. âMore than ready.â
He started with the basics, his instructions clear and concise, devoid of any unnecessary words. He explained the clutch, the throttle, the brakes, the delicate balance required to keep the heavy machine upright. He demonstrated each action slowly, patiently, his movements fluid and precise. When it was your turn, he stood close, his presence a steady anchor beside you.
He gently guided your hands, placing your fingers just so on the clutch lever, positioning your palm correctly on the throttle. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to break you. His breath ghosted over your ear as he leaned in to correct your posture, his voice a soft murmur that sent shivers down your spine. âBack straight. Knees tight against the tank. Look where you want to go.â
You fumbled, the bike feeling unwieldy and alien beneath you. The clutch was too sensitive, the throttle too eager. You stalled, lurched, and wobbled, your feet flailing for the ground more often than not. Each time, he was there, a steadying hand on your arm, a quiet word of encouragement. He never showed frustration, never sighed in exasperation. He was patient, endlessly so, his focus entirely on you and your learning.
âIâm going to crash this thing, arenât I?â you joked, a nervous laugh bubbling up as you nearly tipped over for the fifth time.
He looked at you, his expression utterly serious, a faint shadow crossing his eyes. âIâd never let that happen,â he deadpanned, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. It wasn't a casual reassurance; it was a promise, spoken with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip a beat. He meant it. He would genuinely never let anything happen to you, or to his bike, if he could help it.
As the morning progressed, you slowly, painstakingly, began to get the feel of it. The bike still felt like a beast, but a slightly less untamed one. You managed a few shaky starts, a few short, wobbly rides across the parking lot. Each small success brought a quiet satisfaction to Chanâs face, a subtle softening around his eyes that was more telling than any cheer.
You found yourself growing more comfortable with him, the initial awe and slight intimidation giving way to a playful ease. You started to tease him, testing the waters, seeing how far you could push his quiet reserve.
âStill counting your grunts per minute, Chan?â youâd quip after heâd given you a particularly succinct instruction.
Heâd pause, and then, a faint smirk would play on his lips, a rare, captivating sight. He wouldnât retort, not usually, but the smirk was enough. It was his way of teasing back, a silent acknowledgment of your banter. He was growing bolder too, in subtle ways that made your breath hitch.
Heâd fix your helmet, his fingers brushing the side of your head, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Heâd brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his touch feather-light, almost accidental, but undeniably deliberate. Each small gesture was a quiet escalation, a gentle push against the invisible boundaries that still existed between you.
One afternoon, during a particularly challenging maneuver, you stalled the bike, almost losing your balance. Instinctively, without thinking, you reached out and grabbed his hand, which was resting on the handlebars beside you. Your fingers curled around his, a desperate grab for stability. His hand was warm, calloused, and strong. He didnât let go. He simply tightened his grip, a silent anchor, until you regained your balance. Even after you were steady, his fingers remained intertwined with yours, a comfortable, natural fit. The engine hummed softly, the only sound in the vast parking lot, as you stood there, hands clasped, a silent current passing between you.
The lessons continued, each session a slow, deliberate dance of trust and growing intimacy. You were making progress, your confidence on the bike growing with each passing day. Chan was an excellent teacher, patient and observant, his quiet presence a constant source of reassurance.
One sunny afternoon, you were practicing slow turns, the bike leaning gently beneath you, when a voice cut through the air.
âHey, [Your Name]! Didnât know you were into bikes!â
You looked up to see a guy from one of your classes, Liam, Markâs friend, strolling towards you, a wide, easy smile on his face. He was handsome, charismatic, and notoriously flirty. He glanced at Chan, then back at you, his smile widening. âLooks like youâve got a good teacher there. Maybe he could teach me a few things too, huh?â He winked, a playful, suggestive glint in his eye.
Chan, who had been standing beside you, his hand still resting lightly on the back of your seat, immediately turned cold. His body stiffened, his jaw clenched, and his eyes, which had been soft and focused on you, became flat, devoid of warmth. He didnât say a word, didnât acknowledge Liamâs presence, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable, a sudden, chilling frost that descended upon the warm afternoon.
Liam, oblivious, continued to flirt, directing his attention solely to you. âSo, when are you going to ditch the training wheels and come for a real ride? I know some great spots.â He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially.
You felt it then, a sharp, undeniable pang of something possessive radiating from Chan. It was jealousy, raw and potent, a silent storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. And to your surprise, to your utter fascination, you liked it. You liked the way his presence beside you became a shield, the way his silence held a fierce, protective edge. It was a dark, thrilling sensation, knowing that he, the quiet, guarded Chan, felt something so intensely for you.
You offered Liam a polite but firm dismissal, your gaze intentionally avoiding Chanâs. âThanks, but Iâm good. Chanâs teaching me everything I need to know.â
Liam shrugged, a little put out, but eventually wandered off. The moment he was out of earshot, the tension in Chanâs shoulders seemed to ease, but he remained silent, his face still carefully blank.
He drove you home in silence that day. The ride back to your dorm was usually filled with your chatter, but this time, you respected his quiet. The air between you was thick with unspoken emotions, the lingering scent of gasoline and something else, something charged and electric. You could feel the heat radiating from his back, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath your hands as you held onto his waist.
When he pulled up outside your dorm, he cut the engine, and the sudden silence felt deafening. You dismounted, pulling off the helmet, your heart still thrumming with the aftershocks of the afternoon.
âThanks, Chan,â you said, your voice soft, almost a whisper. âFor everything.â
He turned, his dark eyes meeting yours. He stared, a profound intensity in his gaze that made your breath catch. He seemed to be searching for something, a silent question in his depths.
âYouâŠâ he began, his voice rough, almost a rasp. âYou make it hard to stay quiet.â
The words were a revelation, a confession of the profound impact you had on his carefully constructed world of silence. He, who guarded his words like precious jewels, was admitting that you broke through his defenses, that your presence compelled him to speak, to feel.
Then, slowly, almost tentatively, he raised his hand. His fingers, warm and calloused, cupped your face, just for one second. Just one. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of pure sensation through you. His eyes held yours, a silent, aching longing in their depths. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, suspended in that charged moment.
And then, as quickly as it came, the touch was gone. He dropped his hand, his gaze breaking away, and he turned, walking away from you like it didnât happen. He didnât look back, didnât offer another word, just strode towards his bike, leaving you standing there, your cheek still tingling from his touch, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
That night, alone in his dorm room, the silence was a deafening roar. He pulled out his journal, his hand trembling slightly as he uncapped his pen. He wrote, his words a torrent of raw, unvarnished emotion: I wanted to kiss her. God, I wanted to.
The next day, he avoided you. He wasnât in the garage when you went there, wasnât in his usual spot in the library. He didnât respond to your texts, which were short and increasingly anxious. The sudden withdrawal, after the intimacy of the previous day, was a cold shock. Had you imagined it? Had you misread everything? Had you pushed too far?
You found him finally, late in the afternoon, walking quickly across campus, his hoodie pulled tighter than usual, his head down. You called his name, but he didnât stop, didnât acknowledge you.
âChan!â you called again, louder this time, a surge of frustration mingling with the growing ache in your chest. You hurried to catch up, finally grabbing his arm.
He flinched, but stopped, his shoulders rigid. He still wouldnât meet your eyes.
âWhatâs going on?â you demanded, your voice tight. âWhy are you avoiding me? Was it a mistake? Everything⊠yesterday?â
He finally looked at you, his eyes clouded with a familiar pain, a deep-seated fear that you were beginning to recognize. He sighed, a heavy, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years.
âNo,â he said, his voice barely a whisper, but firm. âIt wasnât a mistake. It was the most real thing Iâve felt in years.â
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow, stripping away all your doubts, all your fears. The most real thing Iâve felt in years. It was a confession, a raw, vulnerable truth that laid bare the depth of his feelings.
You stared at each other then, standing in the middle of the bustling campus, the world moving around you, oblivious to the profound stillness that enveloped the two of you. Your breath was held, suspended in the charged air, close enough to fall, to bridge the remaining distance, to finally, irrevocably, cross the threshold. But neither of you moved. The moment hung, fragile and potent, a silent testament to the unspoken desire that thrummed between you, a promise of what was yet to come.
A week passed since the last encounter, since the charged silence in the middle of campus, since Chanâs raw confession that you were âthe most real thing heâd felt in years.â A week of unspoken questions, of lingering glances, of a new, fragile awareness that hummed between you. He hadnât avoided you completely, not like before. Youâd still find him in the garage, or occasionally in the library, but there was a new carefulness in his movements, a subtle hesitation in his eyes whenever your paths crossed. It was as if he was afraid of shattering the delicate, unspoken promise that had formed between you. And you, in turn, were navigating this new landscape with a mixture of trepidation and exhilarating hope.
The university, once a vibrant hub of new experiences, had begun to feel like a relentless machine. This particular week had been a brutal, soul-crushing marathon. Group project stress had reached a fever pitch, with conflicting schedules, clashing personalities, and the ever-present threat of a looming deadline. Your social battery, usually robust, had completely drained, leaving you hollowed out by endless small talk and forced smiles. Professors, seemingly sensing the collective exhaustion, had chosen this precise moment to push boundaries, piling on extra readings and unexpected pop quizzes. You felt stretched thin, pulled in a dozen different directions, each demand chipping away at your already fragile composure.
By Friday afternoon, you were a ghost of yourself. The vibrant energy that had once propelled you through campus had evaporated, replaced by a leaden weariness that settled deep in your bones. Your head throbbed with a dull ache, and your eyes felt gritty from staring at screens for too long. Youâd cancelled on your friends, a rare and necessary act of self-preservation, sending a vague text about needing to catch up on sleep. Theyâd understood, of course, but the act of declining, of choosing solitude over forced cheer, only amplified the sense of isolation.
You found yourself on a secluded campus bench, tucked away beneath a sprawling oak tree whose leaves were just beginning to turn a fiery gold. The late afternoon sun cast long, dappled shadows across the grass, but you barely noticed. Your phone was clutched in your hand, but you werenât texting anyone. You were just existing, a silent observer in a world that felt too loud, too demanding, too bright. You watched students hurry past, their laughter echoing, their conversations a distant murmur, and felt an overwhelming desire to simply disappear. You were tired of smiling, tired of performing, tired of being someone for everyone.
A familiar rumble broke your haze, a low, throaty growl that vibrated through the ground before it reached your ears. Your head lifted, almost instinctively, and your eyes found him.
Chan.
He pulled up on his bike, the black machine a sleek, powerful extension of him, cutting through the stream of passing students like a dark, silent current. He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt profound. He swung his leg over, dismounting with an easy grace, and pulled off his helmet. His dark curls, usually hidden beneath his hoodie, were damp, clinging slightly to his forehead, and his brows were furrowed, a deep line of concern etched between them. His eyes, usually so guarded, were open, searching, fixed entirely on you.
âYou werenât in class,â he stated, his voice not demanding, not accusatory, but gentle, laced with a quiet, almost aching concern. âI checked. Are you okay?â
The simple question, so direct and unexpected, was the final straw. The carefully constructed facade youâd maintained all week, the brittle smile, the feigned composure, crumbled. The exhaustion, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of being utterly alone in your weariness, surged to the surface. Your eyes welled up, hot and stinging, and a choked sob escaped you before you could stop it.
âNo,â you whispered, the word barely audible, thick with unshed tears. âNo, Iâm not okay. Iâm just⊠exhausted. So tired of smiling. Tired of being someone for everyone.â The words tumbled out, raw and unedited, a confession you hadnât known you needed to make.
He didnât say anything. He just watched you, his expression softening, a profound empathy in his dark eyes. He walked closer, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood beside the bike. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused hand gently patting the back of the bikeâs seat.
"Come on," he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. "Let me show you something."
There was no insistence in his tone, no expectation, just a quiet invitation. And in that moment, the thought of moving, of going anywhere, felt like an impossible feat. But the unspoken promise in his eyes, the gentle reassurance in his gesture, was enough. You pushed yourself up from the bench, your limbs heavy, and walked towards him.
You swung your leg over the bike, settling behind him, the familiar scent of engine grease and something uniquely him enveloping you. He handed you the spare helmet, and you buckled it on, the click of the strap a small, definitive sound in the gathering dusk. He started the engine, a low, comforting thrum beneath you, and then, slowly, he pulled away from the curb.
You rode through the dusk, the campus lights blurring into streaks of color. There was no destination, no hurried purpose, just the rhythmic hum of the engine, the cool rush of wind against your face, and the profound silence between you. You didnât speak, didnât need to. The silence wasnât empty; it was filled with the unspoken understanding that flowed between you, the quiet thrum of trust building in your chest with every mile. You leaned into his back, feeling the solid warmth of his body, the subtle shifts of his muscles as he navigated the turns. It was safe. Utterly, completely safe.
He took you to an old abandoned lookout point, tucked away on a winding road just outside the city limits. It was a forgotten place, overgrown with tall grass, scarred with faded graffiti, but with a breathtaking view. The sky, a canvas of bruised purples and fiery oranges, was swallowing the last vestiges of the sun, and the first few stars were beginning to prickle into existence. The air up here was cooler, cleaner, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
He cut the engine, and the sudden quiet was absolute, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of the city below. He dismounted, and you followed, pulling off your helmet, your hair a tangled mess. He walked to the saddlebags on his bike, rummaged for a moment, and then pulled out two sodas, their cans cool and condensation-beaded, and a pack of strawberry Pocky.
Your favorite.
Your breath hitched. You never told him. Youâd only mentioned it once, in passing, during that very first, awkward conversation in the corner of Markâs party, when you were trying to make him laugh. Heâd just listened. And heâd remembered. The small gesture, so thoughtful and precise, felt like a profound act of care, a testament to his quiet observation, his unwavering attention.
You sat on the low stone wall, the sodas cool in your hands, the Pocky sweet on your tongue. And you talked. Not perform. Just⊠talk. You talked about the overwhelming week, the group project nightmare, the feeling of being constantly on display. You talked about your anxieties, your insecurities, the parts of yourself you usually kept hidden behind a bright, easy smile. He listened, as always, his dark eyes fixed on you, his presence a steady, unwavering anchor. He didnât offer solutions, didnât try to fix anything. He just listened, and in that quiet, accepting space, you felt the knots in your chest begin to loosen, the tension slowly draining away.
âWhat is this place?â you asked, gesturing to the sprawling view, the fading light, the quiet solitude.
He looked out at the horizon, his profile silhouetted against the last glow of the sunset. âMy peace,â he said, his voice low, almost reverent. He paused, then turned his head, his gaze meeting yours. âYouâre the first person I brought here.â
You blinked, your heart aching with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. The first person. He, who guarded his world with such fierce protectiveness, had opened this sacred space to you. âWhy me?â you whispered, the question fragile, almost afraid of the answer.
He shrugged, not meeting your gaze, but you saw the faint blush that dusted his ears. âBecause you listen when no one else does. And I like⊠hearing you. Even when I donât talk back.â
A soft silence followed, filled with the gentle hum of the night, the distant city lights twinkling like scattered jewels. His words, so simple and honest, settled deep within you, a profound comfort. You shifted slightly on the wall, and without thinking, without asking, you rested your head on his shoulder.
He didnât move. Not for a full minute. You felt his breath hitch, a subtle stiffening in his body, as if he were holding himself perfectly still, afraid to disturb the delicate moment. You waited, your heart pounding a soft rhythm against his arm, wondering if you had pushed too far. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifted. His arm, which had been resting on the wall behind you, moved, and he rested his head atop yours, a gentle, protective weight. His curls, still damp, brushed against your hair, and the warmth of his body seeped into yours.
âYouâre warm,â you murmured, your voice muffled against his shoulder, a soft sigh of contentment escaping you.
He chuckled, a low, raspy sound that vibrated through his chest. âYouâre brave,â he whispered back, his voice thick with an emotion you couldnât quite decipher.
The moon rose, a pale, luminous disc against the darkening sky. Stars began to dot the inky blackness, scattered like diamonds. The wind picked up, a cool breeze that rustled through the tall grass, and you shivered slightly. Without a word, he shrugged off his oversized hoodie, the one he always wore, and draped it over you. It was still warm from his body, smelling faintly of engine grease and something clean, something uniquely him. You pulled it tighter around you, burying your face in the soft fabric, inhaling his scent.
You joked, your voice a little playful, a little sleepy. âYou smell like engine grease and soap.â
He smirked, a rare, captivating sight in the dim light. He didnât look at you, but you felt the subtle shift of his body against yours. âYou always smell like strawberry shampoo and vanilla,â he murmured, his voice soft, almost possessive. âI like it.â
The simple compliment, the quiet admission, sent a jolt of warmth through you, a profound sense of being cherished. You closed your eyes, feeling utterly safe, utterly content. Curled beside him, wrapped in his hoodie, listening to the quiet sounds of the night, you fell asleep there for a bit. Safe. Soft.
In his journal that night, the small leather-bound book a silent confidant, Chan wrote, his hand steady, his words imbued with a quiet awe:
She let me hold her, and it didnât feel like a sin. It felt like something I never thought I could have.
The memory of that night at the lookout point, curled beside Chan, wrapped in his hoodie, felt like a warm, secret ember glowing in the center of your chest. The strawberry Pocky, his quiet confessions, the way he rested his head on yours â each moment was a delicate thread weaving a new tapestry of connection between you. The world outside that intimate bubble, with its relentless demands and superficial interactions, seemed increasingly distant, less significant. You carried the scent of engine grease and soap, and the quiet comfort of his presence, with you like a shield.
But the university, as you were quickly learning, was a microcosm of the world, and the world rarely allowed for quiet, uncomplicated happiness for long. Especially not when it involved someone like Chan, who existed in the shadows, and someone like you, who, by virtue of your brother, was firmly in the spotlight.
The party was Markâs latest grand gesture, a celebration of mid-terms being over, held at an off-campus house known for its sprawling backyard and perpetually sticky floors. The air throbbed with music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles. You were there, of course, dragged along by Mark, who seemed to view your attendance as a mandatory extension of his own social standing. You tried to enjoy yourself, moving through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries, but your mind kept drifting. You found yourself scanning the faces, a subconscious search for a familiar, quiet figure. Chan wasnât here. He rarely was at these large, boisterous gatherings, preferring the solitude of the garage or his dorm. A part of you felt a quiet relief; the thought of him navigating this loud, performative space made your stomach clench. Another part, however, wished he were here, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos.
You were standing near the makeshift bar in the kitchen, attempting to make conversation with a group of Markâs friends â Liam, Chloe, and a few others you vaguely recognized â when the conversation shifted. You were half-listening, nodding along, when Chanâs name drifted into the periphery of your hearing. Your attention sharpened instantly.
âHonestly, I donât know why Mark even bothers with that guy,â Liam scoffed, swirling the liquid in his cup. âChan, right? Heâs such a buzzkill. Just sits there like a lump. Always has that stupid hoodie on, too.â
Chloe giggled, a high, dismissive sound. âRight? Like, does he even talk? I swear Iâve never heard him say more than two words. Heâs just⊠Markâs little helper. Always fixing his stuff. Total nerd.â
A knot tightened in your stomach. You felt a cold dread creeping up your spine. You glanced at Mark, who was leaning against the counter, a casual smirk on his face. He didnât say anything. He didnât defend Chan. He just listened, a silent participant in the casual cruelty. The realization hit you like a physical blow: your brother, who had warned you off Chan, who claimed to care about him, was allowing his friends to mock him, to reduce him to a caricature, without a single word of protest.
âYeah, and those weird curly bangs he tries to hide,â another guy chimed in, laughing. âLike, dude, just get a haircut. Looks like heâs got a birdâs nest on his head.â
The laughter swelled, a collective, dismissive chorus that echoed in the kitchen. Each word, each sneering comment, felt like a physical assault, not against Chan, but against you. It was a betrayal, a casual cruelty that made your blood run cold. They were talking about your Chan, the one who remembered your favorite Pocky, who listened without judgment, who opened his sacred space to you, who had held you so gently. And Mark, your brother, was standing by, letting it happen.
Your heart pounded in your ears, a furious drumbeat that drowned out the music, the laughter, everything. The anger, sharp and hot, surged through you, eclipsing the weariness, the social burnout, everything. You felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to scream, to lash out, to defend the quiet, vulnerable man they were so casually dissecting. But the words caught in your throat, choked by the sheer force of your indignation.
You couldnât stay. Not another second. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt suffocating, thick with their callous words and Markâs silent complicity. Without a word, without a backward glance, you turned and pushed your way through the throng of bodies, your heart pounding in anger, a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. You didnât care who saw you, didnât care what they thought. All you knew was that you had to get out, had to breathe, had to escape the suffocating weight of their casual cruelty.
You burst out the back door, into the cool, crisp night air. The sudden quiet was a shock after the deafening roar of the party. You walked quickly, blindly, away from the house, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The anger still simmered, a hot, bitter taste in your mouth, but beneath it, a profound ache had begun to bloom.
And then, you saw him.
Tucked away in the shadows, beneath the faint glow of a distant streetlight, was the familiar silhouette of his bike. And on it, sitting in silence, was Chan. His hoodie was up, his head bowed, his posture radiating the familiar stillness that you had come to associate with him. He wasnât looking at the house, wasnât looking at anything in particular, just existing in his own quiet world, a world so starkly different from the one you had just escaped.
You walked towards him, your footsteps surprisingly quiet on the gravel. He didnât seem to notice you until you were almost beside him. He looked up, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, a faint question in their depths.
You stood there for a moment, catching your breath, the anger still vibrating through your limbs. You wanted to tell him everything, to rage against the injustice, to scream about the casual cruelty of your brotherâs friends. But something in his quiet gaze, his vulnerable stillness, made you pause. He didnât need your anger. He needed something else.
You took a deep breath, forcing your voice to be gentle, to be steady, to be everything they werenât. âYou know,â you began, your voice soft, almost a whisper in the quiet night. âYouâre not just his shadow.â You paused, letting the words hang in the air, letting them sink in. âYouâre your own light, Chan.â
He didnât respond for a while. He just stared at you, his dark eyes searching yours, a profound stillness in their depths. The silence stretched, filled with the unspoken weight of his past, the years of being overlooked, dismissed, reduced. You saw the flicker of something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, a fragile hope mixed with a deep-seated pain. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his gaze shifted away, turning his face slightly, visibly holding back emotion. You saw the subtle clench of his jaw, the slight tremor in his shoulders, a silent battle being waged within him.
You didnât hesitate. You stepped closer, reaching out, and gently wrapped your arms around him. He went completely still, his body rigid, a familiar tension in his muscles. You felt his breath hitch, and for a terrifying second, you thought he would pull away, that you had overstepped, that the words had been too much. But then, slowly, tentatively, his arms came up. And then, he hugged you back. Tighter. His grip was fierce, almost desperate, as if he were holding onto a lifeline. You felt the subtle tremble in his hand as it rested on your back, a raw, vulnerable tremor that spoke volumes of the emotion he was holding back. He buried his face in your shoulder, and you felt the faint dampness of what might have been tears against your skin.
You stayed like that for a long moment, simply holding each other, the quiet of the night enveloping you, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the party you had just left. It was a silent promise, a profound act of acceptance. You saw him. You saw his light.
The next day, a strange, unsettling normalcy had descended upon Chan. He was in the garage, meticulously organizing tools, his movements precise, almost robotic. He acted normal â too normal. His hoodie was up, his head was bowed, and his usual quietness had morphed into a distant, almost impenetrable silence. He didnât meet your gaze, didnât offer his usual subtle nods, didnât acknowledge the hug, the confession, the raw vulnerability of the night before. It was as if he had retreated completely, pulling his armor back on, thicker and more unyielding than ever.
A cold dread settled in your stomach. Had you broken something? Had your words, your hug, pushed him too far? Had he regretted the intimacy, the brief glimpse into his guarded world? The thought was unbearable.
You couldnât let it stand. You walked over to him, your footsteps firm, and stood directly in front of him, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. He paused, his hands still on a wrench, but he still wouldnât look at you.
âDonât act like that hug didnât mean anything, Chan,â you said, your voice low and steady, a quiet challenge. You needed him to look at you, to acknowledge what had passed between you.
He sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. He slowly straightened up, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were clouded with a familiar pain, a deep-seated fear that you were beginning to understand.
âIt meant too much,â he said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. âThatâs the problem.â
The words hit you with a profound sadness. It meant too much. You saw his pain then, truly saw it â the years of being used, tolerated, ignored. The casual dismissals, the quiet mockery, the constant feeling of being an afterthought. His silence, his guardedness, his reluctance to be seen â it wasnât just shyness. It was a defense mechanism, a fortress built brick by painful brick to protect a heart that had been bruised and battered by a world that didnât know how to appreciate its quiet strength. He was afraid that if he let himself feel too much, if he let himself be seen too much, he would only be hurt again.
You reached out, gently, tentatively, and took his hand. His fingers, calloused and strong, were surprisingly cold. He didnât let go. He simply allowed your fingers to intertwine with his, a fragile connection that spoke volumes.
âLetâs go somewhere quiet,â you murmured, your voice soft, filled with an aching tenderness.
He nodded, a silent agreement. He put away his tools, and you walked out of the garage, hand in hand, leaving the noise and demands of campus behind. You walked in comfortable silence, the quiet companionship a balm to your frayed nerves. He led you to a secluded hilltop on the outskirts of campus, a place you hadnât discovered yet, where the grass was long and wild, and the world seemed to stretch out endlessly beneath a vast, open sky.
You sat together on the soft grass, the wind rustling through the leaves of a lone, gnarled tree. The silence was profound, a comforting blanket that enveloped you both. It wasnât empty; it was filled with the unspoken understanding that flowed between you, the quiet thrum of trust building with every shared breath. You leaned against him, and he didnât stiffen, didnât pull away. He simply existed beside you, a solid, comforting presence.
Your gaze drifted to his hair, the dark curls that always seemed to escape his hoodie, framing his face. They looked so soft, so inviting. You remembered the cruel comments from Markâs friends, the casual mockery of his appearance. A surge of protectiveness, fierce and unwavering, rose within you.
Slowly, tentatively, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against his curls, soft and yielding beneath your touch. You gently ran your fingers through them, marveling at their texture. âTheyâre so soft,â you whispered, your voice barely audible. âWhy are you insecure about this?â
He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him. His face, which had been relaxed in the quiet, suddenly turned pink, a deep flush spreading across his cheeks and ears. He pulled away slightly, his gaze dropping to the ground. âThey look stupid on me,â he mumbled, his voice thick with embarrassment.
Your heart ached for him. The years of quiet bullying, of being made to feel less than, were evident in that simple, self-deprecating comment. You shook your head gently, your fingers still tangled in his soft hair.
âNo,â you whispered, your voice firm, unwavering. âNo, they donât. Theyâre perfect on you, Chan. Everything about you is perfect.â
He looked at you then, his dark eyes wide, swimming with an emotion so raw and profound it took your breath away. It was a look of disbelief, of aching hope, of someone who had been adrift in a vast, empty ocean suddenly seeing a lighthouse. He looked at you like you just told him the world was worth living in again, like you had handed him a piece of himself he thought was lost forever. The vulnerability in his gaze was almost unbearable, a silent plea for you to keep seeing him, to keep believing him.
That night, alone in his dorm room, the words still echoing in his mind, Chan pulled out his journal. His hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he wrote, pouring out the overwhelming emotions that had consumed him.
~ She touched my hair. I forgot to breathe.
And in your own dorm, you lay in bed, wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had given you, the one that smelled faintly of engine grease and soap, and something else, something uniquely him. You clutched the soft fabric to your chest, your fingers curled around the sleeve, and thought of him. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that he was thinking of you too. You were falling, irrevocably, beautifully, and neither of you knew how to stop.
The memory of that hilltop, the feel of Chanâs soft curls beneath your fingers, the raw, aching vulnerability in his eyes when you told him he was perfect â it was a moment seared into your consciousness. It had been a turning point, a quiet revolution in the landscape of your burgeoning connection. The casual cruelty of Markâs friends, the stinging realization of your brotherâs complicity, had faded into a distant hum, eclipsed by the profound intimacy you had found with Chan. The hoodie he had given you, now a permanent fixture in your dorm room, was more than just fabric; it was a tangible reminder of his presence, his quiet care, and the burgeoning trust that bound you.
In the days and weeks that followed, the motorcycle became more than just a mode of transport; it became a shared language, a canvas for your evolving relationship. You started learning the bike with a newfound confidence, a fearless determination that surprised even yourself. The initial clumsiness, the tentative wobbles, had given way to a growing mastery. You no longer stalled at every turn, no longer flailed for the ground with every slight imbalance. Your hands found their rhythm on the handlebars, your feet instinctively understood the dance of the gears, and your body learned to lean into the curves with a fluid grace.
Chan, ever the patient and meticulous teacher, watched your progress with a quiet intensity that spoke volumes. He would stand a few feet away, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on your every movement. When you executed a particularly smooth turn, or managed to shift gears without a lurch, youâd catch a glimpse of it â a subtle softening around his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. He beamed with pride, a silent, powerful affirmation that made your chest swell. It wasnât a loud cheer, not a boisterous round of applause, but the quiet pride in his eyes felt infinitely more meaningful. It was as if he was seeing not just your progress on the bike, but your own growth, your blossoming confidence, and it filled him with a profound satisfaction.
One crisp afternoon, the air alive with the scent of damp earth and distant autumn leaves, you were practicing in a larger, emptier parking lot. You had just mastered a tricky figure-eight maneuver, and a surge of exhilaration coursed through you. You pulled the bike to a stop beside him, a triumphant grin on your face.
âAlright, hotshot,â he said, his voice a low rumble, a hint of amusement in his tone. âThink youâre ready for the big leagues?â
You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound. âTry me, sir.â
He stepped back, a rare, almost playful glint in his dark eyes. âAlright. Rev it.â
Your eyes widened. Rev the engine? The thought was both thrilling and a little terrifying. The bike, when revved, was a roaring beast, a symphony of raw power. You hesitated for a moment, then, a mischievous grin spreading across your face, you twisted the throttle. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the handlebars, through your entire body. You giggled, a pure, unadulterated sound of delight, yelling over the noise, feeling the sheer, untamed power beneath you. The wind whipped your hair around your face, and the adrenaline surged, a potent cocktail of freedom and exhilaration. You glanced at Chan, who was watching you, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something else, something akin to adoration. He loved seeing you like this, uninhibited and joyful.
Later that day, after youâd finally dismounted, your muscles aching but your spirit soaring, you saw him. He was leaning against his bike, ostensibly checking a tire, but his phone was subtly angled. He was recording. He quickly lowered it, almost imperceptibly, when he sensed your gaze, his face returning to its usual guarded neutrality. But youâd seen it. He was recording a little clip of you riding, a secret memento of your progress, of your joy. The thought sent a warm, tender ache through you. He was collecting these moments, cherishing them, storing them away in his quiet world.
The bike lessons often stretched into the late afternoon, bleeding into the soft, golden hours of dusk. On one such evening, after a particularly productive session, he led you away from the parking lot, onto a winding, less-traveled road. He pulled over at a scenic spot, a small, secluded overlook nestled among a cluster of trees, where the world seemed to open up before you. The sky was a breathtaking canvas of fiery oranges, soft purples, and deep blues, the sun a molten orb dipping slowly below the horizon.
You sat on the bike, side by side, the engine now silent, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, and the silence between you was profound, comfortable. It was a shared moment of peace, a quiet intimacy that needed no words.
âYouâre not scared Iâll mess it up?â you asked, your voice soft, almost a whisper, as you gazed out at the fading light. The question was about the bike, yes, but it was also about something more, something deeper â your presence in his carefully ordered life, the potential for disruption.
He turned his head, his dark eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the last glow of the sunset. His expression was utterly serious, devoid of any humor. âIâd let you destroy everything I own,â he replied, his voice low, deadpan.
You laughed, a startled, disbelieving sound. It was such an absurd, over-the-top statement, so unlike his usual measured words. But then, as his gaze held yours, unwavering, you realized he meant that. Every single word. He would genuinely let you destroy everything he owned â his bike, his tools, his carefully constructed world â if it meant keeping you close, if it meant seeing you smile. The realization sent a shiver down your spine, a potent mix of awe and a faint, thrilling fear. His devotion, once glimpsed in fleeting moments, was now laid bare, stark and absolute.
The profoundness of his statement hung in the air, a testament to the depth of his feelings. You leaned back against the cool leather of the seat, your thoughts drifting. The conversation, once light, had taken a turn into something deeper, more vulnerable.
âYou know,â you began, your voice softer now, almost hesitant. âSometimes⊠sometimes itâs really exhausting. Always saying yes. Always being the cheerful one, the agreeable one, the one who doesnât rock the boat.â You confessed something deeply personal, a vulnerability you rarely shared with anyone, not even your closest friends. âTired of always performing, always putting on a brave face. Even when Iâm not. Especially when Iâm not.â The words tumbled out, a quiet admission of the emotional toll of constant social performance, the burden of always trying to please everyone.
He listened. Carefully. Intently. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, but you could feel the weight of his attention, a focused intensity that made you feel utterly seen. He didnât interrupt, didnât offer platitudes, didnât try to fix it. He just absorbed your words, his silence a comforting balm.
Then, slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes meeting yours. His voice was soft, so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it carried an undeniable weight. âYou can say no to me,â he said. It wasnât a question, not an invitation, but a quiet, firm declaration. A permission. A gift.
Your breath hitched. You can say no to me. The words resonated deep within you, a profound sense of liberation. No one had ever said that to you before, not truly. Everyone else expected, demanded, took. But Chan, the quiet, guarded Chan, was offering you a choice, a freedom you hadnât realized you craved.
âBut I donât want to,â you replied, the words escaping before you could fully process them. It was the truth. You didnât want to say no to him. You wanted to say yes to everything he offered, everything he was.
The words made him shut up. He stared at you, his eyes wide, a flicker of surprise, then something else, something unreadable, passing through their depths. He seemed to process your reply, the unexpected intensity of your statement. A slow, almost imperceptible smile began to form on his lips, a rare and captivating sight. Then, a tiny, breathless laugh escaped him, a soft, husky sound that was almost swallowed by the vastness of the twilight.
âYouâre dangerous,â he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and something deeper, something akin to wonder. He shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief, but his eyes were alight with a warmth that made your heart pound.
The conversation shifted, the tension easing, replaced by a comfortable, playful banter. You found yourself observing him more closely, your gaze lingering on the subtle flex of his muscles as he shifted his weight on the bike. He was wearing a fitted t-shirt, and his arms, usually hidden by his hoodie, were on full display. They were lean but undeniably strong, sculpted by years of working with engines and lifting weights.
âSo,â you teased, a playful smirk on your face. âWhat gym plan are you on? Youâre looking⊠buff. You always did i just i guess not notice..â You reached out, your fingers hovering near his bicep.
He literally choked on air. A sudden, sputtering cough escaped him, and his face turned a furious shade of pink. He looked utterly flustered, caught off guard by the direct compliment. âIâI just lift weights⊠fix bikes and⊠stuff,â he stammered, his voice cracking slightly, his eyes darting away from yours. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, completely undone by your casual observation.
You laughed, a soft, teasing sound, and emboldened by his reaction, you gently brushed your fingers against his bicep. His skin was warm, surprisingly soft beneath your touch, but the underlying muscle was hard, firm. âHuh,â you murmured, your fingers lingering, tracing the curve of his arm. âSoft and hot.â
He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body tensing. He bit back a smile, a desperate attempt to regain his composure, but his eyes, when they met yours, were alight with a mixture of amusement and a raw, aching desire. âStop,â he rasped, his voice rough, thick with suppressed emotion. âIâll crash out once cause of you.â
The unspoken meaning hung heavy in the air: Youâre making me lose control. The playful banter had dissolved into something far more potent, a charged current that hummed between you.
As the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep indigo and scattered starlight, you knew it was time to head back. He started the bike, and you swung your leg over, settling behind him. This time, there was no hesitation. Your arms went instinctively around his waist, holding him tight, your fingers linking together over his stomach. You rested your cheek against his back, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body. The scent of engine grease and soap, and something uniquely him, filled your senses.
He lost all coherent thought. You felt the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. His hands, usually so steady on the handlebars, gripped them tighter, knuckles white. He rode in silence, but you could feel the tremor that ran through him, the quiet battle he was waging within himself. Your proximity, your touch, was a physical manifestation of the emotional chaos you stirred within him.
Later that night, in the quiet solitude of his dorm room, Chan couldnât sleep. The image of your head resting against his back, the feel of your arms around his waist, the soft brush of your fingers on his bicep â it replayed in his mind, a relentless, beautiful loop. He pulled out his journal, its worn leather a familiar comfort, and reread that last entry, the one about you touching his hair, about him forgetting to breathe. He read it again and again, each word a testament to the profound impact you had on him, the way you were slowly, irrevocably, dismantling the walls he had built around his heart.
And in your own dorm, you couldnât sleep either. You lay in bed, curled on your side, your fingers curled around the soft sleeve of his hoodie, the one he had given you. You thought of his quiet pride, his deadpan promise, his breathless laugh, the flush on his cheeks, the tremor in his hand. You thought of the way his back felt beneath your cheek, the comforting solidity of his presence. You were falling, both of you, irrevocably, beautifully. And neither of you knew how to stop. The descent was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly, wonderfully inevitable.
The quiet hum of the motorcycle, the comforting weight of Chanâs back against your cheek, the subtle tremor that ran through him â these were the new rhythms of your life. The exhilaration of learning to ride, the profound intimacy of shared silence at the lookout point, and the raw vulnerability of his confessions had woven themselves into the fabric of your days. You were falling, irrevocably, beautifully, and the descent was both terrifying and utterly, wonderfully inevitable. The hoodie he had given you, now a permanent fixture in your dorm room, was a tangible reminder of his presence, his quiet care, and the burgeoning trust that bound you.
The campus social scene, however, continued its relentless churn, oblivious to the quiet revolution unfolding in your life. Another party invitation landed in your inbox, this one for a sprawling, multi-dorm bash. Mark, predictably, was already buzzing with excitement, planning his outfit and his entrance with the meticulousness of a general preparing for battle.
âYouâre coming, right?â heâd asked, a casual assumption in his tone.
Youâd hesitated. A part of you, the old you, the one who always said yes, wanted to agree. But the new you, the one who had learned to say no to the exhausting performance, felt a familiar weariness settle in. âI donât know, Mark. Iâm pretty swamped with readings.â
Heâd waved a dismissive hand. âNonsense! Itâs Friday night. Everyoneâs going. You need a break. Besides, itâll be epic.â
You knew Chan wouldnât be going. He rarely attended these large, boisterous gatherings, preferring the solitude of the garage or his dorm. The thought of navigating the party without his quiet anchor, without the unspoken understanding that flowed between you, felt daunting. But Mark was insistent, and a lingering part of you, still tied to the old expectations, found it hard to refuse. You eventually relented, a sigh escaping you. âFine. But Iâm not staying late.â
The evening of the party arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, a strange mix of anticipation and dread churning in your stomach. You pulled on a dress you rarely wore, a soft, flowing fabric in a deep sapphire that shimmered subtly in the light. You spent a little extra time on your hair, letting your curls fall just so around your shoulders, and applied a touch more makeup than usual. You wanted to look good, not just for the party, but for yourself, for the new confidence that had begun to blossom within you. You looked gorgeous, undeniably so, the sapphire dress highlighting your eyes, the soft fabric clinging in all the right places.
Just as you were about to leave, your phone buzzed. A text from Chan: Leaving the garage now. Heading back to my dorm.
You typed a quick reply: Heading to Markâs party. Wish me luck.
A few minutes later, as you stepped out of your dorm building, you saw him. He was already on his bike, helmet on, engine idling, but he hadnât pulled away yet. He must have been waiting. He cut the engine as you approached, pulling off his helmet, his dark curls a little disheveled. His eyes, when they met yours, swept over you, taking in your dress, your hair, the subtle glow of your confidence. A flicker of something unreadable passed through their depths â admiration, perhaps, but also a profound unease.
âGoing to the party?â he asked, his voice low, a hint of something tight in his tone.
You nodded, a small smile on your face. âYeah. Mark insisted.â
He looked visibly unsettled. His brows furrowed, and his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. He seemed to be battling something within himself, a quiet struggle. âBe careful,â he muttered, his gaze fixed on you, a raw intensity in his eyes. It wasnât a casual warning; it was a plea, laced with a protectiveness that made your heart clench.
You wanted to reassure him, to tell him youâd be fine, but the words caught in your throat. You just nodded, offering him a small, soft smile, and then turned to walk towards the party, his unspoken concern a tangible weight on your shoulders.
The party was a maelstrom of bodies, music, and flashing lights. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, spilled drinks, and something vaguely metallic. You tried to immerse yourself, to lose yourself in the chaotic energy, but Chanâs warning, his unsettled gaze, lingered in your mind. You found Mark eventually, surrounded by his usual entourage, laughing loudly, completely absorbed in the moment. You exchanged a few words, then drifted towards the kitchen, seeking a moment of relative calm.
You grabbed a drink, a brightly colored concoction that tasted vaguely of artificial fruit and sugar. You took a few sips, trying to relax, to shake off the lingering sense of unease. You were chatting with someone you vaguely knew, when you turned your back for a moment to grab a napkin. When you turned back, your drink was still there, but something felt⊠off. A subtle ripple on the surface, a faint, almost imperceptible cloudiness. Your instincts screamed. Someone had slipped something into your drink.
A cold dread washed over you, chilling you to the bone. Your heart began to pound, a frantic drumbeat in your ears. You stared at the drink, then at the swirling crowd around you, a sudden, terrifying paranoia gripping you. Who? When? Why? Your mind raced, a jumble of fear and disbelief. You knew, with a terrifying certainty, that you couldnât drink this.
You felt a sudden dizziness, a strange disorientation that made the room tilt slightly. Had you already ingested some? You stumbled back, clutching the glass, your legs feeling like jelly. The noise of the party, once a distant hum, now seemed to press in on you, suffocating. You needed to get out. Now.
You pushed your way through the throng, your movements clumsy, your vision blurring at the edges. You bumped into people, muttered apologies, your only goal to reach the fresh air outside. You burst out the back door, gasping, gulping in the cool night air like a drowning person. You leaned against the wall, shaking, your body trembling uncontrollably. The fear was a cold, sharp claw in your throat.
Your phone. You needed your phone. You fumbled in your purse, your fingers clumsy, finally pulling it out. Who could you call? Mark was nowhere to be found, lost in the depths of the party. His friends? No. You couldnât trust them, not after what youâd overheard.
Your eyes landed on a name in your recent calls. Chan.
You pressed his contact, your finger trembling. It rang once. Twice. He picked up on the second ring, his voice a low, steady sound that was like a lifeline in the swirling chaos of your fear.
âChan,â you whispered, your voice thin, barely audible, thick with unshed tears. âI⊠I need help. Somethingâs wrong.â
There was a beat of silence on the other end, then his voice, sharp and urgent. âWhere are you? Are you okay?â
âBackyard. The party. I⊠I think someone put something in my drink. Iâm scared.â
âStay right there,â he commanded, his voice tight with suppressed fury. âDonât move. Iâm coming.â
The line went dead. You clutched your phone, leaning against the cold brick wall, your body still shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Every second felt like an eternity. You closed your eyes, willing him to appear, to cut through the terrifying uncertainty that enveloped you.
