summary; all ryul wanted was some quality time with you. unfortunately for him, so do his members. it starts with a stolen kiss on the couch, it ends with ryul questioning every life decision that led him to living with his members
you’d think dating ryul would mean fancy dates, spontaneous trips or romantic late night drives..
instead, it mostly meant staring at your phone while your boyfriend spammed your chat with random pictures from practice
look at louis
attached was a blurry picture of louis asleep on the practice room floor with his mouth wide open
he looks dead
5 minutes later
nvm he’s alive
another picture,
this time it was woojin attempting to balance 3 water bottles on ohyul’s head while the older one looked one inconvenience away from losing his cool
and somewhere in the corner of every single picture was ryul, pretending he wasn’t the one taking them
the past few weeks had been brutal tho, comeback preparations, schedules, dance practices that somehow ended at 3 in the morning, recordings, interviews..
every time the two of you tried to meet up, one of you ended up cancelling because life simply refused to cooperate
which explained why, when ryul finally got one free evening, he immediately texted you
come over
simple, short and very him,
but the actual translation of the text was more like; “ i miss you so bad i’m going insane”
so there you were, back at the dorms, you’d been there enough times that it almost felt like a second home
also mostly because the members had adopted you months ago.. or was it the other way around?
louis treated you like the older sister he’d never had, following you around with endless questions and somehow convincing you to buy him snacks almost every single time
woojin somehow always manages to be the most chaotic person ever, meaning you were unofficially in charge of helping him before he even considered asking one of the others for help
and ohyul, well, ohyul somehow turned you into his personal plant consultant after you casually mentioned once that you owned two succulents and he decided being a plant dad was his new hobby
so by now, you had accidentally become the dorm’s honorary noona, which meant the boys rarely knocked before asking you for help
ryul didn’t mind usually because in all honesty, he actually liked that everyone got along so well,
he really did, he just hadn’t realized that dating the dorm’s ‘honorary noona’ also meant sharing his girlfriend with 3 overgrown children
but tonight he was determined to get at least one uninterrupted hour with you
but sadly for him, that plan lasted like 12 minutes.
the living room was surprisingly quiet and peaceful, it was only you and ryul (for now)
the tv played some random variety show neither of you were really paying attention to,
there was a half empty bag of chips sat between you on the couch and ryul had somehow ended up tangled against your side
his fingers lazily played with yours, intertwining, letting go to then intertwin them again,
“you got clingy,” you teased,
he scoffed, “i’m literally chilling,”
“you’re literally almost on top of me,”
“because you’re comfortable,”
“right,”
“don’t make it weird,”
you looked over at him with the biggest smile, “i missed you too,”
his ears turned slightly pink, “..i didn’t even say that,”
“you didn’t have to,”
he clicked his tongue dramatically before looking back at the tv, “..whatever,” he sighed, but the pink flush on his cheeks gave him away
a whole 3 seconds passed, “..i did miss you tho,”
you laughed, “how much?”
“a normal amount,” he was trying so incredibly hard to sound nonchalant while his thumb absentmindedly rubbed circles over your hand,
it was adorable ngl,
“you’re cute,” you mumbled,
he looked offended, “don’t call me cute,”
“why not,”
“because i’m cool,”
“mhm,”
“seriously,”
“sure you are,”
he narrowed his eyes before leaning closer anyway, “you’re annoying,”
“you’re the one all up in my personal space,”
“..shut up,”
you barely had time to grin before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek,
then another,
“..ryul,” you giggled as he attacked your whole face with kisses, not leaving one spot left untouched,
“what,”
“i thought you were cool,”
“i am,”
“this doesn’t look very cool to me,”
“this is extremely cool,” he grinned, already leaning in again when-
“noona,”
both of you looked up, woojin stood in the hallway holding an empty ice cream container like it was evidence in a criminal investigation (it was btw)
“..yes,” you answered,
he walked into the living room, “louis says he didn’t eat my ice cream..” followed by a dramatic pause, “..is he lying?”
you blinked once, “what flavour was it?”
“cookies and cream,”
“..yeah, he definitely ate it,”
“i knew it,” woojin pointed into the distance, “I KNEW YOU WERE LYING,”
somewhere deeper in the dorm louis yelled back; “IT WASN’T ME!!”
“THEN WHO WAS IT?!”
“..OHYUL,”
“WHY ARE YOU LYING AGAIN??!”
their voices slowly disappeared down the hallway and silence returned, kinda
you looked back at ryul, “..nothing ever changes does it,” you chuckled
he sighed dramatically, “ofc not,”
you laughed before leaning against his shoulder again,
which he gladly accepted, his fingers brushing through your hair sweetly
about 10 minutes later-
“NOONAAAAAA,”
woojin’s voice echoed through the entire dorm (again)
“YEAH?”
“WHERE’S MY CHARGER?!”
without even thinking, you answered, “first drawer next to the oven,”
“YUPPP FOUND IT, THANK YOU,”
ryul slowly turned to look at you, “..how did you know that?”
you blinked, “i put it there,”
“why,”
“because he loses it every other day,”
“..you organized his charger??”
“someone had to,”
he stared at you for another few seconds, “did you adopt him or something?”
you couldn’t help laughing, “he’s cute,”
“he’s a freeloader,”
“he’s your member,”
“same fucking thing,”
a little moment later, ryul decided it was time for some fresh air
aaaaand more snacks, because who doesn’t love a nightly snack run
“we’re going to the convenience store,” ryul called from the doorway while putting on his shoes, “anyone need anything?”
“nah,” ohyul answered,
“i’m good,” woojin yelled,
“don’t want anything,” louis added,
ryul looked at you, “wow that was easy,”
“that’s gonna be a peaceful shopping spree for once,” you laughed,
“don’t jinx it,”
the night air was cool as the two of you walked side by side down the street, your hands naturally found each other
there weren’t many people around, just quiet roads and dimmed streetlights,
“i like this,” you admitted,
“hm,”
“just walking around with you,”
he looked away for a second, “yeah,” he said,
“that’s all i get?”
“what else am i supposed to say,”
“i don’t know,”
he squeezed your hand, “i like it too,” he grinned,
you smiled, “seeeee that wasn’t so hard,”
“don’t get used to it,”
before you even reached the convenience store, ryul had long forgotten his wannabe nonchalant manner,
swinging your hands as you walked through the street, taking some sneaky pictures of you as you looked the other way,
once you were inside, he pointed at all kinds of snacks that reminded him of previous picnic dates, all smiles, his hand reaching out to your lower back one too many times
he even managed to steal a quick kiss while you stood in front of the drinks fridge
“someone’s affectionate tonight,” you whispered,
“nobody saw,”
you laughed, grabbing two drinks before heading toward the snack aisle,
then..
ding.
the automatic doors opened,
“…”
“…”
louis and woojin, both on their flipflops and joggers, who clearly just left the house without taking a second to look in the mirror
ryul slowly lowered the chips he’d been holding, “what are you doing here,”
woojin smiled, “changed our minds,”
“yeah,” louis nodded, “we actually do need snacks,”
“you could’ve texted,”
“could’ve,”
“…”
“..but we didn’t,”
you immediately started laughing and ryul looked at the ceiling trying to suppress the big sigh, “of course,”
within 30 seconds the grocery “date” had somehow transformed into sibling shopping time,
“noona,” louis gasped dramatically, “they finally restocked my favourite gummies,”
“get them then,”
“can you buy them for me,”
“sure,”
“YES,”
ryul stared, “seriously?”
you smiled innocently, “what,”
“he’s literally using you,”
“am not,” louis defended,
“you absolutely are,”
“it’s called being lovable,”
“it’s called being broke,”
woojin wandered over holding three different bags of chips, “which one should i get,”
“all 3,” louis answered,
“good idea,”
ryul pinched the bridge of his nose, “this was supposed to be our snack run,”
louis looked genuinely confused, “it still is,”
“how??”
“we’re just here too,”
“yeah that’s the problem,”
you reached over, gently fixing the hood of ryul’s hoodie after it had folded weirdly and he immediately looked less grumpy
“you’re easily bribed,” you teased,
“i’m not,”
“you smiled,” you teased playfully,
“i did not,”
“you literally did,”
louis leaned toward woojin, “bro definitely smiled,”
“he’s still trying to be cool,”
“i literally hate you guys,”
“love you too,” louis replied immediately, still adding more snacks into the basket,
at the register, louis and woojin immediately took over,
“i’ll pack,” louis announced,
“i’ll scan the snacks into categories,”
the cashier blinked, “they don’t need categories,”
“they do to me,” woojin said in a serious voice,
while the two of them argued over the most efficient way to pack gummy bears, chips and drinks into bags, you and ryul naturally drifted a step behind them
ryul quietly reached for your hand again before leaning down, resting his forehead against yours before he pressed a soft kiss against your temple,
“when we get back, i’m stealing you for the rest of the night,”
“sure,” you giggled
“and i’m locking my door,”
“that’s a bit dramatic,” you laughed,
“but needed tho,”
you giggled before nudging his shoulder, “you’re cute,”
“stop calling me cute,”
just as he leaned in to steal another kiss..
woojin turned around, “once your boyfriend is done kissing you..” he held out the card machine, “..can you please pay,”
ryul closed his eyes before taking one very deep breath, then he slowly looked at woojin,
“can you actually do something without needing my girlfriend for once,”
woojin frowned, “..i mean..” he looked down at the card machine, “..i don’t know her pin?”
louis nodded immediately, “yeah bro that would’ve been weird,”
you couldn’t stop laughing as you took the card from you wallet, “he has a point,”
ryul looked absolutely betrayed, “whose side are you on??”
“yours,” you smiled sweetly, “after i pay for the kids,”
“see,” ryul pointed at the two younger boys, “she called you kids,”
“that’s not what she meant,” woojin argued,
“close enough,”
on the way back, you were carrying absolutely nothing because the boys refused to let you,
so while ryul was carrying the drinks, louis was happily eating gummies he’d convinced you to buy and woojin had already opened a bag of chips before you’d even crossed the street,
ryul glanced over at you, “next time..”
“hm,”
“..we’re not telling them where we’re going,”
you laughed, “good luck with that,”
by the time the 4 of you got back to the dorm, louis had already disappeared into his room with his snacks while woojin loudly announced he was starting a movie marathon,
ryul didn’t even wait, he grabbed the bag with your drinks, took your hand and immediately started pulling you toward the balcony
“byeee,” he called over his shoulder,
woojin looked up from the couch, “where are you going,”
“outside,”
“why,”
“because i want to,”
the balcony had become everyone’s favorite place ever since they’d turned it into a little lounge area,
there was a comfy outdoor couch, cute fairy lights wrapped around the railing, a small coffee table and the best thing was fhat it almost didn’t even feel like you were in the middle of the city
ryul set the drinks down before dropping onto the couch beside you,
“finally,”
you shifted slightly, getting yourself comfortable and you couldn’t help but laugh as he dramatically flopped sideways until his head rested against your shoulder,
“i missed this,” his voice was quieter now, more genuine and the teasing had disappeared for a moment
you gently brushed your fingers through his hair, “me too,”
he looked up at you, “i was slowly going crazy from only seeing the members this whole week,”
“oh cmonnn you love them,” you laughed again,
“till a certain point yes,” he scoffed softly, “try spending 24/7 with woojin and you’ll love him a little less too,”
you only giggled,
“…i’m serious,” he added
“sure you are,”
he rolled his eyes before leaning over, pressing a quick kiss against your cheek,
“maybe if you’d spent 24/7 with me you’d go crazy too,” you said,
“i would never get tired of you,” he clicked his tongue before reaching over to steal your drink,
“heyy that’s my-“
“our drink,” he corrected with a smirk,
“ryul,”
“sharing is caring,”
you reached over to take it back, only for him to pull it just out of reach with the biggest grin,
“really mature,”
“thank you,”
“that was sarcasm,”
“idc still counts,”
you shoved his shoulder and he laughed before finally handing it back,
“you’re so childish,”
“i know thanksss,”
before you could answer, he leaned in again, this time slower, another kiss against your cheek, then your forehead
his hand absentmindedly found yours again, his thumb lazily tracing circles across your skin,
“you’re really affectionate tonight,”
“can i touch my gf without needing a reason for it?” his tone was joking but he looked at you like he was memorizing your face after weeks of barely seeing you, “i missed you,”
you smiled softly, “i can tell,”
he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before stealing one more quick kiss, “i’m making up for lost time,”
“i noticed,” you giggled,
“good,”
for the first time that evening, it actually felt peaceful, just the two of you,
quiet music drifting from inside, the city lights glowing in the distance,
ryul smiled to himself and for a moment, neither of you said anything, you simply looked at each other before ryul smiled that smile you love so much,
“what??” you smiled back,
“nothing,”
“you’re looking at me weird,”
“am not,”
“you definitely are,”
he huffed a quiet laugh before reaching up to cup your cheek, “..come here,”
you both leaned in without another word,
the kiss was slow, nothing like the quick little pecks he’d been stealing all evening,
his thumb gently brushed against your cheek as he kissed you, lingering just a second longer than he normally would,
when he finally pulled away, he didn’t move very far,
instead he rested his forehead against yours, smiling to himself, “i forgot how nice this is,”
you softly smiled, “what? kissing me?”
“no just being with you,” his voice was quieter now, more honest than he’d probably intended, “i hate being busy,”
you slipped your hand into his, “i know,”
“i keep thinking about texting you all day,” he admitted with a small laugh, “then i look at the time and it’s somehow 3 in the morning,”
“you still text me at 3 in the morning,”
“yeah,” he grinned,
“usually just a picture of louis sleeping somewhere tho,”
“those are important updates,” he chuckled, thinking about all the silly pics he has of louis,
you giggled, earning another smile from him,
“the kid sleeps everywhere,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against yours and before you could answer, he kissed you again,
quick this time,
then once more, because apparently one wasn’t enough,
“ryul,” you laughed,
“hm,”
“you’re being really clingy,”
“let me,”
he wrapped his arms around you properly, resting his chin on top of your head with a content little sigh, “..i’ve earned it,”
he sighed, a satisfying good sigh for the first time that evening,
until-
SLAM.
the balcony door flew open, “NOONA,”
both of you turned,
ohyul stood there holding a sad looking monstera, “my plant is dying,”
ryul stared, “bro close the door,”
ohyul blinked, “..what?”
“close.”
“the.”
“door.”
“but-“
“bro,”
“dude my monstera,” ohyul argued,
you immediately stood up, “let me see,”
ryul grabbed your wrist before you could walk away, “he’s literally an adult,”
ohyul frowned, “what’s that supposed to mean,”
“it means fix your own plant,”
“i don’t know how,”
“ask chatgpt,”
“chatgpt doesn’t know my plant,”
you couldn’t help laughing, “i’ll just take a quick look,”
ryul looked between you.. then the plant.. then ohyul,
“5 minutes,” he pointed dramatically, “that’s all you get,”
“5 minutes,” you repeated with a smile,
ohyul nodded, “5 minutes is plenty,”
the two of you disappeared into his room and ryul stayed behind on the balcony,
he took one sip of his drink, looking at the empty seat beside him, “..this is unbelievable,”
exactly 11 minutes later he finally stood up,
“5 minutes,” he muttered to himself, “my ass,”
ohyul’s bedroom door was already open,
you were kneeling beside the monstera, gently brushing dirt away from the roots while ohyul sat cross legged beside you listening like he was attending a university lecture,
“..so the soil’s holding too much water,”
“ohhh,”
“and if the roots stay wet for too long-“
“they rot,”
“exactly,”
ryul leaned against the doorframe, “can i borrow my girlfriend back,”
neither of you looked up, “hold on,” you answered,
ohyul pointed dramatically at the plant, “this is life or death,”
“it’s a plant,”
ohyul ignored him, “noona should i trim this leaf too,”
“yeah this one’s gone,”
ryul slowly looked at the ceiling, “are we fr,”
ohyul finally glanced over, “what,”
“you stole my girlfriend,”
“borrowed,” he corrected,
“without asking,”
“it was an emergency,”
“it’s a leaf,”
“it’s my leaf,”
“your leaf yet my girlfriend is fixing it,”
you bit your lip, trying not to laugh, “ryul,”
“don’t ‘ryul’ me,”
“i’ll be done in a minute,”
“that’s what you said 6 minutes ago,”
ohyul shrugged, “plants take time,”
“then get your own girlfriend to fix your plants,”
ohyul looked genuinely confused, “why would i do that,”
“because then she’d be your girlfriend,”
“but yours already knows about plants,”
ryul sighed, “i’m actually going to lose my mind,”
you finally stood up, dusting the soil off your hands,
“all done,”
ohyul looked at the monstera like it had just survived major surgery, “omg thank you,”
“you’re welcome,”
as soon as you stepped into the hallway, ryul immediately slipped an arm around your shoulders, “why does he keep plants if he can’t take care of it himself,”
you laughed, “he’s learning,”
ohyul watched the two of you walk away before calling after you, “noona!”
“yes,”
“if another leaf turns yellow tomorrow-“
“don’t even think about it,” ryul interrupted,
ohyul blinked, “i wasn’t talking to you,”
“well i’m talking to you tho,”
by this point, ryul had officially given up pretending the universe was on his side,
first woojin, then the convenience store, then ohyul and his emotional support monstera???
he’d spent more time sharing you with his members than actually spending time with you,
“come on,” he mumbled, gently taking your hand again,
“wait we’re not going outside anymore??”
“no,” he said, pulling you towards his room,
“nooo but i wanna sit outsi-“
“and iii want to spend time with you and only you,”
you raised an eyebrow, “we can hang out on the balcony tho,”
“can a man enjoy his woman for once?”
“yes you can enjoy me on the balcony,” you chuckled,
“everyone else has been enjoying you a little too much tonight, it’s my turn now if you don’t mind,” he sighed as he opened his bedroom door before closing it immediately after,
“that sounds so wrong,” you laughed,
“you get what i mean,” he answered a little too quickly, looking back at you with the most satisfied expression you’d seen all night,
“if someone interrupts us again,”
you folded your arms, “then what,”
“i honestly haven’t thought that far,”
he leaned back against the door, looking at you for a second before shaking his head, “i’ve barely seen you all month,”
“i know,”
“yet the others have your attention more than me,”
he walked over until you were standing right in front of him,
“they just like me,”
“well yeah that’s the fk problem,”
you couldn’t stop smiling, “are you jealous of a plant?”
“and what if i am?” he didn’t even try denying it anymore,
he slipped a hand around your waist, pulling you closer without another word,
“that would be a little concerning,” you giggled,
before you could tease him again, he kissed you,
no rushed little peck, no one second kiss stolen while someone wasn’t looking,
an actual kiss,
one hand resting against your waist while the other gently brushed through your hair,
and when he pulled back, it was only because he needed to breathe,
but before you could say anything, he leaned in again, smiling against your lips when you laughed into the kiss,
“what’s so funny?”
“nothing,” you giggled, kissing him back but you weren’t able to stop the corners of your lips from curling up,
“can you stop laughing?” ryul groaned softly, pulling away slightly,
“i’m not laughingggg!!” you said defensively even tho you definitely were,
he rested his forehead against yours for a second before smiling again himself,
“you’re getting away with a lot tonight,” he sighed dramatically, leaning in for another soft kiss,
then another,
“ryul,” you giggled softly
“hm,” he hummed as he pressed 3 more kisses on your lips, his fingers lazily intertwined with yours while he traced little circles over the back of your hand,
“i missed you,”
“i couldn’t tell,”
“i’m serious,”
“i know,” you chuckled,
“stop smiling at me like that,”
he laughed under his breath before stealing another quick kiss.
“you’re lucky you’re cute,”
“thought you hated that word,”
“only when it’s about me,”
you couldn’t help giggling, “crazy double standards,”
“i’m allowed to,”
just as he leaned in again-
clunk.
both of you froze, before ryul slowly looked toward the door,
“did you hear that,”
before you could answer something slid underneath it, a folded piece of paper.
you bent down to pick it up,
written across the front in thick black marker;
WELCOME TO WOOJIN’S ESCAPE ROOM
“what’s that?”
you opened it,
MISSION ONE: solve this riddle to receive your freedom.
there was a long silence,
then..
another sound,
click.
ryul walked over to the handle, turned it but nothing happened, he frowned and turned it again but still nothing happened,
“..woojin,” his voice was suspiciously calm,
and from the other side of the door- “yeah,”
“..did you lock my door?”
“yup,”
“why,”
“because it’s an escape room,”
there was a small moment of silence,
“bro open it,”
“not until you solve mission one,”
you bit your lip, trying not to laugh and ryul turned back toward you,
“yk what,”
“hm,”
he shrugged, “doesn’t matter,”
“what??”
he casually walked back over to you, “we’re locked in here, so might as well make use of it,”
you laughed, “you think you’re smooth don’t you,”
“i’m adapting to my circumstances,” he wrapped his arms around you again, “they accidentally helped me for once,”
“poor woojin,”
“poor woojin? poor ryul you mean,” he smiled before gently pressing another kiss against your forehead, “now nobody can steal you,”
“except technically woojin already did,”
“don’t ruin this for me,”
you smiled as his lips pressed on yours again and for exactly 22 glorious seconds everything was quiet
then-
BANG BANG BANG.
“ARE YOU GUYS DONE YET,” woojin yelled, knocking on the door repeatedly,
ryul closed his eyes, biting his lip as he swallowed down the biggest sigh known to mankind
“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SOLVING THE RIDDLE,”
another knock, this one even louder,
“HELLOOOO,”
ryul didn’t answer, instead he tightened his arms around you, “don’t react, he’ll leave eventually,”
“i can hear you,” woojin yelled through the door,
another piece of paper slid underneath,
HINT #1
“woojin,” ryul called,
“yeah,”
“i don’t want a hint,”
“every 5 minutes you get another one,”
“i don’t want another one either,”
“too bad, you’re getting one,”
“woojin,”
“yeah,”
“pls go away,”
“that’s not very escape room spirit,”
you were laughing so hard by this point that you had to hide your face against ryul’s shoulder,
he looked down at you, “don’t encourage him,”
“i’m trying not to,”
BANG BANG BANG.
“NOONA,”
“..yes,”
“DO YOU WANT THE SECOND HINT NOW OR LATER,”
ryul looked at the ceiling, “why is he asking you,”
“because she’s nicer than you,” woojin answered immediately,
“i need to move out,” he groaned,
from the other side of the door came a very enthusiastic,
“NOW THAT’S THE ESCAPE ROOM ATTITUDE,”
“i’m not doing this shit tonight,” he sighed as he brushed hand through his hair before letting it slide down his face dramatically,
another 2 minutes passed and the riddle still lay untouched on the floor,
ryul had deliberately kicked it further away with his foot, “m not reading it,”
“you’re really committed to this,”
“no i’m committed to ignoring him,”
you laughed quietly as you sat down on his bed, because yk you might as well get a little comfortable now you’re locked in, “let’s see how long that lasts,”
not even 5 seconds later-
“HYUNNNGGG,”
“…”
“NOONAAA,”
“…”
“HELLOOOOO??!”
ryul pinched the bridge of his nose, “he’s so annoying,”
from the other side of the door came an exaggerated sigh, “what are you guys even doing in there,”
neither of you answered,
“you’re supposed to solve the riddles,” woojin yelled out again,
ryul finally spoke, “what we’re doing is actually none of your business,”
there was a small silence,
then-
“ARE YOU GUYS DOING IT??!”
you immediately buried your face in your hands trying to suppress your laughter,
ryul blinked once, “doing what,”
“YOU KNOW,”
“no i actually don’t,”
another pause,
then-
click.
the bedroom door suddenly unlocked and before either of you could react-
BANG.
woojin swung it open and he looked at the two of you and ryul looked back at him with the most annoyed expression ever,
“bro”
“what?” woojin asked as if he isn’t the one locking doors,
ryul stared at him in disbelief, “what if we actually were,”
woojin shrugged, “but you weren’t,”
“how would you know,”
“because you were wayyyy too quiet,”
ryul slowly pointed toward the hallway, “get out,” he said, his voice firm and clearly not joking around anymore,
“okay,” woojin turned around without another word and as he walked away, his voice echoed through the dorm,
“LOUIS,”
a distant voice answered, “WHAT,”
“RYUL WON’T PLAY MY ESCAPE ROOM,”
“I WILL,”
“YESSS,”
the two of them disappeared into louis’ room and for what it costs, some sort of silence returned to ryul’s room,
ryul looked at the still open bedroom door, before turning around to you, “i’m surrounded by idiots,”
you couldn’t stop laughing, “no he just likes you,”
“he has a funny way of showing it,” he sighed as he closed the door with a loud bang
for the first time all evening the dorm was actually quiet, like real silence this time
louis and woojin were somewhere in the living room arguing over a game, ohyul was still busy with his newly rescued monstera,
and you were curled up beside ryul on his bed while some random youtube video played in the background, but of course neither of you were really watching it tho,
“i’m hungry,” you mumbled,
he didn’t even look away from his phone, “go steal louis’ chips from the kitchen,”
“he’d cry,”
“that’s the point,”
you laughed, “i’ll just grab ours,”
he reached over, lazily grabbing your wrist before you could get up, “do it later,” he whined softly, pulling you back,
“i want snacks, i’ll be quick,” you smiled before gently pulling away, “2 minutes,”
“hurry,” he said as he let go, watching you disappear into the hallway,
1 minute passed..
2 minutes,
3..
ryul frowned, “wth is she doing,”
he unlocked his phone, opened your chat and typed,
where are you??
come to my room
send.
…
his entire body froze as he looked at his screen again,
oh no,
on top of the screen it said group chat, not your chat..
“..no.”
three dots appeared immediately,
louis: ??
woojin: me??
ohyul: i’m in my room
“shit,”
before he could even unsend it he heard footsteps down the hallway,
fast footsteps,
he immediately rubbed a hand over his face, “you’ve gotta be kidding me,”
the bedroom door burst open,
“hyung,” louis said first,
woojin walked in behind him, “whatsupp?”
ohyul appeared last, “what’s wrong?”
ryul stared at the 3 of them, as they welcomed themselves into his room, all spreading out like little ants on a candy cane,
“where’s my gf?”
they all looked confused,
“kitchen,” louis answered,
right on cue, you walked back into the hallway carrying two bags of chips, “oh why is everyone here?”
woojin pointed at ryul, “he called a meeting,”
“i did not,”
louis held up his phone, “you wanted us to come!”
you looked down at the screen, then back at ryul, “you actually did,”
you bit your lip as you saw the horrified look on his face, trying to be quiet but your smile gave you away,
“don’t,” ryul pointed at you,
“bro-“ woojin started,
but ryul cut him off before he could continue, “i’ve spent all night trying to get 5 minutes alone with my girlfriend..”
he pointed at the 3 other guys, “5 minutes” he repeated, “and somehow you idiots keep spawning wherever she is,”
woojin blinked, “you texted us,”
“BY ACCIDENT,”
“that still counts,”
“NO IT DOESN’T,”
louis looked genuinely offended, “you literally asked where we were,”
“i was asking her,”
“she’s not even in our groupchat,” woojin shot back,
another silence,
then..
woojin scratched the back of his neck, “that’s embarrassing,”
“you’re embarrassing,” ryul deadpanned,
ohyul looked between the two of you, “..so..” he grinned, “..should we leave?”
ryul looked at him, “yes.”
louis looked at you with pleading eyes, clearly not getting the situation
but without another word, ohyul turned around and left the room (still with his plant in his hands)
and louis followed, slowly getting the hint, “my bad,” louis mumbled,
“his bad,” woojin corrected,
“have fun,” ohyul yelled from down the hallway, before closing his own bedroom door behind him,
the other 2 were slowly moving away too,
“woojin! door!” ryul called out, to which the youngest shuffled back quickly, closing the door with a quiet tug,
ryul stared at the closed door, for a second he didn’t move or speak..
“can i finally have peace?”
you laughed quietly, “looks like it,”
he slowly turned to look at you, “if somebody knocks on that door in the next 10 minutes..”
“yes?” you chuckled,
“..i’m moving into your apartment,”
you couldn’t stop laughing, “sure,”
“no i’m dead serious because..”
and if timing wasn’t his worst enemy by now, almost right on cue-
“NOONA,”
ryul’s head dropped down in defeat almost immediately,
ᝰ.ᐟ synopsis in which you’re in your kitchen on a rainy night, and martin’s laugh turns an ordinary moment into the kind you quietly keep.
martin edwards x fem!reader , fluff , wc 1.1k
holy (re)debut 🌚🌚🌚 this has been in my drafts for the longest but i finally made myself finish it today… i was talking to @bananagirl222 and @miseulsoup (rip) like last month abt martin’s laugh after hearing it in an edit and that’s how this was made
currently playing - must be love by laufey
rain had been falling on and off since the afternoon, leaving your apartment wrapped in a soft kind of quiet that only comes with bad weather and nowhere else to be.
the windows were cracked just enough to let cool air drift through the curtains, carrying the smell of wet pavement inside. somewhere outside, cars drove softly down the wet streets below, muted by distance. inside, though, everything felt warm. dim lamp light glowed gold against the walls, the dishwasher hummed quietly in the kitchen, and martin moved around the apartment in one of his oversized hoodies, with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows.
you were perched on the kitchen counter watching him make tea. not helping, just watching.
“you know,” martin said while rummaging through your cabinets above the stove looking for something, “most people would at least pretend to assist.” you let your legs swing idly off the counter. “i am assisting.”
he glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting. “how exactly?”
“moral support?”
“right.” he snorted softly. “vital.”
you smiled to yourself as he turned back to the cabinet, still mumbling something under his breath. martin always liked acting like he hated being observed, but you knew better by now. if he genuinely wanted space, he’d take it. instead, he stayed close enough for your knee to keep bumping against his side every time he crossed your section of the kitchen.
the water bubbled quietly as the kettle heated on the stove.
you watched him move around the room with sleepy familiarity, grabbing mugs without looking, nudging drawers shut with his hip, brushing blonde strands of hair out of his face with the back of his wrist. there was something strangely intimate about evenings like this. no work. no stress. no pressure to be interesting.
just martin.
“you’re staring,” he said suddenly.
“is that a problem?”
“it depends. should i be worried?”
you laugh softly, leaning back on your palms. “i don't know.”
“there you go,” he muttered. “you’re doing that thing again.”
“what thing?”
“where you go all quiet and just…” he gestured vaguely towards you with the tea bag still in hand. “just look at me.”
“oh, im sorry for liking my boyfriend.”
“i didn't say stop.” the response came too quickly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud. martin blinked once after realizing it, immediately turning back towards to counter to hide the faint pink creeping into face while you tried not to smile too hard.
the kettle started whistling before either of you could say anything else. martin pulled it off the stove with a quiet sigh, pouring hot water into the mugs carefully while steam curled around his hands.
you kept watching him.
you couldn't help it sometimes.
loving martin felt woven into tiny moments more than grand ones.
the way he handed you things automatically without asking. the way he checks if your tea is too hot before giving it to you. the way he’d quietly lean against your shoulder whenever he got tired without realizing he was doing it.
he passed you one of the mugs.
“careful,” he said while leaning back against the counter beside you. “it’s hot.”
“thank you.”
for a while, neither of you talked much. you stayed sitting on the counter, drinking tea, while martin scrolled aimlessly on his phone, occasionally showing you things that made no sense what-so-ever. a stupid meme that you tried to make something out of while he giggled at his screen. a blurry picture of juhoon sent in a group chat. internet drama he randomly got himself invested in.
the conversation wandered from the latest internet drama, to what you both wanted to eat for breakfast tomorrow, to martin recounting something that happed earlier during practice.
"—and then he looked me dead in the eyes," martin said, trying to keep a straight face, "and asked if penguins have knees."
you blinked.
"they don’t… do they?" martin stared at you.
"...you're joking."
"no?" you frowned. "wait, do they?"
he set his mug down, already smiling. "you can't be serious. penguins have knees, love.” martin looked at you.
"martin, i have literally never thought about a penguin's knees before."
he looked at you for another second before the smile finally broke.
a laugh escaped him. real and unrestrained this time, head tipping back slightly as he covered his face with one hand. it wasn’t loud. just warm enough to make his eyes disappear into crescents, his shoulders shaking as he tried, yet failed, to pull himself back together.
you found yourself smiling before you even realized you were.
you’ve heard martin laugh hundreds of times before. around friends, in voice messages, on call. but this laugh was different.
he was still chuckling to himself when he noticed you’d gone quiet.
“...what?”
before you could stop yourself, you said quietly, “i really like your laugh.”
martin froze, actually froze.
“what?”
your face warmed almost immediately, but it was too late now.
“youre laugh,” you repeated, suddenly shy. “i like it.”
he stared at you for a second too long.
“that’s…huh.” he blinked, looking away with a small, almost disbelieving smile. “no one's ever said that to me before.”
“well..” you smiled. “i guess i’m the first then.”
martin looked at you for a long moment before letting out another quiet laugh, instantly looking away like he regretted it the second it happened. a faint blush crept up his cheeks and shook his head, smiling to himself.
“now you’re making me self-conscious,” he murmured.
you reached over, brushing your thumb gently along his knuckles. “i just like hearing you laugh. that's all,” you laughed softly.
his expression softened completely.
“come here,” he said quietly.
he stepped between your legs where you sat on the counter, one hand settling lightly at your waist as he leaned in. his forehead brushes yours for a second, still smiling and still shy, before he closed the small space between you.
the kiss was slow and unhurried, like he didn’t need to rush it anywhere.
his hand tightened just slightly at your wasit, steadying you as he leaned closer, and you felt him exhale through his nose like he was finally letting go of all the embarrassment at once.
it was warm, familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times before but still meant it every time.
when he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your noses almost touched. his smile is still there, softer now.
for a second, neither of you moved.
his thumb gave a small absentminded press at your waist, like he wasn’t fully ready to step away yet. you could still feel the warmth of his breath and see that faint blush that hadn’t quite faded from his cheeks.
then he let out a quiet breathy laugh again, smaller this time, like it slipped out before he could stop.
you smiled immediately.
“what now?”
“you laughed again.”
“don’t start.” martin looked down, shaking his head to himself with another embarrassed breath of laughter.
and even now, after everything, hearing it still made your chest feel warm.
i literally had a whole argument with my friend because she swore up and down for like five minutes that penguins didn’t have knees. hello??
your phone dinged, ringtone rang throughout the small empty office. taking a break from the computer screen, you saw james’s text pop up.
‘hey what time do u get off work tonight?’
‘around 11, why?’
since you accidentally took up a later shift than usual, you’re stuck in this damned office, staring at documents after documents. with the clock hands almost pointing to eleven, you’re just minutes away from freedom.
‘just wanna let you know i’m gonna pick you up later’ raising an eyebrow, planning to decline but the typing bubble on his end beat you to it.
‘don’t trust trains at this hour’ as if he knew you’d argue, you could only text back a ‘fine’ and started to pack up your things, trying not to think about his sudden gesture of kindness.
not long, a familiar black camaro pulled up. upon entering the passenger seat, you were greeted by his signature smirk and before you could question his intentions, he handed you a mcflurry cup.
ok strike two of this sudden gesture of kindness.
“i was just from delivering some stuff and got a few new ones for you to try” james’s one hand on the wheel, the other leaning on the console. the view is truely torturing, red light illuminating his already-handsome features making it hard not to stare.
“is that why you’re so nice to me today?” digging thru the ice cream with a spoon, attempting to distract yourself.
“cause you needed a smoke buddy” you finished, in a matter-of-fact tone, hoping it’ll mask the disappointment in your chest. james looked over at you, almost offended at your implication.
“i’m nice to you cause you’re my number one girl. do you think i give away free shit to anyone?” his rebuttal made you giggle, trying to contain the butterflies in your stomach while he just shook his head, still in disbelief. it’s true he doesn’t charge you at all nor does he expect anything in return. he always made sure to refill your stash even before it had a chance to ran out. he always ask you to smoke with him, just the two of you, saying anything more than two is a crowd.
“i can look after you if it’s just us” he said casually on one occassion. it’s the timbre of his voice that got to you, he said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. what’s worse is that you knew he meant it.
“is this how i find out you’re opposed to threesomes?” attempting to lighten up the mood, james just shook his head and laughed.
james zhao who started out as your dealer, who occassionally flirts at you and stares longer (intensely) than he’s supposed to. now, he buys you ice cream and pick you up from late night shifts. sure, he’s nice to you but he’s also likes to do things he shouldn’t have to. for a man claiming to just be your plug, he’s doing an awful lot.
the living room was full of smoke, lights turned down, giving the space an intimate feel and sensual r&b isn’t helping with toning down the mood. both you and james were absolutely faded at this point, only a matter of time before you became one with the couch cushions. feet up on the table, yet you can barely feel your limbs, the only working muscle are your fingers passing the blunt back and forth.
james could taste hints of cherries from the shared blunt and his buzzed mind wonders how the rest of you would taste like. he could feel himself treading onto dangerous waters, the filthy thoughts he promised to bury starts resurfacing.
james just shook his head, attempting to stop his mind from running rampant. an arm rested behind his head, before he turned to look at you. the gloss on your lips caught his eye—a pretty shade of pink, just begging to be kissed.
you can feel james’s burning stare prickling your skin, turning to meet a solemn expression yet you could see a million thoughts running behind those hazy eyes. the intensity of his gaze made you shrink further into the couch, smoking the blunt harder. your body moved before your mind could retaliate and james felt you leaned against his arm. his body went rigid for a moment before moving said arm to awkwardly wrap around your shoulders.
a small part of you was glad he reciprocated albeit he was a little tense, probably just the nerves getting to him. nothing a little (more) weed can’t fix and you were right. the longer you two passed the blunt, the more relaxed james felt, which means the less he thinks about his actions.
his arm slid down your waist, pushing your body closer to his. both hands perched on his chest, you’re full on cuddling him at this point. you reached forward to take the blunt from his lips, instead he took it between his fingers and placed it against your lips. dainty fingers wrapped his wrist, and took a deep drag. james’s gaze on you burning harder than the smoke in your throat, his hand moved away, placing the blunt on an ashtray beside him.
he watched intently as you exhaled upwards. his gaze zeroing on your chest, pressed up so close to him, he can feel it rising and falling everytime you breathe. eyes gazing up to your pretty doe eyes, now glossed over and he just can’t get enough.
“don’t look at me like that” you whispered.
“like what, hm?”
you were caught off guard when he hooked a finger on your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. hooded eyes shamelessly stare at your lips, before meeting your eyes again.
without a second thought, you leaned in to kiss him. when you were about to pull away, james surged forward and reconnected your lips. your fingers tangled between his hair, pulling softly. james let out a small whimper, instantly lifted you up to straddle him.
before his brain could fully process, your hips rolled against him. more quiet whimpers bubble from his throat as you grind in a slow pace. james was getting impatient, it was evident in the way he gripped your waist. within seconds, clothes were off and on the floor, leaving your bare bodies exposed.
“fuck.”
james groaned loudly against the juncture of your neck as you sink down slowly on his thick cock. the poor boy was losing his mind and you were just at the tip, slick already dripping down his length. there’s no way in hell you could take him, not when it feels like you’re being split open.
“breathe, baby.” his hands reached down to soothe your thighs, sensing your hesitance and whispered sweet encouragements in your ear. the nickname had you blushed red and didn’t go unnoticed to him.
“you can do it. i know it’s bigger than what you’re used to.”
“just breathe, go slow.”
“that’s it—god. good girl.”
each word melted into your skin. you moved inch by inch, feeling the pain subsiding the more you took him. james, on the other hand was fighting demons. resisting the urge to toss you around and have his way, but knew better than doing so. god, you were so wet, practically dripping down his balls.
“yu fan! tooo big!” you whined.
guiding your movements with a firm grip on your ass, james rocked you back and forth on his cock. “i know. but you’re doing so well, baby”
he initially thought you wanted to go slow, fearing he might hurt you. but when you started bouncing on him, a choked moan left his throat. lifting your hips right at the tip, before slamming back down. james threw his head against the couch cushion, eyes rolled back in pleasure.
the fullness of his cock filling you up knocked the air out of your lungs. “such a good fucking girl for me” the drop in octave made your pussy clenched involuntarily as his hands roamed the curveture of your ass.
his calloused hand ran upwards to cup a handful of your tit, kneading the flesh as his thumb toyed with your sensitive nipple. pathetic whimpers tumble out of your lips, while james looked up at you with a glint in his eyes. “my girl so so pretty like this” he whispered, lips leaving kisses down your skin. “and it’s all for me” as he popped a nipple in his mouth, making you swallow a moan.
your hips slowed down to grinding on him instead, fingers tangled in his strands. he sucked and teased to no end, relishing in the way you squirm. huge hand cupped your tit, kneading the flesh when you place a hand over his. james removed his hand, replacing it with your own as he watches you fondled with yourself.
whiny cries left your lips. looking down, you watched as james sucked eagerly, giving a playful wink when your eyes meet. while his free hand snaked down to grip your ass, guiding your movements. releasing your tit with a wet pop, james leaned forward. his hands wrapping your legs around his torso as he pushed his body forward to pin you down.
“fuck—take all of me yeah?” he moaned.
you let out a broken cry, the new position further pushing his cock deeper into you—convinced the thick head reached your cervix. james cradled your face gently, kissing the edge of your lips as a silent apology while his hips started to move.
“god, baby.” he moaned, feeling the pulse of your walls stretching to take him.
thrusting slowly so you could feel every ridge, every vein deliciously rubbing against your slick walls. each thrust had you gasping for air but like any touch-deprived whore, it wasn’t enough.
“want more” you whine pathetically, threading your fingers in his hair to pull him closer. james sucked in a harsh breathe and closed his eyes, as if holding himself back.
a broken ‘please’ snapped all strings of restraint and james placed your legs on his shoulders, giving a harsh thrust that sends your eyes rolling back. he smirked knowingly, giving another hard thrust, and another and another—
until you couldn’t form a coherant sound.
until your mind was nothing but the thought of his huge cock hitting all your spot.
until the room was echoeing with your desperate cries and the snapping wet sound of his hips.
“my” thrust.
“perfect” thrust.
“girl” thrust.
the gentleness of his voice contrasting with how hard he fucks his cock into you. he was filling you up so good. each drag of his cock knocked the air out your lungs, nails clawing at his back. james was thoroughly enjoying himself with a shit-eating grin, watching you fall apart beautifully underneath him.
“you feel so, so, so good, baby” he cooed.
his hands gripping your thighs to keep them open and fucked his cock into you harder, pulling your hips to meet each thrust.
“my pretty girl, soo fucking pretty” he grunted.
at this rate, you’ll get off just from him praising you. never in a million years would you imagine someone like james have a praising kink, let alone being on the receiving end.
the view in front of you was unbelievably hot , for lack of better word. shaky legs dangling off his shoulder with both hands on your thighs. james’s handsome face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, letting out grunts and praises.
the intensity of his eyes, focused entirely on his pretty girl made you shy away from his gaze. your arms closed around his neck on instinct when he leaned forward, gently nudging his nose against yours.
“look at me, pretty.” he whispered, lips ghosting on your cheek. yet, you still refused to meet his eyes. a harsh slap landed on your ass, making you yelp in surprise. immediately turn your face to face him, james’s face painted in amusement.
“there she is. keep your eyes on me or you’re not coming.” his face went stone cold for a moment, before softening again, seeing your eyes on him.
you can call him pussydrunk all you want, he doesn’t give a fuck. not when you’re spread open and taking his cock like a big girl. not when he’s hitting your sweet spot with ease and made you scream his name.
“such a good girl. my good girl.” emphasising the my with a harder stroke of his cock, making you let out a choked moan.
“don’t stop! please,don’t stop!”
he smirked, gripping your hips and pistoning his cock to repeatedly hit that one spot. you’re nothing but a moaning mess—back arched off the cushion, tits bouncing, eyes rolled back and throat crying out for him. a scene straight out every wet dream he’s had but better, way better.
the room reeked of sex and weed, writhing bodies clashed in pure ectasy. james whimpered like a puppy, relishing the feeling of your walls throbbed around his cock.
“comin’—ah!yufan—coming!” was all you could scream out before squirting all over him. fingers digging onto his scalp as your own body trembled with the force of your orgasm, taken by the waves of pleasure.
you didn’t have time to calm down when james cut you off with a kiss. he came hard, groaning into your mouth. you could feel him filling you up to the brim as james rolled his hips in slow circles. simultaneously taking your legs off his shoulders to wrapped around his waist instead.
his arms cradled your naked torso, pulling you closer more than ever. the kiss was messy, spit dribbling down your chin and tongue playfighting for dominance over the other.
you pushed at his shoulder, smiling into the kiss and his lips left yours unwillingly. leaving small smooches on your collarbones, on your chest, basically any patch skin he lay his eyes on.
just as james was settling in the crook of your neck, you whispered “that was amazing.”
“you were amazing” he countered, kissing the side of your neck.
that made you let out an exasperated laugh, combing his messy hair with your fingers as you two stayed entangled in each other’s arms.
a comfortable silence hung in the air before james spoke up. “just so you know, this is not a one time thing”
his serious tone made you giggled, “i know. i know you’re not that type of person.”
his shoulders relaxed and james let out a relieved sigh. “but you still need to take me out in a date”
james’s hand held yours before placing a kiss, “anything for you.”
pairing sleepy!bf!martin x gf!reader (est. relationship)
contains fluff fluff fluff, skinship/kissing, one ss | wc: 1.2k
“nah, i usually don’t sleep when im working on music”
in which you join martins livestream just to tease him, but the night somehow ends with you in his arms.
a/n: hii.. it’s been a while since i even opened this app.. hence why this is a draft from like over a month ago i think?? but im still very much obsessed w martins weverse streams.. he’s sooo bf. enjoy!! ⤷ masterlist
“m.j. edwards started a livestream“
martin has been working nonstop this comeback, so you barely ever get to see him.
and the only thing that keeps yourself from not missing him too much are his weverse streams.
whenever that notification pops up your heart gets all tingly, knowing you’re going to be staring at your phone for the next hour, knowing you’re about to admire him through a screen.
even though it kills you not being able to feel his warmth, his arms around yours, his eyes fixating on you, whenever you look in his direction — you try to make the best out of it.
watching martin work on his own music, seeing him so passionate about creating, made all the hours you’ve spend missing him worthwhile.
still, somehow during every stream, you try to sneakily get his attention.
this time, you decided to text martin out of nowhere, while he‘s actively reading out comments just to see how he would react when seeing your name pop up on his lockscreen.
you click send on your message.
and his phone lights up almost immediately.
you examine martins next moves thoroughly— his eyes move over to his screen, he takes a quick look and after realization hits a smile starts to form on the corner of his mouth instantly.
as he skims through your text, you could tell he was debating wether or not to respond.
he kept pretending to read what his fans were saying, but you noticed his mind wandering, still contemplating.
his tongue poking his cheeks, trying to hold back a smile.
martin coughs hesitantly, wanting to return to his previous conversation regarding someone’s comment.
but he caves in, as soon as you send another message.
he grabs his phone, and moves his chair slightly away from frame.
you were wondering what he could possible be doing off screen for so long, 'cause you haven’t received a text back yet.
instead you received a notification from paypal.
as you guys were texting, the chat moved rapidly trying to figure out what martin was doing off screen and also telling him to go back to playing unreleased demos.
when he moved back into frame, he was cheesing noticeably.
you watch him run his fingers through his hair, adjusting himself on the chair, trying to keep his composure.
so you existed the livestream, and opened the uber app instead.
even on the drive over here, you continued watching his live, unable to keep your eyes off of him for just more than a second.
as you were walking into the building, you texted martin to let him know that you arrived.
and out of curiosity, you join his stream once again, simply wanting to see how he’d end the live.
his eyes lit up as soon as he read your message and a slight grin appeared on his face. he was still trying to keep it lowkey, but failed miserably.
“you look tired. go to bed martin” he says reading out someone’s comment.
“well, if you say so.” he replies to the comment while yawning.
he did look extremely tired, but to be fair you cant remember the last time he didn’t.
during every facetime call, he blinks intensely trying to stay awake or he even just shuts his eyes for a while before opening them again, without even noticing that he’d fallen asleep. so you just act like you’re the one who‘s tired and end the call, solely for his sake.
he would never admit to being overworked, he tells you it’s part of the job, he just has to adjust. but you can’t help but worry.
he continues, “it is getting late. shouldn’t y’all be sleeping as well?
… okay well, i’ll go now, love you coer. stay healthy and rest well.”he adds, blowing the viewers a small kiss before leaving.
and just like that, the livestream ended.
you waited a few seconds before knocking on his door, just to be sure.
while still sitting in his chair, he opened door.
greeting you with a soft smile, which on one hand showed how happy he was to see you, but on the other hand also showed his lack of sleep.
as you take a step into his studio, you position yourself infront of him, which caused your knees to brush against his chair. tilting your head downward, as you run one hand through his hair.
“aw, sleepy martin.” you say lightheartedly, as you move the hand from his hair down, to softly cup the side of his face.
his face slowly melts into your touch, resting it on your hand, while you gently rub your thumb over his cheeks.
“come here.” you say, while tugging at his sleeves, wanting to move you both to the couch.
you‘ve never seen him this quiet. you’re usually used to him throwing himself at you and bombarding you with kisses and his thoughts.
but right now his voice is barely above a whisper when mumbling, “can‘t, i haven’t finished the song yet.”
you raise your eyebrows slightly. “hey, you wanted me here, so spend time with me.”
he chuckles quietly, as you drag him to the couch.
after he sat down next to you, he instinctively put his hand around your shoulder before pulling your legs over his.
so you put your head on his chest.
you stayed in that position— in that silence for a while, letting him rest as he absentmindedly played with your hair. occasionally drawing circles on your legs with his fingers.
“y/n.” he blurts out suddenly.
“hm?” you look up at him and are met with him already gazing at you.
his eyes had a twinkle in them, a twinkle that was fairly familiar to you.
the corner of his mouth lifted, smirking. you knew that certain smirk of his all too well.
his gaze moved from your eyes down to your mouth.
your hand came up automatically to brush through his hair, as well as tilting his head closer to you.
his lips met yours. slowly and softly.
quiet sighs escaping him, as you start fiddling with the hair on his neck.
despite his colds hands sliding around your waist, his touch still felt warm.
but you could feel how tired he was.
his lips lingered longer than usual.
his breaths were quieter than usual.
his fingers were loose instead of firm.
instead of gripping onto you, so that this moment wouldn’t end, it felt like you were slowly slipping away.
so, you pull away.
“what’s wrong?” martin asks concernedly.
“you’re too tired. i feel bad.”
“i’m never too tired to kiss you.”
you furrow your eyebrows in doubt. “you didn‘t even hold me the right way.”
he sighs, “i’ll lock in now. i promise.” and his eyes dipped back to your lips.
you giggle lightly in response, before he pulls you back in.
he moved his hands to your hips, and your breathing went choppy as his got deeper. it was nothing like the previous kiss.
he gave you a wideopen mouth kiss, angling his head perfectly to make it feel heavier.
the rest of the night continued exactly like that. you in his arms, kissing and smiling at each other inbetween breaths.
IN WHICH. . . Your beloved puma hybrid: Nishimura Riki, has reached his limits of restraining himself. Under the influence of his heat combined with his pent-up feelings for you, he decides the best way to let you know was by showing than saying it out loud.
5.7k wc⠀❀⠀non idol & university au ♪♪ puma hybrid! nishimura riki x fem! reader 𐧘 explicit mature content, porn without plot, unprotected sex, knotting, breeding kink, jealous riki, riki has a tail & claws, feral & possessive riki, fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), pussy slapping, breast play, coming untouched, face-sitting, mild choking, size difference, hung riki, mean! riki.
from author: i love puma riki. that's it. that's the plot.
Riki has been acting weird recently.
The puma hybrid is more clingy than usual—which wasn't anything new at first glance. Ever since he came into your life, the hybrid with the height of six foot something, toned arms, impressive abs that's hidden under the layers of his clothes with tattoos—one on near his hipbones, one on his side and the last on his back, Riki will be on you the moment you came back.
He didn't care if you haven't removed your shoes or dropped the keys. Riki wastes no time in pulling you into his arms, head buried in your neck with him nuzzling his nose against your skin. He ignored your futile, weak attempts of prying him off, his body practically melting once he inhaled your scent, like it's an antidote for his illness.
His illness of being separated from you for way too long.
But now? Now his clinginess only got even worse. If you were smarter, you would've been able to connect the dots—how your beloved puma hybrid kept following you around, his long, black tail swishing side to side ever since you told him you got a boyfriend. You've been dating for the past five months and he's everything you wanted—loyal, kind, faithful, funny, understanding and the list goes on.
When you broke the news to Riki, you were too deep in love, already rambling about your oh so perfect relationship to notice how he stilled. How his tail dipped immediately. How his ears flattened against his head. How his jaw clenched, tongue poking the insides of his cheek. How his eyes narrowed into silts. How he clenched his left hand into a fist that rested on his lap, hidden from your view.
Ever since that day—five months ago, Riki made it a point to cling onto you at every chance he gets. He doesn't care if you're in public. The moment you're in his sight, he has his tail wrapped around your waist, holding you close to him while subtly scenting you at the same time. As he's tall enough, it's enough to scare off anyone who's foolish enough to look your way. If that doesn't worked, he'll resort to glaring at them, which proved to be useful many, many times.
Right now, you're seated on the couch in the living room with your laptop perched on a cushion, using it as a temporary stand. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, lips unconsciously pursed in a thin line while working on your assignments. Being a university student meant you're constantly bombarded with never-ending assignments—essays, group projects, reports, tests and exams.
It got so bad to the point you haven't contacted your boyfriend for the past two weeks. You felt remorseful at first, not wanting any misunderstandings to be formed. But when your lecturers thought it was a great idea for them to throw an unreasonable amount of work to their students, the thought was washed down the drain as you threw yourself into study mode, working on them nonstop.
You were so engrossed with your current task that you remained blissfully unaware of your surroundings. Of how a certain puma hybrid was heading your way, his footsteps light and barely making any noise, like he's stalking his next prey. You finally looked down, features softening to see it's none other than Riki resting his head on your lap, eyes fixated on your face.
You reached down, brushing his dirty ash blonde hair away from his forehead, drawing a soft, pleased sigh from him. Your heart squeezed, getting a rush of cuteness aggression when he turned, rubbing his cheek against your stomach through your shirt. You knew what he wants and also knew if anything, he's extremely shy when it comes to demanding for your attention.
You being you, decides to tease him.
"Riki, do you need something?" You asked, hovering your hand in the air.
The hybrid stopped rubbing his cheek, cracking one eye open to glare at you, his thick and plump lips curling down in a pout. "You know what I want."
You hummed, plastering a fake thoughtful look on your face, well-aware of how he's watching you. "Do I? I'm not a mind reader. If you want something, you need to tell me."
Your words drew a frustrated and annoyed growl from him but you weren't fazed or afraid. You merely chuckled, wriggling your fingers in the air. "I'm waitinggggg."
He closed his eyes, seemingly sending prayers to whoever's listening before opening them. "…Can you pat me, please?"
You cooed out loud and Riki scrunched his nose, sending you death glares at the revolting noise. "You're so cute! If that's what my precious baby puma wants."
He was about to get up when you started patting his head, occasionally flicking his ears. The moment you laid your hands on him, his shoulders sagged with relief and his eyes fluttered shut. He made himself comfortable, face squashed into your stomach with his arms loosely wrapped around your waist, locking you in place while you returned to working on your assignment.
Thirty minutes of comfortable silence past and your phone started ringing, vibrating vigorously from its spot on the couch's armrest. You didn't want to wake Riki up—who had been lulled to sleep by your comforting scent and warmth, subtly stretching your arm to pick up your phone. One look at the screen made your heart dropped when you saw the contact name.
You accepted the call, bringing your phone to your right ear.
"Hello?"
"(Name), let's break up," your boyfriend said, his tone steady and firm.
Your heart stopped beating, shattering into pieces the moment you heard his words. You felt cold, like someone had dumped a pail of cold, freezing water over you. You stared ahead of you—wide eyes and tuning out your surroundings, until the only thing you can hear was the blood rushing through your ears.
"W-What? Why?" You stammered, unaware of Riki stirring to life, his ears perking up, clearly trying to eavesdrop.
A sigh. "It's no hard feelings, really. I just don't feel the same way anymore. And you've been busy lately. You didn't answer my texts or my calls. It's like you've forgotten about my existence."
"That's not—"
"And that hybrid of yours. It's clear there's something going on between the two of you, with how possessive he is," he interrupted, having no intention of hearing you out or letting you speak.
Hearing this, you stilled. Your fingers that were previously threading through Riki's hair came to an abrupt halt. Your eyes instinctively flicked down to him, breath hitching when you made eye contact and how he has been watching and listening the entire time. His eyes were now narrowed to silts. He doesn't care that he was caught red-handed, showing no ounce of remorse or shame.
But rather, he looked… smug, like he knew this will happen.
Your lack of response earned a bitter huff from your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend, in this case. "See? This is what I meant. Forget it, there's no point trying to talk to you. We're over. Don't contact me again."
"Wait—"
He ended the call and you moved it away, staring at it like it had personally offended you. Riki took that as his cue to push himself up, stretching his arms above his head. The action made the gray hoodie he worn to be dragged up, showing off an inch of his skin and the kiss mark tattoo he got. Your eyes darted towards it without warning, only for you to look away immediately ignoring how your heart skipped a beat and heat pooling in your stomach.
"Who was that?" He asked casually and innocently, running a hand through his hair.
"My boyfriend," you chuckled, placing your phone on your side, "well, ex-boyfriend."
He frowned. "Ex?"
"Yeah, he just broke up with me, over the phone."
Riki sucked in air from his teeth, his tail neatly resting over his lap. "Oh… I'm sorry to hear that."
You shook your head, sinking further into the couch. "It's fine, I kinda deserve it."
"Why? You didn't do anything wrong," he replied without missing a beat.
You glanced at him, startled by how fast and firm his response was. "Because I might have forgotten to contact him? I didn't make any efforts to call or text him."
"And? You're busy with your assignments. You don't have to bend your back for someone who's insecure," he retorted, draping an arm across the back of his couch, his hand directly behind your head.
You snorted. "He's not insecure, Riki. Don't be mean to him."
For a brief moment, the hybrid seemed like he wanted to say something but thought better of it, choosing to keep his mouth shut. He got up from the couch, the tip of his tail grazing your bare ankle—deliberately and lightly before he walked away. You remained seated on the couch, watching as he disappeared into the comfort of his own room, closing the door behind him.
What was that?
~
You noticed a slight change in Riki two weeks later.
The hybrid started spending more time in his room, only coming out when it's absolutely necessary. Heck, he didn't step out even when you announced you were leaving for your classes, leaving you utterly confused. You did knock on his door, asking him questions about his health but all you got was him telling you to go away.
If there's one thing about you, it's that you never give up.
Knock knock.
"Riki? Hello? Are you still alive?" You asked, pressing your ear against the door, trying to catch the smallest sounds.
That's when you heard it—a low, slow and warning growl. Hearing it sent shivers down your spine and you rubbed your thighs together, feeling the all-too familiar sensation of arousal blooming in your stomach.
"Go away."
The two words were said with such conviction and coldness that it rendered you speechless. Never in your life have you heard Riki growling at you, like the true puma he is. You should listen to him. Should turned around, walked away to leave him alone. Ignoring the invisible alarm bells going off in your mind, you took a deep breath, twisted the door knob and pushed it open.
The door moved aside to reveal Riki's room. The curtains were drawn closed, shutting him out from the rest of the world. Your eyes locked in on the bump on his bed. A bump that you easily identified as the owner of the room. You stepped in, wary to not step on anything that could potentially scared him or set him into fight-or-flight mode.
Once you were close enough, you sat on the edge of the bed, turning slightly so you can face him without straining your neck. You reached out, ready to pull the sheets away when he moved.
One moment you were seated and the next, you were pinned against the bed. You gasped, startled by the abrupt change of position. Both of your wrists was held over your head, held down firmly with Riki's one hand while the other was braced on the wrinkled sheets. The sight before you made your breath hitched.
Riki's face was flushed, cheeks covered in a light shade of red. His eyes turned into slits, borderline glowing and his forehead glowed in a layer of sweat, hair sticking to his face. His lips were parted, exhaling at an unsteady pace, like he had ran a marathon. This wasn't the usual Riki you're used to. Someone who always keep his cool. Someone who noticed everything about you.
"Riki, wha—!?"
You stopped when he ducked, nosing along your neck and he breathed in, deeply. You strained your ears, picking up what sounded like… purring? You felt the vibrations coursing through his body and his sharp, fluffy ears twitched.
"Your scent… it's driving me crazy," he rasped out, voice low and deep.
You swallowed, your heart hammering against your chest rapidly. "Seriously, what's wr—mmpfh!"
You didn't finish your sentence, not because your voice gave up on you. But rather, it was because of the hybrid, who captured your lips in a hot, demanding and intense kiss. Unlike your ex who takes his time, Riki was different. He kissed you harshly, further pushing you into the sheets with him fully settling his weight on you, like he wants you to blend into it.
You squeaked when he nipped at the plush, soft flesh of your lips with the sharp tip of his fangs, the searing pain striking you like a lightning bolt. He released his grip on your wrists, supporting your head with one hand on your neck while the other gripped onto your waist, his touch possessive and firm.
You could feel the warmth from his body, how he's a walking heater. The closeness of this combined with him kissing you with such desperation made you whined into his mouth. Riki groaned, swallowing the delicious sound, treating it like it's an sacred offering. The kiss deepened—him forcing you to grant him entrance and he sucked on your tongue, hard enough to make you pushed your chest up against his.
It's filthy and lewd, with spit trickling down your chin. Seeing this, Riki broke the kiss and licked it up with his rough tongue, leaving your skin feeling damp and sticky before he kissed you again, unable to get enough of your sweet, addictive taste.
"Riki—"
You moaned against his lips, arching your back off the bed as his other hand traced your silhouette, creating a map out of your body. He pushed your oversized shirt up until the hem of your bra was shown, drawing a ragged, broken moan from him, like seeing your clear, unblemished skin does something to him.
He pulled back, staring at you as he takes in the mind-blowing sight before him—your dazed eyes, your swollen, bruised and spit-covered lips and the light flush on your cheeks. Seeing you like this—all wrecked and breathless, drew a dark and pleased purr from the depth of his throat.
"So pretty for me," he breathed out, his breath fanning across your lips, savoring the way you shivered involuntarily at his words.
Riki moved down, busying himself in leaving wet and messy kisses along the expanse of your neck, ensuring to lick at your skin, able to get a faint salty taste at the tip of his tongue. He slowly lowered himself, spreading your legs apart with one hand—the action effortless and requiring close to zero strength, aligning your cores together and oh, you can feel him.
Feel his long, thick and heavy cock straining against the poor restraints of his sweatpants, begging to be freed. You swallowed, feeling your underwear sticking against your pussy at the thought of him filling you up. Riki stilled above you, his nostrils flaring before he growled, staring you down with nothing but desire written all over his face.
A loud ripping sound pierced through the bedroom. You squeaked, hands moving to cover yourself when the puma hybrid ripped your clothes with his sharp claws but he was faster, pinning your hands above your head with one hand while the other gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.
"Don't hide from me," he snarled.
You made a pathetic sound—a sound you didn't know you were capable of in the first place and it made the puma smirked proudly. When it's clear you're not planning to move, Riki shifted down, giving attention to your freed breasts. He wrapped his lips around your left hardened nipple, alternating between licking and sucking on it while pinching and twisting the other nipple with his free hand.
"Ngh!"
You cried out, throwing your head back as you tangled your hand through his hair while the other blindly grabbed the sheets, twisting and turning it beneath your fingers. You squirmed about on the bed, which pissed Riki off, judging from the feral snarl he let out as he held you down by your hips, his grip hard and vice-like with his claws borderline digging into your skin, hard enough for thin, red-lined marks to be imprinted.
He continued abusing your poor nipples until they were bruised red and covered in a layer of his thick spit, leaving it glistened in the dim room. Riki shifted further down until he dropped to his knees on the floor. You yelped when you were roughly yanked forward by his tail until your lower half hovered in the air. Your legs trembled as they were slung over the hybrid's firm, broad shoulders.
"Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you," he murmured, nosing along your inner right thigh, occasionally nipping at your skin until it turned reddish-purple.
The possessiveness in him gleamed in pride at the thought of you walking around, wearing pants or anything long to hide the marks he left behind on your body, like he's claiming, marking and branding you. Keeping you away from any potential suitors too. Riki continued his adventure until he reached where you're desperately aching for him. He blew hot air, watching with pure hunger at how your pussy throbbed.
"Sensitive already," he huffed, amused.
"P-Please.." You whimpered oh so beautifully for him, further twisting the sheets.
"Please what, doll? C'mon, be a good girl and use your words," he coaxed.
You squeezed your eyes shut, not having the courage to look at him but your action only made him clicked his tongue in disapproval.
Smack!
Your body visibly jolted, taken aback at the sudden stinging pain landing squarely on your bare pussy. Interest flickered across his face at your reaction—how you bit down on your lip and how you got even wetter. Deciding to put his theory to the test, he did it again. Not once. Not twice. But thrice, back-to-back.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Your body trembled like a taut wire, clenching down on nothing as violent shockwaves traversed through you from head to toe. Riki, on the other hand, paused. His mind spun, reeling from what just happened. He didn't give you time to regain your composure, dragging his left index finger along your puffy, soaked folds, making you whimpered from the sensitivity.
"Fuck, you came just like that?" He murmured, in awe.
"W-Wha.."
You mumbled blearily, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, already exhausted. The only form of warning you got was the puma hybrid inching closer until something rough, hot and flat licked a stripe up, from your clit to entrance. You screamed, the sound high and loud that you're certain your neighbors will launch a noise complaint soon.
The thought left your mind as quickly as it formed when Riki moaned, his face buried between your legs. He ate you out messily and sloppily, paying special attention to your clit peeking out. Your body twitched, nearly yanking the sheets freed when he circled it with the tip of his tongue, the sensation driving you up the wall.
Your legs trembled in the air but you couldn't closed them, not when they were hoisted on his strong, muscular shoulders. You hooked your ankles around his neck, tugging him closer and let out a wonton moan when the tip of his nose pokes your clit. He didn't care, pushing further and further in, like he wants to be suffocated between your legs, tasting your sweet, addictive slick on his tongue.
"F-Fuck, so—hngh, good," you panted, back arching off the bed as he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on it. The suction was enough for your stomach to tighten, about to cum again, only for him to pull away, letting your clit fall limp against your pussy, all sore and red.
You watched with your head laying on the sheets, chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath as Riki rose to his full height, gently dropping your legs down onto the solid floor. He didn't look away, locking eyes with you while he stripped, starting with the white, tight tank top that does nothing to hide his arm muscles. Once it was gone, his toned and tattooed chest was revealed. Your hands twitched, tempted to trace your hand over it.
He smirked, catching your reaction and hooked his fingers through the hem of his sweatpants that's hanging dangerously low around his hips. He shoved it down, his black Chrome Heart boxers falling as well until its brunched around his ankles. His cock sprung free from the restraints, proudly standing upright, thick, long and veiny.
Your breath stuttered, unable to tear your eyes away from it. Hybrids isn't built very different from humans but despite that, he's… huge. Probably bigger than anyone you've slept with, which was just one person—your ex-boyfriend. The fat, mushroomy tip had turned a ferocious shade of reddish-purple, practically screaming for attention. A fat, thick bead of precum rested on the slit and Riki wrapped a hand around himself, thumb pressing down on the slit.
"Fuck…"
He cursed, eyes fluttering shut and he threw his head back as he fisted his own cock, forming a tight circle with his hand, fucking into it without any shame. You watched from where you were—still laying on the sheets with wide, unblinking eyes. Riki's fangs dug into his plump lips, his slitted eyes were squeezed shut, ears flattened against his head and his tail swished side to side frantically.
You chewed on your bottom lip, snaking your hand down between your breasts, down your stomach and to your pussy. However, before you could reached your destination, Riki let out a feral, hostile and beast-like snarl. He surged forward, grabbing your wrist, holding it in place with a vice-like grip, tight enough to draw a wince from you.
"Don't touch yourself. If you do, you can't cum," he warned you.
His firm words and authoritative tone made you whimpered, feeling unusually small—him as the predator and you as his prey that he managed to catch. Riki shifted, climbing onto the bed and he forced you to shift upward a little. The hybrid crawled forward on his knees, a hand now loosely wrapped around the base of his cock.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head backward. You knew what his intentions was, obediently opening your mouth and let him pushed his cock in. The hybrid purred in pleasure, feeling how tight and warm your cavern was. You made a muffled gagging sound, tears brimming in your eyes at his tip hitting the back of your throat.
He's big and thick, forcing you to further slacken your jaw muscles while covering your teeth with your lips, not wanting to injure him. You had to resort to breathing through your nose, savoring the heavy weight of his cock resting on your tongue. Riki cupped your left cheek, thumb gingerly wiping away the singular tear droplet that slipped, action all sickeningly sweet and oh so mean at the same time.
"Look at you, so pretty and wrecked for me. You're taking me well, aren't you?" He cooed, voice lowering an octave lower.
It's obvious you can't speak, not when your mouth was stuffed full of his cock, which is the reason why he used that condescending and belittling tone with you. Riki smirked, pushing forward a little, picking up the strangled moan you let out and how your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You let him used you like a toy as he fucked your throat, pushing in and out of your mouth at a slow, lazy and borderline teasing pace.
You did your best—tracing the protruding veins with your tongue and hollowed your cheeks for better suction. But god, he's too big. And judging from the knowing, dark glint in his eyes, Riki can tell you're struggling. Which was why he made a faux sweet coo, using his free hand to clasp it around your neck and gave it a light squeeze.
It's not enough to completely cut off your oxygen supply. You knew he wouldn't kill you, not with how smitten he is with you but it's the implication of it. The thought of him possessing both the capability and talent to snap your neck into half, to kill you immediately, made you even wetter, if that's possible.
Riki's eyes darted down, hissing under his breath at the large, dark stains beneath you. "You're one messy and needy slut, aren't you? Can't be satisfied even with your mouth full?"
"Mmpfh."
The hybrid groaned, mouth dropping open at the vibrations running down the length of his cock. "Shit, c-close."
He pulled you closer until his entire cock is in your mouth, your nose rubbing against his bare stomach. You gagged as he cum, painting it in the shade of his thick, hot cum. The hybrid groaned, releasing his grip from your hair and pulled his cock out of your swollen, sore mouth with a loud "pop" sound.
"Swallow it," he demanded, gripping your chin and you obeyed, even opening your mouth to let him see.
He purred, satisfied and tapped your right cheek twice. "Good girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"
You sniffled, frantically and eagerly nodding. "P-Please.. I've been good."
He chuckled, flipping your position with him now laying on the bed, head on one of his pillows. You squeaked when you ended up on his lap, hands braced on his bare chest, soaking his toned stomach with your slick. Riki patted your thigh, dark eyes drinking in your naked figure shamelessly.
"Come up," he instructed, doing the "come here" gesture with his fingers.
You gulped, complying and crawled upward with shaking knees and hands. Resting one hand on the headboard and the other on your lap, you slowly lowered yourself down onto the puma's mouth. However, you were being too slow, earning an impatient growl from him.
"Riki!"
You cried out when he yanked you down, making you sit squarely on his face. He parted your folds with his left fingers—index and middle, plunging his long, rough and slimey tongue into your gaping entrance, tracing it along the walls and occasionally twisting it. A series of moans and whimpers left your lips at his relentless assault on your poor pussy.
It didn't help that you're still sensitive, which only further heightened the toe-curling sensations. Riki alternated between sucking and licking, like a famished beast that hasn't feasted for three months. He ate you out messily, spit trickling down his chin. You grinded your hips against his skillful tongue, moaning out loud as he pushed two fingers in, pumping them in and out of you.
The double penetration of his fingers and tongue made you further grind into his mouth, craving more. He purred, drunk on the taste of your slick and his tail snugly wrapped itself around your waist, the tip grazing your still-sensitive nipples, drawing a strangled, broken cry from you.
"R-Riki, c-can't.. too much, ngh," you keened, stars exploding behind your vision as he curled his fingers, easily locating that one spongy spot that made your thighs trembled vigorously.
"You can take it, baby," he moaned, voice muffled, tongue gliding along the seam of your folds.
You sobbed, the final straw comes with him sucking on your beyond clit and you cum with a soundless cry, mouth dropping open in an "O" shape, violent shockwaves coursing through your body. You weren't aware you even squirted—transparent, warm liquid gushing everywhere, landing on your sweaty, tangled bodies and the sheets.
Riki groaned, tongue lapping up what you have to offer, not wanting to let a single drop go to waste, ignoring how you squirmed and thrashed about, pussy weakly squirting a few more times before you went limp, bracing both hands against the wall to balance yourself. The hybrid finally detached his lips from you, the lower half of his face completely covered in your slick, practically glistening.
His ears twitched, tongue darting out to lick up your slick covering his lips, moaning at the taste. Your pussy throbbed at the lewd sight and you acted without thinking, scooting down until your cores made contact. At first, Riki was confused, furrowing his eyebrows but it was replaced with realization as he watched, not bothering to help—one hand on his lap while the other is held behind his head and between the headboard.
His breath hitched, watching how you collected your dripping slick, using it as lube before stroking his cock with your slick. It didn't take long for him to fill up and thicken in your grip. He had dreamed of this—having you beneath him as he fucks you, stretching you wide open with his cock, reducing you into a flushed and moaning mess with his name being chanted like a sacred prayer.
But dreams could never come close to the real thing.
The only form of assistance you got was Riki steadying you by your hips when you swayed to the side dangerously. With you holding the base of his cock—fingers barely touching, you aligned him to your stretched-out entrance and sank down in one go.
Both of you moaned in unison at the blinding feeling. The feeling of being connected on an intimate level. The stretch was no doubt painful, enough for your vision to blur slightly. You didn't move, struggling to accommodate to the size and grith of his cock as the pain gradually subsided until it's replaced with a numbing, consistent pleasure.
Riki, on the other hand, had to restrain himself at all costs. He nearly cum right there and then the moment he slides in. His eyes locked in on the prominent bludge on your stomach—right where his cock laid and he saw red.
He acted on instinct, the instinct of a wild, feral beast—manhandling you until your face was shoved into the pillow with you on your knees, your ass raised up high as your back was arched in an seductive arch. Riki wasted no time in pounding into you from behind, his heavy balls slapping against your inner thighs, creating a series of loud "plap, plap, plap" sound that echoed among the four walls of his bedroom.
"Think that pathetic ex-boyfriend of yours can fuck you better than I can? He can't," he snarled, leaning forward to plaster his chest against your back, one hand grabbing and kneading your left breast within his palm while twisting and pinching your hardened nipple.
You wailed, unable to form a coherent sentence, with how good he's stretching you and how he's filling you up, reshaping your insides to the shape and outline of his cock. The hybrid purred, slowing down his pace as he fucked you slow and nice, ensuring to circle his hips every time he bottomed out, savoring the blissed sigh you let out.
"M-More…" You babbled, head tilted forward with drool running down your chin.
He purred, nosing along your neck as he breathed in your scent. It's mixed with different smells—sweat, your body fluids and sex. But to him, there's no perfect combination other than this.
"More?" He echoed. "You're so greedy, baby. I'm already fucking you and you still want more?"
"M-Mhm!"
"What do you want? Tell me."
Now, you weren't thinking straight anymore, too fucked out to think about anything. So it's normal for Riki to be surprised by the words that left your mouth without you processing it.
"K-Knot me, please," you begged.
Riki's tail straightened, shooting up and his ears flicked upward.
Knot. Knot. Knot.
That was the only word he captured. The only word out of your short sentence. With a deep and guttural growl, he pounded into you with newfound determination. The thought of knotting you until your stomach swells, you waddling around in the house with a swollen baby as you born his children, makes him feral.
You keened as he angled his cock slightly, the tip now hitting that one delicate, spongy spot hidden between your gummy walls. It's enough for your knees to tremble, giving way as you fell into the sheets, trapping his hand between the bed and your chest. Riki clicked his tongue, hoisting you back up with his tail that's around your waist and his free hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, making a temporary ponytail to hold you upright.
He continued fucking into you, quickening the pace and the sound of skin slapping against skin gets louder and louder. You couldn't register the kind of sounds you're letting out but whatever it was, it can rival against a professional pornstar. You had to support yourself with your elbows resting on the sheets as sweat rolled down your cheeks.
"Gonna knot you, pump you full so you can carry my children," he snarled, his slitted eyes locked onto the way your ass cheeks jiggled at every thrust.
You whined out loud at his words, clenching around him and it didn't go unnoticed by him. You snaked your hand between your legs, tracing your fingers around where you're connected before rubbing your clit at the same pace as his thrust.
"G-Gonna cum, hah," you whimpered, your fingers gradually getting soaked from your own slick.
Riki cursed, slapping your hand away and replaced it with his own, drawing a loud, startled cry from you. "Then cum, baby. Let me see you fall apart."
He gave a harsh twist to your engorged clit and that was it. You cum while chanting his name like a sacred prayer, your walls violently convulsing around his cock as your juices ran down the paths of your inner thighs. Riki grit his teeth, sweat landing on the sheets as he felt his knot growing bigger and bigger—a sign he's reaching his climax.
With one last, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and released his hot, thick semen inside while he fucks you through your orgasm, forcing your pussy to milk him dry. You grimace at how incredibly full and sated you felt, stomach bloated with his hybrid cum. His knot remained lodged in your cunt, reaching the entrance to your womb.
Your elbows and knees gave way for the second time as you collapsed into the sheets, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of you covered in body fluids and sweat. You thought it was finally over and that you could get a break.
However, Riki didn't have the same idea in mind.
"Ri—!?"
You made a sound when he thrusted into you from behind—his knot showing no signs of detaching itself from your womb, drawing a hoarse moan from you. You looked over your shoulder, swallowing nervously at the wild, intense look on his face. His dirty ash blonde hair was messed up, some strands sticking to his sweaty forehead. But it was his eyes that made your stomach tightened.
The lust and desire gaze, making you unconsciously clenched down on him, on his cock that's still buried deep inside you.
"We're not done yet, doll," he purred, lips curling up in a promising, dark smirk.
You gasped when he did an experimental thrust into you, creating a loud and wet squelch sound that made your ears heat up. But the embarrassment was gone when Riki pushed your head down into the sheets, rendering you immobile.
"We're not stopping until you take every single drop," he continued, leaving you swallowing, heart beating anxiously as you knew you're in for a long, wild and rough night.
Okay but now they’ve already said what needs to be said though. But your feelings are valid and since you’re saying you won’t move on so easily then in a perfect situation after Heeseung left the group what are the ideal ways you’d have the company and members deal with that would make you accept the event for what it is and move on?
i would’ve moved on from day one if the situation wasn’t so weird. i mean literally all this was disrespectful :
— a member leaving on a random tuesday with a letter in which he says he’ll ‘keep cheering enhypen the loudest’ ??? where is the cheering when you have to skip a song on live, or when you have to pretend to be a newly debuted artist and can’t even mention your past group lol.
— a tweet on enhypen members account saying they’ll support him in his new debut, yet no mention of each other.
— ot7 merch sold after his departure to get the most money from desperate people who know these are the very last items with him. — this is peak disrespect like yes yes take my money while ignoring my demands yes.
— deleting all eras pictures from spotify in which he appeared, not mentioning him as a past member in any official platforms as if he absolutely NEVER existed in this group.
— en o’clock episodes that have been teased but never posted.
— heeseung disappearing for WEEKS after the announcement
and i won’t keep making the list or else it won’t stop.
but these are things that proved to me that his departure was rushed in a way and this is what made the situation messy, and extremely hard to handle for many people, not the departure in itself. because how do we move on from something when we didn’t have a proper conclusion.
i will compare with zb1, a group i stan and started as 9, four of them did not renew and they gave us a last concert, they’re allowed to mention each other and support each other as much on stage than on social media. this is what i needed to move one. a proper goodbye, a proper announcement, and a genuine message from all seven of them. because i am a grown woman i can deal with heeseung and enha not getting along anymore, but i would’ve preferred a honest message such as ‘now it’s the past and we would prefer for engenes to leave this part of enhypen in the past and move forward with all six members’ or heeseung saying ‘please focus on my new solo debut, i loved enhypen but it’s the past and i don’t want it mentioned’ but no we didn’t get that. and once again before someone thinks im blaming the members i am NOT, what they’re saying in such important moments are advised by the company so belift chose to make them give us emotional messages only to ignore eo afterwards and this is what hurts because in the end it leaves us questioning everything. we don’t need every detail, this is their private lives and i respect that. but i just don’t like to see how fake were these last messages because of these details. that’s what makes it complicated. but once again this is just me and my opinion.
synopsis; when cortis's chaotic leader gets his wisdom teeth pulled, a loopy, heavily sedated martin takes his affection to hilarious new heights.
tags; martin x reader fluff mentions of blood crack just martin being down bad oneshot 1211 words
notes; by popular vote: new oneshot ! got this idea because i got a snap flashback from my wisdom tooth removal… let’s just say martin’s hell of a lot cuter than i was lol. lmk which idea i should write out next, or send an ask, i’m always open to new ideas! 🤞🏻
"if i don't make it... you have to promise me you'll give my pokemon card collection to keonho," martin slurred, sinking heavily into the passenger seat of your car with completely glazed eyes. he was holding an ice pack with a neon pink band against his swollen left cheek, and his tongue seemed entirely too large for his mouth. "but tell seonghyeon he can't touch my recording studio. that's a sacred space now."
you couldn't suppress a loud laugh as you leaned across the center console to click his seatbelt into place. "martin, you just had your wisdom teeth pulled. you are not going to die."
he stared at you as if you had just revealed the deepest, most profound secret of the universe. his eyes blew up to the size of saucers. "you are... so beautiful. has anyone ever told you that? are you an angel? am i in heaven right now?"
"no, you're in the dental clinic parking lot," you smiled, gently patting his unswollen cheek. his skin was incredibly warm, and the second your fingers brushed his face, he leaned his entire weight into your palm like an affectionate puppy.
"we have to get married," he decided, his voice thick and heavily slurred. "right now. call the manager. he needs to rent a church. and a bouncy castle. for the boys."
"let's get you home first," you amusedly replied, starting the engine and pulling out into the street.
during the entire drive, martin was on an absolute loop. he hummed fragmented melodies of asap rocky’s songs, complained loudly that his tongue had "fallen asleep," and kept a tight, desperate grip on your hand. every time you stopped at a red light, he seized the opportunity to cup your face with his large hands, blinking slowly as if checking to make sure you weren't a hallucination.
when you finally arrived at his apartment, getting him up to the living room was a minor workout. his legs were still functioning like pure jello. he was swallowed up by the oversized sweatpants and zip-up hoodie you had laid out for him earlier.
the moment his hips hit the soft cushions of the sofa, he tugged firmly on the hem of your shirt, pulling you down toward him with surprising strength. a dramatic, heavy pout formed on his lips.
"kiss me," he demanded, his voice muffled by the thick gauze packed into his mouth. he already had his eyes closed, jutting his chin out expectantly. "i just fought the most painful battle of my life, general. i deserve a victory kiss."
you burst out laughing, gently placing your hands on his shoulders to hold him at a safe distance. "absolutely not, martin. you still have blood in your mouth from the surgery. that is entirely unromantic right now."
he opened one eye, looking at you in complete, utterly betrayed disbelief as he placed a hand theatratically over his heart. "you... you deny me my medicine? my heart is breaking. i'm bleeding out from the inside, y/n."
"we'll kiss later, i promise," you whispered soothingly, leaning down to press a very careful, tender kiss to his forehead instead. "when you wake up and your mouth is clean. right now, you need to lie down and sleep off the anesthesia."
he let out a disgruntled rumble but immediately wrapped his long arms securely around your waist, pulling you down onto the sofa with him so you were resting half-on, half-off his chest. he buried his face right into your shoulder, holding you like his own personal body pillow. within five minutes, his breathing slowed, and he was dead to the world.
the steady patter of summer rain outside was the only sound in the room when martin finally stirred. the sharp, heavy fog of the anesthesia had entirely lifted, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in his jaw what was perfectly manageable thanks to the painkillers.
he blinked a few times, realizing he was still on the couch, his head resting comfortably in your lap. you were sitting quietly, one of your hands casually running through his soft hair while you scrolled through your phone.
"hey," he croaked. his voice was deep and raspy, and the swelling in his cheek had fully set in, making him look slightly lopsided.
you immediately looked down, a warm smile spreading across your face. "hey. look who's back among the living. how's the jaw feeling?"
"feels like james kicked me during choreography," he mumbled, trying to smile but instantly wincing and holding his cheek. "but my head is clear. sorry... i was probably completely out of it, wasn't i?"
you set your phone down on the coffee table, a highly mischievous grin taking over your features. "oh, martin. 'out of it' doesn't even cover it. you made absolute history today."
martin groaned loudly, dragging a couch cushion over his face to hide. "oh no. please tell me i didn't do anything too embarrassing."
"well," you began, thoroughly enjoying yourself as you started counting on your fingers. "first, you wrote your will and left your pokemon card collection to keonho because you thought you wouldn't survive the afternoon. then you asked if i was an angel and wanted to call your manager to organize a church wedding with a bouncy castle for the members."
a muffled, intensely pained groan echoed from beneath the cushion. his ears were turning a bright, vibrant shade of crimson. "i want to die. take me back to the dentist."
"wait, i saved the best part for last," you giggled, gently pulling the cushion away from his face so you could make eye contact. "you tried to aggressively kiss me because you claimed you were a 'general' who deserved a victory kiss. i had to reject you because you literally had blood in your mouth."
martin stared at you with wide, completely mortified eyes. "i did... what? oh my god, y/n, i'm so sorry. that's so gross."
"i thought it was incredibly cute," you replied honestly, leaning down to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. "and i did promise you that we would make up for it once you were fully awake and had washed your mouth out."
martin’s expression shifted in a fraction of a second. the sheer embarrassment melted away, replaced by that familiar, hyperactive spark that usually meant he was about to do something chaotic. despite his throbbing jaw, his energetic spirit snapped right back.
"stay right here," he mumbled, scrambling off your lap and sprinting down the hallway into the bathroom.
you could hear the frantic sounds of running water, aggressive gargling, and mouthwash before he re-emerged less than two minutes later. he practically threw himself back onto the sofa next to you—fresh, clean, and carrying a triumphant grin despite looking like a hamster hiding food in his left cheek.
he took your face gently between his large, warm hands, his gaze locking onto yours with a deep, genuine affection that instantly made your heart skip.
"okay," he whispered, his voice smooth and entirely steady now. "no blood. no dentist nonsense. just me. can i finally have my victory kiss now?"
you smiled, looping your arms around his neck to pull him down. "yes, martin. now you can."
ㅤwww.https:// AM I NOT YOUR BABY ANYMORE? 𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ' 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎
𓎟† 🗝 : riki had went out for a whole week and accidentally ghosted you. when you texted him to come back home, his stubborn ass was being distant, vague, and cold.
✶ 유그키. this is highkey my first smau/au don’t judge me pls i beg 🙏🙏 kinda messy too, i apologize in advance lol
let’s just say, it was raining cats and dogs when he was riding his motorbike. he was soaked from head to toe. he said he’d go home, but he never said to his house though.
you were lying on your bed, scrolling mindlessly after scolding riki to go home. his sister texted you again:
you were ready to scold him over text again, but then
knock, knock, knock
three soft knocks from your bedroom door. your parents weren’t home. you didn’t have any siblings.
your bedroom door slowly opened to reveal a soaking wet riki from head to toe after riding his motorbike in the rain.
“noona..? baby..?” he called out to you. “are you still mad at me..?” he sniffled a bit, but let’s be real—he won’t admit he did sniffle, even if you asked.
honestly, you were already beyond frustrated with him. you were so tired of putting up with his attitude and shenanigans. “what the hell are you doing here, riki?” you sighed, tired. “i told you. go home.”
“baby, don’t call me that..” his voice was shaky now, almost scared. he closed the door and crossed the room in three long strides. he knelt down in front of where you were sitting, facing up to you like he was begging for forgiveness.
“noona, i-i’m sorry.. please, please, please..” he buried his wet face into your legs. “d-don’t call me that..”
“i don’t care. go home. why bother coming here?” uh oh. you used that tone. riki’s eyes start to glisten from unshed tears and his breath is shaking from fear. “baby, i am home.. you’re my home. please baby..” his voice cracked on the last word. another sigh leaves your mouth as you get up from the edge of your bed to go to the bathroom. his shoulders started to shake as tears stream down his face at your absence. this doesn’t happen very often—in fact, he never cries, especially in front of you. and you leaving him there, helpless, isn’t helping him trying to hide the fact that he’s crying silently like a child after being scolded.
“are you coming or not, riki?” his head shot up. he sniffled and got up from his knees, wiping his face roughly with his wet jacket sleeves, and follows you into the bathroom. you first took off his jacket, then continued with drying his hair with a towel. “go take a shower. you’ll get sick.” and again, you leave him to shower. you fetched your oversized sweatpants and t-shirt for him to change in. after he got out of the shower, you helped him changed into his—your—t-shirt.
“go home, ki.” still in that serious tone, still frustrated. well, maybe just a little less frustrated. “but, i am home.”
“to your house.”
“no. i don’t wanna go home if you’re still mad at me, noona.” he pouts.
“whatever.”
you then climbed back onto your bed, scrolling through your phone, silently hoping he’d turn to go home. well, maybe riki had other plans. he followed you like a pathetic dog onto the bed, and snuggled up beside you, spooning. “the fuck are you doing? you said i was only being a bother.” he hid his face into your arm at your scolding, and mumbled: “mm.. u smell so sweet.. baby.. don’t be mad at me.. i promise i’ll be a good boy, noona..” while peppering your arm and shoulder with feather light kisses. he then hugs you while you’re still scrolling mindlessly through your phone and kisses your cheek.
“go home, ki.”
“promise me, don’t be mad at iki anymore..” God, that sweet, innocent, child-like voice. your heart couldn’t help but melt at him, even if you didn’t show it. “fine,” you sighed “i’m not mad at you anymore.”
“that didn’t sound sincere.”
“whatever, ugh, riki!”
“ahh.. baby..” he pouted again.
you glanced at the clock, 1:07 am. “riki, it’s 1 in the morning. you should head home.” when you turned to face him, you caught him half asleep, clinging onto your arm like a lifeline while mumbling into it: “baby.. don’t be mad at me anymore..” a tear fell down his face “am i not your baby anymore, noona..?” you ignored his question. “baby, answer me..”
“don’t want to.”
“aah!” he sniffled. you kissed his forehead ever so lightly. “please don’t be mad at me anymore, baby..” he peppered your face with feather light kisses until you both fell asleep.
𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: all work contained is purely fictional and is not a real depiction of our staff outside of this office.
脷 .ᐟ TONGUE. 2 in which, your ‘relationship’ with James couldn’t be messier, a situationship based on fights and low-key hookups, tearing at each other like it’s second nature—all sharp words, dirty looks, and the kind of tension that never really goes away. because the thing about james? he knows exactly how to hurt you—and you hurt him right back…
❛ 赵雨凡 𝑥 idol!reader ❜ 𓈒𓈒 based on my baby @tinygladiatorworm ‘s request 𖤼
⚠︎ MDNI ! smut, a LOT of angst~, multiple sexual scenes, denial, toxic dynamics, ghosting, avoidant behavior (?) situationship, idol hiatus, health problems, ethel cain mention, ( that’s a whole trigger warning ) social media posts,yearning nsfw : unprotected sex, missionary, multiple positions, crying during sex (angsty sex ) spooning sex, oral (fem receiving) body worshipping, semi-public foreplay, dry humping, shower sex, oral fixation, multiple orgasms.
𓏸 19k ╱ 𝓶. list. ♪♫ 𝑝laylist
tongue on wattpad bc it’s a long ride
TONGUE ࿇ part 1. part 2.
▬▬▬ THE FIRST TIME THINGS started to be the opposite of fine, you genuinely thought it was the bibimbap.
The rehearsal had run a long forty minutes over schedule, and your body had apparently decided to register as a personal grievance.
You'd been working a new formation for the comeback stage, a complex one with tight partner transitions and a center section that required sustained core engagement so maybe that was that.
By the time your choreographer finally called it, the practice room smelled aggressively of sweat, and all four of you were in various states of pleasant physical destruction.
You'd eaten quickly —bibimbap from the canteen, slightly lukewarm because the timing never quite worked -and then gone straight to the bathroom to change before the evening schedule.
Then next thing you knew, you were on your knees on the tile floor, and the bibimbap was no longer a factor.
You'd half-expected, from the limited experience you'd had with this particular activity, something that announced itself with ceremony, a long stomach ache, dizziness. Instead it arrived with very little warning and was over quickly, leaving you kneeling with your hand braced against the wall over the toilet and your eyes watering from the effort, feeling hollowed out and mildly indignant.
You sat back on your heels and assessed.
Okay, you thought. The bibimbap. Obviously.
It had been slightly warm. The canteen had been crowded. These things happened, especially during times when your immune system was presumably stretched thin doing other jobs.
You cleaned yourself up, rinsed your mouth, checked your reflection with neutrality, and concluded that you looked fine.
Slightly pale, maybe. Nothing concealer couldn't manage. Or maybe blush.
You walked out of the bathroom and rejoined your members in the corridor.
"You good?" Soeun asked, with her particular brand of innocent perception.
"Canteen bibimbap," you frowned, closing the subject.
"Oh god," Hye-ri groaned, with feeling. "The one with the egg?? I told Mina last week that the egg situation in there was suspicious."
"You told me the rice situation was suspicious," Mina corrected.
"Both are true, i don't know what they put in it but— oh, my manager's here."
And that was it. Subject closed, explanation accepted, the conversation moving on with easy momentum of people who had too many things on their schedules to linger.
James was on a press tour. This was information you'd received through the ambient channels of industry- not from him, obviously. The building was small enough and press tours were public so the information existed whether you sought it out or not.
Japan for two weeks, then the US leg. Six weeks total, possibly more if the dates extended.
Fine. Good, even. The building would be quieter. The canteen on Tuesdays would be just a canteen. The corridors would be corridors. The tables would just be tables. But the pride would still be painful.
That was a tuesday. The following monday, it happened again.
This time there was no bibimbap to blame. You'd eaten carefully that morning -plain rice, some steamed vegetables, the kind of breakfast your nutritionist described as clean fuel. You'd felt fine through the morning meeting, fine through the first hour of vocal practice, fine right up until the point where you weren't.
You made it to the bathroom with enough time to be grateful for small mercies, and then you were back on the tile.
Afterward you sat against the wall of the stall for a moment longer than last time, frowning at the middle distance.
A bug, you decided. A stomach bug, obviously.
You made a mental note to increase your vitamin intake and drink more water and went back to vocal practice eight minutes later, telling your coach you'd needed a moment.
She'd looked at you, because she'd worked with idols long enough to recognize the specific vocabulary of 'I am not telling you the full story' and said nothing beyond: "Drink some water."
You drank some water.
That was Monday. By the following week, there was a pattern, which you were actively declining to acknowledge as such.
It wasn't every day. That was part of why the denial was structurally sound —you couldn't maintain something as dramatic as every day without it becoming impossible to ignore.
But the intermittent nature of it allowed you to keep generating individual explanations with the creativity of someone stupid and definitely not self aware enough.
At first it was the spicy ramen Hye-ri had made on Wednesday, then the supplements you'd started for the comeback period, the physical demand of rehearsals, which were intensifying as the release date approached. A mild intolerance to something in the canteen, possibly dairy-related, possibly egg-related, possibly the entire canteen in general.
The explanations were plentiful and convenient and you deployed them as needed.
What you were not doing -rather what you had deliberately decided not to do- was connect any of it to the three weeks of silence on your phone where a particular contact used to be
Because that would be absurd.
That would be the kind of thing that happened in stupid rom coms, the psychosomatic manifestation of unresolved emotional distress playing out through the digestive system like some kind of humiliating physiological metaphor and blah blah blah.
You were not a drama.
You were a professional with a comeback in six weeks and a body that was experiencing a minor and entirely explicable gastrointestinal inconvenience. The two facts existed in completely separate categories with no relationship to each other whatsoever.
This was your position and you were maintaining it.
The members noticed on a Thursday. You'd made it through the full rehearsal that day -a good day, actually, one of those sessions where everything clicked like payment for all the sessions that didn't. The new formation had finally settled into your bodies collectively, Soeun had nailed the bridge section that had been giving her trouble for two weeks, your choreographer had used the word 'clean' three times in a row, which in his personal vocabulary was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.
You'd all come out of it flushed and genuinely pleased, and then you'd gone quiet.
You were sitting on the practice room floor with your knees pulled up, water bottle in hand, and you'd realized that you were doing the breathing exercise -the slow in and out- and that you were doing it because something in your midsection was making a case for your attention.
Not now, you begged, with the weary authority of someone who had been having this exact internal argument for two weeks. Absolutely not, we are at work, this is not the time.
Your body, as it had been doing with increasing frequency, did not find this persuasive.
"Unnie." Soeun's voice was careful, the sleepiness entirely absent. "You've gone the color of the practice room wall.”
"I'm fine," you said. Automatic, immediate.
"You've said that every day this week," Mina noted, from across the room. She was watching you with that steady big-sister attention that was nearly impossible to deflect because it didn't push- it simply waited, patient and completely immovable.
"Because I've been fine every day this week," you said.
"You didn't eat lunch," Hye-ri noticed, sitting down beside you. "You said you weren't hungry. Yesterday you also said you weren't hungry. The day before-"
"I appreciate the erm... documentation," you breathed out, "but I've just been off my appetite a little. It's a stomach thing. It'll pass."
"How long have you had a stomach thing?" Mina asked.
A pause that lasted approximately one second too long.
"Not long," you shrugged.
Hye-ri and Mina exchanged a look over your head that you clocked in your peripheral vision. They were being paranoid.
"You should see the company doctor," Mina said
"It's a stomach bug," you said. "Seeing the company doctor for a stomach bug is-"
"If it's been more than a week it's not a stomach bug, it's something to get checked out," Mina said, she'd made up her mind about it already. "Will you just go? For me?"
You looked at her, and her expression was the one she used when she wasn't going to negotiate.
"Fine," you sighed. "I'll go."
Hye-ri patted your knee with one red-nailed hand. "Good. Also eat something tonight. Real food. I'm making the soup."
"You put too much garlic in the soup."
"The garlic is medicinal and you're welcome in advance."
• • •
Dr. Yeon was in her forties, brisk and perceptive, and she'd been the company's primary physician long enough to have developed an understanding of why this industry affected the people working in it.
You sat on the examination table in your practice clothes and answered her questions with honesty. You had already decided this was a stomach bug and were simply here to have that confirmed so you could report back to Mina.
She asked when it had started.
You thought about it. "Three weeks ago, maybe. Give or take."
"Frequency?”
"A few times a week. Not every day. It's inconsistent."
"Nausea before, during, or after eating?”
"Both. Sometimes neither, sometimes just-" you paused. "Out of nowhere."
"Appetite changes?"
"Some."
"Sleep?"
You thought about your sleep over the last three weeks. The way you'd been waking at 3am with the disorienting certainty of having been in the middle of something important, finding nothing but the dark ceiling.
It's like you were waiting, constantly, for something that wouldn't come, stuck in an endless loop of nothingness.
You thought about the way you'd been logging the hours but not quite getting the rest— lying in an accumulated silence.
You were a room with no furniture, nothing to hold onto, and nowhere to sit.
"Some," you ended up telling the doctor .
Dr. Yeon made notes, she asked a few more questions, took your blood pressure, reviewed the standard basics. Then she set her clipboard on the desk and looked at you with a direct, attention.
Like someone who had decided to say something she suspected you might not be very welcome.
"Everything looks physically normal," she started.
"Nothing alarming in what you're describing medically. But I want to ask you something and I'd like an honest answer."
"Okay," you perked up.
"What's your stress level been like? The last month or so."
"Normal," you shrugged. "Comeback prep. The usual."
"Anything outside of work?”
He'd taped your hand three times in bed that night. And you were still waiting to figure out if it was morse code for something.
"Not particularly,’
Dr. Yeon held your gaze for a moment. "Physical symptoms without a clear physical cause often have a stress component," she said carefully. "That's not to say it's not real -it is real, your body is experiencing something real. But the body and the mind are less separate than we like to think. Especially in high-demand environments like yours." A pause. "Is there anything going on that you might be minimizing?"
Minimizing. What an elegant, clinical word for what you were doing.
"I'm managing everything fine," you gave her a reassuring smile. "Really. I think it's just the comeback schedule catching up to me."
She looked at you for one more moment, then nodded although she did not entirely believe it but respected it.
"I'll have some bloodwork done just to rule things out. In the meantime -eat regularly, even if the appetite isn't there. Small amounts. Stay hydrated. Prioritize sleep where you can." She paused. "And if things don't improve in the next week or two, or if they get worse, I want you back in here."
"Of course," you nodded.
She gave you a mild antinausea prescription and a vitamin supplement recommendation, you thanked her and left.
The door clicked shut behind you with a neat finality, and you stood in the hallway outside her office, looking at the ceiling for a moment.
It's the comeback schedule, you thought firmly. Obviously.
• • •
The weeks accumulated like sediment, each one depositing its own layer of evidence
Week three: you lost four pounds without trying, which your stylists noticed before you did. The head stylist had said nothing beyond a mild professional observation, but she'd looked at you with something like pity maybe.
Week four: the nausea had developed a schedule of its own, arriving in the mornings and then subsiding into a low-grade background hum that you'd learned to work around, accommodating it, building your day around it.
You were getting very good at working around it.
Your performances didn't suffer- you made sure of that with a fierce, quiet determination. But you wouldn't have had to fight that hard to maintain your standard if there hadn't been something trying to pull it down. The fighting itself was the evidence. But you fought, and your performances stayed clean, and from the outside everything looked like a professional managing a tigh schedule.
Inside, you were having the ongoing conversation with your own body, the one where you kept saying 'not now' and it kept saying 'soon' ominously.
You didn't connect it. You were still not connecting it. Your mind maintained its position, stubborn. Maybe because it would require feeling it fully, and feeling it fully was- not okay yet.
Not on a bathroom floor at 2am with a comeback in three weeks and an early call time in five hours
But your body was keeping its own record, patient and thorough, logging every entry in its own language.
The nausea.
The weight.
The sleep that restored nothing.
The 3am fucking ceilings.
It was writing the story you wouldn't let yourself tell, one quiet symptom at a time.
And eventually, you knew you were going to have to read it.
But you were hiding it from yourself.
You weren't sad, exactly. That was what made it so difficult to identify, so easy to mislabel for so long. You weren't walking around with the specific weight of sadness on your chest.
You were just -diminished. Running at a capacity slightly below what was normal.
The body didn't distinguish between kinds of absence.
That was what Dr. Yeon had been trying to tell you in the soft-lit office with the clipboard and the clean bloodwork and the careful professional language.
The body simply registered: something that was here is no longer here. Like someone had taken away the drugs, and you were now in withdrawal.
Your body lacked something, something fundamental, something that had once made you so full you'd forgotten how miserable you were.
All of that lived in the mind. The body just kept the raw account.
Something was gone. Something that had been present for three years. And your body, uninterested in the reasoning, had simply begun to reflect that.
The cruelest part was that some part of you still reached, even after learning there was nothing left to touch.
▬▬ IT WAS MINA who finally said the thing. Of course it was Mina -she had the patience to wait until the moment was right and the precision to choose her words without excess.
Which meant that when she spoke, it had the weight of something that had been considered thoroughly.
It was a Sunday. Rare day off, or close to one- no company schedule, just a morning of your own before the final week of pre-release preparation began. You hadn't seen Riki in a bit after the ramen eating - what could you even call it? - event.
"It was the right thing," you told Mina when she asked about the whole situation, less like a position being defended and more like something being confirmed to yourself.
She'd asked why you' had blocked James all of a sudden all these weeks ago, like she'd been wondering for some time and just couldn't wait for the answer.
"I don't regret it. My body just-" you'd stopped. Started again. "I've been feeling off. You know that. And the doctor said the bloodwork is clean, so it's just-" you shook your head. "Stress. The comeback. The schedule."
Mina had looked at you across the table, her coffee cup held in both hands in the unconscious mirror of yours.
Her expression was so specifically careful- so precisely calibrated to the exact amount of honesty you could currently tolerate. You understood she'd decided what she was about to say some time ago and had simply been waiting for the right time.
"Your body," she said, gently, "has been trying to tell you something for weeks, y/n."
"Mina." you warned.
"I'm not saying it to make you feel bad," she explained. "I'm saying it because you're the most self-aware person I know in every direction except this one. You analyze everything. You see everything. And this-" she held your gaze, "-you're looking directly at it and calling it stress."
"It is stress."
"Yes," she conceded. "It is. And what's causing the stress?"
The silence that followed said a lot about the fact that the answer was present and both people knew it but one of them wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.
"The comeback," you always came up with the same stupid answer.
Mina's expression didn't change. She didn't push. She simply held the quiet with you, patient and immovable, and let the silence do what silences do when they're given enough room —expand, and fill, and eventually reveal the shapes.
The bathroom door opened. Hye-ri emerged in a cloud of steam and sheet mask, took one look at the kitchen table, and reversed direction akwardly.
"I was never here," she squealed, disappearing back down the hallway. "But I love you guys ! Fighting !"
The Sunday light moved across the table as you sketched out a small laugh. Your coffee was getting cold.
"I miss him," you said. Very quietly. To your coffee cup, more than to Mina.
This was the first time the words had existed outside your own head, and they sounded, out in the air, smaller than you'd expected.
"Which is stupid. I made the right call and I know I made the right call and I still-"
"It's not stupid," Mina said.
"It's so counterproductive."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"I don't wanna miss him," you confessed, "I want to be fine. I am fine. In every way that counts I made the right decision-"
"You can make the right decision," Mina said softly, "and still grieve it."
And that was enough to send the nausea back in at full force.
• • •
You performed the showcase the way you performed everything -completely and precisely. The formation issues were resolved. The bridge transition was clean. Your body knew the choreography the way it knew breathing
The lights were bright and the crowd loud; for the duration of the set you were exactly and only what you were on stage -present, professional, the dance machine, all of it.
Afterward, in the wings, you bent forward with your hands on your knees and breathed. Hye-ri appeared beside you, still coming off stage herself, and put a hand briefly on your back.
One more week, you told yourself. Get through the release week. Then you can be a person again.
You'd negotiated. Release week was seven days -press appearances, music show performances, fan engagements, content shoots. Seven days of concentrated high-demand activity that you had obligations to your members and your company to see through
Seven days.
You could manage seven days.
Your body, which had been listening to these negotiations with patient skepticism was running low on goodwill though.
Release week arrived pretty quickly, Monday was three back to back press interviews, a photo shoot for a digital magazine spread, an evening fan live that ran an hour over schedule
You found the interactions genuinely moving even through the low-grade nausea that had showed up mid-afternoon.
You ate small amounts between schedules, drank water constantly, kept the antinausea prescription in your bag, used it twice on Monday and told no one
Tuesday was the first music show performance. You were in hair and makeup at five-thirty am, which meant your alarm had gone off at four forty-five. Ji-eun worked in focused silence, reading your tiredness. When she got to the outer corner of your right eye, she paused for a fraction of a second.
"The lash is gonna be a pain," she sighed.
"When has it ever not been," you deadpanned.
She worked around it carefully, the way she always did, and the lash did what it always did- curled upward like a small rebellion, refusing to be corrected, the single detail that never quite cooperated regardless of technique.
You looked at it in the mirror. It felt weird, you wanted to pluck it all of a sudden, as if that was the last thread connecting you to those past few years.
"You look beautiful," Ji-eun said, setting down her brush with quiet satisfaction.
You looked exactly like what you were supposed to look like, from the outside, completely fine.
"Thanks," you said with a genuine smile, grateful in a way.
The performance on Tuesday was good. Wednesday's was better. Thursday's -the third music show, the one with the largest live audience, the one that mattered most in terms of chart impact— Thursday's was when it happened.
It happened the way most real things happened -inconveniently, incompletely, without regard for timing or audience or the seven cameras currently pointed at the stage.
You were in the second verse when you became aware of your body in a way that was distinct from the usual performance awareness -not th kinetic consciousness of a dancer in the middle of choreography, but something else.