He got there within minutes. You heard the roar of his bike before you saw him, a familiar, comforting sound that cut through the silence of the night. He skidded to a stop, the tires spitting gravel, and dismounted in a single fluid motion. He pulled off his helmet, his dark curls wild, and his eyes⊠his eyes were furious, wild-eyed, blazing with a raw, untamed rage you had never seen before. The sight of your trembling form, hunched against the wall, seemed to ignite something primal within him.
He was beside you in an instant, his hands gently cupping your face, his touch surprisingly soft despite the fury in his eyes. He tilted your head up, his gaze searching, checking your eyes, looking for any signs of distress, any lingering effects of what might have been in your drink. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheekbone, a reassuring touch amidst your fear.
âAre you okay?â he asked again, his voice rough, thick with concern, the underlying rage barely contained.
âIâm okay, I think,â you whispered, your voice still trembling. âJust scared.â
He pulled you into him, a fierce, protective embrace that felt like coming home. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of engine grease and soap, and something else â the raw, potent scent of his protective fury. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could feel the tremor in his own body.
Then, his gaze swept over the backyard, scanning the lingering partygoers, his eyes narrowed, sharp and dangerous. And he saw him. The guy. The one who had been standing near you at the bar, the one who had glanced at your drinkâŠ. and now messing up someone elses drink. A flicker of recognition, a chilling certainty, passed through Chanâs eyes.
His entire body tensed. The protective embrace loosened, and he pulled away from you, his movements sudden and decisive. His face, usually so expressive in its quietness, was now a mask of cold, brutal fury. You saw the shift, the dangerous glint in his eyes, and a sudden, terrifying understanding dawned on you.
âChan, no!â you cried, reaching out for him, but he was already moving.
He walked up to the guy, his strides long and purposeful, a silent, predatory presence cutting through the lingering party chatter. The guy, oblivious, was laughing with a group of friends. Chan didnât say a word. He didnât shout, didnât warn. He simply walked up and decked him. Once. A brutal, silent punch that sent the guy sprawling to the ground. Then, before anyone could react, he delivered another. Twice. A sickening thud that echoed in the sudden, stunned silence of the backyard. It was brutal and silent, a raw, unrestrained violence that was utterly shocking, utterly terrifying, and utterly, undeniably, protective.
Chaos erupted. People screamed, scattering away from the scene. And then, Mark arrived, pushing through the stunned crowd, his eyes wide with disbelief and alarm. He saw Chan, a dark, furious force, poised over the fallen guy, his knuckles white, his body still radiating a dangerous tension.
âChan! What the hell are you doing?!â Mark shouted, rushing forward, trying to pull him off, to intervene.
But you, your fear now replaced by a surge of furious indignation, screamed at your brother, your voice raw with emotion. âWhere were YOU, Mark?! Where were you when I needed you?!â The words ripped through the air, sharp and accusatory, cutting through the chaos, silencing even Mark.
Chan paused, his body still rigid, but he looked at you, his fury momentarily eclipsed by the raw pain in your voice. He allowed Mark to pull him back, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent apology, a silent understanding passing between you.
Later, much later, after the police had been called and dismissed, after the guy had been taken away, after Mark had finally, awkwardly, tried to apologize, you and Chan were alone. You were back at your dorm, sitting on your bed, the silence a heavy blanket around you. He sat beside you, his hand holding yours, his fingers intertwined with yours, a steady, comforting presence. His knuckles were bruised, a faint smear of blood on his shirt, but he didnât seem to notice. He just held your hand, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite, his mind clearly miles away.
The trembling had finally subsided, replaced by a profound exhaustion. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart.
âIf anything happened to you,â he said, his voice low, rough with emotion, âIâd never forgive myself.â
You pulled back slightly, cupping his jaw with your free hand. His skin was warm, his jaw tight. You looked into his dark eyes, seeing the lingering fear, the raw protectiveness, the depth of his unspoken devotion. âYou saved me, Chan,â you whispered, your voice thick with gratitude and a profound sense of awe. âYou came for me.â
He didnât kiss you. Not then. The moment was too fragile, too raw, too filled with the lingering shadows of fear and violence. But you stayed forehead-to-forehead for minutes, your breaths mingling, your hearts beating in sync. His eyes, usually so guarded, were open, vulnerable, reflecting the depth of his unspoken love, his fierce protectiveness. It was a silent conversation, a profound connection that transcended words.
He took you to his dorm then, a quiet, dimly lit space that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. He didnât question, didnât hesitate. He simply led you there, his hand a steady anchor in yours. He let you sleep in his bed, the sheets smelling faintly of him, of engine grease and soap, a comforting scent that lulled you into a fragile sense of security. He didnât get in beside you. Instead, he pulled a thin blanket from his closet, laid it on the floor beside the bed, and settled down. He slept on the floor, just because he didnât want you to feel he was taking advantage of her, watching you with love the whole night, his gaze fixed on your sleeping form, a silent sentinel, keeping mosquitos away from you, protecting you even in your sleep.
The morning light filtered softly through the blinds of Chanâs dorm room, painting stripes across the unfamiliar ceiling. You stirred, a deep, contented sigh escaping you, before the events of the previous night came rushing back. The party, the drink, the terror, Chanâs furious arrival, his brutal defense, Markâs shocked face, and finally, the quiet sanctuary of this room. You were in his bed, the sheets smelling faintly of him â engine grease, soap, and something else, something uniquely Chan, a comforting, earthy scent that had lulled you into the deepest sleep youâd had in weeks. You stretched, feeling surprisingly rested, a profound sense of safety still enveloping you.
You glanced down, realizing you were still in your sapphire dress from the party, albeit a little rumpled. You pushed yourself up, your gaze sweeping the room. It was small, meticulously organized, reflecting his quiet nature. And then you saw him.
He was sprawled on the floor beside the bed, a thin blanket pulled up to his chin, his dark curls a messy halo against the pillow. He was fast asleep, his breathing soft and even. A pang of tenderness, sharp and sudden, pierced your chest. He had chosen to sleep on the hard floor, just to ensure you felt safe, to avoid any hint of impropriety. He had watched over you, a silent sentinel, keeping mosquitos away, protecting you even in your sleep. The depth of his consideration, his quiet devotion, was overwhelming.
You slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and walked to the window, pulling back the blinds slightly. The campus was waking up, students already hurrying to early classes, oblivious to the quiet drama that had unfolded here. You felt a fierce protectiveness for the sleeping figure on the floor, a profound certainty that this quiet, guarded man was more real, more genuine, than anyone you had ever known.
You were just about to try and find some water when a knock, sharp and insistent, rattled the dorm room door. Your heart leaped into your throat. It was too early for anyone casual. Only one person would knock like that.
Mark.
You glanced at Chan, still asleep, and a sudden wave of panic washed over you. You didnât want him to be caught in the crossfire, not after everything. You quickly smoothed your dress, ran a hand through your hair, and walked to the door, steeling yourself.
You opened it a crack, peering out. Mark stood there, his face pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot, a mixture of anger, concern, and something akin to fear etched on his features. He looked like he hadnât slept. His gaze immediately dropped to your rumpled dress, then darted past you, searching the room. His eyes landed on Chan, still asleep on the floor, and his jaw clenched.
âYou and Chan?â he demanded, his voice low, incredulous, laced with a barely suppressed fury. It wasnât a question, but an accusation.
You didnât deny it. Not anymore. The time for hiding, for placating, was over. The events of last night, his friendsâ cruel mockery, Markâs silence, and Chanâs fierce protection, had crystallized something within you. You stood taller, meeting his gaze directly, your own eyes blazing with a newfound defiance.
âYes, Mark,â you said, your voice steady, unwavering. âMe and Chan.â You took a deep breath, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. âHe cares about me more than any of you ever did. More than you did last night, when I was scared and alone, and you were nowhere to be found.â
The accusation hit him hard. His face flushed, and he recoiled slightly, as if struck. âThatâs not fair! I was looking for you! And he⊠he assaulted someone!â
âHe saved me, Mark!â you retorted, your voice rising. âHe was there when you werenât! He came when I called, and he protected me!â
Markâs jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. âThis is exactly what I was talking about. Heâs complicated, [Your Name]. Heâs going to ruin things for you. Heâs going to drag you into his mess. I forbid you from seeing him.â His voice was low, laced with a possessive authority that made your blood boil. He was scared, you realized, not for you, but for his own carefully constructed social order, for the image he projected. He was scared of âruining thingsâ â his things, his reputation.
âYou forbid me?â you scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping you. âYou donât get to forbid me from anything, Mark! Not after last night. Not ever.â
You stormed out, brushing past him, the anger a hot, furious tide carrying you forward. You didnât look back, didnât care what he thought, didnât care about the consequences. All you knew was that you had to find Chan, had to be with him, had to reaffirm the connection that felt more real than anything else in your life.
You found him in the garage, already awake, already working. He was hunched over an engine, his hoodie up, his back to the door, his posture radiating a familiar tension. He hadnât heard you come in.
âChan,â you said, your voice still trembling slightly with residual anger.
He flinched, his shoulders stiffening. He slowly turned, his eyes wide, a flicker of apprehension in their depths. He must have seen the storm on your face, the lingering fury.
You walked towards him, your strides purposeful. âMy brother just forbid me from seeing you.â
His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping slightly. A familiar pain, a deep-seated weariness, settled over his features. âIf you want me to back off,â he said, his voice low, rough, âI will.â It was a quiet offer, a painful sacrifice, born of his deep-seated belief that he was a burden, a complication.
The words, so self-sacrificing, so utterly selfless, snapped something inside you. You grabbed his shirt, clutching the soft fabric in your fists, forcing him to look at you, to meet your gaze. âI donât,â you said, your voice fierce, unwavering. âI donât want you to back off. Never.â
He stared at you, his eyes wide, a flicker of surprise, then something akin to desperate hope, passing through their depths. But then, the familiar self-doubt, the ingrained belief in his own unworthiness, resurfaced.
âYou deserve better,â he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. âSomeone⊠someone who isnât always hiding. Someone who isnât⊠me. Iâm not enough for you.â
The words were a dagger to your heart. Not enough. The years of being used, tolerated, ignored, had left deep scars, festering wounds that made him believe he was inherently flawed, inherently unlovable.
âDonât you dare say that!â you yelled, your voice raw with emotion, tears stinging your eyes. âYouâre everything, Chan! Youâre the only one who sees me, who listens to me, who makes me feel safe! Youâre the only good part of my life right now!â
The argument escalated, your voices rising, filling the cavernous garage. It wasnât a fight born of anger, but of a desperate, aching need to make him see himself through your eyes, to dismantle the walls he had built around his own heart.
âWhy do you always hide?!â you cried, your voice breaking. âBehind that hoodie, behind your silence! Why canât you just let yourself be seen?!â The words were a challenge, a plea, a demand for him to finally, truly, open up.
He flinched, as if physically struck. His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders hunched, and a profound sadness settled over him. He stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken pain. Then, slowly, he raised his head, his eyes meeting yours. They were raw, vulnerable, filled with a deep, aching history.
âI⊠I got bullied,â he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, each word a painful admission. âFor years. In school. For being quiet. For being⊠different. They called me names. Pushed me around. Said I was a freak. Being quiet⊠hiding⊠it kept me safe. It was the only way I knew how to survive.â
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his past, the years of quiet suffering. Your heart ached for the younger version of him, the boy who had learned to disappear just to protect himself. It explained everything: his guardedness, his fear of being seen, his profound distrust of others.
Then, slowly, almost reverently, he reached for something tucked into the inner pocket of his jeans. It was his journal, the small, leather-bound book you had glimpsed that night in his dorm. He held it out to you, his hand trembling slightly.
âHere,â he said, his voice barely audible. âRead it.â
You took the journal, your fingers trembling as they brushed against his. You opened it, your eyes scanning the neat, cramped handwriting. And then you saw it. Every page. About you. From the very first day, the day you walked into that lecture hall, a curious stranger, to the present. He had documented every interaction, every observation, every fleeting emotion, every quiet thought about you.
You read it with trembling fingers, your eyes blurring with tears. His observations were so precise, so tender, so utterly him. The way you laughed, the way you listened, the way you smiled, the way you smelled like strawberry shampoo. The entry about you sitting with him at Markâs party, the single line that had started it all. The entry about you touching his hands, about him dropping the wrench. The entry about you looking at him like he mattered, about him forgetting to breathe when you touched his hair. It was all there, a raw, unfiltered chronicle of his quiet obsession, his burgeoning love.
âYou⊠you really wrote all this?â you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, tears streaming down your face.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on you, vulnerable and exposed. âEvery night. Since the day you walked into our lecture hall. Since the day you⊠saw me.â
The words, the journal, the raw honesty of his confession, shattered the last vestiges of your composure. All the fear, all the hesitation, all the unspoken longing that had simmered between you for weeks, for months, coalesced into a single, undeniable truth. You loved him. Fiercely. Completely.
You dropped the journal, letting it fall forgotten to the dusty floor. You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close. And then, finally, you kissed him.
It was raw, desperate, trembling. Your lips met his, soft and hesitant at first, then fierce, demanding. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of coffee and something uniquely him. You poured every ounce of your longing, your fear, your love, into that kiss. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, a silent symphony of unspoken desires finally unleashed. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
He pulled away first, panting, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and dark, still blazing with a raw, untamed desire. His breath hitched, ragged and uneven. âYou make me lose control,â he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, a desperate admission of the power you held over him.
You didnât care. You wanted him to lose control. You wanted to unravel him, to break down every last wall he had built. Your hands, emboldened by the kiss, roamed over his body, tracing the lean lines of his abs, feeling the hard planes of his chest beneath his shirt. You whispered compliments, soft and reverent, against his neck, his jaw, his lips.
âYour nose, your curls, your hands⊠everythingâs so beautiful, Chan. Every single part of you.â
He broke. A soft, choked sound escaped him, and his eyes welled up, glistening with unshed tears. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body trembling, and you felt the dampness of his tears against your skin. âNo oneâs ever⊠talked about me like this,â he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, raw and vulnerable. It was a confession of a lifetime of quiet yearning, of never being seen, never being cherished, never being told he was beautiful.
You held him tighter, cradling his head, murmuring reassurances, pouring all your love into him. You sank to the floor, pulling him down with you, until you were tangled together, a mess of limbs and emotions, amidst the dust and tools of the garage. You didnât do anything else. You just lay there, intertwined, holding each other, simply being. The world outside, with its judgments and demands, ceased to exist. There was only the quiet hum of the garage, the soft sound of your breaths, and the frantic, beautiful rhythm of your beating hearts.
âI think I like you,â you murmured, your voice thick with sleep, half-asleep against his chest. You hesitated, then, emboldened by the profound intimacy of the moment, you whispered, âMaybe even loveâŠâ
He shifted, pulling you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. His voice was a low, husky rumble, filled with a quiet certainty. âYouâve owned me for a while,â he whispered back, the words a silent promise, a profound declaration that settled deep in your soul.
The kiss had been a revelation, a raw, desperate, trembling culmination of weeks of unspoken longing, of quiet observations, of a connection that had blossomed in the shadows. It was a promise whispered in the dust and oil of a forgotten garage, a silent declaration that you had found your home in Chanâs arms, and he, in yours. You had fallen asleep tangled together, amidst the tools and the scent of gasoline, the world outside momentarily ceasing to exist. But the world, as you were quickly learning, had a way of crashing in, especially when you dared to find something so profoundly real in a place it didnât expect.
News of your kiss spread like wildfire across campus. It wasnât a matter of if someone had seen you, but who and how quickly the whispers would travel. The university, for all its sprawling size, was a surprisingly small town when it came to gossip. Someone, a stray partygoer stumbling home late, a curious neighbor in the adjacent dorm, must have caught a glimpse. The details, no doubt, were exaggerated, embellished, twisted into something salacious and dramatic.
The morning after, the quiet intimacy of Chanâs dorm room, the profound sense of safety you had felt, dissolved under the harsh light of reality. You walked across campus, heading to your first lecture, and felt it immediately. The shift. Heads turned as you passed, conversations hushed, eyes darting away the moment you met their gaze. Whispers followed you like a phantom limb, a cold, invisible touch on your back. Judgment hung in the air, thick and palpable, a collective disapproval that made your skin prickle. You heard fragments: âMarkâs sister, can you believe it?â âWith him?â âSuch a shame.â The stares were the worst â direct, assessing, filled with a morbid curiosity that made you want to shrink into yourself, to disappear.
The most painful silence, however, came from your own brother. Mark. After your furious confrontation in Chanâs dorm room, after your raw accusation and his stunned, speechless reaction, he had simply retreated. He refused to speak to you. His texts went unanswered, his calls went straight to voicemail. You saw him on campus, once or twice, surrounded by his friends, and he would deliberately turn his back, or cross the quad to avoid your path. The anger in his eyes, whenever you did catch a glimpse of him, was cold, unforgiving. He was punishing you, not just for your choice, but for the public defiance, for shattering the carefully constructed image of his perfect little sister. The pain of his rejection, the sudden, stark absence of his presence in your life, was a sharp, aching wound.
And then, there was Chan.
He began avoiding you again. It wasnât the hesitant, almost shy avoidance of before, but a deliberate, painful retreat. He wasnât in the garage when you went there. He wasnât in his usual spot in the library. Your texts, filled with concern and a desperate need for reassurance, went unanswered. When you finally caught sight of him, hurrying across campus, his hoodie was pulled lower than ever, his head bowed, his entire posture radiating a profound weariness. He moved like a ghost, a shadow, trying to disappear into the background, just as he had done for so many years.
The sudden, inexplicable distance after such profound intimacy was a cruel twist of the knife. You knew why he was doing it. You saw the whispers, felt the judgment, understood the backlash. And you knew, with a heartbreaking certainty, that he believed he was the cause of it all. He thought he had ruined your peace, that his presence in your life had brought nothing but complication and pain. He was trying to protect you, in his own misguided, self-sacrificing way, by pushing you away. He was retreating into his shell, convinced that he was a burden, a source of trouble, and that your life would be better without him.
The thought was unbearable. You had chosen him. You had yelled it at your brother, had confessed it in the quiet intimacy of the garage. You had seen his light, his worth, his profound capacity for love. And you werenât about to let him disappear again. Not now. Not when you had finally found each other.
The anger, sharp and hot, surged through you, eclipsing the hurt, the confusion, the fear. You marched directly to the garage, your footsteps firm, a fierce determination hardening your resolve. You pushed open the heavy bay door, the familiar scent of oil and metal filling your senses, and scanned the cavernous space.
There he was. Hunched over a motorcycle, its engine splayed open, his back to the door. His hoodie was up, of course, a familiar shield. He was meticulously wiping down a wrench, his movements precise, almost frantic. He pretended to be busy, his shoulders rigid, his head bowed, refusing to acknowledge your presence, refusing to meet your eyes.
You walked towards him, your footsteps echoing in the quiet garage, each step a deliberate challenge to his retreat. You stopped directly behind him, close enough to feel the faint heat radiating from his back.
âChan,â you said, your voice low, steady, filled with a quiet fury.
He flinched, his shoulders tensing even further. He didnât turn. He just kept wiping the wrench, his movements becoming even more agitated.
âDonât you dare,â you continued, your voice rising slightly, a raw edge to it. âDonât you dare run from me.â You reached out, your hand hovering over his shoulder, but you didnât touch him. Not yet. You needed him to listen. âI chose you, Chan. I chose you over everything. Over Mark, over his friends, over their stupid opinions. Donât you understand that?â
He stopped wiping the wrench. His hand, still clutching the tool, trembled almost imperceptibly. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then, slowly, he straightened up. He still didnât turn, still kept his back to you, but his voice, when it came, was raw, guttural, laced with a profound pain.
âI donât want your life to get worse because of me,â he gritted out, the words ripped from him, heavy with self-loathing and a desperate desire to protect you, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness. âLook at whatâs happening. Everyoneâs talking. Your brother⊠heâs furious. Iâm a mess, [Your Name]. Iâm always going to be a mess. Iâm just going to drag you down.â
Your heart ached for him, for the years of pain and self-doubt that fueled his words. You knew this wasnât about you; it was about his ingrained belief that he was inherently flawed, inherently damaging. But you couldnât let him believe that. Not now. Not when you had finally found each other.
You stepped closer, your hand finally coming to rest gently on his shoulder. He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him, but he didnât pull away. âYouâre not a mess, Chan,â you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your fingers tracing the tense line of his shoulder blade. âAnd youâre not dragging me down. Youâre the only good part of my life right now. The only real part.â
He flinched, a sharp, involuntary movement, as if your words had physically hurt him. He sucked in a sharp breath, his body rigid beneath your touch. The idea that he, the quiet, overlooked Chan, could be the âgood partâ of anyoneâs life, let alone yours, seemed to be a concept too foreign, too overwhelming for him to process.
âLet me decide what hurts, Chan,â you said softly, your voice firm, unwavering. You moved around him, forcing him to face you. His eyes, when they finally met yours, were glassy, shimmering with unshed tears, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching. He was fighting a losing battle against the torrent of emotion that was overwhelming him.
A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his grease-smudged cheek. You reached out, your thumb gently wiping it away, not sure when he had started crying, not sure how long he had been holding it all in. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and he leaned into it almost imperceptibly, a silent surrender.
âChan,â you whispered, your heart breaking for the raw pain in his eyes.
He finally broke. A choked sob escaped him, and he buried his face in your shoulder, his body trembling uncontrollably. His arms came up, wrapping around you, holding you with a desperate, crushing grip. You held him just as tightly, burying your face in his curls, inhaling the familiar scent of him â grease, soap, and now, the sharp tang of his tears. You stood there, swaying slightly, holding each other in the empty garage, covered in grease and pain, a silent testament to the storm raging around you, and the profound, unyielding love that held you together.
âI⊠I dream about you sometimes,â he mumbled against your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion, muffled by your shirt. âThen I wake up alone.â The words were a raw confession of his deepest fear, his lifelong solitude, the aching void that only you seemed to fill.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, your hands cupping his tear-streaked face. His eyes were red-rimmed, but a profound vulnerability shone through them, a desperate plea for reassurance. You met his gaze, your own eyes filled with a fierce determination.
âYou wonât always be alone, Chan,â you promised, your voice firm, unwavering, a vow etched into the quiet of the garage. âNever again. Not if I have anything to say about it.â
He stared at you, his breath hitching, and then, with a choked sound, he pulled you back into a fierce embrace. You stayed there for what felt like hours, simply holding each other, letting the raw emotion wash over you, until the tremors in his body finally subsided, replaced by a quiet exhaustion.
As the afternoon light faded into dusk, painting the garage in long, soft shadows, you found yourselves sinking to the floor, still tangled together. He was still in his grease-stained work clothes, and you were still in your rumpled sapphire dress, but none of it mattered. He pulled his oversized hoodie from a nearby hook, and you both burrowed into it, wrapped in its comforting warmth, a shared cocoon against the cold, judging world outside. You fell asleep tangled up in the back of the garage, wrapped in a hoodie, the quiet hum of the campus outside a distant lullaby, your heartbeats syncing in the profound silence.
That night, in the quiet solitude of his dorm room, Chan pulled out his journal. His hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he wrote, his words a testament to the profound, life-altering truth that had unfolded in the garage.
~ She stayed. She always stays.
The next day, the campus still buzzed with whispers, but you walked with a new sense of defiance, a quiet strength that emanated from the profound certainty of your choice. You were with Chan, walking side by side, his hand subtly brushing yours, his presence a steady anchor. You saw your brother then, Mark, across the quad, talking to a group of friends. His gaze landed on you, then on Chan, and his expression became unreadable â not angry, not sad, just a blank, almost hollow look. He simply turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving a lingering sense of unresolved tension in his wake.
Chan squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment of the moment. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a quiet resolve. He had faced his deepest fears, had allowed himself to be seen, to be vulnerable. And now, something new was stirring within him, a profound need to lay bare another truth, a secret he had buried for years. He was preparing to confess something, something that had haunted him, something that would irrevocably change everything. The quiet storm had passed, but the ground beneath you was shifting, preparing for a new, even more profound revelation.
The quiet defiance of that night in the garage, the shared pain, and the profound promise that you would never let Chan be alone, had forged a new, unbreakable bond between you. The world outside might whisper and judge, Mark might retreat into his cold silence, but none of it mattered as much as the certainty that you had found each other. You had chosen him, fiercely and irrevocably, and in his arms, you had found a solace, a truth, that transcended all external chaos. The lingering scent of his hoodie, now a permanent fixture in your life, was a constant reminder of that profound commitment.
The days that followed were a strange blend of quiet intimacy and simmering tension. On campus, the whispers still followed you, the stares still lingered, but you met them with a new, unwavering gaze. You walked with your head held high, a quiet strength emanating from the profound certainty of your choice. Mark remained distant, a ghost in your periphery, his silence a heavier burden than any argument. But you had Chan, and that was enough.
You spent every spare moment in the garage, your sanctuary. It was there, amidst the familiar scent of oil and metal, the quiet hum of machinery, that your connection deepened, evolving into something more passionate, more undeniable. The air between you, once thick with unspoken longing, now crackled with a raw, electric energy.
One crisp morning, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, you slipped into the garage. Youâd had a restless night, the thought of him, the memory of his touch, chasing away sleep. You found him, as usual, already at work. He was bent over a bike, its engine splayed open, his concentration absolute. His back was to you, and his t-shirt was nowhere in sight. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and lean, muscled back gleaming faintly with sweat under the dim work lights. His curls, damp from exertion, clung to his neck, and his movements were fluid, precise, completely absorbed in his task. He was distracted, lost in the intricate dance of gears and metal.
You walked quietly, your footsteps muffled by the concrete floor, until you were directly behind him. He didnât sense you, so utterly absorbed was he in his work. You paused for a moment, simply watching him, admiring the quiet strength, the focused intensity that was so uniquely him. And then, without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing gently against his shoulder blade.
He froze. His entire body went rigid, his hands, which had been deftly manipulating a small part, stopped mid-air. He sucked in a sharp breath, and for a long moment, he remained utterly still, as if the slightest movement would shatter the delicate moment.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he straightened up, turning to face you. His eyes, usually so guarded, were unreadable, dark pools reflecting a mixture of surprise, desire, and a profound caution. But even as his gaze searched yours, his hands, as if by instinct, found your waist, pulling you gently closer, his fingers splayed against your lower back. The warmth of his skin seeped through your clothes, a familiar comfort.
âYou sure about this?â he murmured, his voice low, rough, a hint of something dangerous in its depths. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question. âOnce I have youâŠâ The unspoken threat hung in the air, a warning of the intensity of his feelings, the depth of his desire, the fear that once unleashed, he wouldnât be able to hold back.
You met his gaze directly, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. There was no hesitation, no doubt. âYou already do,â you whispered, your voice firm, unwavering, a silent challenge to his fear.
And then, you kissed him.
It was deep, aching, almost angry with desire and want. His lips were soft, yielding beneath yours, then fierce, demanding. You poured every ounce of your longing, your devotion, your unspoken love into that kiss. Your hands tangled in his soft, damp curls, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, a silent symphony of unleashed passion. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against his shirtless chest, the warmth of his skin radiating through your clothes. You felt the hard planes of his abs beneath your fingers, the subtle flex of his muscles as he held you. Your lips moved from his mouth to his jaw, to the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It was a kiss full of worship and obsession, a desperate need to consume and be consumed.
You pulled back slightly, breathless, your forehead resting against his. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes still dark with desire.
âYour hands,â you murmured, your fingers tracing the calloused lines of his palms, the strong, elegant curve of his fingers. âTheyâre my favorite. Warm, rough, real.â You pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles, cherishing the feel of them against your lips.
He sucked in a sharp breath, a soft, choked sound escaping him. His gaze was fixed on your hands, then on your face, a profound awe in his eyes. âIâve always wanted to be touched like this,â he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, raw with a vulnerability that tore at your heart. It was a lifetime of quiet yearning, of never being seen, never being desired in such a tender, worshipful way.
You pulled back your cardigan, letting it fall to the dusty floor, revealing the familiar dark fabric of his hoodie underneath. You had worn it to bed, had worn it all morning, a tangible comfort against the lingering chill of the world outside. âI missed you last night,â you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, a simple admission of your longing.
He choked, a strangled sound escaping him. His eyes widened, staring at his hoodie on you, then at your face, a profound shock mixed with an aching tenderness. âI think about you every second Iâm not around you,â he rasped, his voice rough, thick with suppressed emotion. The words were a torrent, a desperate confession of the constant, overwhelming presence you held in his mind, in his heart.
The day blurred into a haze of quiet moments and charged glances. You stayed in the garage, ostensibly helping him, but mostly just existing in his orbit, the air between you thick with unspoken desires, with the lingering heat of your kisses.
That night, unable to bear the thought of being apart, you sneaked into his dorm. The campus was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, and you moved like a shadow, your heart pounding with a thrilling mixture of apprehension and anticipation. You slipped into his room, finding him already waiting, the single lamp on his desk casting a warm, inviting glow.
You didnât need to say anything. You just walked into his arms, and he held you, a fierce, protective embrace that felt like coming home. You lay awake together, fully clothed, intertwined on his bed, the silence filled with the soft rhythm of your breaths, the frantic beat of your hearts. You talked in whispers, sharing secrets, dreams, fears, words that felt too precious for the harsh light of day.
He hummed a song he had made, a soft, melodic tune that was both haunting and beautiful. âI made this,â he murmured, his voice low, almost shy. âIt was⊠inspired by your laughter.â
Your heart swelled. A song, just for you, inspired by your joy. It was a gift more precious than any material possession. âItâs beautiful, Chan,â you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.
âIâve never let anyone this close before,â he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a profound vulnerability in his tone.
âThen let me stay close,â you said, your voice firm, unwavering, a promise whispered into the quiet of the night.
You fell asleep, forehead-to-forehead again, your limbs tangled, your heartbeats syncing, the profound sense of peace and belonging enveloping you both. The world outside, with its judgments and demands, ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of his body, the soft sound of his breathing, and the quiet certainty of your shared future.
The next morning, the fragile peace was shattered. Mark found out you stayed over. How, you didnât know. Perhaps he had been waiting, lurking, or perhaps a careless whisper had reached him. But he knew.
He stormed into Chanâs dorm room, his face contorted with a furious rage you had rarely seen. His eyes, usually so expressive, were cold, hard, blazing with a righteous indignation. You were still in Chanâs bed, drowsy and content, when the door burst open.
âWhat the hell is going on here?!â Mark roared, his voice echoing in the small room, shattering the peaceful morning. He saw you, then his gaze landed on Chan, who had instantly sat up, his body tensing, his face a mask of weary resignation.
âYou!â Mark spat, pointing a trembling finger at Chan. âYouâre tainting her! Youâre ruining her! Sheâs my sister, and youâre dragging her into your pathetic mess!â His words were laced with disgust, with a visceral anger that made your blood run cold.
You started to speak, to defend Chan, to scream at your brother, but Chanâs hand, quick and firm, found yours, a silent squeeze that told you to wait. He didnât yell back. He didnât shout, didnât defend himself, didnât try to explain. He just looked at Mark, his eyes filled with a quiet, unwavering resolve, a profound certainty that transcended all of Markâs fury.
âI love her,â Chan said, his voice low, steady, utterly devoid of anger, but imbued with a power that silenced even Mark. It was a simple statement, a profound confession, a truth that cut through all the noise, all the anger, all the judgment.
Mark froze. His face, contorted with rage, slowly drained of color. The fury in his eyes flickered, replaced by something else â not anger. Broken. Silent. He stared at Chan, then at you, a profound sense of loss and betrayal settling over his features. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then closed it again, unable to find the words. He simply turned, his shoulders slumped, and walked away, leaving the door ajar, leaving a profound, aching silence in his wake.
The words, âI love her,â had hung in the air, a profound, unwavering declaration that had silenced even Mark. His retreat, broken and silent, had left a gaping wound in your family dynamic, a painful consequence of your choice. But in the aftermath, a quiet, unshakeable certainty had settled over you. You had chosen Chan, and in his arms, in his quiet devotion, you had found a home that transcended blood ties and societal expectations. The lingering scent of his hoodie, now a constant comfort, was a tangible reminder of that profound commitment.
Weeks passed, blurring into a rhythm of shared moments and quiet battles. The initial flurry of whispers on campus, the judgmental stares, slowly began to die down. New gossip emerged, new dramas unfolded, and the student body, with its notoriously short attention span, gradually moved on. But the pain of Markâs rejection lingered, a dull ache beneath the surface of your newfound happiness. Chan and your brother hadnât spoken since that explosive morning. Mark remained a distant, unreadable figure, his silence a heavy cloak that separated you.
Yet, through it all, you were still by Chanâs side. Public now, fearless. You walked across campus hand-in-hand, not caring who saw, not caring what they thought. His presence was a steady anchor, a quiet defiance against the lingering shadows of judgment. You studied together in the library, his arm often brushing yours, the comfortable silence punctuated by the rustle of pages and the soft click of his keyboard. You ate together in the cafeteria, sharing jokes and observations, his rare smiles a precious reward. He let you steal his hoodies, of course, and you wore them constantly, burying your face in the soft fabric, inhaling his scent â engine grease, soap, and something uniquely him, a scent that had come to symbolize safety and belonging.
He continued to teach you bike tricks, patiently guiding your hands, correcting your posture, his voice a low, steady murmur in your ear. You surprised him with your confidence, your growing mastery of the powerful machine. The bike, once an intimidating beast, now felt like an extension of yourself, a symbol of the freedom and strength you had found with him. You learned to lean into the turns with a fluid grace, to handle the throttle with a confident hand, to navigate the campus roads with a newfound ease. Each small victory, each smooth maneuver, brought a quiet pride to his eyes, a subtle softening of his gaze that made your heart swell.
âI like this you,â he said one afternoon, watching you dismount after a particularly sharp turn, his voice low, filled with a profound admiration. âYouâre glowing.â
You smiled, a genuine, uninhibited smile that reached your eyes. âYou helped me stop being scared,â you replied, the words a simple truth. He had seen past your performance, past your fears, and had given you the courage to be truly, authentically yourself.
One rainy night, a sudden, torrential downpour caught you both off guard as you were walking back from the library. You sprinted, laughing, seeking shelter under the flimsy awning of a deserted bus stop. The rain hammered down around you, a drumming symphony on the metal roof, soaking your clothes, plastering your hair to your face. You were soaked, shivering slightly, but you were laughing, a pure, uninhibited sound of joy that echoed in the quiet night.
You turned to him, water dripping from your hair, and pushed a wet curl from his eyes. His curls, usually so carefully hidden, were plastered to his forehead, framing his face, making him look younger, more vulnerable. You leaned in, your lips brushing gently against his. The kiss was soft, tender, tasting of rain and something sweet.
âYou still journaling about me?â you teased, your voice a little breathless, pulling back slightly but keeping your hands on his face.
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that vibrated through his chest. His eyes, dark and warm, met yours, filled with a profound tenderness. âEvery damn day,â he said, his voice soft, utterly devoid of embarrassment. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out the small, worn leather-bound notebook. He flipped to a recent page, holding it out to you.
You took it, your fingers tracing the neat, cramped handwriting. You read a line, your heart swelling with emotion: She made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than just tolerated. The words, so simple, so honest, were a testament to the profound impact you had on him, the way you had dismantled years of pain and self-doubt, replacing them with a quiet, unwavering sense of worth.
You closed the journal, pressing a soft kiss to its worn cover, then handed it back to him. He tucked it away, a quiet smile on his face. The rain began to ease, slowing to a gentle drizzle, and you walked hand-in-hand to his dorm, the quiet comfort of his presence a familiar balm.
Once inside, the warmth of his room enveloped you. You walked over to him, reaching up, and ran your hands across his curls again, just as you had that night on the hilltop. They were still soft, still yielding beneath your touch, and the memory of his blush, his embarrassment, brought a tender smile to your lips.
âStill perfect,â you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle, almost reverent. His eyes, dark and deep, were raw and teary-eyed, glistening with unshed emotion. He looked at you, a profound awe in his gaze, as if he still couldnât quite believe you were real, that you were truly there, truly his. âI didnât know love could feel like this,â he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, a confession of a lifetime of quiet longing finally fulfilled.
The moment hung, fragile and perfect, filled with the profound weight of shared love, of healing, of reconciliation with a past that had once seemed insurmountable.
And then, a sudden, unexpected knock rattled the dorm room door.
Your hearts leaped into your throats. You pulled apart, startled, glancing at each other, a flicker of apprehension in your eyes. It couldnât be Mark. Not after all this time.
Chan walked to the door, his movements hesitant, and opened it slowly.
Mark stood there. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed, a profound weariness etched on his features. He looked like he hadnât slept in weeks, the anger that had once blazed in his eyes now replaced by a deep, aching sadness. He didnât look at you directly, his gaze fixed on Chan.
Silence. Heavy, thick, pregnant with unspoken words, with months of pain and separation.
Then, Mark spoke, his voice low, rough, filled with a raw vulnerability that startled you. âI was wrong,â he said, his gaze finally meeting Chanâs. âAbout everything.â He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes filled with a profound regret. âYouâre not just my shadow, Chan. Youâre your own person. And you⊠you treat her better than I ever did.â
Chan stared at him, his face a mask of shock, disbelief, and a profound, aching relief. It was as if heâd been punched in the chest, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow, dismantling years of quiet resentment, of unspoken hurt. He didnât say anything, couldnât. He just nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The unspoken apology, the profound acknowledgment, was enough.
Weeks later, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and soft rose. You were on Chanâs bike, the powerful machine humming beneath you, carrying you both towards a future that felt bright and boundless. Your arms were tight around his waist, your cheek resting against his back, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, the comforting solidity of his presence.
He slowed the bike, pulling over at the lookout point, the place that was his peace, now your shared sanctuary. He cut the engine, and the quiet of the evening enveloped you. You dismounted, and he followed, pulling off your helmet, your hair a little windswept.
He turned to you, his eyes soft, his smile real, and pulled you into a tight embrace. His face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent.
âDamnit, I love you, [Your Name],â he mumbled, his voice rough with emotion, his arms tightening around you. âI always have.â
You chuckled, a soft, happy sound, your heart overflowing. âHm? Yeah, I love you more, my hot nerd.â With that, you snuggled closer, pressing a soft kiss to his head. He relaxed against you, embarrassed yet undeniably proud, his smile soft and real. You were home.
summary: how on earth were you supposed to write a good sex scene with almost zero experience? good thing your best friend was always willing to lend you a helping hand.
themes: childhood best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, friends with benefits, college! au, slowburn, humour, fluff, angst, petnames, profanity, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, explicit sexual content (oral fem receiving, fingering, nipple play, protected + unprotected sex, clothed sex), porn with so much plot, they're both down bad asf
word count: 25k
lyns notes: its been so long since i've written a full length fic like this, and it ended up being so much longer than I anticipated but please don't get scared by the wc đ its so self indulgent because i love caleb and I had way too much fun writing this so I hope you enjoy! <3
This was utterly insane, even for you.
The idea started small, though you supposed you couldnât ever classify it as innocent. At the time, it had been just a flicker, a fleeting thought that slipped through the cracks of your composure. You were in your best friend's dorm, lounging on his bed like it was your own as you complained.Â
âIâve been stuck for weeks now. Itâs like Iâve lost the ability to write.â
Caleb glanced over at you from his desk, leaning back in his plush chair as the movement of his fingers over the laptop keyboard stilled for a moment. The expression you received was familiar, you had been on the receiving end of it for years now. One of his lips quirked up, deep lavender eyes alight with amusement, and one eyebrow raised as he took in your anguished state.Â
âYou havenât lost the ability to write, Pipsqueak, it's just writer's block. Youâve had writer's block before.â
âNot like this.â You shook your head, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them. âI usually manage to overcome it in a week or so. Itâs been like, three months.â Your annoyance with yourself was obvious to him, so clear in the slight pout on your mouth paired with that indignant expression.
It was true, you had been writing ever since you were little. Your imagination ran wild as a child, even before you could physically write, you would spin tales and make up stories to entertain yourself with, frequently getting lost in your own little world. You prided yourself on this talent of yours that helped you breeze through English essays and writing assignments, even going so far as to major in English at university. Writing was your bread and butter. It was more than just being good at it, it was the passion and fulfilment you felt when you did it.Â
Passion and fulfillment your ass, you couldnât feel any of that right now.
You were writing a book, your very first one that you started penning in the summer before your sophomore year. The idea had come to you out of nowhere, and once you spent hours outlining all the details, you were certain it was something you wanted to bring to life. The need to finish it burned through you as you spent most of that break stuck at your desk, hunched over your laptop. Caleb had to quite literally drag you out of your room most days, muttering some nonsense about vitamin D and too much screen time.
He had always been like that ever since you were kids â protective, caring, attentive. It was built into his very being, you supposed, ever since he saw you cry outside the first-grade classrooms as a seven-year-old and promised to help you find your way to the correct one. Even now, as he hummed in thought, offering silent support for your frustration.Â
âYouâve gotten through a large chunk of it, right?â
âYep.â
A slow, bargaining smile stretched out on his face. âHey, you know, maybe if you let me read itââ
âHell no.â You shook your head stubbornly. âI told you, Iâm only letting you read it once it's finished, and I think itâs good enough.â
Caleb snorted, âSo you mean never?â
You promptly threw one of the plushies on his bed at him. He deftly caught it, laughter slipping from him as he threw it back. The plushy was a grumpy apple one that he had won you back home at the arcade, but the pile of plushies on your bed was so huge that you graciously suggested that he keep it for you. Partial custody, you had joked, I have visitation rights.
âYouâll be the first to read it. I justâŠ.need to get through this one bit.âÂ
Ah yes, the bit. The part that you seemed to be cursed to never finish. Everything before it had gone so smoothly, the words flowing and pouring out of you so perfectly. A fun romance novel full of twists and humour was what you aimed to achieve, and it seemed like you were succeeding.
That was, until you reached a part of the story that you truly had no idea how to write. The technicalities of it were.âŠ..unknown at best, to you, who had almost no experience in the matter.Â
âYou know, maybe you could tell me about it. Maybe I could help.â You knew the offer was genuine. Caleb had always been someone you could fall back upon for any assistance. Being two years older than you, in your eyes, he always knew what to do when you were in a pickle. He was the type of friend who placed bandages on your scrapes and offered you candy so youâd stop crying. He carried a hair tie around for when you wanted to tie your hair and helped you study for tests, and explained the concepts that you didnât understand. Every time you had a problem, he never hesitated to help you in any way he possibly could.
But thisâŠ.this was something youâd rather die than ask him about.Â
Immediately, you shook your head a little too quickly, shooting him a tight smile. âNope, it's fine. Just something I gotta figure out myself.
He stared at you skeptically but shrugged. âAlright. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?â
You wouldnât.
Would you?
Absolutely not. Even thinking about it felt like a betrayal. It was like opening a can of worms that held snakes. Deadly venomous ones.Â
And yet here you were, your teeth digging into the plush of your lower lip as he turned back to his laptop screen, continuing to work on whatever assignment he had due. He was in his final year and was infinitely busy, though he somehow still managed to make time for you.Â
Shamelessly, your eyes studied him. His arms, so well defined and firm-looking, were basically on display for you when he wore that white, sleeveless tee. Dark hair, unruly and messy, no matter how many times you ran your fingers through it in an attempt to fix it. A defined jawline that could probably cut you if you dared touch it. He had grown up unfairly well, no longer the lanky young boy you once knew, now a man. A hot man you had incredible chemistry with.
A very hot man who was completely off-limits.Â
Still. You supposed that his help couldnât be the worst thing in the worldâ
A sex scene. That was what you were struggling to right. In terms of the story, it was a very natural next move for your characters, and it made sense, and while you could simply artistically describe the ordeal and fade to black, you felt it was a necessary addition. You wanted to showcase the desperation the two characters felt for each other, just how deep their feelings ran through something more primal. You wanted it to feel right, to feel magical.Â
The issue? You hadnât the faintest idea of how to go about it. In all your nineteen years of life, you had only had sex once, and it had been far from magical. It had been uncomfortable and rushed, the result of a very stupid, drunken one-night stand in your first year. The guy very evidently didnât know how a woman's body worked, and even thinking back on it made you cringe and fold in on yourself. If it were possible to manually pluck the memory out and destroy it, you would have done it in a heartbeat.
So how on earth were you supposed to write the perfect sex scene when your one sole experience in the matter had been so terrible?
And you couldnât ask Caleb for help. Even considering doing so made you feel as if you would spontaneously combust. He was your best friend, for crying out loud, and this crossed so many lines. You knew very well that he wasnât a virgin by any means, having caught glimpses of the occasional hickey on his neck despite his best efforts to hide it from you. He was twenty-one, experienced and could probably talk you through itâ
Nope. Not going here.Â
The idea of Caleb explaining sex to you was mortifying. You didnât want to hear about any of his conquests, even just the thought of him talking about it made you want to throw up. The notion of him having sex only made your cheeks warm and your throat go uncomfortably dry.
Against your will, the thought festered. It burrowed its way into your mind and settled there as if it belonged, despite its having no business being there. This was completely unethical, but before you could stop yourself, your gaze zeroed in on his tongue darting out of his mouth, licking his lips in concentration as he typed out something. For a second, you wondered how it would feel if he dragged that tongue across the skin of your neck.
Oh my god. What if he simply showed you?
The moment that depraved idea popped into your head, you shot up, getting to your feet with urgency. Startled, he looked over at you, frowning at the alarmed look on your face.
âAre you good?â
âIâm great!â Your voice sounded funny, like you were trying to digest a rock. âI justâ erâ remembered I have some homework to finish for tomorrow. So I should get back to my room.â You padded over to his door, slipping into your shoes and waving at him. âSee ya.â
â....Bye.â He watched your awkward, rushed movements with a puzzled look on his (very nice) face.. You nodded curtly before opening the door and escaping the confines of his dorm, out of his scrutinising gaze that could read you annoyingly well. Another minute in there and you knew he would be grilling you for your odd behaviour.Â
Jesus Christ. You were so screwed.
âY/n? Girl, you gotta get your head in the game.â
Taraâs voice cut through your reverie, causing you to snap out of it. One glance up at her would reveal an unimpressed look directed at you, her hands on her hips. âOur darling editor wants to know why your article isnât on her desk yet.â
Tara was your closest friend after Caleb, and you had met her when you joined the university paper as a student journalist. She was smart, pretty and always had your back no matter what. Blinking rapidly, you sighed, waving your hand.Â
âTell Jenna Iâll have it there by the end of the day.â
âYou better. You know how she is about deadlines.â Tara pulled one of the chairs from the desk beside yours closer and sat on it, resting her elbows on the armrests. âSeriously, though, why are you spaced out today?â
Well, there was no way you could tell her the truth about that. So you resorted to using a half-truth as an answer. âWriter's block.â
âAh.â
You turned back to the screen of your computer, staring at the article you had been writing. It was almost finished, thank god. At least here, you had the facts to write around, having done your research. Very different to the situation you found yourself in regarding your stupid book.
Ugh.Â
âBy the way, your boyfriendâs here.â
Your head snapped up at her words, already ready to argue, knowing exactly who she was talking about. Walking into the newsroom holding two coffees was Caleb, wearing that blue-orange jacket that you had bought him for one of his birthdays. He did this pretty often, sauntering in like he owned the place even though he was technically not allowed to be there. Jenna had repeatedly reminded him of this, but he brushed it off, and after a while, she simply stopped bothering. Thus, despite not being on the paper, he spent a lot of time in the newsroom.
This was another problem you faced daily: people mistaking him for your boyfriend. The number of times you had to rehash the fact that he was simply your best friend was astounding, and back when you were a freshman, the constant whistles about you dating an upperclassmanâ and none other than Caleb Xiaâ drove you mad. You chalked it down to none of them being fortunate enough to experience a friendship as fulfilling and real as the one you had with him.
âHeâs not my boyfriend.â You dropped your voice, keeping it just loud enough for her to hear your rebuttal that held a hint of venom, plastering a smile on your face as he closed in. Tara snickered.Â
âSure, and Iâm the queen of England.â
âHey,â Caleb grinned down at you, his eyes momentarily flitting to your friend. âAnd what?â
âNothing,â you said brightly, shooting her a murderous look that silently told her to zip it. She smiled innocently and shook her head, slipping back to her desk without another word.
âSheâs an odd one,â he quipped, handing you one of the coffees and then shrugging off the jacket, dumping it on the free space on your desk. You already knew it was your regular order, something he had memorised years ago. You sipped the drink, letting the hot liquid calm you down, grateful for the caffeine. You hadnât gotten much sleep the night before, spending it tossing and turning in your bed.
And why was that?
Caleb leaned against your desk. âAre you free later today?âÂ
A dejected sigh escaped you. âUnfortunately, no. I need to finish this article by the end of the day, and it seems like my writer's block has infected every aspect of my life.â It was ironic, just how true that statement ran.
âDamn.â You could hear the tinge of disappointment in his voice. âI was hoping we would have movie night. I stocked up on your favourite candy.â He reached over, his fingers brushing against the skin of your forehead as he pushed some of your hair that fell in front of your eyes away from your face, neatly tucking it behind your ear like it was second nature. It was, you supposed, considering he had done so about a hundred times.
But something was different this time, or perhaps you were paying far too much attention to every little thing. To how he pulled back and the way the muscles in his forearm shifted subtly, making you wish he had kept the jacket on. The brief touch lingered on your skin, burned into it.
Fucking hell, you were a mess. A tragic, down-atrocious mess.
Your eyes lingered on his fingers for a moment. Heat crept up your neck, and you coughed, rubbing it absent-mindedly, hoping to push down the flush you felt taking over your body. It had been like this ever since the day in his dorm when your brain had decided to work against you and infect you with the thought of sex with your best friend.
What better way was there to describe your state than calling it an infection? It certainly felt like some sort of sickness with the way it plagued you against your will. Somehow, it was worse than the doomed crush you had harboured for him back when you were in high school, because at least that had been innocent. That was born out of pure admiration, and you were sixteen. A lot of things done at sixteen could be brushed off under the excuse of being young and naive. You had quickly gotten over it.Â
You were evidently no longer so naive. In fact, you knew too much.
âMaybe next time.â You managed to choke out finally after a silence that had stretched a beat too long. Part of you hoped heâd leave you alone now so that you could calm down and refocus your attention to the article.Â
But of course, he didnât. Instead, he occupied the chair Tara previously had, complaining about one of his classes as you nodded along, sipping your coffee and glancing between him and your screen. The smooth cadence of his voice usually soothed you and calmed you down, but now it only put you on edge, flowing over scrambled thoughts like honey. Had his arms always been this nice?
You were going to hell.
All things considered, you held yourself to certain standards. You were a woman with morals and integrity, and you were not in the habit of staring at shirtless men.
Except when it was Caleb, apparently.Â
âWhy are you half-naked?â You blurted out gracelessly, heat viciously curling up your body as your eyes dropped down to his torso. You gripped the Chinese takeout you had gotten on your way back from your evening class a little tighter as you took in his figure. A silver chain with a tag and apple pendant (something you had given him before he left for university while you were still struggling in high school) on his bare chest and perfect sculpted abs, running shorts hanging low on his hips.Â
âI was working out.â He said casually, taking the bag of takeout from your hands and walking back into his dorm, leaving you to follow him. You bit down on your tongue hard, almost hoping youâd draw blood.Â
This was ridiculous. You had seen him shirtless several times before and had never reacted like this. The other times hadnât caused you to flush and definitely didnât cause your heart rate to spike. It didnât have you furiously fighting off thoughts that had threatened to consume you for over a week now, pushing them back into the furthest parts of your mind and locking them there.Â
âIâm almost done, could you grab sodas from the fridge?â Caleb placed the food on the table beside his bed. You wordlessly complied, picking the apple-flavoured sodas that both of you liked. Turning back to the main area of his dorm, you walked over, only to stop dead in your tracks.
Caleb was on the floor. Doing push-ups.
There was nothing inherently sexual about it in the slightest. You knew he liked to stay in shape, hitting the gym at least thrice a week to maintain his physiqueâ a very nice physique that seemed to be your current undoing. His hair fell across his forehead, a little matted from sweat. You watched as he pressed down and back up, and in a moment of weakness, you wondered how it would be if you were under him instead of standing to the side and ogling like an idiot. Would his necklace dangle above you, swinging back and forth in your face?
Dear god. You needed to be sedated. Put down, even.
Finally, he seemed to be done, lowering himself down and then rolling onto his back. He sucked in a breath of hair, running his hands through his hair and messing it up even further. Finally, he sat up and looked up at you, a singular eyebrow raised.
âWhy are you just standing there?â
Brilliant question. If only you could answer it.Â
Choosing to skillfully evade instead, you tossed him his soda can and grabbed his laptop from his desk, settling down next to him on the floor. Tonight, the two of you had decided to have dinner together and catch up on an anime you had started together a couple of weeks ago. It had been a while since you had properly hung out, and you knew damn well that it was all your fault.Â
You were avoiding him. Mentally and physically, especially physically. Caleb, however, being the understanding, saint of a man that he was, chalked it up to you being busy. He made sure to check in on you, shooting you texts or sending you funny videos he knew youâd like.Â
âWe should try and finish all the episodes up until the latest one,â You said, opening up his laptop and logging into the anime site. âThey released a new one on Wednesday.âÂ
Caleb hummed, stretching his arms as he shuffled closer. Immediately, you froze, the close contact inciting pure panic within you. Jerking away from him, you glared, holding a hand out to keep an arm's distance between the two of you, much to his confusion.Â
âPut on a shirt.â
He frowned. âWhy? Itâs really hot.â
Indeed, it was. âExactly. Youâre all sweaty and gross.â
You really shouldnât have said that. The moment the words left your mouth, his mouth curled into a smirkâ one so disgustingly attractive that you were sure your knees would have probably buckled if you werenât already sitting downâ and his eyes lit up with a mischievous glint that told you he was up to no good. Carefully, he wrapped a hand around your wrist, and the contact has your brain short-circuiting and going into overdrive.
âI think that means you want a hug.â
âWaitâ donât you dareâ Caleb!â You yelped as he tugged you harshly, forcing you to fall into his lap, his laughter resounding through the small dorm room. Awkwardly, you shoot your other hand out to steady yourself, placing it on his shoulder as you tumble into him, knee slotting in between his legs and body so dangerously close to his that you wanted to scream. Smoothly, he wrapped his other arm around your waist, circling it and somehow tugging you even closer, until you were flush against him.
âWhat are you gonna do now, Pips?â He taunted, voice just above a whisper right against your ear.Â
Unicorns, you bleakly thought to yourself. Puppies. Cupcakes. Sprinkles.
âYouâre so annoying,â You hissed, throwing as much irritation into your voice as you possibly could in the hopes that it would drown out the shakiness you felt. His skin under your fingertips was warm, and you could feel that warmth through the fabric of your tank top. âGo fuck yourself.â
He laughed harder, the sound so contagious it broke you out of your downright sinful thoughts. You gripped his shoulder a little harder, mentally chastising yourself for the situation you found yourself in, knowing that there was no good reason for you to be this riled up. Playfighting with him was something you were used to; it was natural. It should not have had your blood pressure rising and heart slamming in your chest so violently.
Swallowing thickly, you barely processed how he let go of your wrist, his other arm also coming to rest around your waist as he pulled you further into his lap so that you were now sitting on top of him. Before you even had the chance to react to that, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and inhaled.Â
âMissed you this week,â He mumbled softly against your rapidly heating skin. You froze for a split second at the contact, hopelessly blaming the flush spread over your cheeks on the humid weather.
And then you softened.Â
Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck as you hugged him back. âI missed you too,â You whispered, following up with a lie to keep him off your trail. âJust had a lot of work.â
âI know,â he said so patiently that you instantly felt guilty. He lifted his face from your neck so that he could stare at you, and it hit you just how intimate the position the two of you were in was. Although reserved with others, Caleb had always been pretty openly affectionate with you. His hand on the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours, a light kiss to your temple in encouragementâ he had been doing stuff like that to you since you were ten.Â
So why did it suddenly affect you so much? Why did something so normal for you make you feel so different now?
âJustâŠ.tell me about it,â he continued, those mesmerising purple eyes of his locked onto yours. âShoot me a text. Let me know what's up with you. Donât you remember the last time you shut everyone out because you were stressed?â
You did remember. It was during your finals last year, when the workload you had overwhelmed you so badly that you simply pushed everyone away until they were over. Caleb had to practically storm his way back into your life and demand that you take a break and slow down before you worked yourself to the bone. The fact that he remembered this only made your guilt worse because your distance this time had nothing to do with your classwork.Â
It had everything to do with him, though.Â
âYeah, yeah,â you mumbled, slowly slipping out of his embrace and settling down next to him once again. You had to remind yourself of what he was to you, and all this thirsting for him was neither healthy nor something a good best friend would do. âIâm not gonna do that again.âÂ
âIâm just saying. And what the hell am I supposed to do with my free time if youâre not here to bother me?â He flashed you that shit-eating grin of his that you were starting to think was more devastating than mischievous.
You had to resist strangling him.
There was only one possible conclusion: something was deeply wrong with you.
How else were you supposed to explain your borderline insane behaviour? It had gotten even worse lately, causing you to daydream at the most inconvenient times, like when you were trying to get an assignment done or even in the middle of class. It was a wonder your professors hadnât called you out for it yet.Â
Some level of restraint seemed to remain, though, with you stopping your thoughts from crossing any lines. The moment you caught your mind straying into dangerous territory, you forced yourself to stop, desperately searching for another distraction.
But there was only so much you could do. Thinking was proving to be a dangerous activity.
You pressed your palms into your eyes, hard. It was almost three in the morning, and you hadnât gotten a wink of sleep. Earlier, you had tried to write around the damned scene, but emerged fruitless. It was like an obstacle you had to clear before you could get to the next level of a game, taunting you with its incompletion.
Something else taunted you, simmering underneath the expanse of your skin. Things that hadnât even happened yet, but you had already dreamed of themâ his mouth on yours, his hands tracing your body with a feather touch.Â
You were even wearing one of his shirts right now, the oversized tee reaching down to your mid-thighs. Several, just like the one you currently wore, sat neatly in your closet, having been stolen from him over the years. You could faintly smell his cologne; cidery and comforting, enveloping you in what felt like it could be his embrace. Turning onto your side, you pulled the blanket over your body and stared at the wall blankly.Â
Caleb had been your safe space for so long, and perhaps that was why you gravitated so easily to thinking about him like this. If there was anyone you trusted in such an intimate sense, it was him.Â
Even if it shouldnât have been.
God knows you needed to get laid. Unfortunately, you didnât want just anyone.
You swore you had never been this horny before, least of all for your best friend. Thinking about him in such a salacious way was strictly a new development that was quickly ruining your life, haunting you day and night. Even now, lying in your bed, heat that was impossible to ignore bloomed between your legs.Â
Maybe if you just indulged once, this madness would stop. Maybe you just needed an orgasm, and then youâd stop going insane over every single interaction you had with Caleb. It didnât even have to be about him, and this was normal; everyone needed a release now and then.Â
Your fingers slipped between your legs, pushing the fabric of his shirt up, tracing the outline of your cotton underwear. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let your fingertips gently graze against where you needed them most, letting your legs fall apart just a little bitâ
Deep purple eyes flashed behind your closed eyes.
Gasping, you retracted your hand like you had been burned. There was no way in hell you could touch yourself with him in mind; that was everything you had been avoiding for the past three weeks, ever since the notion had first sprouted. Groaning, you buried your face into the pillow.
This had to have been the stupidest cause of insomnia ever.
Caleb đ [15:32 pm] : i better see u at the party tonight :D
Caleb đ [15:32 pm] : will pick u up at 9
Caleb đ [15:32 pm] : no buts.
Caleb supposed that this was technically his fault.
Mentally, he had already prepared for this outcome. It was why he had barely drunk the entire night, barely finishing two drinks and opting out of playing beer pong with the rest of his friends, despite Gideon's need for another member on his team.Â
âCome on, Pipsqueak.â He had an arm around your waist to help steady you, ensuring you wouldnât fall flat on your face. You stumbled into the elevator, and he jammed the number of your dorm floor as you wrapped your arms around his torso weakly, leaning into him. Right now, he was the only thing keeping you upright.
You were drunk, slurring your words and unable to walk in a straight line without any assistance type of drunk. And yes, this was his fault.Â
Probably. Definitely.
One of the frat houses had thrown a party, and he had insisted that you come with him. He had always been great at reading you, and for the last couple of weeks, you had seemed tense over something, though you hadnât told him what exactly it was yet. That was fine, he knew that eventually youâd spill, but for now, all he wanted to do was help you let loose.Â
That was exactly what he told you to do when both of you arrived at the party, even pouring you your first drink. Halfway through the party, you seemed more relaxed than you had in the last couple of days, swaying along to the music by his side. He made sure not to drink too much, wanting to be sober enough to safely get you back to your dorm just in case you overdid it.
His intuition always ended up being right when it came to you.
You whined as the elevator dinged, the doors opening. âEverything is spinning.â
âI know, honey, weâre almost there.â He helped you walk into the hallway, smoothly taking your handbag from you and extracting your keys. Holding you tighter, he opened the door and pulled you through, carefully seating you down on your bed and taking your boots off.
Like clockwork, he grabbed a bottle of water from your bedside table, unscrewed it and held it to your cherry-tinted lips. You only used that specific lip-tint when you were going out, and each time you did, he found himself wondering if it tasted like cherry as well. Even now, as he gently propped his index finger under your chin and tilted your face upwards, he entertained the idea of tasting it for himself.
But he wouldnât.Â
âDrink up,â He said softly, âYouâre gonna have a nasty hangover tomorrow.â
Obediently, you parted your lips, drinking with his help. Your cheeks were flushed due to the alcohol, hair a little frizzy from the heat, but still maintaining the styling you had done before the party. To him, you looked stunning at all times, but he could see the effort you had put in to look nice tonight, from your outfit (a black halter top and jeans) to your makeup, which he knew heâd have to help you take off now.Â
Once he deemed the amount of water you had drunk enough, he put the bottle back and went into your bathroom, knowing exactly where to find your makeup wipes. He had taken care of you like this once before, so his body moved like clockwork. There was no point in trying to get you to the bathroomâ youâd probably just sit down on the floor and stay there for the rest of the nightâ so he took the wipes with him and crouched down in front of where you sat on your bed.Â
Smiling, he held your face again, this time a little firmer. âYouâd hate yourself if you went to sleep before you took your makeup off,â he whispered, pulling one of the wipes out and dragging it over the apples of your face. Then, he glanced up and into your eyes, noting how you stared at him so keenly, even through a half-lidded gaze, lips slightly parted.Â
If Caleb couldâve kept your attention on him like this for the rest of his life, he would have.Â
âWhat's going through that head of yours?â He cocked his head to the side, studying your intent expression. Immediately, you looked away, but he wasnât going to back down. Something had been troubling you, and he was determined to find out what. If you wouldnât tell him outright, he would simply have to guess. âIs it your book, again?â
Your inebriated state made it hard for you to hide things from him. You stiffened in his touch, and he chuckled. âBingo. You know, if you just told me what you were struggling with, Iâd help.â He pressed your chin lightly, angling your face downwards. âClose your eyes.â He gently wiped over your eye makeup, making sure it was all off before continuing. âI know Iâm not a writer, but Iâm sure I'll be of some value.â
Finally done, he neatly folded the dirty wipe and placed it to the side. âWant some more water? Alcohol is dehydrating.â
And then, out of nowhere, you spoke.Â
âSex.â
Well, blurting would probably be a better way to describe how you said the word. Caleb blinked rapidly, wondering if he had heard you correctly as his face snapped back to yours, eyes wide.Â
âWhat?â
âSex.â You slurred a little bit as you leaned closer to him, jutting your lower lip out in a pout and repeating it once more for good measure. âSex.â
âI heard you the first time,â Caleb could hear how strangled his voice was, unable to think straight at your sudden declaration. Oblivious to his mental distress, you thrust out your hand and pointed at the laptop that sat on your desk with drunken animosity.Â
âI canât write a stupid sex scene.âÂ
You sounded so crestfallen, and he would have totally started sympathising with you if not for the reason. A sex scene? What on earth were you writing?
âIââ He swallowed, âWellââ
âI mean, how am I supposed to write a good sex scene if I donât know what good sex feels like? Or what even like, happens?â Alcohol had certainly loosened you up, and perhaps a bit too much, having erased any filter that you had. This resulted in you rambling on about everything you would have usually kept to yourself, and for good reason. âThe sex Iâve had has been shitty.â
The sex youâve had? Caleb almost bit his tongue off in shock, staring at you incredulously at the information you had dumped on him. He hadnât even known you had been having sex, and thank every god for that, because he would have probably jumped off a cliff if you ever talked about your sex life with him. Surely, this was some sort of twisted fever dream he had found himself in. This could not have been real life.
âChrist,â He choked out, âIâokay, maybe I canât help youââ
âYeah, you can.â Your eyes cut to his, a little too intense for his sanity. âIf you fucked me, Iâd probably be able to write the scene.â
He gaped at you, about a dozen inappropriate thoughts running through his head before he could stop it. âWhat did you just say?âÂ
Teenage Caleb would have died if he had heard you say that. Adult Caleb nearly did.Â
You sighed heavily, and it only succeeded in causing him to spiral even more. âI thought about it. Iâm sure it would be good, yâknow. Youâd know what you were doing, you even look like youâre good at it.â
âYouâre so drunk.â He tried to reason with himself out loud, but could hardly recognise his voice with how strained he sounded. Looked like he was good at it? What alternate dimension had he just fallen into?Â
âOh, come on, Caleb. I need some hands-on learning, and youââ you slurred the words as you leaned close and wrapped your hands around his bicep, peering up at him through your lashes. ââhave very nice hands. Theyâre hot.â
You, his best friend, his pipsqueak, had thought about sleeping with him. You thought his hands were hot. The news nearly killed him, and he had to force himself to look away from you, his mind running at a mile a minute. Heat prickled at his face and neck, impossible to ignore as he cleared his throat and stood to his feet, pulling away from your touch.Â
âYou should sleep.â He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, stepping away from you. âIâIâll see you tomorrow.â It was as if he were going through puberty all over again, with the way his voice cracked embarrassingly as he spoke. He left your room hurriedly, barely getting his shoes back on as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
Caleb exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as the back of his head hit your door. All these years of barely keeping it together around you, carefully tiptoeing between right and wrong, only for you to come and crash into whatever self-restraint he had left.Â
Right and wrong.Â
All of a sudden, he wasnât sure if he was going to choose correctly anymore.Â
Death had to have been more merciful than the pounding in your head. Grabbing the covers, you pulled them over yourself like a cocoon, trying your hardest to block out all noises and sink even further into your mattress.Â
Unfortunately, your hangover-induced headache made it nearly impossible for you to go back to sleep. Cursing, you forced yourself out of bed and into the bathroom to freshen up and change out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. Naturally, you gravitated towards an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts, pulling them on after a quick shower.Â
Then, you went right back to your bed, not wanting to face the day in the slightest. You had managed to resist throwing up so far, and even the thought of having to function like a normal human being made you recoil into your blanket and stay there for the rest of the week. Just as you began to genuinely entertain that notion, a sharp knock at your door caught your attention.
You would have ignored it if you didnât know the pattern of this knock by heart. No one but Caleb knocked twice in sequence.Â
Cursing under your breath, you scrambled to the door and opened it, squinting as the bright light of the hallway outside nearly blinded you. There he stood, grinning down at you as he held up a paper bag.Â
âAspirin.â
âThank god,â you immediately let him in, taking the medicine from him and pouring yourself a glass of water. He stood right behind you as you took the pill, ruffling your already messy hair and staring for just a second too long.Â
âBad morning, huh?â
âYou have no idea.â You winced at the whiny nature of your voice. âIt feels like my head is trying to stab itself.â
Caleb chuckled dryly, sitting down on your bed and watching as you settled at your desk and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth out the knots. Something was different about the way he was looking at you, but you couldnât quite put your finger on it.
âYouâll be fine,â He muttered, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. You frowned, taking in the way his jaw ticked, and placed your glass of water down.
âAre you okay?â
âMe? Yeah, Iâm fine.â He said it a little too brightly, glancing down at your desk. Something flickered in his eyes. âMade any progress on that book of yours?â
A frustrated sound left you buried your face in your hands, elbows on your desk. The reminder of your stagnant writing somehow worsened your headache, as if that was even possible. Of course heâd bring that up. âAs usual, no.â
For a while, you had hoped that inspiration would strike you eventually, but it seemed like you were well and truly stuck. It had only taken a turn for the worse, with you suddenly despising everything you had already written, unable to even skim any of it without cringing and wanting to hit delete. Your inability to write had morphed into impostor syndrome, which was a development you didnât appreciate in the slightest.
âItâs okay,â he said, and you would have mistaken his tone for reassuring if not for the way his lips twitched slightly. âIâm sure youâll be able to write eventually. After you fuck me, apparently.â
Silence.Â
Razor-sharp silence.
Slowly, you turned your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers. âWhatâŠ.did you just say?â
âOnly what you said last night. You said you were sure it would be good, which I beg to differ. It would be amazing, thank you very much.â He dared to smile oh-so innocently, as if he hadnât just upgraded the superlative of what sex with him would potentially be like.
If you thought you were going to throw up before, you were sure you were going to now. You almost choked on your spit, waves of unadulterated shock crashing through your system as you gawked at your best friend, who appeared much too pleased with himself at the moment. If you werenât so utterly horrified, you would have tried to slap the smug expression right off of his face.
âNo.â The singular word comes out breathless, much to your mortification, your gut churning at the implications of that statement. âNo, no, noââ
âOh yes,â He grinned wickedly, leaning back on the palms of his hands.Â
âWhatâwhat the fuck did I drink last night.â You tried your levity, but your embarrassment ran too deep. Reaching up, you covered your face with your hands in a pathetic attempt to hide away from him. Never, in a million years, had you ever accounted for having this conversation with him, of all people, and you were almost certain there was something in your drinks that had made you say what you did.Â
His velvety laugh echoed through your dorm, and you wanted nothing more than to fold in on yourself. This had to have been the worst moment of your life.Â
âI guess you donât remember, huh?â There was an amused lilt to his tone that made you want to jump out of the window. âI can refresh you, if youâd like.â
âNO!âÂ
The shriek that left you was nothing short of abashed. He leaned forward now, smirking at you conspiratorially. âWhat's wrong? I thought you needed,â he paused, as if recollecting the exact words you had said to humiliate you even further. âHands-on learning?â
You pointed to the door, biting back a scream. âGet out.â
The smirk only grew. âAw, but if sleeping with me is gonna help you write againââ
âOUT!â You glared, cheeks flaming. Your anxiety had prepared you for at least a hundred outright ridiculous situations that had no chance of ever occurring, but none of them accounted for the possibility of your best friend talking about sleeping with you. You couldnât fathom how he seemed so unaffected by it, as if he were speaking about something as mundane as the damn weather.
Caleb tongued his cheek, evidently fighting off another bout of laughter. He raised his hands to his sides in a placating gesture, but it did nothing to soothe your frazzled nerves. If anything, it only distracted you further, your eyes betraying you and straying to glance at his hands. A suppressed memory from last night resurfaced in your mind's eye, much to your displeasure.Â
You have very nice hands. Theyâre hot.
That was it. You were never going to touch alcohol again. Sobriety was your way of life now, seeing that you couldnât keep your mouth shut when under the influence. The next time you need to let off some steam, youâd have an iced coffee.
âAlright, alright, Iâll go.â He moved towards your door, hiding his teasing smile behind his fist, disguising his chuckle with an exaggerated cough. âBut Y/n?â
He didnât use his beloved pet name. You straightened slightly, momentarily pushing away your embarrassment at the sudden serious shift of his voice. He opened the door and paused, hesitating for a single second. Then, he looked back at you, all-consuming, violent eyes locking onto yours.Â
âI would do it if you asked.âÂ
You sighed heavily as you walked out of your last class of the day, rubbing the back of your neck and peering up into the darkening sky. Thursdays were the one day of the week when you had longer classes one after the other, which always resulted in you feeling exhausted by the end of it. You barely had the energy to even think about putting together dinner, which your best friend knew, always swinging by once your class ended with enough take-out for both of you and to walk you back to your dorm.Â
Which meantâŠ
âI hope youâre in the mood for Thai food.â
Caleb slid into your view with that easy-going smile of his, though lately and much to your annoyance, there seemed to be a knowing glint in his gaze every time it settled on you.Â
âIâm in the mood for anything edible.â You sighed as you began walking back to your dorm. He easily fell into step beside you, as always, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You supposed it was, considering how long your friendship had lasted. It would be almost twelve years soon, and honestly, you could hardly remember a time when he wasnât around.Â
He hummed, knowing how cranky you got when you were hangry. âSo easy to please.â It was the way he said it, knowing and with a tone so low that it almost resembled a purr. It had goosebumps rising on the surface of your skin. A little outraged at the way you reacted, you glanced over at him, only to find him already looking at you.
It was how he always looked at you, with conviction and every ounce of his attention. Yet, it felt different, more intense. Or maybe that was just your brain playing tricks on itself.Â
I would do it if you asked.
Those seven words had haunted you from the moment he had spoken them. The serious expression on his face mixed with the quiet way he had said itâ it had undoubtedly fucked you up a little more than you would have liked to admit. You were beyond infuriated and in complete disbelief over how he had simply offered to sleep with you. Like it wasnât a big deal or a very major, clear boundary that existed in friendships. In your friendship.Â
If you asked. Like it was that fucking simple. He left your dorm since you demanded it of him, but left you to deal with the aftermath of that absolutely criminal statement of his.Â
And then there was the teasing.Â
Relentless and unsteadying. Caleb would say something a little too suggestive or downright sexual before retreating and pretending like nothing had happened. Heâd hold your gaze a little longer, or let his touch linger, before looking away with a satisfied smirk. He knew damn well what he was doing, and although you did too, it didnât stop you from flushing or freezing up. It certainly didnât stop scenarios from writing themselves in your head.Â
He was torturing you for your little slip-up. He found it hilarious, and now you were the punchline for every joke that blossomed from it.Â
He cocked his head to the side now, a small, tilted smile on his lips as he spoke. âWhat's going on in at head of yours?â
You realised you had stopped walking, and so had he, instead standing right in front of you and occupying every part of your vision. âNothing.â
Caleb quirked an eyebrow, taking a step closer. âYou sure about that? Youâre obviously thinking about something.â The cadence of his voice had always been nice, but now the velvety smoothness of it put you on edge in more ways than one. âAre you maybe thinking aboutââ
âI am not thinking about that.â The statement tumbled out of you before you could bite your tongue. His eyes lit up mischievously.
âOh, so youâre thinking about something after all, are you?â
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, struggling to findd to find a comeback to that. Somehow, he was even closer now.Â
âMind telling me what exactly that is?â
âStop it,â You almost snarled, shooting him a withering look as you pushed him away in order to reclaim your personal space. This teasing streak of his was getting unbearable, especially since it was anything but innocent and was driving you up the wall. âOr Iâm gonna take the Thai food and leave you with nothing.â
An offended gasp. âYou wouldnât.â
âI would.âÂ
He laughed at your threat and finally let up on you, going back to being the Caleb you knew. He spoke of his classes and the group project he had due at the end of the week, for which he had terrible teammates to work with. It was jarring, how easily he could shift back into acting like he hadnât just insinuated something soâŠ.
Maybe it was just your dirty mind.Â
Unbeknownst to you, it definitely wasnât just your dirty mind. Caleb was mentally punching himself.Â
Caleb had had years of practising self-control when it came to you. Years of holding back and hiding the feelings he had for his best friend, shying away from every opportunity to divulge them. He knew how to keep his hands to himself, his mind from straying and his tongue from running into dangerous territory. He hadnât meant to do it, but your drunken confession had flipped a switch inside of him. The lines had gotten a little blurry, but he would never, in a million years, ever actually cross them.
So what the hell was wrong with him?Â
You still hadnât written a word. Unfortunately for you, you couldnât even complain about it in peace anymore. Not if you wanted to maintain even a modicum of your sanity.
The reason for said dwindling sanity was sitting beside you right now on his bed, his arm slung around your shoulder, fingers tracing abstract patterns on the top of your shoulder. Usually, this would have calmed you down and even made you sleepy, but it achieved the complete opposite right then. You were painfully awake, his feathery touch like electricity against your skin.Â
God, you were so fucked. You had hoped that Calebâs incessant teasing would have put a damper on your sudden, strong attraction towards him, but nothing of the sort had happened. It seemed to have only gotten worse, with you ending up being jumpy whenever he was around, and considering the amount you hung out with him, you were starting to resemble a kangaroo.
Around him, you were constantly tense and always on the precipice of being turned on. To say it was hellish would be an understatement.
âYouâre distracted,â he murmured as the credits of the movie you were watching played. Finally, the two of you had managed to find the time to have that movie night you had passed on weeks ago. You shook your head, glancing up at the clock that hung on his wall. It was a little past midnight.Â
âJust frustrated,â you said finally, because it was the truth in more ways than one. Your frustration with your writing, or lack of, ran deep, but now it was intertwined with another very persistent reason. Being sexually frustrated wasnât something you were used to dealing with.
He seemed to have caught on, though, his hand falling from your shoulder to your waist, curling around it. âWhy are you frustrated, Pipsqueak?â He drawled, turning his head so that he faced you now. Of course, heâd pick this moment to torment you, when you were already frazzled.
âNo reason,â you said quickly, voice clipped. A slow, languid smile stretched out on his lips.Â
âNo?â He asked, the side of his mouth tilting. âCould it beâŠ.â
âStop talking.â You despised how hoarse your voice sounded. You wantedâ no, needed him to stop doing this before it became unbearable. He was your best friend, for fucks sake. The smile on his annoyingly perfect face melted into a smirk that would have had your knees weak if you werenât already sitting down.Â
âI donât think I will.â He whispered, pulling you even closer as he dipped his head down until his lips brushed against your ear. It was like he wanted you to break, and god, you were so close to doing so. His hand slid up your waist just a little bit. A shiver ran through you, one you couldnât have suppressed if you tried.Â
âTell me,â He mumbled, the words sounding much too loud even though he was still whispering. âDo your frustrations have anything to do with a certain sex scene youâre trying to write?â
You inhaled sharply.
Rationality was a funny thing. Every bit of it seemed to disappear whenever you truly needed it. Things you had no business thinking rushed through your head, courtesy of your bright imagination that chose the most inconvenient moments to work. Thoughts you had suppressed and pushed aside every time they had the nerve to pop up swirled around.
The spark that you had been trying so hard to put out crackled to life in your core, its flames spreading all across your body like wildfire. You were painfully aware of every part of you that was in contact with him, his hand just above your waist, sitting there so possessively, his breath fanning across your neckâ fuck. It was too much, but somehow not enough all at once, and immediately you knew what you wanted.
More.
You snapped.Â
Something possessed you as you turned to look at him, a surge of confidence appearing out of nowhere as you drew closer to him. âYeah.â
He raised an eyebrow. âWhat?â
Right then and there, three things became very clear to you. One: You wanted to write. Desperately and preferably sometime soon, because you did want to finish the first draft before you could go in and edit. Two: For some reason, you needed to have sex in order to get over the mental block you had when it came to writing it. Lastly, three: You only wanted to have sex with one person, and it was the man right beside you.
âMy frustration has everything to do with the sex scene.â You said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. âBut you can help with that, right?âÂ
Without waiting for his response, you got to your knees, swinging a leg over him and settling down on top. Surprise flickered in his eyes for a second as your hands found his shoulders to maintain your balance, before he spoke again.Â
âPipsqueak,â he started, voice low and careful, attempting to keep the teasing lilt in his voice but royally failing. âWhatâ exactlyâ are you doing?â
âYou told me to ask.â You muttered, dropping your gaze to his lips for a moment before letting it travel back up. âYou said youâd do it if I asked. Iâm asking right now.âÂ
Caleb couldnât respond, still staring up at you, eyes wide and ears a little redder than they normally were. Good. It was about time he had a taste of his own medicine. His hands found your waist again, and he blinked twice, slowly, and you prayed he wasnât all bark and no bite.Â
You wanted him to bite.
âY/n,â he muttered, âIâŠ.I know what I said.â
You raised an eyebrow, your hands slipping up his shoulders simultaneously until they were cradling his neck, playing with his hair at the nape of it. Was he shy? Now? After everything he had said and insinuated, he had the audacity to be all bashful? âSo then you know what Iâm asking for.â
âWellââ
âCaleb,â You cut him off, shifting so that you were closer. âIâm asking.âÂ
Conviction laced those words. You could tell he was reasoning with himself, god knows you could read him well enough to know when he was conflicted, when he bit the inside of his cheek before exhaling shakily.Â
âPips,â He rasped out your nickname. âYouâ youâre sure?â
You didnât recognise the look in his eyes right then as he looked up at you, but it had you unravelling all the same. You leaned in subconsciously, but he quickly moved one of his hands from your waist to your mouth, covering it as his jaw clenched, still studying you. âI need you to tell me youâre sure, Y/n.â
Oh, so this was actually happening. You could feel the heat of your breath recoil against your face because of his hand. The ticking of the clock in his room filled the charged silence between him and you, his fingers brushing against your chapped lips. You swallowed.
âIâm sure.â
Whatever had shifted in you five minutes ago seemed to shift in him as well now. He let his hand drop from your mouth, shamelessly staring at it. âWe shouldnât.â But he pulled you closer, his arms circling your waist and palms splayed out on the small of your back.Â
âItâs for research purposes,â You breathed out, doing your best to justify how badly you needed him. âPlease, Caleb, I needââ
He didnât let you finish.Â
You gasped as he crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. The pressure of his lips against your own was dizzying, especially with the way they moved; slowly and precisely, as if he was committing the feel of your lips to his memory. You were hyperaware of his touch on your back, the warmth from his hands permeating through the thin fabric of the T-shirt you were wearing.
Pulling him closer, you tilted your head so you could kiss him better. For the number of times you had mentally chided yourself for even thinking about this, it felt remarkably natural to kiss him, your instincts taking over. Your fingers slipped into his hair, entangling in the dark strands and tugging lightly.
Caleb groaned, and you were on fire.Â
âGod, Y/n.â There was nothing playful about the way he mumbled your name into the kiss, and the unfamiliarity of it sent a shiver down your spine. His lips, soft and just a little hesitant, moved in tandem against your own, slotting in between them perfectly like you were pieces of the same puzzle, meant to be pushed together like so. He nipped at your lower lip before swiping his tongue over it to soothe the sting, and the intoxicating sensation drew out a needy whimper from you.Â
The second that sound escaped you, all indecision disappeared from his end, and the temperature in the room seemed to increase, growing hotter with every smack of his lips against yours. Kissing him was addictive, it felt as if neither of you could bear to pull away from each other.Â
Without warning, Caleb lifted you off of him and pressed you into the mattress, swiftly climbing on top of you. For a moment, he hovered, looking down at you, taking in the flush on your cheeks and heavy breathing, proud to have been the cause of your breathlessness despite barely doing a thing. Going in once again, he brushed his lips against yours teasingly, before giving you what you truly wanted, the intensity of the kiss taking a turn for feverish.
A hand of his slid up your side until he cupped your jaw oh-so gently, turning your face to the side to give him better access to your neck, upon which he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses that had heat rush right to your core. The ache between your legs grew, slowly becoming unbearable, and you rubbed your thighs together with a whine, chasing any sliver of friction.Â
âShit,â he muttered against you, his other hand slipping underneath your shirt and coming into contact with your stomach, causing goosebumps to rise on the skin. Spreading his fingers and pressing lightly, he kept you from squirming. âPips, you gotta tell me to stop.â
âDonât you dare,â you almost snapped at him, impatient and so painfully aroused it was embarrassing. He couldnât hold back the breathless chuckle that escaped him as he moved lower, teeth grazing your collarbone.Â
âIf, at any point, you want to stop, tell me,â he gritted out, trying to hold onto any semblance of self-control he still possessed. âI donât wanna do anything youâre uncomfortable with.â
You nodded quickly. âI trust you.â
That was all he needed. Lifting his head slightly, he fumbled with the buttons of your shorts as he leaned back, all his weight on his knees. Once he managed to undo them, you lifted your hips slightly to help him tug them off your body. He settled between your legs, spreading them until the pretty cotton panties you wore were exposed.Â
Caleb swallowed, his breathing growing erratic and heavy. The wet patch on your panties was his undoing; everything about this situation was bound to be the death of him, but he was too far gone now. He let his hand trace up to your hips, hooking his finger through the waistband of your panties, toying with it.
âIs this ok?â The column of his throat bobbed as he stared up at you from between your legs. When you whispered a needy yes, he pulled the panties down your legs, his eyes darkening the moment they settled back on your core.Â
âY/n,â He said your name like he was drunk, a certain sense of reverence infused in his tone that had your cheeks kissed rouge. âYouâre even prettier than I thought.â
Than he thought? You would have to take the time to dissect that statement later, much too distracted to do so at the moment when he began peppering kisses along your inner thigh, starting from your knee and working his way upwards. The sensation of his mouth tantalisingly close to where you wanted it so badly was almost too much. Just the sight of him there was so erotic that it had your head swimming. You had never felt more vulnerable than you did right then, exposed and willing.
And then finallyâ finallyâ his breath fanned out over your soaked cunt, driving you insane. Liquid fire thrummed in your veins beneath the surface of your skin as your anticipation spilled over. He pressed a light, teasing kiss against your clit.Â
Caleb dragged his tongue over your slit, licking up it all the way to your clit, which he wrapped his lips around and sucked, knocking all the air out of your lungs. You gasped, bucking your hips up against him, and he chuckled, the sound sending vibrations up your body, from your toes to the top of your head.