You kept dancing
You kept dancing because that was what you did, that was the thing you'd built your entire professional identity around -the capacity to keep going, to absorb and continue, to be present in your body as an instrument of the music regardless of what your body was privately communicating.
You made it to the end of the second chorus.
In the formation change before the bridge - your stomach churned, your vision went briefly strange, like the quality of the light changed, the stage brightness doing something it shouldn't, the edges of your visual field making a decision you hadn't authorized.
You corrected automatically the muscle memory doing its job while the rest of you registered what was happening. You felt like you were totally disassociated, nothing entirely there.
Hye-ri was two counts to your left. She caught the correction - but held her formation. Kept going. Trusting you.
You got through the bridge. And through the final chorus.
You were in the last eight counts -the outro formation, stationary, the lights shifting to the end configuration- when your body made its final and non-negotiable statement.
You folded.
A sitting down, essentially, your knees making contact with the stage floor in the last two counts of the song, graceful enough in the moment that two seconds passed before anyone in the audience understood it wasn't choreography
Hye-ri was beside you before the music stopped
• • •
The next few hours were experienced through broken glass. The backstage area. The company doctor who had been on site for the broadcast. The cold pack at the back of your neck. Soeun's face, wide-eyed and young. Mina's voice on the phone somewhere nearby, calm and authoritative, the big-sister register fully activated. Your manager's face, all serious and busy.
"I'm fine," you said, twice.
Then stopped saying it, because even by your standards, the evidence against it was fairly compelling at this point.
Dr. Yeon arrived. She'd been called while you were still on stage, apparently -someone had made that call in real time, which meant someone had been watching closely enough to see it coming.
She didn't say 'I told you so', because she was a professional and a decent person.
"Hospital," she stated. Not a question.
"But the schedule-" you started
"Hospital y/n," she repeated, firmly
You looked at Mina; her eyes were very steady and she was holding herself with controlled stillness.
"Okay," you said finally.
Dehydration, primarily. That was the immediate clinical language for it. Significant enough to require intravenous correction, combined with the weight loss and the disrupted sleep and the sustained nausea, presenting as a body that had been running on insufficient resources for an extended period and had reached the end of its reserves.
Not dangerous in an alarming sense.
But real nonetheless, th kind of real that required a building and a bed and a machine tracking your fluid intake.
Your members were in the waiting area. Your manager was on the phone and the company's PR team was, presumably, having a series of conversations that you'd deal with later, when you were in a position to deal with anything that wasn't the IV line.
You stared at the ceiling. It was smooth. No cracks. No interesting imperfections. Nothing to read.
You thought: this is what I did.
This was what six weeks of not reading between the lines had looked like, accumulated. This was the story your body had been writing while you called it stress, schedule, bibimbap and mild iron deficiency and all the other ridiculous names.
You'd been grieving. You'd been missing an essential piece of you, while rehearsing and performing and doing press interviews.
Here you were. Thinking that 3 years were easy to forget just like that.
And somewhere in the building with the practice rooms and the corner canteen table and the tape on the booking boards that no longer had your initials on it —James was, presumably, living his life.
Existing in the spaces you'd removed yourself from.
You wondered if he'd already found someone else with wild lashes to point out. Wondered if he was noticing someone else's weird traits—
You wondered if he'd touch someone else's body like a blind man painting a canvas with his fingers. If he'd be able to find someone that meant more to him than his pride.
Someone to whom he'd say 'it's not nothing' in the dark with his armor completely down, then made sure they knew it had been, indeed, something.
▬▬ JAMES FOUND OUT THE way he found out most things he wasn't supposed to know yet -too early, too suddenly, with no adequate preparation and only one person to blame for the lack of it— himself.
It was on Keonho's phone.
They were in the dorm living room, the five of them -James on the floor with his back against the couch, Keonho on the couch, Martin in the kitchen doing something that involved more cabinet opening than was strictly necessary for whatever he claimed to be making.
A mug cake of some sort.
Keonho's phone lit up— lit up again. Then produced the specific rapid-fire notification pattern of something spreading quickly.
"What," Keonho said. Not a question -the flat observational what of someone reading something that was outpacing their ability to process it.
James didn't look up from his own phone. "What."
"There's a- hang on." his voice had shifted, which made James look up.
Keonho was watching something. His face had done the thing faces did when they received weird news.
"Keonho dude," James called.
Keonho turned his phone around.
The video was forty-three seconds long. It had been filmed from the audience -mid -distance, slightly angled, kind of footage that existed in the age of everyone having a camera in their pocket and no one quite being able to stop themselves from pointing it at things.
The quality was decent. Clear enough to see the full choreography, clear enough to see the lights shifting to their end configuration, clear enough to see, in the last counts of the song, the moment your knees made contact with the stage floor.
James watched it once.
Then he took the phone from Keonho's hand and watched it again, and the second time he watched it like someone who knew the person on the screen, in a way that the forty thousand people in that venue did not.
He handed the phone back without speaking.
Martin had appeared in the kitchen doorway at some point during the second viewing and the cabinet sounds had stopped.
The three of them sat in the living room with the television still running its indifferent programming and the notification sounds still coming from Keonho's phone, muffled now against the cushion where he'd placed it face-down.
"She okay?" Martin asked.
James said nothing. He was looking at his own phone. His contacts. The entry that was no longer there -removed not by him but by the one-sided erasure that he'd understood immediately.
No error message, no bounce-back. Just a door that had been locked from the inside.
He'd counted the days without meaning to. It felt like a thousand. A thousand days since your name had last sat there in his phone like something reachable. A thousand days since he could have said something— if he'd ever found the right words. He never had.
Keonho and Martin exchanged a quick glance— the kind of look people only share when they know their friend is lying through his teeth but calling him on it would only make things worse. They'd seen this version of James so many times through the years — the one who armored up and walked away rather than let anyone see the cracks.
The latter stood up abruptly, shoving his phone into his back pocket. "I'm going to the studio."
"It's eleven, bro," Martin argued, straightening up.
"I know what time it is.
The words came out colder than he meant them to. He didn't wait for a response, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch, the leather creaking and headed for the door before either of them could say anything else.
The weight in his chest didn't ease as he stepped closer to the hallway. If anything, it pressed harder, like his body itself was waiting to remind him exactly how alone he was choosing to be
At the door he stopped, and didn't turn around.
"She'll be fine," he said. To the door, more than to them. "It's not that bad."
He walked with his headphones around his neck instead of on, which he didn't notice until he was already at the building entrance. He took the elevator to four, sat down at the board in the smaller suite, and opened a blank session.
For a few minutes he just sat there.
He was thinking about a morning six months ago, you'd been in his bed, after what he categorized as the best sex of his life.
It had started lazy and deep. You'd straddled him without a word, knees bracketing his hips, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he was buried completely inside you. No rush. Just that tight, wet heat gripping him as you rolled your hips in long strokes. Your palms pressed flat against his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples while you watched his face like you were studying every flicker of pleasure.
He remembered the way your breath hitched when he sat up to meet you, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you closer so your breasts pressed against him.
Skin on skin.
Sweat already starting to slick between you.
He'd taken one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder when you moaned and clenched around his cock.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his scalp sting in the best way.
At some point the pace had changed. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide and driving into you deeper, slower, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
You were so wet it was obscene -the sound of it filled the room every time he sank back in. Your hands roamed everywhere: down his back, nails digging into his ass to pull him harder into you, then up to cup his face so you could look him in the eyes while he fucked you.
That'd been the part that almost broke him.
The eye contact.
The way you whispered his name like a secret, your thumb brushing his lower lip. He'd felt exposed, raw, like you were seeing straight through every wall. He was torn open for you in that bed, and you didn't even see it.
His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate, chasing that feeling of being completely known.
You came first -back arching, thighs shaking around him, pussy pulsing so tightly he had to bury his face in your neck to keep from losing it right then. He followed seconds later, groaning against your skin as he spilled deep inside you, hips stuttering, every muscle locked tight.
You held him through it, stroking his back in those long, meaningful caresses that felt less like aftercare and more like absolution.
He'd almost cried then -something thick and unfamiliar rising in his throat -because no one had ever touched him like they actually wanted to keep him.
The statement dropped at nine the next morning. He read it in the kitchen, standing, having not slept. A can of redbull was in his hand but he'd stopped drinking it without noticing.
He read through the official language, what it actually said. Indefinite hiatus. Immediate effect. Stable condition.
He knew the translation of these words in context though, had been in this industry long enough to understand what the gap between official statements and actual situations generally contained.
Then he got to your message. The part at the end, the one that was clearly yours and not a PR team's —the rhythm of it, the specific direction of it, turning outward the way you always did.
Spend it on something that gives it back to you.
Juhoon came in while James was still standing at the counter with the statement on his phone and the Redbull turning to flat liquid beside him. He poured himself a cup, leaned back against the opposite counter, and looked at James.
"You saw it," Juhoon stated.
"Yeah."
A pause. Juhoon drank his redbull.
"She okay?"
"Stable. That's what it says. I don't fucking know."
Juhoon nodded slowly, then, in the register of someone who had decided to just adress the elephant in the room.
"Bro, you've been going to the studio until three in the morning since she blocked you. I'm not blind."
James said nothing- what was there to deny?
"Like I'm not trying to get in your business," Juhoon continued, "but it's been almost a month of you walking around like that. I think even the cleaning staff noticed."
"I'm fine."
That was a big fat lie wrapped with no caution tape.
"You said that yesterday. And the day before." Juhoon set his cup down. "When's the last time you actually ate a full meal that wasn't vending machine stuff?"
James didn't answer, which was its own answer.
His friend exhaled through his nose —not quite a laugh, not quite exasperation, somewhere between the two. "I knew it. I literally knew it." He looked at James like someone who'd been watching something develop for a long time and had opinions about it that he'd been sitting on. "Can I ask you something honestly?"
"You're going to anyway. Suit yourself."
"Did you ever just -tell her? Like actually tell her, not the James version of telling her where you say half the thing and let her figure out the rest."
James looked at the counter.
"That's a no," Juhoon cringed.
"It's complicated."
"It's always complicated with you two, that's like -that's the whole thing. That's been the whole thing for three years." Juhoon picked his cup back up, shook his head slightly. "She's not a mind reader, man. Like she's smart, but there's a difference between her noticing things and you actually saying them out loud."
"I said things."
"She blocked you." Juhoon looked at him evenly. "I'm not trying to be harsh. I'm just - well dude she blocked you."
James was quiet for a moment. "I know."
"So."
"So I know," James said. "I know that. I've been aware of that." He looked at the statement on his phone, still open, your line still sitting there. 'Spend it on something that gives it back to you'.
"I just didn't think it was going to —I thought there was more time."
Juhoon was quiet for a beat. Then, more gently he said: "Is she —do you actually...like is this just the situation being unresolved or is it actually serious for you?"
James didn't answer immediately, which was, for him, the most unambiguous answer available.
Juhoon absorbed this with a small nod, he already knew the answer anyway, the only person who wasn't aware was James— of his own feelings, "Okay," he said simply.
"She's in a hospital," James said. "And I can't reach her. And the last thing I said to her was—" he stopped.
"There's nothing I can do right now."
"No," Juhoon confirmed. "There really isn't Right now." He let the right now sit there, intentional and specific. Then: "Go make something. You always think better when you're making something. Go do that."
James picked up his coffee, drank it and put the cup in the sink.
"And eat something," Juhoon said, to his back.
"Real food. Not the vending machine thing."
James got his jacket.
"I mean it about the food," Juhoon called from the kitchen.
The front door closed and he stood alone in the kitchen for a moment, looking at the space where James had been standing.
He then looked down at his own cup and said quietly, to no one: "Three years, man, fucking insane."
• • •
A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO
It had been a Cortis night off. The rare occasional night off, no schedule the following morning, no call time to orient the evening around. Seonghyeon had gone to see family, Keonho had plans with old friends and Martin had acquired a girlfriend at some point in the preceding months and disappeared into that.
Which left James and Juhoon, a comfortable configuration.
They'd ordered food, watched something on the big Tv and chatted, like two old friends. The soju had appeared at some point. Juhoon's contribution, from the cabinet above the refrigerator where it lived for occasions that warranted it -in other words- when the manager wasn't home.
It had been one bottle.
Then two.
Then a third that Juhoon had been more conservative with than James.
By eleven pm James was in the specific territory of drunk that he rarely allowed himself to enter— not the social drunk. The other kind. The kind where the management infrastructure simply went offline because the alcohol had reached the part of his brain responsible for maintenance.
Juhoon had recognized the territory approximately twenty minutes before James had.
He was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch —James's preferred position, which James had vacated in favor of lying entirely horizontal on the couch above him, staring at the ceiling.
The television was still on. Nobody was watching it.
'The management infrastructure is offline', James's brain noted, from the small remaining sober corner of itself. 'This is going to be a thing'
"She choreographed that," Jamessaid to the ceiling.
Juhoon looked up from his phone, confused.
On the television, R3SET's comeback stage from three months ago was playing on a music channel- the algorithm having arrived there through some chain of related content that neither of them had directed.
"I guess yeah," Juhoon said, neutrally.
"The whole center section," James continued. "She made that. The formation, the transitions. All of it."
"I know," Juhoon affirmed.
"It's really good," James reiterated. "It's genuinely -it's a really good piece of choreography. The way the four of them-" he stopped.
He made a vague gesture at the television that was meant to indicate the specific thing he was referring to and communicated mostly that he was drunk out of his mind.
"Yeah," Juhoon said, the same one word he always used for everything.
You made a brief appearance on the screen.
"She's on my mind all the time," James confessed. "Like. Constantly. It's actually insane."
Juhoon said nothing. In his head he thought, 'here we go.'
"Not in a-" James hiccuped "-not in a weird way. Just. She's always there. In the background. Like when I'm making something I'm always wondering what she would think of it. And- when something funny happens I think about whether she would find it funny. When I'm in the canteen at the wrong hour I still look at her favorite table."
"Bro-"
"The corner table," James specified, with slightly more feeling than the sentence warranted. "It's just a table, Hoon. It's literally just a table with chairs."
"I know it's a table," Juhoon scoffed.
"She used to sit there when we - when we met," James said. "We used to sit there. Not together officially. Just— at the same time. Man it's just a fucking table and I keep looking at it anyway."
'He's going to cry', Juhoon thought, with resigned certainty 'He's absolutely going to cry and I'm going to have to sit here and be helpful and I don't have enough soju left for this.'
"Okay," Juhoon nodded, slowly.
Do not entertain the drunk man.
"I think I'm obsessed with her," James rambled. Still to the ceiling. "Like. Clinically. I think if someone were to examine my brain they would find her name on- approx- approximately seventy percent of the surface area. That's not normal, right? That's not a normal amount."
"It's a lot," Juhoon stated diplomatically.
"It's so much," James groaned, hands on his eyes.
'He's definitely going to cry', his friend thought.
James sat up suddenly, which required more physical effort than he'd budgeted for, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
"I love her," he said. Into his hands. Muffled and immediate and with the specific quality of something being said for the first time. "I'm pretty sure I love her. I'm so fucking fucked."
Juhoon stared at the back of James's head.
Okay, he thought. Okay, that's -okay.
He put his soju down.
The drunk man lowered his hands. His eyes were wet. He was looking at the television like he was searching for you in the screen, like you'd come out of it and tell him you loved him too.
"I don't know what love is," James continued, because apparently being offline meant the volume control was also offline. "Like I genuinely don't know. I've never- i don't fucking know. But whatever the definition is, she's inside it man. Tra- tragic."
Screw that, James knew you were his whole definition, but he wouldn't remember that fact in the morning.
ONE YEAR LATER :
You'd spent the first month at your parents' house, which had been Mina's quiet suggestion, and had turned out to be the right thing to do. Your childhood bedroom with its slightly outdated BTS posters and the window that overlooked the neighbor's persimmon tree.
Your mother had cooked things you hadn't eaten since you were fifteen. Your father had asked very few questions and watched television with you in the evenings in comfortable silence— he understood that presence was sometimes the whole offering.
You'd seen a therapist.
Twice a week, then once, then when you needed it —Dr. Lim, who was in her fifties and had a direct manner that you'd initially found confrontational and had come to deeply appreciate. She didn't let you manage your way through sessions the way you'd managed your way through everything else— and she also had a particular talent for waiting until you ran out of other explanations before the real one surfaced.
You'd talked about the industry. About the particular machinery of it, the relentless forward momentum, the way it consumed the private self in increments small enough to miss until there wasn't much of it left.
You'd talked about the members. About Mina's Sunday morning kitchen, Hye-ri's bathroom floor vigils and Soeun's rice balls.
You'd talked about painful stuff.
About what it meant to make the right decision and still have it cost something real.
About the difference between ending something and being done with it, which were not —Dr. Lim had pointed out—the same thing at all.
You'd talked about James approximately three times before you stopped needing to talk about him as a category, and started being able to talk about him as a person —specific and complicated and genuinely, permanently significant in the architecture of who you were.
You'd find out that talking about James was like talking about yourself, in the way that everything he'd done— or everything you'd let him do- reflected on who you were as a person.
You hadn't contacted him. He hadn't contacted you -couldn't, technically, the block still in place on your end for the better part of the year.
You'd thought about lifting it, in the way you thought about things you weren't ready to do yet— turning the idea over occasionally to check its weight. It was lighter than it had been, still not weightless though.
By month four you were dancing again, in the small studio your parents' neighborhood had, a local place that smelled of someone's forgotten lunch and that had exactly zero professional-grade anything.
You'd gone in off-hours, alone, and run through things you already knew —old choreography, the muscle memory of three years intact and waiting for when you'd be ready.
The first time you'd danced through an entire piece without stopping to negotiate with your body, you'd stood in the middle of the studio floor afterward and felt something so uncomplicated it had taken you a moment to identify it.
Relief. Just relief, plain and complete.
By month seven you were having conversations with your company about returning. Careful ones, that involved Dr. Lim, your physician, your manager and a degree of deliberateness that the old version of you would have found excessive but that the current version understood as simply necessary.
The company had been, to their considerable credit, patient in a way you hadn't entirely expected. The hiatus had cost them something too, and they hadn't weaponized it. - surprisingly.
R3SET would have a comeback in the spring.
You'd be on it. That was the plan, still in its early stages, but real —it existed on paper and in calendars.
An MC offer had come through a separate channel, a variety production company rather than Hybe, which was part of why it had landed differently —it wasn't the return of the idol, the big-stage comeback announcement.
It was smaller; a weekly music show, live broadcast, the kind of hosting gig that required presence and personality rather than a specific performance mode.
Two co-hosts. Gyuvin, who you'd met twice at events and who had the gift of making any room feel like it had been waiting for him to arrive, and Dohoon, who was newer, quieter.
Your manager had sent the offer on a tuesday— you'd read it twice, then gone for a walk and come back to said yes.
Not because it was safe —it wasn't, exactly. Live television had its own demands, its own relationship with the unpredictable.
But it was yours in a way that felt important. Something chosen, something that fit the shape of who you were returning as rather than who you'd been before.
The announcement went out on a Thursday.
By Friday morning your name was trending again. For the first time in a year, and this time the feeling that came with it was different — the particular warmth of people being glad to see you, which the industry could make you forget was real until it reminded you.
#she's back was everywhere.
Fan edits assembled from old footage. The comments section of your old posts reactivating.
Hye-ri sent approximately forty messages in the group chat in the space of ten minutes, an escalating series that began with a string of capital letters and ended with a voice note that was mostly just screaming with some words in it.
Soeun sent a single photo: a rice ball, from a convenience store, with a small drawn heart on the wrapper in pen.
Mina sent nothing for two hours and then called, when you picked up she said your name once in the way she sometimes said it -the full weight of years of knowing you in a single word -and then said "I'm so glad" and that was the whole call, thirty seconds, and it was exactly right.
You sat in your childhood bedroom with your phone warm in your hand and the persimmon tree doing its October thing outside the window and felt, with a completeness that had taken a year to arrive at 'ready'
You looked at your reflection in the old mirror on your bedroom wall. The slightly different person looking back -same face, same rebellious lash at the outer corner of the right eye doing its usual thing, same specific person.
But the way you were sitting in yourself was different. Less braced. Less prepared for impact.
The lash curled upward in the mirror, faithful and unreformed.
You looked at it for a moment. Let yourself think of him, briefly, with the lightness that a year of actual processing produced -not the sharp guilty thing, not the defended thing.
Then you put your phone in your pocket and went downstairs, where your mother was cooking something that smelled like your childhood, you sat at the kitchen table and let it be a good evening.
• • •
The first day of filming as an MC was a Tuesday in November. The studio was a different building -not HYBE, a broadcast facility across the city. You arrived with your manager and your stylist, the professional bubble reassembling itself around you.
Ji-eun was there. She looked at you when you sat down in the makeup chair -a full, genuine look, then smiled and picked up her brush.
"You look good," she said. And then, more quietly: "You look like yourself."
"Getting there," you smiled.
She worked in the comfortable silence you'd always had, when she got to the outer corner of your right eye she paused for the traditional fraction of a second, and you both said nothing, the lash did its thing.
Gyuvin found you at the craft table between the makeup suite and the studio floor, loading a cup with coffee at a phenomenal speed.
"Okay so first of all," he announced, without preamble, turning around and seeing you and immediately operating at full social capacity, "I'm a huge R3SET fan and I've been trying to figure out how to say that without it being weird for approximately two weeks."
You looked at him with an amused smile. "That was pretty weird."
"Yeah, I know. But now it's done and we can just be normal." He extended a hand with easy confidence. "Gyuvin. I'm really glad you're doing this."
"I know who you are," you said, shaking his hand.
"I watched your show from the hospital. It was good."
Something shifted briefly in his expression -not pity, just recognition. "Thank you," he said simply.
Then, pivoting : "Dohoon's already on the floor running lines with the floor director. He gets nervous before live things, it's actually very endearing, don't tell him I said that."
"I already heard that," Dohoon said, appearing from around the craft table corner with the specific dignity of someone who had definitely heard it and was choosing grace.
He was younger than you'd expected in person - with th quality of someone still assembling their public self, not entirely sure yet how much space they were allowed to take up.
He bowed politely, straightforward and genuine.
"I watched your performances a lot," he said.
"When I was a trainee. The footwork in the second comeback stage-" he stopped himself, seemingly deciding this was too much. "Sorry. I just wanted to say I'm glad you're back."
"Thank you," you smiled. "Really."
The floor director appeared and swept all three of you toward the studio, Gyuvin already talking at a pace that said the live broadcast format had found its correct person— Dohoon falling into step attentively. You walked onto the studio floor under the lights -different lights, different stage, different version of the machine —and stood at the hosting position in front of the cameras— feeling the room settle into its pre-broadcast hum around you.
The lights were warm and the floor was solid. The cameras were ready. You were ready.
The floor director counted down.
Gyuvin straightened beside you, Dohoon on your other side, both of them finding their positions, and you found yours -naturally.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
You smiled. The real one, the one that lived in the corners of your eyes.
One.
• • •
The year had a shape to it, from James's side. Not a clean one. More like the irregular, unglamorous shape of someone learning to carry an absence without drawing attention to the carrying- part.
He was good at it, technically.
He'd had practice -not with this specifically, but with the general discipline of keeping interior things interior. It was the skill he'd developed youngest and refined longest, and it served him here the way it always had, with maybe the small additional cost that this time— what lied underneath was starting to come out.
Nobody said anything directly. This was a Cortis characteristic —they had an unspoken agreement about the limits of intrusion.
Juhoon occasionally appeared with food or a suggestion to leave the studio at a reasonable hour.
Seonghyeon, who processed things by being physical, started dragging James to the gym in the early mornings, never explaining why.
Martin sent memes at random hours, which was his version of checking in.
Keonho cooked elaborate meals approximately once a month and made enough for everyone without comment.
Nobody asked directly.
James was aware of this and grateful for it— privately, thoroughly, without saying so.
A song sat in a session file on his laptop. He didn't listen to it often. Once a week, maybe, in the first few months -not obsessively, not with the quality of picking a wound, but with the particular need to check that the thing existed somewhere outside of himself.
That it was real, that the studio nights had produced something actual rather than just the sensation of having produced something.
It existed. That was enough.
He didn't release it. Didn't show it to his label, didn't bring it to any of the collaborative sessions that his schedule produced.
It wasn't for that.
It was for you to still have somewhere to live in him.
It was entirely yours.
The fans noticed things anyway, during their performances. Or thought they did —the internet had a talent for reading things into performances that may or may not have been there, and he'd learned not to engage with the discourse.
He meant all of the words he sung. He always meant all of it. That was the thing about performing something you couldn't say —the stage absorbed it, held it, but nobody really knew who it was about.
The second song on the Cortis comeback was not about you, technically. The lyrics were someone else's, the concept was the team's, the choreography was collaborative.
But something in the space between the notes had been filled with something that was his alone, and Juhoon had apparently felt the difference.
"Don't say anything," James had warned, eventually.
"I wasn't going to, motherfucker," Juhoon had replied.
• • •
The R3SET comeback announcement came six weeks later. James found out on the same day as everyone else,
The concept photos dropped at midnight -the industry's preferred timing for maximum impact- and by seven in the morning the internet had done its thing.
He didn't see the photos immediately. He was in early practice, which he'd been doing more of lately— and his phone was in his bag anyway.
Seonghyeon saw them first.
He appeared in the practice room doorway between run-throughs with his phone extended.
"R3SET dropped their comeback concept photos," he spoke. "Midnight release."
James looked at the phone. He processed them with the industry-reading part of his brain first. Clean aesthetic. Strong concept. Good styling choices. Blah blah blah.
That took approximately three seconds. Then the other part engaged and the other became entirely irrelevant.
You were in the center frame of the main concept photo, which was where you belonged and always had, and you looked—
He stood there with Seonghyeon's phone in his hand and took in the picture, and didn't immediately have a word for it, which was unnusual for him.
He was generally a person who had words for things. Precise ones, specific ones, the right ones rather than the approximate ones.
This required a moment.
You looked like yourself.
That was the first thing, and it was not a small thing —a year ago, in the last months before everything, there had been something in the way you were presenting yourself publicly that he'd noticed and not been able to name.
It was gone.
You looked settled inside yourself in a way that a year of actual repair did. Not relaxed, not softened -you were still precisely, recognizably you, the same specific presence that had been stopping him mid-thought for years.
But inhabited differently.
And within that -within the settled, familiar, three-years-known specificity of you- something hit him in the chest with a force.
You were devastating.
Not in the industry sense, not the calculated aesthetic impact of a well-executed concept photo, though it was that too.
Not in the safe, catalogued way beautiful women usually were- where you could admire the symmetry, the lighting, the careful construction of a concept shoot and then file it away under art or aspiration.
No.
This was the other kind. The kind that reached into his chest, wrapped around his lungs, and squeezed hard.
His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.
Jesus Christ.
He felt it in his body before his mind could catch up: the sudden, stupid stillness in his chest. Lungs suspended mid-breath.
It was -in the specific and undefended privacy of the three seconds before he handed the phone back- a lot.
"Good concept," he stated. His voice came out normal. This was the skill, the one he'd been practicing the longest, and it served him.
"Yeah," Seonghyeon said. "It's sick."
They went back to practice.
▬ A VARIETY SHOW OFFER arrived three weeks later.
James' manager brought it to him in the standard way —scheduled meeting, proposal documents. A cross-group variety program. Six episodes, a production company with a good track record, the kind of format that leaned into genuine chemistry.
"The full lineup," his manager said, sliding the document across.
He read your name on the document with full composure.
"The production company reached out to both labels simultaneously," his manager continued, professionally unaware. "They're pitching it as a legacy act collaboration -both groups debuted around the same period, different concepts but complementary. They think the chemistry is there."
Chemistry, James thought. That was one word for it.
"The format?" he asked, clearing his throat.
"Episodic. Each episode has a different challenge structure —travel, cooking, outdoor activities. Very unscripted. They want the real dynamic."
The real dynamic. If only he knew.
He looked at the document again. At the lineup.
At your name next to his in the clean administrative language of a production proposal, as if the history contained in those two entries was simply information, simply text, simply names on a page.
"I need a few days," he said. He didn't.
"Of course," his manager nodded.
He took the document home. Sat with it on the kitchen counter for an evening. An hour later Juhoon appeared again. Leaned in the doorway.
"Is it the R3SET thing?" he asked.
James looked up.
"Seonghyeon's manager mentioned it," Juhoon
said. "The variety show."
"Yeah."
"And?"
"I don't know yet," James admitted.
Juhoon nodded. Didn't push. "She's doing well," he informed, eventually. "From everything I've heard. She's back, she's good. She sounds like herself again."
James said nothing because the words lacked substance in his mouth.
"That's all I'm going to say," Juhoon finished. And left.
James sat with the document for another hour. He picked up his phone and texted his manager two words.
I'm in.
Went to bed.
Simple as that.
• • •
The variety show production schedule arrived on a Monday. First meeting -all cast, production team, initial briefing on format and episode structure -
Standard pre-production stuff, the kind of meeting to let everyone shake hands and establish a baseline before cameras were involved. His manager had forwarded the details and James had read them. Put his phone down then picked it up and read it again.
It was becoming a recurring motif in his life whenever your name was involved in anything.
Thursday. Four days.
He slept adequately. He was fine. just fine. Thursday morning he woke up fine. Got dressed fine —dark jacket, he'd stood in front of the mirror for approximately forty-five seconds longer than usual and then left the room before it became something.
Juhoon was in the kitchen.
"Eat something, hyung," he advised.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat something anyway or you're gonna bitch about how you're hungry."
James stood at the counter and ate half a piece of toast, and that was apparently what 'fine' looked like on thursday morning.
The five of them took the van together -Martin talking at a fast pace cause he'd had too much coffee too early, Keonho asleep against the window. Seonghyeon was on his phone. Juhoon sat beside James and said nothing, which was the most useful thing available.
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ
Strangers - Ethel Cain ♫♬♪
James looked out the window.
He was fine.
He was going to walk into a room and you were going to be in it and he was going to be fine — because a year had passed and he had built something solid and—
"We're here," Martin announced.
The broadcast facility had a different geography than HYBE, James had been here before for other projects, knew the layout well enough to navigate without thinking. The production team's assistant met them in the lobby and took them up to the third floor meeting room, talking about the schedule.
The meeting room had a long table. Several production staff already seated. Coffee and water at intervals. A small catering spread that nobody was eating yet.
No R3SET.
James sat down —second from the end, the position that gave him the widest sightline without being visibly strategic about it.
Juhoon sat beside him and Martin immediately reached for the catering spread.
Normal. All of it normal.
The ordinary machinery of a pre-production meeting assembling itself around him.
He poured coffee. Drank it. Normal fine coffee.
The door opened.
James heard you before he processed that it was you —a voice in the corridor, saying something to someone outside the room, the cadence of it landing somewhere in his chest before his brain.
Then you walked in.
And everything—
Everything single thing that James had spent a year building —the equilibrium, the organized weight, the solid carefully-constructed 'fine', collapsed.
It proved insufficient in the space between the door opening and you stepping through it.
The year was on you in the best way, in the way he'd seen in the photograph but hadn't fully understood until now.
Your face, your sweet sweet face, your long hair draped over your chest, all of it significantly more than he had been prepared for despite believing he was prepared.
You were talking to Mina beside you, something low and quick, and you hadn't seen him yet, and he had approximately three seconds of that —of watching you exist in a room without you knowing you were being watched.
And then something happened in his body that he hadn't expected and didn't have immediate language for.
It started in his chest. Not the metaphorical chest though, not the poetic shorthand for emotional experience —the actual physical chest, a sensation that spread outward from somewhere behind his sternum— doown into his stomach, which turned over once, deliberately, like a held breath released in the wrong direction.
He set his coffee cup down. Carefully. Because his hands needed to do something specific not to betray him.
This was not what equilibrium was supposed to feel like.
You crossed the room with Mina, talking to the production team lead who had come forward to greet you, and your eyes moved across the table in a natural survey.
They found him.
One second.
Something moved across your expression -too fast and too layered to read in full, a whole vocabulary of a year passing through your face.
You looked away first, or he looked away first, or it was simultaneous —he couldn't reconstruct it afterward with any accuracy.
James looked at the table.
His hands were still.
His stomach was not.
Am I making you feel sick —the line arrived from somewhere, something he'd been listening to in the studio months ago, late and alone the way he did his best listening, Ethel Cain's voice asking it.
He was, in fact, feeling sick.
He hadn't thought about the line in months. It arrived now with precision. He felt so sick indeed, that his stomach seemed to want to crawl out of its shell, and the space where you lived, in his ribcage stored there for comfort, was burning like thousands of fires.
It started without announcement.
He was looking at his folder —-and the production team lead was talking, James was sitting in his chair with his hands flat on the table on either side of the open folder.
And then his eyes were wet.
Not —it wasn't a gradual thing. It wasn't the dignified film version of emotion, the single meaningful tear navigating a composed face.
His eyes were wet and his throat had done something that he couldn't reverse, his stomach had turned over with a violence that was nothing manageable.
This was different.
His mind was busy with the overriding physical fact of his eyes being wet, in a meeting room with eight other people in it.
He pressed his thumb into the table edge.
Breathed.
The wetness didn't stop.
Because you lived inside of his ribs, like a sickness.
He moved. He stood up, keeping his head down. a
"Sorry," he cleared his throat. To the room, not to anyone specifically. His voice came out level. "One minute."
He walked to the door and left.
James made it to the men's bathroom twenty feet down the hall through the door and to the sink. He stood there with both hands braced on the porcelain and looked at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were wet and his face was doing something he didn't have any experience with.
Get a fucking grip, he thought.
His eyes stayed wet.
He turned the cold tap higher and pressed his hands against his face. One year. Twelve months, a couple hundred days, and it had taken approximately four seconds for you to fuck it up all over again.
It had just been you walking into a room, talking to Mina, your voice reaching him before he'd processed that it was you, landing somewhere in his chest like something that had always known where to go.
He pressed his thumb into the edge of the sink.
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ Sparks - Coldplay ♫♬♪
A soft knock sounded on the door.
"James?" Your voice. "The staff needs everyone back for the briefing. They sent me to—"
The door opened and you stepped inside.
The moment your eyes met his in the mirror, everything fell apart again. For a long second, neither of you moved. The tap kept running. The mirror held you both.
Your lips started to tremble first.
He watched you fight it —the way you bit down on your lower lip, jaw tight, trying so hard to hold yourself together. You didn't want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
But the tears came anyway, spilling silently down your cheeks. No sound- just the quiet betrayal of your body remembering him.
That lack of sound was what undid James completely— just your tears like fountains.
Because you'd spent months rebuilding yourself to be stronger, less naive— it was a huge let down and betrayal to see that your body still recognized his to this level.
That it always would.
He turned around from the mirror.
His own breath caught hard, own tears spilling over. Hot and humiliating, sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, uselessly trying to hold it in.
Pride didn't stand a chance. Not with you standing there, aching in the same way he was.
You crossed the room but stopped a foot away, leaning against the wall beside the sink. Close, but not too close. You pressed your wrist to your mouth, both of you apparently sharing the same futile reflex.
You stared at the ceiling. He stared at the sink and thirty seconds passed. Maybe more.
"I'm not—" you started, then stopped. You pressed your wrist harder against your mouth. "I'm not going to be able to have a conversation right now. Is that okay?"
"Okay," he said.
He reached over and turned the tap off. The sudden quiet made everything feel louder.
"I didn't think it would—" you tried again.
"I told myself I was prepared," you continued after a breath. "I knew you'd be here. I've known for weeks. I thought I'd be fine." Your voice cracked. "I don't know why this is happening."
He said nothing. What could he possibly say without crying like a moron?
You lowered your eyes to the wall in front of you. "I've been fine this year. I want you to know that. I've actually been okay. I hope you have too."
"I know," he said softly. It still hurt.
"So I don't know why my body is doing this." You gestured vaguely at your tear-streaked face, frustrated and lost.
He looked at you sideways. "Yeah, you do."
"Don't."
"Okay."
He stopped.
The silence stretched between you —heavy, full of everything you couldn't say. This was the silence of two avoidants standing a foot apart in a broadcast facility bathroom, both crying, both fully aware of approximately ten thousand things that needed to be said— and neither of them capable of saying any of them.
Your breathing slowly steadied. So did his.
"I should go back," you said, but didn't move.
"Yeah," he said, staying right where he was.
"The director's going to send someone else."
"Probably Martin."
"Martin would make it worse."
"Definitely."
A small, reluctant exhale escaped you —almost a ghost of a smile. It hit him in the chest.
"Okay," you said, pushing off the wall. "Okay."
You stepped to the sink, ran cold water, and pressed it to your eyes with quick, practical movements. The day had to keep going. In the mirror, you checked your reflection like someone inspecting damaged equipment. James stood behind you, a careful foot of space between you.
You touched the skin under your eyes, then glanced at his reflection — not quite meeting his gaze, but close.
"You have—" You gestured at your own eye. "Your—"
"I know," he said.
He wiped his cheek roughly with the back of his fingers.
"Okay," you said again, straightening your jacket, pulling yourself back together piece by piece.
You walked to the door without looking at him. Hand on the handle, you paused in the small gap as it opened.
"I don't know what to do with you," you said quietly, to the door, to the space between staying and leaving.
You didn't say the rest —that you didn't know what to do without him either.
You just walked out.
He stayed behind, the quiet bathroom suddenly feeling much too empty.
▬▬▬ THE REMAINING FILMING DAYS were unbearable. Charged, the way air was charged before weather, the way a room felt different when something had happened in it that hadn't been resolved.
The production team was pleased. The director kept using words like authentic and natural chemistry in the debrief notes that circulated between episodes.
Episode four was a travel segment -a day trip to a coastal town two hours from the city, two vans, the cast split across them, and a loose itinerary that the production team described as go wherever feels right but had in fact been extensively scouted and mapped in advance.
You were in the first van.
James knew this before the vans departed, he had registered the configuration with the awareness he'd developed over four filming days of knowing exactly where you were in any given space without appearing to track it.
The production team released them in loose pairs and small groups with cameras following at a distance, the unscripted format doing its job of making everything look accidental.
James walked with Juhoon along the harbor front for forty minutes. They talked about things that had nothing to do with anything —Juhoon had been reading something, had opinions about it, James listened and offered his own and the conversation moved forward with an easy momentum.
He was fine.
The show aired three weeks later. Thursday night, eight episodes, released weekly. James watched the first episode alone in his studio on his laptop. It was good television. He could see that clearly, the way it was easier to see things from the outside -the dynamic was compelling, the mixed-group chemistry genuinely worked.
Martin and Keonho's energy balanced against the quieter members, Mina and Soeun had good interactions with Juhoon and Seonghyeon. Nothing that crossed any invisible lines.
He watched the table scene from episode one, the first interaction he had with you after the bathroom moment.
Forty seconds, forty seconds too much, so he closed the laptop.
By episode three the fan forums had developed a vocabulary.
It started, as these things started, with a clip - a background interaction that neither of you knew was being filmed, thirty seconds of the two of you sitting down at the set.
The comments assembled their case witj ease— the forums had moved past speculation into something more like excavation, going back through years of archived footage and industry events like they'd been handed a key and were now locating the lock.
Stage crossings at award shows— a single frame from a year-old behind-the-scenes video in which James was visible in the background of a shot that was ostensibly about someone else; they looked through it all. And in those backgrounds, barely in frame, he was looking in directions that corresponded to where you had been standing. Something purely coincidental.
A fan-taken photograph from an industry dinner -both groups present, separate tables —in which you were mid-laugh and he was beside you, not looking at the camera, looking at you with an expression that the fan who'd taken the photo had captioned at the time : cute group moment - and that was now being screenshotted and analyzed with forensic intensity.
one commenter said : that's not a 'cute group moment' expression. that is something else entirely.
another : I found the original post. this photo is from two years ago. TWO YEARS.
another : okay so this has been going on for at least two years possibly longer and they've both been just. existing in the same building. I need to sit down
The digging produced timelines. Cross-referenced schedules, corroborating fan accounts, a general industry consensus assembled from fragments -the kind of picture that was never complete but that was complete enough.
Nothing explicit per se, nothing confirmable, just the aggregate weight of years of small things that meant more in retrospect than they had in the moment. Your name and his, trending adjacently for the first time, the fan shorthand assembling itself with the creative efficiency of a community that had been waiting no - dying- for a subject.
Then the end of the show aired. The final episode -with a studio segment, a paired game, the forty seconds clip in the previously released episode that had already done its damage -generated the kind of response that production teams privately hoped.
The clips moved through the usual channels. The fan analysis assembled and reassembled itself with new material.
The forty-seven thousand posts became a different, larger number. And the specific four seconds from episode six- a paired game, a moment where the challenge had required James to catch something you'd thrown and he'd caught it without looking because apparently his hands had simply known where to be -became the new center of gravity.
comment 1: he caught it without looking. without LOOKING. he didn't even glance. his hands just knew. I'm sick.
comment 2: I need everyone to understand what it means that his hands just knew.
comment 3 : three years. they've been in the same building for three years. I'm not okay.
comment 4: someone who knows things please tell me there's something there because I have invested emotionally and I need to know it's real.
Your name and his, in that order or the reverse, everywhere.
• • •
"Unnie," Hye-ri put her phone down on the dorm kitchen table and looked at you across it with a grave expression.
"I know what you're gonna say," you chuckled humorlessly. "This is getting weird. They need to stop over analyzing things. There's nothing to analyze."
"Have you really seen all of it?" she raised an eyebrow.
"I've seen enough"
"And? Thoughts? Prayers?"
You wrapped both hands around your mug. "And nothing," you said. "There's nothing to say. Though i'm really praying they drop this before i go crazy and start filing lawsuits"
"Unnie," Hye-ri breathed. "I love you. You know I love you. But oh my god, you are so fucking stupid."
Your eyes widened, surprised. "Huh?"
"I've been watching this for three years and then watching you be hospitalized and then watching you rebuild... and I have said almost nothing because it wasn't my place and you weren't ready." She paused. "Are you ready yet? Because I'm watching thousands of people on the internet understand your life better than you're allowing yourself to and it's becoming genuinely freaking difficult to watch."
You said nothing, still busy being shocked.
"Soeun has opinions," Hye-ri said. "Soeun, who falls asleep mid-sentence, has opinions about this situation and has had to be physically restrained from expressing them."
"Hye-ri-"
"What are you going to do," Hye-ri asked quietly.
You looked at your mug. "I don't know, i don't even know what i'm feeling. I just don't wanna be bothered with that. I just wanna do my job, and not be confronted with this all the time" you said. "because i don't know if i have enough self control anymore."
"I know it's not an answer," you continued. "I know."
Hye-ri looked at you for a long moment— then she picked up her phone, put it back in her pocket and reached across the table to cover your hand with her red-nailed one.
She knew you needed no more, no less.
And that's what made her good.
▬▬ THE WRAP EVENT WAS at a venue the production company used regularly -a private room above a restaurant in the city, warm and low-lit. The full cast was there, most of the production team, the ambient atmosphere of something finished and celebrated.
James arrived with Juhoon and Keonho, found the bar, acquired a drink, and began the social navigation of the room.
You were already there— across the room with Hye-ri and the producer, saying something that made the man laugh.
Your hair was down, which was unusual enough that James noted it, and you were wearing something he hadn't seen before, a black prada dress.
You looked so devastatingly beautiful that he had to look somewhere else.
The evening moved forward with its own momentum. Drinks, conversation, the genuine warmth of a cast that had spent weeks together and had produced something they were collectively proud of.
Martin gave an impromptu toast that was both entirely sincere and completely absurd, talking about how much fun he'd had, and about the cookies the staff gave away on set. Soeun fell briefly asleep against Hye-ri's shoulder - surprising- and was nudged back awake with fond efficiency. James talked to the director for twenty minutes about the editing process, to Keonho about something unrelated to any of it, to a production assistant about the schedule for the release rollout.
He was present and functional and socially competent and fine.
But he was also aware of where you were in the room the entire time.
An hour in, the room had loosened into its later-evening configuration -smaller clusters, people drifting, the formal structure dissolved. James had found his way to the room's edge, not antisocially but in the way he sometimes needed to at these events, a few feet of breathing room.
You appeared beside him. Not like you'd sought him out - but like you'd been heading for the same breathing room and had arrived at the same edge by the same instinct.
The room moved and talked around you. Someone's laugh carried from across it. The warm low light did its work, he knew it was a factor in why he was feeling this way— but you were close enough that he was aware of the specific warmth of being in proximity to you, which was a thing his body had catalogued years ago and had not, stopped cataloguing.
He couldn't, the weight of it pressing right between his heart and lungs like a hot stone.
There was no part of him that could stand with you, next to you and not feel like the whole world was shaking at his feet.
So James did what James did best.
He grabbed his glass, aimed for the closest exit and started walking. Because being the asshole in the story was easier than being the man who loved. Who yearned.
This had been something he'd come to terms with -although his brain and his heart were two completely opposite organs that didn't seem to want to collaborate- somewhere in him, he knew that what he felt for you wasn't pointless arousal, anger or attraction.
Surely he did feel all those things all at once, but a whole year of thinking had brought out a simple explanation out of him.
James didn't know how spell the word 'love', didn't know what it was, what he knew though, was that he'd put everything on the line just to feel your wrath.
Whether you were angry, sad, disappointed or disgusted at him, it was you that he held on to.
That thought had taken a whole year to form, and he still didn't know what to do with it. He was only grateful he got to see you, to live in your small world.
So when you followed him into his own small world —when the door to the hallway he'd escaped to opened and you were standing in the frame of it, the warm light of the party behind you and the cooler light of the corridor finding your face, his breath caught in his throat.
The door fell shut behind you.
You looked at him across the corridor.
"Do I bother you that much?" you said, your throat bobbing.
He wanted to tell you that you didn't. In fact, he wanted to tell you so many things but he didn't want it to feel like he'd started thinking them just because you had left.
Like absence had manufactured something that wasn't already there.
"I think," he said, and his voice came out wrong, too low and too careful, "I think you should go back."
"Do I bother you that much?" you repeated, harder this time, like you wanted it to cut.
No. The answer was no, had always been no, the word bother doing almost none of the work required to describe what you did to him.
"Yes," he said.
You stood your ground, because you knew James, and you knew that when his voice cracked like that, he was most likely lying.
"I don't understand you. We were good-" you looked down at your shoes, "we were back to normal just a day ago."
"No we weren't. We never were." James spoke, voice constricted. "We were working."
You looked up at him, taking a faithful step toward him. "You're really gonna act this way? Even after everything? After a whole year?"
He looked at you. You were closer now -the corridor was narrow, the private venue's hallway not designed for that kind of distance,
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ
PURPLE RAIN - PRINCE ♫♬♪
"You don't know what acting this way means," he said, quietly. The heat not in his voice yet, just the control that preceded it.
"I know exactly what it means," you said. "It means you walked away. Again. Because something got too close and you needed the exit." You looked at him with the directness that you got when you'd decided to stop managing the look. "I've been watching you find exits for so long James. I know the walk."
"You also know how to leave," he retaliated.
"Don't do that,"
"You blocked me," he said. "On everything. You were in a hospital and you had me blocked."
"I was in a hospital because-" you stopped yourself again, the sentence running somewhere that cost too much, "-that's not-" you shook your head. "I'm not doing this. I'm not standing in a hallway at a wrap party telling you about that-"
"You followed me in here," he cut you.
"Because you walked away," you said. "Again. You were standing next to me and you just-"
"I wasn't walking away from you," he denied.
"Then what were you doing."
He said nothing.
"James." Your voice lower now, the anger finding its quieter register, which was more dangerous than the louder one. "What were you doing."
"I was-" he stopped. "I couldn't stand next to you and-" he stopped again. Started differently, because the first direction was the edge of the thing and he was so tired of standing at the edge and never diving. "I couldn't stand next to you and act like the last year didn't happen and the three years before it didn't happen and we're just —two people at a party being normal about it."
"Nobody asked you to be normal about it," you retorted.
"Nobody had to ask," he said. "The room is full of people. The cameras have been full of people for weeks. Everything is-" he exhaled, "-everything is happening in front of an audience and I don't know how to-" he stopped.
"You don't know how to what," you said, bitterly.
The corridor was very quiet. The party sounds from behind the closed door -muffled, belonging to a different world. Just the two of you, the amber light and the heavy question.
"I don't know how to be in the same space as you," he said, "and not feel it."
The sentence arrived quietly, like he just couldn't hold it back.
"Feel what," you said- the question not aggressive. Genuinely asking, the way you asked things when you needed to hear the actual word rather than the approximate one.
He held your gaze.
"All of it," he said. "Everything. Take your pick."
You were quiet for a moment. "That's still evasive," you whispered softly.
"I know," James muttered. "I'm still learning."
"I'm not-" you stopped. Started differently. "I'm not angry at you for walking away just now. I know why you did it. I know the walk because I have the same walk. I've been using mine for years, so it wouldn't be fair to blame you."
He looked at you.
"I'm angry at the amount of times," you continued. "That's what I'm angry at. Not you specifically. Just -the amount of times we did that."
"Yeah," he admitted. Low. "Me too."
The corridor did what corridors did in these conversations -provide a container just barely large enough for the thing trying to exist inside it.
"The filming's done," you said.
"Yeah," he said.
"So there's no more-" you gestured vaguely at the concept of structured filming days and production schedules and the machine that had been providing the structure, "no more excuses for us to be in the same rooms. For now."
"No," he said.
"Which means- i'd like to end things maturely. I'd like you to know things i haven't told you. So we can- so I can finally move on."
It tasted cruel coming out of your mouth and he felt every bit of it.
End things? Why the fuck did this hurt so much when things were already over?
"I missed you." you started, eyes already filling way too fast. "I missed being known. You knew things about me that i never told you. And nobody else has known me the way you did, cause no one was paying that kind of attention." your voice went thin at the edges. "And then you weren't here and I had to figure out how to— how to be, all over again."
James' jaw hung open just the tiniest bit, like he had never prepared himself to hear that today.
"God, i don't want to be corny... i just want you to put it in your stupid head- i want you to know, cause i can't keep this to myself James. I'm so tired and i don't want to do this anymore."
The water in your eyes started overflowing, tears falling down your cheeks with absolutely no consent.
"And i know what you're gonna say, that's what everyone says. That i knew this wasn't a relationship, that i knew we weren't serious. But how can you expect me to not feel like this, when- when i spent 3 years of my life growing beside you, seeing you, knowing you. How can anyone fucking expect me to be chill about this?? Please tell me."
You took a deep breath, lips shaking.
"Because you cracked me open and you read me like a fucking book. And i- I could never be simple when it comes to this." you continued.
His eyes started welling up uncontrollably, like they had the other day, insanely fast, cruel and mean.
"Y/n" his voice cracked.
"No- no, let me finish" you wiped your eyes almost aggressively, "You can't tell me to shut up anymore. I'm done being a little immature bitch-im done looking for fights- just because fighting was the only way i knew how to get close to you without admitting I wanted to be close to you."
It was everything he'd ever wanted to hear.
"I just wanna be the bigger person, i want you to know that even if we weren't good for each other- i had never felt something so real and so fucking brutal." your voice shook under the force of your tears, "And sometimes- god im so fucking stupid- sometimes i just feel like i don't wanna be anywhere except with you."
James couldn't say anything, his voice was stuck in the depth of his throat- or down to his chest- he didn't know, all he knew was that he wanted the tears to stop.
"y/n - please." he looked at the ceiling, bottom lip quivering with restraint.
"What? Does it hurt? Does it hurt you knowing that i felt all of this ?" you got closer, invading the space he'd carefully guarded. "That you could never feel the same things for me? That you fucked me like you loved me for 3 fucking years even though you knew you couldn't feel those things?"
James' mouth opened, like he just couldn't believe what you were saying.
Like he wanted to scoop you up and put you in his head so you could feel -for one second- the way you undid him.
"What the- what the fuck are you even saying?" his voice trembled, eyes pouring, "you always think you know what's going on in my head. Fuck. Y/n you don't know shit."
"Because you don't let me, just for once, tell me. Tell me." you got closer, chin tipping up to look at him.
James' composure faltered, he erased the last of the space between you both and cupped your chin -grabbed it between his fingers with equally devotion and anger.
"You-" he swallowed his tears, "you know it. You know me, y/n. Do you want me to get down on my knees and tell you what i feel?"
Seeing him so close was like going back home, you thought. You couldn't breathe anymore, something cruel squeezing your lungs.
"You've played the same games I played, so don't act like you were a saint. We both fucked around, but this?" he pointed between the both of you.
"It's never been nothing."
Your eyes were wide, shining with fresh tears. The black Prada dress suddenly felt too thin, the air between you charged like the seconds before lightning. He could smell your perfume, the faint salt of your tears, the warmth of your skin that had haunted his dreams for a year.
"We've never been 'nothing' y/n. You know it. You know there wasn't a moment where i didn't need you."
James sounded like a totally different person, like the year had matured him maybe a tiny bit.
"So please love me again," he continued, the words spilling out like they'd been waiting behind every exit he'd ever taken. His thumb brushed your lower lip, shaking. "Don't leave me. Love me again and —and if you never did, you can start now."
The confession hung there, raw and bleeding, eyes were wet, spilling over without permission, tracking down both your cheeks.
You made a small, broken sound and surged forward like you needed it in order to breathe.
James met you halfway.
The kiss was devastating. A year of absence crashed into the moment your mouths met -desperate, open, messy. His lips were urgent against yours, tasting salt from both your tears.
You gasped into him and he swallowed it, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to memorize every texture again.
Your hands fisted in his shirt; his cupped your face, thumbs wiping at your tears even as more fell. You were both crying through it, foreheads pressed together between kisses, breaths hitching, noses bumping, teeth grazing in the need to get closer.
"I missed you," he mumbled against your mouth, voice cracking. "Fuck, I missed you so much it felt like dying."
You answered by kissing him harder, tongues tangling, bodies pressing flush. His hands roamed -down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you against him so he could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric. You arched into him, and the groan he let out was pure yearning. It was exhilarating— like drinking straight out of the bottle of champagne.
A broken sob escaped you and he swallowed it greedily, tilting his head to kiss you harder, deeper, like he could crawl inside you and never leave.
In the narrow hallway, your back met the wall with a soft thud and his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he needed to leave proof that this was real.