âImpatient,â he chided. âLet me take my time with you, princess.â
The new pet name sounded so natural coming from him, and immediately, you knew you wanted to hear him call you that again. He flicked his tongue against the throbbing bud that had been aching for his attention this entire time, positioning your legs to rest over his shoulders. The sounds that left you were shamefully loud, and you had never been more grateful that he lived in a single dorm.Â
âCal- oh fuck,â You mewled when he swiped two of his fingers through your wetness, rubbing your folds.Â
âYouâre so fucking wet,â he all but groaned against you, and you could feel more slick gush out of you at that. âIs this all for me?âÂ
Your back arched off the bed when he pressed a finger to your dripping entrance, nodding with a sense of desperation you had never experienced before. âYes,â you exhaled the word as he pushed his finger inside your pussy slowly, your jaw falling open at the pleasurable intrusion.Â
Slowly, he began pumping it in and out of you as he continued to give your clit the sweet attention it deserved, basking in the noises that you made. The pads of the fingers of his other hand dug into the flesh of your thigh, keeping you nice and spread out despite all your attempts to shut your legs around him.Â
When he introduced a second finger to your cunt, your hands found purchace in his hair, gripping and tugging as you panted, unable to focus on anything else. Your eyes fluttered shut as the tips of his fingers brushed against a spot that had you seeing stars, crooking inside you so perfectly. It was as if he knew exactly how to push you to the edge.
Your best friend was eating you out like a starved man and you were enjoying every fucking second of it. He could feel your legs begin to tremble, your impending orgasm building. Shamelessly, you bucked your hips against his face, and the moment he realised what you were doing, he increased the pace of his fingers.
âCome on baby,â he encouraged you, flattening his tongue against your clit and pulling you closer, spurring you on even further. You ground against his mouth desperately, feeling the coil in your core draw tight, so, so close.
âCaleb,â you stuttered his name helplessly, but he somehow understood, knowing just what you needed. âIâIâm gonnaââ
He scissored his fingers inside of you, hooking them just right as he gave your clit little kitten licks, determined to have you fall apart on his tongue. Your sweet gasps sent blood rushing straight to his cock, which was already painfully hard, confined in his jeans. Taking your mound into his mouth, he sucked harshly, thrusting his fingers knuckle deep in your sex.Â
A broken moan escaped you when your climax hit you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as waves of pleasure washed over you. Your legs shook, but he didnât let up, grinning proudly against you as he drove his fingers back into your gushing entrance, helping you ride out your high and prolonging it. Once he was satisfied, he lapped at you, refusing to waste even a single drop of your essence.Â
Caleb pulled away, and the sight of you nearly did him in. Eyes screwed shut in ecstacy and hair fanned out on his pillow, undoubtedly tangled from all your writhing. You looked like the picture of sin, and it was the hottest thing he had ever seen. He climbed back, hovering over you again as he licked his lips.
Your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown out and dark due to the sheer level of desire that coursed through you. You were stunning, and he was destroyed, knowing that heâd never be able to forget the way you were looking at him right then. The way you tasted.
When he kissed you again, it was different. It was a heady mix of heat and tongue and want, messier than the kisses he gave you earlier, the control he had before nowhere to be seen anymore. You could taste yourself on his tongue and moaned, reaching out to touch him.Â
You started at his collar, dragging your hands down, down, down until you reached the hem of his shirt, whining against his mouth as you tugged at it.Â
âTake it off.â
Who was he to deny you? He stopped kissing you, sitting up so that he could pull the shirt off, exposing his torso for you. The way your eyes raked over him hungrily was more than gratifying, especially when they caught on the silver chain that hung from his neck, the pendant sitting on his chest. Tossing his shirt to the side, he pushed your own up your body, exposing the skin of your stomach.Â
âYour turn.â
You let him take off your shirt, tossing it to the side and slipping his hands slip behind your back. He silently asked for your permission, which you gave to him in the form of an impatient nod to which he smirked, unhooking your bra and peeling it off of you, letting the discarded garment join the rest of them on the floor.Â
One look at you and he was a goner.Â
âFuck,â he could feel himself straining his jeans as he took in the sight of your breasts, so perfect and plush. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate you in all your naked glory, before leaning back down, his mouth back on your overheated skin. He dragged his tongue down your neck, sucking and biting like there was no tomorrow.Â
His lips trailed downwards, kissing the swell of your breast before wrapping around your already hard nipple, stroking his tongue against the aching peak. He palmed the other breast, giving that nipple equal amounts of attention and rolling it under his thumb. You hissed in pleasure, breathless as you arched into his addictive touch.
You could barely think straight; everything he was doing to you sent you into complete overdrive. Every touch was criminally good, the simplest of them causing your arousal to increase tenfold. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since you had last had sex, but you had never before felt so frenzied.
Hooking your legs around his waist, you could feel the outline of him pressing against your thighs. Angling your hips, you pressed your bare pussy against his bulge, the roughness of the denim rubbing you just right. He looked up at you from your chest through hooded eyes, earning another whimper as he pinched your nipple.
âYou sound so good.â His words went straight to your head. âTell me what you want.â
He said it like it was a command, and who were you to disobey, especially when you knew exactly what you wanted?Â
âI want you inside me,â you whimpered, voice heated with lust.Â
How could he ever refuse you? Caleb gave you one last kiss before reaching over to his bedside table, grabbing something from the drawer and sitting up and unzipping his pants. You couldnât help but stare as he impatiently kicked off his jeans and boxers, eyes widening when you finally saw his cock.Â
Fuck, it was big. Long and painfully hard, you could hardly believe he was hard because of you, but the proof was in front of your very eyes. Your lower lip caught between your teeth as you drank in the sight of him, hyperaware of the wetness that coated your thighs.Â
He tore open the condom packet, smoothly sliding it onto himself before settling between your legs once.Â
âW-will it even fit?â You squeaked, a spike of fear cutting through the lust-filled haze of your mind. He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his lips and pressing your fingers to them, kissing your knuckles soothingly as he bit back a smile.Â
âItâll fit.âÂ
âButâ there's no way,â You spluttered, âItâs gonna hurt.â Not that the prospect of being in a little pain deterred you by any means, you were way too horny to stop now. Complaining was probably the least sexy thing you could have done in the moment, but he seemed unbothered, the dark, hungry glint in his eyes never fading. The amused look on his face, however, was not lost on you, nor was the way he bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile. You glared weakly.Â
âAre you laughing at me?â You asked, incredulous. âI swear to god, Caleb, youâre going to split me in half, and youâre laughing?â
âBaby,â He breathed, âYouâll be fine.â
âEasy for you to say!â
You wouldnât even blame him if he decided he was done with you and pulled his pants back on, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, he gripped your hips, grounding you to the moment.Â
Both of you were completely nude, and despite this, you had never felt more comfortable. Not when he looked at you like that, like you were something sacred.Â
âRelax, Pips, Iâve got you,â He whispered, sensing your apprehension. You exhaled shakily as he pressed his hard-on against your folds, groaning at just how wet you were. âEyes on me.â
The way he took control so naturally was alarmingly attractive. You looked up, locking your eyes with his, unable to stay silent when the head of his cock rubbed against your swollen clit. âO-oh.â
He shuddered at the feeling, dropping a little so that he was keeping himself up on his elbows. His necklace swung above you just like you had imagined as he ground against you, but it still wasnât enough. âReady?âÂ
You didnât think youâd ever be ready, but you wanted it so badly you didnât even care. Nodding eagerly, you intertwined your fingers with his, letting him press the back of your hands into the mattress. When his tip caught at your entrance, you whined. âPlease.âÂ
Having you beg him like that was dangerous. He squeezed your hands, and then slowly, carefully, sank into your wet heat, inch by devastating inch. Your jaw slackened, loudly moaning his name as he filled you up and stretched you out so pleasurably. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pushed into you until he bottomed out, going breathless himself. One glance down to where the two of you were connected had him actively having to fight off coming right then and there.Â
Caleb was in heaven, and he was fucking delirious. He forced himself to stay still, moaning lowly when he felt your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. âYouâre doing so well, princess.â He praised, lowering his head to your neck and burying his face in the crook of it, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down.Â
There was so much wrong with this, so why did it feel so right? You felt so perfect, like you were made for him.
âCaleb,â You whimpered once the sting faded, letting go of his hands and looping your arms around his neck, âMove. I need you to move.âÂ
He pulled out until only his tip remained inside of you, before sheathing himself again, causing you to curve off the bed, nails digging into his skin. He did it again and again, nearly growling when he felt you grow even wetter, coating the length of his cock in your slick. Wet sounds that had your cheeks burning filled the room repeatedly.
âFuck baby, youâre so tight,â He practically growled, contrasting the tender pace he set, telling you he was holding back for your sake. You could feel every inch of him as he dragged against your walls, reminding you how big he was with every thrust. Â
Your friendship was potentially ruined, but it felt too good for you to care. With your legs locked behind his back, you gripped his biceps, a wanton moan escaping you as your eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure overriding every other sensation. Â
âSo good,â words were hard to put together, and he understood and nodded, holding your hips so tight you were sure there would be marks, just like the marks that blossomed all over your neck and chest from his earlier ministrations. Right now, though, you didnât care about that, consumed by the waves of euphoria rushing through you.
Slowly, the frequency of his thrusts increased, rendering you completely winded and unable to do anything but gasp for air. You felt another orgasm steadily build up inside you.Â
Then he tipped his hips a certain way, the tip of his cock brushing against a spot that made you cry out his name, throwing your head back into his pillows. The look on your face was something he wanted to imprint in his memory; the desire lacing your voice was beyond exhilarating.Â
Caleb could feel his own impending high, so tightly wound because of just how long he had waited for something like this. When you clenched around him, he knew you were close as well, but the act nearly did him in.
âDonât do that.â his voice was all scratchy and strained, but you promptly did it once again, high off the notion that you were affecting him just as much as he was affecting you. His hips stuttered against yours as his violet eyes flashed. âFucking hell.â
âOh my god,â you moaned, âI canâtââ
âLook at me,â he demanded, âI want you to look at me when you come all over my cock.â
Never in a million years would you have thought your best friend would be so good at dirty talk, but the shock quickly melted into obedience as you managed to hold his heated gaze. Reaching between the two of you, his index finger found your engorged clit and rubbed circles against it.Â
You squealed, overly sensitive. âShitâIâm gonnaâ Cal-!â
âCome for me.âÂ
Caleb would never forget how you looked: at his mercy, crying out his name over and over like it was a prayer as you came, spilling over his cock with a euphoric sob. He snapped his hips to yours with renewed urgency, drawing out your second climax and prolonging the feeling. When he saw the fucked out look on your face, it hit him at once.Â
With one final thrust, he buried himself inside you, coming with a moan, burying his face in your neck once again. His body was damp against yours, his hair tickling you as you breathed heavily. He stayed like that for a couple of seconds, recovering from the intensity of what had just happened.
Wordlessly, he pulled out of you gently, the sudden emptiness you felt having you whimper softly. Peeling the condom off, he tossed it in the bin next to his bed before climbing off of you, muttering something about being back. Seconds later, you felt a warm, wet cloth drag over your core. He cleaned you up, pressing little kisses to the inner side of your thighs.
Once he was done, he gathered you in his arms and pulled you close, kissing your temple.Â
âAre you okay?â He asked, pulling away just enough so he could try and gauge how you felt, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone as he cupped your face tenderly. âI didnât hurt you, right?â
You shook your head and leaned into his touch, completely spent. âNo, it was perfect.â
He sighed in relief. You curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around you. âYou did so well,â he murmured into your hair, massaging your scalp gently. âYou were amazing, actually.â Another kiss to your forehead made you simper as your eyes closed, exhaustion settling into you now that the adrenaline had faded. âTired?â
âYeah,â You mumbled. Your legs entangled with his, and he stopped talking, tracing shapes on your back while you drifted off to sleep. He watched you for a bit, savouring the skin-on-skin contact, his mind reeling from what had just happened.Â
This was strangely normal, no awkwardness or post-nut clarity hitting either of you. Your body lay against his with all of you pressed up against him like that was exactly where you belonged. He could feel the beating of your heart, strong and steady in your slumber, whereas his remained erratic and fast. This was more than just a taste that he had had of you; it was the entire deal, and the knowledge of it all had his morals scattered and all over the place, because now that he knew what he knew, well.
Caleb wasnât sure heâd be able to stop.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing.
At the time, you had justified sleeping with Caleb as research, something you needed to do in order to get it out of your system. You had assumed, albeit foolishly, that once it was over, youâd be able to go back to normal and continue with your life.
But research was an activity that required constant revisiting. Most of it had to be repeated over and over, especially if it included gathering data from an experiment. There was always a control, and then variations of the experiment would be conducted to record the differences in the outcomes.Â
At least, that was what you were telling yourself right now as you straddled him, his cock buried inside you.
Truthfully, you didnât know how this had happened. After that day, everything seemed to be normal, until he showed up at your dorm to help you study for a class he had also taken when he was in his sophomore year. One thing led to another, or rather, one heated touch later, you found yourself under him once again.
And then it happened again, and kept happening. Whispers of it being just for research mixed in with both of your moans became a melody you were more than used to. This was all for your book, after all. For the sake of accuracy and your integrity as a writer.
Definitely not because of how mindblowing sex with Caleb was.
And it absolutely was.Â
He had made you completely insatiable for him, and almost every time the two of you hung out in one of your dorms, it ended up with both of you in bed. Every other aspect of your friendship remained exactly the same, though, which left you considerably confused. He didnât look at or treat you any differently, poking fun and driving you up the wall, staying his usual reliable self.Â
Calebâs hand cradled the back of your head as he kissed you now, fingers entangled in your hair and pulling slightly. You moaned softly against his lips, grinding on him.
You were in one of his shirts, panties tugged to the side since he hadnât had the patience to take them off, needing to be inside of you as quickly as possible. Despite his earlier hurriedness, the pace the two of you settled on now was almost teasing, slowly rocking against him as you lazily chased the delicious high that you had gotten so used to experiencing these past two weeks.Â
âYouâre so gorgeous,â he muttered, more to himself than you, hand slipping under your shirt and cupping your breast, squeezing. When he caught you biting your lip, he tutted, letting go of your hair and using his thumb to release it from your teeth. âAh, ah, donât do that, youâll hurt yourself, pretty girl.â
âToo good,â you complained in that whiney, desperate tone he had gotten so addicted to. Pinching your nipple for good measure, he smirked up at you when you squealed.Â
Caleb quickly learned that he loved having you on top of him. Getting you all to himself like this was a privilege in itself, but fucking you while you wore his shirt? He was on cloud nine. He could feel himself throb in your sweet pussy that welcomed him so eagerly, in turn pulsing around him.Â
He cursed under his breath when you started to bounce, eager to get to the finish line with him. He sounded so good when he swore, youâd never understand it, just like how you wouldnât get how he looked so pretty with a flush decorating his face and sex-mussed hair.
Gripping his shoulders, you tipped your head back, giving him access to your neck. He had taken to marking you up as and when he pleased, new hickeys surprising you every time you glanced in the mirror. Despite his tendency to leave them in places everyone could very easily spot them, you didnât tell him to stop simply it just felt so good.Â
Everything with Caleb felt good, and not only did it feel good, but you felt completely safe. He was so attentive, doing the most to make sure you were never in any pain, often times focusing more on getting you off rather than himself.Â
He thrust up into you suddenly, his earlier impatience returning, and you cried out, falling into his chest. He held you, working you through it and dragging you closer and closer to release. One of your hands fell to his torso, tracing the hard lines of his abs and trailing downwards before your fingers found your clit and rubbed.
Shit. If having you ride him was good, being able to watch you touch yourself as you did was unbelievable. When you came, you came hard, and the feeling of it tipped him over the edge.Â
You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from.
You didnât bother moving, clinging to him even tighter like you couldnât bear to not be touching him in some way as you came down from your high. He smelled like sex, sweat, and that cologne of his that you loved. It was the reason you stole his clothes so much and why you were wearing his shirt even now.
Your first time with Caleb was the getaway drug, and now you were addicted to him, to having his hands caressing you all over and him whispering praises in your ear.Â
âHey there,â He chuckled, rubbing your back. âAll good?â
âGreat even,â You mumbled, sitting up properly before finally lifting yourself off of him. You failed to register how jelly-like your legs felt, promptly losing your balance. He caught you before you fell, grinning.Â
âCanât walk?â You could hear how smug he was without even having to look at him. It was then that you registered the burn in your thighs and huffed.Â
âDonât sound so proud about it.â
âYouâre no fun,â he pouted, leaving you to scoff as he helped you to your feet, following suit. âIâll help you clean up. Do you wanna watch the new episode after?âÂ
Ah yes. Of course, heâd start talking about anime after taking away your ability to stand. That had been the reason he had shown up at your dorm in the first place, but the moment he saw you wearing his shirt, it had quickly become an afterthought. Â
The whiplash you felt was indescribable, and you could only nod, letting him pick you up and carry you to the bathroom. After a quick shower and change of clothes, the two of you settled down with your laptop like nothing had happened, your head resting on his shoulder as you focused on the show.
Neither of you bothered to talk about your redefined friendship despite having sex regularly. It was justâŠ.a new addition. A benefit that you were both taking advantage of, nothing more and nothing less.Â
But even as you reminded yourself of that now, you found yourself doubting it.
There was something to be said about formal events.Â
You enjoyed getting dolled up as much as the next girl, but that was where the fun ended. Having to sit through the event was boring and not the way you liked to spend your Friday evenings. You would have much preferred staying in and catching up on some much-needed sleep.
The editor of your universityâs paper, Jenna, had organised an affair that was being held in one of the college halls. She had worked very hard on it, inviting several alumni who were all successful in the fields of journalism and writing back so that the current batch of students had the chance to make connections. It was open to the entire student body, but she had made it clear that everyone on the paper was obligated to attend.Â
Connections were what helped people get further in life. You were grateful for the opportunity to interact with industry professionals, but didnât understand why she had insisted on keeping it a black tie affair. That probably had something to do with keeping up appearances.Â
You stood off to the side, sipping on your cranberry juice from a cup that was made for something much more refined. So far, you had spoken to a couple of the guests, but seeing that you had been here for over an hour already, your social battery was slowly dying out. The dress you wore was a black number, floor length, form-fitting and plain except for the slit that reached up to a little above your knee. Perfect for an event like this, not too much and on power with what everyone else was wearing.Â
Still, it was a little overstimulating. You guzzled down the rest of your juice and placed the empty glass down on one of the tables.Â
âYouâre welcome, by the way.â
You spun on your heels immediately at that voice, eyes widening and settling on the culprit who stood two, maybe three steps away from you.Â
âCaleb?â You asked in disbelief, taking in his presence. He was wearing a suit.
âThe one and only,â he grinned, his hands stuffed in his pockets. âHere to rescue you from your boredom.â
âWhat are you even doing here?â To say this wasnât his scene would be an understatement. He didnât like wearing the whole suit getup, much preferring casual clothing. Hell, Caleb hadnât even attended his high school prom (though when you asked why, he would never give you a straight answer), opting to spend the night in with you instead.Â
He looked unfairly good. The collar of his shirt hid those lovely collarbones of his and reminded you of how you had bit down on them the other day, the bottom of it tucked into black slacks. He had even worn dress shoes, instead of the sneakers he so loved and a tie around his neck. The entire getup.
âI literally just told you why. To get you out of here. Are you hard of hearing now?â
You returned his jibe with an exasperated sound. âI meant here, at this thing.â
âOh. Well, you did mention it was open to anyone yesterday,â he shrugged, grabbing a glass of juice and sipping on it. âSo that editor of yours technically canât complain about me being here.âÂ
That was true. Still, you found yourself bewildered as you stared at him. He was here. For some reason, even though he was allowed to be here, it didnât make sense to you. You pressed your lips together and cocked your head to the side, studying him.Â
âSo you dressed up and came here.âŠonly to convince me to leave?â The notion sounded strange even to you. Why on earth would he do that? He finished up his drink and put it down next to your empty glass, taking a step closer to you. The simple movement had butterflies erupt in the pits of your stomach.
What the hell?
âStop thinking so much. Do you want to stay?â
You considered it. âNot really, no.â
âDo you enjoy arguing with me for no reason, woman?â he muttered dryly under his breath, his eyes catching on something over your head. âOn second thought, I think you should stay a little longer.â
Now you were just plain confused. One moment he was talking about saving you from boredom, and the next he was insisting you stay? Before you could undoubtedly start another argument just to spite him, he took you by your shoulders and spun you around, pointing in a certain direction. When you figured out what, or rather, who he was gesturing to, you couldnât hide your gasp.Â
âIsnât that the author you like?â
You could only nod dumbly. âRaymond.â Last year, you had a phase where you only read his books day in and day out, absorbing the stories he spun like a sponge. His books were the reason you had decided to start writing your own in the first place, inspired by his storytelling skills.Â
Caleb nudged your side gently, âGo.â
âHowââ you cut yourself off, looking up at him. âHow do you even remember that?â You werenât sure why this entire interaction with him was throwing you off so much, but you felt completely unbalanced. You hadnât spoken about Raymond or his work in a long time, so how did he know? He shrugged noncommittally.Â
âI know you.â He said it so plainly, like it was something trivial and basic, but his eyes bored into yours.Â
Had Caleb always looked at you with such quiet intensity?
He nudged your side gently, reminding you to move. Forcing yourself out of your stupor, you promised him you wouldnât take too much time and walked over, buzzing with excitement.
The conversation itself wasnât long, but it was insightful. He answered all your questions about the industry, and you even had the chance to share for appreciation for Raymond's work as well as ask him questions that you had about his novels. You gave him your utmost attention when he gave you advice, but when he started talking about his characters, your eyes and mind wandered.
Back to your best friend, who was waiting for you on the other end of the hall, leaning against one of the walls and scrolling through his phone. He didnât give a flying fuck about this event, but had still come here for your sake, even when you hadnât asked him to. He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and flashing you a small smile.
Oh.
You looked away and back at Raymond, nodding politely and tuning yourself back into the conversation. Internally, however, you were freaking out. Something was very wrong; that was the only reason you could conjure up at the moment for what was happening to you. How else could you explain the sudden sweatiness of your palms, or the odd, fluttery feeling in your stomach? Maybe it was the excitement you felt from meeting the author you loved so much, but even as you considered this possibility, you knew it wasnât the answer you were looking for.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
This could not be happening. You plastered a smile on your face as you tried to pay attention to whatever Raymond was talking about, but the damage was done. Your brain had never been one to let go of a single thought you had, especially ones that had to do with Caleb. He had a hold on you that no one else did, and why was that?
Because you liked Caleb.
The horrifying realisation hit you, startling you out of your rapidly spiralling thought process. Blinking, you realised Raymond was done speaking.Â
âThank you so much for your time,â You said, trying not to sound as troubled as you felt. The author smiled at you before turning to another student.Â
Swallowing the newfound lump in your throat, you turned around and walked back to Caleb. This was bad. Having sex with him was already vaguely immoral and probably something that shouldnât have happenedâ and shouldnât keep happening like it didâ but having feelings for him? That was out of the question.
âGood talk?â He asked, slipping his phone into his pocket. The genuine interest he had in your excitement made the entire situation worse. Why were you noticing all this now, of all times? It wasnât like he had suddenly turned into someone considerate. He had always been this way; it was written into his DNA.Â
You realised he had even tried to tame his hair for today. âIt was great.â
âIâm glad. Now I can steal you away from this place.â His eyes were lit up with mischief, just like they did when the two of you were younger and he did something he wasnât supposed to. Ever the rebel, this one.Â
You felt a little guilty. All this effort for you? It seemed completely useless. âOkay, but Caleb, seriously, you didnât have to do this.âÂ
He frowned. âDidnât have to do what?â
âThis!â You waved in his general direction and then gestured around. âI mean, you donât even like wearing a suit, but here you are. Itâs not like it's compulsory for you like it is for me. You could be doing anything else.â You were rambling, you knew, but it was hard to stop. He rolled his eyes.Â
âHas that stopped me before?â
You paused. âWhat do you mean?â
âI show up to your newsroom even though Iâm sure Jenna wants to castrate me for breaking the rules so much.â He raised an eyebrow. âI attended that lecture of yours when you had a presentation. You know Iâm here because I want to be.â You knew he said stuff like this all the time, you always were the recipient of his support. This was normal.
But it didnât feel normal. For fucks sake, this was the boy you had grown up with. He had seen you fall off your bike, fail tests and puke your guts out when drunk. In each of those situations, he had also been the one to pick you up and bandage your wounds, help you study and hold your hair back for you.Â
Did he think it was an obligation now?Â
âYouâŠ.you shouldnât feel like you have to do that.â You said slowly, but he didnât let you continue.
âOh, please. Everyone knows that where you go, I go too.â He flicked your forehead, immediately receiving a glare in return. âWeâre likeâŠâŠ.â He stopped for a moment, eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing like they always did when he was thinking hard about something. Then he snapped his fingers. âWeâre like those yoghurt-granola snack packs!â
You stared at him blankly. âWhat?â
âYou know.â He decided to explain his stupid analogy, as if your head wasnât muddled enough. âThose things you can buy at the grocery store. The small yoghurt tubs that have a container filled with granola on top of them? Like, theyâre both okay separately, but much better when together. People buy those packs for a reason.â He slipped his phone back into his pockets and beamed at you. âWeâre like that.â
Oh my god. That barely made any sense. You werenât sure if you were mortified because of that terrible explanation or because it hadnât put a damper on your newfound feelings for him. âYouâre such a fucking dork.â
He feigned offence, holding his hand over his heart. âExcuse me? You mean cute, right?â
Right. Wait, no, you didnât. Ugh. âI thinkx ridiculous.â
âAre you coming with me or not, Pips?â
âBut Jenna insisted-â
He rubbed a hand over his face in annoyance before fixing you with a droll look. âWould you rather be here or be with me?â
Be with you.Â
You ignored the way your stomach flipped. You didnât have the time or the mental stability to process everything that was happening to you right now. The logical part of your brain swooped in, telling you that you were just confused because of the sex. Yes, that was it. You did not have feelings for Caleb Xia.
Sighing, you relented. âYou.â Saying that didnât mean anything, after all. Nothing about the two of you meant anything, so there was no reason for you to be freaking out, even if it sounded like you had just confessed. A wide grin made a show on his face when he realised he had won, and he tilted his head towards the exit.
âFinally. Wanna get out of here?â
âJust to be clear, this is not what I meant when I asked if you wanted to get out of there.â
You huffed out a soft laugh, fingers curling around his tie as you tugged him closer. âNo? Could have sworn you planned for us to end up in a janitor's closet.â
Caleb bit back a laugh of his own, knowing that making too much noise would get both of you in trouble. After leaving the event, somehow, his guiding hand on your hip had turned into the two of you making out in the hallway. You blamed the mess that your head was in for not realising what a bad idea that was immediately, but once you did, you did the most responsible thing you could think of.
And dragged him into the janitor's closet that was close by.
Naturally.
He braced a hand over your head on the cabinet that you were leaning against, essentially caging you in as he dipped his head to kiss you again. âPretty sure that was youâre doing.â
âExcuse me? Youâre the one who kissed me first!â You protested against his mouth, but could hardly complain when he kissed you like it was a relief to do so. Honestly, he was probably the best kisser you had ever experienced.
That must have been the reason for your spiralling thoughts. That and the amazing sex that you were so weak to.Â
Yep. Thatâs all. Anyone could be susceptible to such things.
âCan you blame me? Have you seen yourself in this dress?â His free hand slipped into the slit at your knee, slowly dragging the rest of the dress up until it was bunched up around your waist. âYouâre stunning.â
He couldnât stop kissing you. He knew he shouldnât have kissed you out there like he had the right to, because he was well aware of the unspoken rules of this arrangement, but he couldnât help it. If getting too comfortable with whatever you had going on with him was a crime, a sin, then he was a criminal of the highest order. The worst part? He didnât feel a shred of guilt.
But you were wearing that fucking cherry lip gloss, and god knnows he had waited long enough to taste it.
Warmth spread over your chest first before it rushed to the apex between your legs. The control he seemed to have over your body was truly astounding. In his hands, you were putty.Â
âYou donât look so bad yourself,â You whispered back, loosening the knot of his tie and pulling it off completely, dropping it to the side. âThis suits you.â
His lips twitched. âThe suit suits me?â
âShut up and kiss me, loser.â
He complied, grinning against your mouth as he pulled you into another earth-shattering kiss that did positively nothing to soothe your frayed nerves. Stubbornly, you pushed down the feelings bubbling around the confines of your heart, refusing to give them any attention if you could help it.Â
You gripped the front of his suit jacket, helping him peel it off his shoulders and letting it join his tie on the floor. Without warning, he pressed a knee in between your legs, and you nearly melted against him.Â
Sex was great. Sex with him was phenomenal. This was just the lust getting to you.Â
Caleb gripped the leg that your slit now exposed and lifted it, propping it up against his waist. He trailed his fingers against your inner thigh, his touch feather-light yet scorching at the same time. When his index and middle finger pressed against your clothed cunt, you were glad for the hot he had on you, pressed up against the cabinet, because you would have surely buckled if not.Â
âWow,â he mumbled amusedly, pushing your panties to the side and teasing your wetness. âYou really like the suit, huh?â
The fact that this type of interaction was now commonplace should have been the first sign that things had gone too far.Â
Usually, you couldnât think straight when he touched you like this, but today it was all a mix of feeling way too much and dangerous, fleeting thoughts that made you want to tear your hair out.Â
âMaybe,â You peppered kisses along the column of his throat, determined to get out of your head and focus only on how good he could make you feel. Pleasure and person were entirely separate entities, and you would make sure it stayed that way.
âSuit kink.â
âNever say that again.âÂ
He only smirked, plunging his fingers into you. All you could do was cry out as you gripped the front of his shirt, momentarily forgetting that you were supposed to be quiet. Quickly, his palm covered your mouth, muffling any further sounds you could make. âCanât have you being loud here, princess. What if someone catches us?â
The way you practically gushed the moment he suggested someone catch you in such a compromising position was downright embarrassing. Raising an eyebrow, he leaned even lower and whispered. âOh? You like that?â
You whined against his hand, cheeks flushing furiously. You began fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt, and he chuckled lowly.Â
âFor someone who likes my suit so much, you sure are trying to get rid of it quickly.âÂ
âFor someone who was dying to kiss me two minutes ago, you talk too much.â You rocked your hips against his hand even as you sassed him back. He moved his hand from your mouth into your hair, carding it through gently, tugging slightly to tilt your head back for him so he could kiss you again, swallowing every sound you made.Â
No one could sue you for being attracted to a hot man. That was just biology.
You could feel the familiar tightening of your core, signalling your impending crash. You broke away from the kiss, licked your lips and palmed him over his pants, earning a hiss of pleasure in return.Â
âDonâtâ donât do that,â He choked out, and you smirked triumphantly, refusing to relent on your movements. Batting your eyelashes, you stared up at him through them in faux innocence, unaware that it affected him so much more than you thought.Â
âJust fuck me already.â You whined, half out of desperation for him and party because now you needed him to fuck you to prove to yourself that this was just sex. To be able to brush away all the compliments he dropped that seemed to go straight to your head, to get the intoxicaing fucking way he kissed you out of your head and away from further dissection. To stop the slow-burning feeling of yearning that was growing inside of you for the boy you had grown up with.
Because you couldnât possibly have feelings for him. You shouldnât.
âFuck, okay,â He slipped his fingers out of you and unbuttoned his pants, releasing his cock. You would never get used to the sight of it, precum already leaking out of the tip; the image itself sending shivers down your spine in anticipation of him.Â
He pressed back against you, grinding it against your fluttering pussy, going right back to making out with you. It was like he was devouring you whole, claiming every part of you like it had always belonged to him. You could feel yourself get carried away again, forgetting that this was just something he and you did now.Â
And then he froze.Â
âShit,â he muttered. âI donât have a condom.âÂ
You were too far gone to even care anymore. Cupping his face, you pulled him into another messy kiss, beyond delighted when he moaned, still rubbing his length through your slick folds with a want that rivalled your own. âPut it in.â
Caleb gritted his teeth. âPips, thatsââ
âIâm on birth control,â you kissed his jaw. âAnd I trust you. Iâve always trusted you.â
That was undeniably the truth. He was the one person in the world that you didnât have to think twice about when it came to anything, no matter what the situation. He blinked down at you, pupils blown wide with desire but somehow still so focused on you, holding your sides so gently as he hesitated, silently dealing with the conflict in his head.Â
âIâŠ..are you sure?â
Oh, this sweet, considerate boy. How could you not love him? The thought was instantly forced to be a passing one as you push it away, refusing to acknowledge it.Â
âCaleb, if you donât stick your dick inside of me right now, I will cut it off.â The threat earned you a winded chuckle from his end, the strain in his face from holding back so painfully evident. Realising he needed another push, you looked into his eyes, bucking your hips against him and licking your lips as you purred. âNow, fuck me.â
There was a reason you phrased it like that. Crude and so filthy, the words set out a challenge for him. If there was one thing you knew about Caleb, it was that he could never back down from a challenge. His eyes darkened as he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them together above your head with one hand, positioning his cock at your entrance.
Without another warning, he slammed into you, once again covering your mouth to soften the obscenely loud broken moan that left you. He pressed his fingers against your lips, smirking mischievously.Â
âThis is what you wanted, hmm?â He groaned in your ear as he fucked you hard, making it increasingly difficult for you to stay silent. You knew he was doing it on purpose, remembering how he had briefly confessed that he liked it when you were vocal, but here? Here it was risky and stupid, and you couldnât believe how into it you were.
âYes,â You gasped, biting his hand at a particularly hard thrust, doing your utmost best to keep all your noises to a minimum. He was just so good, and the feeling of him bare inside of you was almost too much for you.Â
âGod baby, you feel incredible,â he panted, never relenting on his pace for even a second. His breathing was heavy in your ear, almost pained, along with soft grunts that only succeeded in making you even wetter.
âSo b-big,â you could only whimper, too caught up in it all to speak properly.Â
He had well and truly ruined you for anyone else. Your heart and mind were at war with each other, but your body was perfectly content with how he held you like this. With nothing between you, he fucked you raw, and it felt so much more intimate than you thought it would have. You could feel everything, hyperaware of every touch and kiss and overwhelming drag of his cock in your sobbing cunt.Â
For a moment, you almost wished it wasnât this good. If only you had never succumbed to your desires that day, maybe you wouldnât have found yourself in this position, fighting so desperately against feelings that felt so wrong and right at the same time. All this was supposed to have been a temporary fix, a means to an end. Not the start of something you could never see through.Â
When both of you came, it was intense and devastating, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. You could feel him fill you up with his cum and as you went limp, one last terrifying realisation making itself known to you.Â
It wasnât just sex.Â
A shattered breath escaped you at the revelation, and you shut your eyes, trying to reason with yourself one last time, but to no avail. Caleb surrounded you completely, holding you up upright with so much care, so deliberately, that it made total sense why you felt this way. With unending affection, he pulled you against him and kissed the crown of your head.Â
âThats my girl.â
Except you werenât. And it would be better for everyone if you remembered that.
You were writing.Â
It had been so long since you had been able to write like this, but the ability had come rushing back to you all of a sudden. Your fingers flew across your keyboard as you steadily typed, focused and satisfied at the work you were producing for the first time in months.
It was two in the morning when you finally snapped out of your concentrated state, yawning as you shut your laptop. Stretching, you quietly padded to your bathroom to get ready for the night and go to bed. You couldnât believe you had written almost half of the sex scene when even the prospect of starting it had sounded so unachievable not too long ago.Â
Courtesy of Caleb, you had plenty of material to pull from.
You splashed water on your face, hoping the cool temperature of it would help you stop thinking about him. To say you were frustrated with your feelings was an understatement; you outright despised them.Â
This was your fault, you knew damn well it was. If you were going to get a fuckbuddy, it should have been someone who you werenât so close to, someone you had no personal connections with. Anyone but the best friend you've had since you were seven years old, who you knew like the back of your hand, who knew you like it was second nature to do so.
Gripping the sides of the sink, you shut your eyes, grounding yourself to the moment. Part of you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How on earth did you let yourself get in such a predicament?
You needed it to stop. For these confusing feelings to leave before things got even more complicated than they already were. Somehow, you needed to forget about them.
But how could you possibly do that? How were you supposed to forget the deliberate way he kissed you, or how good he made you feel when he looked at you that way? How were you supposed to get the scent of his cologne out of your sheets and closet, or pretend like you didnât know what it was like to be touched by him?Â
How on earth were you supposed to get over being in love with him?
You didnât even notice him walking in.Â
Writing for your book again meant that you had fallen behind quite a bit when it came to the work you had due for the paper. As a result, you had to stay behind and work late on the articles you had to present to Jenna, stuck at your desk in the newsroom when it was almost nine-thirty at night.
âThought Iâd find you here.âÂ
Your eyes flickered up to find Caleb standing in front of your desk, one hand stuffed in his pockets and the other holding a bag of takeout from a diner that both of you liked. He gave you a soft, knowing smile that made your mouth go dry.Â
âHey,â you straightened up in your seat, knowing that your posture tended to get worse the longer you wrote for. âYou were looking for me?â
âNot exactly.â He grabbed a chair and parked it next to yours, sitting down. âI just figured youâd be working and forget to have dinner.â
âOh.â
He was right, and you would have been embarrassed if this hadnât happened before. Wordlessly, he began unpacking the takeout he had gotten. âTake a break for ten minutes and eat, okay?âÂ
This was just like him. Knowing exactly when you needed to be taken care of while being well aware you could do just fine by yourself. You bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him, apprehensively nodding slowly.Â
âOkay.â
You grabbed a fry and began to chew, turning to face him and away from the computer. He looked the same as always, unkempt hair and all. It was like he knew you were tired and a little out of it today without you even having to tell him, falling into a comfortable silence as he ate with you.Â
There wasnât another soul in this world that knew you so intimately. In the past, this wouldnât have scared you, because you were so used to him and the ways he fit into your life so perfectly. Now, it frightened you to no end, reminding you of how much you had to lose when it came to Caleb. He was the most precious person in your life, which made it so much easier to fear losing him.Â
If there were rules when it came to having a best friend, you were certain you had broken all of them. Number one: Donât sleep with your best friend. Already off to a rough start with that one, it seemed, but there was nothing you could do about it anymore. Number two: Donât fall for your best friend. You doubted you even needed to go over the rest of the rules. Breaking those two had caused you enough damage.Â
Finishing up his food, he took a sip of his soda, noticing you were watching him intently. For the first time in a long time, he couldnât quite decipher the look in your eyes. It almost felt as if you were hiding it from him on purpose.
He tilted the soda cup to you, silently asking if you wanted some of his. You leaned closer and took the straw in your mouth, taking a couple of sips before looking away.Â
Something was off. âIs everything okay?â
You pressed your lips together and gave him a half smile. âYeah, everything's fine.â
Caleb narrowed his eyes at you, reaching out and propping a finger under your chin, lifting your face so you were forced to look at him.Â
âPipsqueak,â He mumbled, dropping his gaze to your mouth for a split second, but it was enough to make you feel like you were set on fire. Like you were made of porcelain, he swiped his thumb next to your lower lip, rubbing away a stray crumb that had stuck there from your food. Then he looked at your mouth again, subconsciously leaning towards you as if he was about to kiss you.Â
Immediately, you jerked out of his touch. Guilt ate away at you when you noticed how he reacted to this, the flash of hurt that passed over his face as he frowned. As much as you hated being the cause of it, the way he was looking at you has started to inexplicably hurt. You were unable to stop the tenderness that unfolded in your chest anymore. It was potent, too real to fight against.Â
âWe should stop.â
The words were out of your mouth before you could think about them any further, inciting confusion. He retracted his hand, the corners of his furrowed eyebrows tilting upwards. âDinner? Because weâre pretty much done with that anyway.â
You could have taken advantage of his confusion and put this conversation off for a while, but you knew that letting this go on any longer would end up being torturous.Â
âNo, Caleb,â You looked away, trying to ignore the way your throat seemed to close in on itself. âIâm not talking about dinner.â
âThen what are you talking about?â His voice took on that impossibly soft tone it did when he was trying to understand how you were feeling to properly help or sympathise with you. It was something he did when you were younger and got hurt, and he wanted to make sure you knew you werenât dealing with it alone.Â
Sucking in a breath of air, you looked down at your hands in your lap, playing with your fingers. âI think we should stop having sex.â
A beat passed. You could feel the weight of his stare on you. âOkay.â
You werenât sure where to go from there, your heart pounding within your ribcage like it was trying to escape. The light from your computer felt too harsh and the ticking of the clock hands was unnaturally loud in the stiff silence that settled over the two of you. Clearing his throat, he spoke again.Â
âDidâŠDid I do something?â
âNo,â the caution yet dejected way he said it made you blurt that out quickly, refusing to let him think something was completely wrong. âYou didnât. At all. Itâs justâŠ..â You trailed off, biting your tongue and regretting bringing this up already. âIâŠ.I wrote the scene.â
âThe scene?â
âThe sex scene. In my book.â The awkwardness in your cadence is foreign to your ears and his. You had never been so apprehensive around him because you had never had a reason to. This was a first you despised vehemently, scorning the way you had to phrase everything so delicately, as if you didnât, the damage caused would be irreparable.Â
âRight.â Now he had an unreadable look in his eyes too, matching yours.Â
âRight,â you echoed softly. âSo there's no reason for anymoreâŠ...research.â Because research had spiralled into forgetting your regular roles when it came to each other. Research had made you aware of feelings that had been dormant your entire life and should have stayed that way.Â
In an ironic twist of fate, you had literally fucked around and found out.Â
âI see.âÂ
You didnât know what possessed you to keep talking when it was so obvious that both him and you wanted nothing more than to move on from this conversation. You risked a glance at him to find him aimlessly tracing the edge of his soda cup, eyes trained on the straw. âSo we can go back to being just friends. Regular friends.âÂ
The clarification made you wince. When his eyes met yours again, you were surprised to find something different in the way he looked at youâ those dark purple depths swirling with an intensity that superseded their usual levels, startling you.Â
âWeâll always be friends, Y/n.â
Caleb didnât call you pipsqueak. A minute detail that shouldnât have shaken you at all, and yet here you were stuck on it in spite of the fact that he had just agreed to being friends again. Or rather, the normal definition of friends, because you werenât ever anything more than that. You swallowed, turning back to your computer.
âOkay. I should get back to working on this article.â
Your dismissal of him was quiet but obvious. The air had started to get suffocating and you needed as much space from him as you could get until you sorted out the mess in your head, one that was your cross to bear. Your fault.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him nod and get to his feet, turning to leave, but hesitating for just a moment.Â
It was only when he exited the newsroom that you realised it wasnât any easier to breathe without him there. It felt even harder now, like someone had their foot over your chest and was putting all their weight on it, letting gravity do the rest of the work. You pushed yourself away from your desk, the wheels under your chair smoothly rolling away until the back of it hit the wall behind you.Â
Even the impact of that wasnât enough to shock you out of your misery. Surely, love wasnât supposed to feel as cruel as it did right now, like claws sinking into your skin and making you bleed. It shouldnât have felt wrong, but you knew that it was. Perhaps this was retribution for allowing yourself to indulge in something that was so clearly off-limits to you.Â
A familiar pressure built up behind your eyes as you turned resentful. The sting of your sorrow manifested as tears welled up and caught in your lower lashes. You shut your eyes, but not before those tears slid down your face, cementing the bitter, indisputable reality of your heartbreak.
Caleb stayed away.Â
He had known damn well that whatever was between the two of you wasnât forever. It wasnât even real, solely for the sake of your writing and the book you were so proud of. It was his fault for getting caught up in it all and expecting you to never call it off, to stay in that limbo with him forever.
Saying no to you was something he wasn't capable of. Not when he was ten and you were eight, and you wanted the last piece of cake even though it was his favourite flavour. Not when he was fifteen and you used to beg him to let you wear his shirts because you liked how oversized they were on you. Not when you would give him puppy eyes and sweetly ask him to cook those braised chicken wings you loved so much.Â
And not when you needed help with writing about sex.
Even if it went against all his morals and everything he had forced himself to believe for the past twelve years he had known you. He had held himself together around you for as long as he could remember, hands to himself and thoughts strictly friendly. Caleb was used to the best friend role. He was good at playing it, even when the script pained him to recite, he did so anyway with a smile on his face.
Because smiling back at him was you. It was always you, with your bright eyes and angelic laughter.Â
Caleb had accepted this role when he was only nine years old and had stuck to it ever since. He let it consume him, living in ignorant bliss as he silenced the pleas of his heart and what it wanted, no, begged for.Â
How was he supposed to know where to go from here? The script had deviated too much for him to return to its safety. He knew how your lip gloss tasted, sweet and inviting and maddening, just like everything else about you.Â
So he stayed away from you and your cherry lip gloss, hoping the marks it had left all over him would fade.
It had been almost two weeks since Caleb last set foot in the newsroom.Â
Jenna was overjoyed and Tara was suspicious. The latter asked you where your âboyfriendâ was, to which you refused to look at her as you muttered the reminder: heâs not my boyfriend. It felt like you were reminding yourself more than her, lacking any of your usual annoyance.Â
You supposed this was your fault as well. It wasnât like you had made any effort to reach out either, stuck in your pathetic little cycle of self-pity and fear. You felt his absence, though, cutting deep into you and leaving you with a Caleb-sized hole in your life. The last time you experienced something like this was when he left for university for the first time and you were finishing up your senior year, suddenly having to deal with not having him around for months on end.Â
At least he was calling you back then, and when you joined him at university, it never happened again. You hadnât realised what a big part of your life he was until he was missing from it.Â
God, you missed him.
You missed that stupid, smug chuckle of his when he knew you were getting riled up because of something he said, and his terrible sense of humour. The smirk on his face when you were losing an argument, and how heâd stick his tongue out when he was concentrating on something. Hell, you missed the sound of his voice and the comfort it brought you.Â
After you finished your work for the day, you walked out of the newsroom and down the hallways of the university building. The cool evening air swept around you, making you think of one of Caleb's jackets that was still in your dorm from the last time he had been, draped over your desk chair. You almost wished you had it with you right now.Â
Your feet carried you to the dining hall, reminding you of your need to eat through the wall of your troubled thoughts. It was not so much hunger as it was a necessity. Your appetite had been less than robust these past few days, your emotions weighing you down in more ways than one. You didnât have him to remind you to eat or sleep, or run like a normal human being.
Grabbing an apple to appease your stomach, you bit into it and looked around, mentally going over everything else you had to do that day. Start an essay you had due the next week, beg the members of your group to do their parts of the presentation that was worth a whopping thirty percent of your grade and polish the last scene you had written for your book.Â
It turned out that your turbulent emotional state had translated into you being more productive than ever, throwing yourself into your studies and writing like you had never before. Anything to avoid thinking about him and what you felt. An unhealthy coping mechanism for sure, but it worked for you.Â
Kind of.Â
Unable to stomach anything else, you tossed the core of the apple into a nearby dustbin and left the dining hall, eager to make it back to your room. You hadnât slept very well lately, and you wanted to get all your work out of the way before crashing. Sleeping, you discovered, was another excellent course of action to take when you wanted to avoid facing something, and at least it wasnât downright unhealthy. The dark circles under your eyes would certainly thank you.Â
When you turned the corner, he was there.
Caleb stood there, just a few paces away from you in all his six-two glory. His back was turned to you, but you knew it was him, deep in conversation with his friend, Gideon. You were unable to do anything but stare, your pulse picking up in speed at the sight of him. You wondered if the chasm he had created between the two of you had affected him as much as it had you.Â
When he bid farewell to Gideon and turned, you panicked. When he saw you, you remained rooted to the spot, watching as his steps faltered and came to a stop. He looked almost as tired as you felt, dawdling briefly before speaking.
âHey.âÂ
Hey. Hey? Was that all he could say after refusing to look your way for over a week? Your apprehension flared up into anger, and you took three furious steps towards him, your docile stare melting into a glare.Â
âYou sure talk a lot of shit about keeping you informed for someone who has been avoiding me.â
He winced. âI wasnâtâŠ.avoiding you.â
âOh really? Could have fooled me.â You scowled at him as you took another step forward. You were pissed, and rightly so, but it stemmed more from how hurt you felt rather than any genuine anger.Â
Caleb didnât bother to meet your eyes, opting to look off to the side instead. That stung a little more than you cared to admit. âIâm sorry,â he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to another. âHave you eaten yet?â Barely five minutes around you, and he had already jumped into trying to take care of you. It was so infuriatingly like him.Â
Every time he didnât want to face something, he would deflect and redirect the conversation. Your years together had taught you well, making it impossible for him to sidestep you even if he tried. You could tell he was avoiding you even when you were right in front of him.Â
âStop changing the subject.â
You watched as his jaw tightened and relaxed, something he did when he was conflicted. All his tells were so laughably obvious to you, and yet you couldnât make heads or tails of how he was acting right now, so forcibly distant and detached, like being close to you was painful. Your eyes burned.
âDo you hate me?â You asked, hating how your voice suddenly sounded so feeble. His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and defiant.Â
âI could never hate you.â The finality in the way he said it told you he was telling the truth, and yet, you couldnât help but fall victim to the doubt creeping into your mind. He was looking right at you nowâ except he wasnât really. It was more like he was looking through you.Â
âThenâŠthen why?â You whispered, taking another tentative step forward. The space that both of you created, consciously or not, was unbearable. You just wanted things to go back to normal, was that so much to ask for?
âI donât hate you. You just donât understand.âÂ
âThen make me understand!â You threw your hands up in the air in exasperation, wondering what the hell you had to do to make this conversation go somewhere, because right now it just felt like you were running in circles. âCaleb, please, just tell me why youâre avoiding me, because you are.â
He knew he was and hadnât a single excuse, other than the reason he swore you never burdened you with. You were looking at him so pleadingly, grasping at straws to figure him out, but for the first time in his life, he found himself unable to give you an answer. Instead, his throat constricted, his anxiety keeping him silent.Â
âItâs my fault, isnât it?â Your face crumbled, and upon witnessing it, so did his heart. Your lower lip trembled like a leaf on a windy day, and you bit down on it to stop it from doing so, doing your best to stay composed. Running a hand through your hair, you let out a shaky sigh. âI knew it, I should have neverâ we shouldnât have slept together. That should have never happened and now everything is fucked up, and its all because of me.âÂ
Yes. No. The answer wasnât as straightforward as he needed it to be, and it paralysed him. The anguish you felt was on display for him and anyone who happened to walk by you to see, plain as day, as it twisted your features. It felt as if he had been stabbed in the gut when you backed away from him.
Turning away, you walked off. You had ruined things, you were sure of it, and it killed you. Once again, you let the rift between him and you grow with every step you took to escape the crash you had been responsible for.Â
A hand on your wrist. You gasped as he caught you, spinning you around and forcing you to face him once again.Â
Caleb had followed you into the gardens.Â
âDo you regret it?â
The question cut through you, and you gaped at him. The fervour you were so used to seeing in him suddenly returned, burning brightly in his eyes as he pinned you in place with them, his grip on your wrist never letting up. Question for question, with neither of you getting the answers you wanted.Â
You scoffed, rapidly blinking away the tears that you felt coming on. âIf it's the reason things are weird between us, then yes! I do regret it. I need my best friend, Caleb. I need you.âÂ
How could you not need him? He was your constant, the one person who had been by your side through thick and thin. You needed him in your life, by your side, in whatever way you were allowed to, even if it wasnât what you truly wanted anymore.Â
He let go of your wrist. âI canât do it.â
Your biggest fear was coming true right in front of your very eyes, and you hadnât the faintest idea of how to stop it. It was taking form, bleeding into existence. You were losing him.Â
âYou canât do what?â
âI canât be your friend. I just canât.â He shook his head, shutting his eyes like he couldnât bear to look at you.Â
Your voice comes out weak. Small. âBut you said weâll always be friends.â
âWell, I lied, okay! I canât be your friend, not whenââ He sucked in a breath, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to reign himself in, stopping his outburst before it could happen. It wasnât fair to you, none of this was, but he was at his breaking point. âI could do it before, but not anymore.â
âWhy?â You whispered, those tears you had so valiantly fought off surging back. Once again, you felt like you had been trampled on, pinned down by a merciless gravity that had no regard for your need to breathe. You werenât sure there was a reason to fight against it anymore.Â
He looked up at the darkening sky, deflating. Staying away from you hadnât made it any betterâ if anything, it had only made it worse, his yearning to be beside you bubbling to an all-time high. There wasnât a point in hiding anymore, not when it was turning out to be detrimental rather than soothing.Â
âBecause,â he paused, peering up at the cloudy sky. He couldnât see the stars. âI canât go back to being your friend when Iâve tasted you. How am I supposed to act like Iâve never kissed you when Iâve had you in my bed? To pretend like I donât know how it feels to have you like that? God, Y/n, I canât do it.
Caleb, whom you had viewed as strong and untouchable all your life. Caleb, whom you had endlessly looked up to, sounded almost tortured, like it pained him to even have to tell you this.Â
âWhat are you saying?â
You hoped you didnât look as terrified as you sounded. It felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from beneath you, but the ground underneath it was falling apart too, leaving you to stumble around and try to find your footing amidst the cracks that remained. If you fell now, you werenât sure youâd ever be able to get up.
But that was the thing, wasnât it? You had already fallen, and hard.Â
Caleb was stripped of his usual self-assuredness and confident smile. He was laid bare there in front of you, fixing you with a look that was so pained it tore through you.Â
âIâm in love with you.â
The confession ripped through you, although you didnât register it at first. Those five words felt so improbable to have been said by him to you of all people that the only thing you could feel was disbelief. It just didnât make sense. Why would something you longed to hear so badly be said with such sadness?Â
He mistook your stunned silence for aversion. He should have stopped there, given up and walked away, but now that he had finally, finally let it out, it was hard to stop. It was like a dam had broken within him; everything he had ever kept to himself when it came to you rushed out all at once.Â
âIâm in love with you, Y/n,â he said again, scoffing slightly at himself. No nicknames, just your name spoken in that reverent tone, like you were a divine being he was a devout follower of. âAnd it kills me because I know youâll never see me as anything more than a best friend. Youâve made that very clear, and I never want to overstep, so I stayed away from you.âÂ
âCalebââ
He didnât let you cut in. âI could do it when I didnât know what it felt like to have you as something more than friends. The moment we crossed that line, it was all over for me. I would be your friend until I died if I didnât know.â His hands were shaking, but they stayed by his sides, fingers curled into frustrated fists as he rambled.Â
âIââ
âBut I canât, Pips. I canât do it anymore. I canât be your best friend when Iâve loved you my entire life.â And youâre falling all over again, gravity pulling you down, down, down as something unfurled in your chest. âSo please justââ
âGoddamnit Caleb, would you just shut up for one fucking minute!?â
You hadnât meant to snap, but he was seriously to piss you off, going on and on without giving you the chance to speak your mind. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut, preparing himself for the inevitable rejection he had imagined too many times to count in his head. You, on the other hand, thought you were going to faint, overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. It was everything you had convinced yourself was impossible.
And yetâŠ
You kept your eyes locked onto his as you closed the distance between the two of you, so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him, combating the chill in the evening air. Swallowing, you asked.Â
âYouâre in love with me?â
He clenched his jaw and nodded. He knew what the consequences were, he was ready for them. It was about time he faced the truth anyway.Â
What he didnât expect was for you to start laughing.Â
You clamped a hand over your mouth as incredulous laughter left you, eyes practically sparkling. Oddly enough, it sounded a little watery, like you were crying at the same time.
And then he realised you were, in fact, crying, tears streaming down your face. Alarmed, he stepped forward and cupped your face, instinctively wiping them away with the pads of his thumbs. This did nothing to dampen your hysterical laughter as you leaned into his touch.Â
âWhat the fuck?â He muttered, concern overtaking his previous, heartsick expression. âAre you dying or something?â
âOr something,â you managed to get out, gripping his arms, âWeâre so stupid.â
âThatâŠ..okay, Iâm officially confused. And a little scared.âÂ
âCaleb,â you whispered once you stopped giggling, lethally soft. You looked up at him adoringly, eyes shining and tinged slightly red from your tears. âIâm in love with you, too.â
He froze, mouth falling open. He didnât have to say anything, though, because honestly, he had said enough. It was your turn now.Â
You leaned further into his touch, nuzzling your cheek against his palm. âI think Iâve loved you for a long time, but I only realised afterâŠ.after everything that happened between us.â You flushed, trying to word it as delicately as possible. âAnd I drove myself crazy because I thought youâd never see me that wayââ
âIâve always seen you that way.â He breathed out, those captivating eyes of his trained on you in wonder. Butterflies came to life in your stomach.Â
ââ So I called it off. I said we needed to stop because I was so scared Iâd lose you.â
By the time you finished, you were both staring at each other wide-eyed. His grip on you tightened, one hand falling to your waist as he tugged you closer.Â
âYou love me?â
âI love you,â you nodded. âIt just took me a while to figure it out.âÂ
âPipsqueak.â You had never been more grateful than you were right then to hear that stupid petname. âOh my god, we are stupid.â
Without another word, Caleb pulled you into a kiss. You reciprocated instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck as you smiled against his lips, unable to contain yourself anymore. He kissed you like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do, holding you like you were precious, which to him, you undoubtedly were. It was your first proper kiss with him without any pretence or excuse surrounding it, and you couldnât have asked for more.Â
Chuckling when you dissolved into more giddy giggles, he wiped away any stray tears from your face and rested his forehead against yours. After all these years waiting and hoping that youâd feel the same way, he knew heâd never let you go now.Â
âI love you, too.â It was a relief to say out loud and to your face, coming out of hiding and letting the truth of his feelings sit out in the light. You pecked his lips again and hugged him, revelling in his warmth and the delight of your feelings being returned. Your best friend loved you back, and everything in the world made sense again.Â
âDonât be my best friend,â You mumbled fondly, cheek against his shoulder as you laid out your final request. âJust be mine.â
He smiled, an expression so dazzling youâd never forget it. âIâll always be yours.â
When Caleb looked back at the sky, he could see the stars.
âAre you done?â
âShh.â
You rolled your eyes, flopping onto the pile of plushes on your bed as you pulled out your phone and went through your messages. To be fair, it had barely been two minutes since you handed him your laptop, but you were impatient, wanting to know what he thought as soon as possible.
Calebâs eyes were focused on the screen as he read, humming occasionally as he scrolled through the scene. If anyone had told you a year ago that youâd be letting him read a part of your writing, let alone a sex scene of all things, you would have either laughed in their face or had a mental breakdown.
Yet here you were. Life sure had a sense of humour.Â
Finally, after an agonising ten minutes, he spoke. âWow.â
âIs it good?â
He shut your laptop and put it back on your desk carefully, before walking over to where you were. Then, he dropped himself onto the bed as well, purposely caging you in his arms and making sure you were trapped under his weight. Squealing, you hit his arm playfully.Â
âCaleb!â
Your boyfriend laughed mischievously, lifting his head so you could see the smirk that curled on his lips. âIt was good. Very good.â
You sighed in relief. âThank god.â
âSo I must be really good in bed, huh?âÂ
There it was. You groaned as you tried to push him off of you, even though you knew it was a futile task. âDonât even try, you smug asshole.â
âWhat?â He asked, dripping in faux innocence. âI mean, you did use me for research purposes. Is it not a fair assumption to make?â He was so proud of it, and knew damn well that the entire sex scene he had just read had been falicitated because of him. Every part of it had been pulled from things the two of you had done, the thought of which made your skin heat up and your cheeks burn.Â
âYouâre so annoying,â you huffed, giving up on trying to get him to stop squashing you. Instead, you adjusted, curling into him. Accepting this, he switched your positions, pulling you on top of him and resting his chin on your shoulder.
âYou like it.â
âUnfortunately.â
You yelped when he pinched your side, but it dissolved into giggles when he began peppering kisses all over your face. Slipping his arm around your waist, he held you close, grining against your skin. If you had to stay like this forever, in his arms and under the glow of his radiant smile, you would be content.Â
âYouâre an amazing writer, Pipsqueak,â he cradled your face in his hands, his love for you so achingly obvious in the way he looked at you that you wondered how you had never noticed it before. Rubbing his fingers against your cheek, he kissed your nose. âIt would be just as great even if I hadnâtâ uhâ assisted.â
Though you snickered at him, you couldnât stop yourself from beaming at his praise for your work. âIâm glad you did though,â you let him pull you closer, arm looping around your waist as you propped a leg over his. âOtherwise we might have never figured our shit out.â
He snorted. âThank god for research. You would have kept me in the friendzone forever.â
âHey!â
He silenced any further protests that you could have made, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. All possible complaints fled your mind the moment he did, eagerly kissing him back. You didnât think youâd ever get enough of this and you had no idea how you had survived for so long while denying yourself of it.Â
Caleb had loved you for twelve years, steadily standing by your side and holding your hand even when you couldnât see it. He had walked beside you through it all, the highest of highs and lowest of lows, lifting you up high over his shoulders with a grin on his face. He would never leave you behind, because he was your home. The one you had grown up with and wanted to wake up to everyday for the rest of your life.Â
He had taught you love without imposing it on you, silently showing it to you with every little thing he did. Your best friend. Your love. It had taken you a long time to catch up, but when you finally made it to the finish line, you found him waiting there for you patiently, holding out his hand for you to take.Â
The next time Tara called him your boyfriend, you didnât correct her.
summary: when your top model meets with an accident that keeps him off his feet for a while, you have no choice but to take on the arrogant Qi Rafayel in his absence. dealing with a creative rut and a temperamental model who has endless amounts of audacity when you have fashion week to worry about is no easy task, and he certainly doesn't make it any better.....does he?
themes: strangers to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mild enemies/annoyances to lovers, celebrity! au, model! rafayel, fashion designer! mc, fluff, angst, slowburn, sexual tension, profanity, alcohol consumption, abadonment issues, petnames, lots of banter, explicit sexual content (fingering, nipple sucking, praise, cowgirl, protected sex), plot with porn, mc is a girlboss with a temper, rafayel is a brat and an asshole, they're both flawed and emotionally constipated lmao
word count:Â 35.7k
playlist: vogue by madonna, fashion killa by a$ap rocky, xs by rina sawayama, glamorous by fergie & ludacris, fashion! by lady gaga, disturbia by rihanna, louboutins by nesra, city of blinding lights by u2, empire state of mind (part ii) by alicia keys.
lyns notes:Â i rewatched 'the devil wears prada' (one of my fav movies fr) and this was born đ«Ą I am a self proclaimed fashion girlie so this was a total blast to write and celebrity aus are my fav!! unfortunately I have not made it as an intern during fashion week yet, so please excuse the inevitable inaccuracies. model raf you will always be famous to me. enjoy <3
Your coffee was cold.Â
Simone stared at you nervously, her years of working as your assistant telling her all she needed to know in that moment. She watched as your fingers drummed against the dark wood of your desk, picking up on all the signs of your distress. Your lips pulled into a grimace, the slight tick in your jaw, and how you looked at the cup of coffee before you. All your employees knew that you were strictly a hot coffee drinker.Â
âHow is he?â
She scrambled to answer. âXavier isâŠ.recovering.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. âElaborate.â
âHis leg is broken in two places. Some scratches, but thats the extent of his injuries. He was lucky.â
Your frustration with the situation at hand knew no bounds, and your mood soured even further with the new information. Clicking your tongue, you pressed your index finger and thumb against your temple, already feeling one of your headaches coming on. âSend a bouquet with a card to his hospital room.â
âOf course.â Simone pulled out her phone and began making the arrangements. âAnything else?â
âCoffee that isnât frigid.âÂ
Nodding quickly, she walked over and plucked up the cup from your table, giving you a final nod and stepping out of your office. Out of the dozens of assistants you had had, Simone had turned out to be the most competent and tolerable of all, and unlike her predecessors, had withstood your sky-high expectations and sharp tongue.
One word people would use to describe you is difficult. Others included delightful descriptions such as âunreasonableâ and âoverbearingâ, or perhaps the synonyms so many journalists had used in their pieces about you, including but not limited to: uptight, stubborn and ill-tempered. It was to the point where you had to applaud them for their creativity and commitment to the bit, never failing to find a new word to describe you in a bad light, even if you were the fashion world's current darling.Â
But this world you were so blessed to be a part of was cutthroat and unforgiving. Smiles and pretty manners would have never gotten you out of the tiny apartments you lived in after graduating from fashion school. Even sheer talent wasnât enough, so you steeled yourself over those arduous years, using your ambition like the sharp tool it was to overcome the hurdles that had blocked your way to the top.
You had built your brand from the bottom up, and it had been worth it. Every tear, every candle you burned late at night, and every nick on your now-perfectly manicured fingers had gotten you to where you were. Some would say you had your success handed to you, but you knew better. You remembered all the times you nearly gave up, all the years you spent running around and interning for brands that treated you like trash. One couldnât just forget their roots, even if everyone around them insisted on pretending they didnât exist.
And so here you were, at twenty-seven years old: Y/n L/n, one of the youngest successful fashion designers in the world, and the founder and CEO of luxury fashion label, Lumiere.Â
For a brand that was merely five years old, it had quickly turned into a status symbol. Owning a single piece of clothing from any one of Lumiereâs high-end collections set one apart instantly. Your designs were exquisite, and your ability to take any fabric and turn it into a work of art was truly extraordinary. Every collection you breathed life into stunned critics and fellow designers alike, cementing your position as one of the most respected creatives in the industry today.Â
Respected or not, being a woman in power was a tough act to keep up. Sitting on the throne meant you had to rule with an iron fist. You werenât allowed to slip up or make mistakes.
Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up.Â
The spring and summer collections would be revealed to the world at the most important fashion week. Everything had been going smoothly under your careful watch.Â
Until, of course, right now.
Yesterday, your top model met with an accident. Xavier Shen had been with you since the very start of Lumiere and was practically synonymous with its branding. Together, the two of you had taken the world's hottest runways by storm with his award-winning walk and your impeccable designs. In terms of real friendships, he might have been the only one you had.
And now, when you needed him, he was out of commission. There was no way heâd be walking for anyone any time soon.
Your black Louboutins pressed into the carpet beneath your feet as you fought off the wave of annoyance that cut through your concern for Xavier. It wasnât really aimed at him, no, it was because you couldnât have possibly predicted such a thing happening.Â
Moneyâ you had lots of it. More than you could count, and enough to never worry about making a dent in your bank balance ever again. What was most important to you now was control.Â
Simone rushed back in, placing a steaming cup of coffee on your desk with a polite smile. âAnything else?â
Picking up the cup and taking a sip, you savoured the hot, bitter flavour that coated your taste buds. âA closer for the show would be nice. And someone to model the new line.â
Xavier had always been the one to fill in those shoes, sometimes quite literally. Now, you were left to figure out how to replace him temporarily while retaining the integrity of your brand. You couldnât just take on anybody.
She didnât flinch at your cold tone. âSylus Qin?â
You shook your head, resting your elbows against the mahogany of your desk and cupping the mug of coffee, letting its warmth seep into your skin. âHeâs walking for the Dior show, which is only an hour before ours. And he doesnât particularly fit our image.â Sylus was, no doubt, an excellent model and a current favourite, but wasnât what you wanted representing your brand. âAnd donât even think of recommending Zayne Li. Heâs been Miu Miuâs poster boy for the last year, and I have no intention of riding on their coattails.â
Simone began listing models, but none seemed fitting. Yes, this was a problem that you had to solve as quickly as possible, but you refused to settle for anything but the best. As she rattled off names, you turned your attention to the floor-to-ceiling window panes that adorned the back of your office, which revealed a stunning view of the city below. The sun was setting, spilling its orange-red rays all over the buildings and buzzing streets of New York.Â
It didnât matter how many times you had been met with this view, it would never grow tiresome. New York would forever be your second love after fashion. It was unforgiving as it was generous, a contradictory quality you liked to think you shared with it.
âWhat about Qi Rafayel?â
You turned back to her at the unfamiliar name, raising a singular eyebrow. âWho?â
âRafayel,â she repeated his name, tapping the screen of her tablet and approaching you, holding it out for you to see. On it was the cover of the most recent Vogue issue, and on it was a man covered in colour, the white shirt he wore a victim of this photoshoot's concept. Hues of blue and fuchsia painted his cheekbones and neck, and his dark eyes seemed to stare right into your soul, his features somehow striking a balance between sharp and gentle all at once.Â
âTell me more.â
âHeâs probably the most talked about in modelling right now. GQ named him Model of the Year.â She droned on about everything she knew, and you were once again reminded of her competency. âHeâs under the Lemuria Modelling Agency and has achieved supermodel status with how sensational his walk is.âÂ
You hummed, intrigued now. âHow come Iâve never heard of him?â
âFrom what Iâve heard, heâs very selective about who he walks for, which makes everyone want him even more, of course. Word is that he isnât walking for any fashion week shows yet. Heâs refused all offers.âÂ
Oh? Most models jumped at any chance they got to walk for fashion week. It was the pinnacle of the modelling world as much as it was for the fashion world, with every model competing for the coveted few spots on the runway.Â
Leaning forward, you studied the magazine cover for a few more seconds. He did seem to give off the same regal air that Xavier did, at least from the shoot you were looking at, which meant it was at least worth considering taking him on. Potential was something youâd have to bet on.
âThis might do,â you muttered, waving your hand in her direction. âArrange a meeting with him and his manager and add it to my schedule.â
Rafayel adored a good party.Â
Sprawled out on the length of his couch with one arm hanging off of it, he lifted his glass with a satisfied half-smile, cocking his head as he observed the chaos that unfolded around him. The mess currently being made would undoubtedly be a problem, but it was one that a future version of himself would have to deal with. Right now, he was content with being the facilitator.Â
The bass reverberated through his body, the music so obnoxiously loud that it somehow managed to drown out the raucous laughter and chatter that travelled around the large room. He tipped back the glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol that kissed his throat so soothingly. It provided a pleasant buzz, one that he had been carefully maintaining all evening and the night so far.Â
People were dancing on his coffee table. Corners of the large room were occupied by pairs that were a little too close, but the darkness provided them with privacy. Beautiful women sauntered around, a couple hovering around him like moths to a flame. One even sat on the velvet armrest of the couch, right behind where his head lay and reached out to touch his hair, which would have annoyed him if he wasnât halfway to drunk already. The attention didnât faze him in the slightest, he was used to being at the centre of it.Â
He was the life of every party, the drug that kept it going, and everyone wanted a piece of that sweet high. His parties were all the rage, and anyone with so much as a speck of fame wanted to be in attendance at them, singers, actors and fellow models alike.Â
Sighing blissfully, he downed the rest of his drink. The delightful thing about alcohol was that once you had had enough of it, you hardly noticed the taste. He looked up at the woman who so boldly played with his hair, watching how she batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy smile at him. A smirk teased at his lips as he entertained the idea of taking his fun a little further.
Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.
âRAFAYEL!â
Oh dear.Â
He didnât have to look to know who had yelled his name. There was only one person in the world who could say his name with such astronomical levels of exasperation. His manager spotted him and stormed over, setting one foot furiously in front of the other until he was right beside the couch. Rafayel lazily opened an eye, peering up at the intruder.
âLovely to see you, Thomas. Here to join in the fun?â
Thomas scowled. âI suggest throwing that expensive phone of yours out if it doesnât work.â
âIt works just fine.â
âThen why havenât you bothered to answer any of my calls?â
The model sighed and sat up, giving the women at his side an apologetic look. âExcuse me, ladies,â he said, charm oozing out of every syllable that spilled from him. âI need to talk to my friend here, and Iâll be right back.âÂ
With practised grace, he got to his feet and beckoned for Thomas to follow him into the kitchen, which was miraculously deserted. Leaning against the marble counter, he picked up a bottle of gin and poured it into a clean glass before offering it to the frazzled man. When all he received in return was a glare, he shrugged and tipped it back.Â
âIâve been trying to get hold of you all day,â Thomas said through gritted teeth, tapping his foot against the floor and folding his arms over his chest. Rafayel barely flinched at his agitation, used to it by this point.
âIâve been busy.â
His manager scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. âBusy? You call this being busy?â He gestured to the doorway that led back to the party, making Rafayel wish he was still there, instead of here, facing the wrath of his uptight manager when he wasnât as drunk as he wished he was for it. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to give his usual excuses and get it over with so that he could go back to his fun.
âLookââ
âNo, you look,â Thomas took a step forward. âYour shoot for Vogue was three weeks ago. Since then, youâve had numerous offers to walk in fashion week. More than any model Iâve previously managed.â The way he phrased it was incredulous, as if he couldnât fathom how he had managed such a thing. âSo Iâm gonna need you to tell me why youâve turned all of them down.â
Ugh. If Rafayel had been just a little faster, he could have been in his bedroom with that woman and avoided this interaction altogether. He placed the glass back down, running a finger along the rim of it as he hummed.Â
âNone of the brands spoke to me.â
Thomas looked like he was about to implode. He shut his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh.
âYou just have to walk. Pose a little. There's no speaking involved. You should know what your job entails by now.â
Rafayel placed a hand over his heart, feeling rather attacked at the moment. âDonât patronise me.â
To that, he was met with a mirthless laugh. âPatronise you? Youâre too smart for me to even try, and yet you still insist on acting like a child.â It was always entertaining when his manager lost his patience like this, and he always turned it into a game of sorts, testing to see just how far he could push back.
âYou wound me, my friend.âÂ
âYour aunt expects you to walk for fashion week.âÂ
Of course, she did. Immediately, his easy-going persona vanished, and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to push down his irritation. âTalia wants me to do so much, doesnât she?âÂ
He couldnât keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it didnât matter. His opinion rarely ever did when it was up against his aunts, but he supposed it was his fault. He was the one who had decided working under her would be a good idea, thinking that the familial connection would help further his career. It turned out, however, that while it had certainly given him a headstart, he had become her favourite project.
Back in her prime, Talia had been an extremely successful supermodel herself. After getting married, she didnât return to the runway, but instead started her own modelling agency: Lemuria Modelling Agency. Since she knew the ins and outs of the business so intimately, she had experienced what felt like overnight success with it.
When Rafayel came along, it was as if she wanted to live vicariously through him, pushing him into shoots and brand deals for fashion houses that she had once worked for herself. It was only recently that he put his foot down and insisted on choosing his projects for himself, refusing to be a puppet for any longer. Surprisingly, she had agreed, and it had somehow worked out even better than before, with his career taking off like never before.
He had no intention of turning out to be another version of her, even if he had technically followed in her footsteps. He was well aware of his worth and heâd be damned if he allowed himself to settle for anything less than perfect.
âYou have another offer for fashion week and a contract for a couple of months.âÂ
âIâm not interested.â His answer was immediate. He disliked speaking of work during his downtime, but since he had been ignoring all of his calls, he didnât have the right to complain about that right now.
âYou havenât even heard who it's for yet.â Thomas groaned. âLumiere is a highly respected brand. Itâs short notice, but youâre lucky youâre being offered the position at all.â
âI donât care how great they are,â he muttered dryly, reaching for the bottle once again. He despised being told what to do, regarding himself as a free spirit despite his perfectionist tendencies.Â
For a moment, he thought he had won this argument, taking the other man's silence as acceptance. His presumptuous joy was short-lived.
âGet your head in the fucking game, Rafayel. This whole stuck-up artist thing you have going on might have worked out in your favour so far, but it wonât cut it in the long run.â Thomas snapped, sufficiently vexed. âYou will take on Lumiere, and you will walk for them. I donât care if I have to drag you to Paris kicking and screaming, you're coming.âÂ
Rafayel bit back his surprise at the outburst, feeling his pride take a hit at Thomasâs words. Stuck-up artist? If life had gone the way he had intended it to, then perhaps he would have been exactly that. Not that he was complaining about the life he had now, he enjoyed every second of it thoroughly, for he was nothing if not a patron of indulgence. Still, the accusation stung just a tad.Â
He was caught so off-guard that he couldnât respond with his normal unbothered quips. The man in front of him didnât let up on his glare, but finally moved out of Rafayelâs personal space, clicking his tongue in triumph like a disappointed father would at his child.Â
âWe have a meeting scheduled with them for next week. Donât be late. And for godâs sake, check your phone. Iâll send over the details.âÂ
With that final statement, Thomas walked out, as eager to leave the party as Rafayel had been to rejoin it just a few minutes ago. With nothing left to do but nurse his bruised ego, he poured himself another drink to keep him company while he sulked over how that conversation had gone so terribly.
You stepped out of the car, immediately holding a hand over your face at a distance that let you see what was in front of you while simultaneously shielding yourself from the onslaught of camera flashes and paparazzi yelling at you to spare them a glance. Forcing a neutral expression, you let your feet carry you to the entrance of the restaurant as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to escape the unwanted attention.Â
Frankly, you should have been used to the paparazzi by now after having dealt with it for five years and counting, but there was something so jarring about having cameras shoved in your face or following you while you tried to go about your daily life. When you started out, all you had wanted to do was create your clothing, but fame had come along with your accomplishments, launching you into a spotlight that was meant for your designs. You had media training and publicists working to keep your image squeaky-clean.
The ambience on the inside provided you with respite from the press, and the tension in your shoulders instantly dissipated. Warm, dim lighting and the pleasant clinking of glasses and cutlery travelled all around you, combining with the smooth jazz that played, creating a melody of its own. This was one of your favourite places to dine, which was precisely why you had chosen it for today.Â
Walking further into the restaurant, you spotted the person you were here to meet and made your way over. The woman sitting at the reserved table scanned the menu.Â
âGabriette,â You smiled pleasantly, making your presence known. She looked up at you, eyes lighting up.
âY/n!â
Gabriette got to her feet and embraced you politely, giving you a customary kiss on each cheek in greeting. You returned the gesture before removing your coat, draping it on the empty seat across from hers and sitting down.Â
âI hope I didnât make you wait too long.â You picked up your menu as a server filled your glass with some water, flipping through the pages.Â
âNot at all! Iâm so glad we could make time to meet.âÂ
Gabriette Dubois was a celebrity fashion designer, much like yourself, whom you had met years ago while in Paris for your first ever fashion week. She was a little older than you but somehow managed to not look a day over twenty-five, petite in every sense of the word. Her own fashion house, Dubois Designs, was all the rage just as yours was. This meant that while you were friendly with her, she was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance.
Competitor would have been the right word.Â
âHow have you been?â She was in New York for a few weeks and insisted on having lunch with you. She was far from your favourite person, but you knew the importance of nurturing and maintaining connections. If not for that pesky reason, you would have cut all contact with her a long time ago. Your temper made it so that you lacked patience when it came to people like her, but thankfully, she lived in Paris, which meant you only had to bite your tongue and force a smile on occasion.
âIâve been fantastic,â she beamed, her French accent curling the ends of her words. âIâve been busy the whole time I have been in this city, but you know how it is. The busier you are, the better business is, yes?â The subtle brag was not lost on you.
You suspected she was the one who had called the press. They loved tailing you around anyway, but catching two high-profile fashion designers together? That was the same thing as finding gold to them.
âI bet you miss the days when Lumiere was still a small little thing,â she said with the same smile on her face, but you werenât naive enough to miss the slight condescending lilt of her voice. While she treated you perfectly well, you knew that she didnât quite see you as an equal, purposely choosing to turn a blind eye to your achievements. She thought of you as beneath her, even though your success outshone even hers at times.Â
You didnât need her approval. All this was a formality anyways.Â
âSometimes,â you admitted good-naturedly, choosing not to take the bait. The drinks arrived, and you took a nice, long sip of yours, reminding yourself of why you even agreed to meet her in the first place. âSorry, I just remembered, I have something Iâd like to ask you.â
Gabriette might have had a superiority complex, but this also meant she loved to shove all her accomplishments in other people's faces. Bragging was something she viewed as her birthright, and you had mastered the art of using it to your advantage.Â
The server returned, and the two of you placed your orders before resuming conversation. âAsk away.â
âItâs about a model,â you started carefully. âMy top model is out of commission right now, and I need a replacement for a little while.âÂ
No doubt she assumed you were about to ask her to help you find someone to take his place. You had no intention of doing such a thing since you were going to meet your potential temporary replacement in three days, thanks to Simone. What you wanted was a little information from someone who had directly had contact with him.Â
âYouâve worked with Rafayel before, havenât you?âÂ
You phrased it as if you didnât know this already, when in reality, you had done your research. It wasnât your job to do soâ you could have easily gotten any of your employees to do itâ but this was a big deal. You refused to have just anyone take Xavierâs place, even if it was only for a short while. Simone had already run a background check on him, and you had to admit that from all the surface-level knowledge that you had that he did fit with your brand's image quite well.
Gabriette peered at you from over her glass, raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. âYeah, a couple of years ago. Why?â
âI hadnât really heard of him until recently.â You placed your glass down, and at that moment, the server returned with your food. She didnât bother to hide her scoff as she picked up her fork, digging into her salad immediately.Â
âThatâs on you. Rafayel has been around for a while.â She took a bite of lettuce and croutons, taking her time with the morsel before she pounced once more, taking a concealed jab at you. âBut I guess itâs expected when you live under a rock. If you werenât so caught up with insisting on only working with Xavier for even a minute, you would have seen him around.âÂ
You refused to let her get under your skin. So what if you were picky about who you took on? Consistency was something you valued, and you had your reasons, ones that you didnât have to divulge to her and waste your breath.Â
A tired exhale left your lips. âIâm thinking of taking him on.â
âGood luck with that.âÂ
Huh. You sat up straighter. âWhat do you mean?â
âRafayel is a talented model, no one can say anything about that, but I doubt youâd be able to handle him.â
Handle him? Oddly enough, this statement of hers sounded less like a concealed insult and more genuine. Feigning indifference, you nibbled at your own food. âWhy so?â
She laughed curtly, toying with her fork. âHeâs a great way to make headlines, that's for sure. The world loves him right now, even with his scandalous behaviour, but when it comes down to itâŠâ You made a mental note to look into what she meant by scandalous behaviour later when she trailed off, silently prompting her to continue.Â
Gabriette pressed her lips together, a flash of irritation taking over her eyes for a brief moment, but it wasnât aimed at you.
âHeâs a total nightmare to work with.â
Rafayel waltzed into the meeting room ten minutes late, his head held up high like he owned the place.Â
This did not amuse you, the actual owner.
A man who you could only assume was his manager entered behind him, looking so defeated that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because you had no sympathy for people who wasted your time like they had. Simone had gotten you a second cup of coffee to pass the time, and you had just about finished it, ignoring the last few dregs in the cup in favour of narrowing your eyes at the two men.Â
âIâm so sorry about the delay,â he said quickly, taking a seat at the table after Rafeyel did. âThere wasâ erâ unavoidable traffic. Iâm Thomas, Rafayelâs manager. Your assistant spoke with me last week.â The excuse was pathetic, and you didnât miss the brief scathing look he sent the model when he stumbled over the words. The latter looked utterly unbothered, his elbow on the armrest of the chair, his chin resting on his palm.Â
If you werenât in such a terrible situation, you would have probably asked them to leave, but not only were you running on a tight schedule, but you were also fresh out of options.Â
âDonât worry about it. Itâs a pleasure to meet you both.âÂ
You looked at Rafayel to finally asses him in person, mild surprise running through you when you realised he was already staring right at you. Most people avoided eye contact with you because of how intense you could be, but he seemed to be having no such trouble; his eyes locked onto yours, a bored look lingering in them.Â
Now that you were looking at him in person, you had to admit that he was quite breathtaking. You had watched a couple of his most famous runway moments, but the way he looked through a screen did not compare to the real thing. He was positively gorgeous, which wasnât something you thought all that often, considering you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time. Rafayel, however, was in a league of his own, with soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead and into his mesmerising eyes. Smooth skin that surely had skincare companies begging him to be in their advertisements, lips that were the perfect pinkish hue, and elegant, high cheekbones; he was a work of art.Â
A work of art whose impudence was currently pissing you off.Â
âRafayel,â You finally directly addressed him. âI take it that youâve agreed to model for Lumiere for the next four months.âÂ
His lips twitched. âIt seems that I have.â
âWeâre thrilled to have you on board.â You gestured to Simone. âMy assistant here has drawn up the contract, which you can take to look over before signing it.â Dutifully, she placed a file before them, which he picked up, flipping through and scanning over the details and terms.
This is where the meeting would usually end. Heâd smile, nod and leave, and youâd go back to your office and hopefully review some of the recent sketches you had done. They needed some reworking as soon as possible, especially if you wanted to stay on schedule.Â
Except it didnât.Â
He tossed the contract back on the table. âThats all well and good, but I have a condition of my own.â
His manager glanced at him apprehensively. Your look on your face must have betrayed how bewildered you felt, because the edge of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement ever so slightly at your reaction.Â
âAâŠ.condition?â You echoed his words incredulously, fingers curling around the Montblanc pen you were just about to hand to him. His smile widened, and he nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the table like he was about to divulge to you a secret you should have been dying to know.