One of his thighs pushed between yours, pressing up against the heat between your legs, and you gasped into his mouth, grinding down instinctively.
Your fingers pushed into his hair, tugging, and he shuddered, hands sliding under the hem of your dress, palms greedy on your thighs. His hands roamed lower, sliding down the curve of your ass, squeezing hard through the thin Prada fabric before hiking your dress up your thighs.
Cool air hit your skin as his palms found bare flesh, groping, kneading, pulling you tighter against the hard line of his cock straining in his pants.
You moaned into the kiss, one leg hooking around his hip, opening yourself to the pressure. His hips rolled forward, grinding his erection against your core in slow, filthy drags that made you both shudder. The friction was electric, too much and not enough. Your fingers pushed into his hair, tugging sharply, and he growled, biting your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.
"I missed this," you whispered brokenly between kisses, tears slipping into your mouth. "Missed you -your hands, your mouth-"
He answered by shoving your dress higher, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you over your panties.
"I know... I know pretty girl. I know. I missed you too."
His fingers pressed firm circles against your clit through the damp fabric, and your head fell back against the wall with a whimper. He chased the movement, mouth latching onto your throat, sucking a mark just below your jaw while his fingers worked you relentlessly.
"James- we can't- not here.."
"I don't care," he breathed against your throat. "I need you. Now. Always." And that was enough.
You touched him everywhere you could reach -chest, shoulders, the line of his jaw, the hard press of his cock already straining against his pants.
"Wet already," he breathed against your skin, voice cracking with emotion and lust. "Always so fucking wet for me. Even after everything."
You reached down, palming his cock through his pants, stroking the thick length with desperate need and he bucked into your hand with a choked groan, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked even as tears blurred them.
The hallway was silent except for your ragged breaths, the wet sounds of kissing, the rustle of fabric.
His free hand shoved the neckline of your dress down, exposing one breast. He palmed it roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple, then bent to take it into his mouth -sucking, licking, teeth grazing while his fingers kept rubbing your clit faster.
You were panting, grinding shamelessly against his hand, so close already. "James —here -please-"
He switched to your other breast, sucking harder, hips thrusting against your thigh in time with his fingers. The tension coiled tighter, the risk of someone opening the door only heightening everything.
His cock throbbed under your palm; you squeezed him through the fabric and he moaned around your nipple, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
James straightened suddenly, crashing his mouth back to yours in a filthy, tongue-heavy kiss. Two of his fingers pushed your panties aside and slid into you without warning, your slickness making it so easy —deep, curling, stroking that spot that made your knees buckle.
You cried out into his mouth, clenching around him, tears pouring faster as the pleasure mixed with the overwhelming ache in your chest.
"I love you," he gasped against your lips, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit. "I fucking love you-don't leave me, please don't-"
That was his leap of faith.
He'd never said things so straightforwardly before and here he was, telling you just how much he adored you.
You were right there, teetering on the edge, when distant laughter from the party filtered through the door, shattering the moment just enough.
James pulled his hand back with a pained sound, but he didn't let you go. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, bodies trembling, faces streaked with tears and flushed with need.
Your hand was still on his cock; his fingers were still glistening with you.
"We can't -not here," he rasped, but his hips twitched forward anyway, seeking more contact.
You nodded shakily, but kissed him once more- slow, deep, lingering. "Take me home."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He fixed your dress with shaking hands, you straightened his shirt, and then he grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers tightly like he was afraid you'd vanish.
You slipped out the side exit without a word to anyone, like you'd done so many times before.
Only this time you knew something different.
▬▬ IN THE CAB YOU COULDNT keep your hands off each other. The back seat was dark, the driver politely ignoring the heavy breathing and closing the backseat-front seat window.
James pulled you half into his lap, kissing you slow and deep, one hand under your dress stroking the slick mess between your thighs, the other tangled in your hair.
You ground against him, whimpering, tears still slipping down your cheeks.
He kissed them away, murmuring, "I've got you. I'm here. I'm not leaving."
By the time you reached your dorm, you were both trembling with need. The door barely clicked shut behind you before James had you lifted in his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.
The short cab ride had done nothing to cool the fire between you -only stoked it.
His mouth was on yours again, hungry and uncoordinated, as he carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down like you might break. Clothes came off in a desperate haze. He peeled the black dress from your body with shaking hands, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. Your bra and panties followed, then his shirt, pants, and boxers -until there was nothing between you but a year of absence.
He hovered over you for a moment, eyes drinking you in, tears still glistening on his lashes.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I thought I remembered... but this-"
He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach.
His hands mapped you reverently —cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing nipples until they tightened, sliding down your sides to grip your hips.
He sucked marks into the sensitive skin just above your hipbones, like he needed to claim you all over again.
When he finally settled between your thighs, spreading them wide with gentle but insistent hands, you were already dripping. He groaned at the sight, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through you.
He started slow, almost worshipful —pressing soft, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, then higher. The first broad swipe of his tongue through your folds drew a broken sob from deep in your chest.
He licked you like a man starved, savoring every drop. His tongue was warm and velvet-soft, flattening to drag from your entrance up to your clit in long, deliberate strokes, then circling the swollen bud with precise, teasing flicks. He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
"James-" Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging as fresh tears slipped down your temples.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked gently, tongue fluttering rapidly against the underside while two thick fingers slid into you, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot inside.
The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the room- slick, hungry lapping mixed with his low, appreciative groans.
He was completely -drunk, lost in the taste of you, the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, the way your thighs trembled against his ears.
You came the first time with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head.
He kept going -didn't even slow- licking you through every pulse and aftershock, fingers pumping steadily. Tears streamed down your face from the intensity, mixing with the sweat on your skin.
He pulled back only long enough to look up at you, lips shiny and chin wet, eyes dark and glassy with tears of his own.
"One more," he rasped. "I need to taste you again. Please." Then he dove back in, even more fervent.
This time he fucked you with his tongue- pushing it inside as deep as it would go, curling and thrusting while his nose rubbed against your clit.
His fingers replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, the overstimulation had you whimpering, hips grinding against his face, but he held you down with one strong arm across your stomach, devouring you like he'd never get enough.
You came harder the second time, a full-body shudder that left you sobbing his name, gushing against his tongue as he drank every bit of it.
Only then did he crawl up your body, kissing a wet trail up your stomach, between your breasts, until his mouth found yours.
You tasted yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply, sharing the evidence of your pleasure.
You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock -thick, heavy, burning hot and leaking steadily at the tip. He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching, but when you tried to shift downward, he caught your wrist gently.
"No," he whispered, eyes wet and earnest, voice cracking. "Not tonight- fuck -I need to be close to you. Inside you. Please, baby. Let me feel you."
He settled between your legs, bracing on his forearms so he could watch your face.
The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, slick and ready before he pushed in slowly -inch by inch- stretching you open with that perfect, burning fullness you'd missed for a year.
The sensation was overwhelming: the way your walls yielded and clenched around every ridge and vein, the heavy heat of him filling you completely until his hips pressed flush to yours.
You both gasped, foreheads touching, tears falling freely again.
"Fuck... you're so tight," he breathed, voice trembling. "So warm and wet and- fuck, I love you. I love you so much."
He stayed buried deep for a long moment, just feeling you pulse around him, savoring the squeeze.
Then he began to move -slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along every sensitive inch inside you. Each thrust was deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt, grinding against your clit on every downstroke.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the room, mingled with your shared sobs and gasps.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.
"Harder, James -please-"
He gave it to you, thrusts growing firmer, faster, but still so full of emotion. His cock felt impossibly thick inside you, stretching you perfectly with every plunge, the head nudging against that spot that made sparks explode behind your eyes. When you clenched around him particularly hard, he moaned loudly, a raw, broken sound that vibrated through his chest.
"Yes- fuck, just like that. You feel so good, so so good baby."
You switched positions naturally, rolling so he was spooned behind you, chest pressed tight to your back.
One of his arms banded around you, hand cupping and kneading your breast, the other sliding down to rub firm circles on your clit. He thrust up into you from behind -deep, grinding strokes that kept him buried as much as possible.
His mouth was at your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring against your skin: "I missed this. Missed feeling you around me. Never letting you go again."
Tears soaked the pillow beneath your cheek; his fell onto your shoulder. The emotion was devastating -relief, love, grief, desperation- all of it pouring out with every thrust.
You came first again, walls clamping down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure tore through you with a shattered moan.
The sensation broke him.
James groaned deep in his chest, hips stuttering as his orgasm hit. His cock throbbed violently inside you, swelling even thicker as he came hard -thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your walls in powerful pulses.
"Y/n -fuckfuckfuckfuck" He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, drawing out every wave as your pussy milked him dry.
But even after he spilled everything, he didn't stop. He stayed rock-hard, the overstimulation making him shake and whimper, but the feeling was too good.
"Don't stop," he begged hoarsely, still crying, voice wrecked. "Please, don't let me pull out. It's too much- too good. I can't-"
You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, and he kept moving -kept cumming in smaller, intense waves that made his whole body jerk. His cock pulsed again and again inside you, more cum leaking out with every thrust, making everything slicker, messier.
He buried his face in your neck, sobbing against your skin as another orgasm ripped progressively through him, hips grinding deep.
You turned your head for a messy, tear-soaked kiss, tongues sliding lazily as he kept fucking you slow and loving and frantic all at once.
The year apart dissolved completely in the heat, the tears, and the devastating certainty that this had never been nothing.
It had always been everything.
Filled every single corner of every single room you'd been in.
And neither of you left.
• • •
The room was quiet except for the slowing rhythm of your breathing and the occasional sniffle as tears finally began to ease.
James stayed buried deep inside you from behind, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, chest pressed flush to your back. His cock still twitched with aftershocks, warm and full inside your slick, cum-filled heat.
Neither of you moved to separate.
You couldn't. Not yet.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses to the nape of your neck, his breath shaky.
"I'm not leaving," he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. "Not tonight. Not ever again if you'll have me."
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. Fresh tears welled up. "I thought we were done. I really believed it this time."
"I know." His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away the wetness. "I was so fucking scared you'd never see me again."
You squeezed around him instinctively, and he groaned softly, hips giving one lazy thrust before stilling again. "I was cruel too," you admitted, voice small. "Blocking you. Pushing you away when I needed you most. I was hurting and I wanted you to hurt with me. But God, James... I never stopped loving you. Even when I hated you."
His eyes shut tight, "I love you. I'm shit at saying it, shit at showing it the right way, but I do. So much it terrifies me. You're the only person who's ever seen all the ugly parts."
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ
Jealou$y - The Nbhd ♫♬♪
You stayed like that for a long while- tangled, joined, whispering truths you'd both buried for years. Soft confessions. Apologies. Promises. The kind of vulnerable honesty that only came after devastating sex and shared tears.
His hand stroked your stomach, your breasts, anywhere he could reach, grounding himself in your warmth.
Eventually the tenderness shifted. His cock, still half-hard inside you, began to thicken again. You felt it -slow, deliberate swelling that made you gasp.
James kissed your shoulder, then your neck, teeth grazing.
"Again?" you whispered, a small, breathless laugh breaking through.
"I can't help it," he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, stirring the mess of cum and your arousal. "You feel too good. Being inside you again it's fucking addictive."
The heat built quickly. You pushed back against him, and he groaned, pulling out just long enough to turn you onto your back so he could kiss you properly -deep, slow, emotional.
Then he was lifting you, carrying you toward the small en-suite bathroom on unsteady legs.
The shower was tiny, barely enough room for both of you, but that only made it better. He turned the water on hot, steam filling the space as you stepped in together.
Water cascaded over your bodies, washing away sweat and tears but not the need.
James pressed you against the cool tiles, mouth devouring yours while his hands roamed -slick with water, sliding over your breasts, pinching nipples until you moaned into him.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, one leg hooking over his hip. His cock, fully hard again and flushed dark, slid against your stomach.
He lifted you effortlessly, pinning you to the wall.
"Wrap your legs around me, yeah?"
You did, and he guided himself back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. The stretch was even more intense after everything -your walls sensitive and swollen, still slick with his earlier release.
He groaned loudly, forehead pressed to yours as water poured over your joined bodies.
"Fuck, Y/n... so warm. So fucking tight even after I filled you up." He started moving -deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against your clit with every stroke.
The wet slap of skin mixed with the sound of running water. His cock dragged along every ridge inside you, thick and veined, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. Tears mixed with shower water on your cheeks.
"James -harder. I need you."
He gave it to you. Thrusts turned punishing but loving -powerful snaps of his hips that lifted you higher against the tiles. One hand held your ass, the other braced beside your head. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking marks, then to your breasts, licking water from your nipples before biting gently.
You clenched around him deliberately and he moaned, deep and broken. "Yes -squeeze me just like that. Fuck... I feel everything. You're gonna make me cum again my pretty girl."
The angle, the heat, the steam, the overwhelming emotion -it all built fast.
You came first, walls pulsing hard around his cock, sobbing his name as pleasure crashed through you.
James followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan.
His cock throbbed violently, pumping more thick ropes of cum deep inside you. He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, whimpering against your neck as overstimulation made him shake.
But he didn't pull out. Instead, he lowered you slightly, still buried deep, and reached between you to rub your clit with slick fingers while grinding slowly.
"One more," he begged, greedy. "Please, baby. I need to feel you cum around me again."
You were oversensitive, trembling, but the way he looked at you -eyes wet, desperate, full of love- made you nod.
He fucked you through it, slower now but no less intense, water streaming between your bodies, until you shattered again with a broken cry.
Only then did he ease out, both of you boneless and clinging. He held you under the spray, kissing you softly as the water began to cool.
Voices suddenly filtered in from the main dorm area -your members returning home, laughing and calling your name.
James froze, then smiled against your lips, a little dazed and wicked. "Guess we made it just in time."
You laughed breathlessly, pressing one last kiss to his mouth. "Stay the night anyway. We'll figure it out."
He nodded, eyes soft. "I'm not going anywhere."
▬▬ SO JAMES STAYED. Became the better man he always told himself he'd be once he found the courage.
The morning after the wrap party, you woke tangled in his arms, his face buried against your neck, breathing steady and warm. Neither of you spoke much at first. Just quiet touches, soft kisses, and the shared understanding that everything had shifted.
Your members teased you mercilessly when they saw him sneaking out later that day, but the smiles on their faces said they'd known this was coming.
A few days later, he showed up at your dorm with a ridiculously corny bouquet of red roses and a handwritten letter -actual pen and paper and no chat gpt involved, slightly crumpled from how many times he'd rewritten it. The letter was long, rambling, equal parts apology and love confession, ending with: "Will you let me take you on a real date?"
You said yes, he kissed you right there in the doorway, slow and reverent, like he still couldn't believe he was allowed.
Your first official date was simple but perfect: a late-night drive to a quiet beach outside the city, where no one would find you and snap photos, blankets in the trunk, cheap convenience store snacks, and hours of talking under the stars.
He held your hand the entire way home.
That night, back at your place, the sex was different -less desperate hunger, more deep, aching worship.
He laid you out on his bed and took his time again, licking and sucking between your thighs until you came twice on his tongue, then fucked you slow, eyes locked, whispering "I love you" with every thrust.
Over the next weeks, you rebuilt in quiet, beautiful ways. Brunch dates (in your bedroom unfortunately - there was only so much fame allowed) where he stole bites from your plate.
Late studio nights where he brought you coffee and rubbed your shoulders.
Public outings were careful at first -disguises, quiet corners- but the the thrill of risking to be seen together, even subtly, felt like freedom.
As your career with R3SET soared -comeback stages under blinding lights, sold-out tours that took you across continents, and the quiet pride of watching your members shine beside you -he was there. Cheering the loudest from the wings,
waiting with warm arms and understanding after exhausting schedules.
"You're always the best thing in any room you're performing in," he'd said one time, towel drying your sweat after a long show in Seoul.
One month in, he took you to a private listening of Cortis' finished project. Sitting in the dark, his hand on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles, you listened to the song.
He'd included his song in the album, the one he'd written about you.
And now you were certain, that by being honest, you'd gotten everything you wanted.
In the car afterward, you couldn't wait -you rode him in the backseat, windows fogged, your dress hiked up, his hands gripping your ass as you bounced on his cock. He came so hard he saw stars, burying his face between your breasts and murmuring how perfect you felt squeezing him.
Two months later, he talked to the girls properly -nervous, respectful, and endearingly awkward.
They approved.
Not that you would've left him anyway.
That same night, back at your dorm while the others were out, he fucked you against the kitchen counter, then bent you over the couch, pounding deep from behind until you were sobbing his name. He loved pulling your hair just enough to tilt your head back for messy kisses, loved the way your pussy fluttered and milked him when you came.
Three months in, during a quiet weekend getaway to a cabin in the mountains, he told you he was in therapy -working on the exits, the fear and the walls.
You cried in his arms, proud but also insanely full. Like you suddenly realized how fulfilled you were at such a young age.
Six months later, you both got a secondary apartment to share. It was private but yours- filled with your combined chaos and growing collection of memories and polaroids.
The sex only got better with time: lazy morning blowjobs where he'd eventually pull you up and fuck you slow and deep; shower quickies that turned into long, steamy sessions against the tiles; nights where he'd edge you for an hour with his mouth and fingers before finally giving you his cock, making you cum so many times you lost count.
You read in his arms, learned more about yourself than you'd ever did anywhere else, learned how to love him correctly, appropriately, learned how to not be so addicted to the chaos.
Your story had never been nothing. It had always been tongue-tied and beautifully, spoken aloud.
And in the end, it was always his tongue that undid you both.
Not just the wicked, reverent way it worshipped between your thighs.
But the way it finally learned to speak the truth.
oh my shit fuck. I actually am so grateful for this request cause i fucking loved writing this. Idc if it’s ass and if some don’t like it. I loved it. 🤤 loved writing it.
脷 .ᐟ TONGUE. in which, your ‘relationship’ with James couldn’t be messier, a situationship based on fights and low-key hookups, tearing at each other like it’s second nature—all sharp words, dirty looks, and the kind of tension that never really goes away. because the thing about james? he knows exactly how to hurt you—and you hurt him right back…
❛ 赵雨凡 𝑥 idol!reader ❜ 𓈒𓈒 based on my baby @tinygladiatorworm ‘s request 𖤼
⚠︎ MDNI ! smut, a LOT of angst~, multiple sexual scenes, violence, james is mean but reader isn’t all that better, denial, toxic dynamics, james is an asshole but listen to me NEVER in bed, ghosting, situationship, unprotected sex / multiple positions, masturbation, blurred nude/ sexting / body deterioration/ vomiting. Enhypen cameo.
𓏸 23,1k ╱ 𝓶. list. ♪♫ 𝑝laylist
TONGUE ࿇ part 1. part 2.
PEOPLE LIKE TO THINK the beginning of something tells you everything. That if you look closely enough at the first moment, the first words, the first meeting, you'll find some clue hidden there— something that explains how it all ended.
Maybe that's true.
Or maybe people just like giving meaning to things after the fact. Like it somehow justifies everything— like saying 'oh, i felt it coming, their energy was off ' was putting something at careful distance.
Well, turns out things don't really work like that.
The endings rarely announce themselves at the beginning. People don't arrive in your life wearing labels that tell you what they'll become to you, unfortunately.
And moments that change everything almost never look that important when they're happening.
The first thing you ever said to James was: "You're in my spot."
Not exactly the kind of opening that made for a good story, right? No charged glance across a room, no meaningful collision, no moment with enough cinematic power to justify all the things that came after it.
Just you, age nineteen— three months into your debut, standing in the doorway of Practice Room 7B at 11pm with your water bottle and your USB drive.
And James, eighteen, sprawled across the center of the floor with his headphones around his neck and his jacket thrown over the mirror rail. His long legs were taking up an amount of space that felt frankly unreasonable, looking up at you with an unbothered expression.
"There's no names on the floors," he said.
"I booked this room," you said. "7B, eleven pm. Check the system."
Safe to say he didn't check the system.
He looked at you for a moment with the assessing quality that you would not recognize as one of his characteristics until much later, and then he replied: "I've been here since nine."
"And your booking ended at eleven," you asserted, stepping inside because waiting in the doorway felt like conceding something. "So..."
He made a pause in which he conducted somekind of internal deliberation- the outcome of which was apparently a decision to be mildly entertained rather than annoyed.
Typical, you'd later think.
He sat up, reaching for his jacket with unhurried ease.
"You're from R3SET," he said. Not a question.
"You're from Cortis," you stated, equally declarative.
"James," his mouth drew a straight line, which was not exactly an introduction, so much as information delivered flatly.
"I know who you are,"
Something moved at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"
"You were the dude who changed the note... the one in the song at that showcase stage everyone talked about for two weeks."
"Three weeks," he corrected.
"Two," you said. "I checked."
He fully looked at you then, for the first time, the kind of look that was less social and more like observing, and something in it was so direct that it felt almost rude.
Then he stood up, gathered his things without any particular hurry, and walked toward the door.
"It was three weeks," he said, passing you.
"It really wasn't," you countered to his retreating back.
The door swung shut and you stood alone in Practice Room 7B and felt— despite having successfully reclaimed your space, that the exchange had ended in something closer to a draw.
You didn't think about it again for two weeks— which was its own kind of foreshadowing.
• • •
The thing about HYBE was that it was enormous and also, paradoxically, very small.
Enormous in the way of any machine with global reach -the floors and corridors and practice rooms and studios multiplying upward and outward. The kind of place where you could theoretically spend a month without seeing the same person twice.
And yet the industry within the industry was genuinely, inescapably small.
You saw the same faces, you learned people's schedules by accident, by proximity, by the way your paths intersected in corridors and elevators and waiting rooms.
You started seeing James everywhere approximately two weeks after the practice room—- which you attributed to coincidence, and then to probability, and then eventually just accepted it was because of shared geography.
He was in the elevator one morning when you got on with your members, both groups maintaining a polite, comfortable distance.
He nodded. You nodded. Simple
Hye-ri, who had not yet heard the Practice Room 7B story and would later respond to it with a bunch of conspiracy theories, smiled brightly at everyone.
The elevator arrived at its floor and one group filed out. James held the door for Soeun, who was the last one off, moving as slowly as was her nature at 9am.
"Thanks," Soeun said sleepily.
He said nothing, just released the door once she was through. You glanced back as the doors closed and he was looking at something on his phone.
Not at you, so you looked forward again.
• • •
The first real conversation -not some kind of territorial exchange about practice room 7B— but the first one with actual content— happened at the canteen at an off-hour on a Tuesday
You'd come down at 2am, between schedules, when the dinner rush was long over and the space was quiet.
You wanted something warm and uncomplicated and to sit somewhere that wasn't a practice room or a meeting room or a corridor for approximately twenty minutes.
James was at a corner table with what appeared to be a cup of coffee and nothing else, looking at his phone with a focused scowl.
The canteen was otherwise empty.
You got your food -the plain rice and the soup, because your stomach was demanding something simple— and made the social calculation that sitting at the opposite end of the canteen from the only other person there was ruder than sitting nearby, so you chose a table two away from his.
He glanced up when you sat down, registered you, and looked back at his phone. James had this thing about him, you noticed, he was always on doing something, whether it was being on his phone, tapping his fingers against the table or bouncing his leg. Silence seemed to make him restless, as if he stopped moving for too long he'd have to sit with his thoughts.
Maybe he didn't like that, you thought.
Regardless, you ate your soup silently, playing with the little bits of bread you'd thrown in it.
"You're always here at weird hours," you heard him say eventually, without looking up.
"So are you," you retorted.
"I'm avoiding a meeting."
For some odd reason, you were starting to think conversations with this stranger felt slightly one-sided —like he was halfway in, halfway somewhere else.
"I'm between schedules." you told him.
"What kind of schedule runs until 2am?" he asked, and now he did look up properly this time. His phone tilted slightly in his hand, forgotten mid-scroll, like the conversation had finally managed to pull him out of whatever digital gravity he'd been stuck in.
You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. "Um, the kind that pays for the rest of my life? Rehearsal ran late, we have a comeback in six weeks."
"The second?" He said it like he'd already known and was confirming.
James kept his phone close all through it— even when nothing was happening on it, like it was an excuse not to fully engage.
"Yeah." You looked at him. "You're not avoiding a meeting, though. Your schedule's on the third floor board, you don't have anything until four."
There was a pause.
"You read the third floor schedule board?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked.
Was he really that pretentious to think you'd looked at it just for him?
"I pass it every day." you subtly rolled your eyes. "It's hard to miss"
"And you memorized my schedule." James concluded, finally setting his phone down to give you his full attention.
In retrospect a few years later, he had always been like that— you could only earn his concentration by flattering him. He had this shallow way of engaging, cohesive with his whole being really, this unnerving habit of half-listening just long enough to decide whether you were worth it, and if you weren't, he'd let the conversation slide off him without ever quite refusing it.
James was a maze.
How he could stand there, talk, even laugh sometimes, and still feel like he was somewhere slightly out of reach— like the version of him you were interacting with was only ever a partial map of the real thing, if there even was a full one to find.
"I memorized the general layout," you deadpanned, almost the way you'd speak to a dumb child. "You happen to be on it."
He looked at you for a moment with an almost-smile that wasn't quite, that lived in the small muscles around his eyes rather than his mouth. "Right..."
Halfway amused, then also halfway unbothered.
You ate your soup and he went back to his phone. And minutes passed in a quiet that was, you noticed, not uncomfortable.
When you stood up to leave he said, without looking up: "Seven weeks."
You remembered thinking back then, 'Is he okay in the head?'
"What?"
"Your comeback. It's seven weeks out, not six. The release dates got pushed on monday."
You stood there for a moment. "How do you know R3SET's release schedule?"
"I read the boards," he raised his eyebrows. "You happen to be on them."
He looked up then, and the almost-smile was doing the thing where it almost became an actual smile and then pulled back at the last moment.
You held his gaze and then picked up your tray.
"Thanks," you muttered.
"Sure," he said.
You walked out and made it to the elevator before you let the small, involuntary smile happen, where nobody could file it as evidence of anything.
• • •
It built the way these things built — in the accumulation of small moments that wouldnt individually amount to anything and collectively amounted to everything.
You started adjusting to him— even if it wasn't your job to do— you bent, trying to navigate his weirdness. It felt comforting in a way, discovering a new person, trying to predict how they would be the next day, mapping out their inconsistencies. There was a kind of satisfaction in it, in getting it right, in noticing the patterns before anyone else did. Like you were being let in on something subtle and exclusive.
James started saving you a spot in the one practice room with the good sound system when he finished early, without mentioning it — you'd just arrive to find a piece of tape with your initials on the booking board in his handwriting.
You never acknowledged it out loud and neither did he. It simply happened, and then continued to happen, and you both treated it as unremarkable.
You gave him your extra energy bar once, in a corridor, because you had two and he looked like he hadn't eaten since morning.
He took it without excessive gratitude, just ate it while you talked about something unrelated, and the next week a different brand of bar appeared in your bag that you hadn't put there.
There was an award show in November — your first major one as a group, filled with th underlying anxiety of a milestone.
You were waiting in the corridor behind the stage in your outfit— which was a confection of different fabrics that looked extraordinary but made sitting down a pain— when he appeared from a different direction in his own stage clothes, and you both stopped.
James looked at you, with absolutely no moderation whatsoever— direct in a way that didn't quite match the rest of him.
"You look-" he started, and seemed to reroute something. He blinked once, almost annoyed at himself, "Good luck tonight."
Did he think saying 'you look good' was a sign of weakness ?
Something that gave too much away, too quickly, like it handed over control in a way he didn't trust himself with.
Or maybe it wasn't even about strength. Maybe it was just him— his instinct to edit anything that sounded too honest before it could exist in the open for longer than a second. Like certain words, could only be kept in a locked safe.
"You too," you nodded
He nodded right back before walking past, and your stylist appeared from around the corner to start fussing with your hair
The moment subsided and later, on stage, in the middle of your third song, you looked out into the audience and found him in the seats assigned to Cortis. You hadn't been looking for him, but just so happened to find him.
He was watching. Actually watching, full on focused— and he didn't look away when you made eye contact.
You looked away first, because you had choreography to execute and couldn't afford the distraction, but the heat of it stayed on the side of your face for the rest of the song.
• • •
James was the first person (other than your members) in the building who ever made you genuinely laugh.
The actual laugh, the one that caught you off guard and came out bigger than you intended, the one that made your eyes crease at the corners in a way your makeup artist always had to correct before filming.
It was something stupid. You couldn't even remember what, later, when you tried — some observation he'd made in that flat, deadpan delivery of his, something about Martin's weird posture.
And you'd laughed, the real one, before you'd had time to present the curated version instead.
You hated it, it felt like handing him a key to a locked dooor.
He'd looked surprised. Then his almost-smile finally completed itself. The both of you had looked away simultaneously like two people who had accidentally seen something they weren't supposed to.
That was 7 months in.
By then you already knew you were in trouble.
• • •
The first fight was in January.
Not a small one— no— the whole real inaugural event, the one that established the template for everything that followed, that revealed the specific architecture of how you two functioned, when the politeness dissolved.
It was about something professional, technically.
A collab arrangement that had fallen through due to scheduling and a comment he'd made in a group setting, that you'd taken as pointed and that he'd claimed was general.
But the claim itself felt like a provocation rather than a clarification.
Because at the end of the day, when two people have that particular appetite to argue, nothing is really strong enough to stop them. Not timing, not context, not the fact that everyone else had already moved on from it.
It had escalated with a speed that surprised you both, the way flash fires did -the combustibility of two people who had spent seven months building up a charge without discharge.
Every careful canteen silence, every piece of tape on a booking board, every unremarked energy bar, every held glance and looked-away-from moment: all of it apparently convertible into fuel.
You said things. He said things.
The things were sharp and specific, which was worse than general and vague.
That meant you both knew exactly where to aim. Because people who don't know each other well argue clumsily, you and James didn't.
You knew which buttons to push, where to tug, where to pull, to get that intoxicating reaction out of him. You were greedy with it, once you saw the color of his anger you always wanted more and more.
He told you that your drive was so relentless it was alienating. You told him that his emotional unavailability was a character flaw he'd dressed up as depth.
And other particularly childish things.
Both of you hit something real.
Both of you knew it.
It ended not with resolution but with you walking out of the conversation, and him letting you. The two of you spending eleven days not speaking in a building you shared, navigating around each other with effortful precision.
On the twelfth day he was in the elevator when you got on, alone, the doors closed, and in the four floors between you and your destination neither of you spoke.
When the doors opened he held them and let you out first with the same gesture he'd used for Soeun seven months ago.
"The tape's back on 7B," he said, as the doors were closing. "If you want it."
You walked to the practice room.
The tape was there, your initials in his handwriting, unremarkable and consistent and saying more than either of you had managed in eleven days of silence.
So you pulled out your USB drive and started the music.
You didn't think about what it meant, because thinking about what it meant required a vocabulary you hadn't yet developed for whatever this was.
• • •
The second fight happened in March, and it was the one that changed the coordinates of everything.
In retrospect — and you would spend a considerable amount of time in retrospect, dissecting this particular evening with forensic attention, like someone trying to locate the exact moment a thing became a different thing -it wasn't even a significant fight.
Not by the standards.
It was a Tuesday, late, and you were both in the building past reasonable hours. You'd crossed paths in the corridor outside the vocal booths in the specific way that felt, by now, less like coincidence and more like the building itself was engineering your proximity through some architectural conspiracy.
You'd said something.
He'd responded.
The response had landed wrong.
The details were almost beside the point -they always were with James, the specifics of the argument always slightly less important than the current running underneath it.
What mattered was the escalation, which was quick and hot —the two of you falling into the rhythm of it with the terrible fluency of people who'd already mapped each other's pressure points and couldn't help pressing them.
You were in his face in the way you got when you were angry — close, refusing to let height function as advantage, chin tilted up, voice controlled and precise in the way that was somehow more aggressive than shouting.
He was doing the jaw thing, the one where the muscle flickered at the corner, and his eyes were dark, direct and giving nothing.
"You don't actually know me," you bit out, which was what you said when he'd gotten too close to something accurate and you needed to push him back. "You think you do-"
"I know you better than you're comfortable with," he lashed back, flat and certain. "That's the problem."
"That's not a problem, that's a fucking delusion-"
"You went still," he observed. "Just now. When I said that. You went still."
"I didn't-"
"You always go still when something's true. C'mon, don't act like I don't know you. You're so predictable."
You stared at him, he stared back. He was so on point— but so mean, so so mean.
And something shifted without announcement —like pressure shifted before weather, air changing in density.
You didn't decide. That was the thing you'd return to later, examining it from different angles.
It didn't feel like a decision.
It felt like an inevitable conclusion of seven months of accumulated charge finally finding its outlet. It was physics rather than choice -the thing that happened when you built up enough of something and ran out of room to keep containing it.
You kissed him.
Or he kissed you.
The honest answer was that it was simultaneous in the way that made attribution impossible, the two of you crossing the remaining distance at the same moment as if you'd both received the same signal from the same source.
His hand came up to the side of your face with a roughness that almost comforting, and you had a fistful of his jacket like you wanted to hurt him right back.
The anger didn't disappear —that was the thing that surprised you most in the moment, that the anger didn't disappear but instead converted, transformed into something that ran in the same channel at the same intensity in a completely different direction.
It lasted approximately ten seconds.
You both pulled back. Looked at each other. The corridor was still empty, the distant practice track was still running.
Nothing had changed about the physical reality of the space, but everything had changed about what existed in it.
His hand was still near your face. Neither of you moved for a moment.
Then you let go of his jacket.
"That," you breathed out, with all the composure you could assemble on short notice, which was not as much as you would have liked, "didn't happen."
Something moved through his expression, not really agreement nor disagreement. "Okay," he simply said.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"James."
"I said okay, jeez," he scoffed.
You straightened. Fixed your top, met his eyes one final time with the look you used when you needed to communicate that you were in complete control of a situation.
You walked back down the corridor and took the stairs, because the elevator required waiting- and waiting required standing still- and standing still was not something you were capable of in that particular moment.
In the stairwell you sat on the third step from the bottom, pressing your fingertips to your mouth and stared at the concrete floor.
You said, quietly and with feeling, a word that started with 'F' and covered approximately forty percent of what you were actually feeling, the other sixty percent being substantially too complicated for a single word to manage.
Fuck, it didn't happen.
Your heartbeat said otherwise, loud and inconveniently informative.
• • •
Ironically, it happened again three weeks later.
This time there was less plausible explanation about what it was -it wasn't the end of an argument, wasn't the discharge of accumulated charge. It was a different kind of moment entirely, which made it both better and worse at the same time.
You'd been in the practice room late, alone, running the bridge section of the new choreography for what felt like the fortieth time because something in the transition wasn't landing cleanly. You couldn't locate the problem from inside the movement, which was the particular frustration of dance —sometimes you just needed external eyes, someone to stand outside the thing and see what you couldn't
As if on cue, James had appeared in the doorway, passing by.
"The weight transfer," he said, from the doorway. "You're anticipating the next count. You lose the accent."
You stared at him."You watched that for three seconds.”
"Didn't need longer."
Of course he didn't.
You rolled your eyes but reset your position. It's like he knew things without even asking. So you listened, ran it again, adjusting.
"Better," he nodded when you got it right.
There was a note of satisfaction in his voice that made something warm settle low in your stomach.Then he pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the room.
"Move over." James gestured.
He took his place beside you in the mirror, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, to run the count with you —not the full choreography, just the four bars in question, his reflection beside yours in the practice room mirror.
When you ran it clean he caught your eye in the mirror and said: "There. You're insanely good when you focus."
And you responded with blurry eyes : "Yeah."
The room was very quiet because then, neither of you was looking at the mirror anymore
The second time was slower than the first. That was the difference - the first time had been the speed of reaction, of something that had been held too long finally releasing.
You felt the shift in the air before his hand moved -his palm sliding slowly up your arm, over the thin strap of your practice top, until his fingers curled around the back of your neck.
His grip was warm, firm, not quite gentle. When you finally looked up at him, his eyes had gone dark, pupils wide. He didn't ask. He simply leaned in and kissed you like he'd already made the decision minutes ago.
It started slow, almost careful -his lips pressing against yours with deliberate pressure, warm and slightly damp from the heat of the room. Then the restraint slipped.
His mouth opened, and the kiss deepened with a hunger. His tongue brushed yours, claiming, stroking in a slow, heated rhythm that made your stomach tighten. You tasted salt on his lips from the earlier dancing, felt the faint scrape of stubble against your skin as he tilted his head and took more.
His other hand found your waist, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him. The kiss grew hotter, wetter.
A soft, involuntary sound escaped you, and he answered it with a low exhale through his nose, as he backed you half a step until your lower back met the barre.
He pressed forward, chest to chest, one thigh sliding between yours as the kiss turned unmistakably heated -messy, urgent, tongues sliding and lips sucking, breathing growing ragged between the brief moments you broke apart only to crash back together.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips were flushed and shiny, breath coming hard.
His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, and for a second the only sound in the mirrored room was the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.Your makeup from earlier had faded to its bones. Your hair had come partly undone.
You looked, you thought, like someone in the middle of something they hadn't planned. Which was accurate.
James was watching your reflection rather than your face, which felt like a concession of some kind -the mirror was easier, the distance of the reflection, the ability to look at something without quite looking directly at it.
"We should probably..." you started.
"Yeah," he nodded.
"Talk about-"
"Probably," he agreed.
Safe to say you both didn't talk about it. Not that night, not in the days following. By unspoken mutual agreement you treated the practice room the way you'd treated the corridor -as something that had happened in a pocket outside normal time.
You saw each other in the building and were normal, which is to say you were exactly what you'd always been —two people with an unclassifiable dynamic and an ongoing low-grade tension.
It was, you would think later, an approach with significant structural flaws.
• • •
The first time you slept with James was inevitable in the way that cellular reproduction is inevitables.
Something had been pulling since the moment the charge between you became too dense to ignore, building and building through every charged silence, every almost-smile, every fight that left you both raw and buzzing.
It happened six weeks after the second kiss, in the aftermath of one of those late nights where the building was almost empty. You'd both been avoiding each other again after a stupid argument about nothing — that had somehow spiraled into everything yet again. Three days of careful, professional distance in the corridors. Three days of pretending the other person didn't exist in a space where existence was technically impossible to avoid.
You were in 7B again, alone, running through vocals until your throat felt like sandpaper because stillness was worse than exhaustion.
James appeared in the doorway like he always did, unannounced, carrying two bottles of water he couldn't explain.
He set one down near your bag without a word and leaned against the mirror rail, watching you with that cataloguing stare.
You didn't tell him to leave. He didn't ask if he should stay.
The conversation that followed was sparse, edged, full of the things you weren't saying. Accusations dressed as observations. Defenses that sounded like attacks.
Until the space between you simply ran out.
The kiss that started it was less explosion this time and more surrender -slow at first, almost reluctant, like both of you were still trying to talk yourselves out of it even as your hands moved. It was intoxicating, like drinking straight from the bottle, bypassing the glass entirely.
He knew exactly how to touch you.
That was the terrifying part.
From the first slide of his palm up your waist under your shirt, he read your body like he'd been studying it for months in secret, the way his thumb pressed just under your ribs made your breath catch. The way he bit down on your shoulder when you tugged at his hair drew a sound from you that felt humiliatingly honest.
You knew him too —knew the tension at the base of his spine when he was trying to hold back, knew how his breath stuttered when you dragged your nails down his back, knew the exact rhythm that made his control fracture.
There was no discussion. No "what are we doing."
No neat categorization.
You ended up on the floor with the lights still on, door locked and the faint smell of rubber mats and sweat in the air, clothes shoved aside rather than removed entirely because stopping felt impossible.
It was slow at first -agonizingly so- James pushing into you with a controlled patience that felt like punishment, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open the whole time. Every inch deliberate. Every roll of his hips measured to draw out the kind of sound you refused to let anyone else hear.
But it was the loudest you've ever felt him, deep in your bone marrow, all-consuming.
Not loud, but so devastatingly precise.
He fucked you like he'd already memorized every map point of your pleasure and was now tracing them with ruthless focus -slow, deep strokes that made your back arch off the floor. Like he knew precisely which pieces of you would collapse and which would fly.
His hand clamped gently but firmly over your mouth when your voice started to climb, because even then, even in that moment, the building and the world outside still existed.
You came so hard your vision whited out at the edges, thighs shaking around his waist, and he followed shortly after with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep.
Afterward you lay there tangled on the floor, breathing hard, neither of you speaking for a long time. The weight of what had just happened settled over both of you like a second skin -intimate, terrifying, and already laced with the knowledge that this would complicate everything without solving anything.
You didn't label it. Not that night, not ever. It simply became another layer of the thing between you: a new way to argue with your bodies instead of your words.
Sometimes it followed a fight -angry, rough, biting kisses and hands that gripped too hard, the kind of sex that felt like punishment and absolution at once.
Sometimes it happened in the quiet lulls, slower and almost tender in its exhaustion, where he would press his face into your neck and you would let yourself hold him like he was yours without ever saying it.
The toxic rhythm continued, unchanged at its core.
He would disappear for days after particularly raw nights -ghosting texts, avoiding your usual corridors, throwing himself into work like distance could reset the scale.
You would do the same, blocking his number for forty-eight hours only to unblock it when the silence felt worse than the fighting. You'd show up at each other's dorms at odd hours under flimsy excuses (a forgotten charger, a question about a stage cue, clothes left behind on purpose), and end up in his bed, against his door or in the shower with the water running loud enough to cover the sounds you couldn't quite muffle.
He knew your body with devastating accuracy-the exact pressure on your clit that made your legs give out, the angle that had you clenching around him with a broken whimper, the way sucking on the spot just below your ear made you forget every defensive retort.
You knew his -the way his hips stuttered when you whispered filthy observations against his mouth, the way gripping the back of his neck grounded him when he got lost in his own head, the way he groaned your name like a curse and a prayer when you rode him slow and deliberate, refusing to let him rush.
It was never just sex.
It was the continuation of every conversation you refused to finish out loud.
Every thrust carried the weight of 'I see you.' Every bite carried 'I hate how much I need this.'
Every time he came with your name muffled against your skin, it felt like another thread tightening around the thing neither of you would name.
You kept orbiting. Fights, silence, explosive nights that left you both wrecked and temporarily softer, then more fights.
The push and pull became the architecture of whatever this was -intimate, codependent, and fundamentally unresolved.
Because naming it would require choosing, and choosing felt more dangerous than the endless cycle of coming together and pulling apart.
▬▬ THREE YEARS OF VIOLENCE, three years, and James was still the same.
Still the same flat delivery and assessing gaze and emotional availability of a particularly well-defended fortress. Still the same almost-smile that completed itself approximately four times a year and each time felt like being handed a delicious forbidden fruit.
Still the same fluency in your pressure points, still the same precision with words when he wanted them to land somewhere specific, still the same capacity to fill a room with his particular brand of charged.
You'd never been able to adequately explain to anyone who asked, though.
You'd tried, once, when Hye-ri had asked you to describe what it was about him -what the actual thing was, underneath the toxicity narrative, underneath the drama, the real answer.
You'd sat with the question for a long moment and then said: "he's the most specific person I've ever met."
In conclusion, you were both still the same, only maybe worse.
You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt, tossing your phone onto the silk duvet of your bed.
Lock my doors? Who the fuck does this fucking little bitch think he is?
As if he hadn't already broken through every single one of your defenses years ago, making sure you were now opened raw and spread on a fucking platter for him - aphrodisiac foods and all.
You knew exactly what he was doing, playing that toxic game where he'd insult your existence one minute and then pull you against him so tight you could feel his heartbeat the next.
Grabbing your oversized hoodie, you didn't even bother changing out of your stage makeup, the glitter still clinging to your eyelids like shimmering armor.
You knew you were playing with fire, but the adrenaline of a fight was the only thing that made you feel alive lately.
Maybe that was the whhole problem.
Every argument with James sent something electric through your veins, sharp and addictive, the way his jaw clenched when he was angry, the way your pulse quickened when neither of you backed down, the way every cruel word felt like a challenge thrown across a battlefield.
It was exhausting. It was toxic. It was also the closest thing to feeling alive you had found in months
Silence bored you. Peace made your skin itch. But a fight with James? A fight with James could have your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it felt like it was trying to escape.
It made you feel seen. Seen in the worst possible way, maybe, but seen nonetheless.
Because no one got under your skin the way he did and you hated him for it.
You hated how he could turn a harmless conversation into a screaming match. Hated how he knew exactly which buttons to push. Hated how anger always burned hotter when it was directed at him.
And maybe the sickest part was that, somewhere between the insults and slammed doors, you found yourself craving it.
Craving him.
Not because fighting felt good, but because it was the onnly language neither of you lied in.
Ten minutes later, you were standing in the hallway of the Cortis dorms, your knuckles rapping sharply against the wood, and your keys in your hand (which you'd hoped you could stab through his stupid face).
The door swung open almost immediately, and there he was, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, looking absolutely wrecked but still somehow infuriatingly handsome.
"The hell you doin' here?" James muttered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His voice was raspy, thick with the remnants of alcohol and irritation. He looked you up and down, his gaze lingering a second too long on your legs before he scowled. "Thought you'd be tucked in at 9pm, acting all high and mighty like always."
"You're a dick, James," you snapped, stepping past him into his space without waiting for an invitation. "Juhoon told me you were out here throwing a tantrum like a child."
"A tantrum?" He let out a dry, bitter laugh, closing the door with a heavy thud behind you.
He stepped into your personal bubble, looming over you so you had to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes. The tension was thick enough to choke on that familiar, jagged energy that always preceded a blowout or a breakdown.
"You're the one who came here. I was just drunk, it wasn't that deep."
"Not that deep?" You scoffed, stepping closer, your chest nearly brushing his, refusing to let his height intimidate you. "You're literally texting people like a fucking psycho, James. You're embarrassing yourself."
James let out a huff, the scent of expensive whiskey and something uniquely him, hitting you full force. He didn't back away. Instead, he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a mix of intoxication and pure irritation.
"Embarrassing? Please," he sneered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes. "You love it. You love comin' over here in the middle of the night just to tell me how much of a prick I am. You're addicted to the drama, y/n. Don't even lie to yourself, that's embarrassing."
He reached out, his fingers catching a strand of your hair, tugging it just slightly not enough to hurt, but enough to make the contact feel intentional, aggressive.
"You're so damn extra," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, turning low and dangerous. "Walkin' in here lookin' like that...full of attitude. You think you're so untouchable, huh? Like you're too big for this shit?"
He stepped even closer, forcing you to take a half step back until the edge of his kitchen counter pressed into your lower back. He loomed over you, his presence heavy and suffocating in the best possible way.
"You're a menace," he whispered, his thumb grazing your jawline, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the venom in his words. "A loud mouthed, beautiful girl. And you're drivin' me fucking crazy."
His eyes searched yours, searching for the spark of a fight, for the retaliation he knew was coming. He was baiting you, pushing you to the edge because he knew that once you tipped over, there was no going back to being 'just friends' or 'just a situationship.'
"So, what's it gonna be tonight?" he challenged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You gonna scream at me 'til your throat hurts, or are you gonna shut the fuck up and actually do something about it?"
You let out a sharp, mocking laugh, refusing to let his proximity intimidate you even as your heart thudded a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
God, he was so predictable, using his hands to distract you when he knew he was losing the verbal war.
You reached up, grabbing the front of his shirt with a white knuckled grip, pulling him down until your foreheads collided.
"You're so full of yourself, thinking i'm the only one addicted to this," you hissed, your eyes flashing with a mix of fury and hunger. "Maybe I didn't come here to scream, James. Maybe I just came to remind you exactly who it is that actually puts up with your bullshit."
Without waiting for his smug comeback, you stood on your tiptoes and crashed your lips against his, the kiss less of a romantic gesture and more of a car crash, hard, desperate, and tasting faintly of whiskey. The moment your lips slammed into his, a low, guttural sound escaped the back of James's throat halfway between a groan and a growl.
He didn't do gentle. He didn't do "sweet." And that was more than enough.
The second you initiated the contact, his hands moved from your hair to your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your oversized hoodie with a bruising intensity, as if he were trying to pull you inside his very skin.
He kissed you back with a frantic, starving energy— tongue sweeping against yours like a battle for dominance. It was messy, teeth clashing, the taste of unbridled tension coating your mouth. He tasted like the chaos you both thrived in.
"Fuck," he breathed against your lips, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second to catch his breath, his forehead still pressed hard against yours.
James' eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris, looking dark in the dim light of the apartment. "You're such a brat. Always gotta have the last word, even when you're using your mouth for something else."
He didn't give you time to retort. His hands slid down from your waist, gripping your thighs and hoisting you up so you had to wrap your legs around his waist just to stay upright. He backed you up against the counter, the granite cold against your skin, but he was pure heat.
"You think you're so smart, huh?" he muttered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. He nipped at your lobe, his voice dropping into that rough, drawl that always made your knees weak. "Thinkin' you can just walk in here, look all pretty and smug, and make me forget how much you pissed me off hours ago?"
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his gaze heavy and hooded, his thumb dragging roughly over your bottom lip, smearing the remnants of your lip gloss.
"I still hate you." He declared, as if you could care less.
He leaned back in, his kiss deeper this time, more possessive, his hands roaming your body as if he were trying to memorize every inch of the girl who knew exactly how to ruin him.
A wicked, dangerous thought flickered in the back of your mind.
You weren't just going to let him have his way not tonight.
He thought he was the one in control, the one who could just summon you with a few drunken, messy texts and expect you to fall into his lap.
Not a chance, fucker.
You leaned into the chaos, matching his intensity with a fervor that was almost manic, let your hands slide under his shirt, your nails grazing the skin of his back, tracing the muscles there just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
You kissed him like you were trying to consume him, your movements calculated and devastatingly effective. You knew exactly where to press, how to tilt your head, how to let your breath hitch in a way that he could feel against his skin.
You felt him react the way his breathing went wild, the way his grip on your thighs tightened until it was almost painful, and the unmistakable shift in his body as he grew hard against you. He was losing it.
The smug, cocky James was being dismantled by the very person he'd spent the last hour insulting.
Just as his hands began to slide lower, just as he let out a sound that was finally pure and honest, you pulled back.
A sharp, sudden break. You slid off him, your feet hitting the kitchen floor with a soft thud that felt deafening in the sudden silence.
James stumbled slightly, his hands grasping at empty air where your waist had been seconds ago. He blinked, his eyes glazed and dark, looking completely dazed and desperately needy.
"Where the fuck are you going'?" he rasped, his voice cracking. He reached for you, his movements uncoordinated, his face a mask of confusion and frustration. "Y/n, don't be a bitch. We just-"
"We just what, James?" you interrupted, your voice cool, smooth, and entirely too calm for someone who had just been devouring him. You reached up, smoothing down your oversized hoodie, your expression unreadable despite the glitter still shimmering on your eyelids. "You were 'just drunk,' remember? You said it wasn't that deep.”
You turned toward the door, a small, triumphant smirk playing on your lips that you made sure he couldn't see.
Gotcha bastard.
"Wait, hold up," he growled, stepping toward you, his chest heaving. He looked wrecked hair a disaster, lips swollen, and a look of pure, desperate irritation on his face. "You're really gonna do this? You're gonna leave me like this?"
"Get used to it you manchild," you tossed over your shoulder, grabbing your keys. "You wanted a tantrum? You got one. night, James."
As you walked out the door, you could practically feel his gaze burning a hole in your back, his frustration radiating off him in waves. You knew he was standing there, probably cursing your name under his breath
And that was exactly the point.
▬▬ THE NEXT DAY HIT like a hangover, except for the part you weren't the one who'd been drinking.
You pushed through the revolving doors of the HYBE building with your signature Prada sunglasses perched on your nose even though the lobby lighting was soft and flattering. Your manager scurried behind you like an overworked shadow, clipboard in hand, already rattling off the day's agenda in rapid-fire mode.
"R3SET styling at 10:30 sharp. You're filming joint content today with Enhypen for their new single promo - dance challenge, variety games, and that 'chemistry talk' segment the fans love. Their company specifically requested some cross-group pairings."
You offered her a small, tired nod instead of words, flipping your hair so the ends brushed your shoulders in a smooth motion. The echo of your shoes against the marble floors cut through the quiet hum of staff and distant practice room bass as you kept walking.
'No need to snap at her just because you're exhausted' you thought to yourself. She was just doing her job in this machine that never stopped spinning.
You saved your venom for people who actually deserved it. Not that you had a specific name in mind.
Enhypen. Cute. At least it wasn't him. Today you could breathe without the weight of last night's wreckage pressing on your ribs.
Inside the fifth-floor styling suite reserved exclusively for R3SET, he air smelled of warm curling irons, fresh coffee from the craft table, and that signature Jo malone diffuser scent they pumped in to "set the mood."
Clothing racks dominated one wall —today's concept was cool, street style: oversized Adidas zip-up jackets in sleek black and washed-out grey, layered over fitted crop tops, paired with relaxed cargo pants and sneakers.Your members were already deep in transformation mode. Mina sat regal while a senior stylist perfected her long extensions, Hye-ri was getting her nails done in a glossy blood-red, and maknae Soeun was dozing in her chair as the makeup artist contoured her cheeks into something angelic.
You dropped into the center makeup chair like you owned the entire floor, crossing your legs with a dramatic sigh.
Ji-eun, your long-time makeup artist who had survived two years of your moods, gave you a quick once-over in the mirror.
"Rough night?" she asked under her breath, already squeezing primer onto her palette.
"Define rough," you muttered, scrolling through your phone even though the notifications were painfully empty.
No drunk apologies.
No blocked-number workarounds. Just silence.
"Just make me look... alive please.'"
Ji-eun smiled faintly. "Got it."
Mina glanced over, lips already glossed to perfection. "You disappeared after practice yesterday. Again. You good?”
"Spectacular," you replied, voice laced with sarcasm. "Just dealing with manchildren who thinks 2 am. drunk texts are romantic."
Hye-ri's head snapped up like a meerkat. "James again? Seriously, unnie, how many times are you two gonna do that toxic shit before one of you actually taps out?"
Never, your mind whispered traitorously.
"It's complicated, what can i say?" You shrugged.
The memory of last night flooded in uninvited; his wrecked hair, whiskey breath, the way he'd pinned you against the counter like he wanted to disappear inside you.