âWhatever you make me wear, I have to approve of it. I have to like it, or I donât wear it.â
You werenât quite sure you had heard him right at first, blinking twice as you registered what he had just said. Honestly, even the idea was so ridiculous that you were sure you had misinterpreted, because this wasnât a condition. It was a demand, one that he expected you to meet, as if it wasnât completely audacious of him to do so.Â
âIâm sorry?â
âYou heard me. This is a dealbreaker.âÂ
Thomas looked so alarmed that it would have been funny in any other context. Clearly, he had no hand in this and was just as caught off guard as you were, but nowhere near as outraged.Â
Simone realised the meeting was going awry, and swiftly swooped in, clearing her throat before you exploded right then and there in the conference room. She was surprised that the pen you were holding hadn't snapped in two yet with how tight your grip on it was.Â
âIâm sure we can work something out,â she said smoothly, taking over for you as you glowered. âWeâre delighted to have you working with us, Mr. Qi.â
No part of you was delighted. Sure, he ticked off all the boxes: attractive, seasoned and acclaimed, but there was something about how he carried himself that didnât sit quite right with you. This had nothing to do with any of the scandals that he had found himself in, though you had looked into them to make sure it wouldnât impact your brand. Dating scandals and rumours of him being a womaniserâ stuff like that never held any weight for too long, especially not for a man. You didnât care about his personal life, no, your annoyance stemmed from his haughty attitude.Â
Rafayel grinned, not bothering to even look at her, winking at you instead for good measure. âPleasure doing business with you.âÂ
The fucking audacity.
Once they had left, you stormed into your office, your stilettos carrying the heavy weight of the pure, unadulterated rage you felt at that instant. Simone followed, bracing herself for the inevitable downpour of your wrath and clutching her tablet in the hopes it would help her calm you down. Of course, she knew there was no shot in hell of that happening; when you were like this, it would take nothing short of a miracle to placate you.Â
To say you were a proud person would be an understatement. There were not very many instances where you willingly let someone else have control in a situation, and you were well aware of what your work was worth. There was a reason you were at the top of the game.Â
It made his condition all the more absurd.
âHe has to approve of it?â You seethed, spinning around to glare at the only person around to take the brunt of your fury. âWho the hell does he think he is?âÂ
âA request? A request would be if he asked us for tea, Simone. This is an insult.â He had to have known that, too, unless he was a total idiot. You were starting to believe that because models didnât choose what they wore. The implication was that you didnât know how to dress your models, as if all the skills you had honed were worth nothing. âWho the hell does he think he is?â
Despite having just met him, the smug look he had given you was already burned into your memory. You couldnât remember the last time you had outright disliked someone this quickly.
âRafayel is eccentric, yes,â Simone said tentatively. He had sounded so confident, like it was a given that you would agree. âBut maybe he didnât mean to offend you?â
âXavier would never do this,â You groaned, mourning the absence of your darling top model. âTell me, is there a chance we can get someone else on board instead?â
Unfortunately, you knew the answer without her giving it to you. Keeping your brand's image intact was of utmost importance to you, and you were nothing if not meticulous. Xavierâs sudden unavailability had thrown a real wrench in all your careful planning, and though it wasnât his fault, it still left you extremely frustrated. Replacing him was nearly impossible, and you were lucky to have chanced upon Rafayel.
Undoubtedly, he would fit in with your curation seamlessly. Heâd look fantastic modelling your clothing, and heâd be perfect for the PFW show. The hype that currently existed around him would also help tremendously. Your publicist was about to have an absolute field day with this collaboration.Â
âHeâs our only viable option at the moment. The chances of him disapproving of your clothes are slim to none, anyway.â Your assistant said comfortingly. âItâll be fine.â
God, you hoped so.
QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?
Word is that the most elusive model of the decade has put down roots with the hottest brand, and boy, does the partnership seem fitting! Itâs a wonder, especially with Rafayel's sudden disappearance from the modelling scene right at the height of his career. Known for his fearlessness when it comes to experimental designs and his ability to embody any look, the model is truly at the top of his game, so it makes perfect sense for him to work with a brand that shares that very status.
We canât wait to witness his comeback with Lumiere very soon!
The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.
You grimaced at the disarray you were met with; stylists rushing around and shouting various instructions at each other. There were different types of fabric all around, clothing items you could recognise at a single glance, falling off their hangers and display mannequins. Amidst it all stood Rafayel, who looked utterly uninterested, his arms over his chest, wrinkling the deep purple Ralph Lauren shirt he was wearing. The colour suited him.
But why was he still in his personal clothes? In two hours, he was to be at a shoot for the brand's website and social media pages, but here he was, just standing around. At least his makeup was done, you supposed.
âMiss Y/n!â One of the stylists paused her movements and greeted you. âWe are right on track!â
Were they? You glanced around at the confusion, stepping over the shoes that were right in front of the doorway and walked up closer to one of the mannequins. Wordlessly, you held your hand out, and immediately they all knew what to do, scrambling to hand you a pin. Placing it between your teeth, you folded over a part of the waist of the pants to readjust the pleating and secured it in place.Â
âIt doesnât seem like it.â Your eyes sliced back to the model, who was now looking right at you. âHeâs not ready.â
Typically, you would never visit a fitting like this, trusting your employees to get the job done. You were too busy to make the time to show up for things like these, simply giving the orders and checking in once the job was done. Even Xavier didnât get any surprise pop-ins from you, and he was someone you actually cared for.Â
But no part of you inherently trusted Rafayel to cooperate. The stylist who handed you the pin dropped her voice and signalled towards him. âHeâs a little difficult.âÂ
Of course.Â
Leaving the mannequin, you walked up to Rafayel and levelled him with a stare. âWould you care to enlighten me as to why youâre giving my stylists a hard time?â
He looked around and pointed to the clothing that another stylist held up with a helpless expression. It was a lovely white silk shirt with an asymmetrical cut, the buttons starting at the right shoulder and ending at the left side of the waist. This was paired with trousers to complete the look, but it wasnât supposed to take away from the shirt, which was the main event.Â
âIâm not wearing this.â
Irritation was a feeling you were well-versed in. The way it flared up inside of you so quickly when he spoke was still shocking.Â
âAnd why not?â You briefly wondered why everyone around you seemed to take pleasure in wasting your time as of late. This was only one of the outfits he had to be photographed in, the others lined up neatly on a clothing rack.Â
âItâs boring,â Rafayel said casually, as if he were remarking on the weather. âWhere's the colour? The life? I look at it and feel nothing.âÂ
Oh, he felt nothing, did he? Briefly, you wondered if heâd feel the slap you were so tempted to give him. All he had done since stepping into your building was insult you and parade around like he was better than everyone, and you didnât take either of those things lightly. âItâs the highest quality silk and stitching.âÂ
âEverything youâre having me wear is in black and white.â
âIâm so glad you can tell colour.âÂ
Your stylists flinched a little at your apathetic tone, despite being all too used to your snippy remarks. You were hard on everyone who worked for you, but that was only because you held your employees to the same high standards that you did yourself when it came to the work they were supposed to do. Their paychecks certainly made up for it, as did your generosity when it came to granting them leave.Â
âBlack and white is plain.â He sighed dramatically, like the lack of colour was personally offending him. âChanel already has that rodeo down to the âtâ.Â
His audacity left you astounded once more, and you were even more pissed off when you unwittingly realised that he had a point. Still, even if Chanel did have a thing for black and white styling, you liked to think that you had put your unique spin on the clothes that distinguished them from competing brands. You didnât just think it; you knew your designs were amazing. The man in front of you didnât allow you to tell him this, since he had already started speaking again.Â
âIf I wanted to wear Chanel, I would have accepted their offer.â
âWhy didnât you?â
You knew damn well that it was a good thing he had agreed to work for you, but that didnât mean he had to. Rafayelâs lips tipped upwards, as if your annoyance entertained him. âI already told you. I find black and white boring, and even though itâs all I see right now,â he gestured around the room and at the clothing rack, âI donât think itâs all youâre capable of.â
Was that a compliment? If it was, he was shit at giving them out. Not that you were any better, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasnât your job to be nice, it was your job to make sure things got done the way you wanted them.Â
So, against all your severely miffed instincts, you sucked in a deep breath to calm yourself down. âThis collection is already public. We just need the pictures for social media.â
He looked disappointed. âFine. Iâll make an exception just this once.â
How positively saintly of him. You wondered if he expected you to drop and kiss his feet for making such a compromise.Â
Unfortunately for him, he wasnât going to get any of that. You pressed your lips together, deciding you had wasted enough of your time already and that it was time to get back to those sketches of yours you had been putting off. Nodding curtly, you moved to leave, but he opened his mouth again.
âA word of advice?â
Well, wasnât he chatty today? You sighed, pressing two fingers against your temple and rubbing in the hopes it would soothe you. âYouâre going to give it to me even if I say no, arenât you?â
He proved you right. âIf your Paris Fashion Week collection is going to be as uninspired as this, then I suggest you start rethinking it.â
The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.
Uninspired? This was a collection you had revealed recently at a show a couple of weeks ago, and critics had been all over it, practically kissing your feet with the amount of praise they had dished out. Uninspired definitely wasnât one of the words they had used to describe it.
You didnât miss the smirk on his lips as he watched you react to his harsh words. He had gotten under your skin, and he knew it. It had been so long since someone had managed to do so that you forgot how it felt, and you despised the feeling. Your eyebrows raised in fury that was plain as day, leaning away from him like his presence stung just as much as his words did.
Rafayel didnât want to admit it, but he was having way too much fun with this. The day he first showed up at the Lumiere building, he was pretty much dragged there against his will by Thomas. He had heard of it in passing and was expecting yet another high-fashion brand that had lost all its integrity in favour of stagnating and staying relevant through its namesake. When he had looked into its previous seasons, however, he began to begrudgingly appreciate the creativity of their clothing, as well as its authenticity.
Finding out that Lumiere was only five years old came as a surprise, as did the news of the meeting with the founder and head of the company herself. To say that was unconventional would be an understatement. Typically, these types of meetings consisted of him only meeting an assistant or two, but never the designers themselves. Sure, eventually heâd speak to them at a show or afterparty he was obligated to be at, but never had he met them upfront like this.
Moreover, he certainly hadnât expected the designer to be a beautiful young woman. Rafayel had always had an eye for pretty things, so one look at you was enough for him to see that you were just that. Beautiful didnât even cut it, actually, so much so that you could probably walk in your own fashion shows.
So you were pretty. Rafayel was aware enough of it, and although he tended to gravitate towards that, you werenât exactly his type. He typically went for women who were generous with the smiles they gave him and found pleasure in his reputation, the type who giggled at everything he said and touched his arm to make sure their intentions were clear. As far as he was concerned, a type meant there was a pattern involved, and that would be the best way to describe the women he had gotten involved with in the past.Â
You were too intense for his taste, with your calculating gaze and perfectly pinned-up hair without a single strand out of place. Breathtaking in the most intimidating way. He was all for dancing through life while having a good time and breaking a few rules if he had to. You, on the other hand, looked like you had written the rules and expected everyone else to abide by them.
It was probably a good thing that he didnât want to get with someone who was technically his boss.
But you were oh-so easy to rile up.Â
âUninspired?â You hissed, and if looks could kill, the one you were giving him right now would have probably landed him six feet under. âExcuse me?â
Feisty. My, my, he was going to have a blast with this. Shrugging, he started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and the stylists, who had been standing frozen while the two of you had a stare-off, jumped back into action. They seemed relieved that he was finally cooperating, one of them assisting him with his shirt and the other holding the one you designed open and ready to slip onto his body.
Your eyes dropped to his now exposed torso as the shirt was peeled off of him for just a second before you sliced them back up to his. That infuriating smirk remained on his face throughout.Â
âNeed some clarification?â
So this is what Gabriette meant when she said he was a nightmare to work with.Â
âThere is nothing uninspired about my clothing,â you snapped, unable to keep your temper from flaring up anymore. âFrom now on, keep any advice you have to yourself.â
Everything that had come out of his mouth so far had been unwanted, and you were starting to think he was doing it on purpose, especially with how he was watching your every reaction like a hawk. Refusing to dignify him with one, you turned and walked out of the room, emerging into the hallways of the Lumiere building. The familiarity of the decor and soothing warm lighting should have helped with your agitation, but nothing of the sort happened.
Now, you understood why Gabriette said all that stuff about not being able to handle him.Â
Four months of this madness before everything would go back to normal. In comparison to other things youâve dealt with in the past, this was trivial. You were a professional, considered a damn genius for your work and the sheer levels of success you were graced with at such a young age. There was nothing you couldnât do, even if it was dealing with a self-important model that seemingly took pleasure in irking you.
In any case, you could refrain from pushing him out of a window.Â
âOh, these are great. Iâm gonna have to hide them from Jeremiah.â
Xavier placed the box of chocolates you had gotten him on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch. You joined him there, eyes lingering on the cast on his leg that spanned from his ankle up to just below his knee. He caught you staring at it in contempt and grinned.
âWanna sign it?â
You scoffed and leaned against the throw pillows. âYou know I donât.âÂ
Despite your hectic schedule, you had made sure to set aside some time to visit the injured man now that he had returned from the hospital. His roommate had let you in when you arrived, since Xavier was strictly instructed to stay off his feet as much as possible. The irony of that wasnât lost to either of you.Â
âWorth a shot.â
He was pretty much homebound and stuck in that cast for twelve weeks, and after that would have to go through physical therapy for a bit before he was back on his feet. It was certainly a blow to his careerâs momentum, especially since it quite literally depended on his ability to walk. Eventually, heâd get back onto the runway, you knew, but you couldnât help but feel bad.Â
Considering all this, he seemed to be in a good mood, smiling gently at you. Xavier, unlike you, had endless amounts of patience and had a temperament that was as angelic as he looked. He was plenty successful, and Lumiere was by no means the only fashion house he modelled for, even if it was the one he worked with the most. He had seen the ambitious girl who powered through all the doubts thrown in her face when you had taken the leap and started your brand, and had stuck by you ever since.Â
This was why he was your only true friend. He had seen something in you when you hadnât quite figured yourself out just yet. For the past five years, he had stayed by your side without wavering even once, and as a result of this, he could read you like you were an open book.Â
âYouâre upset with me.â He noted. You sighed, shaking your head.Â
âNo, Iâm upset with the circumstance.â You gestured towards his leg. âThe timing is terrible.âÂ
Xavier quirked an eyebrow in amusement. âApologies. The next time I plan on breaking my bones, Iâll let you know in advance.âÂ
âPlease let there never be another time,â You let out a tired sigh. âReplacing you is a hassle. Get better. I need you back at work.â
âAnd here I thought you missed me for me.â He lightly teased.
âYou know I do.â You looked at him meaningfully. âYou know what I mean.âÂ
He did. You had never been the best at being vulnerable or expressing yourself, but he had long since learnt how to read between the lines.Â
âIâve heard that you managed to find someone to fill in.â He circled back to your point about replacing him and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to fill him in on all the happenings he had missed. Things were progressing slower than you would have liked, but smoothly, nonetheless.Â
Except for one little thing. One person, more accurately.Â
If you were being honest, you didnât particularly want to talk about the cause of all your recent headaches. Instead, you eyed his cast again, trying your best to keep the bitterness out of your voice. âDoes it hurt?â
âItâs just a dull ache now,â he reached down and scratched over the plaster. âAnd itâs uncomfortable, but it doesnât hurt.â Then, he gave you a pointed look. âDo you think I canât tell when youâre changing the subject?â
Damn. You pulled your hair free from its tight ponytail, letting it cascade over your shoulders and letting your scalp breathe. It wasnât often you let your guard down like this, but you knew you were safe with Xavier. You also knew that you needed to be as relaxed as possible if you were going to talk about your latest problem.Â
âI did find someone to fill in.â Your lips twisted in displeasure. âBut Iâm counting down the days till you return.âÂ
âThat bad?â
âRafayel is impossible.âÂ
Xavier cocked his head to the side. âThats new. You generally comment on someone's incompetence.â
âOh, heâs plenty competent.â It was the truth. You almost wished he were terrible at his job, but that wasnât the case. The pictures for your social media had turned out amazing, and you had spent quite a lot of time looking over them, trying to find a reason to be unsatisfied, but to no avail.Â
A great model. An exasperating person.Â
Over the past two weeks, you had seen too much of him. He was constantly complaining about something, showing up late, or making snide comments and going out of his way to make everyoneâs jobs harder. You had heard of models that thought they were untouchable, but Rafayel was a whole other level, a bona-fide diva.
If you werenât so desperate, you would have already fired him. Desperation was not a feeling you enjoyed, but you didnât want to go through the hassle of having to select someone else to fill in the void Xavier had left in his absence.Â
âSo, what do you mean by impossible?â He propped an arm on the couch's backrest, rubbing the back of his neck.Â
You indulged Xavier with the details, telling him all about Rafayelâs complaints about your clothing and all the ways he had managed to drive you up the wall. You were frustrated with his behaviour, but also with yourself for being so caught up about it when you had more important things to worry about.Â
A charity gala you were supposed to attend next week. Prepping for Paris Fashion Week.Â
âOh, Y/n. He does sound like a handful.â Xavier muttered sympathetically after you had aired out all your grievances. His admission made you feel a lot better about the situation.Â
âHeâs more than a handful.â
âBut Iâve never seen you back down from any challenge.â He remarked. âAnd thats basically what heâs doing. Challenging you.â
He was right, you werenât someone who backed down easily. Your conversation drifted to other things: his time at the hospital, the terrible food they made him eat, and other such tragedies. You realised how much you truly missed having Xavier around, being able to talk to someone like this wasnât something you were able to do often.Â
You made a mental note to visit him as much as possible.
âItâs a challenge,â Xavier reminded before you left, popping one of the chocolates you had gotten him in his mouth as he gave you one last piece of advice about your Rafayel problem. âDonât let him win.â
Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.
So much about the man pissed you off. From his slow manner of speaking that tested your patience, to the lazy half-grin he seemed to perpetually have plastered on his face, you could probably list out all the things about him you disliked. He made it so easy with his incessant attempts at driving you up the wall.
Still, it was evident that even with all his antics, he was a professional.
Now, he was in archival Lumiere, one of the collections from the start of your career. There were only a few pieces of the structured jacket he wore in circulation since they were handmade. In fact, he was wearing the very piece that had appeared on the runway all those years ago. It hung from his shoulders as he posed, staring into the camera as it shuttered.Â
You had personally chosen this piece for this shoot, asking your stylists to work with it because you knew he wouldnât be able to complain. It was a stunning jacket, and apparently, he agreed.Â
Every few seconds, heâd change the pose, each more dramatic than the last. A hand raised in a flourish near his face, back facing the camera, with him looking back at it, legs spread with his arms behind his head as he stared straight ahead through a half-lidded gaze. Watching him go through the motions like it was second nature was mesmerising.Â
You were starting to understand his appeal. There was a certain playfulness to his sensuality, and he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. Something about him felt dangerous, unpredictable in an exciting way, and that quality of his was his greatest selling point.Â
The makeup on him was bolder this time, accentuating his siren-esque features. His hair was artfully slicked back, different from his normal look and showing off his forehead.Â
He was going to be on the cover of Elle, styled with Lumiere, of course. In this particular issue, they were going to include a one-on-one interview with you as well, which was why you were present at the shoot. After they were done with him, theyâd be taking a couple of shots of you to include with your interview.Â
And it seemed they had just wrapped up.Â
The intense expression on his face immediately dropped, giving way to a relaxed one, his eyes travelling around the room until they met yours. The photographer thanked him for his time, but he was already moving towards you. As he approached, a staff member popped up at your side.
âWould you like some coffee, miss?âÂ
You turned to the woman who asked you the question. âHot, without any sugar.â
She nodded and looked at Rafayel, who had stopped by your side. âAnd for you, sir?â
âCold coffee. As much whipped cream and sugar as you can manage.â He dropped a wink in with his order for good measure, and the staff faltered ever so slightly, trying to hide how charmed she was as she left to get the drinks. Once she was gone, he looked at you, his perfect pink lips twitching.Â
It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and it would no doubt be something that ticked you off. Still, you relented and finally asked.
âWhat is it?â
He studied you for a moment. âNothing. Itâs just so predictable that you take your coffee plain.â
You bristled. âThereâs nothing wrong with it.â
âI never said there was,â He drawled, and then dropped the subject. âSeems like it's your turn to get behind the camera, Miss Designer. Ready?â
âItâs not my first time,â You said as the staff returned with your coffees. Grabbing yours, you took a slow sip and continued. âWe had to model quite a bit in fashion school for various projects and assignments.â
It wasnât as if you were claiming to be better than him, but you did have some experience. He hummed an idle tune, bringing the straw of his drink to his mouth and sipping it in delight.
You had to bite back a frown at the monstrosity he received, the swirls of whipped cream over milky coffee. There were even sprinkles on the damn thing. You understood his comment about your order being predictable because that being his somehow made a lot of sense. Globs of the whipped cream spilt over the side of the glass and slipped down its length, the entire thing was over the top and messy.
A lot like him, you supposed.Â
âWant some?â He asked cheekily, tilting the glass in your direction. He knew you were going to refuse, but the way you scrunched your nose and did such a terrible job at hiding your aversion was too entertaining to pass up on.Â
âIâm good.âÂ
âSuit yourself.âÂ
You shot Rafayel a displeased look, scanning him from top to bottom. The jacket you had so carefully handstitched was unbuttoned and open so that his abs could peak through in the pictures. You didnât let your eyes linger there, snapping them back up to his.Â
âDonât stain the jacket.â You muttered sternly, adjusting the collar of your top and centring your jewellery with one hand, the other gripping the handle of your cup. He was holding his coffee too close to himself for your liking, especially with the way the top of the whipped cream was leaning to the side, as if it was about to tip over any second now.Â
âYes, we wouldnât want that.â
The patronising lilt of his voice told you that he was trying to get a rise out of you, but you knew he liked the jacket. When he had been made to put it on, he had looked at it appreciatively and hadnât complained even once, which felt like nothing short of a miracle. You purposely looked anywhere but him, instead opting to watch the photographer set up for your turn.Â
But Rafayel wasnât someone you could just ignore. His presence was magnetic and all-consuming, and even when he was silent, he was distracting. The effect he had was strange and inexplicable, cutting through your general dislike towards him.Â
Thankfully, the photographer turned to you and nodded. âWhenever youâre ready, miss.â
Without sparing Rafayel another glance, you handed your coffee to the staff member closest to you and strutted over, taking your place behind the camera. You took a seat on the stool they had put out for you as a makeup artist came over to give you a touch-up and fix your hair. Focusing on the camera lens, you reminded yourself what you were here for in the first place.Â
But when your traitorous gaze flickered back to Rafayel, he was already looking at you.
Pages filled with sketches lay strewn out over the desk of your home office, with you hunched over them in concentration. You ran your fingers through your hair and tugged at the ends, your other hand gripping your mechanical pencil.
You may have looked like the picture of productivity, but right now, you were feeling the complete opposite. It was nearly one in the morning, and you had skipped out on dinner in favour of trying to get the conceptual designs for the spring collection done. You had been procrastinating working on them for a while now, but with only three months left before the show, the pressure was starting to set in. You usually never left things to the last minute like this â last year you had the clothes ready by this time â but for reason reason, you were having trouble with it.
All you had added to the sketches were a couple of idle lines that changed absolutely nothing. The ideas were good, very reminiscent of the typical silhouettes you tended to go for, but it felt like something was missing.Â
It felt uninspired.
Not that youâd ever admit that out loud. It was bad enough that you were struggling with what you were supposed to be a genius at, but to use the very words Rafayel did to explain your predicament? That was just humiliating.Â
Groaning, you ran a hand over your face and leaned back in your chair, your back sore from the horrible posture you had been maintaining for the past two-ish hours. You were distracted, but you couldnât figure out why, because the only sounds around were the ticking of your clock and the drumming of your foot against the floor.
Finally, you gave up, emerging from your office and into the living room of your penthouse. All the lights were off, but the large ceiling-to-floor windows you had lit up the place just enough, casting shadows around in the moonlight. You had bought the place when Lumiere had just taken off, and you had more money than you ever had in your life. As a result, you ended up with an apartment on the top floor that the elevator opened directly into, that only you had access to and too much space for your good.Â
The muffled sounds of New York City in the distance kept you company as you padded to your kitchen. Your appetite was non-existent â a result of your hyper-focused state â but you knew you had to eat something.Â
You had been feeling unsatisfied with your sketches for a while now, and Rafayelâs comments about ensuring nothing was uninspired had hit too close to home. The last thing you wanted to do was release something you were unhappy with or considered subpar.Â
God knows you hated to admit that insolent man had a point, but he did.
And you had to figure out a way around it fast.
The thing you loved more about New York was how alive it felt.
You walked down the streets, sunglasses perched on your nose. It was a Saturday, and you had decided to take a day off for yourself in the hopes that the reset would grant you some motivation for the spring collection.Â
So far, you had had no run-ins with the paparazzi. Maybe this was one of those days when they had decided to be more subtle with their approach to getting content, but whatever it was, you were grateful for the sense of privacy it gave you. Realistically, even if it wasnât the paparazzi, you knew someone would get a picture of you walking in and out of stores and post it online. That was fine, simply part and parcel of the life you had made for yourself.Â
You were enjoying the peace, the cacophony of the city melting into a song so uniquely New York. You were someone who knew how to enjoy your own company, but perhaps that stemmed from the fact that you had no one else to share it with. Sure, Xavier was there, but you knew the moment the two of you hung out for extensive periods anywhere but his or your place, or the Lumiere building itself, there would be dating rumours springing about everywhere.Â
Neither of you had the time nor the energy to deal with that nonsense. At least like this, you had control of the narrative, and that peace you loved so much.
Ah, yes, peace. The very thing that shattered immediately as a man ran into you.Â
Okay, so you hadnât exactly been paying attention, lost in your thoughts as you walked, but words laced with annoyance immediately tumbled out of your mouth. âHey! Watch where youâre going!â
âJeez, lady, Iâm sorry, okayâ wait, Y/n?â
Oh no. You knew that voice.Â
You peered up at the offender, taking in the butter yellow cap that sat over his smushed hair, long lashes framing those beguiling eyes that were currently wide in shock. His hands flew to your arms, gripping them as he steadied both of you at the same time. You had about two seconds to acknowledge the way he was up in your personal space, pushing your sunglasses up to see if you were seeing things correctly.
âRafayel?â
He swore under his breath, releasing your forearms as he jerked away, glaring. âCould you not yell it out for the entire street to hear?â
Why the hell was he annoyed? He was the one who had walked into you. If anyone had the right to glare like that, it was you. You blinked up at him in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time where he got the gall.
âOh, Iâm sorry,â You bit sarcastically, âMy bad for being the unsuspecting soul you run into. Next time, I hope it's a pole.âÂ
He cast you a droll look that you were sure was meant to last longer, but he seemed skittish today. This was the most casually dressed you had ever seen him, a simple sweatshirt over jeans andâŠ.were those sneakers? All you had seen him in up until this moment were shirts and clothing you designed.Â
Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him.
Right into a dark, dingy alley.
âWhat the fuck?â You blurted, more puzzled than anything else, as you yanked your hand out of his touch, holding it close to your body. âAre you high? Why on earth have youââ
âSorry,â he breathed, holding his palm out in a manner that told you he needed a second. Not that you cared in the slightest, narrowing your eyes at him and propping a hand on your hip.Â
âYou have two minutes to explain why youâve dragged me with you here.âÂ
A vibrant blush spread across the apples of his cheeks and ears. Well, at least he had the decency to look embarrassed. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and glanced up a the sky, before looking back at you.Â
âI was trying to outrun the paps.â
âBy running into me?â
âI didnât plan that!â He snapped, and you had to admit that it was nice to see him be the irritated one for a change. His eyebrows knitted together, an indignant pout taking over his usual, nonchalant countenance. All things considered, it was kind of cute.
âIâm not hearing any explanations.â You reminded him impatiently, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for two whole seconds like he was contemplating whether you were worth explaining it to. You were tempted to tell him that his two minutes were swiftly passing by.
âI ran into an ex of mine.â He confessed finally. âCassandra Corin. Cassie.â
The name was vaguely familiarâ an actress, if you remembered correctly. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous. You were sure you had seen some of her work in passing, and so you nodded, prompting him to continue. âIâve heard of her.â
âYeah. Well, we were together for like a month, but sheâs a very, uhâŠ..dramatic person, if you will. I happened to walk out of a store, and she was right outside with the press, who she had obviously called.â There wasnât an ounce of fondness in his voice as he spoke about the woman.
âDid she plan for you to be there?â You asked, bewildered.
âI donât think so, but sheâs the type of celebrity that subscribes to the âall publicity is good publicityâ agenda. A pic of us together would certainly help with that.â He explained with a surprising amount of patience. âIâve kind of been lying low as of late, so theyâre hungrier than usual to get a couple of shots. I had to run out of there, and I donât like running.âÂ
Ah, there it was. You should have known he couldnât go more than five minutes without complaining. Still, you could sympathise with his predicament, having had your fair share of experiences with trying to avoid the paparazzi.
âRight,â you raised an eyebrow. âI still donât get why youâve forced me into hiding with you.â
Rafayel mirrored the unimpressed look you were currently giving him. âIt would be ten times worse if they saw us together. I was trying to be inconspicuous and youââ He paused, gesturing towards you from top to bottom, ââlook anything but.â
Glancing down at your outfit, you let out an offended sound. âExcuse me? I can be inconspicuous.â
You were a vision, dressed in what only someone with too much money would consider casual: a light pink Chanel cardigan over a t-shirt and Prada loafers on your feet. You carried a Hermes Mini Kelly bag on your arm, Miu Miu shades pushed up on your head like a headband as you stared at him, poorly hiding your displeasure.Â
âNo.â Rafayel had to fight back a smile, shaking his head. âYou really canât.â
It wasnât a bad thing, per se. He knew a thing or two about having a commanding presence, having used his own to his advantage his entire life. Unfortunately, that meant that the two of you in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster, especially when he was trying his damnedest to avoid it.
Your scowl deepened. âYouâre insufferable, I hope you know that.âÂ
âIâve been told it brings out my eyes.â
Unbelievable. His ego had to be sky-high, taller than the Empire State Building. Never before had you wanted to knock someone down a couple of pegs so badly. His tone was light and airy, as if he now found the ordeal funny, and while that infuriated you, there was something melodic about his voice that you couldnât ignore.Â
âYou love wasting my time, donât you?â You grumbled under your breath, wondering how on earth you managed to get yourself into such a position and, more importantly, why you were still in it. You could have easily walked out of this stupid alley already. His eyes sparkled, but before he could say anything aggravating, another sound cut through.
MROW!
You startled at the high-pitched yowl, dropping your gaze to find an orange cat sitting by your shoes. It looked fat and happy, like too many restaurants had taken pity on it and fed the little thing leftovers. Its black eyes stared up at you, as if waiting for you to give it something to eat as well, before letting out another pitiful meow.
And how did the man standing in front of you react to this?
Rafayel yelped.
Loudly. Embarrassingly, even. He practically jumped away from you and the cat, hands in front of him in a protective stance. You blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react to that.
âAre youâŠokay?â
âDo I look okay?â He hissed, the action seeming very catlike. âWhere the hell did that thing come from?â
That thing? You looked down at the cat that had busied itself with rubbing against your ankles, weaving in between your legs before settling back down into a seated position.Â
âRafayel,â you did your best to keep your voice level, speaking slowly, as if you were talking to a skittish animal. âAre you afraid of cats?â
âNonsense. Why would I be afraid of them?â He eyed the cat with such disdain that one would think it had personally murdered one of his family members, or something along those lines. Regardless of what he had said, he looked terrified, his body language stiff and unnatural. You had never seen him like this, so used to his cavalier attitude and manner of carrying himself. He sniffed, still maintaining a safe distance. âTheyâre vile creatures. I just donât want them anywhere near me.âÂ
His mouth was twisted downward in horror, and his eyebrows were raised so high they looked like they disappeared underneath the cap he had on. It resulted in an expression so comical that you had to bite the inside of your cheek in a genuine attempt to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.
You burst into laughter.
It was so sudden that it stunned Rafayel, his lips parting in shock as the sound washed over him. It felt like someone had dumped cold water on him because your laughter was intoxicating, so much brighter than he had anticipated, not that he had. It made you look younger, so much more carefree than you did with the tight-lipped facade you typically donned. Your lips stretched upwards, the edges of your eyes crinkling as you giggled at his expense.
A rare crack in your carefully crafted exterior. Intrigued, the urge to know more about you rose out of nowhere, but he clamped it down immediately.
âYouâre laughing at me.â He accused, trying to keep the indignation in his voice.Â
âIâm sorry!â You managed in between puffs of laughter, and now he knew something had to be very wrong with him, because he nearly told you not to apologise for it. âItâs justâitâs so adorable!â You bent down and scooped up the cat into your arms, forgetting yourself for a moment as you watched the animal snuggle against you. âHow can you be scared of this?â
He thought this was ridiculous. A woman like you, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, letting a stray cat all over her. It was completely unexpected and strangely alluring.
âPut that thing down.â He narrowed his eyes at the cat as you scratched under his chin. Just as quickly as it had slipped off, he could see you compose yourself once again. You straightened out your posture, your smile fading and turning less genuine and more polite, practised. He couldnât help but immediately miss the unfiltered version of you he had just gotten the briefest of glimpses of.Â
âItâs not a thing, Rafayel, itâs a cat.â You sounded amused. âLook at how harmless it is.â
You held out the cat, and he recoiled away from you, glaring at the feline. He took his cap off, shaking his head and huffing. âItâs a viscous beast. If it scratches or bites you, donât expect me to help you.â
The quick reply he expected from your end never came, because when he met your gaze again, you were staring at him â at his head, specifically. For all he knew, you were taking note of how terrible he looked now that he had lost the cap. Those things always made his scalp sweat, but they were his best bet at hiding his face without coming off looking too suspicious.Â
âYour hair is curly.â
Your cadence was back to being clipped, short, but there was something different there as well. Softer.Â
âWow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us the real-life Sherlock Holmes.â He snorted, running his fingers through his tangled locks, before offering up the explanation you were clearly expecting. âStylists usually end up straightening it. Something about it fitting my image better.â
âI see.â You studied him for a moment longer before looking back down at the cat. You quite liked his natural hair, but then again, he could probably pull off a trash bag and somehow make it look stylish. Not that heâd ever agree to that, but the thought almost made you laugh again.
Speaking of trash bags, you looked distastefully at your surroundings. âCan we get out of here now? Iâm sure the press would have moved on by now.âÂ
âOnly if you lose the cat.â
You sat behind your desk, going over some paperwork. It was the less exciting part of your job, and you always ended up letting it pile up until you had an unreasonable amount to get through all at once. Most of your employees had gone home already, and you had sent Simone on her way as well.Â
The bright light of your office made your eyes hurt after the long day you had had, and you pressed your palms against them, sighing deeply.Â
âWow. Do you just live here?â
The hell? You glanced up to see Rafayel standing by the door, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, looking right at you. The sight of him made something in the pit of your stomach turn.Â
Ever since the incident with the cat from a week ago, being around him no longer boiled your blood as much as it once did. He had been going out of his way to interact with you a lot more, and you hadnât done anything to discourage it. Make no mistake, he still got on your nerves, but you tolerated him for some reason, even when he got too casual with you.
Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.
âWhat are you doing here?â You demanded, pushing the paperwork to the side and narrowing your eyes at him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to your desk, plopping down in the seat across from you without any invitation to do so.Â
âI could ask you the same question. I had a meeting with Andrew about rehearsals for fashion week, but I left my jacket behind, so I came back for it. Your office is the only one with the light still on, and my curiosity won. Your turn to tell me why youâre still here since it'sââ he glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist. â âNine p.m.â
You waved your hand over the papers in front of you. âWork.â
âBut youâre the only one here. Do you do this often?â He frowned, and if you paid close attention, his voice had a note of disapproval. That made sense, he seemed like the type of person to abhor working even a second overtime. Unfortunately, you were well-versed in it.
âMost days, yes.âÂ
He blinked. âOkay, no. Get your things. Weâre leaving.â
Definitely too lenient. âWe are?â
âYep, come on. You can doâŠ.whatever youâre doing now tomorrow.â He got to his feet and stared at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to follow suit. âI donât think you know what a break is, but youâre going to take one right now.â
Wow. Truly, the man had unprecedented levels of entitlement to try and boss you around when technically, you were his boss. Scoffing under your breath, your defiant gaze met his stubborn one.Â
âIâm busy.âÂ
âYouâll be just as busy tomorrow.âÂ
This was ridiculous. No one dared to speak to you so brazenly, and yet there he was, doing just that if there wouldnât be a single consequence. What you should have done was tell him to piss off and leave you alone so you finish your work like you had set out to do.
So why on earth did you grab your coat and follow him out of your office instead?
âIs this another instance of you wasting my time, Rafayel?â You asked as you approached his car in the parking lot. You still werenât sure what possessed you to actually follow him, but it was too late to back out of it now. A smirk teased his lips.
âMaybe.â His response resulted in you grumbling under your breath, and he laughed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his sleek, black Mercedes. He slid into the drivers seat and cocked his head in your direction. âGet in.â
God help you, because for some reason, you complied. âAre you going to tell me where youâre taking me?â You settled in the passenger seat, taking in the interior, because, of course, the seats were covered in bright red leather. It was as unashamedly flashy as he was in every sense of the word.
âItâs a surprise.âÂ
âI donât like surprises.â
Rafayel started the car, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. With one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel, the scene of him driving was ridiculously attractive for something so normal. You told yourself it was just because he was a conventionally attractive person. âOf course, you donât. Relax, Miss Designer, donât you ever loosen up?âÂ
âNot if I can help it.â
âI figured. You look like the type to not know the meaning of funâ And clearly, he was a stranger to the concept of holding his tongue. One glance at the offended look on your face only made him want to tease you even more. Not too long ago, he was convinced the only expressions you were capable of were scowls and glares, but he had recently learned that you had an entire arsenal of them. Your nose would scrunch when you were disgusted, your lips would part when you were caught off guard, and if something happened to amuse you, you wouldnât smile immediately. Instead, the smile would start in your eyes, and oftentimes stay there.Â
It felt like he was slowly but surely unlocking new sides to you, and he wanted nothing more than to unravel all of them. Most of all, he wanted to figure out how to get that pretty laugh out of you once more.Â
For no reason in particular. He was just a naturally curious person.Â
âLook,â he reasoned with you. âYouâre gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? Itâs not far off and it's worth it.âÂ
â...Fine.â You finally relented, relaxing just a little as you leaned back in the passenger seat and busied yourself by looking out of the window as he drove. Minutes later, he pulled up by a modern-looking structure that consisted of only a ground floor. Once he parked, he cleared his throat.
âReady?â
âI donât know what Iâm supposed to be ready for,â you said dryly, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the car. He grinned like he had won the lottery.Â
âThatâs what makes it even better.â Faulty logic and all, he led you to the entrance of the building and opened the door, sauntering inside like he owned the place. You lingered outside, noting how all the lights were off, and it clearly looked like it was closed.Â
You couldnât not be suspicious. âAre we trespassing?âÂ
âNah. Trespassing would mean weâre here without permission.â Rafayel gestured for you to follow him into the darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the door and letting you see just enough of him to not lose your bearings. He reached out and felt around the wall before humming triumphantly and flipping a switch. âThere we go. Stop thinking so much and trust me, yeah?âÂ
Squinting to readjust your eyesight to the now-bright lighting, you were left even more dumbfounded than before. âWeâre in anâŠ.art gallery?â
White walls with frames hanging on them surrounded you, each with little plaques under the art pieces with the artist's information. Some of the walls were constructed in the centre of the room for people to walk around as they inspected the art. There didnât seem to be any sort of theme with the current display, from what you could tell.Â
âAgain, with those deduction skills,â he teased, and strangely enough, you didnât want to slap him for it. âIâll have you know that art can be very therapeutic. Great for taking a break from workingâ
It wasnât every day you found yourself spontaneously being dragged to an art gallery, and having company was something even rarer. You had long since made peace with your lifestyle and its lonesome nature, but you were admittedly enjoying his presence, even if it was a little too chaotic for your liking.Â
âIâm pretty sure thats to do with creating it.â You almost smiled when he glared at you for your rebuttal. Huffing, he turned and walked further into the gallery, leaving you with no choice but to follow along. You were well aware that you were encouraging his crazy behaviour, but it wasnât like you could stop now.Â
So you picked up your pace, pulling your coat around yourself tighter as you took in the different art pieces. Portraits, landscapes and some abstract pieces, the different art styles captivated you. You had always had an affinity for art, since fashion was so intrinsically intertwined with it.Â
Lost in your thoughts, you almost walked right into his back. Fortunately, he turned around at the perfect moment and reached out, hand on your shoulder. The contact snapped you out of it, and you looked up at him only to find an apprehensive look in his eyes. That didnât make much sense though, considering how cocky and self-assured he was.Â
Raising your eyebrows in silent question, he sighed and moved out of your line of sight, revealing a wall.
Your eyes widened, all the air in your lungs leaving you at once.
The wall was covered in artwork of the sea. Every single piece was extremely detailed, some moody with their depictions of storms and deadly waves and others painting a picture of the sea at its calmest.Â
It was stunning, and even that word felt like an understatement. It simply did not do what you were currently looking at justice. The artist had captured the terrifying beauty of the sea so perfectly that looking at it stirred something akin to inspiration inside of you.
To you, the seafom resembled lace. The wheels in your head began to turn as more comparisons burst forth â the sand could be chiffon, and the waves themselves draped like silk. It had been so long since you had felt creativity like this that all you could do was stare, letting your skills take over and work through all the ideas that rushed forth, feeling overwhelmed and delighted all at once.
A singular plaque on the wall sat low and hidden away, tucked under all the art. You crouched down slightly, eager to know the person who had inspired you once more.
Anonymous.
You blinked, rising to your full height as you looked back at the art, dazed. âItâs beautiful.â
âThank you.â
You spun around, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him. His stance was relaxed, hands in his pockets, and his eyes trained on the artwork. At first, you had thought you had misheard him, but the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at the paintings with what could only be described as pride told you otherwise.
âYou made these?âÂ
Your disbelief was unmistakable, and it stung a little. He chuckled at the incredulity in your voice as you asked the question, nodding slowly. âSurprised?â
âVery, yes.â You glanced between the art and him. âWhy have you shown me this, Rafayel?â
âYou donât think very much of me,â It was a statement, rather than a question. He said it with a small simper, but it was unlike the one he usually wore. It was genuine, if not a little sad, no traces of that signature smirk of his as he met your eyes now.Â
âYouâve never given me a reason to.âÂ
âWell, there you go. Hereâs your reason.â His voice was oddly quiet. âTo think of me better, that is.â
You truly didnât know what to make of that. Only one question remained in your mind as you eyed the artist's plaque that held no information about the man beside you. âWhy have you chosen to be anonymous? Your work is wonderful.â
Pride flickered to life in his eyes once more, like your compliment meant something. âBecause this way, people will appreciate my art for what it is, without my affiliation. Iâm not an idiot, Y/n, I know the entire world knows who I am. The moment they find out Iâm the one who painted these, it wonât just be about the art anymore. Itâll be about me. Sure, it would get a lot more attention than it does here, sitting in the back of a barely known art gallery, but at least whatever attention it does get is real.â
Oh.