It all felt like a blade you kept pressing into both your palms just to feel something real.
Ji-eun worked in focused silence, blending cool concealer under your eyes to erase the shadows of sleeplessness. She layered on a smoked-out lid with razor-sharp black wings, turning your gaze predatory and elegant. Your lips got a venomous berry stain -kiss-proof, because your line of work demanded perfection even when your insides felt like chaos
The K-pop content machine never stopped turning.
Joint promotions like this with Enhypen were calculated gold: their boy-group energy paired beautifully with R3SET's girl-crush concept. Dance challenges, playful variety games, forced "get-to-know-you" segments -all designed to spark fan edits and trending hashtags.
Companies loved this shit. Fans ate it up.
Your phone buzzed. A staff message confirming the pairings. You didn't bother opening it fully.
Hye-ri spun in her chair, now fully styled in a cropped metallic top. "Jake and Sunghoon are stupid fine. Think we'll get paired for the couple dance segment?"
You scoffed, examining your reflection as Ji-eun finished with setting spray. The girl in the mirror looked lethal -flawless skin glowing, hair in sleek waves with face-framing pieces.
But inside, something softer twisted. Last night you'd ghosted James properly after months of toxic push-and-pull. Deleted everywhere. Left him standing there wrecked. And now, even on a day that had nothing to do with Cortis, his stupid ghost lingered like expensive cologne you couldn't wash off.
'Let him suffer', you thought, but the thought carried a quiet ache -like pressing on a bruise just to watch the colors bloom.
Of fucking course he wouldn't suffer, how naive could you be?
"Yeah, well," you said aloud, voice dripping venom, "hot doesn't fix emotional constipation. Most of these guys are better at choreography than conversation anyway."
You had... weird ways to cope.
Soeun giggled. "Unnie, you're so scary."
"I'm trying to give you realistic expectations," you corrected, standing up as the stylists adjusted your jacket to hang off one shoulder just right.
Your manager popped her head back in. "Fifteen minutes until we head to Studio 4 with Enhypen. Smile. Be friendly. The director wants natural vibes."
You smirked at your reflection one final time, tilting your chin.
Natural vibes.
Sure. You could do that
As R3SET filed out toward the elevators - sneakers tapping in unison, ther familiar tension coiled low in your stomach.
Not because of Enhypen, but because somewhere in this same building, James was probably nursing the same bruised ego and headache you'd gifted him last night.
You wondered if he'd heard about today's schedule. You wondered if he'd care, which was obvious, he probably wouldn't care
The distant bass from practice rooms thrummed through the walls like a heartbeat. Your own heart did that stupid, traitorous flip it always did when your thoughts drifted to him -equal parts hate and hunger, wrapped in the prettiest shade of toxicity.
This is going to be a long day, you thought, a small, but at least today, the battlefield didn't have his name on it.
You stepped into Studio 4 with a soft smile, the bright lights warming your face as you adjusted the oversized zip-up jacket hanging casually off one shoulder. The polished floors reflected the group's energy, professional. and you gave a little wave to everyone already there, your glittery eyelids catching the light in a subtle shimmer.
Your members moved around you comfortably- Mina offering polite hellos, Hye-ri stretching with a laugh, and Soeun rubbing her eyes sleepily.
The Enhypen boys were clustered near the craft table, looking sharp in their coordinated streetwear. Jake noticed you first and flashed that warm, dimpled smile. "Hey! So glad you guys made it."
You returned the smile easily, tilting your head with a small laugh. "Hi, yeah, we're excited to be here. Thanks for having us, the new song is amazing, by the way."
Okay, just breathe and be normal. No need to overthink this, you thought, suspicious they'd read through your mind and find out just how much of a crazy bitch you were
Jake had a face that screamed 'I like being pegged.'
Your manager gave you an approving nod as you kept things light and friendly, your members chatting politely with them.
Sunghoon offered you a curt nod, while Heeseung bowed politely. Jungwon, the leader, stepped forward with easy warmth.
"I watched some of your latest stages y/n! The dance machine herself- it's really cool to finally collab like this."
Dance machine. The nickname always made you duck your head a little, cheeks warming with humble pride. You'd earned it through endless hours in practice rooms, pushing your body until the music felt like it lived in your bones, but you never let it go to your head.
"Ah, stop, it's too sweet," you said with a shy grin, waving it off. "I'm just happy to dance with all of you. And Riki and i gotta live up to the title of best dancers of this generation."
You caught Riki's eye across the group and gave him a friendly fist bump when he approached, his tall frame and sharp grin matching your energy in the best way. There was an easy respect between you two, no awkwardness, just shared love for the craft.
"Yeah i'm sure we could never disappoint" Riki said, voice low and teasing but kind.
"Pretty sure we won't," you replied softly, smiling wide. "I've been practicing that footwork you posted last month - it's killer."
The director clapped his hands, calling everyone into position before the conversation could continue. "Alright! Starting with the dance challenge for the 'Bite me' remix. Let's keep it natural, lots of energy and good vibes."
The cameras started rolling, and you moved with effortless grace, your body syncing to the heavy bass like it was second nature. Every sharp isolation, every smooth body roll, every powerful pop flowe out of you, drawing quiet cheers from the staff. Riki matched you perfectly, the two of you creating that unspoken chemistry that made the dance feel alive. During the partner section, his hand guided your waist for a small lift- professional, precise, and supportive.
Between takes, you found yourself chatting with the tall man near the water station. He leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "Your timing on that pre-chorus footwork is insane. How do you even make the transitions feel so natural?
You smiled, twisting open your water bottle and taking a sip. "Lots of late nights pushing it until it clicked, honestly. But you're incredible too - you know that ankle detail you added? I tried stealing it for our teaser, but it looked mid." A soft, genuine laugh escaped you. It felt refreshing, this easy conversation without any sharp edges.
God, when was the last time talking to someone didn't feel like walking through a minefield?
Your mind drifted traitorously back to James, as it always seemed to do.
He would've noticed already -the single rebellious lash at the outer corner of your right eye that curled upward like a tiny black wing, refusing to cooperate no matter how carefully Ji-eun applied the mascara. It looked like deliberate eyeliner, but it wasn't.
James knew that.
He noticed everything about you: the way you favored your left hip when it tightened from over-practice, the specific tilt of your head when you were holding back a real smile, the faint scar on your knuckle from that mic stand incident two years ago. Even in the trainwreck of your relationship, he saw the small things that made you feel truly seen... and that was part of what made everything so complicated.
You shook the thought away gently (aggressively) as the director called for the variety games segment.
The group split into mixed teams for the silly relays -balloon passing with no hands, quick karaoke bits, and freestyle dance prompts. You ended up with Jake and Riki, fumbling through the challenges with plenty of laughter and when it was your turn to freestyle, Riki kicked it off with footwork that had everyone clapping. You followed with fluid waves and isolations, keeping it playful and encouraging the others, the cameras rolled capturing the brotherly energy that Enhypen had towards your members and you.
This was fun, better than sulking all day because of some self centered prick-
Jungwon laughed from the sidelines. "You really are the dance machine. That was so smooth!"
You blushed a little, smiling shyly. "Thanks, but you guys killed it too, no really."
The chemistry talk segment wrapped things up, everyone sitting in a loose circle on the studio floor with mics clipped on. The questions started light -favorite collabs, funny stage fails, dream variety show ideas. Hye-ri's dramatic reactions had the whole group giggling. Then it shifted to partnerships.
"So, y/n and Riki," the MC staff prompted with a friendly smile. "You two are always trending for your dance collabs. What's it like working together?"
Riki glanced at you thoughtfully. "She pushes everyone to be better. It's easy to sync up cause i feel like we both catch the little details that make a performance special."
You nodded, smiling softly as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "He's right. It's nice when someone just... gets the feeling behind the moves. And Riki's always so encouraging, like a brother,- i learn a lot from him."
You gave his shoulder a light, friendly nudge and the laughter that followed felt natural, the cameras capturing the easy, likeable vibe the director wanted. Filming wrapped with group photos, warm goodbyes, and promises of future collabs and some Enhypen members filed out first, waving cheerfully.
You were gathering your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder with a content sigh, when the studio door opened briefly.
James walked past in the hallway, probably heading somewhere else in the building, his messy hair and sharp jawline unmistakable even from a distance.
His eyes flicked inside the studio and landed on you- specifically on you chatting animatedly with Riki near the exit, the two of you still exchanging quick notes about the choreography with easy smiles.
You didn't see him at first, but your chest did.
His expression tightened for a split second -something unreadable- before he kept walking. You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye too late, your smile faltering just a touch as that toxic mix of ache and hunger twisted quietly inside you again.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and waved goodbye to the other members as they headed off to their next schedule.
Jake shot you a thumbs-up, and you waved back with both hands, cheeks still carrying that post-filming flush.
Being kind came naturally most days -it was easier to smile and lift others up than to sharpen your words like weapons- but moments like this reminded you how fragile that calm could be when James was involved.
Not that you actually gave a fuck.
Your members gathered around you near the mirrors as staff began packing up equipment.
Mina tilted her head, noticing the tiny shift in your expression. "You okay, unnie? You looked like you were having fun with Riki earlier."
You let out a soft breath and smiled again, this one a little smaller but still real. "Yeah, I'm good. It was really fun. Riki's so talented -it's nice when you can just... dance without thinking and all that corny stuff."
"You two are literally the dance machine duo everyone talks about. I swear, the way you synced up? Chef's kiss. But seriously, you've been a little spacey today." Hye-ri slung an arm around your shoulders, her blood-red nails flashing under the lights. "Is it because of... looser king?"
Looser king was the -ridiculous and childish- nickname you'd given James, it was some sort of code name to make it easier to speak about him under full confidentiality.
But you were pretty sure James was aware that he was in fact the looser king.
Soeun perked up from where she was sipping her water, eyes wide and curious. "Wait, James again? Unnie, you gotta tell us the full story one day. You always come back from seeing him looking like you got into a fight with 10 elephants or something."
You ducked your head with a shy laugh, tucking that stubborn strand of hair behind your ear again.
The rebellious lash at the outer corner of your right eye caught in the mirror's reflection -curling upward just enough to look like intentional liner flair.
You knew James would have zeroed in on it instantly if he'd been closer.
It was scary, really -how someone who drove you so crazy could still make you feel more seen than the thousands of fans screaming your name.
Why did he have to notice the small things? It would be easier if he just... didn't
Screw that, it would be easier if he just fucking died.
"I don't know," you admitted quietly to your members, voice kind and a little vulnerable as you all started walking toward the elevators. "It's complicated. He texts something messy at 2 a.m., i show up like an idiot, and then... well, you know. But today was nice. No drama, just dancing and laughing with good people. I'm tryna keep it that way."
Hye-ri squeezed your shoulder supportively. "You deserve easy days, unnie. You work harder than anyone I know. Him on the other hand? He deserves to get properly beaten up."
The compliment warmed you, but the last comment made you even happier, and you bumped her lightly with your hip, grinning.
"Stop, you're gonna make me blush in front of the staff, i'm gonna start thinking it's okay to beat men up sometimes."
Inside your head, though, the gremlin of misconduct whispered: "Beat him up until he can't even curse at you anymore. Violence IS the answer."
•••
As you rode the elevator down, your phone buzzed in your pocket -a staff message about the next schedule and a few fan edits already popping up from previous projects.
You looked through the myriad of comments, some outstandingly mean for no reason, but some comforting.
And every few seconds your mind circled back to James standing in that hallway, jaw tight, eyes locked on you like he couldn't look away. He'd seen the easy smile you gave Riki, the open body language, the way you were genuinely enjoying yourself without the usual push-and-pull.
You wondered if he'd text again tonight. If you'd answer. If you'd end up right back where you started —face down in his bed or storming out his door.
For now, though, you zipped up your hoodie a little higher and followed your members out into the lobby, offering small smiles and waves to passing staff.
Self control was a beautiful invention.
Because you were about 99% sure that without it, you'd be yelling at everyone by now.
Mina walked on your left, her long extensions swaying elegantly with each step like a curtain, one hand absently twirling a strand around her finger in that regal quirk of hers that always made her look like she belonged in a drama scene even during casual walks. At 24, she carried herself with this quiet, big-sister poise that somehow made everyone around her feel steadier.
Hye-ri, on your right, bounced along, her freshly done blood-red nails flashing like warning signs every time she gestured wildly, cracking her knuckles with a satisfying pop that made Soeun cringe beside her. 20 year old Hye-ri was the spark plug of R3SET -bold, dramatic, but with a heart so big it could probably power the entire building
"I swear, y/n-unnie, you and Riki looked like you were born to share a stage, it's so sad fans would make rumors if you guys collabed... Meanwhile, I was over here trying not to drop that balloon on Jake's head during the relay. Did you see his face? Poor guy went full puppy eyes."
She let out a bright, infectious laugh that turned a few heads in the lobby, slinging her arm around your shoulders again in that casual, protective way she had. She'd had a long time crush on Jake, he had this thing about him, almost like a little dog, harmless and awkward. You could see the appeal— that is if you weren't so blinded by toxicity.
Maknae Soeun trailed just behind, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand in her signature sleepy way, her angelic contoured cheeks still flushed from the variety games. At 19, she was all wide-eyed curiosity mixed with this adorable habit of dozing off mid-conversation if things got too calm, only to pop back awake with the most random questions.
"Can we get snacks on the way back? My stomach's doing that rumble thing again." She patted her belly.
As your manager's van pulled up to the curb, Hye-ri hopped in first, dramatically claiming the back seat with a flourish of her red nails. "Shotgun for snacks! Soeun, no falling asleep on my shoulder this time -you drool."
Soeun climbed in after her with a sleepy protest and a giggle, "I don't. Only time i did that was cause i was exhausted."
Mina slid in gracefully beside you in the middle row, her extensions pooling neatly as she offered you a piece of gum from her bag -another one of her quiet caring quirks, always prepared with little comforts, her eyes flicking to you with that perceptive big-sister intuition.
You accepted it with a grateful smile, popping the minty gum into your mouth as the van merged into traffic. "Thanks, Mina. Seriously, you all made today feel easy, no pressure, just... dancing and laughing. It's been a while since it felt that light, you guys are the best."
The girls smiled at you, Hye-ri pulling you into a side hug as the van settled. The city lights started blurring past the windows as evening crept in, and Soeun's head was already starting to tilt toward Hye-ri's shoulder despite her earlier denial. Hye-ri just rolled her eyes fondly, adjusting so the maknae could rest comfortably -her tough exterior hiding the softest spot for the youngest.
"You know," Hye-ri said after a beat, voice dropping into something more sincere as she looked at you, "whatever's going on with James... you don't have to figure it out alone, you know that right?"
You leaned your head against the cool window, watching the streets pass in a gentle rhythm, and let out a small self-deprecating laugh.
"I know. And I appreciate it more than you guys realize. He's just... he's so weird. And so i get weird too, it's a never ending cycle. And it's kinda...complicated. "
The van filled with understanding hums and a few teasing but kind jabs from Hye-ri about "toxic hot boys," but you just refused to categorize him as that. He was mean, and rude, and moody, but toxic?
Was it really toxic if you wanted it that much?
• • •
You stepped into the dorm after what felt like an eternity, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sigh of relief. The familiar scent of vanilla candles and the faint trace of Hye-ri's strawberry body spray wrapped around yu.
She always had this way of spraying the sweetest scents that reminded you of your childhood, back when you weren't this tormented by fat CEOs and executives.
The living room was dimly lit by the string lights Soeun had insisted on hanging last month -soft golden glows that made the space feel less like a high-end prison and more like an actual home. You kicked off your sneakers, letting them thud against the shoe rack, and padded toward your room in socked feet, the cool hardwood a small mercy against your aching soles.
"Unnie, don't stay up too late doing black magic on James, we've got early meetings tomorrow." Hye-ri called from the kitchen
She was already raiding the fridge for late-night snacks (cucumbers since the company had made her go on an -unnecessary- diet). Her voice carried that signature playful lilt, the one that always made you snort even when you were drained.
She was teasing you about the last fan rumors: people claiming they'd seen you do black magic on other idols at an award show; when you'd thought black magic meant the kind of princess-and-pony magic that people of color did.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll try not to summon any demons..." you shot back, voice tired but teasing.
In your room, you peeled off the oversized hoodie and cargo pants, tossing them into the laundry hamper with more force than necessary. The glitter on your eyelids had survived the day surprisingly well, but it was time to let the armor come off. You headed straight for the bathroom, twisting the faucet until steam rose in lazy curls. The tub filled slowly as you added a generous scoop of Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender oil -the good stuff your manager had gifted after that brutal comeback week.
Sinking into the hot water felt like sinking into oblivion, the heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the knots from hours of dancing and the invisible tension James always left coiled in your chest.
Somehow it all came back to him. Even when it wasn't inherently about him.
God, just one night without thinking about that walking glob of spit and dust, you thought, tilting your head back against the cool porcelain edge while bubbles popped softly around you.
You scrolled through your phone with damp fingers -harmless stuff: fan edits, a few memes Soeun had sent in the group chat, a skincare tutorial that promised to fix "tired eyes."
For once, James didn't dominate every corner of your brain. You let yourself float there, eyes half-closed, humming the melody of Enhypen's new track under your breath.
After the bath, skin flushed and smelling like an Ulta store, you wrapped yourself in a fluffy robe and tackled your mini skincare ritual. Double cleanse, toner, serums layered like a protective spell - your makeup artist Ji-Eun would be proud. You even did the gua sha thing Mina swore by, rolling the cool stone along your jawline while staring at your reflection.
Energized by the warm water and the rare quiet, you settled at your desk in soft lounge shorts and a cropped tank, laptop open.
You had a half-finished lyrics draft for a potential solo track- something about 'wanting what you shouldn't.'
Your fingers hovered over the keys, then dove in, you tweaked melodies on your keyboard setup, layering soft synths over a moody bassline. You even laughed at yourself when a particularly cheesy line came out - "heart like a battlefield, but damn if I don't love the war" -and deleted it immediately. Cringe. But accurate.
Your phone buzzed on the desk beside you, the screen lighting up with a new message. You glanced over, expecting a text from the members' group chat or a staff alert.
Instead, it was from him. James.
The preview showed an image attachment. Your stomach did that annoying little flip despite everything, what could he possibly have to say that fit into a singular photo?
You opened it. There, in crystal clear detail, was his hand -long fingers, veins prominent, the same hand that had gripped your thighs last night- holding up a pair of familiar red lace panties.
Your red lace panties. The delicate ones with the tiny bow at the front.
Your face heated instantly. That smug fucking asshole.
You could practically hear his raspy voice saying it, that low drawl laced with mockery. You stared at the photo, thumb hovering over the screen. The panties looked small in his grip, almost fragile against the rough masculinity of his hand.
Heat pooled low in your belly uninvited before you locked the phone and set it face down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an immediate reply.
Ignore. Let him stew.
You tried going back to your lyrics, but the words blurred.
Then came another buzz, and against your better judgment, you checked.
It was a single picture with a small message.
JAMES ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ they still smell like you
The same red lace panties were now wrapped tightly around his very hard cock. The fabric stretched obscenely over the thick length, the lace pattern visible where it strained. His hand was gripping the base, thumb pressing just below the head. The lighting in his room was low, shadows accentuating every single ridge and vein.
"Fuck," you whispered aloud, thighs pressing together instinctively, not without a bit of annoyance. Your pulse kicked up, a traitorous warmth spreading between your legs. The image was burned into your retinas now -raw, deliberate and meant to ruin your peace.
YOU ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ And stop stealing my shit, you klepto
You waited. The typing bubbles appeared... then disappeared with no response. Minutes ticked by. Nothing. You refreshed the chat like an idiot, heart hammering.
Of fucking course. He started the fire and walked away. This was his sick revenge for yesterday.
The ache between your thighs grew insistent, slick and frustrating. You shifted in your chair, trying to focus on anything else- your laptop, the half-written chorus... But all you could picture was him, lounging in his bed, smirking at his phone while you sat here wet and bothered.
Eventually, you gave up, you brushed your teeth aggressively, changed into an oversized sleep shirt, and crawled into bed.
The sheets felt too warm, too smooth against your sensitized skin, you felt like you were about to blow up any minute, taunt nipples brushing against the mattress.
You tossed and turned, the image replaying behind your closed eyelids, his hand, the lace. The way he'd looked at you last night -desperate and furious and hungry all at once.
Your hand slipped under the covers once, hovering, but you stopped yourself with a groan,
Not giving him that power tonight.

▬▬▬ MORNING LIGHT FILTERED through your curtains, soft and golden. Your alarm hadn't even gone off yet when your phone vibrated on the nightstand. Groggy, you reached for it, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
And who better than an entitled motherfucker to wake you up when things were already going downhill.
JAMES : Two can play that game, you brat.
You stared at the screen, a slow smile tugging at your lips despite the fresh wave of heat low in your stomach. The dynamic between you two was a live wire -dangerous, addictive, impossible to quit, cold turkey. He pushed, you pushed back harder; he teased, you left him wrecked; he ignored, and you burned.
Still, he'd woken up and still thought about last nights events, stupid. Really amateur move.
YOU: Keep dreaming. Those panties are yours now. Consider it a parting gift.
You set the phone down, stretching languidly under the covers, body still humming from last night's unresolved tension. You wondered how long it would take before one of you cracked again.
JAMES : They were already mine, finders keeper.
• • •
The HYBE lobby was already in full morning swing when you pushed through the revolving doors. You had your phone pressed against your ear, pretending to be on a call so no one would stop you for small talk, which was a technique you'd perfected to a fine art over the years.
Your manager walked three steps behind you, mercifully quiet for once, scrolling through her own device.
You hadn't replied to James's last text yet. That was a choice. A very deliberate, very painful choice, like holding your hand over a candle flame just to prove you could.
You were fully aware that the longer you waited, the more it would eat at him, and the thought of James checking his phone every ten minutes with that jaw-tight, eye-twitching irritation he got when he was being ignored made something deeply petty bloom in your chest like a very satisfied flower.
You were not above petty. You had built an entire personality around it
The elevator dinged open on the third floor and you stepped out into the corridor that ran between the mid-size practice rooms, the ones with the slightly better sound systems that the senior acts got priority access to.
You were scanning your schedule on your phone, half reading, half still replaying his text in your head - two can play that game, you brat- when you nearly walked directly into Park Sunghoon's elbow.
"Whoa, sorry-" he started, stepping back.
"No, my fault," you said automatically, phone disappearing into your pocket like you weren't supposedly on a call, as you offered him a polite smile. He looked mildly alarmed in the way that extremely handsome people sometimes did when they accidentally inconvenienced someone, like they were genuinely surprised they could do something bad. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
"Neither was I," he said easily, readjusting the water bottle under his arm. "Good collab yesterday. You and Riki make everyone else look like they're moving through concrete."
"You're being modest, your lines yesterday were clean," you said, and meant it.
Sunghoon smiled. "The transition in the second section gave us trouble for a while. Didn't feel right until about two days before filming."
"You couldn't tell," you said. "That's the point."
"That's what our choreographer keeps saying," he said. "I'm starting to believe it."
You smiled. There was something straightforwardly easy about Sunghoon -direct without being pointed, warm without requiring anything in return.
Or maybe things were just so easy outside of the James sphere.
"The new single's really good, by the way," you said, because it was and because you'd meant to say it during the collab and the schedule hadn't allowed. "The bridge especially. The production detail in it."
"Jake's been working on that arrangement for weeks," Sunghoon smiled, "He'll be glad to hear that."
He lifted the water bottle in a small departing gesture and turned back down the corridor.
James saw it all from the far end of the hall.
He hadn't been heading this direction specifically - or rather, he had been, because the third floor had the good practice rooms, he had a session booked and the route took him through this corridor, which was a fact and NOT a choice.
He'd seen you before you saw him.
That was also a fact.
You were talking to Sunghoon. James slowed. Not stopped -he didn't stop, he kept walking, but at a pace that was slightly below his normal pace.
He couldn't hear the conversation. He just had the visual: you and Sunghoon in the corridor, the natural ease of it, you saying something and Sunghoon listening in the attentive way he had, then you both smiling at something, and your smile -landing in James's chest like a key finding a lock.
He kept walking. He was very focused on the middle distance, on the practice room he was going to and the session he had booked
He was fine.
He passed the two of you on the opposite side of the corridor — enough distance that proximity wasn't a thing, that nobody needed to acknowledge anybody, that he was simply a person walking down a hall and you were two people having a conversation and none of it required any interaction.
Sunghoon glanced over briefly. The nod of an industry acquaintance. James returned it with the economy of someone who was very focused on his destination.
He did not look at you. He felt you notice him anyway — the slight shift in the quality of the conversation, the atmospheric change that happened whenever he was in your space. A space that didn't belong to him.
James didn't see it though, he just knew it was there because after three years he could read the room you were in from his peripheral vision alone.
He kept walking. Turned the corner. Stopped. Stood against the wall with his coffee in both hands and looked at the corridor in front of him
The smile. The real one.
Directed at fucking Sunghoon.
He'd seen that smile maybe fifty times in three years. Each time it had cost him something. Each time he'd looked away before anyone could file it as evidence. And you'd given it to him. Hell you'd given it to so many people.
But it was his. His smile. It belonged to him.
You headed in opposite directions with nothing more than a nod, which you appreciated. Sunghoon had always struck you as someone who understood the value of not overstaying a conversation. You could respect that.
You were halfway down the hall when you felt it before you saw it -that presence your nervous system had apparently been trained, like a very stupid Pavlovian dog, to recognize.
James was coming from the other direction, having circled back. He had his hood up, headphones around his neck, a coffee in one hand, and the particular walk he had when he'd slept badly -slightly slower than usual, shoulders carrying extra tension, jaw working like he was grinding through something mentally.
He looked like a weather system. Specifically, the kind with a rotating center and a name assigned by meteorologists.
You didn't slow down. Neither did he.
You passed each other with approximately forty centimeters of clearance and zero words exchanged. His eyes slid to yours for exactly one second -dark, unreadable, and annoyingly direct -before you both looked away simultaneously, with the practiced indifference of two people who had touched each other's skin less than thirty-six hours ago and were now pretending to be strangers in a hallway.
You turned the corner and stood still for two full seconds.
Cool, you thought. Great. Fantastic. Incredible start to the day.
Your phone buzzed, and you stared at the screen with the expression of someone watching a car roll slowly into a ditch.
You pocketed your phone with more force than necessary and pushed open the door to Practice Room 3B, where Mina was already stretching in the center of the floor serene, like someone who had slept eight full hours and woken up without a single unresolved situationship weighing on their conscience.
It must be nice, you thought, not for the first time, to be Mina.
"You good?" she asked, not looking up from where she was bent over one extended leg, her long extensions fanned across the floor.
"Perfect," you said, tossing your bag toward the mirror wall.
Completely, entirely, one hundred percent fine.
She looked up at that, because after a few years Mina could identify the specific frequency of your lies with the accuracy of military-grade sonar. One perfectly shaped eyebrow climbed toward her hairline. "Looser king?" she asked.
"Passed him in the hallway." you admitted.
"And?"
"Nothing. We didn't talk."
Mina made a small, diplomatic humming sound that somehow communicated, 'I have opinions about this but I love you so I won't say them right now,' which was honestly one of her most advanced social skills. She uncurled from her stretch and stood up with effortless grace.
"Hye-ri's getting coffee downstairs, Soeun already called in that she's running fifteen minutes behind because she fell back asleep.
"So out of character," you said, and meant it with great affection but with extreme sarcasm.
You pulled up the playlist for your current practice track, dropped into a stretch of your own, letting the familiar burn in your hamstrings pull your focus back into your body and away from the seven-layer cake of annoyance currently occupying the front of your mind.
Music drifted from the Bluetooth speaker -a pre-release track you'd been given early for choreography study, something with a heavy trap undercurrent. You hummed along absently, working through your warm-up sequence.
The thing about dancing -the real thing, the thing you couldn't explain to people who didn't do it-was that it required your entire brain. Not just the motor cortex doing its job, but everything: musicality, spatial awareness, emotional translation, split-second physical decision-making
When you were actually in it, properly in it, there was no room for anything else.
No James, no red lace photographs, no hallway eye contact that lasted exactly one second too long to be purely coincidental.
The problem was warm-up. Warm-up was not properly in it yet. Warm-up left your mind running parallel tracks, which meant James had real estate in your head and was currently doing absolutely nothing productive with it.
The door banged open.
"I got oat milk lattes and one matcha because Mina will make that face at me if I don't." Hye-ri swept in with a drink carrier, her red nails vivid against the cardboard, wearing a cropped sweatshirt that said PROBLEMS across the chest in block letters that you privately thought was too on the nose for a Tuesday morning.
She set the carrier down and looked between you and Mina with a swift social intelligence like she'd grown up reading rooms as a survival skill. "What'd I miss?"
"She passed 'looser king' in the hallway," Mina said, accepting her matcha.
Hye-ri turned to you with a curious exprsssion. "And?"
"Why does everyone keep asking 'and' like something interesting happened?" you said, taking your latte. "Nothing happened. We walked past each other. That's it."
"Did you make eye contact?
"Err... briefly."
"Did it kill you?"
"A little bit."
"Okay yeah that tracks." She dropped onto the floor beside you, tucking her legs into a butterfly stretch. "You know what your problem is? You're too proud to be the first one to crack and he knows it
You took a long sip of your latte and stared at the middle distance. "I really need you to not be right about this."
"Unfortunately," she said brightly, "I'm almost always right. It's actually a burden how smart and on the point i am."
"Tragic," Mina said, very quietly, into her matcha.
The door opened again and Soeun stumbled in looking like she'd been reassembled from several different directions, her hair in a lopsided bun and her bag hanging off one shoulder.
"I'm here, I'm here -the alarm got delayed.. AND I fell asleep, it wasn't just the falling asleep part-"
"We know," the three of you said simultaneously.
She dropped her bag and looked at you with sudden alertness, the way she sometimes snapped into clarity completely at random, like a phone screen turning on when you weren't expecting it.
"Did something happen with looser king?"
You looked at the ceiling.
"Everyone mind your business," you said, with all the conviction of someone who was absolutely going to tell them everything eventually. You liked gossip way too much.
Practice went well, which it usually did when you threw yourself into it. By the time your choreographer ran you through the new bridge section for the fourth time, you'd stopped thinking in words entirely and were operating purely on music and muscle memory, which was exactly where you liked to be.
Soeun caught the hip accent on the pre-chorus after several attempts and let out a delighted noise that made everyone in the room smile, because Soeun happy, made everyone happy.
Your phone stayed in your bag drugs whole time.
That was the rule -the one rule you actually kept consistently.
Whatever chaos was happening in the outside world, the practice room was the one place that remained clean.
When you finally surfaced two and a half hours later, sweaty and pleasantly wrung out, you had three messages from James waiting. You sat on the floor against the mirror wall to cool down, water bottle in hand, and read them in order.
JAMES : you know what's funny, you walking out the other day like that. pretty sure that's the most attention you've ever paid me
You looked at the screen for a long moment.That was more honest than anything he usually sent. James had always been dense, texting barely a few words before loosing interest, the fact that he'd made full sentences was concerning?
He wouldn't have said that if he'd thought it through. He was more careful than that when he was composed. Which meant he'd sent it before he was fully composed, which meant he'd been thinking about it for a while.
YOU : that's the saddest thing you've ever said to me. and you once told me my stage presence was "mid" so that's saying something
His reply came in thirty seconds, which told you everything.
JAMES : i was drunk when i said that
YOU : you're always drunk when you say the things that actually matter
JAMES : don't psychoanalyze me before noon
YOU:it's 11:47
JAMES : close enough
YOU : James.
A pause, longer than the previous ones.
Your chest did the thing it did sometimes -the complicated clench that wasn't quite longing and wasn't quite anger but lived in the narrow territory between them.
JAMES : come get your panties back
You let out a sound that was caught precisely between a laugh and a frustrated groan and Hye-ri looked up from where she was re-taping her fingers.
You held up a hand: 'don't ask'. She held both hands up: 'wasn't going to'.
YOU: burn them. keep them. donate them to a museum. I don't fucking care.
JAMES : you care, you love these panties.
YOU: I really don't anymore now that i know you had your filthy hands on it.
JAMES : same hands that had you bent over just last week.
You put your phone face down on the floor and pressed your palms to your eyes.
The maddening, infuriating, genuinely impressive thing about James was that he was a cruel asshole but also so particularly interesting. You knew the way his mood shifted when he was actually upset versus performing irritation, the minute tension around his eyes that appeared before a real argument. You knew he held his coffee cup with two hands in the morning even though it wasn't heavy enough to need two hands. You knew he got quieter, when something actually got to him, and that the loud version —the insults and the jaw clenching and the aggressive proximity- was almost always armor.
You knew his armor better than most people knew his face. That was the problem, distilled to its ugliest and most honest form.
You knew each other too well for any of the distance to actually work. Every exit you staged, every blocked number, every time you walked out his door with something that felt like triumph and tasted like loss- he could see through it.
And you could see through his.
It was like trying to hide from someone who had your exact same prescription lenses.
You picked up your phone.
YOU: fine. I'll come get them. but if you say anything stupid I'm leaving immediately.
JAMES : define stupid
YOU : anything that comes out of your mouth
JAMES : so you're definitely leaving immediately
YOU :yeah probably
JAMES : tonight?
YOU : yeah. tonight.
You locked your phone, stood up, rolling your neck until it cracked satisfyingly, and gathered your bag from the corner.
Soeun was demonstrating something to Hye-ri near the mirror, both of them half-watching you. Mina was on the phone across the room, not looking at you, which was actually the most suspicious thing she could have done
"Practice is over," you announced to no one in particular. "Everyone go be normal people somewhere else."
"We live with you," Soeun pointed out helpfully.
"Then go be normal people in our home."
"You're going to see him tonight, aren't you,"
Hye-ri said. It wasn't a question.
Her blood-red nails caught the overhead lighting as she crossed her arms, expression somewhere between fond and long-suffering, like a person watching their favourite disaster film for the eleventh time.
They already knew the ending and were choosing to watch anyway.
You slung your bag over your shoulder, in an exaggerated professional tone "I'm going to retrieve personal property that was stolen from me."
"In the middle of the night."
"Theft doesn't have business hours, Hye-ri."
She pointed at you with one finger. "You're going to come home and either look like you got thoroughly fucked or like someone ran you over, and either way I want a full debrief."
"Absolutely not," you said, heading for the door.
"I'm setting an alarm!" she called after you.
You waved your hand without turning around, the door swung shut behind you, and you stood in the corridor for a moment - in the particular specific quiet of having made a decision you knew was probably not wise and were going to make anyway.
Because some gravitational fields were simply too strong to resist with willpower alone.
▬▬▬THE CORTIS DORMS were exactly as chaotic as they always were at nine in the evening. You could hear them before you even reached the floor -the specific layered noise of young men (more like boys) existing loudly and simultaneously.
Someone's music bleeding through a closed door, the distant sound of what was either a heated gaming session or a genuine argument, and the smell of instant ramen drifting into the corridor like an olfactory welcome mat
You'd changed before coming. Not a lot -you weren't about to give James the satisfaction of thinking you'd dressed for him- but you'd swapped the practice sweats for a pair of black sweatpants and a top. Hair down, lip tint, the same pair of sneakers you'd been wearing all day because you genuinely could not be bothered to perform any harder than this.
You were here on an errand. A retrieval mission.
A very normal, very emotionally uncomplicated visit to collect an item of personal property from a person you definitely did not have complicated feelings about.
This was a lie and you were aware of it.
You raised your knuckles to knock on the main dorm entrance when the door swung open from the inside, and you came face to face with Seonghyeon, who was clearly on his way out with his gym bag and had not been expecting you.
"Oh," he said. "Hey."
"Hey," you gave a right smile.
A beat of the specific silence that existed between people who knew each other primarily through someone else's drama.
"He's in his room," Seonghyeon offered.
"Cool," you said. "Thanks."
He held the door open for you and left, which you appreciated enormously. You stepped inside, where the living room was occupied by Martin on the couch with a controller and Keonho eating ramen at the kitchen counter.
Martin glanced up, did a small double take, and then looked back at his screen, Keonho lifted his chopsticks in a gesture that you interpreted as a greeting.
"He knows you're coming?" the younger asked, not unkindly.
"Allegedly," you shrugged.
"Cool." He went back to his ramen. No further questions.
You appreciated the Cortis members' collective commitment to minding their own business, which was either a very mature group dynamic or a survival mechanism developed from living with James the tyrant.
You knocked on his door with three sharp raps- not soft, never soft, softness at James's door felt like conceding something- and waited.
"It's open," he called.
You opened the door. His room was dim, lit by the lamp on his desk and the ambient glow of his monitor, which had a paused game on the screen. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, wearing a black hoodie and sweats, hair unstyled like when he'd showered and not thought about it afterward.
He looked up when you walked in and said nothing for a moment.
"You actually came," he noted
"I said I would."
"You say a lot of things."
"So do you," you said, stepping inside and letting the door fall shut behind you.
You crossed your arms, staying near the door, because proximity to James in a dimly lit room after nine pm was a variable that required careful management.
"Where are they?"
One corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something more infuriating than a smile. He reached to the nightstand beside his bed without breaking eye contact and held up the red lace, dangling from one finger with a casual ease that made your jaw tighten.
"You came all the way here for these," he said.
"You made a whole deal out of having them," you said. "Don't act so surprised."
"I'm not surprised." He set them down on the bed beside him, which meant you'd have to get closer to take them, obviously intentional.
You stared at him for a moment with the knowledge that you saw exactly what was happening and was choosing to walk into it anyway, because what was the alternative —admitting you couldn't get within arm's reach of him without losing structural integrity?
Absolutely the fuck not.
You sprint-crossed the room and picked them up.
But caught your wrist in time. Not hard -barely any pressure at all, really- just the curl of his fingers around your wrist bone— and your pulse spiked before your brain had even fully processed the contact.
"You're just gonna leave," he said. It wasn't quite a question
"That was the plan," you answered.
"You're not gonna say anything?"
"I said plenty today. Over text. Which you started, by the way, with your little stupid photos."
"You could have ignored them." a hint of a smile tugged as his lips.
"How does one possibly ignore a dick pic?"
"Fair," His thumb moved slightly against the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtless. Like he truly did that out of pure habit.
He was looking up at you from where he sat, which was a strange reversal of the usual geometry between you, and something about it stripped away layers of defense.
"You wanna fight?" he asked, like he was asking if you wanted a glass of water.
"I always wanna fight with you," you said honestly.
"Yeah." A pause. "Me too."
You looked at him. He looked at you. The lamp threw warm shadows across the angles of his face -- somewhere down the hall someone scored a goal based on the brief eruption from the living room, and none of it touched the specific atmosphere of this room, which had its own weather system entirely.
"Come here," he motioned, quietly.
Not commanding, just that, two words with the pretense stripped out. And that was the version of James that was the most genuinely dangerous, because it was the one you couldn't construct a defense against.
You let the red lace fall from your fingers like it had burned you, the fabric whispering against the nightstand as it landed.
James didn't move at first. He just watched you with that half-lidded stare, the one that always made you feel 20 pounds heavier. Then his hand was on your wrist again, firmer this time, tugging you down until your knees hit the edge of the bed between his spread thighs.
You went willingly. That was the worst part -you always went.
His other hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressing just under your chin to tilt your face toward his.
"You're pissed," he murmured, voice low enough that it vibrated against your skin.
"So are you."
"Yeah." His grip tightened, not enough to be rough but enough to remind you he could if you ever asked. "Come here and be pissed with me, then."
You kissed him first, skill issue.
It was immediate, messy, all teeth and frustration, the kind of kiss that felt like an argument with no words. His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting faintly of the mint he'd probably chewed to cover the taste of whatever he'd been stress-eating earlier.
You climbed into his lap without breaking it, knees bracketing his hips, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie like you wanted to rip it off and strangle him with it at the same time.
His hands settled on your hips, fingers flexing against the soft fabric of your sweatpants. Not pulling, not yet. Just holding. Testing.
"You really came all this way just to pretend you don't want this," he said, voice low, rough around the edges.
"I came for my panties," you answered, even as your hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the hoodie.
Too fast for someone pretending to be casual.
It was beating so hard his entire chest cavity was vibrating.
Could he feel yours doing the same thing? you wondered, panic rising in your throat like bile. Could he feel that it was beating because of him? Could he feel the difference between a heart that was just pumping blood, and a heart that was begging for him?
"Liar." He tugged you closer with a firm grip, guiding you until you were straddling one of his thighs.
The solid pressure of muscle against your core was immediate, warm, and maddening. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to swallow the sound that tried to escape, his thumb slipped beneath the waistband of your sweats, stroking bare skin in slow, lazy circles that sent heat pooling low in your belly.
"You always lie when you're already wet for me."
"Fuck you," you whispered, but there was no heat in it. Or maybe there was too much.
He huffed a quiet laugh against your collarbone, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
"That's the plan."
He took his time, savoring the slow unraveling. Your top came off first, dragged upward by his hands, his calloused palms skimming up your ribs, thumbs brushing the sensitive underside of your breasts before cupping them fully.
He watched your face the entire time- cataloguing the way your breath hitched, the flutter of your lashes, the flush creeping across your chest. When he leaned in, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue slow and teasing in wet circles, you let out a shaky exhale and threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging harder than necessary.
James groaned softly against your skin, the vibration traveling straight through you. "Still so fucking sensitive here."
He switched sides, sucking harder this time, one hand sliding down your stomach until his fingers dipped beneath your waistband. He stroked you through the thin fabric of your underwear first- firm, deliberate circles that made your hips twitch forward involuntarily, chasing the friction.
"James-" you started, voice already fraying.
When he finally pushed your sweats and underwear down your thighs, you stood just long enough to kick them away. Naked now, while he was still mostly dressed.
The power imbalance felt deliberate and infuriating.
He pulled you back into his lap fully, both of you facing each other.
His hands mapped every inch of your bare back, then lower, squeezing your ass as he rocked you against the hard, insistent line of his cock still trapped in his sweats. The friction was torturous- too much fabric, not enough skin, the heat of him radiating through the material. You reached between you, palming him firmly, feeling the thick length twitch under your touch. He was hot, already leaking against the fabric.
"You're just as bad you know," you muttered against his mouth, stroking him slowly. "Acting like you don't think about this every single night."
"I do." Honest and raw. His voice dropped. "Every fucking night."
The confession cracked something open in your chest. You shoved his hoodie and shirt up and off in one impatient motion, running your hands over the familiar planes of his chest, the faint ridges of muscle, the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. His breathing had grown heavier, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-closed as you freed him from his sweats and stroked him skin-to-skin-slow, deliberate pulls that made his hips jerk.
He caught your wrist again -the same one from earlier- and pulled your hand away. "No time."
And he was right, there was no time indeed. This was a quickie, one of the many you'd had with him, nothing more nothing less.
So he flipped you onto your back with controlled strength, the narrow dorm bed creaking under the shift in weight. He settled between your thighs, broad shoulders blocking out most of the lamplight. His cock nudged against your entrance, sliding through your slickness in slow, teasing drags against your clit, but never pushing inside. Just rocking, building the ache until your nails dug into his biceps.
You squirmed, nails digging into his biceps. "Stop fucking teasing."
"Make me." His smirk was infuriating, but his eyes were dark with the same need clawing at you.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and tried to pull him in, but he resisted, holding your hips down with one hand while the other braced beside your head.
He leaned down, kissing you deeply again, then trailed his mouth along your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that would be hell to hide tomorrow.
Only when you were trembling, hips chasing him desperately, did he finally push inside -inch by slow, thick inch. The stretch burned in the best way, filling you completely.
Your mouth fell open on a silent cry. James's hand clamped over your mouth instantly, palm firm, fingers pressing into your cheek.
"Quiet," he growled against your ear, voice strained as he bottomed out and stilled, letting you feel every inch of him. "Whole dorm's still awake. You want them to hear how badly you need me?"
You glared at him, but your walls clenched hard around him in response. He hissed through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on yours.
He started moving -slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Not frantic, not yet. Every thrust was calculated, angry in its restraint, like he was punishing you both for how much you needed this. The bed creaked softly with each movement.
Skin against skin, the faint wet sounds of him sliding in and out, your ragged breathing against his palm.
You moaned into his hand, the sound muffled and desperate and he leaned closer, forehead to forehead again, sweat starting to bead on his skin.
"Feel that?" he whispered, grinding deep on a particularly slow thrust. "So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”
And maybe in its own fucked up way, you were. You were equally as mean, equally as complicated, you both probably deserved each other.
All you knew was that, you'd let him do anything to you, beyond what even the most depraved people could conceive
You bit the side of his palm in retaliation.
He chuckled darkly, then snapped his hips harder once, twice, making your eyes roll back before he slowed again, dragging it out. He did it until you molded around him, slowly taking his shape, filling all the spaces and cracks inside of him.
"Say it," he demanded, voice barely above a breath. "Tell me you missed this.”
You shook your head stubbornly, even as tears of overwhelming sensation pricked at the corners of your eyes.
He pulled almost all the way out -leaving you devastatingly empty-then slid back in so torturously slow you nearly sobbed against his hand.
"Say it."
"...Missed it," you mumbled against his palm, the words barely intelligible. "Missed you, asshole."
His eyes darkened further. The pace picked up gradually - still controlled, but deeper, rougher, hips slapping against yours with more force. Every thrust carried weeks of unsaid fights, missed calls and slammed doors. Anger and longing twisted together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
You wanted more, more, more.
You wanted to crawl into his skin and tear at his flesh until he was nothing but bones and a filthy ego.
His free hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, angling so he hit that spot inside you with every stroke. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines you knew he'd feel tomorrow. James groaned low in his throat, pressing his face into your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder as he fucked you harder.
You were close -embarrassingly close both to orgasming and dying as weirdly as it sounded— body tightening around him, thighs shaking.
James could feel it. He always could.
"Not yet," he rasped, slowing again, keeping you right on the edge. "Not until I say."
You whined against his hand, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all. He kissed the corner of your eye, almost gentle, then started moving again -long, dragging strokes that made your toes curl.
When he finally let you tip over, it crashed through you like a wave. Your whole body seized, back arching hard as you came with a broken cry muffled completely by his palm.
He fucked you through every wave, hips stuttering only slightly as your orgasm milked him, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive beneath him.
James's rhythm grew erratic, thrusts turning rough and desperate. His breathing was ragged against your neck, hot and uneven.
"Fuck-fuck, I'm-" The words were barely coherent, growled into your skin. His hand finally slipped from your mouth so he could brace himself better, fingers digging into the sheets beside your head.
He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt so deep you felt it in your stomach. His entire body went rigid above you -muscles locked, back bowing, thighs trembling against yours.
A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, raw and broken, vibrating against your collarbone as his hips jerked forward in sharp, involuntary pulses. You felt every pulse of his release-hot, thick spurts flooding deep inside you, each one accompanied by a helpless grind of his hips, like he was trying to push even deeper, trying to fuse the two of you together.
His cock throbbed hard with every wave, the warmth of him spilling and spilling until it started to leak out around where you were joined. His breath came in harsh, stuttering gasps, his forehead pressed tight to yours, sweat dripping from his hair onto your cheek.
For several long seconds he stayed buried inside you, hips making tiny, reflexive movements as the last aftershocks rolled through him, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.
When it finally ebbed, he collapsed half on top of you, heavy and boneless, face buried in the crook of your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.
Afterward, the room was very quiet. The lamp was still on. It was always still on, after, because neither of you ever thought to turn it off in the chaos of everything.
You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, one arm folded behind your head, and James lay on his stomach beside you with his face turned toward the wall, breathing slowly.
The distance between you was maybe four inches of mattress and approximately several miles of everything else.
You stared at the ceiling's small imperfections. There was a hairline crack in the plaster near the light fixture that described a gentle arc, like a parenthesis opened and never closed. You'd noticed it before. The thought arrived uninvited and you told it to leave.
"You're thinking too loud," James said into the pillow.
"You can't hear thoughts asshole."
"I can hear yours." A pause. "You get this specific kind of still when you're overthinking. Like you stop existing in your body a little bit."
You said nothing for a moment.
"That's very observant of you," you finally said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended but still filled with sarcasm.
"Yeah well." He shifted, turning his face toward you now, cheek pressed to the pillow, eyes half-closed but watching you in that steady way. "I pay attention."
"I know you do," you said. "That's the problem."
"Why's it a problem?"
"Because it makes it hard to pretend this is nothing."
The words sat in the air between you, neither retracted nor addressed immediately. After years, you'd finally been able to put words on the feeeling.
James was quiet for long enough that you started constructing your exit- the mental logistics of gathering your things— the specific tone you'd use to say something deflecting and semi-sharp on your way out, the way you'd walk down the corridor past Keonho and Martin with your expression completely neutral.
"It's not nothing," James said.
Two words. Same economy as before. But so goddamn confusing. You turned your head to look at him. He was still watching you, and up close in the lamp light his eyes were less unreadable than usual -or maybe you'd just learned to read them, which was its own intimacy you'd never consented to.
"I know," you whispered.
"But you're still gonna leave."
"Yes."
"And tomorrow-"
"Tomorrow is tomorrow," you said.
He held your gaze for another moment, then something settled across his face -not resignation exactly, more like acceptance of a pattern neither of you had figured out how to break yet.
His fingers moved those four inches of mattress and found yours, not interlacing, just his hand covering yours, warm and still.
"Your lash was doing the thing today," he said, after a moment, gesturing to his own. "The outer corner one.”
You closed your eyes briefly. "I know."
"Ji-eun never gets it to lay flat."
The lamp hummed and for a few minutes neither of you moved or spoke. You were waiting for the sex trance to subside, so you could finally be yourself again, without the feeling of his hands etched in your ribs.
The four inches of mattress stayed exactly as they were, and his hand stayed on yours, and the ceiling crack remained a parenthesis with no closing bracket.
Eventually you sat up. Found your things as James watched you without speaking.
You paused at the door. "The lash always does that," you said. "Every time. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
A beat.
"Some things you don't get used to, y/n," he said. "You just keep noticing them."
You stood in the doorway for one more second, not even knowing why, and then you walked out and pulled the door behind you with a quiet click that felt like punctuation.
Martin had fallen asleep on the couch. Keonho's bowl was in the drying rack. The corridor was empty and the building was quiet; you walked through it with your sneakers making soft sounds against the floor, the red lace in your jacket pocket, and the careful, fragile weight of 'it's not nothing' sitting somewhere behind your sternum like a splinter
Your phone buzzed as the elevator doors closed.
JAMES :get home safe
You stared at it for the entire descent. It was the sex. The sex made him like that. Nothing more.
YOU : yeah
You pocketed the phone and put on a face mask. The lobby doors opened to the night air, cool and immediate, and you stepped out into it and kept walking, and you didn't look back at the building, because some things were better approached from a forward direction, even when everything in you wanted to turn around.
Tomorrow was tomorrow.
▬▬▬ ONE MOMENT YOU WERE in the grey half-sleep, the next your alarm was going off. The full inventory of last night was loading in your chest like a program with too many files, slow and slightly painful.
'It's not nothing.'
You lay there for ninety seconds staring at the ceiling of your own room, which had no interesting cracks, just smooth white plaster and the faint shadow of the curtain moving in the air conditioning.
Then you got up, because lying still with your own thoughts first thing in the morning was a form of self-harm you weren't willing to engage in today.
This was as damaging as blasting Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain and hoping for the best.
The dorm was quiet. Hye-ri's alarm hadn't gone off yet, which meant you had maybe twenty minutes before the building became a person with feelings, specifically loud ones.
You moved through the kitchen on autopilot -kettle, mug, the good green tea Mina kept in the cabinet above the stove that she'd never explicitly said you could have but had also never said you couldn't. You wrapped both hands around the mug and stood at the kitchen window watching the city do its early morning thing.
James was silent, so were you. But this time maybe you'd been waiting for a different outcome, in that little naive headspace of yours.
You drank your tea and tried not to think about the weight of him inside of you, his hands on your neck.
You thought about it constantly.
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ
Who knows - daniel caesar ♫♬♪
The company building had a rooftop that technically wasn't for general use but that enough people accessed informally that it had developed a small ecosystem of folding chairs, a forgotten umbrella that had been there since at least February.
You'd discovered it eighteen months ago during a particularly brutal comeback period when the practice rooms felt like they were closing in— and you'd been going up there sporadically ever since.
Naturally, you went up there on your lunch break.
Not for any specific reason.
The afternoon had a weird energy to it -your schedule had been lighter than usual, a few meetings, a vocal session that had ended early, and you'd found yourself with ninety minutes of unstructured time that felt like a gift. Hye-ri had gone to get food with Soeun. Mina was on a call with her family. The practice rooms were occupied by other groups, and the styling suite smelled aggressively of hairspray.
You sat in one of the folding chairs with your knees drawn up and your jacket zipped to your chin, and you looked at the city spread out below, letting yourself be quiet
It lasted approximately four minutes.
Your phone buzzed. Not James -a staff notification about next week's schedule, which you read and immediately forgot.
But the buzz had disrupted the quiet, which made you pick up your phone— which made you open your messages— which meant you were now -magically- looking at the thread with James.
The way you sometimes prodded a bruise to check if it still hurt. It did. It reliably did.
You scrolled up. Not far -just enough to see the shape of what the last week looked like in text. You read it like reading someone else's story. A very compelling, very dysfunctional someone else's story.
And that was when the door to the rooftop opened. You expected staff. Maybe Hye-ri, who had an uncanny ability to locate you regardless of where you went, like a heat-seeking missile with gel nails.
You didn't expect Juhoon, who was one of the Cortis members you actually liked —quiet, thoughtful, someone who'd always existed pleasantly on the periphery of the James situation without ever inserting himself into it.
He looked mildly surprised to find you there.
"Hey," he said. "I didn't know you came up here."
"I didn't know you did either," you said. "You can stay. There's another chair."
He unfolded it and sat down, stretching his legs out, tilting his face up toward the sky. "You were at the dorms last night," he said eventually, not accusatory, just noting.
"Briefly," you looked down.
He nodded and there was another silence.
"Can I ask you something?" you said after some time
"Sure."
You wanted to ask him a thousand things, but he wouldn't have time to answer them all— or maybe he wouldn't know the answers, so you settled for something simple.
"What's he like," you asked carefully, "when I'm not there?"
Juhoon considered this with the seriousness it deserved, he wasn't someone who gave careless answers.
"Quiet," he spoke finally. "He's quieter than people think. The loud thing is-" he paused, choosing words, "-it's real, but it's not the whole thing. When he's actually upset about something he goes very still."
"I know," you said, because the question was dumb.
You knew James, knew how he was, knew how he felt, and especially knew how he lied.
"Yeah." He glanced at you sideways. "I figured you would."
"Is he-" you stopped looking at your phone in your hands, the thread with James still open, "Is he okay?"
You hated that you were asking, and asked it anyway because apparently that particular self-protective instinct was not functioning correctly today.
Juhoon was quiet for a moment. "I think he will be," he nodded, which was not the same as yes, and you both knew it, but he said it anyway, like protecting the two of you at the same time.
You nodded slowly, fiddling with the strings of your badge lanyard.
It was hard to hear, it's like in some way, you didn't want him to be okay. A very selfish and very ugly part of you begged for him to feel as strange as you felt without him. You didn't want him to be okay, you wanted him to be miserable. How naive?
"You know I like you," Juhoon said. "And I like him. So I'm not going to say anything about-" he gestured vaguely at the air between you, encompassing the last few years. "But I'll say this. He talks about you without meaning to. Like you come up in the middle of sentences about completely different things. He doesn't notice he's doing it." He paused. "And that's either really good or it's-"
"The problem," you finished.
"Yeah."
You sat with that, as heavy and as real as it was, and a pigeon landed on the railing six feet away looking at you with the blank assessment of a creature utterly unbothered by human emotional complexity. Totally enviable.
"Thanks," you told Juhoon.
"Didn't really say anything." He nodded once, you both sat there a while longer in the pale light, and you didn't look at your phone again.
• • •
The thing happened at 4:17pm.
You were in the corridor outside the third floor vocal booths, waiting while your vocal coach finished a session with someone else, scrolling through your phone.
You heard him before you saw him.
Not his voice —you heard his laugh. That specific one, the one you hadn't seen much of in a while. The one you wished you'd drawn out of him more often, to get a sense of who he was really.
He came around the corner with Martin and Keonho in the middle of a conversation. He was gesturing with his coffee cup, and his hood was down, he looked easy in a way he almost never looked when you were in the same space as him.
You registered all of this in approximately two seconds.
He saw you on the third.
His laugh didn't stop immediately, but it changed. His body adjusted the way it always did in your presence, that slight shift toward readiness, like he was bracing for collision.
The members with him, noticed
"Hey," James said. His voice was normal, easy. He was okay.
"Hey," you nodded.
He stopped near you, coffee cup in hand, and looked at you with that familiar specific attention. And then Martin said something— not to you, to James, a quick murmured comment accompanied by a grin that you didn't quite catch —and James's mouth curved, brief and private, the smile aimed at the floor before he looked back up at you.
"What?" you said.
"Nothing," he said. "You just look-" he paused, assessing, and the look was warm in a way that your body recognized before your brain did, that attention he reserved for you only in your quieter moments. "You look tired."
"Thanks," you said flatly
"I didn't mean it badly." A pause. "You were up late."
"We were both up late."
"Yeah." The edge of his mouth moved again.
"Worth it though."
And that was it -that was the specific, small, ordinary thing that should not have been the thing. He said it quietly, almost to himself, genuine and unguarded, the way he sometimes spoke when he forgot to armor himself first.
Worth it though.
Like it was simple. Like the previous months of sharp words and slammed objects and were all components of something with a simple arithmetic, something that could be summed up and found to 'be worth it'.
Something in you looked at that -at his face, at the easy way he'd laughed seconds before you appeared, at the life he had that you orbited and disrupted. And something went very very quiet.
Worth it though.
Were you? Were you worth it? Was any of this worth it?
The way he handed you matches and then acted surprised by the fire?
The way you walked out his door feeling victorious and arrived home feeling like something had been excavated from you?
The way you couldn't go through a normal workday without your thoughts circling back to him with the tireless repetition of water finding its lowest point?
You thought about Juhoon on the rooftop. "He talks about you without meaning to. Like you come up in the middle of sentences about completely different things."
You thought about the way you'd pressed your hand over a candle flame on the rooftop and called the burn worth it, and standing here now— you couldn't find the logic anymore.
Not because James wasn't -something.
He was something.
He was specific and perceptive and genuinely capable of moments that got through every defense you'd ever constructed.
He saw the lash. He was sweet, at times, weaponizing his soft edges just to wreck you even more.
But he also sent those photographs at midnight like a lit match through a letterbox. He called you names and meant it to wound.
He pulled you against him and then held you at arm's length and then pulled you back again and called the cycle by your name like you were the one maintaining it.
He used your own hunger against you with the practiced ease of someone who'd mapped your weaknesses and filed them for deployment.
And you did the same to him. You knew you did, you matched his cruelty word for word, you showed up when you should have stayed away— and stayed away when he was genuinely reaching for something real.
You were doing it to each other.
Equally. Fluently. In a language you'd developed together.
Worth it though.
Looking at him now in the corridor, warm and unguarded, the laugh still faintly present in the lines of his face -you felt the pull of it.
Of course you did.
You thought you probably always would, in some residual way, the way you could always find north even in an unfamiliar city. But underneath the pull was something else.
Quieter than everything preceding it— some sort of exhaustion so thorough it had become a part of you, like a building that had been load-bearing something too heavy for too long and had finally taken stock of its own foundation.
You were so tired.
Of the version of yourself that existed in these moments -sharp and defended and constantly braced for impact, simultaneously craving the collision and flinching from it.
Winning small battles and losing something larger and more important in increments, until you stood in a corridor at 4:17pm and looked at a boy who could recite the inventory of your small imperfections from memory and felt, for the first time clearly: this is just not gonna work.
Not 'he is terrible'. Not a villain and a victim, which would have been easier.
Just: this specific thing— as it is— is taking more than it's giving, and has been for long enough that you've normalized the deficit.
You'd lied. You'd lied when you said you enjoyed it. You were such a skilled liar.
"I'll see you around," you spok
James's expression shifted slightly, reading the specific tone "You okay?"
"Yeah," you gave a flat smile, and it wasn't entirely a lie. You felt, in fact, unusually clear. "I'll see you around, James."
You walked away before he could respond.
Down the corridor, around the corner, past the elevators to the stairwell, you sat on the third step from the bottom and held your phone in both hands.
You opened instagram first.
His profile -which you'd visited with the compulsive frequency of someone returning to a bruise- looked back at you.
You pressed block and the account disappeared.
Clean and immediate, like a light switched off. It felt like the cliche 'exhaling after holding your breath for a very long time without realizing.'
Twitter. Same motion. Block.
The gesture was so small. The tap of a thumb. And yet each one felt like setting something down, something you hadn't noticed the weight of.
You opened your contacts and found his name- no special designation, just 'bitch ass piece of shit' because you'd never let yourself do something as revealing as save him with a nickname or a symbol.
You looked at it for a moment. You thought about the hand covering yours in the dark. You thought about the way he'd said : "it's not nothing."
no. it isn't. and that's exactly why.
Because if it were nothing, you could manage it. Nothing didn't keep you up at night.
Nothing didn't send make your heart stop beating like a cardiac arrest.
Nothing didn't notice the lash.
Nothing wasn't this.
And this, as it existed, was quietly making you less.
boyfriend!martin who wakes you up at the ass crack of dawn because he had a nightmare about you cheating on him :: wc. 826 :: authors note 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 contains established relationship, fluff, just humor lol :: plss like + reblog :: if my work isn’t for you, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.
♪ she looks so perfect ノ would you wanna run away too? ‘cause all i really want is you : nav : m.list
Martin woke up sad, thought about it for ten minutes while staring at the wall, then slowly grew angry, a pout tugging at his pink lips. He just had the worst dream, and you're not even awake for him to get annoyed at you for it. What the heck, “babe. wake up,” martin started, massaging your hips while gently shaking your body awake.
You had slept on your side, facing his back. Martin loves being the big spoon, yes, but he never said he hated being the small spoon either. So what if he likes being held?
Though the more he shook you awake, the more you didn't wake up. It only made him even more frustrated. “Wake up!” he shook you even more until you finally started to stretch awake, blinking your clouded sleepiness away. “I'm mad at you,” Martin said the second he saw you peek one eye open.
You yawned and stretched your other arm. “Okay? m'sleeping.” You turned your back toward him, getting more comfortable in your new position, putting an arm under the pillow. You smiled when you felt how good a spot you'd gotten; you weren't really registering what he was saying.
Martin glared at the back of your head. “Now you're just making me even more mad,” he said. You heard him climb off the bed. So dramatic, that boy, swear. When you didn't say anything, too busy drifting back off to sleep, he let out a huge, dramatic sigh, grabbed the pillow from the end of the bed, and threw it at you. “I said, now you're just making me more mad.”
“I heard you,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed. You dug your face deeper into the cold side of the pillow. It's like hitting the jackpot of comfortable spots. “Why are you even mad?” You couldn't help but find him getting annoyed at your sleepy state hilarious. Definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.
“Because you're not listening to me!” he groaned when he saw the small smile on your face. You're not taking him seriously! Why are you smiling? “I had the worst dream. no, actually, it wasn't even a dream, it was a nightmare, and you are just trying to be funny when i'm trying to tell you about it.” he's literally been stressing about the nightmare since he woke up, wondering if it's a sign the universe is trying to give him or if his brain just wants to play tricks on him and give him jump scares that'll have his heart beating like no other just for the fuck of it.
You yawned, getting yourself even more comfortable. “Tell me when I wake up then.” Martin can't wait for you to wake up because he's been stressing about it ever since he woke up!
“Where's your phone?”
You immediately sat up. “What?” Oh, so now all of a sudden you're awake? He didn't know if that made him angrier or sadder.
“I thought you were sleepy,” Martin replied, walking around your room to find your phone. If you weren't going to give him the answers now, he would just have to find out for himself, he guessed. “Where's your phone?” he asked again when he couldn't find it.
“Why?” Now you're asking why? Martin is legit about to crash out.
“You're such a cheater,” he spat out. He was standing while you were now propped up on your elbows, watching him as he looked around for your phone. “In my dream, you were cheating on me with this ugly ass guy, and then I woke up to you not even hugging me. It's like, damn, you really don't love me.” he crossed his arms. “That's when I started thinking, hmmm, maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.”
Is he fucking serious right now? “That's what you're mad about? A fake dream of me cheating?” You shook your head and pulled the blanket over yourself. “Wake me up when you're normal again.”
“Babe, see! how do you expect me not to be mad when you just dismissed me like that?” he pouted. Why aren't you giving him your phone? Or your attention? “You're so mean to me.”
He walked over to the side of the bed you were sleeping on, not caring about the yelp you let out when he put his whole body weight on top of you, letting his head fall into your neck. You huffed. Wasn't he just complaining? The switch up in three seconds truly gave you whiplash. “You just said how mean I was to you and got all mad because of your dumbass dream.”
“I am still mad, trust,” his voice muffled into your neck. You almost snorted. mad looked a little different here, but oh well. “and it's not dumb. I'm still gonna be on you because of that when we wake up again,” you rolled your eyes.
You thought the worst thing that could happen after your breakup was running into your cheating ex. Then you got pregnant by JAKE SIM. Captain of the Caldwell Wolves, campus golden boy and the most notorious heartbreaker on campus. He’s the last person you’d ever trust. Unfortunately for you, he’s also the father of your baby.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: Delicate - Taylor Swift // Kiss Me Right - keshi // Sugar Talking - Sabrina Carpenter // It Ain’t Over ‘Till It’s Over - Lenny Kravitz // Please - BTS // striptease - carwash
𝐋’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐞: i genuinely had the best time writing this fic and getting way too emotionally attached to these characters! please feel free to leave a comment, scream or simply stare into the void thinking about these idiots (i know i will be). your support means more than you know and every notification makes me kick my feet like a Victorian lady seeing an ankle. i hope this fic made you experience at least one completely unnecessary emotion. thank you for ready and PLEASE enjoy!
The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.
It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.
“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”
The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.
“You love George Eliot.”
“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.
The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.
You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.
Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.
Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.
You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.
“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.
“I know.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”
She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”
You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.
You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.
Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.
“You’re doing maths,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”
“I’m making a drink.”
“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”
“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”
“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.
“I’m Jake.”
“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.
“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”
“Also a person,” you say.
That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”
You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.
He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.
Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.
At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”
You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.
“Okay,” you say.
His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.
He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.
You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.
He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.
Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.
“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.
He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.
His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.
“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.
You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.
He does it again. Slower.
His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.
“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.
“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.
He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.
He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.
He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.
His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.
The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.
“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.
He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.
You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.
He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.
He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.
“Jake—”
“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.
The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.
He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”
“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”
“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.
His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.
The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.
That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.
Possibly both.
Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…
“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.
You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.
Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.
He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.
You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.
“Bye, then,” you say.
“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.
You close the door behind you.
The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.
I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—
You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.
You text Mina. still up?
The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?
You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.
Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”
You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”
“Okay—”
“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”
Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”
“He absolutely did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said bye then and closed the door.”
“Bye then?”
“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”
Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”
You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”
“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.
“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”
Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.
You’re fine. You’re completely fine.
The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.
You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.
You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.
Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.
This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.
Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.
You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.
He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.
He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.
You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.
The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.
You’re not fine by Thursday morning.
The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.
“You’re not drinking your coffee.”
“I’m not feeling it today.”
Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.
By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.
Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.
You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.
“I think I’m coming down with something.”
“What kind of something.”
“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”
She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.
“Since Wednesday morning.”
“And it’s worst in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t drink coffee.”
“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.
“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”
The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.
“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.
“No.”
“Stressed about something?”
“When am I not stressed about something.”
“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”
“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”
Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.
“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”
“You used a condom?”
“Obviously.”
“They’re not a hundred percent.”
“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”
Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”
By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.
You text Mina. can you come over
She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.
The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.
The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.
The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.
Two minutes.
“It’s probably negative,” you say.
“Probably,” Mina says.
“The condom—”
“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”
“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”
“Stop,” you say.
One minute.
You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.
The timer goes off.
Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.
Two lines.
You look at it for a long time.
“Okay,” you say, finally.
“Yeah,” Mina says.
The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.
“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.
—
You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.
You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to tell him today either.”
“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”
Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”
You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.
“Don’t come with me,” you say.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were absolutely going to.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”
The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.
Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.
And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.
You wait.
You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.
He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.
“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.
“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.
The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.
You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.
“I’m pregnant,” you say.
The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you repeat.
“That’s — okay. How far—”
“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”
He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.
“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.
The corridor goes even quieter somehow.
You look at him. “What did you just say.”
“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”
“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.
“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”
“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”
“Look, I just—”
You slap him.
You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.
“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”
He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.
“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.
You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.
You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”
You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.
“How did you—“
“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.
He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”
“No,” you say.
“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.
“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.
He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”
“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”
You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”
Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”
“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.
You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.
“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”
You look at him. “Which part.”
“All of it.”
He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”
Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.
Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”
You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”
“How stupid.”
“Significantly.”
A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”
So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.
“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”
“Yes.”
“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”
“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”
“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”
She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”
You look at the money on your nightstand.
You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.
The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.
“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”
“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”
You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”
You press the back of your hand to your mouth.
“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”
“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”
“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”
You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”
“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”
You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.
“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”
You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.
You tell Jake two days later.
You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.
“I’m keeping it,” you say.
He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.
“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”
“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”
“Money isn’t the same as involved.”
“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”
You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”
You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”
“To what.”
He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”
You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.
Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.
“I got someone pregnant,” he says.
The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”
“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.
“Are you—” Jungwon starts.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Then what.”
Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”
“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.
“I don’t know her,” Jake says.
“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.
“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.
Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”
“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.
“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”
“Should she?”
Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”
Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.
—
The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.
He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.
It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.
The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.
Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.
You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.
Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.
He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Sunghoon.”
“Five minutes.”
You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”
Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.
“I know. You texted me.”
“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”
There it is.
You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”
“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”
“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”
His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”
“Then why are you here?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.
“I miss you,” he says.
You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.
You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.
But you also know what he did.
You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”
He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.
“I look what.”
“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” you say.
He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.
You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.
There’s no reason to.
You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.
He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling
You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.
that’s good
A pause. Then: do you need anything?
You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.
I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.
He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.
You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.
You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.
It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.
You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.
“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”
“We’re not together, Mina.”
“I know.”
“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”
“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.
The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.
You are allowed to have feelings about it.
You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.
You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.
You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.
“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.
“Okay,” she says.
—
Jake texts you on Sunday.
heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good
You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.
A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?
You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.
The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.
It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.
okay, he says. no pressure.
You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.
Later, you think. All of it later.
He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.
Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.
“You okay?” he asks, quietly.
“Fine,” you say. “You?”
“Fine,” he says.
The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.
Beside you Jake goes very still.
You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.
“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.
You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”
“Yeah,” you say.
He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.
You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.
“Okay,” you say.
He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.
“What,” you say.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.
“You too,” you say, and go inside.
—
Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.
Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.
You don’t reply.
He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?
You stare at it for a long time.
You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.
“I’m not going to,” you say.
He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.
You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.
“Sunghoon.”
“I just want to walk with you.”
“I didn’t say you could.”
“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”
You glance at him. “Fine.”
“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”
“Thanks,” you say, flatly.
He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.
“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”
“I know you did.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you.”
“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”
He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.
“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”
“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”
He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.
“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”
And he lets you go.
But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.
The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.
You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.
You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.
He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.
You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.
You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.
The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”
His voice.
You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.
“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.
“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.
The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.
You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”
You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.
He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.
“I needed air,” you say.
“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”
“That’s not your business.”
“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”
“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”
The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.
“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.
“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.
“Then walk away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”
He doesn’t go inside.
He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.
“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.
“That’s not your business,” Jake says.
“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.
His eyes find yours. “Are you—”
“Don’t,” you say.
“Are you pregnant?”
The step goes very quiet.
Jake goes very still.
You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.
“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”
“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”
“Sunghoon—”
“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”
“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”
“You stay out of it—”
“She told you it’s none of your business—”
“I’m talking to her—”
“Then talk to her with some respect—”
“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”
“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”
“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”
A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”
“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.
“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”
Sunghoon opens his mouth.
And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.
It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.
But you make a sound and stumble back.
Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.
“Don’t touch me.”
Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.
“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”
“Are you okay? The baby—”
“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”
Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”
“No.”
You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”
You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.
Behind you, you don’t look back.
Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay
You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.
He sends: I’m sorry again
Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.
You don’t text him back.
He tries on Sunday.
A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.
Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.
Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.
You text back: stop.
He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.
You put the phone in your drawer.
He doesn’t stop.
Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.
You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.
You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.
On Tuesday he’s outside your building.
Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.
You stop on the steps. “Jake.”
“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”
You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.
Good, says a part of you.
The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”
He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”
You look at him. “It was an accident.”
“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”
“It’s not the same difference.”
“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”
The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.
“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”
He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.
“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”
He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”
“Then be consistent.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”
You look at him for a long moment.
“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.
“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”
“Done.”
“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”
“Jake.”
“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”
You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.
“The grapes were good,” you say finally.
Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.
You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.
“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”
You go.
He tells his father that evening.
He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.
Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:
“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.
Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.
“I got someone pregnant,” he says.
The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.
“How far along,” he says.
“About eight weeks.”
His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.
“Tell me about her,” he says.
Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”
“The woman. Tell me about her.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.
“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”
“How.”
Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.
His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.
“Do you like her?” he asks.
Jake looks up.
“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.
“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”
“That’s not what I asked, son.”
Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.
“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”
His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.
“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.
Jake looks at him.
“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”
Jake absorbs this.
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”
Jake looks at the menu.
“Dad,” he says.
“Mm.”
“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”
His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”
Jake picks up his menu.
He end up ordering the carbonara.
—
The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.
It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.
Jake shows up.
That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.
He remembers things.
This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.
He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.
And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.
Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.
Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.
Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.
“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.
“A little,” you say.
“How do you feel about that?”
You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”
Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”
“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”
Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.
He notices on Saturday.
You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.
Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You have a face.”
“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”
“I know.”
“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”
You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”
“I meant it.”
“Jake.”
“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”
The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.
You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.
He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.
For now that’s okay.
The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.
He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.
You do not examine why you listen to it twice.
Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.
You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.
I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.
He sends a single: you too.
And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.
You feel lighter, after.
Jake finds out about the dissertation.
Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”
“Like what.”
“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”
You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”
“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”
You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.
“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.
“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”
“You said that.”
“Because I mean it.”
You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.
There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.
The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.
“I should go in,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
Neither of you moves.
You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.
“Jake,” you say.
“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.
“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”
He looks at you. “Is it not?”
You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.
Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”
“Okay.”
“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”
The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.
“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.
“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.
At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.
You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.
You change it to Jake.
Just Jake. Nothing else.
You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.
—
He asks you out on a Tuesday.
Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”
You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that.”
“Did you want me to make it complicated?”
You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”
“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”
“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”
“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”
You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.
“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”
He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.
The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.
You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.
“What,” he says, catching you looking.
“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”
“From what?” He laughs.
“From who you were in September.”
He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”
“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”
He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”
You look back at your pasta.
Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.
Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.
You let him.
You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.
“Come up,” you say.
His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”
“I just asked, didn’t I?”
He follows you up.
Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.
It’s different from September.
September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.
This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.
“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.
“Hi,” you say back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”
“Jake—”
“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”
You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.
He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.
He goes to his knees.
You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.
“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.
Your throat tightens.
He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.
“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.
He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay,” you manage.
He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.
He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.
“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.
He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.
His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.
“If you don’t—” you start.
He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.
He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.
Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.
He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.
He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.
You start laughing.
He looks at you confused. “What.”
“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.
He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.
“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.
“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”
“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.
He flips you over.
Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.
“You good?” he asks.
“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.
The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”
“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.
His head drops back.
You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.
“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”
The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.
You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.
Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.
“Come to my game next week,” he says.
You turn your head to look at him. “What?”
“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”
You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.
He turns his head. “Actually?”
“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”
The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.
—
The following week is small moments.
Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.
Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.
Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.
You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.
Friday morning he’s at your door.
In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.
He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”
You take it from him.
You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.
You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.
When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.
“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.
“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.
Someone sits down on your other side.
You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.
“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.
“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”
He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”
You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.
“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.
“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.
“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”
You watch Jake on the ice.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
The Wolves win.
Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.
After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.
And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.
You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?
The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.
“Oh my god,” Mina says.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“Are you — are you going to—”
And then he’s there.
Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.
“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.
You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.
“You’re insane,” you say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”
You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.
When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.
“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”
He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.
“Good,” you say back.
Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.
—
Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.
The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.
Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.
“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.
“Hey,” you say.
“You good?”
You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.
You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”
He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
SYNOPSIS :: To be born a pureblood means you are hounded to pick a perfect suitor of similar position in the wizarding society. Juhoon suggests a simple solution to get your parents off your back: date him, just make sure you don’t catch any feelings.
W.C :: 11.9k
CONTAINS :: slytherin!juhoon, fake dating, both purebloods, slow burn, both emotionally inept and oblivious, not a lot of dialogue (more storytelling), mini harassment (reader being touched without permission), blood/injury, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Pretty boy - The Neighbourhood; The complete knock - Blood Orange; Sweater weather - The Neighbourhood; Knee socks - Arctic Monkeys; Sad girl - Lana Del Rey; She’s my collar - Gorillaz, Kali Uchis
Everyone had assumed you and Juhoon were together long before your arrangement ever began.
To the rest of Hogwarts, the two of you made perfect sense. Two Slytherins from old pureblood families, always standing beside one another at functions, always paired together during gatherings, always carrying yourselves with the same composed elegance expected from families like yours.
A match made in heaven, according to the whispers that followed the two of you through the halls.
The irony was that your families could barely tolerate one another.
They played polite well enough during pureblood gatherings, all sharp smiles and expensive robes and poisoned compliments hidden beneath crystal glasses. But beneath the carefully maintained civility lay years of rivalry neither side ever bothered to truly conceal.
Still, neither family could exactly complain.
After years of relentless pestering about finding a “suitable” partner, the two of you had solved the problem yourselves.
No unbearable introductions arranged by your parents. No carefully selected heirs from respectable houses being paraded in front of you at dinners. And, most importantly, no risk of either of you ending up with what your mother so delicately referred to as ‘one of those horrid half-bloods polluting wizarding society’.
The arrangement had happened late one evening in the library.
You still remembered the way Juhoon had slid into the seat across from you without invitation, expression unreadable as always. The Slytherin prefect pin gleamed faintly against the dim candlelight.
“You’ve been avoiding your mother’s letters,” he had said plainly.
You glanced up from your book. “And you know this because?”
“She complained to mine.”
Of course she had.
You let out a quiet sigh, shutting your book with more force than necessary. “If this is another conversation about suitable suitors, I might actually throw myself into the Black Lake.”
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Date me.”
You could only stare at him, the gears shifting as your brain tried to process his words. “What?”
“Pretend to,” Juhoon corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “People already think we’re together. It would solve the problem.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, suspicious. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”
“My parents stop introducing me to insufferable pureblood daughters every holiday.”
“That bad?”
“One of them cried because I didn’t compliment her dress.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
Juhoon continued, calm and composed as though he were discussing homework rather than proposing an entirely fabricated relationship. “We keep appearances up around our families. Attend events together. Act convincing enough that they stop interfering in our lives.” His gaze flickered toward you then, steady and sharp. “In return, they leave us alone.”
It was practical and honestly far less miserable than enduring another year of your parents’ endless matchmaking.
So you agreed, and perhaps that had been your first mistake because the lie came far too easily.
The news spread through Hogwarts within days. Apparently, you were officially off-limits now—though neither of you had exactly struggled with unwanted attention before, both considered far too intimidating for most students to approach in the first place. Still, people looked at the two of you differently afterward, as though the confirmation merely solidified something everyone had believed from the start.
Because in everyone else’s eyes, you and Juhoon fit together effortlessly enough that some couldn’t tell if your relationship was truly for the mere essence of maintaining pureblood expectations or something far more genuine.
Most assumed the latter because how could they not?
You and Juhoon moved around one another with a familiarity too natural to appear rehearsed, too instinctive to feel manufactured. None of how you interacted looked forced enough to be an arrangement crafted purely for convenience.
To many students, it looked painfully obvious: love disguised poorly beneath Slytherin composure and aristocratic restraint.
Even among the more cynical pureblood circles, whispers followed the two of you with something almost resembling admiration. A perfect match between two influential families, yes, but also something strangely sincere beneath all the politics and reputation.
Others found it romantic in an insufferable sort of way. The terrifyingly composed Slytherin heir who looked at no one the way he looked at you and the equally intimidating pureblood witch somehow capable of softening the sharpest edges of Juhoon’s cold demeanor simply by standing beside him.
Though there remained a smaller, far more rational group of students who viewed the situation differently.
They observed the timing too carefully. The convenience of the sudden announcement arriving perfectly alongside increasing pressure from both your families.
To them, it looked less like a love story and more like an agreement between two ambitious pureblood heirs intelligent enough to understand exactly what was expected of them.
And truthfully, they would have been correct, it was a strategic alliance meant for nothing more than for you both to finally get some peace in your life.
Still, no one dared voice such theories aloud.
Not when Juhoon’s gaze alone could silence most people where they stood. And certainly not when the two of you looked altogether too convincing beside one another for anyone to comfortably question it for long.
The two of you had established a set of simple, but necessary rules that night in the library as well.
No real feelings.
Public affection only when required.
Family events would be attended together, appearances maintained carefully enough to keep suspicion away. If either of you wished to end the arrangement, it ended immediately—no questions asked.
It was practical and controlled. Exactly the sort of agreement expected between two pureblood heirs raised on reputation before emotion.
At least, that was what you had told yourself.
The problem was that Juhoon had always been unfairly easy to exist beside even before the arrangement had been established
You had spent years at his side during endless pureblood functions and insufferable dinners, years exchanging sharp remarks across Slytherin tables and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the library. Being around him had never required effort and silence with him had never felt uncomfortable.
Pretending, it turned out, felt alarmingly natural, to the point where almost none of it felt staged anymore.
Not when he would pull a chair out for you before you even reached the table, or when his eyes would find yours across the Great Hall with quiet, terrifying ease. Nor when he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, and certainly not when you began forgetting there had ever been rules to begin with.
The reaction from Hogwarts had been almost insulting.
You had expected surprise, perhaps even outrage considering the nature of your families. At the very least, some degree of shock.
Instead, the majority of the school responded with an almost unbearable sense of satisfaction as though they had all collectively won a bet neither you nor Juhoon had known existed.
“Finally,” Jaehyun had drawled the morning after the rumors spread, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slid into the seat across from the two of you at breakfast.
Mina looked equally smug. “You were honestly fooling no one.”
You nearly choked on your tea. Beside you, Juhoon remained perfectly composed, lazily stirring his coffee as though the attention surrounding your table did not exist. Which somehow only made the rumors worse.
The professors were no better. Slughorn, in particular, looked positively delighted by the arrangement.
In his eyes, the two of you were practically the embodiment of everything he adored: prestigious pureblood heirs, academically gifted Slytherins, socially influential students with families woven so deeply into wizarding society it existed beyond the ancient historical texts.
You suspected he had been waiting for this development longer than the rest of Hogwarts combined.
“Well, well,” Slughorn beamed during Potions one afternoon, eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly. “Young love among noble houses. How very classic.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
You stared at him in horror. To your right, Juhoon looked mildly appalled for perhaps half a second before his usual composure settled back into place.
Unfortunately, several students had witnessed it and that resulted in the teasing afterward being relentless. Not that either of you reacted strongly enough to discourage it.
That was the problem.
At first, maintaining the act required actual effort, though you had expected that much. The first few days were painfully awkward in ways neither of you anticipated. Every movement felt overly deliberate, every touch carefully calculated beneath the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
Juhoon offering you his arm before entering the Great Hall, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve during pureblood gatherings, sitting together during meals, quiet conversations close enough to appear intimate.
It felt staged at first, like two people attempting to imitate a relationship they did not fully understand.
And then, somehow, it stopped feeling unnatural altogether. The shift happened so gradually neither of you noticed it immediately.
One day Juhoon was offering you his arm because people were watching and the next, he was doing it automatically without glancing around first.
You stopped choosing the seat beside him consciously. Your body simply carried you there out of habit now, settling comfortably into his presence before your mind caught up.
He began fixing your collar absentmindedly whenever it sat crooked, his fingers just grazing your throat as you maintained a straight face, though the goosebumps littering your skin almost gave you away.
You started stealing pieces of fruit from his plate during breakfast without asking.
Shared notes became shared textbooks, whispered conversations stretching late into the night within the Slytherin common room while green candlelight flickered against the dungeon walls.
And then there was the touching. Subtle enough to escape notice if one wasn’t looking carefully, yet somehow constant all the same.
Juhoon’s hand began to rest against the small of your back in crowded hallways and your knee started brushing his beneath library tables.
None of it should have felt significant yet each touch lingered far longer in your mind than it ought to have. Perhaps because Juhoon was not naturally affectionate, especially with everyone else.
He tolerated very few people willingly, less so physical contact. Most students avoided standing too close to him altogether, intimidated by the sharp calmness he carried so effortlessly.
But with you, the distance between your bodies seemed to disappear more and more each day.
And the truly dangerous part was that neither of you seemed to notice anymore when you were pretending and when you were simply… being yourselves.
The realisation came slowly.
So slowly, in fact, that you hardly noticed it at all.
It settled quietly into the spaces between lingering glances and absentminded touches, weaving itself into your routine before either of you had the chance to stop it. Somewhere along the way, Juhoon had ceased to feel like a performance and instead become something constant, expected even.
You found him beside you in every corner of Hogwarts without needing to ask.
In the mornings at the Slytherin table, already pouring tea into your cup before you had even sat down, the steam curling softly between the two of you as though he had done it his entire life. During lessons, where his chair always seemed to end up angled subtly toward yours no matter where the professors placed you. Across from you in the library during late-night study sessions, silver rings tapping idly against the wooden table while he skimmed over your essays with quiet criticism.
“Your conclusion is weak,” he remarked one evening without looking up.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve said that for the past three of my essays.”
“Because it continues to be true.”
And then, not five minutes later, he slid a fresh piece of parchment toward you with several rewritten sentences already scrawled neatly across it.
Even outside of lessons, Juhoon simply… appeared.
Waiting outside classrooms between periods, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while groups of students parted around him instinctively. Falling into step beside you through the corridors without greeting, as though your company had long since become assumed. Occupying the seat beside yours in the common room before anyone else could take it.
There was no discussion or hesitation, only certainty.
And perhaps the most dangerous part was that he noticed things no one else ever bothered paying attention to.
He knew when you were irritated before you spoke, recognising the slight tightening in your expression long before anyone else caught on. Knew exactly which desserts you avoided in the Great Hall and quietly traded them off your plate whenever they appeared. Knew the difference between your genuine smile and the polite, practiced one reserved for pureblood gatherings.
Sometimes it felt as though Juhoon observed you too carefully. As though he had spent years memorising every version of you long before either of you called this a relationship.
It seemed almost instinctive, the sort built through diving to see more than what appeared at the surface.
You began noticing it everywhere once you allowed yourself to look.
He’d automatically shifted closer whenever conversations in the common room became too loud, subtle enough that no one else would recognise the gesture for what it was. His eyes searched for you first whenever he entered a room, immediately locating you within seconds as though it were unconscious now.
And Merlin, the staring.
You did not know when that had begun.
Perhaps he had always looked at you that way and you had simply never paid enough attention before.
Juhoon’s gaze had always been intense by nature—sharp, assessing, difficult for most people to hold comfortably. He looked at people as though dissecting them quietly in his mind, cool and unreadable in a way that made even older students nervous.
But with you, it was different. Softer, somehow. Not openly affectionate. Juhoon was not the sort for obvious displays of emotion.
Still, there were moments when you caught him looking at you from across the Great Hall or over the top of a book in the library, expression unreadable yet strangely focused, as though he had momentarily forgotten anyone else existed.
And every single time, your stomach betrayed you because Juhoon was composed by nature. Controlled down to the very way he spoke. Nothing about him was careless.
And yet, around you, cracks had begun appearing in that perfect restraint. Small, nearly invisible ones.
The subtle tightening of his jaw whenever another student lingered too close to you. The way his gaze darkened almost imperceptibly whenever someone flirted too openly. The instinctive way he would place a hand against your waist while guiding you through corridors that were not even vastly populated, fingers lingering just a second too long against the fabric of your robes.
Protective.
Possessive, perhaps.
Though you weren’t entirely sure you minded, and that alone should have terrified you. Instead, it settled warm beneath your ribs like a secret you were too afraid to name. And it only became worse after Potions.
Slughorn’s classroom smelled overwhelmingly sweet that morning, thick curls of shimmering steam spiraling upward from the cauldron positioned at the center of the room. Students leaned forward curiously as the potion glimmered beneath the candlelight, its surface shifting in pearlescent swirls.
“Amortentia,” Slughorn announced proudly, gesturing dramatically toward the cauldron. “The most powerful love potion in the world. Quite distinctive, of course. It smells different to each person according to what attracts them most.”
A chorus of amused reactions spread throughout the room almost immediately. Several students laughed whilst others leaned forward eagerly, excited to reveal their own.
You had barely paid attention until the scent reached you.
Rain against stone.
Cedarwood.
Mint.
Old parchment.
Your stomach dropped instantly because it smelled exactly like Juhoon.
Not vaguely similar or close enough to dismiss. It smelled undeniably, unmistakably like him—like the lingering scent left behind whenever he shrugged his robes over your shoulders after Quidditch practice, and sitting beside him in the library beneath flickering candlelight while rain battered softly against the dungeon windows.
Heat crawled painfully up your neck but you forced your expression to remain neutral, staring firmly ahead while panic curled violently in your chest.
Surely no one else noticed.
Slowly, carefully, you shifted your gaze downward toward your notes, pretending sudden fascination with your parchment.
Then silence settled beside you, the atmosphere surrounding the two of you growing far too heavy for you to ignore. Against your better judgment, you glanced sideways to find him already looking at you. And for the first time in as long as you had known him, Juhoon looked unsettled.
Only slightly.
A nearly invisible tension lingered in his expression before disappearing just as quickly, gone so fast you might have imagined it entirely had you not spent months learning the smallest shifts in his composure.
But you knew him too well now to miss it.
He had smelled something too.
Someone.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered on you afterward: thoughtful, quiet, almost unbearably intent, you had a terrible feeling you already knew who.
Neither of you spoke about it afterward, both far too emotionally inept to even consider attempting such a conversation. Instead, the two of you did what Slytherins did best: you avoided it completely. Painfully so.
The moment class ended, you gathered your things far too quickly before standing abruptly from your seat, your robe nearly getting caught on the table. Around the classroom, students continued laughing and teasing one another over the potion while Slughorn rambled enthusiastically about the “fascinating nature of adolescent attraction.”
You wanted to disappear into the Black Lake and never emerge again.
Juhoon, unfortunately, followed you out of the classroom almost immediately because that’s what he always did.
You could hear his footsteps behind you as you moved through the dungeon corridors, measured and unhurried in a way that somehow made your nervousness worse. He said nothing at first, merely falling into step beside you as naturally as breathing.
Usually, the silence between you was comfortable. Now it felt suffocating.
“You’re walking unusually fast,” Juhoon observed after several moments.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
A pause passed between you. Then, quieter: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me since class ended.”
Heat crept instantly back into your face. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“Hm.” The sound alone told you he didn’t believe a word of it.
You risked a glance toward him then, only to regret it immediately. Juhoon was already watching you, and it wasn’t casual, either. It was intent, like he was trying to solve something. It made your stomach twist painfully.
“You’re staring,” you muttered.
“And you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Another pause.
“Hm.”
You hated when he did that.
The worst part was that Juhoon himself did not appear entirely unaffected either, no matter how composed he attempted to remain. His shoulders seemed slightly tenser than usual beneath his robes, jaw tightening faintly every few seconds like he was restraining thoughts he had no intention of voicing aloud.
Which, somehow, only confirmed your suspicions further.
Merlin. Juhoon had smelled you in the Amortentia potion.
You nearly walked directly into another student before a hand closed instantly around your wrist, pulling you smoothly out of the way before impact.
“Careful,” Juhoon murmured.
The touch burned far hotter than it should have. His fingers remained around your wrist for one second too long before releasing you, though whether he noticed that fact himself, you couldn’t tell.
Neither of you moved immediately afterward.
The corridor around you buzzed with distant conversation and footsteps, students brushing past without a second glance, yet the space between you suddenly felt strangely still.
Dangerously still.
Juhoon’s gaze dropped briefly toward your face, lingering there with unsettling focus, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might actually say something. Maybe ask or even acknowledge it.
Instead, he simply adjusted your cloak where it had slipped from your shoulder during your near collision, movements careful and composed despite the tension crackling quietly between the two of you.
Then he stepped back.
“There’s a Slytherin meeting tonight,” he said smoothly, as though neither of you were internally unraveling. “Don’t be late.”
And just like that, the moment vanished like any other time you had come close to branching further than just an arrangement.
Days passed as such, and you continued your… whatever it was you and Juhoon had become.
Not quite fake. Not entirely real. Something dangerously in between.
The awkwardness following the Amortentia incident never truly disappeared, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud. Instead, it settled quietly beneath your interactions, lingering within prolonged glances and near touches that suddenly felt far too intentional.
If Juhoon noticed the shift between you, he gave no indication of it. But afterward, he seemed even more attentive than before.
His hand found the small of your back far more often in the corridors, not that you had been keeping track though. His gaze lingered longer whenever you spoke. Sometimes, during late evenings in the common room, you would glance up from your book only to find him already watching you with that same unreadable expression that made your stomach twist painfully every single time.
It was unbearable.
Worse still, it was becoming impossible to tell where the act ended anymore.
Perhaps that was why the letter from your mother unsettled you as much as it did.
The envelope arrived during breakfast one icy December morning, bearing your family crest stamped neatly into dark green wax. You already knew it would be unpleasant before even opening it.
Across from you, Juhoon glanced up briefly from his tea as you broke the seal.
Your mother’s elegant handwriting greeted you immediately.
You and Juhoon are expected to attend the Rosier Winter Solstice Ball during holiday recess. Considering recent developments, your appearance together will be beneficial for both families.
Do try not to embarrass us.
You stared at the letter for several long moments before sighing deeply and handing it across the table.
Juhoon scanned the contents silently. “The Rosier ball,” he murmured.
You groaned softly. “I was hoping to avoid that this year.”
“So was I.”
That alone was enough to tell you exactly how insufferable the event would be.
The Rosier Winter Solstice Ball was infamous amongst pureblood society—less celebration and more political performance disguised beneath expensive robes and orchestral music. Old families gathered beneath enchanted chandeliers to exchange alliances, gossip, and carefully concealed threats while pretending it was all perfectly civilized.
Children of noble houses were displayed like prized assets.
And now, apparently, the two of you would be attending together officially.
Wonderful.
“You realise everyone’s going to stare at us the entire night,” you muttered.
Juhoon folded the letter neatly before setting it back down beside your plate. “They already do.”
Annoyingly enough, he wasn’t wrong.
The Rosier estate looked almost unreal beneath winter snowfall.
Ancient stone walls towered against the dark sky, every window glowing with warm golden light while enchanted snow drifted elegantly through the air without ever touching the ground. Inside, the manor glittered beneath towering crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls lined with moving portraits older than Hogwarts itself.
The ballroom itself was already crowded upon arrival.
Pureblood heirs draped in expensive fabrics moved gracefully through clusters of conversation while orchestral music echoed softly throughout the hall. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath candlelight, dark tailored suits embroidered subtly with family crests and ancient runes.
Politics disguised as elegance.
Exactly as exhausting as you remembered.
The moment you entered beside Juhoon, attention shifted immediately.
Not openly, of course, pureblood society was far too practiced for something so crude. But you felt it all the same: eyes following the two of you across the ballroom, whispers murmured quietly behind crystal glasses as your arrival spread through the crowd.
Because this was the first time many of them had seen you together publicly since the announcement.
And Juhoon played the role far too well.
His hand settled against your waist almost instantly upon entering the ballroom, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress as he guided you smoothly through the crowd. The gesture appeared effortless, natural enough that no one would question it for a second, yet the touch lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.
You became painfully aware of him throughout the evening.
The way he pulled your chair out before you could sit during dinner, and he leaned down slightly whenever speaking near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Even how his fingers brushed absentmindedly against your own while passing you a drink.
Every action was perfectly measured. Perfectly convincing.
That should have reassured you.
Instead, it unsettled you more with every passing hour because Juhoon was terrifyingly good at acting like he adored you.
At one point during the evening, an older witch smiled knowingly as the two of you crossed the ballroom together. “You make a beautiful couple,” she remarked warmly and your polite smile nearly faltered.
Juhoon’s hand tightened subtly at your waist.
“Thank you,” he replied smoothly before you could answer. As though he meant it.
That haunted you for the remainder of the night.
Especially once the dancing began.
His hand rested against your waist while the other held yours carefully, guiding you effortlessly across the ballroom floor beneath glittering chandeliers and floating candlelight. Every movement felt controlled, elegant, practiced from years of aristocratic upbringing.
And all the while, people watched the two of you.
You could feel their attention constantly. Admiration, curiosity, approval for the perfect pureblood pair. Exactly what your families wanted.
The thought should have disgusted you, but your attention remained fixed on Juhoon.
His gaze never truly left your face while you danced and he instinctively guided you away whenever couples drifted too close. There was an almost protective way he carried himself beside you throughout the evening, calm and watchful like he was aware of everything happening around you at all times.
None of it felt forced or fake, and somewhere between his hand against your waist and the quiet sound of his voice near your ear, a dangerous thought began settling heavily into your chest.
How much of this was actually pretending anymore?
The thought lingered uncomfortably for the rest of the evening.
You tried to dismiss it. Tried to blame the atmosphere instead—the golden candlelight, the orchestral music swelling softly throughout the ballroom, the overwhelming intensity of old pureblood traditions wrapped so elegantly around the two of you.
But every time you convinced yourself you were overthinking things, Juhoon would do something small and devastating.
A witch from the Parkinson family attempted to pull you into conversation near the refreshments table, speaking animatedly about Ministry affairs while several older purebloods listened nearby. You barely managed a polite response before feeling Juhoon’s presence settle beside you once more.
He didn’t interrupt, he was never rude enough for that. But somehow the conversation ended less than a minute later regardless and his hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you away through the crowd.
“You looked miserable,” he murmured.
You glanced sideways at him. “And you decided to rescue me?”
“You say that like it’s unusual.”
The response came so naturally that your steps faltered slightly before you recollected yourself.
At some point during the evening, your mother approached the two of you with a satisfied expression that immediately made you wary.
“You look lovely together,” she commented, gaze flickering approvingly between you and Juhoon. “People have been speaking very highly of your relationship tonight.”
You resisted the urge to grimace. Beside you, Juhoon remained flawlessly composed. “That was the intention,” he replied smoothly.
Your mother seemed pleased by the answer, though her attention lingered suspiciously on the hand resting against your waist before she eventually disappeared back into the crowd.
The moment she left, you exhaled quietly. “I think she’s planning our wedding already.”
Juhoon took a slow sip from his drink. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”
You nearly choked. He glanced at you then, one eyebrow lifting faintly as though amused by your reaction.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly.”
That was not reassuring whatsoever.
The longer the evening continued, the more impossible Juhoon became to ignore. You noticed the way people reacted to him around you.
How conversations shifted whenever he stepped closer and other pureblood heirs kept a respectful distance without needing to be told. His eyes would follow you instinctively anytime someone else attempted to monopolize your attention for too long.
Protective. Always protective.
Though there was something sharper threaded beneath it tonight.
You first noticed it properly when Eunwoo Carrow approached you near the ballroom balcony.
Eunwoo was charming in the polished, aristocratic sort of way most pureblood sons were taught to be: handsome enough, socially graceful enough, and entirely too aware of both facts.
“Enjoying the evening?” He asked pleasantly, offering you a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Trying to,” you replied lightly.
Eunwoo smiled. “I must admit, your relationship came as quite the surprise.”
You hummed softly. “Did it?”
“To everyone else? Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered briefly across the ballroom before returning to you. “To Juhoon’s admirers, however, it was devastating news.”
You almost laughed. The idea of Juhoon inspiring admiration rather than fear within Hogwarts remained endlessly amusing.
Still, before you could respond, Eunwoo stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, just enough to be noticed.
“You know,” he continued smoothly, “if things between you and Juhoon ever become… less serious, I’d be very interested in—”
A hand settled suddenly against the small of your back. Warm, steady and wholly possessive.
Juhoon.
You had not even seen him approach.
“Carrow,” Juhoon greeted calmly beside you and Eunwoo’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Juhoon.”
There was no hostility in his tone, and that somehow made the tension worse.
Juhoon’s hand remained firmly against your waist as his gaze settled on Eunwoo with quiet composure. “I believe she was just about to join me for the next dance.”
You blinked. You had not been aware there was another dance but Eunwoo clearly recognised the dismissal for what it was. Still smiling faintly, he inclined his head. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner.”
Then he left.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence settled briefly between the two of you.
Juhoon’s hand had not moved. In fact, if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten slightly against your waist before relaxing again.
“You disappeared,” you said eventually, mostly because the tension had become unbearable otherwise.
“I was speaking with my father.”
“You looked thrilled.”
“I considered poisoning my drink halfway through the conversation.”
You laughed softly before you could stop yourself and the sound seemed to catch his attention immediately. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward you then—fully toward you—and for one strange, suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely into the background.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Then his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd behind you, expression cooling almost instantly. “Eunwoo was standing too close to you.”
The words startled you. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Controlled
Jealous.
You stared at him.
Juhoon, meanwhile, seemed to realise only afterward what he had admitted aloud.
A strange flicker crossed his expression before his composure slid immediately back into place.
“He has a reputation,” he added smoothly as though that explained anything. As though your pulse had not just quickened violently at the implication hidden beneath his words.
Before you could respond, the orchestra began another slow waltz somewhere across the ballroom. Juhoon held your gaze for one lingering second before finally speaking once more. “Dance with me.”
It was not phrased like a question.
Juhoon was already extending his hand toward you, expression calm and unreadable beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers overhead. Around the two of you, couples began drifting back toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra swelled into another slow waltz.
For a moment, you simply stared at him.
Then, against every sensible thought currently screaming through your mind, you placed your hand in his.
The ballroom blurred softly around you as Juhoon guided you back onto the dance floor, one hand settling once more against your waist while the other held yours with practiced ease. The movement between you felt almost instinctive now, frighteningly natural as he led you effortlessly through the crowd.
You hated how easily your body responded to him and how naturally you fit beside him.
The music echoed softly throughout the hall while candlelight flickered against polished marble floors, shadows dancing across expensive fabrics and glittering jewelry. Pureblood heirs moved elegantly around you beneath floating chandeliers, every step carefully perfected through years of aristocratic upbringing.
Yet somehow, despite the sheer number of people surrounding you, your attention remained painfully fixed on Juhoon alone and how his gaze lingered on your face with unnerving intensity every time you looked up.
“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “And yet you continue letting me.”
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly and you looked away immediately, but that only seemed to amuse him further.
You weren’t embarrassed merely because Juhoon was flirting, but because he did it so rarely that every small remark carried far too much weight.
Especially when directed at you.
For several moments, neither of you spoke again, you simply danced. The orchestra played softly around you while the rest of the ballroom faded into meaningless noise, your attention narrowing dangerously to the person standing impossibly close before you.
You became painfully aware of every tiny detail: the faint scent of cedarwood lingering against his clothes, the smooth fabric beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his hand through the layers of your clothing.
And perhaps worst of all was the look in his eyes, because Juhoon looked at you like someone trying very hard not to say something.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re quiet,” he observed eventually.
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s true.”
There was a brief lull between you as you attempted to avoid his eyes, it becoming far too overwhelming.
“You’ve been avoiding me since Potions.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course he would notice that, Juhoon notices everything. “I have not.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You walked into a suit of armor yesterday because you were too busy pretending not to look at me.”
Heat rushed immediately to your face. “That happened once.”
“You apologised to it.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
To your horror, the corner of Juhoon’s mouth twitched faintly upward.Not quite a smile, but worse. Fond amusement.
Juhoon was enjoying your embarrassment far too much for your liking.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“So I’ve been told.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly and the sound seemed to affect him instantly. Something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly, the usual sharpness in his gaze easing for half a second before his composure returned.
But you saw it, and suddenly the air between you felt far too warm.
The dance slowed gradually as the music neared its end though neither of you moved apart immediately afterward. Juhoon’s hand remained against your waist, your own still resting lightly against his shoulder while the final notes echoed softly throughout the ballroom.
People continued moving around you yet the moment felt strangely isolated all the same. Dangerously intimate.
Then someone called Juhoon’s name from across the ballroom and the spell shattered instantly.
His expression cooled back into practiced neutrality as he glanced toward the source of the interruption: his father standing near a cluster of Ministry officials, already looking impatient.
You felt the shift immediately. The reminder of where you were. Who you were. What this arrangement was supposed to be.
Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose before lowering his gaze back toward you. “I need to speak with him.”
“Go,” you replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your waist and the absence of it felt far more noticeable than it should have.
“I’ll find you afterward,” he said, and before you could properly process the implication hidden within those words, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
You remained standing there for several moments after he left, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs.
Across the ballroom, people continued watching you. Whispering quietly behind jeweled glasses and polite smiles. A perfect pair, a future alliance, apureblood success story.
If only they knew.
Though, standing there beneath glittering chandeliers with the ghost of Juhoon’s touch still lingering against your waist, you were no longer entirely certain what the truth actually was anymore.
The ball ended late into the night.
Snow drifted softly outside the manor as guests gradually disappeared through the Floo network one by one, the grand ballroom slowly emptying of music and conversation. By the time you finally stepped outside onto the manor steps, exhaustion had settled heavily into your bones.
Cold winter air bit instantly against your skin.
Beside you, Juhoon adjusted his gloves silently before glancing toward you.
“You’re cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hm.”
Before you could question the sound, he removed the heavy dark cloak draped over his shoulders and settled it carefully around yours.
Your breath caught slightly. “Juhoon—”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
The familiar scent of cedarwood and mint wrapped around you immediately beneath the warmth of the cloak, making your chest tighten painfully all over again.
Neither of you spoke for several moments afterward. Snow fell quietly around the two of you while golden light spilled from the manor windows behind you, soft orchestral music still faintly audible through the walls.
“You handled tonight well,” Juhoon finally spoke, cutting through the silence.
You blinked softly. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”
“It is.”
You looked at him then, seeing the slight exhaustion beneath his composed expression and the careful way he stood beside you despite clearly wanting to leave the event hours ago. Even the way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever it rested on you for too long.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, one realisation settled heavily in your chest above all others.
You liked this version of him far too much.
The thought terrified you, because this was never supposed to become real.
The return to Hogwarts following that night was as regular as it could have been.
You maintained what had already been present between the two of you: quiet touches, shared glances, the familiar ease that had long since settled into your routines. If anything, the aftermath of the Rosier ball only seemed to deepen the strange intimacy growing steadily between you and Juhoon.
Though neither of you acknowledged it, why would you? That would have required emotional honesty, something both of you had been raised to avoid almost professionally.
Instead, life simply… continued.
Mornings at the Slytherin table, late nights in the library, walking side-by-side through crowded corridors while students instinctively moved aside to let the two of you pass.
He still looked at you in that quiet, dangerous way that made your pulse stumble embarrassingly every single time, and it was becoming a problem. A rather significant one.
Especially because Juhoon himself appeared entirely unaffected, at least outwardly.
Though there were smal moments where his composure slipped just enough to make your chest tighten painfully.
Like after Quidditch matches.
Juhoon rarely lingered after practice or games. Once finished, he usually disappeared quickly with the rest of the Slytherin team, expression unreadable beneath windswept dark hair while students crowded noisily around the pitch.
And yet, recently, you had developed the unfortunate habit of waiting for him afterward.
You weren’t entirely sure when that started.
Maybe after one particularly brutal practice where he had shown up in the common room with blood running down his jaw from a stray Bludger hit and still calmly asked if you had finished your Potions essay. Or maybe after realising he always searched the stands for you before matches began.