Rafayel was shallow, with a silver tongue he didnât know how to control. He infuriated you to no end and thought much too highly of himself for his own good. He was vain, arrogant, and about a dozen other things that you thought of as faults.Â
But he was so much more. As of late, you were beginning to see who he was past all of that. You saw the man who was irrationally afraid of cats and, for some reason, went out of his way to talk to you. You saw the artist behind the model, curls and all. The softer smiles and perceptiveness that you would have never attributed to him before.Â
âI wonât say this often, so donât get used to it.â You said slowly, glancing back at him. âBut you were right, I did need a break. Thank you for this.â
He and you werenât so different. Both of you were artists in your own right, seeking control over the art you created. The only difference was that he held that control by distancing himself from his work, whereas you were the very essence of yourself. Both of you had pride that clashed and egos that didnât take kindly to bruising.
You no longer knew what to make of Qi Rafayel. That should have scared you.Â
But when he flashed you a boyish grin at your admittance to him being right, you realised that it didnât.
It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.
You made a beeline for your home office, forgetting to take off your shoes in your frenzied state. Within minutes, you were hunched over new, fresh pieces of paper, your old sketches discarded in a trash can and forgotten about. Your pencil flew over the pages as you frantically began to draw out new designs, eager to capture the ideas that had been swirling around in your head the moment you saw those paintings.Â
Inspiration was powerful, but fleeting. For the next two hours, you poured everything out onto those pages, and it felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to come up for air until you were finished. Your newest collection came to fruition that night, born from an unexpected muse.Â
When you were done and the sound of waves in your mind receded, you were left with the sounds of the city and a sense of tired satisfaction.Â
Jimmy Choo's were meant to be savoured. They were the type of shoes that people glided in, they made the simple act of walking an experience to remember.Â
They were not meant for the furious strides of one very livid fashion designer.
âAndrew!â Your model's manager flinched at the sharpness in your voice as you addressed him. âWhy on earth are they not walking yet?â
âThereâs just been a small delayââ
âI am in no mood for excuses.â You snapped, sweeping your gaze over the lineup of models standing ready but doing absolutely nothing. âHonestly, Iâm starting to think Iâm surrounded by imbeciles. First, I find out that the hems of an entire rack of shirts have been messed up and have to spend my entire morning explaining how to fix that problem to people who apparently donât know how to do their jobs. Then I come here to check on how rehearsal is going, only to see that it hasnât even begun.âÂ
Andrew scrambled to appease you. âWeâre starting right away!â
With that strangled declaration, he jumped into action, snapping his fingers in the direction of the models. âAll of you! Behind the curtain, stat! In order, I want all of you walking out like you will for the show, understood? Chop Chop!â
Rafayel watched you from the end of the line, moving along with it until he was positioned correctly. This was the first rehearsal for the Paris Fashion Week show that was rapidly approaching, with only about two months left before the final day. Today, all that was taking place were run-throughs of the walks and setting the order of the models walking. His position was confirmed since the start, he would be the last one to walk, the much-anticipated closer of the show.Â
He noticed your tense shoulders, the way your lips were pressed together in a thin, displeased line. The first model walked out, and you studied her like a hawk, no doubt mentally filing away all your criticisms. Imposing as ever, your bad mood was evident.
For some crazy reason, he wanted to help alleviate it. He had seen past this untouchable facade you put up and had peeked through the cracks in your walls a couple of times now, when your pink lips curled upward just slightly, and your eyes glimmered a little brighter than usual. When you were just yourself, instead of the persona you played to stay at the top.Â
It seemed to him that you didnât let anyone see that side of you. Instead, you did everything in your power to avoid letting it show.
What a lonely existence that must have been.Â
He walked out onto the practice runway when it was his turn, one foot in front of the other as he glided smoothly, focusing on a spot on the wall directly in front of him. It was the same old routine he had practised and perfected for years now.
When he reached the end, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before turning around. His view shifted to you, and he let it linger, savouring the way you stared at him. For a split second, he was sure your expression softened, but just as quickly, that softness vanished. He continued his walk until he disappeared behind the curtain once more.
Another run-through with Andrew yelling out the changes he wanted each model to make, and then they were all afforded a generous ten-minute break. Rafeyel did not know why he found himself gravitating towards where you stood.Â
âShouldnât you be with the rest of the models?â You raised an eyebrow as he approached you, trying your best to sound as indifferent as possible. That wasnât something you typically had trouble with, but now it felt a little harder to do when faced with the intensity of his attention.Â
âWhen have I ever done anything I was supposed to?âÂ
You exhaled, shaking your head bemusedly. âDonât sound so proud of it.â
âYou look stressed.â Rafayel's voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he actually cared. You snuffed out that thought. He had been on your mind a dangerous amount as of late, but there was a perfectly rational explanation for that: he had inspired you.Â
âIâm always stressed. Iâve been on my feet all day.â You rubbed the spot between your eyebrows with your index and middle finger, smoothening out the frown that had formed.Â
âHave you learnt nothing from being around me? What happened to taking breaks?â He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuinely perturbed. âOr do you need me around to make sure you take them?â
Absolutely not. Having Rafayel around was proving to be detrimental to your sanity for reasons entirely different to those expected. You tilted your head towards the other models and waved your hand in their general direction. âWhat I need you to do is your job, not loiter around here.âÂ
 He laughed like you had told the world's funniest joke, pinning you in place with a knowing look. âOh, just admit it already. Iâm the most entertainment youâve had in a while. You love being around me, even if you donât want to admit it.Â
You pursed your lips. âThe juryâs still out on that one.â
âIs it, though?â His habit of incessantly questioning you was getting old, but that addictive drawl of his voice pulled you right back in. âYouâre smiling.â
To your mild dismay, you realised he was right. Now that he pointed it out, you could feel how the apples of your cheeks were raised with the upward curve of the sides of your mouth. Scoffing, you tried your best to erase any evidence of the sort as you turned away, but to no avail.Â
âYour break is over, you can stop pestering me now.â But your tone was lighter than it had been all day. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked off, joining the group of models who were gearing up to practice their walks once more. As the distance between the two of you increased, you realised with a start that you unfortunately did quite like being around him.Â
But there wasnât a rule that said you had to admit to such a thing. Rafayel was like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning, or a lagoon in the middle of a desert. Unpredictable and against everything you knew to be true about life, and yetâŠ
There was something undeniably charged between the two of you, from the way he sought you out and how you let him linger. Neither of you dared to acknowledge this, however, keeping your distance literally and figuratively.Â
As he paraded down the runway once again with the elegance of a swan but the flamboyance of a peacock, you couldnât help but wonder if it was that predictability and control you so desperately clung to that held you back. The second you let yourself go for just a little while, you found the inspiration you had been so desperately waiting for.
The past week had you being more productive than you had in months, your designs for fashion week already in production. With how everything was going, the collection for the runway would be ready by next week, which would finally put everything back on track. You had to constantly check in to ensure things were going exactly how you wanted them to, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you could let go of your tight hold and just breathe.
And if a certain pretty boy was plaguing your thoughts, well, that was no one else's business.Â
Maybe he was rubbing off on you.
âThis way.â You turned the corner into yet another hallway, causing Rafayel to wonder just how big the Lumiere building was. You had summoned him there out of the blue, giving him no explanation as to why you wanted him there and only reminding him to be on time. The request was definitely unlike your usual self, more aligned with his impulsive nature, but he couldnât bring himself to refuse.
And so there he was, following you through the endless corridors. When he had asked why he was there, all he received was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in your eyes and nothing more. When he probed for answers, you only said one thing: âI thought you liked surprises.â
Never in a million years had he expected you, of all people, to throw his words back in his face. You had successfully piqued his curiosity, and he trailed behind you now, eager to see what you had in store.
Finally, you stopped in front of a door and brought out a pair of keys. âCurrently, only select individuals have access to this room,â you informed him as you unlocked it, before pausing and looking at him. âYouâll be the first and only person who isnât from Lumiere itself to witness what Iâm about to show you. It goes without saying that itâs a secret for now.â
âI feel like the Sherlock joke has gone a little too far,â he muttered dryly. âYou have a thing for suspense now.â
Your lips twitched, and you pushed the door open, letting him enter first. When he did, he froze in place, jaw falling open as he made sense of what he was looking at.
Mannequins filled the room, the same number as the number of models there were for the fashion week show. Each form had complete outfits on, and each one was exquisite in ways he couldnât properly describe the way it deserved. Navy blue satin gowns with hand-stitched embroidery and ivory-coloured lace hems, intricate golden beading on cream corset tops, deep turquoise shirts made of the finest silk, and skirts that looked like waterfalls, layered with intent, short in the front and long in the back. Netted tops and coats with the most gorgeous pearl detailing he had ever seen, flowy chiffon shirts that were artfully tucked into white pants â every piece was thoughtfully designed and lovingly put together.Â
Rafayel was rendered completely speechless.Â
âIntroducing Lumiereâs 20[XX]Â Spring Collection.â You announced, stepping beside him and regarding your work with pride. Your hands were tucked behind your back, your stance bashful, but he could tell you were anything but. You knew what your work was worth, and you werenât shy about it.Â
He wasnât the type of person who was used to having nothing to say â quite the opposite â but there he was, rooted to the spot in awe as you walked over to one of the mannequins and slightly adjusted the skirt on it. The simple action told him just how much each piece meant to you, how well you knew them. He intimately understood the familiarity an artist had with their work, but seeing that mirrored in you was something else entirely.
âY/n,â he breathed out, âThis isâŠâ
âIâm hoping youâre going to say âimpressive.â It might be a little too late to walk for Chanel now.â There you were again, throwing his own words back in his face, and he couldnât, for the life of him, figure out why he liked it so much. It was so completely unlike you.Â
âItâs more than impressive, youâve outdone yourself.â He said, finally managing to break out of the reverie he had found himself in.Â
âIs that so?â You looked over your shoulder back at him, the slightest of smiles teasing your lips. âYou havenât even seen what youâre going to wear yet.âÂ
Without so much as another glance in his direction, you gracefully weaved through the mannequins to the back of the room. It was all he could do to follow along, doing his utmost best not to knock anything over as he gaped. As he passed each outfit up close, details he hadn't seen before revealed themselves, and he had to resist reaching out to touch.
And in the back, on the final mannequin, was the garment that took his breath away.Â
A shirt made from blood red organza silk that had an iridescent quality to it, shifting colours when the light hit it from different angles. From red to blue to violet, Rafayel found himself entranced by its ever-changing nature, eyeing the pale blue pearl details on the collar with deep appreciation. It was completely sheer, with subtle winding patterns stitched into the delicate fabric that resembled coral.Â
âI hand-stitched this one myself, and in three weeks, youâll be the one wearing it to close my show.â You said softly, trailing your fingers over the sleeve with care. You toyed with the end of it, watching how his eyes went wide and lips parted in something close to reverence.Â
âItâs phenomenal. All of it is.â He couldnât tear his eyes away from it, taking a step closer to you and the mannequin. âItâs so different from anything Iâve seen, especially from you.â
âYeah, well, I realised that I didnât just want to put out a collection that meant nothing.â It was true, the very thing that had driven you as you had put the collection around you together. âFashion is more than just clothing. Itâs an art form. Itâs supposed to evoke a feeling, to be able to tell a story and have its own identity.âÂ
The devotion you possessed towards your work was admirable, it was so plainly obvious that this was exactly what you were meant to do. Utterly enamoured, he spoke, âItâs gonna be one hell of a show.â
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You had been around him long enough to know he wasnât someone who took anything too seriously, but the earnest look he was giving you that he definitely took this â and by extension, you â very seriously.Â
âGood, but I donât want to just want to put on any show. I want it to be a performance.â You aimed to leave an impact, for people to leave the show and think about the experience for weeks, maybe even months, after. Rafayel realised that you were trusting him with enabling that by divulging your vision to him.
âThen itâs an honour to be one of your performers.â
That earned him a proper smile, not just the hint of one. It was small but mighty, starting in your eyes like your smiles always did, but this one was the rare type that reached your mouth and lit up your features. He found himself feeling winded for the second time in the past ten minutes, but this time it was because of you and not the clothing. At least he could explain the latter option.
âIn that case, what do you think about a more permanent position at Lumiere?â
It wasnât like this was the first time he had been offered this, but shock infiltrated his system anyway. âLike Xavier Shen?â
You nodded. âLike Xavier. A brand ambassador.â Waving a hand around, you continued, âYou fit with Lumiereâs image and the vision I have for my brand, so I believe you wonât disappoint. I donât say that lightly, or to every model. Of course, Iâm not forcing anything on you, and you can take your time to think about it.âÂ
Such plainly stated praise from the impossible-to-please Y/n L/n was practically unheard of, but there you were, staring at him with finality in your eyes. Arms folded over your chest, hair pinned up in that perfect bun as always and stiletto-clad feet, you were the same as always and yet he couldnât seem to perceive you as he had in the past.Â
Thomas would be overjoyed at him finally taking something seriously. His aunt would certainly approve of the collaboration, and heâd be walking for a fashion house he actually cared about. It seemed perfect.
âI donât need time.â Rafayel looked at the shirt that he would soon be wearing. âYouâve got yourself a new brand ambassador.â
The airhostess led you to your seat in first class, dragging your carry-on suitcase behind her. Once your bag was in the overhead cabin and you were settled in your seat, she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks menu and a cart, patiently waiting for your order. You leaned back in the plush seat and scanned over the available options.Â
God knows, youâd need the drink. Alcohol now acquired, you took a leisurely sip and tried your best to relax, but that was easier said than done. Boarding was still going on, and in about half an hour, youâd be airborne. The thought caused your stomach to churn.Â
To say you werenât a fan of flying would be an understatement. Sure, you had to do it a lot for work and shouldâve probably been used to it by now, but that wasnât the case at all. Oftentimes, you found yourself clutching at the armrests for dear life during take-off, which, in your opinion, was the worst bit, and remained on edge throughout the flight. Even the comfort of first class didnât help very much.Â
When you landed in Paris, there would be exactly ten days before the start of Fashion Week. You would be at your busiest since NYFW, and the added stress of anticipating that only added to your jittery state. Sighing deeply, you closed your eyes for a moment to ground yourself, index and middle finger rubbing against your temple.Â
âWell, hello there, neighbour. Fancy seeing you here.â
Your eyes flew open, settling on the culprit of the voice.Â
Rafayel stood in the booth right next to yours, looking the opposite of how you felt, completely at ease in this setting.Â
âWhy are you here?â
He raised an eyebrow. âThe same as you, I presume, to get to Paris. Did you expect me to take a boat or something?â And then, as if he owned the place (which was his usual way of carrying himself), he rested his arms over the walls of your small enclosure, chin propped in his palm. âI guess Thomas booked the same flight as yours.â
âIt certainly seems that way. Are you going to bother me the entire flight?â You felt mildly embarrassed at how you had blurted out the question so disgracefully.Â
âAs much as I possibly can, yes.â He beamed like he had delivered the best news of your life. âIsn't it lucky our seats are so close?â
âSuch a blessing,â You deadpanned, needing another drink despite your current one not being anywhere close to finished. The rest of the first class was completely empty, which meant you were stuck with his relentless pestering, whether you liked it or not, confined to the same space as him for the next seven and a half hours.Â
Brilliant.Â
Rafayel snorted. âIâm going to pretend that you meant that.â The airhostess appeared once again with her cart, and he opted for whiskey, neat and on the rocks. Once he had obtained his drink, he turned to you and held his glass out. âCheers.âÂ
You were too busy giving him an unimpressed look to remember your flying anxiety, until one of the airhostesses stepped into the first class section and announced that the takeoff would be soon. Immediately, you put your drink in its holder and frantically gripped the armrest as she went through the motions of the safety debrief. Rafayel sat down in his own seat, but looked over at you in amusement.Â
âYou seriously pay attention to these things?â
âWhat does it look like?â
âI mean, havenât you been on enough flights to know the basics by now?â He fastened his seatbelt as the safety instructions were done, and the lights dimmed, the plane getting ready for take-off.Â
âIt doesnât hurt to be reminded.â You muttered under your breath, but the cadence of your voice had taken a shaky turn, which was a far cry from its usual firm, clipped nature. Rafayel shot you an inquisitive look before noticing the death grip you had on the armrest and the tense set of your shoulders.Â
Whatever teasing comment that lay on the tip of his tongue dissolved as he dropped his voice. âHey. Are you okay?âÂ
âIâm fine.â
âThat was the most unconvincing âIâm fineâ Iâve ever heard.â He tilted his head and studied you for a moment. âYouâre pale.âÂ
The plane began to pick up speed, causing you to dig your manicured nails into the leather of the armrest and stare straight ahead at the blank screen in front of you. Usually, you always started a movie by now to distract yourself from your fear, but this time, you had paid so much attention to Rafayel that you had forgotten your routine when it came to flying.
But your silence told Rafayel everything he needed to know. âHey. Look at me.â
âRafayel, I am in no mood for yourââ
âTell me about the Spring Collection.â
You whipped your head to him, considerably confused by the sudden change of topic. âWhat? Why? Youâve seen the entire thing upfront.â
He sighed theatrically and gave you a pointed look. âJust do it, will you?â
This bizarre man. You didnât think youâd ever be able to understand how his brain worked. Still, if there was one thing you allowed yourself to brag about, it was your work. Crossing your legs, you tried your best to relax in your seat.Â
âItâs inspired by the sea, which actually, you have yourself to thank for,â you said, getting straight to the point without beating around the bush.Â
Rafayelâs lips parted. âI do?âÂ
âYour art.â You clarified, giving him a meaningful look. âIt really struck a chord in me. One look at it and I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the collection, which was surprising considering I had been going through a bit of a creative rut.â You recalled how your creativity had come rushing back to you all at once, the moment you set your eyes on his paintings.Â
He told himself heâd dissect the warm feeling in his gut later, a smug look taking over his features. âI am nothing if not inspiring.â
You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief at his conceitedness and wondering why-oh-why you found it somewhat endearing now. âDonât let it get to your head.â
âToo late.â A slow, languid smirk stretched out on his lips as he took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Your eyes betrayed you, dropping to his mouth and watching as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. âIâm gonna brag about this forever. Where is the show going to be held?â
âIn a cathedral.â You averted your gaze, feeling heat creep up your neck and onto the apples of your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you sipped your champagne in an attempt to soothe your ruffled feathers, hoping it would cool you down and keep your face from flushing.Â
What the fuck was wrong with you?Â
âA cathedral, huh? Youâre really going all out.â He rubbed his chin in thought. âItâs gonna have a very operatic feel to it.âÂ
âThatâs exactly what Iâm going for,â you admitted, pleasantly surprised that he had grasped exactly what you wanted to put across without you going in depth at all. It was as if he had reached into your mind and taken the words out of your mouth. Even Xavier wasnât this perceptive.
Now, why on earth were you comparing him to Xavier? This was madness. Something was obviously very wrong with you since your train of thought had never been this outlandish before. You couldnât make sense of it at all, simply because you had never been subjected to feeling this way before. Why was there a fluttery sensation in the pits of your stomach? What was this warmth that seemed to simmer underneath the expanse of your skin every time he looked at you?Â
Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?
As that absolutely insane possibility made itself known, the lights in the cabin flickered back on, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality. Rafayel was already watching you, amused, taking another leisurely sip of his drink and blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. Blinking rapidly, you realised that you were already airborne and had made it through take-off without a hitch.
And that was when it hit you: all this talk about the collection and the show had been for your benefit. The model had been distracting you on purpose, somehow picking up on your fear. His presence, one that you had previously considered as bothersome, had been the very thing to calm you down.Â
You didnât know what to say.Â
âNow then,â he picked up the bowlful of salted nuts one of the airhostesses had gotten upon his request, eyes twinkling as he popped a handful into his mouth. âTell me more.â
Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.
You had been invited to watch two shows that day, the first of which was a Marc Jacobs runway show. The second show was for Dubois Designs, after which Gabriette had made sure to personally meet you and insist that you attend the afterparty as well. The new addition to your schedule gave you less than an hour to get ready for the aforementioned party, since right before it, you had a talk and presentation with Anna Wintour.Â
Between the glitz and glamour and one too many coffees, it was only the first day, and you had been thrust right back into the chaos you so loved and thrived in.Â
Dubois Designs was huge in Paris, being the home city of the brand and the founder. Even with your conditional friendship with Gabriette, you could admit that her show had been incredible. The exaggerated silhouettes had been eye-catching, and the craftsmanship was truly remarkable.Â
You descended the stairs and found yourself in a large, crowded basement. The party itself was in full swing, moody red lighting bathing the entire room while simultaneously keeping it dark. It fit the edgier aesthetic that Dubois Designs tended to lean towards, despite being a luxury fashion house. A DJ was tucked into a corner, mixing the electronic music as the backdrop for people to drink and dance to their heart's content.Â
Familiar faces stopped and greeted you as you made your way to the bar, knowing youâd definitely need a drink to enjoy all this. The darkness made it a little harder to recognise people, but most of them were well-known faces in the industry, from models to actors and even some well-known influencers. Having to be social at almost midnight was not something you particularly enjoyed, but it was the start of fashion week, and your adrenaline was at an all-time high, making all of this much more tolerable than usual.Â
Getting yourself a gin and tonic, you began consuming it at a pace that would ensure you had a pleasant buzz in about twenty minutes. The energy around you was palpable, the ebb and flow of it was surprisingly infectious, forcing you to subconsciously loosen up.Â
âY/n! You made it!â
The French accent gave her away before she even stepped into your line of sight. Gabriette appeared seemingly out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you and giving you air kisses on both cheeks. You returned the gesture, tentatively returning her hug before pulling away.
âOf course I did. How could I ever refuse a personal invite from you?â You smiled the commercial smile you practised for events such as these. âAfter a show like that, I knew the afterparty would be just as spectacular.â
It was obvious that she was still riding off the high that the success of her show had brought, but you couldnât blame her. She laughed, the sound a tad bit too shrill, âYou are too kind. I have people to meet, but please, enjoy yourself.â
And with another exaggerated air kiss, she left you to your own devices, continuing on her mission of making rounds through the party. Events like these always tended to be impersonal, interactions were short and fleeting, and the more connections you managed to make in one night, the better. The industry was filled with young people looking to connect, and this was the best way to do so.
You finished your drink while chatting with the creative director of Louis Vuitton, who expressed their excitement for your upcoming show. As you engaged in conversation, you observed the scenes going on all around you, a sense of wistfulness taking over you. There was a point in your life when you thought youâd never belong in this world, back then when it felt too out of reach for a young aspirant such as yourself.Â
As your eyes swept across the room, they snagged on a familiar pair staring right back at you.Â
Rafayel cocked his head to the side when he caught your eye, immediately excusing himself from the conversation he had been having and making his way over. Unsure of what compelled you to do the same, you slipped through the crowd until you met him halfway.
âI did not think you would be here,â you admitted once within earshot. You hadnât seen him for the past two days, with him being busy with photoshoots and other such events, his manager had added to his itinerary at the last minute (to his dismay).Â
Now that he was before you, his gaze dropped, slowly dragging over your figure from bottom to top like he was committing it to memory. The act sent inexplicable shivers up your spine, and you gripped your glass to show yourself from physically reacting, but that was harder said than done.Â
He wore a dark red shirt that had shimmery lilies embroidered across it, mostly unbuttoned to expose the smooth skin of his chest and torso. With his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that made him seem effortlessly attractive and the dark lighting casting sharp shadows over his face that brought out the intensity in his typically soft visage, he was truly something to behold.Â
Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.
âGabriette invited me.â He waved his hand dismissively as he explained, like he didnât really care. âSomething about nurturing goodwill.â
âSheâs all about that, isnât she?â You muttered dryly. The loud music almost made your quip inaudible, but he caught on anyway, delighted at the hint of the sassy nature you possessed under all that seriousness.Â
âI didnât think this was your scene.âÂ
You wore a blue drop waist Lumiere mini dress and Isabel Marant fringe boots on your feet. Signature Vivienne Westwood earrings dangled from your ears, glinting through your styled hair whenever the light caught them. The entire outfit was in stark contrast to what he was used to seeing you in, devoid of any formality and primness.Â
âItâs not, but you know.â A playful smirk adorned your lips as you swayed to the music, looking so much more relaxed than normal. âGoodwill and all.â
God, he could get addicted to that. âShame, you secretly being a party girl would have made you even more interesting.â
âAm I not interesting enough for you?â Your voice teetered on the edge of mockery with the question, shifting your weight from one foot to the other and staring up at him defiantly.Â
âTrust me, Y/n, you have no idea just how interesting I think you are.â He said smoothly, plucking your drink out of your hand and placing it off to the side, but before you could reprimand him for doing so, his hand cupped your elbow gently and pulled you along with him.Â
âDance with me.â
It wasnât a request, but rather a statement he was annoyingly sure you would comply with. You supposed you didnât have much of a say in the matter with how he was basically dragging you with him, but it had been a while since you found yourself able to be properly irritated with him.Â
Even in the dim lighting, you were acutely aware of how people watched the two of you, eyes following your every movement, but you knew who they were actually looking at. You might have been Y/n L/n, the fashion industry's darling, but he was Qi Rafayel. You didnât live under a rock; you knew of his reputation as the life of the party, but now you could see that play out in real time. A party wasnât a good one without him. In all honesty, that was probably the reason Gabriette invited him in the first place.
Rafayel was made for the spotlight. Wickedly charming with levels of confidence that some would spend their entire life chasing, he basked in the attention being thrown his way like it was a form of currency. Perhaps it was, in a sense, what they exchanged to be able to admire such an alluring soul in his element.
The entire room watched him, but Rafayel? His eyes were locked on you.Â
You felt your mouth go dry, and a hammering began within the confines of your ribcage, slow at first but building up to a crescendo. His hands slipped from your elbows down to your waist, holding you gingerly. Everyone begged for even a speck of his attention, but all of his was on you, and the effect was downright dizzying.Â
âYou look beautiful.â
âThank you.âÂ
How proper of you. Mirth danced about in his expression as he pulled you just a tad closer, knowing fully well he was pushing your limits. âArenât you going to pay the compliment back?â
âYouâre a world-famous model, Rafayel. I harshly think you need me telling you how good you look.â You looked over his shoulder, unable to hold any eye contact with him.Â
âNo,â he mused, dipping his head until his mouth was just by your ear. âBut you could tell me how hot I am.âÂ
Every syllable dripped with that delicious, insufferable cockiness you desperately wished you still loathed. You could feel the warmth of his breath tickle the skin of your neck, and you turned your head until you were face to face with each other, so painfully close it felt illegal.Â
One thing was becoming quickly apparent to you, and that was that whatever you felt towards Rafayel wasnât the plain old, run-of-the-mill attraction. That was just one aspect of it, especially in this moment, running through the charged air between the two of you like an electric current. The tension was almost tangible, like a live wire you were tempted to wrap your fingers around and tug.
But there was so much more. His willingness to share his art with you, even though he kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Distracting you on the plane. Challenging you to be better, even when you hated how he went about it. You, turning him into your muse, letting him inspire both you and your work.Â
You had disliked him because he was out of your realm of control. He wasnât someone you could put a leash on and expect to follow every order; no, he did things his way and forced you to see the good in it. Now, however, you realised that you didnât want to try and control him. You liked the unpredictability.
âIâd never do that.â You whispered, hating how breathless you must have sounded. Still, you made no effort to reclaim your personal space, addicted to the close proximity from the second you had been exposed to it. You finally understood why everyone wanted this. Wanted him.Â
A knowing smile stretched across his face, and in spite of your best efforts, you found yourself utterly enraptured by it.Â
âOh, I know.â
Rafayel was tipsy, just about aware of the bass-boosted music, with a lazy smile on his face as he ordered two drinks at the bar. You were somewhere out there waiting for him to return with them, no doubt ready with a scathing remark about how long he was taking.Â
He didnât know what he was doing. He couldnât recall the last time he felt so bewitched by someone, solely because he never let anyone get close enough. Keeping people at arm's length was something he was well-versed in, but for some reason, he had only pulled you closer. His attempts at breaking down your walls had resulted in him letting you through his.
You, and your scrutinising gaze and sharp tongue. Beautiful. Unforgiving.Â
âMr. Qi?â
He turned to the source of the voice, finding a man standing there with a determined look on his face. Rafayel raised an eyebrow. âYes?â
âLovely to make your acquaintance, sir, Iâm Gabriette Duboisâ assistant.â He adjusted his glasses and continued. âMiss Dubois is overjoyed that you made it, and she would be here herself if something hadnât come up. She wanted me to pass on a message.â
The drinks arrived. Rafayel tugged them closer to where he leaned against the bar, nodding. âGo on.â
âMiss Dubois is interested in working with you once again.â The assistant held out a business card, evidently not picking up on the man's surprise. As far as he remembered, the collaboration between Dubois Designs and him had been a couple of years ago and a roaring success, but there had never been any talk of extending it. He had expected that, since he had been his usual difficult self, Gabriette hadnât appreciated it very much. Moreover, this was before he had catapulted into being considered one of the world's hottest models, so she had had no reason to keep him on for any longer.
âI see.â
âShe awaits good news from your end. Take the time to think about it.âÂ
And with that, the man left Rafayel alone once more. He toyed with the business card for a couple of moments before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he picked up the drinks and made his way back to you.
âHow many times have you been to Paris?â
You stitched your eyebrows together in thought. âFour times, maybe?â
Rafayel looked scandalised, eyes widening and mouth falling open like you had personally offended him. âAnd this is your first time exploring?â
âI come here very briefly and only for work, Rafayel,â You spooned a heap of thick cream into your hot chocolate. âI should be working right now, but someone insisted I accompany him to the middle of nowhere.â
âI insisted you take a break, since you clearly donât know how to take one yourself.âÂ
That much was true. After a gruelling rehearsal (one that ended in you talking sternly to your employees about not ensuring the practice runway was to scale), he had caught up to you and demanded you drop everything and follow him. Maybe all the stress had been getting to you because you let him convince you, but not without complaint. You made your annoyance with the situation quite obvious, even if it wasnât genuine at all.Â
He had suggested taking a walk, which is what this insane outing had started as, but when you admitted to never having actually explored the city, he acted like you had personally offended him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, which was how you ended up in a small boulangerie that was hidden away in one of the Parisian streets.Â
The hot chocolate was rich, and the croissant you had ordered was perfectly buttery and flaky. By no means did the bakery look like a place a celebrity would frequent, with its old-timey decor and peeling paint job, but it had a certain charm to it, run by a lovely old lady who immediately began fussing over Rafayel the moment the two of you arrived. Later, he told you that it was a secret gem and one of his favourite places to frequent whenever he was in Paris.Â
It turned out that was quite often, so much so that he even had an apartment here. He absolutely loved the city of love, which was why he was so flabbergasted at you not knowing much about it despite having been there several times.Â
âFashion week is a very important time for me. I can rest after it's over.âÂ
âWorkaholic.â He jibed at you, stealing a piece of your croissant. âIâm going to take you around.â
You tried to protest, âThatâs unnecessary-â
âTrust me, itâs necessary. Besides, I already asked Thomas to bring my car.â
âYour car?âÂ
He gave you a too-innocent smile. âDid I not mention I have a car here? Donât worry, it's very nice. A convertible, too.â
âYouâre ridiculous.â You looked off to the side to conceal the grin that was threatening to break out on your face. There were about a million other things you could think of that you should have been doing, and yet here you were, going along with his shenanigans.
Once you were done eating and emerged from the bakery, his sports car was indeed waiting out for both of you with the roof pulled back. He ushered you into the passenger seat, going so far as to open the door for you before taking his place behind the steering wheel and pulling out of park.Â
Rafayel had no destination in mind, simply wanting to spend more time with you and keep you away from your precious work. Due to the late hour, they were mostly empty, which made the drive pleasantly smooth. He switched the radio on, the latest and greatest pop music filling the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.Â
The lamps cast a dim yellow light over the Parisian streets, and you took it all in, watching intently from the car as they passed you by. By no means was this the greatest tour in the world â far from it. He didnât tell you what you were looking at, too busy humming along to a Taylor Swift song, but it stirred up a feeling deep within you that you couldnât quite put your finger on.Â
The sounds of late-night Paris mixed with his voice, turning into a melody you would have never thought was worth listening to before. It wrapped around your senses, and little by little, you let yourself go. Your posture relaxed, your jaw softened from its perpetually clenched state, and you let out a breath you didnât even know you had been holding in.Â
And for the first time in a long time, you realised that the loneliness you were so used to carrying around was nowhere to be found.Â
The only other person who managed to lessen the sense of isolation you harboured was Xavier, and even he couldnât do it all the time, and yet, the headstrong man driving you around had somehow managed to break down all your walls and let you out of the prison you had built for yourself. While others expected you to break from the pressure that came with your position, he made sure you didnât, even when you refused his help.Â
You sat forward in your seat, shutting your eyes as the cool night air blew against your face. Perhaps it defeated the point of the ride if you werenât looking around anymore, but you couldnât help it. It had been so long since you had been able to completely let go around someone else that you wanted to savour every second of the moment.Â
Rafayel glanced over and found it almost impossible to look away from you. Eyes fluttering open with shadows cast from your eyelashes and dancing on your face. Wind in your hair, hair that was finally let out of its perfect updo and allowed to freely fall over your shoulders. The way your head was tilted up just slightly as you stared at the starless sky, focused on the crescent moon overhead.Â
God, you were a painting he could never do justice to, but desperately wished he was able to.Â
Forcing himself to look away, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and focused his attention back on the roads he cruised down. âI should take you back to your hotel."Â
âYeah,â you mumbled, leaning back against the seat. âI have a lot to do tomorrow.âÂ
âWhen do you not?â
âJust drive!â You forced exasperation into your voice as you put in the address of the hotel into his GPS. This moment was one you never wanted to end, but your feet were firmly rooted in reality even when your head was in the clouds. You clamped down on that wish and settled back in the seat, watching the streets pass you by.Â
But it festered anyway, latching onto you like wishes so great tended to. You had everything you could have ever wanted: money, fame, and you had achieved all your dreams, but now here you were, with a new dream blooming from the remnants of old ones, a dream you never thought would see the light of day.Â
If not for him, would you have let another trip to Paris pass you by with your head stuck in your schedule until it was time to board that flight back to New York? The notion of that had made him go out of his way to remedy it, even when you put up a fuss and tried to talk him out of it.Â
Unfortunately for you, you were rather easy to convince when it came to him.
When he pulled up to the hotel, he ignored all your protests and accompanied you to your room door. With every step you took towards the elevator, you did your utmost to keep a safe distance between your body and his, reminding yourself that this wasnât something you could get used to. You hated the giddy feeling in your chest and the way it seemed to consume you when he was around. The back of his hand brushed against yours as you stood side by side, and even though the contact was minuscule, you could feel it everywhere.Â
The doors of the elevator opened, and you walked out with purpose, desperate to put as much space as you could between the two of you. He sauntered behind you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, completely and blissfully unaware of the storm waging in your head. You stopped outside your room and turned to face him.Â
âDonât expect me to invite you in.â You warned, crossing your arms over your chest as you regarded him warily, expecting him to push back once more. âYouâve already taken enough of my time today.â
Your tone was reprimanding, but he could tell it was all just for show. There was a glint in your eyes that told him you more than enjoyed yourself today, even if youâd never admit it. He knew you well enough by now to know that you said one thing but meant something else entirely, and that solidified you as one, if not the most confusing person he had ever met.Â
And yet there he was, trying to decode you. âI wouldnât dare ask for even a second more.â
Taking a step forward, he looked down at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze back to your face, staring at you intently. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, and in that fleeting moment, those mesmerising amethyst eyes of his dropped down to your lips. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he just leaned forward andâ
He would have dismissed that deranged thought entirely if he hadnât caught your breath hitching. âActually, I might need a couple.âÂ
Rafayelâs eyes flickered back to yours, realising you hadnât moved away. You swallowed, too proud to be the one who looked away first, and instantly, you knew what this was: weeks of flirtation disguised as tolerance and arguments coming to a head. A silent question hung in the little space between him and you, weighted and with far too many strings attached for you to even consider. He was waiting for permission, you realised, or any sort of answer.
It was a bad, terrible, no good idea. A desire that was nothing more than a moment of weakness, one you would surely regret somewhere down the line.Â
But around him, succumbing to moments of weakness was so easy.
âThen you better make it worth it.â
His hands found your waist, tugging you closer and pressing his lips to yours without another word. He stole your breath with his, leaving you to gasp against his mouth as it moved against yours oh-so gently, like you were made of glass he refused to let shatter. You could taste the subtle sweetness the hot chocolate had left, and smell the scent of his expensive cologne, struggling to process all of it as he kissed you.Â
And fuck, how he kissed you. The world around you went silent as Rafayelâs lips fit perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. They were soft and a little chapped from the night air, but intoxicating nonetheless.
When the two of you broke apart, he made no motion to move, keeping his hands on your hips. Your eyes fluttered open, your noses brushing against each other, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips. You hadnât quite returned to reality just yet, still existing in the few seconds prior.Â
Rafayel let go after a minute or so and took a step away from you. You could see it now â the way he looked at you like you were the sun and moon and stars, a type of fondness you were wholly unused to. It had been there for the past couple of weeks, but you had mistaken it for mirth.Â
âTimes up,â he muttered with an impossibly soft smile adorning his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets. âGoodnight, Y/n.â
You watched him walk away from you, down the hallway and back to the elevator. As the doors shut, he gave you a cheeky little wave, causing you to stand there flabbergasted and more confused than you had ever been in your life before. You lifted your fingers to your lips that tingled from the ghost of his kiss.
Youâd be lying if you said you didnât like it.Â
You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.
Secret touches. Lingering glances. It had been two days since he first kissed you, and you had made no efforts to get him to stop. In between interviews and rehearsals, he somehow managed to grab hold of you and steal you away from the world, even if it was just for a couple of minutes.
His apartment in Paris was on the fourth floor, in a building with older elevators. You walked out of it and to the numbered apartment that he told you was his, knocking and waiting for him to answer. He had texted you just after you finished filming a video with Vogue, insisting that you absolutely had to come over as soon as possible.Â
When he opened the door, looking completely at ease, you suspected your mild concern had been for no reason.Â
âThere you are,â he hummed, holding a glass of wine precariously in between his fingers, sloshing it around before taking a sip. âI was wondering when youâd show up. Come inside.âÂ
You stepped over the threshold and into his apartment, following him to his living room. For someone as over-the-top as himself, it was quite the quaint place, with wooden furniture and the original paint job still intact. If you asked him about it, you figured heâd just say something pretentious about preserving the Parisian integrity of the apartment.Â
Pulling off your gloves, you tossed them on his coffee table and shrugged off your coat. He leaned against the island that separated the kitchen from his living room, watching your every move like it was a dance sequence he was trying to memorise. Once you were done, you turned to face him with an expectant look.
âFrom the urgency of your messages, I assumed there was an emergency.â
He smiled coyly, pressing the edge of his glass to his lips. âIs wanting to see you not emergency enough?â
You wanted to scream, to push him out of a window and kiss him senseless at the same damn time. That conflict inside of you bubbled over, leaving a confused bout of need in its wake because no one had ever driven you this crazy before. Narrowing your eyes at him, you walked over until you were standing right in front of him.Â
âYou know very well that Iâm busy.â
âAnd yet, here you are.â He reached out to you, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer. His hair fell into his eyes, the deep purple ends of it kissing the high of his cheekbones like wisteria hanging down from tree branches. Unable to resist, you cupped his face, brushing your thumb over the mole on his cheek with tenderness that surprised even yourself.Â
âI think youâre distracting me on purpose.â
âThere she is,â he murmured fondly, turning his face into your palm and pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. âThe queen of cynicism.â
He gripped your wrist and slowly began peppering kisses from the centre of your palm down to your wrist, his eyes sweeping to yours. Something about the action felt strikingly intimate, sparking a fire inside of you that you hadnât known could ever exist. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, drawing him into you for once and meeting his lips with your own.Â
You were hooked. Every brush of his mouth against yours was electrifying, precise and addictive in ways that left you wanting more every time. Wine entirely forgotten, his hands lifted to your face and held it, turning you around and pressing you against the edge of the island as he took the lead.Â
When Rafayel kissed you again, you blossomed under his touch like a flower exposed to the sun for the first time in days. His fingers entangled in your hair and cradled the back of your head delicately, his nails scratching against your scalp and sending delighted shivers down your spine. He tilted your head back so that you could meet him better, the nature of the kiss dissolving into something much more intense as his tongue swiped over your lower lip, eliciting a soft sound from the back of your throat.Â
âJesus,â he mumbled against you, pained and breathless, pulling away for a singular moment that somehow felt too long despite probably being not more than a second. When he leaned back in, his lips found the side of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw and finding the spot below your ear that made you sigh and tip your head back. He made good use of the access you had so willingly given him, leisurely leaving hot open open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, knowing exactly what to do to have you fall apart while simultaneously doing barely anything at all.Â
Your hands gripped the collar of his shirt at first, then slid down the silky fabric until they met the cool metal of his belt buckle. Emboldened by the situation, you hooked your fingers in his belt loops and tugged him even closer, until his hips were flush against yours. Your eagerness induced a dry chuckle from him, soft and barely there, puffs of his breath tickling against your pulse point. His thigh slotted between your legs before he paused, letting the gravity of what was happening hit either one of you.
It never did.
âDonât you dare stop.â You almost snapped, but it lacked that authority your voice usually possessed when delegating tasks at work, instead laced with avid desperation for something only he could give you â a thrill only he could provide. Your permission was all he required, gripping your hips and lifting you onto the kitchen island and stepping in between your legs.
âSo bossy,â you could feel him grinning against your neck. âYou canât resist ordering people around, can you?â
Before you could even think about refuting, his mouth was back on yours with a renewed sense of want, demanding and dizzying all at once. The beginnings of a retort died on your tongue when his meets yours and his hands slip under the hem of your skirt, sliding up your thighs maddeningly slow. All you could do was whine impatiently, leaning into him and giving in to that magnetic pull of his. He lifted his head, peering down at you with darkened eyes, so close that you could still taste him.Â
âTell me what you want,â he asked, squeezing your thighs in a manner that told you knew knew exactly what you wanted. âYou can do that for me, canât you?â
You glared, though it was weak. âDonât play dumb.âÂ
âFine. When was the last time someone made you come, Y/n?â
You exhaled sharply at his question, one he phrased so innocently, although it was nothing of the sort. âRafayel.â
âI thought you liked it when people were straightforward with you.â He smirked down at you, running his thumb over your lower lip and applying a little pressure, enough to have your mouth part. His other hand slipped further up your inner thigh, fingers languidly tracing the edge of your panties. He could feel you stiffen, anticipation running rampant through your veins as a wave of arousal crashed over you, rendering you pliant and wanting.Â
Dipping his head to your ear, he whispered, âYouâre always so wound up, baby. Let me help you relax.â
With that, the spark he had lit inside of you roared to life, the flames burning your blood, making you feel hot all over your body. You were wet, embarrassingly so, soaked through your underwear as a haze of lust enveloped your mind. His knuckles brushed against your clothed core, and the minimal contact made you whimper needily, flattening your palms against the flat of his chest.Â
âPlease, Rafayel.â Never, in a million years, did he ever think heâd have you begging for anything, but there you were, with your legs spread. âTouch me.â
Rafayel didnât think heâd ever been this turned on in his life.