Either way, it became routine.
So when the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match ended beneath a cold grey February sky, you found yourself lingering near the edge of the pitch while students poured noisily from the stands around you.
Slytherin had won by the skin of their teeth.
The atmosphere buzzed loudly with excitement and irritation alike as students argued over fouls and close calls while snow crunched beneath moving crowds.
You spotted Juhoon almost immediately.
He stood near the locker room entrance speaking briefly with another teammate, broom tucked beneath one arm while his Quidditch robes clung slightly to his frame from exertion. Even from a distance, he carried himself with the same composed sharpness he always did, though a faint flush lingered across his cheeks from the cold.
And, as though sensing your attention instantly, his gaze lifted, finding you immediately. Something subtle softened in his expression before he nodded once toward you, small enough that no one else would notice.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
“You know,” a voice drawled beside you suddenly, “he’s terrifyingly possessive for someone pretending to date you.”
You turned to find a Gryffindor boy leaning casually against the wooden railing nearby, red-and-gold scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Cormac McLaggen.
Wonderful.
You had spoken to him perhaps twice in your entire life, both interactions equally unpleasant.
“You Gryffindors spend an odd amount of time thinking about Slytherin relationships,” you replied flatly.
Cormac grinned, entirely unbothered. “Hard not to when your boyfriend looks ready to kill anyone who breathes too close to you.”
Your eyes flickered instinctively toward Juhoon.
Unfortunately, Cormac was not entirely wrong. Even across the crowded pitch, Juhoon’s attention remained fixed on the two of you now, expression unreadable from this distance.
You sighed internally. “He’s not going to murder you, McLaggen.”
“Shame,” he mused. “Would’ve made this conversation more entertaining.”
Before you could respond, he stepped slightly closer.
“You know,” he continued lightly, “I still think it’s strange.”
“What is?”
“You and Juhoon.” His mouth tilted faintly. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the romantic type.”
You folded your arms. “And you’re an expert on romance?”
“Not particularly. But I am excellent at recognising when someone looks one inconvenience away from homicide.”
Despite yourself, you nearly laughed, and unfortunately that only encouraged him.
“You could do better, you know.”
The comment immediately soured your expression. “And there it is.”
Cormac shrugged. “I’m serious. Half the school’s terrified of him.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“Hm.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Juhoon again. “You know, I think he’s glaring at me.”
“He glares at everyone.”
“Not usually like that.”
Before you could respond, Cormac’s hand landed suddenly against your waist. Lightly, casually and entirely intentionally.
The reaction was immediate.
A hand closed sharply around Cormac’s wrist.
“Remove your hand.”
The temperature around you seemed to drop instantly.
Juhoon stood beside you now, expression perfectly calm despite the dangerous stillness settled beneath his voice. Snow drifted softly around the three of you while nearby conversations gradually began faltering one by one.
Because everyone had noticed.
Cormac looked almost entertained. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “you almost sound jealous.”
Juhoon did not answer immediately which somehow only made the silence infinitely worse. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable and his eyes cold.
“Don’t touch what’s mine.”
The entire pitch seemed to fall silent. You felt the shift ripple outward through the surrounding students almost instantly. Shock. Interest. Tension.
Because pureblood men did not say things like that lightly.
Not publicly. Not unless they meant them.
And Merlin—
Juhoon had sounded terrifyingly serious.
Cormac’s amusement finally faltered slightly beneath the weight of Juhoon’s stare. After one long moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped backward.
“Relax,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise the act had become so convincing.”
Act.
Right.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
Juhoon said nothing as Cormac disappeared back into the crowd.
He simply remained beside you, jaw tight beneath his calm expression while snow drifted silently between the two of you. Then, after several long seconds: “Are you alright?”
The question startled you because despite everything that had just happened, genuine concern still threaded quietly beneath his voice.
You stared at him, seeing the cold fury lingering carefully restrained behind his eyes, feeling the hand still hovering faintly near your waist as though resisting the urge to touch you again.
And suddenly one horrifying thought repeated loudly through your mind over and over again.
That didn’t sound fake at all
Students were still staring, but were pretending not to, of course.
But you could feel it all the same: the curious glances, the whispered conversations beginning almost immediately now that Cormac had retreated somewhere into the crowd looking considerably less smug than before.
Beside you, Juhoon appeared entirely unaffected by the attention.
Though you knew him well enough now to recognise the tension lingering beneath his composure. His jaw remained slightly tight with his shoulders rigid beneath dark Quidditch robes.
He was still angry.
Juhoon finally looked down at you properly, expression cooling slightly once he confirmed you were unharmed. “You should head back inside,” he said calmly. “It’s freezing.”
The normalcy of the statement almost made you laugh. As though he had not just publicly implied ownership over you in front of half the school. “You threatened him.”
“I told him to remove his hand.”
“You called me yours.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them and for the first time since arriving at the pitch, Juhoon went still. Not visibly enough, most people would not have noticed it.
But you did. Always.
A strange pause settled between the two of you while snow drifted quietly around your shoulders. Then, in that carefully neutral tone you recognised all too well as him attempting to keep composure: “Would you have preferred I let him continue touching you?”
That was not an answer. You knew it and he knew it. Still, the quiet sharpness beneath his voice made your pulse stumble embarrassingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
His gaze lingered on your face for one long moment. Then he looked away first.
“I dislike people treating you disrespectfully,” he said finally, tone measured. “McLaggen was aware of what he was doing.”
Again, not an answer.
And somehow, that only made things worse because Juhoon was many things, but careless with words was not one of them.
If he truly had not meant what he said, he could have—would have—corrected himself easily.
Instead, he had sidestepped the issue entirely.
Coward.
The realisation should have annoyed you more than it did. Unfortunately, all it really accomplished was making your heartbeat increasingly difficult to ignore.
The walk back toward the castle passed in unusual silence.
Students parted around the two of you instinctively as you crossed the grounds, several Slytherins glancing toward Juhoon with poorly concealed amusement while others looked faintly alarmed.
The story was already spreading.
Mina nearly looked delighted when the two of you entered the common room later that evening.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she announced immediately from her spot near the fireplace. “People are saying Juhoon nearly hexed McLaggen’s hand off.”
“I did not,” Juhoon replied flatly.
Jaehyun looked up from the armchair beside her, expression unbearably smug. “Pity. That would’ve been romantic.”
You dropped into the sofa opposite them with a tired groan. “It was not romantic.”
Jaehyun snorted softly. “Right. Because publicly claiming someone in front of half the school is completely casual behavior.”
Beside you, Juhoon removed his gloves with slow precision, appearing utterly unbothered by the conversation despite the faint narrowing of his eyes. “He touched her intentionally,” he said simply.
Mina’s grin widened immediately. “And you cared enough to threaten him over it.”
“I told him not to touch what belongs to me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. Apparently hearing the sentence repeated aloud was somehow even worse.
Only then did Juhoon finally seem to realise how his words sounded to literally everyone else in the room. A strange flicker crossed his expression, brief and unreadable.
Then his composure returned almost immediately. “You’re all being dramatic.”
“No,” Mina replied cheerfully, “you’re just painfully repressed.”
You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough while Jaehyun outright lost composure beside her.
Juhoon, meanwhile, looked moments away from leaving the room entirely, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that they had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, Mina was nowhere near finished.
“You do realise,” she continued, still entirely too pleased with herself, “that half the school thinks the two of you are practically engaged now?”
“Half the school already thought that,” you muttered.
“Yes, but now they think Juhoon is one mild inconvenience away from committing murder over you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Honestly, it’s very romantic in a concerning sort of way.”
Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“But I’m still correct.”
The room dissolved into amused conversation afterward, though you barely registered most of it. Your mind only consumed one thing.
Don’t touch what’s mine.
The words repeated themselves relentlessly, lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs in a way that made concentrating nearly impossible. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, your stomach twisted all over again.
None of it had sounded fake. And perhaps worse still was the fact that a part of you desperately wished it wasn’t.
Across the common room, conversation carried on around you almost normally now, though several students still occasionally glanced toward the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected. At least outwardly.
He sat beside you with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, expression calm as Jaehyun continued provoking Mina into increasingly dramatic arguments near the fireplace.
Yet every so often, you caught him briefly looking at you like he was thinking too hard about something, and it made your pulse unbearably uneven.
Eventually, sometime past midnight, Juhoon stood abruptly from the sofa. “I have something to deal with,” he said simply.
Jaehyun frowned faintly. “At this hour?”
“It won’t take long.”
Something about the answer unsettled you immediately, though before you could ask anything further, his gaze shifted briefly toward you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then he left and the common room suddenly felt colder afterward.
That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the Slytherin dormitory windows while the Black Lake cast shifting shadows against the stone walls, the distant sound of water echoing faintly throughout the silence.
Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back toward the Quidditch pitch. Toward Juhoon’s voice. Toward the possessiveness threaded through it so naturally it frightened you.
You rolled over with an irritated sigh, you were being pathetic honestly.
Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed quietly.
Then came the knock. Barely audible.
Your brow furrowed immediately. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you crossed the dormitory carefully so as not to wake the others before opening the door slightly—
And froze.
Juhoon stood in the corridor.
For one horrifying second, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing.
His dark robes were disheveled, damp with melting snow near the hems, and a thin line of blood traced down from beneath his sleeve onto his hand. A bruise had already begun darkening along the sharp line of his jaw.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “Juhoon—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
The lie would have been more convincing if blood wasn’t actively dripping onto the dungeon floor.
You grabbed his wrist immediately and pulled him inside before anyone else could see. “What happened?”
“Nothing serious.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
He said nothing as you shut the door behind him.
Only once the room fell quiet again did you realise how exhausted he looked.His usual composure remained intact, but thinner somehow, stretched carefully over something heavier beneath the surface.
And suddenly you remembered Jaehyun’s question earlier.
‘At this hour?’
Pureblood business. You hated the phrase because it always meant something unpleasant.
“Sit down,” you ordered softly.
To your surprise, Juhoon obeyed without argument, and that alone worried you more than the injuries.
You retrieved your wand quickly, murmuring a healing spell beneath your breath as you knelt carefully in front of him. The cut along his hand sealed slowly beneath the glow of magic, though bruising still lingered stubbornly across his knuckles.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist while adjusting his sleeve. He went very still.
“What did your father send you to do?” You asked quietly.
A long silence followed until he eventually answered. “It doesn’t matter.”
Which meant it mattered very much.
You looked up at him properly then, and Juhoon avoided your gaze, which was another first.
Anger flared suddenly beneath your concern, though not at him. At the fact that someone had hurt him badly enough for him to show up at your door in the middle of the night pretending he was fine.
“You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” you murmured while examining the bruise near his jaw carefully.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
The question hung quietly between the two of you. Juhoon finally looked at you then and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression became painfully visible beneath the careful restraint he wore so constantly around everyone else.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
“I trust you more.” He spoke quietly, and the words hit harder than anything else possibly could have.
Your breath caught instantly, the air suddenly feeling far too thin inside the quiet dormitory.
Because Juhoon did not trust people.
Ever.
Not professors. Not classmates. Not even most of his own family.
Trust, to someone like him, was not given lightly. It was not something carelessly handed out through affection or familiarity. You had spent years watching him keep everyone at arm’s length with that cold, perfect composure of his, allowing people only carefully measured versions of himself and nothing more.
He trusted strategy, logic and control.
People were another matter entirely.
And yet somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun seeking you out first. Standing beside you instinctively. Looking for you in crowds. Coming to you tonight instead of anyone else despite the blood staining his sleeve and exhaustion carved quietly beneath his expression.
Trust from Juhoon was not soft.
It was dangerous. Intimate. Rare.
And he had handed it to you so simply it nearly shattered something inside your chest.
The silence afterward felt unbearably fragile.
Your hand still rested lightly against his wrist, fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve while moonlight spilled silver-blue across the room around you. Outside the dungeon windows, the Black Lake shifted restlessly against the glass, shadows dancing faintly along the stone walls.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily, dark eyes quieter than you had ever seen them before. Not guarded or unreadable.
Just tired, maybe even honest. Somehow that vulnerability unsettled you more than all his sharpness ever had.
Because Juhoon was terrifying when controlled. But this version of him: exhausted enough to lower his walls around you, felt infinitely more dangerous to your heart.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his free hand toward your face. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch you like this and this mattered enough to make even him nervous.
That realisation alone made your pulse stutter painfully.
He gave you every possible opportunity to pull away, but you didn’t.
His fingers brushed gently against your jaw, warm against your skin despite the cold lingering from outside. The touch was careful, almost reverent in a way that made something tight unravel slowly inside your chest.
You had never seen Juhoon uncertain before. Never. Yet now, looking at you, there was the faintest trace of hesitation beneath his composure. Like this frightened him too.
“Juhoon…” you whispered softly.
His name left your lips almost unintentionally, barely louder than the shifting water outside.
But the effect it had on him was immediate. Something in his expression changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable.
The final crack in his restraint.
His eyes lowered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your gaze again, as though searching for any sign you wanted him to stop.
You didn’t.
He was still watching you.
Even now—even with his face inches from yours and his breath warm against your lips—Juhoon's gaze searched yours one final time. Looking for hesitation. Looking for the smallest sign that you wanted to pull away, that this was too much, that the months of careful restraint had been there for a reason.
You held his stare and didn't blink.
And something in him broke.
Not dramatically. Juhoon was not built for dramatics. But you felt it in the way his exhale shuddered almost imperceptibly against your mouth, in the barely-there tremble of his fingers where they pressed against your jaw.
Then his eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that saw everything, that had been watching you for years, closed and he kissed you.
The first brush of his lips was impossibly soft, almost reverent, he seemed afraid you might dissolve beneath his touch if he pressed too hard. His mouth moved against yours with devastating care, slow and searching, as though he was memorising the shape of you one breath at a time.
You felt everything.
The slight roughness of his lower lip. The warmth of him, spreading through you like something slow and honey-thick. The way his thumb traced a gentle arc along your cheekbone as he tilted his head, changing the angle, finding the place where you fit together best.
A small sound escaped you that was barely a whisper, barely anything at all, and Juhoon swallowed it like it was something sacred.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading carefully into your hair. Just holding and grounding himself in the reality of you.
The kiss deepened by millimeters.
Still slow. Still careful. But surer now: his lips parting slightly against yours, the barest brush of warmth that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve.
He smelled like cedarwood and mint and something underneath that was simply him, the scent you had been catching across library tables and common room sofas for months, that had haunted you after the Amortentia until you couldn't smell it without thinking of him.
Now it surrounded you completely.
Your hand slid from his sleeve to his chest without conscious thought, palm flat against the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. It was racing. Juhoon's heart was racing.
The realisation struck you like a stunning spell, that beneath all that careful composure, beneath the exhaustion and the blood still drying on his sleeve and the bruised knuckles he hadn't explained, he was just as affected as you were. Just as undone.
The tension bled from his shoulders slowly, minute by minute, as the kiss continued. What had started almost tentatively softened into something more certain, more trusting. Like he had finally stopped waiting for you to push him away.
When his lips gentled against yours, soft and lingering, you felt the question in it.
Is this alright?
You answered by leaning into him, by letting your fingers curl against his chest, by kissing him back with everything you had been too afraid to name for months.
His breath caught.
And then, finally and impossibly, he smiled against your mouth.
Just a small thing, barely there. But you felt it in the curve of his lips beneath yours, and something warm and devastating bloomed behind your ribs.
When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven in a way you had never heard before.
Neither of you spoke. The dormitory was silent around you, just the distant ripple of the Black Lake against the windows and the soft, shared warmth of two people who had stopped pretending.
His thumb traced once more along your jaw. For the first time in as long as you could remember, Juhoon looked entirely at peace. His eyes lingered on yours for several long seconds before he exhaled softly, almost like he was still processing what had just happened himself.
“So,” you whispered weakly, still slightly breathless, “this is becoming a problem.”
To your surprise, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. “A significant one.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself, the sound soft in the silence between you.
And suddenly, with his forehead still resting against yours and warmth lingering against your skin, one devastating realisation settled fully into your chest at last.
This had stopped being fake a very long time ago.
The days following that night changed something between you.
Not visibly. To everyone else, very little seemed different.
You and Juhoon still moved through Hogwarts exactly as before: side by side through crowded corridors, seated together at the Slytherin table, existing within each other’s orbit with the same quiet inevitability that had long since become normal.
But now there was an awareness neither of you could ignore anymore. Every touch lingered longer than before, every glance felt heavier.
Kissing Juhoon had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake for someone attempting to remain emotionally detached because now you knew how careful he could be. How gentle and devastatingly soft he became only with you. It ruined you completely.
The worst part was that neither of you discussed what happened afterward.
The kiss had not magically transformed the two of you into people capable of openly discussing emotions. If anything, it only made the tension between you sharper, quieter, more intimate in ways that felt almost unbearable.
Still, there were moments.
Late evenings in the common room where his fingers absentmindedly traced against yours beneath the table. Lingering touches in empty corridors. The way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever you laughed now, as though he no longer bothered hiding it properly.
And Merlin, the staring had somehow become worse.
You noticed it constantly, it was as if he was still trying to understand how this had happened. As though he found himself just as dangerous to you as you did to him.
Perhaps that was why the realisation settled so heavily inside your chest one quiet evening near the end of term.
The two of you sat alone in the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the castle silent beneath you while cold night air drifted softly through the open arches. The sky above stretched endlessly dark and glittering, moonlight spilling silver across the stone floor where you sat beside one another.
Juhoon rested against the wall beside you, one knee drawn slightly upward while absentmindedly turning one of his silver rings between his fingers.
Comfortable silence settled naturally between you as it always had.
You glanced toward him eventually. “You know,” you murmured quietly, “this arrangement has become complicated.”
The words were light, attempting humor, but your chest tightened anyway because suddenly the weight of it all felt painfully obvious. The fact that somewhere along the way, Juhoon had become the first person you searched for in every room.
He went still beside you, then his gaze shifted toward yours slowly, moonlight catching faintly against the sharp line of his jaw.
“It was complicated the moment I asked you.”
Your breath caught instantly. The world seemed to narrow painfully around those words. You stared at him and suddenly every moment replayed itself differently in your mind.
The way he had looked at you before the arrangement ever started, how quickly he proposed it, how natural everything between you had always felt from the very beginning.
“You already liked me.” Your voice came out quieter than intended.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily for several long seconds.
Then, finally, he spoke: “Yes.”
The simple honesty of it nearly unraveled you and your heartbeat turned uneven instantly.
“How long?” You asked softly.
A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though considering the question carefully. “I don’t know.”
Which meant a long time.
Merlin.
You looked away briefly, overwhelmed by the realisation settling slowly into place inside your chest. All this time, you had thought Juhoon adapted too naturally to pretending, but he had never really been pretending at all. Not entirely.
“I thought you hated most people,” you whispered weakly.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I do.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you and the sound softened his expression immediately. There it was again.
That look he only ever seemed to have around you now: quieter than his usual sharp composure, stripped of all the careful distance he maintained with everyone else.
Then, after a long pause, Juhoon quietly spoke again. “You were the only person I wanted beside me.”
The words settled heavily between you, devastatingly sincere, somehow making them infinitely worse.
Because Juhoon did not ever say things he didn’t mean.
Your chest ached painfully beneath the weight of it. He had chosen you long before any arrangement existed, before you had even considered Juhoon to be your own. Through all his restraint and careful control, it had always been you standing at the center of his attention.
You swallowed hard. “Juhoon…”
His eyes remained fixed on yours steadily, patient in a way that felt almost unbearably intimate now.
There were no masks or pretending, it was just him. And maybe that was the moment you finally understood the true danger of loving someone like Juhoon, because once he gave someone his trust, his loyalty, his care—
He gave it completely.
Below the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts slept quietly beneath moonlight and drifting clouds, distant torchlight glowing warmly through castle windows while cold night air curled softly around the stone arches.
Neither of you moved away from each other.
Juhoon still sat close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever either of you shifted slightly, his presence warm and steady beside you in the chill of the tower.
And suddenly, absurdly, you didn’t know what to say.
Because what response even existed for something like that?
You were the only person I wanted beside me.
The words continued echoing somewhere deep inside your chest, dangerously gentle in a way that made your throat tighten painfully.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely calm again. Though by now you recognised the signs well enough to know better: the slight tension in his fingers where they rested against his knee, and the way his gaze avoided yours for perhaps half a second longer than usual afterward.
He was waiting for your response.
For all his composure, Juhoon was still giving you something fragile here. Trusting you with pieces of himself he clearly offered to almost no one. And that mattered more than any dramatic declaration ever could have.
“You know,” you said quietly after a long moment, “you’re terrible at communicating.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him unexpectedly. “You’re not particularly good at it either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m choosing denial intentionally.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “If that is what you want to believe.”
Your chest tightened embarrassingly at the sight.
Merlin. You had become far too attached to the rare moments when Juhoon looked openly amused around you.
You found yourself smiling faintly back at him without thinking and his expression softened almost immediately at the sight.
Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous now.
Another quiet pause settled between you before you finally spoke again. “So,” you murmured carefully, “when exactly were you planning on telling me?”
“I wasn’t.”
You blinked. “What?”
Juhoon looked entirely unbothered by your confusion. “The arrangement was useful,” he replied calmly. “You were comfortable. I had no intention of complicating things further.”
“You mean more than fake dating me for months while secretly being in love with me?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes.” He answered.
You stared at him in disbelief while he remained perfectly serious. “That is deeply concerning behavior.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you still continued?”
His gaze shifted toward you again then, quieter now. “You were happy.”
The simple sincerity behind the answer stole every sarcastic response directly from your mouth.
Because that was the problem with Juhoon. Beneath all the sharpness and composure and carefully restrained emotion, he cared with terrifying intensity once someone mattered to him, and that felt infinitely more intimate than grand gestures ever could have.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “You really were just going to keep pretending forever.”
“If necessary.”
“Merlin.”
A faint trace of amusement flickered across his face again at your horrified expression. Then his eyes lowered briefly toward your hand resting against the stone floor between the two of you.
You barely noticed the movement before his fingers brushed lightly against yours tentatively, as if he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to do that now despite everything.
The thought alone nearly ruined you.
Without thinking, you turned your hand slightly beneath his, allowing your fingers to slide carefully between his.
Juhoon went still beside you, though not because he disliked it. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. You felt the subtle way his hand tightened around yours almost immediately afterward and your pulse stumbled softly.
“You know,” you murmured after several seconds, unable to stop yourself, “you’re significantly softer than people think you are.”
Juhoon looked unimpressed. “Don’t spread that around.”
You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the tower, swallowed quickly by the night around you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke again. You simply sat there together in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined while moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. It felt strangely peaceful.
At some point, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles. The tiny gesture nearly stopped your heart entirely.
“How unfortunate,” you murmured weakly.
His brows lifted faintly. “What is?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The words slipped out before you could reconsider them, and silence followed immediately afterward. You stared straight ahead at the night sky, suddenly unable to look directly at him.
“Well,” you continued awkwardly, “that sounded less humiliating in my head.”
For one terrifying second, Juhoon said absolutely nothing. Then you felt his hand tighten around yours.
When you finally forced yourself to glance sideways, his expression had gone strangely soft again—that same rare look he reserved only for you, stripped entirely of sharp edges.
And very quietly, like something precious, he replied: “I know.”
Your breath caught. “You know?”
“You look at me the same way I look at you.” The devastating thing was that he sounded so certain about it, like he had noticed long before you had because of course he had. Juhoon noticed everything about you.
“You’re frighteningly observant.”
“Hm.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long second before he leaned forward slightly, pressing another slow kiss against your mouth.
This one felt different from the first. It was certain now. Neither of you needed to question what this was anymore.
And beneath the silver glow of the moon high above Hogwarts, with Juhoon’s hand warm around yours and years of restrained affection finally unraveling quietly between you, you realised something almost laughably simple.
You had been his long before the fake dating arrangement ever began.
⤷ Y/N L/N got dumped, but she’s far from defeated. She’s scheming, and Martin Edwards— loud, chaotic, and just impossible to ignore, is her secret weapon.
Alternatively: the full love story behind how rodrick! martin and regina! reader end up together
ᯓ★ warnings: wc:9.3k rodrick! martin x regina! reader, fake dating to lovers, swearing, reader is mean and uses martin at first, swearing, martin embarrassing himself is inspired by a scene from rodrick rules (2010), intentional mischaracterization of some mean girls (2004) cast, he calls you princess, rushed ending oops
ᯓ★ note: ITS FINALLY HERE >0< !!! i had so much fun while writing this so i hope you guys also enjoy reading it 🫶 characters are from my sk8er boi! post
The last place you expected to be on a Friday night was a cramped, overheated house that smelled like cheap alcohol, sweat, teenage hormones, and something vaguely burnt.
And yet, here you were.
Standing near the very back, half hidden behind a pillar, arms crossed like you weren’t actively choosing to be there. Your disguise was… half-assed at best. A cap pulled low over your face, oversized sunglasses despite the dim lighting, which honestly, if anything, it made you more noticeable. But you refused to take them off. The point wasn’t to blend in perfectly.
The point was to not look like you cared. Because you didn’t. Obviously.
You just happened to be in the area. And he just happened to be performing. And you just happened to step inside for like two seconds. That’s it. Purely coincidental. Even as the flyer he had handed you earlier that month, now folded neatly inside your jean pocket, said something different.
Screams and whistles suddenly erupted around you, dragging your attention toward the stage despite yourself.
Martin steps on to the stage first. And god, he was… loud.
Not just in volume, but in presence. You knew he was loud. You’d grown familiar with the sound of his laughter and shouting (against your will), echoing through the school hallways during his usual over-the-top antics. But this… this was different. He moved across the stage, electric guitar in hand, like it belonged to him. Like every second of attention from the crowd was something he expected, not something he hoped for. His voice cut through the noise effortlessly, rough in a way that made the entire room lean in.
You shifted your weight, trying (and failing) to look uninterested. You weren’t impressed or anything. High school garage bands were soooo last year, you like to believe that your tastes were much more refined than that. But a small, tiny part of you regrettably understood why everyone else seemed to be.
The crowd erupted at the end of the third song. You hadn’t even noticed how long you had been watching him, and annoyingly, he looked good. Not in a polished, put together way--but in that careless, messy way that somehow worked. Hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, those ridiculous studded bracelets clinking every time he moved. Even the chipped black nail polish on his fingers, something you would’ve normally judged—looked deliberate as they moved over the strings. It was irritating how well it all suited him.
Cheers bounced off the walls as people pushed closer to the makeshift stage. Some girls even held up signs for someone named James as he played the bass, while the drummer–Keonho, you hear from the freshmen around you– kept the energy going from the back.
Despite the ruckus and adrenaline around you, you didn’t move. You stayed planted at the back, arms still crossed, occasionally checking your nails and the charms on them to look busy, expression carefully neutral. Unwilling to admit how much their performance pulled you in. Scanning the crowd with a bored stare, you caught sight of something that immediately sent blood rushing to your ears. Your nails pressing crescents into your palm, though your face remained completely stone cold.
Aaron Samuels. Your ex-boyfriend. The one who had broken up with you just two days ago because you were “too much.” Locked in a passionate kiss with Cady Heron. Your new friend. (Though some would argue she’s just another one of your ‘minions’ who do everything you ask them to and believe every word you say. But oh well its whatever, friend, sidekick, minion, they're all the same to you anyway.)
Your anger continued to boil beneath the surface, but you weren’t going to make a scene here. You were better than that. Exhaling a staggered breath, you forced yourself to inhale slowly, unwilling to make a spectacle of yourself. You just scoff at their public display, the scene reminding you of two fishes kissing each other that you once saw from a random documentary.
That didn’t mean you were going to let them go. You always had your way, one way or another.
You couldn’t care less if your ex-boyfriend had found someone else right after your breakup. What you couldn’t accept was how he thought he had the power to end things with you, not the other way around. The same could be said for Cady. You had never truly seen her as a friend, but you certainly weren’t going to let her play you for a fool. You would make sure they regretted it.
Just not now. Their time will eventually come.
After throwing one last judgmental glance at the pair, you refocused your attention on the five-person band. Specifically to the blond with spiked hair and messy eyeliner, his red electric guitar slung low.
Onstage, Martin was having the time of his life. He ran a hand through his damp hair, slightly out of breath, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. Leaning into the mic, a crooked grin tugged at his lips as his eyes scanned the crowd.
Until they landed past it.
Straight to you.
You froze.
Oh God, no. There was no way.
“Damn,” he breathed into the mic, voice low, amused. “Didn’t think I’d actually see you here tonight.”
Your stomach dropped. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You were literally wearing a disguise. Granted, it wasn’t a good one– but still! How did he spot you so easily in a crowd like this?
He straightened, grin widening, clearly enjoying this far too much. “This next song…” he said, dragging it out just enough to make your dread build, “…goes out to a very special lady.”
Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses.
Oh my God. Shut up. No. No fucking way.
He lifted his hand, pointing directly at you. “This one’s for you.” The reaction was immediate.
Heads turned. Dozens of them. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The energy in the room shifted as people followed his gaze, right to the back, right to you.
Your heart nearly stopped. You ducked your head instantly, pulling your cap lower over your face, as if that could somehow erase the fact that half the room was now staring at you. This was a nightmare.
Being the center of attention wasn’t unfamiliar to you. After all, you were Y/N L/N. Queen bee of North Shore High. The one who controlled the social hierarchy. The one who could make or break someone’s reputation with a single word. But this was completely different. You had no intention of being recognized in this smelly, cramped backyard, precisely why you had thrown on an (admittedly shitty) disguise and left Karen and the others completely in the dark.
Mortification burned through you, hot and immediate.
Onstage, Martin just smiled, like he was genuinely on top of the world just because you were there. And then– he strummed the guitar.
You stilled, the first strum hitting like a loaded gun. And somehow, you just knew it was aimed at you.
God, please no. Just kill me now.
You knew that sound. You knew that opening. Your head snapped up despite yourself, horror dawning in real time. Martin leaned into the mic, eyes still locked on yours, grin borderline wicked. And then he started singing, the four other boys behind him closely mirroring the horror on your face, hands completely still, unsure of what to do.
“You know you love me,” he sang, winking at you. “I know you care.”
You stared at him in pure, unfiltered disbelief. Out of all the songs in the world. Out of all the songs–
He chose that one.
“And I just can’t believe we ain’t together…”
The crowd went wild. Some people laughed, others cheered louder, phones already out. Hesitantly, his bandmates follow his lead and start playing the instrumental. And Martin? He was absolutely eating it up, performing like this was the best decision he had ever made in his life.
And while you were completely, utterly stuck watching in both horror and amusement… a devilish idea began to take root in your head.
Aaron Samuels and Cady Heron might have put you on display– but you’d be the one controlling how this story ended.
The set ended in a blur of noise. After Martin's very humiliating public display, the band tried to do some form of damage control and played more songs, hoping that everyone will forget what just happened.
Cheers, whistles, people chanting for one more song, screaming ‘Cortis’ like they were headlining coachella instead of someone’s overcrowded backyard. The energy lingered in the air long after the last note faded, buzzing beneath your skin in a way you refused to acknowledge.
You didn’t stay for long. Just enough to let the crowd settle. Just enough to make sure no one was paying attention to you anymore. Then you moved.
Through the bodies, past the makeshift stage, toward the side of the house where the five boys had gathered. Laughing, excitedly talking over each other, riding the high of their performance. And there he was.
Leaning back against the wall like he hadn’t just made a complete spectacle out of you twenty minutes ago. A half-empty water bottle in his hand, hair damp, his cheeks flushed from the heat, eyeliner smudged and nearly melted off from the sweat.
His head tilted the second you stepped into his line of sight. A grin spreading across his face like he’d just won something, eyebrows raised in faux shock.
“Oh, wow, look who we have here,” he drawled, pushing himself off the wall, meeting you half way, body towering over yours even with the kitten heels you wore, completely ignoring the shocked look in his friends faces as they pretended that they weren't listening. “Didn’t think you’d actually come see me.”
You stopped an arms length away from him, arms crossing over your chest, expression perfectly composed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Edwards” you said coolly. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
His grin widened.
God he loves when you talk in that bratty tone of yours.
“Yeah?” he said, taking a step closer, fingers fiddling with his earring, voice teasing. “So did you like it? You were looking pretty into it back there.” His head tilting in the direction of the stage.
“I was just dropping by,” you corrected flatly.
“Right right.” He nodded, like he totally believed you. “Dropping by. So the disguise has no reason at all? You just like walking around with a cap and sunglasses during the night?”
Your eyes narrowed slightly behind your sunglasses. “You talk a lot for someone who just publicly humiliated me.”
That only made him laugh. “Humiliated?” he repeated, hand coming up to his chest in mock offense. “I dedicated a song to you. That’s like- the complete opposite of humiliation and totally romantic.”
“You think Baby by Justin Bieber is romantic?” you deadpanned.
“Definitely,” he shot back, nodding vigorously. “Isn’t that how he bagged Selena?”
You stared at him. He only grinned, biting his lower lip slightly, eyes glinting with amusement– like he was waiting to see how far he could push you.
God, he was insufferable. And entirely too pleased with himself.
“Relax,” he added, softer now, tilting his head slightly. “You know you loved it.”
You didn’t even hesitate. “I didn’t.”
“Nah” he dragged out, shaking his head as he leaned in slightly. “You totally did.”
Silence stretched for half a second. From a few feet away, Martin's friends held their breaths. Watching closely to how you would react to the wasian boys comment. They completely expected you to step on his toes and walk away, like how you ran his foot over and drove off a few weeks ago. But all you did was let out a sharp exhale, trying to control yourself. You weren’t here for this.
You straightened slightly, gaze sharpening as you looked at him properly this time.
“Whatever, I need you to do something for me.”
That got his attention. Not that you didn’t already have it, but this shifted it. Made it sharper. More focused.
His grin didn’t disappear, but it changed. Curious now. “Yeah?” he said. “What kind of something?”
You held his gaze. “I need you to play a part.”
His eyebrows lifted, interest piqued. “And what exactly am I auditioning for?”
You didn’t smile. “My boyfriend.”
That did it. For the first time since you walked over, Martin actually went still. Not completely. Just enough that you noticed. Then his mouth twitched, lips pressing tight like he was trying not to react.
“Wow, straight to it, huh?”
“This isn’t about you,” you said immediately. “So don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Mhmmm” he hummed, like he wasn’t listening at all. Like thinking about it was too much of a task, even when deep down all of his nerves were about to explode just at the mere mention of you mentioning ‘boyfriend’ to him. “Fake boyfriend, though… that’s a pretty big role.”
You ignored that. “It’s temporary,” you continued. “It just needs to be public. Convincing enough that people believe it.”
His eyes flickered, studying you more carefully now. “And why, may I ask,” he asked, tone just a little more curious than teasing now, “does the princess need a fake boyfriend?” Martin wasn’t stupid. Everyone had heard about you and Aaron. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why you chose him.
You tilted your head slightly, choosing to completely ignore the nickname. You could’ve said it simply. You could’ve said: Aaron. But that wasn’t the point. “Some people need to learn a lesson,” you said instead, voice cool and measured, throwing your hair over your shoulder. “And to know never to fuck with me”
There it was. Honest. In your own way.
Martin watched you for a second longer than usual. Expression now carefully neutral, lips jutting out as he lets out a thinking hum sound. Then, he smiles. Not the teasing one he has been giving you all evening, but something sharper. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “That’s kind of evil.”
You didn’t deny it.
“I prefer the word effective.”
He let out a surprised laugh, “So let me get this straight,” he said, now taking a few steps away from you, as if internalizing the information you’ve given him “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend… so some douchebag realizes he messed up?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
You met his gaze, completely unbothered. “Then I turn him down.” You shrug.
That got a real reaction. He broke into loud laughter, a hand coming up to his stomach as he bent slightly, a tear forming at the corner of his eye.“God you really are evil,” he says through laughter, wiping away the tear. “I like it.” he sighs dreamily.
Of course he did.
You ignore his words, and crossed your arms again, a single eyebrow raised. “Well? What will it be, Edwards?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you, expression thinking, like he was piecing something together. Then his grin came back, now softer than it was before. “If I’m playing your boyfriend,” he said, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m doing it my way.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, stepping into your space once again, just enough to be intentional, “I don’t do anything half-assed.”
Your chin tilted up slightly. “Good,” you replied. “I don’t either.”
His grin widened. “People are gonna believe it,” he continued. “No holding back. No fake plastic romance shit, If I’m in, I’m in.”
You studied him for a moment. Weighing. Calculating.
“Fine.”
That was all it took. The pink in his cheeks turning to a blazing red color. His eyes lit up–just for a second–before he masked it again with that same cocky expression.
“Didn’t think my night would end with you asking me out.” he said, shaking his head slightly.
“Don’t think too much about it, Edwards” you said flatly. “You just happen to be useful.”
“Yeah?” he shot back, grin returning. “We’ll see about that, princess.”
You turned slightly, already done with the conversation. “I’ll text you the details.”
“Wait,” he called.
You paused, glancing back at him. He was still smiling, but softer now. Not mocking. Not teasing. The same smile children have when they receive the present they’ve always prayed for on their birthday.
“For the record?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“I would’ve said yes anyway.”
You held his gaze for a second. Unreadable. Carefully thinking about your next words.
“I know.” And with that, you turned and walked away.
Leaving him still smiling like he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted, hands shaking at his sides from anticipation.
When Monday rolls around, everything at North Shore High goes on as usual. Hyunjin from the art club is still at his usual spot, handing out flyers and encouraging applicants. Cocona from the fashion club is pinning up yet another poster, looking for models. Soobin from the anime club is Naruto-running down the hall.
Again, everything is as usual.
Except for one thing.
You. And Martin. Together. Walking down the hallway. Together. Hand in hand.
A sly, almost poisonous smile sits on your glossy lips, your arm looped around Martin’s bicep. A pink Juicy Couture bag, very obviously yours, hangs off his shoulder like it belongs there. Your soft pink outfit and gold jewelry, the picture of clean girl, contrasts sharply against Martin’s all black, grungy clothes and silver accessories. And yet, somehow, it works.
You wear your usual proud expression, completely unbothered by the stares and whispers trailing behind you. You walk like this is nothing. Like it’s always been this way. Beside you, Martin carries himself differently. A little too aware. A little too smug. A cocky grin plays on his lips as he basks in the attention, occasionally throwing a mock salute at the random guys frozen by their lockers, jaws practically on the floor.
You don’t slow down. Not when the hallway opens up, not when the noise shifts from passing chatter to something more focused. If anything, your grip on Martin tightens slightly. Because you already know where you’re going.
And more importantly– you know who’s going to be there when you arrive.
The cafeteria doors swing open, loud and careless like they always do, but this time it feels different. Heads turn. Not all at once, but enough to notice, enough for it to ripple through the room as you walk in, still attached to Martin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t hesitate, don’t slow down, just head straight for your usual table where Gretchen and Karen are already mid-conversation, Cady sitting across from them with that same composed, quietly observant look she always has.
And right beside her is Aaron. He looks up, just for a second, and it’s subtle, the way his expression shifts. Not shock, not even confusion, more like mild amusement, like he’s already decided what this is before you’ve even said anything. A joke. An obvious ploy to get his attention.
You slide into your seat like nothing’s changed, dropping your bag onto the table as Martin takes the spot beside you, a little too close, deliberately so. There’s a slight pause before Cady tilts her head, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Oh, wow,” she says, light, almost curious, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes just a little too wide to still look innocent. “Y/N, who’s this… friend you have here?” There’s something under it—not quite sharp, but not harmless either. A tone you’re familiar with. The very same tone you use when speaking to a child—slow, measured, as if they wouldn’t understand otherwise. And you don’t even blink.
You just shrug, reaching for your tray that a random freshman had brought over like it’s nothing. “Martin. My boyfriend.”
It lands, and then just as quickly- laughter. Not loud, just disbelieving, like you’ve said something mildly entertaining. Karen giggles, Gretchen looks confused for half a second before brushing it off, and even Cady smiles like she’s humoring you. Across the table, Aaron leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mutters, “Yeah right. Okay.” He doesn’t press, doesn’t question it further, because to him it’s obvious, it’s fake. The conversation moves on almost immediately, dissolving into something else like it always does, gossip or plans or something equally unimportant, and just like that everything feels normal again. Too normal.
You pick up your fork, ready to finally eat, when something nudges lightly against your tray. You glance down to find a raspberry smoothie sitting in front of you, cold and lightly fogged with condensation, the lid already loosened. Your eyes shift to Martin, brows pulling together in a small, questioning look. He notices anyway. Of course he does. He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. “You like this, right?” he says simply. “You have it every lunch.” Across the table, Aaron lets out a quiet scoff, wrinkling his nose. “Eugh that shits basically useless. Gatorade’s better.” Neither of you respond, not even a glance, and for a second, that silence feels louder than anything else.
You look back at the bottle, then at Martin. There’s no teasing in his expression, no smugness, no hint that this is part of some act. He’s just… right. You do drink it every lunch. You always have. Aaron never noticed, or if he did, it was to complain about it, actually, saying that it tasted weird, saying you should just get something else.
This is new to you, different. You pause, not long, just a beat, something small and quiet that almost goes unnoticed. “Hm, thanks,” you say finally, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything at all, before taking the cup and taking a sip like it’s just another part of your routine, like it’s normal.
But across the table, Aaron notices. Not the drink, not even Martin, but the pause, and the way that for the first time since you sat down, something about this doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.
It’s small, almost nothing, gone as quickly as it came, but you catch it anyway– the slight shift in his expression, the way his attention lingers just a second too long before he looks away like it doesn’t matter.
And that’s all you need.
Not a scene. Not a reaction. Just that.
Because if he was really over it– over you, he wouldn’t be looking at all. You take another sip like you didn’t notice, a barely there smirk being hidden, like none of this means anything, setting the bottle back down with quiet ease as the conversation around you carries on. But beneath it, steady and certain, something settles into place.
Judging by the way Aaron can’t stop watching, you already know how this ends.
By the time the school day ends, everyone across campus has heard the news.
Y/N L/N and Martin Edwards are dating.
There are all kinds of opinions about your relationship. Gretchen would say it’s “so fetch.” A handful of people call it adorable, while some say you're just bored. Some speculate he blackmailed you into dating him. Others insist you’re the one doing the blackmailing. But no one can deny it– somehow, impossibly, the two of you fit.
Martin quietly walks you to your car in the school parking lot, a guitar case slung over one shoulder while your pink juicy couture bag hangs from his hand. The second your car beeps open, he suddenly rushes ahead of you, swinging the door open with exaggerated flair, bowing low like some medieval knight.
“Your carriage, m’lady.”
One hand holds the door open, the other extends your bag toward you.
You scoff, amused despite yourself. “You’re such a dweeb,” you say, but a small laugh slips out anyway as you take your bag and slide into the driver’s seat. Martin lifts his head at the sound of it. He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t even try. Just grins.
“Well, you’re dating this dweeb, so…” he shrugs, gently closing your door.
For a moment, everything is quiet. No whispers. No stares. No rumors trailing behind you. Just quiet.
You would usually drive off immediately, eager to leave the draining campus behind. But for some reason, you hesitate, fingers resting against the steering wheel, unmoving. Martin notices. Of course he does. Watching you has become part of his daily routine. He leans down slightly, arms folding over the edge of your window.
“That was… a pretty eventful day,” he says.
You let out a soft laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It was.”
Silence settles again. Not uncomfortable. Just… unfamiliar. Like both of you are searching for something to say, but neither quite knows what.
Martin clears his throat lightly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ve got band practice, so I can’t take you home. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Edwards,” you reply. “My mom would probably have a heart attack if she saw you anyway.”
He smirks. “Are my looks that dangerous?”
You roll your eyes. “No. It’s because you look like a walmart version of Sid Vicious.”
You expect another one of his dramatic comebacks. A joke. A protest. Something. But instead- “You know Sid Vicious?”
You pause. Just for a second. A flicker of hesitation. You know how people see you. You know what they expect. Girls like you don’t listen to that kind of music. Girls like you don’t know things like that.
You open your mouth, already ready to brush it off as a joke but Martin breaks into a wide grin. “You just keep getting cooler and cooler.”
And just like that, the moment shifts. He straightens up, stepping back from your car, hands tucked into his skinny jeans, that same easy smile still on his face.
“See you tomorrow, princess. Drive safe.”
And then he turns, heading back toward the school, probably to the music room, like it’s just another normal day.You watch him go. The way his guitar case bounces slightly, the way his frosted tips catch the light. And watch him disappear through the doors.
And for a moment, something unfamiliar settles in your chest.
Cady Heron had always envied you.
Back at her old school, she had been the it girl. The perfect image of the campus sweetheart. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also helpful. Always tutoring the students who needed it, volunteering at every school fundraiser, dutifully following behind the teachers like their favorite little pet.
She had carefully built her image.
She made sure everyone bowed at her feet and unknowingly ate out of her hand, and the moment she realized how desperately people craved her attention, she knew she could never give up that kind of power.
So when she transferred to North Shore High, she expected more of the same. Only there was one problem.
You.
She could not understand how, despite your abrasive attitude, you still had the entire school trailing after you like lovesick puppies. Despite her best efforts to stand beside you, to replace your reign with her own sweet, charming image– she couldn’t understand how you still managed to remain on top.
That was when she decided she would take everything from you. One by one. Until you had nothing left. And she had everything.
Starting with Aaron Samuels.
Manipulating Aaron Samuels had not been difficult. Despite his good looks and golden retriever charm, at the end of the day he was still just a dog. With a brush of her hand against his arm here, a playful fix of his hair there, and the slightest pout of her lips– She got him into her bed, and got him to break up with you.
She couldn’t wait to see the look on your face. She could picture it already. Your anger at being replaced. Your humiliation. Your jealousy of her.
As she sat at the group’s usual cafeteria table that Monday, Aaron at her side, she waited eagerly for your arrival, ready to watch you desperately try to conceal your rage at realizing you had been replaced by someone better.
But to her shock, you ruined the script entirely.
You walked in smiling. Radiant. Completely unbothered. And hanging off the arm of Martin Edwards.
The same Martin Edwards who now pulled out your chair for you like it was second nature, his hand resting casually on your waist as you sat down beside him like nothing in the world had changed.
Like you hadn’t just been betrayed.
Like you hadn’t just been replaced.
Being seated directly across from your nauseating display of affection, Cady shot a glance toward Aaron and felt her stomach drop. His jaw was tight. His expression dark. His eyes lingered on you far too long.
No.
No, no, no.
She could not allow this to happen. She had worked too damn hard for this. She had fought too hard to get him on her side, and she would make sure he kept his eyes exactly where they belonged. On her.
She had only just begun her climb toward the North Shore throne.
And she refused to let you win again.
The music drifting from Martin’s CD player was the only thing filling his room. Some old rock song you frequently heard bleeding through his earphones hummed through the speakers, blending with the occasional scratch of marker against plastic.
You lay flat on your stomach across his bed, lazily kicking your legs in the air while the taller boy sat cross legged on the floor beside you, colorful key tags scattered around the both of you in messy piles.
For the past hour, the two of you had repeated the same routine. Pick up a key tag. Pick up a pen. Write down:
010 666 1738. Cady Heron’s number.
Over. And over. And over again.
If someone had told you this morning that by the end of the day you’d be in Martin Edwards bedroom, surrounded by several hundred plastic key tags and willingly participating in what could only be described as low-level psychological warfare you would have laughed in their face.
But here you were.
You glanced down at the number written neatly across the bright pink tag in your hand, then at the mountain of finished ones piling up beside Martin. Then around his room. The band posters. The half-open guitar cases. The clothes thrown carelessly over the desk chair. The lingering scent of cologne and something faintly smoky.
Weird.
You had never imagined yourself here.
Had never imagined yourself anywhere near this comfortable in Martin Edwards’ personal space, let alone sprawled out on his bed like you belonged there.
Your thoughts drifted back to earlier that day.
To the exact moment this absurd plan had begun.
Martin had practically bounded toward you in the hallway that morning. Too energetic for eight a.m. Too smug for someone who looked like he’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep.
His grin was suspiciously wide, almost manic, and his hands were tucked behind his back in a way that immediately made you narrow your eyes.
“What are you hiding?” you asked flatly.
He gasped dramatically.
“No good morning? No ‘hello, Martin, you look devastatingly handsome today?’”
“Edwards.”
He rocked back on his heels, still grinning.
“Guess.”
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon, princess live a little.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then sighed dramatically.
“You’re no fun.”
“Sucks to suck.”
With a flourish far more theatrical than necessary, he brought his hands forward, revealing a giant ziplock bag, stuffed, to the brim. With brightly colored plastic key tags.
You blinked. Then blinked again. “…What.”
His grin somehow widened. “I have a proposition.”
You looked between him and the bag. “No.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“The answer is still no.”
He ignored you completely, already too committed to whatever nonsense this was.
“We write Cady’s number on every single one-” He shook the bag for emphasis, the keys rattling loudly. “Then we leave them everywhere.”
You just stared. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially despite the fact that no one around you was paying attention. “Bathroom counters. Hallways. Parking lots. Grocery stores. Taped to vending machines. Maybe at the doorstep of that weird kid who always smells like cheese–”
He kept going.
“–And thennn random creeps start calling her nonstop”
Your lips twitched. Martin froze mid-sentence. Eyes immediately catching your reaction.
“You like it,” he breathed, eyes twinkling with excitement. “You like my plan dont youuu”
You wiped your smile off instantly. “It’s…petty.”
“But effective?” he echoes your words from your first interaction.
“…Maybe.”
He broke into a victorious grin, voice teasing, “I knew it.”
You crossed your arms. “You bought all of these?”
He nodded proudly. “Three hundred.”
You stared at him incredulously, “You bought three hundred key tags?”
“What can I say, I commit to the bit.”
You should have been concerned. And honestly, you were a little. But he was grinning at you like he’d just invited you into some grand criminal conspiracy. And for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, you found yourself saying:
“When do we start?”
Which was how you ended up here, in his room. Helping him ruin Cady Heron’s week. Martin tossed another blank key tag onto the bed beside you.
“You know, you have freakishly neat handwriting for someone actively committing harassment.”
You snorted softly.
“You bought three hundred key tags for revenge and I’m the weird one?”
“Difference is,” he said, pointing his marker at you, “my insanity is charming.”
“Hm debatable.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Ouch Y/N, why do you wound me like this.”
“You’ll survive.”
“W-whats that? Is that the light?” he dramatically gasps, a hand reaching out to the sky, “Is my time over?”
You rolled your eyes, just huffing at his usual theatrics, but there was no real bite behind it. A comfortable quiet settled over the room after that. The kind that should’ve felt strange. Should’ve felt awkward. But didn’t. It was easy. Alarmingly easy.
Martin reached over the bed to grab another handful of tags, his arm brushing against yours. Neither of you moved away.
“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter this time, “I’m glad you asked me.”
Your hand stilled over the tag.
“To help terrorize Heron?”
He laughed. “No. Well- yes? But I meant the whole fake dating thing.”
You looked down at the tag in your hand. “Why?”
He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. Or as shy as Martin Edwards was capable of looking. “I don’t know.” He fiddled with the cap of his marker. “I just am I guess”
You glanced at him. He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. The sincerity of it caught you off guard.
“You realize I insult you constantly,” you said.
He smiled.
“Yeah.”
“And I ran over your foot.”
“You did.”
“And I only asked you because you were convenient.”
His smile softened.
“And yet you still asked me.”
Something in your chest tightened in the same manner it did in the cafeteria. Uncomfortable. Warm. Dangerous.
So naturally, you looked away first. “Hand me another key tag.”
His grin returned instantly. “Aweee are you shy?”
“Martin.”
“Right, right. Sorry, Your Majesty.”
Later, the two of you drove around town with the windows rolled down and the music blasting loud enough to rattle the car doors. The pile of completed key tags sat in your lap like a loaded grenade.
Every stop became a mission. You slipped one into a changing room at the mall. Martin dropped three in the movie theater lobby. You left two on the bathroom sink at a gas station. He tucked one under a windshield wiper while cackling like a supervillain.
At one point, after tossing a handful into the parking lot of a crowded grocery store, you sprinted back to his car laughing harder than you had in weeks.
“GO, GO, GO–”
“WAITWAIT THE TRUCK WONT START! HOLD ON IM PANICKING-!”
You collapsed into the passenger seat breathless, and he bolted out of the lot dramatically despite absolutely no one chasing you.
By the time the final key tag was gone, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your voice was hoarse from screaming lyrics with him at red lights.
And when you looked over at Martin, hair windblown and ridiculous, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while singing off-key with shameless confidence, you felt it.
That strange, unfamiliar ache in your chest. Because somewhere between the fake dating arrangement, the revenge plotting, the laughter…You had realized something dangerous.
You liked this. You liked him. Or maybe—
Not him. Not yet.
But you liked being around him. Liked how easy he made everything feel. Liked how he never expected you to be softer than you were. Never flinched at your cruelty. Never asked you to be kinder. Better. Prettier. Sweeter.
He knew exactly who you were, and instead of recoiling, he matched your energy. Helped you sharpen the knife. You looked at him for a long moment. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, you felt something dangerously close to gratitude.
When Cady walked into the cafeteria the next morning, dragging her feet with dark circles under her eyes, you and Martin had to physically restrain yourselves from laughing.
She looked awful. Her usually pristine hair was tied back in what could only generously be called a rushed ponytail, her concealer doing little to hide the exhaustion written plainly across her face. Even the way she walked lacked its usual polished confidence, movements sluggish, as if she hadn’t slept a second.
Martin’s shoulder bumped yours the second he saw her. You didn’t dare look at him. Because if you did, you would absolutely lose it.
Then Cady collapsed face-first onto the lunch table with a long, miserable groan. Aaron was at her side immediately. And Martin choked.
A loud, strangled cough tore out of him as he grabbed his drink, nearly knocking it over in the process. You kicked him hard beneath the table. He jerked, shooting you an offended look. You kept your face perfectly composed.
“What’s wrong, Cady?” Karen asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Did you sleep on the wrong side of the pillow?”
“Karen, it’s ‘slept on the wrong side of the bed.’ And no, I’m not okay!” Cady snapped, lifting her head just enough to glare at everyone. “Creeps have been calling me all night asking if I lost my keys or if I want to ‘have a good time.’”