Manoeuvring your panties to the side, his fingers dipped in between your folds, a hungry gleam blazing to life in his eyes as he watched you jerk into his touch, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed. Your slick coated his fingers, and he groaned, the sound low and deep as he brought them up to your clit and circled it, tantalisingly slow.Â
âYouâre so wet for me.â Shame filtered through you at his words, but it came secondary to the want that coursed through you. It wasnât like you could deny the claim anyway; you could feel it firsthand. âGonna make you feel so good.â
âYou better,â you breathed out, clutching at the ends of his shirt in a futile attempt to keep your sanity somewhat intact, but he was doing an excellent job of chipping away at it, with how expertly he rubbed your clit, increasing the pressure of the circles he rubbed against the bundle of nerves.Â
âOh, I will.â He flashed you a cocky grin, hooking his finger in the center of your panties and tugging them down your legs. âDonât you worry your pretty head about it.â
His other hand travelled underneath your top and pushed the material up your body, and you raised your arms, helping him pull it off and leaving you in a simple black bra. Still, he looked at you like you had a matching lingerie set on, humming in appreciation as he pulled your panties down your legs. They caught against one of your heels, which fell to his floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to even comprehend that. Immediately, he was back on you, middle finger pressing against your entrance as he nipped at your throat, soothing the sting his teeth left behind with licks of his tongue and wet kisses.Â
Finally, finally, he pushed one lithe finger into you and provided you with some relief, revelling in the moan you gasped out. His lips made their way down your neck and to your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breasts unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world to do with you as he pleased. He set a lazy pace with his finger, introducing a second one to your cunt with ease on account of how wet you were, gushing all over his hand.Â
Impatient, you reached behind and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and took in the appreciative look on his face when you tossed it to the side.Â
âFuck,â he looked like you had positively wrecked, like you were a witch that had put him under a spell. âYouâre killing me here.âÂ
Rafayel attacked your chest again, this time with a little less precision. His pretty pink lips dragged across your breasts, tongue flicking out and swirling around one of your your pebbled nipples, taking it into his mouth and sucking. You arched into him with a whimper, your hands finding purchase in his soft hair, holding his head close to your body. His fingers moved in and out of your cunt fast, the palm of his hand rutting against your clit rhythmically, having your toes curl out of pleasure.Â
âRaf- oh, fuck.âÂ
He looked up at you through his eyelashes, biting down on your nipple just hard enough for sparks of pain to shoot through you, mingling with the pleasure until you were left with a heady mix of both swirling inside you. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his fingers on their own accord.Â
For someone usually so well put together, it was hypnotic to watch you fall apart for him â and because of him. His mouth slipped from your nipple for a moment in favour of staring at you in wonder. âGod, youâre soâŠâ
You never found out what he meant to say, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his fingers curled inside of you, the tips of them stroking against the spot that made it hard for you to hold back your moans and whimpers. The sounds tumbled out of you like a waterfall, combined with the wet ones from your pussy, and filled the silence of his apartment, spurring him on even further as he fingered you so diligently. He went right back to lapping at your breast, his free hand kneading your other one, rolling that nipple under his thumb and pinching it.Â
âOh my god,â you whined as you helplessly ground against his palm, the heel of it digging into your clit and applying delicious pressure on it that had you losing your damn mind. You could tell you were close from the coiling sensation in your gut, and from the way your legs were trembling, he had picked up on it as well.Â
âThatâs it,â he cooed. âCome for me.â
Seconds later, your orgasm hit you hard, a choked moan of his name leaving you as you clung onto him, overwhelmed at how good it felt. He held you against him, his ministrations never letting up for even a moment as he helped you ride out your high to the fullest. Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers away, staring at the mess you left on them in awe.Â
And then he looked at you, and he realised that the mess of you was far prettier. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hair all messed up just like how heâd imagined far too many times for him to willingly admit to, and eyes blown wide with desire. The sight of you like this â so perfectly wrecked â almost made him moan aloud, but he stopped himself by kissing you once more, messily now, all teeth and tongue and heat.
âY/n,â Rafayel rasped out your name against your lips, âFuck, I need you.â
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until you were flush against his chest, locking your legs around his hips. âThen take me.â
Bossy as ever, it only made him want you more. Gripping the underside of your thighs, he picked you up and carried you to his bedroom, lips locked with yours. He didnât know how he made it to his room, but once there, he set you on the mattress and climbed over you, taking a moment to admire you in all your glory.Â
He was a total goner.Â
âYouâre wearing too many clothes,â you huffed in between kisses, tugging impatiently at his collar and fumbling with his buttons. Rafayel laughed, finding your indignation so fucking adorable that he almost forgot what the two of you were doing, so consumed with the fact that he had you like this. When you managed to undo most of his buttons, he leaned back and pulled the shirt off, discarding it to some corner of the room and unzipped his pants.Â
His cock sprung to life as he kicked off his pants, and you were awestruck at the sight of him. The tempting lines of his abs you had forced yourself to look away from several times, now on display for only your eyes, and the flushed tip of his hard cock claiming all your attention because not only was it pretty, it was big. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look.Â
âLike what you see?â He drawled out the question with a lazy grin as he slipped on a condom, his smugness riling you up even more. Licking your lips, you pushed him away until he landed on his backside, expression morphing into one of confusion.
Aha, so it was possible to wipe that look off his face after all.Â
âSit up against the headboard,â you instructed, getting to your knees and slipping the skirt that you still had on off your body, both of you completely naked now.Â
Although surprised, he complied fairly quickly, the smirk returning with full force. âYes, maâam.âÂ
To Rafayel, this made sense. You always had to have a modicum of control over any situation, and this was how you established that here. You threw a leg over him, straddling his lap. His breath hitched when his cock came into contact with your bare cunt, unable to hold back a groan when you began to grind. The sound fired off every synapse in your brain, your body working on its own as you rolled your hips harder against him.Â
âGod, fuck,â his honeyed voice was strained with the effort it took to not just hold you still and fuck up into you. âIâm going to lose my mind if Iâm not inside you soon, pretty girl.âÂ
The nickname did something to you, going straight to your head like a strong shot of tequila. You lifted your hips, reaching between your bodies and aligning his cock with your entrance, wetness coating the tip. Circling your hips, you savoured the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth.Â
But you were a woman who had virtually no patience. Teasing him, while fun, only succeeded in making you more desperate than you already were.Â
So you steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly sinking onto his length. You hissed in pleasure at the burn of the stretch, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders and most definitely leaving marks. The near drunken sound that left him when you took all of him was the most gratifying one you had ever heard. He gripped your hips, tipping his head back against the headboard and breathing heavily.Â
âYouâ fuckâ you feel so perfect,â Rafayel stuttered in wonder, but you were still adjusting to his size to comprehend the praise properly. He was buried to the hilt, and you felt delirious, clawing at him as you tried and failed to keep yourself together. You needed him so bad it scared you, somehow growing even wetter with him inside of you because of how fucking good it felt.
Lifting your hips once again, you came down on him, mouth falling open at how he filled you up so easily. He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and ravishing it once more, both of you far too gone to even think about the consequences of leaving marks.Â
âRaf,â you whined, rocking your hips into him as you chased your high, in turn pulling his along. âShit, it feels so good.â
âI know, cutie, I know,â His mouth was on your nipple again, wrapping his lips around it and sucking harshly, sending shocks of pleasure right down to your core. Instinctively, you clenched around him, and his grip on you tightened imperceptibly, a silent warning. Naturally, as you did with most things, you took it as a challenge, this time clenching on purpose.
âYou little-â In retaliation, his thumb found your engorged clit and flicked it, causing you to screw your eyes shut and squeal with the extra stimulation.
âI canâtâ god, it's too much,â you whimpered, feeling that familiar tug in your core build rapidly. Still sensitive from your first climax, it was no wonder that you were close already. Wanting to come again, you bounced faster, earning you a pleased groan from him.Â
âYouâre incredible,â he crooned against your skin, hands running up your sides reverently as he stared at you through a half-lidded gaze. The sight of you on top of him, bare, looking so gorgeous, was enough to have him come undone, and he wanted it imprinted in his brain forever. He wanted to paint you like this, to turn you into art for his eyes alone.
You came hard, crying out his name in between the many of sounds that fell from your lips in ecstasy, gasps and moans alike. All you could think of was Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel as your high crashed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore.Â
Immediately, he took over, flipping your positions so that you were pressed into the mattress, his hips snapping to yours with a renewed sense of urgency. You mewled at the instant overstimulation, pawing at his torso in a weak attempt to get him to slow down, knowing damn well you didnât want him to. He grabbed at your wrists and pinned them above your head, thrilled at the gasp-moan it elicited.
âYou sound so fucking pretty,â Rafayel mumbled, sheathing himself inside of you with one final thrust, unravelling with a low moan. The two of you stayed like that for a couple of seconds, still connected, recovering from your mutual high.Â
Carefully, he pulled out, discarding the used condom and climbing right back into bed with you. His arms wrapped around your body, gathering you against his chest with all the tenderness in the world, limbs so entwined with yours that you didnât know where you started and he ended anymore.Â
âHey.â
You glanced up, finding him staring down at you with a soft, satiated smile, tracing soothing circles on your back. Like this, Rafayel was at his most irresistible to you, with his hair all mussed because of you, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of his attention on you. Try as you did, you couldnât fight hints of your own smile from showing, so you nuzzled into his neck to hide your face. âHi.â
âThere isnât a single reason for you to be shy,â he whispered playfully, propping his fingers under your chin and lifting your head so you were looking at him once more. âThat wasâ you were amazing.âÂ
âI donât get shy.â Nonetheless, your cheeks flushed at his praise.Â
He chuckled quietly. âOf course you donât.â And he kissed you again, like all the times he had just done so werenât and would never be enough for him. Cupping your jaw sweetly, it was the most innocent press of his lips to yours, not needing any more from you. You certainly didnât.
âRafayel?â You breathed his name, pulling back and looking into those captivated eyes, hues of dark fuchsia and sapphire twinkling back at you. Entranced, you realised that your heart was no longer yours to control, free from the clutches of your mind, belonging to the man who held you. It was terrifying and freeing all at once, falling without knowing when and if youâd land at all.
âHmm?â
âI think you might be my favourite muse.â
The words were honest, tinged with a vulnerability that hit home for Rafayel. He knew you didnât open up like this to anyone, but you were staring at him now with that same look you gave him after asking him to stay on at Lumiere as a brand ambassador. Something in the confines of his ribs constricted as he brushed your hair out of your face.
âWhat an honour that is.â
It was early morning when Rafayel padded to his living room. The sun hadnât risen yet. You were still in his bed, curled up under the sheets, looking so peaceful amidst your slumber. When he slipped away, he made sure not to disturb you.
For as long as he remembered, he had thrived on attention. It was something he had been handed even before his breakout into the mainstream as a top model. People constantly told him how he was meant for the limelight, standing proud at the centre of attention.
He settled on his couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed into his eyes as he tried to think. His mind was racing, running at a mile a minute, and he was struggling to catch up.Â
You said he was your muse.Â
He had been a muse his entire life. For his aunt, for other designers and brands, he was used to it. The prospect of being a muse had never scared him before, but now he was yours, and he wasnât sure how to navigate that role anymore. You, who said his art had inspired you to create your clothing, clothing he would soon wear and show off to the world. It should have thrilled him because he rarely resonated with a brand like he did yours, and even less with people.Â
Up until you, of course. You were a force of nature, obstinate and stubborn and spectacular too, like a storm that crashed into his town and swept him away. He meant it when he said it was an honour to be your muse.Â
But he knew that after a while, people got bored of their muses. Periodically, they moved on and found a new one to devote all their time and effort to. He was used to being wanted, and he often used that to his advantage, but being the one who wanted your attention was not a role he knew how to fill. The script had been flipped on him, and he felt like an actor with zero experience, wading in waters that were much too deep for him.
Walking away had always been easy. He wasnât the type to be tied down to anything, all about living in the moment and having a good time. Now, he found himself wanting to stay, and that endlessly frightened him. What happened when he finished serving his purpose as your muse and you pushed him to the side?Â
He didnât want to stick around and find out. He couldnât bear to.
A business card lay on his coffee table. Lifting his head from his hands, he reached out and picked it up, turning the thin cardboard over in his fingers and reading the number on the back. The Dubois Designs logo glared up at him, as if taunting him with what would come to pass if he went through with this.
He picked up his phone.Â
You didnât see Rafayel after that.Â
There were many things you could attribute this to. Your swamped schedule, the dinners, afterparties, showcases and fittings that youâd never hear the end of, his own endeavours â it made sense.Â
What didnât make sense was the radio silence. He had gotten very comfortable with messaging you, even though you never entertained his overzealous texting style and only graced him with the driest of responses. Now, your phone was filled with communication from everyone except the man you were admittedly waiting to hear from.Â
Nothing.Â
Smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of your year, you didnât have the time to dwell on it. The Lumiere show drew closer, and you were heavily involved in every aspect of the preparations to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be.Â
You called him once, but he hadnât picked up. It made you frown, but it wasnât like you had the right to his time. Hadnât you told him how precious yours was time and time again? Satisfied with that reasoning, you continued, pushing all thoughts of the charming man away for as long as you could.Â
âHe isnât here.âÂ
The observation slipped out of you flatly, a little too loud and emphatic even for your own ears. It was the night before the show, and the final rehearsal was underway, held right in the cathedral that would serve as the set. Typically, these run-throughs were held a couple of hours before the actual show, but that would have disturbed the normal proceedings of the church, and you had no intentions of undermining the sanctity of it.Â
You turned to your assistant and models' manager. âWhere is Rafayel?â
Simone jumped in quickly, knowing well how you hated being left hanging. âAndrew didnât see him come in, and I contacted Thomas, but he hasnât been able to get hold of him either.âÂ
âWhat on earthâŠ?â You muttered mostly to yourself as something in the pit of your stomach twisted, tight and unpleasant. His absence lately stung, but up until this moment, you had graciously let it go, figuring that there was a reason for it. Now, however, it was impossible to let it slide because he wasnât just ignoring you, he was skipping out on rehearsal, and that was a professional commitment.Â
âI heard he was difficult to work with,â Andrew commented, rubbing his chin. âBut I didnât think heâd be irresponsible.â
You wouldnât stand for it. Nodding stiffly, you spoke. âIâm leaving the rest of the rehearsal in both of your hands. I have something to check on.âÂ
Neither of them questioned you, absorbing your instructions and carrying them out efficiently. You grabbed your coat and left the cathedral, your shoes clicking against the cobbled footpaths as you hailed a cab. Your best bet on where he was would be his apartment, and that was exactly where youâd go to get your answers.Â
When you reached, the scene you were met with wasnât what you expected at all. The door to his apartment swung wide open, loud music reaching your ears from where you stood as the elevator doors opened. Swallowing down your bafflement, you slowly approached the entrance, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the middle of your chest the closer you got.Â
Once you were inside, it only got worse. The music made it hard for you to think, your eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the sight: people laughing, mingling and dancing, some of them you even recognised.Â
And in the eye of the storm was Rafayel, lounging about at the centre of the chaos around him.Â
What the fuck?
He looked so at ease, lounging on his couch with his head tipped back on the back of it, eyes closed like he was unaware of what was going on. His serene expression only stirred up your frustration, and it mixed with your confusion and the crumbs of dread that swirled around your gut. Brushing aside your discomfort, you stormed over, knocking your leg into his to alert him of your presence.Â
Rafayelâs eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. At the sight of you, something flickered in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. âY/n,â he slurred your name, barely audible over the volume of the music. âWhat are you doing here?â
God, he was drunk. Clenching your jaw at that fact, you narrowed your eyes and set him with a glare, taking in his inebriated state.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together through the haze of his tipsiness. His lack of answer seemed to piss you off even more, and while that might have once amused him, all it did now was make his heart sink. Grabbing his wrist, you pulled him through his apartment and back out into the hallway, not caring if you were making a scene or about who was staring.Â
âIâm going to ask this once, and only once. What the hell is all this?â You let go of his wrist, spinning on your heel to face him once it was just the two of you. The music was softer out here, making the clipped tone of your voice all the more apparent.Â
âItâs a party, sweetheart. Iâm sure you know what that is.â
âDonât call me that,â you snapped, furious at how cavalier he was being. It felt like you were back at the beginning, when you first met him, with his audacity and you struggling to keep your temper in check, except so much worse. Now, you were personally involved with him, which caused all of your emotions to lash out all at once. âDonât you know what day it is?â
âYouâre asking such odd questions, but if you must know, it's Thursday.â He looked completely uninterested in the conversation you were trying so hard to have. You grit your teeth, taking a step forward.Â
âFirst, you ignore me,â you seethed, your perfect facade crumbling bit by bit in his presence. âThen you donât show up for the show rehearsal, that is going on right now, mind you, and throw a party instead? What the fuck is wrong with you?â Your disbelief was palpable, and it grew exponentially when he scoffed, like your questioning right then was a major inconvenience.
âOh, please, you and I both know Iâll be fantastic on the runway whether Iâm at the rehearsal or not.â He leaned against the wall to hide how unsteady he felt on his feet right then, the paradox almost making him laugh. Almost.Â
âThats not the point!â You took a step toward him. âYou know it's not.â
âIsnât it?âÂ
You exhaled shakily. âNo. Itâs aboutââ Us, but was there an âusâ for you to even refer to? From the way he was looking at you right now, so cold and aloof, you doubted it. âYouâve been avoiding me.â You let the statement hang between him and you, not bother to tack on the question that sat on the tip of your tongue, letting the rhetorical nature of it take over and do the work for you.Â
Rafayel was aware of how it looked because he was the one who had made it so. He had kissed you, held you, slept with you and then disappeared. He hated the look on your face right now, the way you were staring at him so pleadingly, waiting for him to explain why, too proud to outright ask for it. He averted his gaze, staring at his shoes.Â
âAre you really that surprised?âÂ
Something in you cracked wide open. âWhat?â
âCome on, Y/n, youâre smart. Iâm sure youâre aware of my reputation.â He knew he was being an asshole, but what was one of instance of that to him? That was what the world perceived him as anywayâ a playboy with a penchant for partying and a pretty face â so why not live up to it? If it were going to protect him from getting hurt, then by all means, it would be worth it.Â
With how your face swiftly collapsed at his insinuation, it certainly didnât feel worth it. He wanted to take it back immediately, to take you by the shoulders and tell you the truth and hold you like he had just days ago.Â
He couldnât. Everything about wanting you terrified him because of the intensity of that desire. He had never felt like this before, and the thought of you someday not wanting him back was unbearable. He knew how he was: selfish, self-serving to a fault, difficult and exhausting at times, so very skilled at pushing people away. Eventually, youâd get tired of him and leave.
The idea of you walking away scared him so much that he opted to run away first to save himself from that pain.
âDidâDid everything that happened between us mean nothing to you?â You despised the way you stuttered, the stilted rhythm of your speech that betrayed the emotion behind it, because it made you feel weak. Out of control.
Perhaps if he were a better man, a stronger one, heâd tell you the truth. Heâd tell you that it had meant the most to him, and how nothing had ever mattered as much as you did.Â
But he wasnât.
âWas it supposed to?â
You couldnât conceal the sharp gasp that left you at his cruel words, staggering away from him like you had been shot. The man in front of you was one you didnât recognise, a mere phantom of the one you thought you knew. He had Rafayelâs eyes and hair and stature, but it wasnât the same Rafayel that had torn through your walls and coaxed the real you out into the light, the part of you that you kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Instead, it was a man who held those secrets and threw them back in your face like they had meant nothing.
You had let your guard down and let him in, forgetting how easy that made it for you to get hurt. Those walls that once towered so high around had come crashing down, and you didnât know how to rebuild. Hot tears burned your eyes, heartbreak mingling in with your rage toward him, but you refused to cry. You wouldnât give him any more of yourself than you already had.
All you had left was your dignity, and youâd be damned if you let that go.Â
He was right; he had a reputation for a reason, and you should never have expected anything more. You pulled yourself together, momentarily wondering how you ever let yourself be so stupid.
âYou will walk in the show tomorrow.â You forced yourself to sound steady, fingers curled into fists at how enraged you felt. âAnd then you will never walk for Lumiere again. Do you understand?â
The cold fury in your cadence wasnât lost on him, and neither was the way you were shutting him out and shutting down. You had gotten used to expressing yourself freely when around him, and even now, it was like all your feelings were plastered across your face for him to see. It was awful to watch you blink away your tears so rapidly, knowing that they were because of him, how your lips twisted downward at the sorrow you felt but refused to give in to.
Rafayel hated that he was the one who had caused you this pain, but he couldnât backtrack now. He had come this far, he might as well finish the job. Maybe it would be easier if you hated him.
âThat wonât be a problem. Iâll be signed with Dubois Designs.âÂ
You felt the betrayal before you processed it.
It started as a dull ache in the centre of your chest, gradually worsening until it felt like someone was standing on top of it, making it hard for you to breathe. When itâ what he had doneâ finally hit you, you could no longer think straight, unstable on your feet despite being the sober one. You had spent your entire life keeping your cards close to your chest, only for the one person you had let peek at them to burn the whole deck.Â
There was a lump in your throat and a knife in your back.
When you spoke again, your voice was dangerously quiet. âAfter tomorrow, I never want to see you again.âÂ
With your head held high and heart sinking low, you turned on your heel and left, stepping into the old elevator without sparing him another glance. Part of you wanted nothing more than you shake him and make him feel the way you did right then, but that would require casting your pride aside, and frankly, you didnât have it in you. You wouldnât let him take that away from you.Â
Rafayel watched you leave, frozen in place. The irony wasnât lost on him; he had run away from the future possibility of you walking away from him, only to have you do exactly that right now. The party continued in the background, but all he could think of were the tears in your eyes and how fucking hurt you looked because of what he had just done to you. To himself.Â
You emerged back into the Parisian streets, the cold air nipping at the exposed skin of your neck. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you looked up at the sky and then at your surroundings, those tears you had so valiantly fought against finally trickling down your face.
The city of love had never looked so dull.Â
The models were lined up and in place. Every seat was filled, celebrities and critics alike taking the front row. Photographers had their equipment in place, ready to capture the results of your hard work. You stood backstage, and despite having done this so many times, you felt a little nervous.Â
Everyone looked fabulous in your clothing, the stylists carefully draping them in the delicate fabrics and complicated pieces. Both the women and men models had little Swarovski crystals embedded in their hair that would shimmer when the light hit them, with the womenâs hair being done in beach waves. Last-minute touch-ups to the makeup, some models having to be quite literally stitched into their outfitsâ it was that unique brand of madness that only existed behind the veiled curtains of a fashion show.Â
This was it. The end of a season for Lumiere. Months of fretting over details and extensive planning, hours upon hours of work and stress and obstacles would culminate in the twelve minutes that your models took the stage for.Â
âOn in ten,â Simone announced, taking her spot beside you. âReady?â
âAs Iâll ever be,â you mumbled, both your hands over your stomach in an attempt to calm its churning. The lights came on all of a sudden, signalling that the show was about to begin. The music began playing, and the first model rolled her shoulders, straightened her posture, and lifted her head just slightly, a look of concentration dawning on her face.
And down the runway she went.
She glided down the runway with grace, and a hush fell over the audience at the magnificent sight, fabrics shimmering as the dramatic lighting hit them. Once she reached the end, she twirled gracefully and turned to return as the next model emerged into the spotlight. They passed each other on their respective paths, hums of appreciation arising from the onlookers. Haunting organ music accompanied the models as they walked one by one, dramatic and exquisite.Â
Operatic.
It was funny how only one person had ever been able to capture the essence of what you had envisioned so perfectly and put it into words. It was fitting, you supposed, the muse would understand what he inspired. He now stood at the back of the line, waiting his turn to take the runway and blow everyone away with the final piece of the collection.Â
Rafayelâs eyes met yours across the backstage area one final time, so brief that you would have missed it if you werenât already looking at him. For his look, you had instructed the stylists to leave his hair in its natural curly state, and with the crystals in it, he truly looked like a character from a fairytale. When you looked at him now, though, his beauty wasnât what you were transfixed on.
It was the look in his eyes. Forlorn, longing andâŠ.defeated? The combination resulted in something inexplicable, but it chipped away at a suspicion you had been harbouring ever since the night before, one that you had buried deep to save yourself from the pain that would come with trying to understand it. For how well he could read you, it seemed that you could do the same for him, and now, that split second of eye contact told you everything you needed to know.
Everything that had happened between the two of you had meant something to him, and for some reason, he lied to you and said it didnât.Â
You didnât want to know why.
Rafayel stepped out and onto the runway, his expression morphing into one you had seen in magazines and on your website. The dark red organza silk of his shirt shimmered in the light like light upon ocean waves, hints of blue and purple making a show as he walked. Captivating as ever, he brought your clothing to life with every step he took.Â
The perfect closer for a sensational show.
When it was time for you to walk out, you plastered on a smile and waved, placing one foot in front of the other like your life depended on it. Cameras flashed, and thunderous applause was heard throughout the cathedral, especially when you took your place in the middle of your models as they lined up for a final bow. You joined then, a weight rolling off your shoulders as the show came to a spectacular close, undoubtedly a resounding success.Â
You had done it. This show was unlike any other you had put on, and no doubt everyone would be talking about it. You had stepped out of your comfort zone when it came to designing and achieved your goal of putting on a spectacle that made the audience feel.
So why did you feel so hollow?
After surviving a swarm of paparazzi shouting questions at you, desperate for even a sliver of your attention and a glance at their lenses and shaking the hands of impressed critics, you found yourself at the Lumiere afterparty. People you called loosely called friends for appearances' sake, celebrities, influencers, and fellow designers were all in attendance, showering you in congratulations and complimenting your work. They said the show would go down in fashion history as iconic and asked how you managed to do it once again. You smiled and drank and tried your best to bask in your well-deserved glory at a party you didnât want to be at, in a city that was tainted.
And at this party, Qi Rafayel was nowhere to be found.
New York was as unforgiving as ever.
Your life resumed its regular course when you returned; fittings, photoshoots, interviews, and so much paperwork. You threw yourself into your work, filling every spare moment of your day with something to do, fix, or delegate, an arguably pathetic attempt at keeping yourself from thinking of him.Â
The cacophony of the city accompanied your every solitary step, and you took comfort in it. The incessant honking while stuck in traffic and the chatter of pedestrians filled your senses, whether you were sitting in the back of a cab or running errands. It served as background music to your loneliness, and while you might have once been satisfied with it, you found it hard to go back to that blissfully ignorant state.Â
Because now you had a taste of what it felt like to not be quite so lonely. Rafayel had waltzed into your life like the tempest of allure and insolence he was and drenched your world in colour. He had taken you out of your box and painted you a new perspective, one you had so foolishly assumed heâd view by your side.
Early mornings and late nights â your days began to blur together until you werenât sure when they started and ended. Your voice lacked the bite it usually had when reprimanding your employees for any stupid mistakes. If your coffee was cold, you drank it anyway, perplexing Simone. You walked through the hallways of the Lumeire building during those long work days and returned to your penthouse in the dead of night, moving under the heavy silence that completely claimed the large space.Â
You loathed him for making the life you had so carefully built for yourself feel so miserable. More than anything, you hated how you wished he were still in it.Â
Rafayel threw a party.
He didnât even want to be there anymore. Everything about it felt wrong. His drink wasnât strong enough, the music was too loud, and there were too many fucking people around. He didnât even like any of them; it was the usual crowd that showed up whenever he hosted one of these things, and while he could usually get along with them, right now all their presence did was remind him that the one person he truly wanted beside him wanted nothing to do with him.Â
A pitiful try at filling a void he had created himself. He didnât want anything to do with himself either.Â
God, he missed you. He missed that rare smile you seldom let show, the ridiculous updo you always had your hair done in, and the passion in your eyes when you spoke about your work. He missed your voice, your crimson painted lips and scrutinising glare that made everyone it was directed at shrink. The way youâd scowl when he teased you, and the softness with which you told him he was your favourite muse.
As he glanced at the doorway of his apartment, he almost willed you to walk through it like you had in Paris, on that fateful night when he ruined everything. He imagined you appearing there, huffing in displeasure at the pandemonium of this stupid party and wanting to see him. Idiotically, he braced himself for exactly that, waiting and watching like it was something that would actually happen.Â
But he knew it wouldnât. Instead of waiting around for it to happen, he realised that for the first time in his life, heâd have to work for what he wanted.Â
He would have to go to you.Â
Walking into the Lumiere building after two months away was a strange experience.Â
It seemed like nothing had changed, not that he expected it to. He had almost become an ambassador for the brand, and now there he was, walking down its hallways as nothing more than an exiled stranger.Â
His feet carried him to your office, knowing that was where youâd be, always holed up in there with a thousand things to get done. Passing the conference room where he first met you four months ago, he wondered how things had gotten to this point. Back then, he had been reluctant to get involved with Lumiere.Â
Funny.Â
When he reached your office, you seemed to be in conversation with someone. One glance at the silvery blond hair on the man, and he recognised him as Xavier Shen, the model he had replaced. Now, the man seemed perfectly healthy, standing on his feet as the two of you conversed. The sight reminded Rafayel that he truly might not be needed by you anymore, in every sense of the word.Â
Still, he steeled himself and pushed the glass door open, not bothering to knock. He never did in the past, so why start now?
âHuh. You really do live here.âÂ
Both Xavier and you turned to him, and the first thing he noticed was how tired you looked. Your shoulders looked like the weight of the world rested upon them, slumped just a little bit, and prominent dark circles under your eyes. It seemed he was right in assuming you were running yourself ragged; he knew your habits well enough. Still, even with all that, to him, you looked positively radiant.Â
At the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets, your heart stuttered before it twisted in pain. He was the same as ever, his presence commanding the entirety of your office like no one else but you could, still a sight for sore eyes. That ever-present playful tone to his voice, however, was weaker than you remembered, just barely hiding the thick layer of vulnerability just below the surface.
âI thought I said I never wanted to see you again.âÂ
 Xavier glanced between you and Rafayel before clearing his throat. âIâm gonna take my leave. See you tomorrow.â He gave you a sharp nod and slipped out. Rafayel barely comprehended the other man leaving, so focused on being in the same room as you again.Â
âI know.â Those words were fresh in his mind even after all these weeks, eating away at him. They were the reason it took him so long to come here, so afraid youâd turn him away the second he showed his face, but he knew heâd regret it for the rest of his life if he didnât try. âI know, I justâŠâ He trailed off, not quite sure what to say now that he was face to face with you.Â
âWhat do you want, Rafayel?â You took a seat behind your desk and defensively folded your arms over your chest, keeping your guard up. âTo waste more of my time? To remind me how little I meant to you? Take your pick, and do it quickly because I donât have all day.âÂ
He looked pained. âI want to talk. Please.â
A bitter laugh escaped you. âAnd why should I listen to anything you have to say?â
âYou shouldnât,â he admitted, walking to your desk. âBut Iâm asking you to, anyway.â
You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked off to the side. He somehow had the gall to walk into your building and ask to talk to you when he had no right to do so. It was just so like him, selfish with total disregard for your feelings, and as much as you wanted to tell him to get out, a small, hopeless part of you wanted to hear what he had to say.Â
You supposed that was what you got for falling for someone like him. âFine. Talk.â
Relief flooded his system. He sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in front of your desk and tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but he hadnât the faintest idea of where to start. âIâm sorry.â
That had seemed like a pretty good place to begin, but with the way your eyes narrowed, he wondered if he had already made a mistake. Lord knows it wouldnât be his first or last one. âThat could have been an email.â
âWould you have read it?â
You clenched your jaw at his rash question, opting to stay silent. Rafayel wanted to slap himself, knowing he was being an asshole even now, the one time he was actively trying to avoid doing so. He didnât deserve even a second of your time; he should have walked out of your life and stayed away to avoid causing you any more pain.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and forged on. âI fucked up, I know that. Iâve neverâ I lied and said that none of it mattered, butâ fuck, this is coming out all wrong.â He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted in a manner that made even a sliver of sense. âI was scared.âÂ
All that self-assuredness you were so used to was nowhere to be seen now as he stumbled over his words. It was jarring to see Rafayel admit to being scared when you had only ever associated him with unshakable confidence.Â
âScared of what? Me?â Â
There was something fractured in the way you asked that, fragile even. He immediately refuted the claim, feeling awful that you would even consider it a possibility. âNo, god no, not you. Never you.â His eyes snapped to yours, full of earnestness that made you instantly believe him. âYou called me your muse.âÂ
You let out a slow breath. âI remember.âÂ
Rafayel gripped the armrests on either side of him, looking off to the side, his throat bobbing with uncertainty as he contemplated whether this was a good idea anymore. âBut muses are temporary. They canât inspire forever, and god knows Iâm not someone who thinks about forever.â A huff of forced laughter. âBut with you, I did. I wanted to be the one that inspired you forever and that scared the shit out of me.â
Here they were, answers to questions you had been too proud to ask. He ran his fingers through his straightened hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Regardless of how restless he felt, he continued, knowing that the truth was the least of what you deserved. âFor the first, fuck, maybe the only time in my life, I wanted to stay. I was so afraid that youâd wake up one day and realise Iâm not worth being your muse and youâd walk away. Pick someone else.âÂ
âDo you really think so little of me?â You asked quietly, unable to look anywhere but him.Â
âI didnât know what to think,â He said honestly. âIâve never cared so much, and the thought of you leaving because you didnât find me inspiring enough for your creationsââ He cut himself off and dropped his head, as if suddenly realising how fucking awful his assumption sounded out loud. âI thought the only way to avoid that would be to leave first, and I know that that makes no sense, but IâŠ.Iâm so sorry.â
You had been called a lot of things in your life: difficult, stubborn, unreasonable, and yet somehow, this stung the worst. He had made the decision for you, leaving you to deal with the repercussions of an outcome you didnât have a hand in choosing.Â
âYou thought I saw you as a means to an end.â Your voice was devoid of emotion, hollow, anguished eyes never once finding his. âWhen I only ever thought of you as a beginning.â
For something that was a concept, it was funny how his regret manifested itself as a physical ache, ripping through his chest and causing his throat to close up on itself. Your words cut through him, reminding him of how he was the one to rush to an end that you hadnât even considered.Â
Maybe this wasnât salvageable. Maybe all he was destined for was to live with the knowledge that he had finally loved someone other than himself, and ruined it.Â
âI know what it feels like to be loved.â It took everything in him to keep looking at you when it seemed like you couldnât bear to even glance at him. His tongue felt like it was made of lead, heavy and uncooperative as he tried to say what he had known for so long. âAdoration, infatuation, whatever. I know when someone is in love with me, but Iâve never felt the same way. I donât know how to, but I think whatever I feel for you has to be pretty damn close, andââÂ
âDonât you dare.â
ââIâm in love with you, Y/n.â
A shattered breath left you, your composure faltering completely at the confession. Nothing about this was fair. Your heart was bruised and battered, but it fluttered to life completely against your will when he said it, and you detested it. You wanted to hate him so badly, even when it was so clear that you loved him. Why else would all this hurt so bad?Â
They said pride came before fall, but in your case, you fell first, and now it was your pride that stopped you from letting him back in. You knew he didnât deserve a shred of forgiveness, and you also knew that if you looked at him right now, youâd let go of the anger you were so desperately holding onto. It was the only thing keeping you from being totally vulnerable, so you kept your gaze on your mahogany desk, trying your hardest to stay strong.
âI think you should leave.â
Quiet enough to conceal how choked up you truly felt, you knew you didnât mean it. You needed the time and space to think about everything that had happened. You couldnât just forgive him even if you wanted to, so skilled at holding a grudge as you were, the bitter realisation that you were perhaps as scared as he was right then making itself known.Â
Rafayel had never been good at doing what he was told, but there was no place for his sense of entitlement here. He had done enough damage, and if you wanted him to leave, then that was exactly what heâd do. Getting to his feet, he stared at you one last time, waiting, wishing and hoping youâd look up.
But you didnât.
So he left your office, complying with your wishes without argument. It should have pleased you, considering how you hated rebuttals when it came to people following your orders.Â
But as you watched him walk through those doors, you had never wanted someone to defy you more than in that moment.
When a storm comes to an end, it does so in parts.
First, the wind stops howling. As it does, the heavy showers relent and turn back into the light drizzle it started as, gentle and harmless. The darkened clouds clear up, giving way to clear blue skies and the warm, golden rays of the sun.Â
Resentment worked differently when it came to someone you loved. It turned out that both those feelingsâ resentment and loveâ could exist simultaneously, even when it seemed nearly impossible, but when the latter was real, it made it exhausting to hold on to all that anger. Love itself was confusing, contradictory, and so difficult to navigate, especially when it was good.
And when had anything good been easy?
The art gallery was pretty much empty, seeing that it was almost eight p.m., which was when it closed. You swept through the different hallways, procrastinating, approaching the showcase you were truly there for.Â
And why the hell were you there?
Because, despite everything, Rafayel was still everything you wanted, and you were so tired of pretending he wasnât. You had spent night after night going over everything that had happened over the past six months and trying to convince yourself of the opposite, but when it came down to it, one thing was abundantly clear: he made you happy like no one else could. He could accomplish the opposite as well, but one extreme would not exist if the other didnât.Â
He was flawed, but so were you. Your pride made it impossible for you to see that at first, making you punish yourself and stay miserable, even though the one thing you wanted was within reach. You turned it away, thinking that refusal would help you forget him and the way he made you feel, but it didnât. Maybe it didnât make any sense, but maybe it wasnât supposed to. You had spent so much of your life making sure everything went exactly how you wanted, caging yourself within your own expectations.Â
Stepping into the back, you were in front of the very wall he had shown you all those months ago when he had dragged you out of your office. Even when you werenât sure of him, he was the only person in your life who had ever forced you to live.Â
Your breath hitched.
The paintings had been rearranged with a new one in the centre. The colours stood out against the others, this one bathed in warm oranges and yellows, a faceless woman leaning out of the roof of a car with the wind in her hair. There was something distinctively wistful about it, like she was being viewed from the lens of another.Â
It was you.
You took a hesitant step forward, instinctively looking at the artist plaque despite knowing that it would read âanonymousâ. Not that it mattered, of course, because you knew exactly who had made it.Â
âY/n?â
You turned, and there Rafayel was. It had been a while since you had seen him, and during that time, he had stayed out of the limelight completelyâno articles in tabloids, no rumours, nothing. Your pulse picked up at the sight of him, and you felt like a child being caught doing something they werenât supposed to.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â The ridiculous question left you before you could stop it. His lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement bleeding into those all-consuming eyes.Â
âForgot already? Iâm a little insulted.â He spoke gently, cocking his head towards his artwork. He studied you for a moment. âWhy are you here?â
When it came to him, you always found yourself wanting to do opposite things at the same time. You wanted to run away, but more than anything, you wanted to run right back into his arms. If that made you an idiot, well, wasnât everyone allowed to be one every once in a while?
âI donât know.â
A soft smile, so much like the one he gave you that night when he first kissed you. âNo, you do. You of all people donât do things without a reason.â
There he went again, reading you like a book without your permission. You looked back at the painting of you, skillfully evading his question with one of your own. âWhen did you make that?â
âRecently.â Hesitantly, he made his way to your side, like he wasnât sure if he had a spot there anymore, but in typical Rafayel fashion, he took it anyway. âIâve had time on my hands.â
âHow?â
âI havenât been modelling that much lately. Thomas is just about fed up with me.â His attempt at levity wasnât lost on you. You were quite aware of his absence from the spotlight as of late, but something nagged at the back of your mind, telling you that you had a piece of the puzzle missing.Â
Then it hit you as your eyes swept to him, once again succumbing to the gravitational pull he possessed. âBut what about Dubois Designs?"
He slipped his hands into his pockets, not meeting your eyes. âThey sent over a contract.â He admitted, clearing his throat. âBut I may have thrown it out.â
âWhy?â It felt like all you were doing was asking questions you already knew the answers to. Rafayel clicked his tongue in a mixture of mild annoyance and something else, something you couldnât quite pinpoint, giving you a knowing look.
âYou know why.â
Fuck. Both of you, stubborn, impossibly prideful people, holding each other back because of each other. It was almost laughable. Swallowing thickly, you shifted closer to him, your gaze darting back to his depiction of you. âItâs a beautiful painting.â
âYeah, well, you can thank my muse for that.â
You were breathless. âIâm your muse?â Another question lay under this one: Do you still love me?
âIf thatâs okay with you,â His eyes never strayed from you, watching you like you were the very essence of the sun itself, or the most perfect pearl in the ocean. âI wouldnât blame you if you donât want to be. I may have given it a bad rep.â
You bit the inside of your cheek, facing him properly now that you had finally worked up the nerve. âYouâve made me a fool, Qi Rafayel.âÂ
Fondness sweeter than the ripest of peaches spread over his face. âNo one could ever make you a fool, Y/n. Especially not me.â He took a tentative step forward into your personal space, and you never wanted him to leave again. âSo Iâll ask you again, why are you here?âÂ
There were a few things in this shallow, pretentious world you were certain of. Your faith in your abilities as a designer was the first, knowing that no matter what, your skills and talent would always speak for themselves more than your words ever could. The second was your preference for coffee that was piping hot, without sugar, so that the bitterness would shock your system into functioning.Â
And the third, in a sick, unfortunately fortunate twist of fate, was Qi Rafayel, the model who had traipsed into your life without so much as a warning and had turned it upside down.Â
âBecause youâre still my muse.â You whispered. âAnd as it so happens, I love you too.â
When your lips met, you knew right then and there that youâd never let him go again. Your palm cupped his face as you pulled him closer, reaquainting yourself with the feel of him against you, how the two of you fit together so perfectly as if you were made for each other. One of his hands slipped around your waist, the other coming to rest over your own over his face, keeping it trapped there as he leaned into your touch, whispering I love youâs back.Â
âIâm going to fuck up,â Rafayel mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours like he couldnât bear to be any further from you. âIâm going to piss you off and Iâm never going to be easy.â
You squeezed his forearm. âI know. Those are your most endearing qualities.â
âWill you love me even then?â He held you close, but you could feel the slight tremble in his touch. You saw him for what he was under all that indifference and chutzpah: a man who desperately loved you through his fear. Lucky for him, you were a woman who loved him through his mistakes and all the madness he brought into your life.Â
âRafayel.â With a tender whisper of his name, you pressed your lips to his reassuringly. âI love you because of it.â
Love was messy and imperfect, but so were the two of you. Neither he nor you were easy people, but when had you ever taken the easy way out of something? You wouldnât mind never getting out of this, content to stay with him for as long as heâd have you. The colours rushed back into your life, starting with the pinks and blues of his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. Heâd break every one of your rules with a smile, and youâd let him.
âGod, youâre going to regret that.â
But he was laughing, and so were you, giddy with the thought of a future with him. The sound of his laughter was so enchanting that you wanted to memorise it, and perhaps now you could, with him by your side for what you hoped would be a beginning without an end.Â
You were wholly and irrevocably in love with Qi Rafayel, infuriating quirks and all. Everyone in the industry that the two of you ruled might have thought of him as a total nightmare.Â