Your lips pressed together so tightly they almost hurt. Beside you, Martin had gone suspiciously still. The kind of still that only happened when he was trying not to laugh.
Aaron frowned deeply. “Wait what?! How did random people even get your number?”
You widened your eyes in perfectly practiced concern. “Oh my God,” you said, your voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That’s awful! How would anyone even get your number?”
Martin nodded, far too quickly. “Yeah,” he added, coughing once into his fist. “That’s, uh… actually insane. Like… who would do something like that?”
Cady’s eyes narrowed immediately. Her gaze darted between the two of you. You stared right back, all wide-eyed innocence. Martin mirrored you, somehow managing to look both confused and deeply offended by the implication.
Karen gasped. “Maybe someone wrote your number in the bathroom!”
Gretchen’s eyes widened in horror. “Or online! Wait do hackers post phone numbers?”
Karen gasped louder. “Can hackers get into your microwave too?”
“No, Karen.”
Aaron reached for Cady’s hand, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out-”
“Would you stop?!” Cady suddenly snapped, jerking her hand away.
The table froze. Aaron blinked. “...What.”
“I said stop!” she hissed, shoving her tray away with enough force to make it rattle. “God, you’re all being so fucking annoying!”
Karen’s mouth dropped open. Gretchen looked like someone had slapped her. Even you raised your brows slightly. Aaron stared at her in stunned silence. “Cady, I was literally just trying to help-”
“Well, you’re not helping!” she shot back. “Hovering around me like some desperate puppy isn’t fixing anything, Aaron!”
His expression changed instantly. The confusion. The hurt. And most importantly, the offense.
Cady seemed to realize too late how harshly that had come out, her eyes widening for half a second, about to come up with a half hearted apology, she was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing, the screen clearly a random number, and that completely sent her off the edge, with a loud frustrated squeal, she promptly ended the call and she shoved her chair back harshly. “God I can’t do this anymore! I need air.” Then stormed off.
The silence she left behind was deafening. Karen turned to Gretchen, visibly distraught. “Was she mad at us?”
“I…” Gretchen frowned. “She’s never acted like that before.”
Aaron remained seated, still staring in the direction Cady had left. His jaw tight. His brows furrowed. The first unmistakable crack of doubt settling into his expression. And when your eyes met Martin’s–
You knew he saw it too. She was slipping. Her image slowly breaking apart. And once people started slipping, they rarely stopped.
Eventually Gretchen scrambled after Cady, Karen hurrying after her in panic, still—Aaron didn’t move. For a second longer. Then another. Long enough to matter. His gaze flickered once more, back to you. Uncertain, like he was waiting. For something. A sign. An excuse. Anything.
You gave him nothing. Of course you didn’t. And that was what made the decision for him. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before finally pushing back his chair. The sound scraped too loudly against the floor. He hesitated one last time, just at the edge of turning away. Then without another word he followed after them.
Leaving the table blessedly empty.
The second they were gone. Martin burst. He doubled over in laughter so violently he nearly slid out of his chair. “Oh my- Oh my God–” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Did you see her face when Karen said bathroom stall?”
That did it.
You laughed too. Full-on laughed. The kind you usually tried to suppress in public.
“She looked like she was about to cry,” you snorted.
“She looked like she wanted to kill us.”
“Well she probably does if we're being honest.”
His grin widened. “Worth it.”
“Absolutely.”
He leaned toward you slightly, lowering his voice.
“You know,” he said smugly, “I'm starting to think we make a pretty terrifying team.”
You smirked.
“Don’t get too cocky now, Edwards.”
“Too late.”
Then, for a moment– his confidence falters. Just slightly enough for you to notice. He reached down into his bag, pulling out a folded white fabric. Your brows furrowed.
“What is that?”
He held one out to you. A Cortis band shirt. Except, the logo was bright pink, instead of the usual bands black.
You blinked.
Martin rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We have another gig this weekend,” he said, suddenly sounding much less sure of himself. “And, uh…”
He glanced away, “I had them make one in pink. For you.”
Your fingers paused as you took the shirt from his hands. It was soft. Clearly brand new. He had custom ordered one. For you.
Martin shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to wear it or anything,” he rushed out. “I just thought– maybe if you’re bored and have nothing to do that day, it would be funny if you-”
“I’ll go.”
He stopped. Blinking.
“What?”
You looked up from the shirt. “Obviously I’ll go,” you repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your girlfriend, aren’t I?”
The way his face lit up was almost embarrassing. His entire expression softened at once. Like he physically couldn’t stop himself. “Yeah,” he said far too quickly. “Yeah. You are.”
You stood abruptly, slinging the shirt over your bag. “Don’t make this weird.”
His grin returned instantly. “Too late. I’m already imagining our wedding.”
You rolled your eyes. But as you walked away– you were smiling.
Later that evening as you doomscrolled through pinterest to look for inspo on how to style the shirt you receive a very unexpected notification.
The moment you stepped into the backyard, the entire atmosphere shifted. Heads turned almost instantly. Someone near the drink table audibly muttered, “Holy shit, is that Y/N L/N?”
You ignored them. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Because tonight, unlike the first time you had come here, you had no intention of hiding. No oversized sunglasses. No hat pulled over your face. No pathetic attempt at pretending you weren’t there for a reason.
You walked into that crowded backyard like you owned it. Head high, expression composed, the bright pink Cortis band tee fitted tightly against your body.
The shirt alone was enough to draw stares. Because everyone knew that wasn’t official merch. Everyone knew that had been made specifically for you. And if the shirt somehow didn’t make your intentions obvious enough, the way you marched straight toward the stage certainly did.
The boys were still setting up their instruments when Martin noticed you.
And froze. Completely.
His hand slipped against the neck of his guitar. James followed his stare first. Then Seonghyeon. Then the rest of the band. And suddenly all of them were staring at you like they had collectively hallucinated.
“No fucking way,” Juhoon muttered into the mic.
Keonho laughed so hard he nearly dropped a drumstick. “Holy shit,” he shouted toward Martin. “Your girlfriend actually came!”
The crowd immediately erupted into chatter. Martin, meanwhile, looked like his brain had short-circuited. You stopped just beneath the stage, folding your arms.
“Well?” you called up dryly. “Should I leave? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
That snapped him out of it. He hopped down from the stage so quickly James yelled, “Dude, where are you going?!”
Martin ignored him entirely. He walked straight toward you, eyes wide, gaze flicking between your face and the shirt like he genuinely couldn’t process either.
“You came.”
You raised a brow.
“You invited me.”
“Yeah, but-” His eyes dropped again to the shirt. Then widened somehow further. “You wore it.”
You looked down at yourself casually.
“Oh this old thing? It was just sitting on my closet so I thought why not, you know?”
Martin let out something between a laugh and a choke.
“It’s pink.”
“You made it pink.”
“For you.”
“And I wore it.”
He stared at you. Still visibly stunned. Like he genuinely had not prepared himself for this possibility. You smirked.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting emotional, Edwards.”
He nervously ran his hand through his hair, a nervous smile on his lips. “You have no idea what this is doing to me right now.”
From behind him, “Oh my God, he’s in LOVE love” Keonho teases.
“Dude shut up” James scolds, slapping the younger boy on the back, “You’re embarrassing ‘tin in front of his huzz”
You laughed softly as you watch Martin’s face turn into a blazing hot red at their comments. And the sound alone seemed to make him melt. Despite the embarrassment, he steps closer. Close enough that his voice dropped lower.
“You’re standing front row?”
“Obviously.”
His grin turned crooked. “Planning to scream my name?”
“In your dreams.”
He leaned in closer, “You wearing my shirt says otherwise.”
Before you could retort, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss against your hair. Brief. Gentle. Almost reverent. Your breath caught. Martin pulled back with a smirk.
“For luck,” he murmured. Then turned and jogged back onstage before you could gather enough composure to insult him. Martin played like a man possessed. And maybe that was dramatic. But it was true.
Every ounce of his usual energy had somehow doubled. He moved across the makeshift stage like he’d been electrified, guitar slung low against his body, hair messy beneath the lights, grin appearing every single time his eyes found you in the front row. Which was often. And every time he looked your way, he played harder. Sang louder. Performed like he had something to prove. Or perhaps, someone to impress.
You found yourself smiling far more than you meant to. Cheering louder than was dignified. Singing along to the lyrics of the songs he’d played in his car enough times for you to know by heart.
By the end of the set, the entire backyard was screaming for more. And Martin looked at you from the stage like he had never wanted anything more than your approval. He jogged over the second they finished, breathless and glowing with adrenaline.
“Well?” he asked immediately. “How amazing was I?”
You pretended to think about it. He narrowed his eyes. Then you smirked.
“You were…decent.”
He gasped.
“Decent?”
“Maybe slightly above average.”
“You’re evil.”
“You adore me.”
His grin softened.
“Yeah, can’t deny that.”
He leaned down and kissed your temple quickly.
“I’m getting drinks. Don’t move.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Yes, mom.”
“Funny.” He pointed at you. “Stay.”
Then disappeared into the crowd. You had barely been alone thirty seconds before—
“Y/N.”
Your shoulders momentarily stiffened. You turned. And there stood Aaron.
As expected.
He looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him. His gaze flicked briefly toward where Martin had disappeared. Then back to you. “Can we please talk?”
You crossed your arms. “We’re talking.”
He swallowed. Then stepped closer, hands trembling as they reached out to you. “I made a mistake.”
You blinked once.
Ah. There it was.
Aaron exhaled shakily. “Breaking up with you was a mistake.”
Your expression remained unreadable. He ran a hand through his hair. “Seeing you tonight- with him- I just…” He looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “I still want you.”
Silence. Then…slowly– you smiled. Aaron visibly brightened, convinced that he had somehow made you think he really felt bad, that he was just also manipulated by Cady. Until you spoke.
“No.”
His face fell instantly.
“What?”
“No,” you repeated. “I’m not getting back together with you.”
His brows furrowed. “Y/N, come on- that’s bullshit right? You clearly want me back, you-”
“You want to know the funny part?” you interrupted sweetly. “I don’t even miss you.” His face paled. Your smile sharpened. “I just wanted you to realize what you lost.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Horror. Humiliation. “You used me?”
You tilted your head. “Please Aaron, don’t act so shocked.”
His voice rose. “So this whole thing with Martin is fake?!”
“Nope.”
Aaron spun. Martin stepped back beside you, handing you your drink like he hadn’t just walked into the world’s best timing. His arm slid naturally around your waist. His gaze on Aaron was cool. Deadly amused.
“You had your chance,” Martin said simply.
Aaron stared between the two of you. At Martin’s hand on your waist. At your complete lack of denial. At the way you didn’t move away. His face twisted. Humiliation quickly curdling into bitterness. Then he laughed. Short and sharp.
“You know what?” he snapped, glaring at Martin. “Fine. Have fun with her.”
Your smile still didn’t disappear despite the malice in his tone but tightened. Aaron stepped back, shaking his head. “You’ll get tired of it eventually.”
The backyard seemed to go quieter. “You think this is fun now?” Aaron continued bitterly. “Just wait until you realize how exhausting she is.”
Your stomach dropped. Martin stiffened beside you. Aaron laughed humorlessly. “She’s high maintenance, controlling, impossible to please–she expects everything to revolve around her.” His voice sharpened. “She gets suffocating, man. Trust me. You’ll want out eventually too.”
For one horrible second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because no matter how cruel Aaron was being, a part of you hated how much it sounded like every insecurity you never said aloud.
Martin’s jaw clenched, then, he smiled but there was no humor in it.
“No,” he said simply.
Aaron frowned.
Martin’s arm tightened around your waist. “I like maintaining her.”
Aaron blinked. Martin stepped forward slightly. “I like the clothes. I like the makeup. I like the attitude.” His voice sharpened. “And if she wants the world revolving around her, then it’s because it should.”
You stared up at him. Stunned.
Martin didn’t look away from Aaron. “So maybe the problem isn’t that she’s ‘too much.’” His smile turned sharp. “Maybe you were just too little.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Aaron’s face burned red, almost reminding you of a rabid dog.
He opened his mouth about to come up with another rebuttal but then just closed it. Then finally turned and stormed off without another word. Disappearing into the crowd. Martin watched him go, then looked down at you.
“You good?”
You took the drink from his hand. Sipped, then smiled.
“Perfect.”
His grin spread immediately. “Good.” He leans closer, for only you to hear. “For the record…”
You raised a brow.
“If fake dating gets me to watch you reject your ex in my shirt–” His smile turned wicked. “–I’m never letting this arrangement end.”
A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. But it faded quickly. Because Aaron’s words still lingered. Still sat heavy in your chest.
Martin noticed immediately. His smile softened. “What?”
You hesitated. Then looked away. “He’s not wrong, you know.”
His brows furrowed instantly.
“What?”
You gave a humorless little laugh. “I am high maintenance.”
His expression shifted at once, turning serious, intently listening to your words and carefully thinking about them. You looked down at your drink. “The clothes, the makeup, the hair, the attitude…” you muttered. “Everything has to be perfect all the time. I know I’m difficult. I know I can be a lot.”
“Hey.” His voice was quiet but firm. You looked up. Martin steps closer.
“Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Repeat what people who couldn’t handle you said like it’s fact.”
Your breath caught. He reaches up slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Handling you as if you were a porcelain doll.
“You are not difficult for wanting nice things.” His voice stayed soft. Steady. “You are not hard to love because you care about how you look.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “And you are not ‘too much’ just because someone else was too weak to meet your standards.”
Your throat tightened. “If anything,” he murmured, “I think you should demand more.”
You stared at him, completely speechless, completely undone. He gave your cheek one last gentle stroke.
“So no,” he said softly. “You’re not high maintenance." A beat. “You just know what you deserve.”
Something in your chest cracked wide open.
And before you could think, before you could overanalyze, before you could stop yourself,
Your hand caught the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.
But you barely heard any of it. Martin freezes for half a second. Then kissed you back like he had been waiting for this longer than either of you wanted to admit. One hand came to your waist. The other cupped your jaw. Holding you like you were something precious.
And when you finally pulled away, breathless and giggling, he stared at you like you had just changed his entire life.
“Well,” he said faintly. You smirked despite your racing heart. “Still think I’m only slightly above average?” His grin turned borderline delirious.
“Hmm fine, I guess you are the best.” you laughed softly, still close enough that your noses nearly brushed.
For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed entirely willing to. Then Martin’s expression shifted, his grin softening into something almost shy.
Which, on him, looked absurdly endearing.“Sooo…” he said slowly.
You raised a brow. “So?”
His hands tightened slightly at your waist. “That kiss felt…” He trailed off, then huffed out a laugh. “Not very fake boyfriend-girlfriend of us.”
Heat crept up your neck. You tilted your chin defensively. “Maybe I’m just a very dedicated actress.” Martin snorted.
“Right.”
A beat passes, then he asks, “So are we still fake dating?”
Your heart skipped. There it was. The question hanging between both of you. Suddenly far more terrifying than it should have been. You looked at him. At the way his teasing had faded into something careful. Like maybe for once, Martin Edwards wasn’t entirely sure of himself.
And that realization did something dangerous to your chest. You let your fingers smooth absentmindedly over the front of his shirt where you had grabbed him.
Then smirked.
“Well…” you murmured. “That depends.”
His brows lifted.
“On?”
You leaned in just enough to make him follow instinctively.
“Are you asking me to be your real girlfriend, Edwards?”
His eyes widened, then he laughed. A little breathless, hands trembling. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one doing that?”
“You were taking too long.”
He stared at you for half a second then grinned– completely gone for you.
“Okay,” he said, stepping closer until there wasn’t even an inch between you. “Then yeah.”
His voice softened.
“Be my girlfriend for real?”
And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t play coy. You just smiled. Soft and genuine.
And nodded.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”
The smile that broke across his face could have lit the entire neighborhood. He kissed you again immediately, laughing into it this time, hands warm against your waist. Forehead pressing to yours when he pulled back.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, still grinning like an idiot, “how long I’ve wanted that.”
You smiled. “Oh, I think I do.” He gasped dramatically. “So you admit you were obsessed with me first?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “You’re stuck with me now.”
You rolled your eyes. But smiled anyway. And when he laced his fingers through yours,
You held on.
BONUS:
ʚ🍮ɞ #REI: uni still hasnt released me from its evil clutches and has actually tightened its hold on my neck but this draft has been crying to be released from my docs so i thought might as well 🥀🥀🥀 i hope this was okay for you guys 😖 the plot does feel a bit over the place but i genuinely didnt know what else to do 💔 anyways thats all i have for now, as always thank you so much for the support on my works ily >0< !!!
Warnings: death, grief, trauma, past life memories, reincarnation, crying, panic, anxiety, blood, violence, murder, emotional breakdowns, survivor’s guilt, I think that’s it. I promise there’s a happy ish ending.
Taglist: @voucearse, @cherry012399, @reiofsuns2001, @99zspider, @h0neylemon, @loopylizzard, let me know if anyone wants to be tagged.
Part 1 of the Everbound: Blood Saga!
Ladies and gentlemen, and everyone else, grab some tissues and some popcorn, strap in, and be prepared for an emotional roller coaster. This is like 25k pure angst.
Masterlist Part 2
It all started just a little over four hundred years ago. In a time that was darker, but perhaps simpler in its own cruel way. A young scholar sat hunched inside a worn canvas tent, the flicker of a single candle casting restless shadows across pages filled with crude diagrams of the human body. Ink smudged his fingers, dried blood stained the cuffs of his sleeves. Outside, the distant groans of injured soldiers bled into the quiet, but inside, he focused. Always focused.
“Hold still,” he murmured earlier that evening, his voice steady despite the trembling of the man before him. “If you keep moving, I cannot help you.” “I will not lose the arm, will I?” the soldier asked, breath shallow, eyes wide with fear. Jay hesitated for only a moment before tightening the bandage with practiced hands. “Not tonight,” he said quietly. “That is all I can promise.” It was a life of small victories. A stitched wound. A fever broken. A man who lived to see another dawn. In war, that was as close to peace as one could come.
What war they fought, he no longer remembered. The banners, the cause, the names of kings and enemies, all of it had long since faded. But one night remained etched deep into him. It began with a scream. Jay’s eyes snapped open, the book slipping from his grasp as the sound tore through the silence. Another scream followed, then another, until the air itself seemed to crack under the weight of panic. “Fire!” someone shouted outside. “We’re under attack!” The tent walls glowed orange in an instant.
Jay stumbled to his feet, heart pounding, confusion turning to horror as heat pressed in from all sides. He pushed through the tent flap and was met with chaos. Flames devoured everything. Tents collapsed in on themselves, soldiers ran in every direction, some already engulfed, their cries raw and inhuman. “Help me!” a voice cried somewhere to his left, but when Jay turned, all he saw was a figure swallowed by fire. The smell hit him next. Burning cloth. Burning flesh. “No…” he whispered, backing away, but there was nowhere to go.
A sudden burst of heat struck him from behind. His sleeve caught first. He slapped at it instinctively, panic surging as the fire spread too quickly, licking up his arm, devouring fabric and skin alike. “God, no, no, no…” He screamed as the flames took hold, the pain immediate and unbearable. His skin crackled, blistered, the heat searing deep into muscle. Every instinct screamed at him to run. The lake. He remembered it faintly, just beyond the ridge, past the line of trees. If he could reach it, if he could just make it that far.
Jay stumbled forward, half-blind with pain, pushing through the chaos. Someone collided with him and fell, their face unrecognizable beneath burns. Another grabbed at him, fingers desperate, but Jay tore free, his mind reduced to a single thought. Water. “I have to… I have to make it…” he gasped, though the words barely formed past the agony. Each step felt slower than the last. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, his vision swimming as the world blurred into fire and shadow. The sounds of battle, of screaming, of death, all faded beneath the roar of his own suffering.
The trees loomed ahead, dark shapes against the inferno behind him. Just a little further. But his body was failing. Jay staggered, his foot catching on uneven ground as he fell hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The flames still clung to him, relentless, unforgiving. He tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, barely responding. His strength was gone. “I cannot…” he choked, voice breaking as his vision dimmed. “I cannot die like this…” The lake was so close. He could hear it now, the faint ripple of water just beyond reach. But he wasn’t sure he would make it, and then, everything went dark.
There was no sense of falling, no final breath he could remember drawing. Just an abrupt, merciful end to the pain, as if the world itself had decided he had suffered enough. For a time, there was nothing. And then, slowly, something returned. Awareness came first. Faint, distant, like a memory struggling to surface. Then scent. Thick and heavy, filling his lungs before he could even open his eyes. Incense. Crushed herbs. Dried roots. Familiar. Comforting, in a strange, disorienting way. An infirmary. His eyes opened.
The room was dim, lit by low-burning candles placed along the walls. Shadows clung to every corner, stretching and shifting with the flicker of the flames. The air felt still, too still, as if even the dust dared not move. Jay drew in a breath, expecting pain, but none came. His brow furrowed. That was wrong. Slowly, he lifted his hands into view. They were whole. Not just unburnt. Whole. The skin was smooth, unblemished, and almost pale in a way that felt unfamiliar. He turned them over, inspecting every inch, searching for the damage he knew should be there. The blisters. The char. The ruin. There was nothing.
Even the roughness that had once marked his palms, the callouses from grinding herbs and working long hours, had vanished. “What…” His voice came out hoarse, quieter than he expected. He swallowed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His body moved too easily, too smoothly, as if it no longer carried the weight of exhaustion or injury. He paused, waiting for something to hurt. Nothing did. No ache. No stiffness. No lingering agony. Only emptiness. A flicker of unease settled in his chest. This was not survival. This was something else.
The soft creak of a door broke the silence. Jay’s head snapped toward the sound, instincts sharp despite his confusion. A woman stepped inside. She moved with a quiet grace, her presence filling the room without effort. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, her dark hair pulled back neatly, her expression calm. Too calm. She smiled when she saw him awake. “You’re awake, young man.” Her voice was gentle, almost soothing, like a healer addressing a frightened patient. But there was something beneath it, something that did not quite belong.
Jay said nothing at first. His gaze lingered on her, studying, searching for something he could not yet name. And then he saw it. Her teeth. They were not human. Slightly longer. Sharper. Just enough that when her lips curved into that smile, they caught the candlelight in a way that made something cold settle deep in his chest. His breath hitched. The woman noticed immediately. “Ah,” she said softly, tilting her head. “So you saw it.” Jay instinctively drew back, his body tensing as unease sharpened into fear. “Stay back,” he said, though his voice lacked the strength he intended. The woman raised her hands slightly, a gesture of peace. “Do not fear me.”
Her smile did not fade, but something in her gaze shifted. It softened, almost amused. “We are the same now.” Jay’s stomach twisted. Same. The word echoed in his mind, louder than it should have. “You should be thanking me,” she continued, stepping a little closer, though not enough to seem threatening. “I saved you.” Jay’s fingers curled into the thin fabric beneath him. “Saved?” he repeated, the word foreign on his tongue. Her eyes studied him carefully, as if measuring how much he already understood. “I found you,” she said. “Or what was left of you. Burnt beyond recognition. Barely clinging to life.”
A pause. “I was going to end it. It might have been the kinder choice.” Jay’s breath caught. “But something stayed my hand,” she went on. “Something told me you would be… valuable.” The word lingered. “So I saved you,” she finished simply. “I made you one of us.” Silence fell between them. Jay stared at her, his mind racing, grasping for meaning while trying to deny it at the same time. One of us. He knew those words. Everyone did. Stories told in hushed tones. Warnings whispered by soldiers around dying fires. Creatures of the night. Monsters.
His gaze flicked once more to her teeth. To the unnatural stillness of the room. To the absence of pain in his own body. “No…” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “No, that is not…” But the truth pressed in, unavoidable. He had heard the stories. He had seen the aftermath. The ones who turned into wolves beneath the moon. And the ones who drank blood to survive, vampires. Jay’s chest tightened as the realization settled fully into place. And for the first time since waking, something far worse than pain took hold.
The woman introduced herself as Sage. “An odd name,” Jay said quietly, watching her as one might watch something that could turn dangerous at any moment. “It suits me,” she replied with a faint smile. “And you will grow used to it, as you will grow used to everything else.” She moved through the room with ease, gathering small jars and bundles of herbs, her fingers brushing over them with familiarity. The scent in the air deepened as she worked.
“You look at me as if I am something unnatural,” she continued, glancing back at him. “But tell me, Jay, what is more unnatural? A creature that must drink to survive, or a man who slaughters another in the name of a king he has never met?” Jay said nothing. Sage turned to face him fully now, her expression calm, almost patient. “All creatures kill. All creatures die. All creatures live. There is no difference between us and them. Only perspective.” She stepped closer, her gaze steady. “We are not monsters. We are simply… more.”
Jay frowned. “More?” “Stronger. Faster. Eternal.” There was no arrogance in her tone, only certainty. “We have been blessed.” “By what?” he asked. “The moon,” she answered simply. Jay let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “That sounds like something told to make this easier to accept.” Sage’s smile softened, though her eyes remained sharp. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply the truth you have yet to understand.” She turned away again, but her voice continued, quieter now. “Unfortunately, we are not the only ones who believe ourselves chosen.” Jay’s gaze sharpened. “The wolves.” “The lycans,” she corrected gently. “They believe the same as we do, that they are superior. That they alone are worthy of what they have been given.” “And you disagree?” Sage paused for only a moment. “We cannot both be right, we cannot both exist.”
The way she said it was calm. Almost kind. But Jay heard what lay beneath. “You want them dead,” he said. Sage did not answer immediately. When she did, her voice was softer than before. “We protect our kind. As they protect theirs.” “That is not protection,” Jay replied, his tone tightening. “That is slaughter.” Sage finally looked at him again, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “You are still thinking like a human.” “Because I am, was just, human,” he snapped. Silence stretched between them. Then Sage stepped closer, placing a hand lightly against his shoulder. Her touch was cool, steady. “And now you are not,” she said gently. “You will learn. In time.”
It took weeks. Weeks of restless nights and heavy thoughts. Weeks of watching, listening, trying to understand a world that had changed without his consent. Sage kept him close. Closer than the others seemed to like. More than once, Jay caught the elders watching him with open suspicion, their gazes lingering a little too long, their whispers falling silent when he entered a room. “He is weak,” one of them muttered once, not quietly enough. “He hesitates. He questions.” “He is new,” Sage replied calmly. “As you once were.” “He does not believe,” another added, their voice colder. “That makes him dangerous.”
Jay had expected Sage to agree. She did not. “He will,” she said simply. “Or he will find his own way. Either is acceptable.” “And if his way threatens ours?” Sage’s expression did not change. “Then I will deal with it.” That had been the end of it. After that, the whispers quieted. The looks remained, but none dared act on them. Sage stood between him and whatever judgment they had been ready to pass. She treated him with a patience he did not understand. Guided him, corrected him, defended him. There was something almost maternal in the way she spoke to him, in the way she watched over him.
In time, Jay stopped questioning it. If she had made him this way, then perhaps, in some sense, she had a claim to him. Weeks passed, and slowly, reluctantly, he began to adapt. The hunger came first. Sharp. Insistent. Impossible to ignore. The first time he fed, he nearly recoiled from himself. “I cannot do this,” he said, pulling back, his hands trembling. “You must,” Sage told him, her voice firm but not unkind. “Or you will die. Again.” “It feels wrong.” “It’s simply survival.” Jay clenched his jaw, staring at the offered blood as if it might burn him. “I was meant to heal people. Not… this.” Sage stepped closer, her gaze steady. “And you still can. But you cannot save anyone if you refuse to live.”
He hesitated only a moment longer before giving in. It did not take long for necessity to dull the discomfort. Then came the strength. At first, it startled him. The way his body responded without effort, the way distance seemed to shrink beneath his steps. He moved faster than he thought possible, reacted quicker than his mind could fully comprehend. “You will learn control,” Sage assured him after he nearly shattered a wooden table with a careless grip. “I preferred being weak,” Jay muttered. She laughed softly. “No, you did not.” And perhaps she was right. Over time, the unfamiliar became routine. The impossible became normal. The hunger. The strength. The stillness of his body. The silence of his breath. It no longer felt like something forced upon him. It simply… was. And though he would never have chosen this life, he began to understand it. Not fully. Not yet. But enough to exist within it.
Jay had yet to truly join the war against the lycans. The thought of it still sat uneasily within him, like something he could not quite swallow. “I did not become this to kill,” he told Sage one evening, his voice low as he cleaned dried blood from a set of instruments. Sage did not look up from her work. “No one ever does,” she replied. “But sometimes, it becomes necessary.” Jay shook his head, though she could not see it. “Not for me.” She studied him then, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than usual. “Then do not,” she said simply. “There are other ways to serve.” And so he did.
He stayed within the coven, assisting Sage in the infirmary. It was a role that felt… familiar. Grounding. A fragile thread connecting who he had been to what he had become. He treated wounds. Mixed remedies. Learned new ways to heal with herbs he had never seen before, plants that grew only in shadowed places, nurtured by creatures who did not belong to the sun. Often, he was sent beyond the safety of the coven. “Go to the town to the east,” Sage would say. “We are running low on dried root.” Or, “There is a grove not far from here. You will find what we need if you know where to look.” He did not mind the errands. In truth, he welcomed them. The quiet of the forest was easier than the tension of the coven, easier than the distant sounds of war that followed them wherever they went. Months passed since the fire that had taken his life and given him another. Months of learning. Of adapting. Of surviving.
~~~
And then came the morning that changed everything again. Sage handed him a small, worn book, its pages filled with careful sketches and notes written in a hand far older than his own. “There is something I need,” she said. Jay took the book, flipping it open. His eyes fell on the illustration of a delicate flower, its petals thin and almost translucent, curling inward like something guarding a secret. “This does not look familiar,” he admitted. “It should not,” Sage replied. “It is not meant to be found.” Jay glanced up. “That sounds promising.” A faint smile touched her lips. “It is grown by witches. Tended carefully. Protected.” “And you want me to simply walk in and take it?” “I want you to retrieve it,” she corrected. “Carefully.”
Her expression grew more serious as she reached into the folds of her cloak, producing a small object. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, something between metal and glass, etched with symbols Jay did not recognize. “You must not touch the flower with your bare hands,” she said, placing it in his palm. “Not even for a moment.” “What happens if I do?” he asked. Sage held his gaze. “You will not like the answer.” Jay exhaled slowly. “Understood.” He tucked the object away and closed the book. “Where will I find it?” Sage pointed toward the distant tree line beyond the coven’s borders. “Follow the forest north. You will know when you are close.” Jay nodded once before turning to leave. “Jay.” He paused, glancing back at her. “Be careful,” she said. Something in her tone made him linger for a moment longer than usual. Then he gave a small nod and stepped out into the morning light.
The forest welcomed him in silence. Time passed easily beneath the canopy. The air was cool, the ground soft beneath his steps. Birds called overhead, unaware of the creature that moved quietly among them. He searched carefully, comparing what he saw to the image in the book. Hours slipped by, the sun climbing higher in the sky. It was nearing noon when he found it. The flower stood alone in a small clearing, its pale petals catching the light in a way that felt almost unnatural. It seemed to glow faintly, as if it did not quite belong to the world around it.
Jay stepped closer, cautious. “That must be it,” he murmured to himself. He reached for the object Sage had given him, preparing to retrieve it. A movement at the edge of the clearing made him freeze. Someone else was there. A young girl stepped forward, her presence so quiet he had not noticed her approach. She moved toward the flower without hesitation, her hand lifting as if drawn to it. “No,” Jay said sharply, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Do not touch it.” The girl stopped. Slowly, she turned. Their eyes met. And everything else fell away. Jay forgot to breathe.
The forest, the war, the flower, all of it faded into nothing as something deep within him stirred, then surged. It was not like anything he had ever felt before. Not fear. Not hunger. Something stronger. His chest tightened as if something inside him had been pulled taut, stretched across time itself. Every instinct in him screamed the same thing. Closer. He took a step forward without thinking. The girl stared at him, confusion flickering across her face, but she did not move away. “What?” she began softly. Jay barely heard her.
Sage’s voice echoed faintly in his mind. Words spoken weeks ago, half dismissed at the time. There is a possibility. Rare. Unpredictable. A bond not given to all. A fated connection. Jay’s gaze remained locked on hers, something unspoken passing between them in the silence. And in that moment, he knew. He had found his fated love.
“That flower… it is poisonous,” Jay said quickly, his voice steadier than he felt. He did not know if that was true. The book had not said it in such simple terms, only that it was dangerous, not to be touched. But he needed her to step away, and fear was often the fastest way to ensure that. The girl paused, her hand hovering for just a moment longer before she pulled it back. “Oh,” she said softly, taking a small step away. “What a shame. It is so pretty.” Jay let out a quiet breath he had not realized he was holding.
The light shifted above them as the wind stirred the branches, and for a moment, the sun broke through in scattered beams. It fell across her like something intentional, catching in her hair, tracing the curve of her face, illuminating her in a way that made her seem almost unreal. Warm and alive, everything he was not. Jay forced himself to move, reaching for the object Sage had given him. He handled it carefully, positioning it around the stem of the flower before lifting it cleanly from the earth. “I wish I could give it to you,” he said, glancing back at her, “but as I said, it is dangerous. I will need to dispose of it properly.”
The girl smiled at him, a lightness in her expression that made something in his chest tighten. “I suppose that makes you my knight in shining armor, then.” Jay let out a small breath of amusement, the sound unfamiliar even to himself. “Perhaps.” She stepped closer then, her dress brushing softly against the forest floor, catching on fallen leaves. She didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she simply didn’t care. “I am (Y/n),” she said, offering a small curtsy, playful yet sincere. Jay dipped his head slightly in return. “Jay.” “Jay,” she repeated, as if testing the name, committing it to memory. Her smile lingered. “You must be new around here. I have not seen you before.”
There was no suspicion in her tone, only curiosity. Jay hesitated. He had learned quickly that truth was not always something he could offer freely. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am with the army.” It was close enough to what she would expect. Close enough to avoid questions he could not answer. Her expression shifted slightly, something softer, more thoughtful. “Oh.” There was a quiet understanding in that single word. Perhaps she had seen soldiers before. Perhaps she knew what it meant. Jay felt an unexpected pang of guilt.
He glanced upward, the movement instinctive. The sun had shifted further now. Time had passed faster than he had realized. He should return. Sage would be waiting. “I should go,” he said, though the words felt heavier than they should. “I need to return to camp.” He turned slightly, ready to leave. But he stopped. The thought came unbidden, sudden and insistent. He did not want this moment to end. Jay hesitated, then looked back at her. “There is…” He paused, searching for the right words. “There is something happening in town tonight, is there not?” (Y/n)’s expression brightened instantly. “The lantern dance,” she said. “It is held every year.”
Jay nodded. He remembered the notices, the quiet excitement among the townspeople when they had first passed through. “If you are free,” he said, his voice quieter now, more uncertain than it had been before, “perhaps we could meet there.” (Y/n)’s smile widened, something warm and genuine lighting her features. “I would like that very much,” she said. She tilted her head slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. “Perhaps my knight will save me a dance?” Jay felt something shift within him, something lighter than anything he had known in a very long time. He smiled. “I will save them all for my lady.”
~~~
Jay returned before dusk, the forest quieter now, the light fading into softer hues as he made his way back to the coven. The flower was secured carefully, untouched, just as Sage had instructed. He found her in the infirmary, as always. She stood over a worktable, grinding something into a fine paste, her movements slow and deliberate. The familiar scent of herbs filled the air. “I have it,” Jay said, stepping inside. Sage glanced up, her eyes briefly scanning him before settling on the object in his hands. “Good,” she said softly. “Place it here.” Jay did as instructed, setting the flower down with care.
Sage reached for it immediately, using tools to handle it, never once letting her skin brush against the delicate petals. She began crushing them slowly, methodically, her focus unwavering. Jay lingered. “There is something else,” he said after a moment. Sage hummed in acknowledgment. “There usually is.” “I met someone.” That made her pause. Only for a second. Then she resumed her work, though something in her posture shifted, just slightly. “Tell me.” Jay stepped closer, resting his hands lightly against the edge of the table. “A girl. In the forest. She was about to touch the flower.” Sage listened in silence as he spoke, recounting the moment. The way she looked. The way he felt. The pull he could not explain. When he finished, the room fell quiet.
Sage’s hands slowed, then stilled. Jay watched her, a faint crease forming between his brows. “You do not seem surprised.” “I am not,” she said quietly. He tilted his head. “Then why do you seem… sad?” Sage exhaled slowly, setting the crushed petals aside. For a moment, she did not speak, as if weighing whether or not to answer. Then she did. “Long ago,” she began, her voice softer than he had ever heard it, “I met someone who made me feel the same way.” Jay straightened slightly, his attention sharpening. “I loved him,” she continued. “Very much.” There was a pause. “But he was human.” Jay felt something in his chest tighten. “Just like your girl is,” Sage added gently. She turned away from the table, leaning back against it as her gaze drifted somewhere distant, somewhere far beyond the walls of the infirmary.
“I begged him,” she said, a faint tremor slipping into her voice. “More times than I can count. I asked him to let me change him. To let me give him what I had been given.” “And he refused?” Jay asked quietly. Sage nodded. “He said he wished to live as he was born. To grow old. To die as a human.” A faint, sad smile touched her lips. “He said it was what made life meaningful.” Jay said nothing. “We spent sixty years together,” she went on. “Sixty years that felt both fleeting and eternal.” Her gaze lowered, her voice softening even further. “And then, one morning… he did not wake.” A tear slipped free before she could stop it, trailing slowly down her cheek.
Jay’s breath caught. “My name was not always Sage,” she said after a moment, reaching up to wipe the tear away. “But he called me that. Said I always smelled like it, no matter what I did.” A quiet huff of breath escaped her, something close to a laugh, though it held no real amusement. “After he passed, I could not bear to be who I had been with him,” she admitted. “That woman was… too full of memories.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Jay’s. “So I became Sage.” She gestured faintly to herself. “Sage is not the woman who lost her love. Sage is the woman she became after.”
Silence settled between them. Jay stepped closer without thinking. “There is something else,” Sage said, her gaze still fixed on him. “Something you should know.” He frowned slightly. “What is it?” “I saved you,” she said slowly, “because you reminded me of him.” Jay stilled. “You do not look exactly the same,” she continued, “but your heart, your conviction, the way you spoke, even in pain, it was just like him.” Her voice softened. “And I could not lose him again.” The weight of her words settled heavily in the room. Jay closed the distance between them, his movements gentle as he wrapped his arms around her.
For a moment, she seemed surprised. Then she returned the embrace. “I promise,” Jay said quietly, his voice steady despite everything he felt, “I will not leave you. I will stay.” Sage held him a little tighter at that. “You are the son I never had,” she murmured. Jay closed his eyes briefly. “So please,” she added, pulling back just enough to look at him, her expression serious now, “be careful with your fated one.” Her gaze searched his. “Do not take lightly what you have been given.” Jay nodded. “I will not.”
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the last traces of gold fading into deepening blue, Sage handed Jay a suit. It was simple, but well-made. Dark fabric, clean lines, fitted in a way that made him feel almost like someone else entirely. “You will need this,” she said, brushing a hand over the sleeve as if smoothing out something unseen. “You would stand out otherwise.” Jay glanced down at himself, adjusting the collar slightly. “You are not coming?” Sage shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “No. I have no place in such things anymore.” Jay studied her for a moment. “You could.” Her smile softened, but she did not waver. “Go,” she said gently. “Enjoy your evening.” There was something final in her tone. Jay nodded, though a small part of him wished she would reconsider. “Thank you,” he said, before turning and stepping out into the night.
The town was alive. Lanterns hung from every post, every doorway, their warm glow casting dancing light across the streets. Candles lined windowsills, flickering like stars brought down to earth. Music drifted through the air, soft at first, then louder as he moved closer to the center. People filled every corner. Women and girls moved gracefully through the streets, their dresses flowing in soft fabrics, adorned with delicate flowers and elegant pins woven into their hair. Laughter followed them, light and easy.
Men and boys stood just as finely dressed, suits pressed, flowers tucked neatly into their pockets. Some even wore them in their hair, as if the night itself demanded beauty from everyone. Jay glanced down at his own attire, a small breath of relief escaping him. Without it, he would have stood out like a dandelion in a bouquet of roses. He moved through the crowd, his gaze scanning each face, each figure, searching. She had said she would come. He believed she would.
Time passed. Minutes turned into something longer, though he could not quite tell how long. The music shifted, people danced, and lanterns were released into the sky, drifting upward like glowing embers. Still, he did not see her. Jay slowed, his steps becoming less certain. Doubt crept in, quiet but persistent. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps she had only been polite. He exhaled slowly, his gaze lowering for a moment as the thought settled heavier than it should have. Then, suddenly, a voice cut through the noise.
“Jay!” It was bright. Certain. His head snapped up. He turned, searching for the source, and then he saw her. There she was. She stood just a short distance away, the crowd parting slightly around her as if she belonged at the center of it all. Her dress was a soft yellow, catching the lantern light in a way that made it glow, like sunlight carried into the night. It reminded him instantly of the forest. Of the way the sun had touched her earlier that day. She lifted a hand, waving at him, her smile wide and genuine. Then, with a playful grace, she dipped into a small curtsy. Jay found himself moving before he could think, weaving through the crowd, closing the distance between them. “You found me,” he said as he reached her, a hint of breathlessness in his voice. “I did,” she replied, a soft laugh escaping her.
The sound settled somewhere deep within him. Jay had heard many things in his life. Screams. Laughter. The quiet of the forest. But this… This was the finest sound he had ever heard. Jay extended his hand toward her, the music soft and inviting as it drifted through the lantern-lit streets. “May I?” he asked. (Y/n) smiled, placing her hand in his without hesitation. “You may.” Her fingers were warm against his. He led her gently into the dance, unsure at first, but she followed easily, guiding him as much as he guided her. They moved with the rhythm, slow at first, then more freely as the music carried them.
“You are not a soldier,” she said after a moment, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. Jay let out a small breath of laughter. “Is it that obvious?” “You move too carefully,” she replied. “Like you are afraid to step on the world itself.” “Perhaps I am.” She smiled at that. Hours passed as if they were nothing. They danced beneath the lanterns, the soft glow casting shifting patterns across their faces. They lit lanterns of their own, writing small wishes neither dared share aloud, then releasing them into the sky. Jay watched as they rose higher and higher, joining the others until the night was filled with floating lights, like stars brought close enough to touch.
“Do you believe they reach somewhere?” (Y/n) asked, her gaze following one as it drifted upward. “I do not know,” Jay admitted. She looked at him, her expression soft. “I think they do.” He found himself nodding, though he had no reason to. They wandered through the streets after, sharing sweet pastries dusted with sugar, laughing quietly over nothing and everything all at once. The world felt distant, unimportant, as if it existed somewhere far beyond the edges of that night.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jay felt… alive. The night ended too quickly. And yet, it did not truly end. He saw her again the next evening. And the one after that. Each night, they met beneath the fading light, finding each other with an ease that felt almost unreal. They spoke, they laughed, they walked through quiet paths and crowded streets alike, learning each other in small, unguarded moments. A week passed like this. A week that felt like something stolen from a life he had lost.
Then it ended. Jay found Sage waiting for him when he returned from the forest one day, her expression more serious than usual. “We leave tomorrow,” she said. The words struck harder than he expected. “So soon?” he asked. “Our work here is done,” she replied. “There are no lycans left in this region. The coven will move on.” Jay’s jaw tightened slightly. “I see.” Sage watched him carefully. “You should tell her.” He nodded.
That night, he found (Y/n) where they always met. She smiled when she saw him, but it faded slightly as she took in his expression. “What is it?” she asked softly. Jay stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. “I have to leave,” he said. Her breath caught. “Leave?” “My… unit is moving on,” he explained. “We cannot stay.” Silence fell between them. “I wish I could,” he added quietly. “But I cannot.” (Y/n) looked down for a moment, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and took his hand, weaving their fingers together. “Then I will come with you.” The words were so simple. So certain.
Jay stared at her. “You would leave everything behind?” She met his gaze without fear. “Yes.” “It is not that easy,” he said, his voice gentler now. “You do not understand what you are offering.” “Then help me understand,” she replied. Jay hesitated. This was the moment. A test, perhaps. Of fate. Of trust. Of everything. He drew in a slow breath. “There is something you must know,” he said. “Something I have not told you.” (Y/n) waited, her hand still holding his. “I am not what you think I am,” he continued. “I am not… fully human.”
Her expression did not change. “I am a vampire,” he said, the word heavy on his tongue. “The ones you have heard stories of. The ones people fear.” Silence followed. Jay watched her closely, waiting for it. The fear. The hesitation. The recoil. It did not come. Instead, (Y/n) smiled. Softly. She lifted her free hand, brushing it gently against his cheek, her touch warm and steady. “I know,” she said. Jay blinked. “You… know?” “I knew from the start that you were different,” she replied. “The way you move. The way you look at things. The way you… feel.” She tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “But I do not care.” Jay’s breath caught. “You are still you,” she said simply. “And that is enough for me.”
The weight in his chest shifted, something tight and guarded loosening for the first time in centuries. “Are you certain?” he asked quietly. “I am,” she answered without hesitation. And so she left. She turned her back on the life she had known, on her home, on everything familiar. She stepped into a world she did not fully understand, a world filled with dangers she could not yet see. All for him. A human, choosing a vampire. A choice that would bind them both to something far greater than either of them realized.
Months passed, and time seemed to move differently. Faster. Lighter. Jay had never known days to feel so full, nor nights to feel so short. With (Y/n) by his side, something within him had settled, something he had not even realized was restless before. He was… happy. Summer faded into autumn, leaves turning gold and crimson before falling to the ground in quiet surrender. Autumn gave way to winter, the air growing sharp, the world slowing beneath a blanket of snow. (Y/n) adapted to it all with a quiet strength that never failed to surprise him.
Sage welcomed her without hesitation. When Jay had first brought her before Sage, there had been a moment of stillness, a quiet understanding passing between them. Then Sage smiled, stepping forward, her eyes soft. “So this is the one,” she said gently. Jay nodded. “This is (Y/n).” (Y/n) curtsied slightly, a bit nervous but trying to hide it. “It is an honor to meet you.” Sage let out a quiet breath, something fragile flickering across her expression before she pulled (Y/n) into an embrace. “You are most welcome here,” she said softly. Later, when Jay had referred to Sage as his mother, the word slipped out without thought. Sage had gone still. Then she laughed, though tears gathered in her eyes. “You always did know how to surprise me,” she said, her voice unsteady.
~~~
Winter settled fully around them. Snow coated the ground, soft and untouched in places, disturbed only by passing footsteps. The war seemed to pause, if only for a time. The cold made movement harder, hunts more difficult. For a while, there was peace. One evening, Jay and (Y/n) walked side by side, returning from a nearby town. A small basket hung from her arm, filled with vegetables and small goods they had gathered. “You insisted on buying far too much,” Jay said, glancing at the basket. (Y/n) smiled, nudging him lightly. “And you insisted on carrying it all.” “I would have,” he replied. “I know,” she said softly.
Their fingers were intertwined, her hand warm despite the cold air. They laughed about something small, something unimportant. The kind of moment that felt like it would last forever. Then Jay felt it. A shift. Subtle. Almost nothing. But enough. His steps slowed. “What is it?” (Y/n) asked, glancing at him. “I thought I…” He frowned slightly, his gaze scanning the trees. “I am not sure.” The forest was quiet. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
Then he heard it. A sharp sound, cutting through the stillness. Jay’s head snapped toward it, instinct taking over. “No,” he breathed. The arrow came from the darkness between the trees, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Jay moved. He reached for her, pulling her toward him, trying to shield her with his own body. But something went wrong. His thoughts tangled. His reaction faltered. For the first time since he had become what he was, he hesitated. Fear, not for himself, but for her. It slowed him. Just enough.
“Jay?” (Y/n)’s voice was soft, confused. He turned with her, pulling her down as they fell to the ground. But it had already hit. A dull, sickening sound. (Y/n)’s body jerked in his arms. Jay froze. For a moment, the world went silent. “No,” he whispered. Slowly, he looked down. The arrow had found its mark. It pierced through her chest, the dark shaft standing stark against the pale fabric of her dress. Blood spread quickly, staining the white snow beneath them. Warm, too warm. Jay’s hands trembled as he pressed them against the wound, as if he could somehow undo what had already been done.
“No, no, no…” he said, his voice breaking. “Stay with me. You will be fine. I can fix this. I can…” But even as he spoke, he knew. The snow around them turned red. And Jay’s hands were stained with it. Jay broke. He did not think. He did not breathe. He did not exist beyond the moment in his arms. “I do not know what to do,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his hands pressed uselessly against the wound. “I can fix this. I can fix this, I just…” But he knew he could not. He knew.
He could feel it in the way her body trembled, in the way her breath came uneven and shallow. The damage was too great. Too deep. Even if he tried to turn her, even if he risked everything, she would not survive it. And he could not even try. Sage’s words echoed in his mind. Young vampires do not have enough venom. It was not possible. There was nothing he could do. Jay pulled her closer, cradling her against him, his grip desperate, as if holding her tighter might somehow keep her here. “I am here,” he said, though his voice cracked with every word. “I am here. You are not alone. I am here.”
He expected more. Another arrow. Another attack. Something to finish what had begun. But nothing came. Just one. One arrow. One moment. And everything was gone. (Y/n) shifted weakly in his arms. Despite the pain, despite the blood, she tried to smile. She wanted him to remember her smile, not her tears. Jay felt his chest shatter all over again. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Do not… do not do that. You do not have to pretend. You can be afraid. You can…”
But she was not afraid. Her hand lifted slowly, trembling, brushing faintly against his arm as if to steady him instead. “I love you, Jay,” she whispered. The words were barely there. A breath more than a voice. Then she coughed, her body jerking slightly as blood spilled from her lips, dark against her skin. It dripped down her chin, staining her dress, staining him. Jay wiped it away frantically, his hands shaking. “No, no, please,” he begged. “Stay with me. Please stay. I need you to stay.”
Her head tilted to the side, her strength fading too quickly, her eyes losing their light. “(Y/n),” he said, his voice breaking entirely now. “Look at me. Please. Look at me.” But she could not. Her gaze dimmed. Her body went still. And just like that, she was gone. Jay stared at her, unmoving, uncomprehending. “No,” he whispered. His arms tightened around her. “No.” His voice rose, raw and broken. “Please, no.” He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, his body shaking as grief tore through him without mercy.
“I will find you again,” he said, his voice trembling with something deeper than hope, something closer to desperation. “Do you hear me? I will find you. I will wait. A thousand years, ten thousand, it does not matter. I will wait for you.” Tears fell freely now, each one burning as it slid down his face. “I will not lose you like this,” he continued, his grip tightening as if he could anchor her soul itself. “I refuse. I will find you again.” The snow around them remained still. The world did not answer. And slowly, something inside him began to change. With every tear, with every broken breath, the part of him that had learned to feel, to hope, to love again, began to retreat. It slipped away, piece by piece.
The warmth she had brought into him faded, replaced by something colder. Something sharper. Something empty. Where there had once been a man, there was now only what remained. A creature of the night. A monster. And as Jay held her lifeless body in the snow, the last of his humanity sank into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but grief and something far more dangerous. Jay cradled her carefully, as if she might still feel the way he held her. Her body was light in his arms, too light.
He carried her through the snow in silence, his steps steady, his expression empty. The forest did not feel the same anymore. Nothing did. He found a place where the trees parted just enough for the sky to open above. The snow there was thinner, touched more often by the sun. It felt… right. Jay lowered her gently to the ground. For a moment, he just looked at her. Her face was peaceful now. The pain was gone. The life that had once filled her was gone, too. His hands moved slowly as he began to dig. The earth was cold, stubborn beneath the thin layer of snow, but he did not stop. He did not rush either. Each movement was deliberate, controlled, as if this were just another task to be completed.
He did not cry. He did not feel. When the hole was deep enough, he lifted her once more, placing her inside with care. He adjusted her slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “You will not be cold,” he said quietly, though there was no emotion behind the words. He covered her slowly. Earth fell over her in soft, dull sounds, until she was gone from sight. Gone completely. Jay stood there for a long time after, staring at the place where she now lay. Then, without another word, he turned and left.
When he returned to the coven, the scent of blood clung to him. Sage noticed immediately. She stepped forward, her expression shifting from calm to alarm in an instant. “Jay?” Her gaze dropped to his hands, to the blood that stained them, to the emptiness in his eyes. “Jay, what happened? Where’s (Y/n)?” she asked, her voice tightening with worry as she moved closer. He looked at her. But there was nothing behind his gaze. No grief. No pain. Only something cold. Something sharp. Sage hesitated for only a second before reaching for him, her hands gentle as she tried to wipe the blood from his skin. “Tell me,” she said softly. “Please.” Something twisted inside him. Her voice. Her concern. It grated against what remained of him. His eyes darkened.
Then they shifted, deepening into a violent red, something raw and furious surfacing where there had once been restraint. “Do not,” he said, his voice low, unfamiliar even to himself. Sage stilled. “Jay,” But she stepped closer anyway. And something inside him snapped. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, his hand shot out, gripping her. Her eyes widened. “Jay, what are you doing?” He shoved her. Hard. Sage stumbled back, her body hitting the edge of the infirmary fire. Flames caught instantly, licking up her clothing, devouring fabric and skin alike.
She cried out, the sound sharp with shock more than pain. “Jay!” she gasped, struggling to pull herself free. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in his expression. Then it was gone. He stepped forward. The fire illuminated his face, casting harsh shadows over features now stripped of anything human. Sage looked at him, truly looked, and something in her gaze changed. Not fear, but understanding. “Jay,” she whispered, her voice softer now, even as the flames consumed her. “My son…”
The words did not reach him. Or perhaps they did. But they did not matter. He had found a piece of wood, and he drove the it forward without hesitation. It pierced her heart cleanly. Her body went still. The fire continued to burn, but Sage was already gone. Jay stood there, unmoving, staring at what remained. There was no satisfaction. No regret. Nothing. He had nothing left. No love. No purpose. No reason to care. Only the need for blood, for revenge. It settled deep within him, stronger than it had ever been before. Sharper. Louder. And this time, he did not fight it.
When the coven moved, he did not stay behind. When the war called, he answered. There were no more questions. No more hesitation. Jay stepped into the conflict without restraint, without mercy. The man who had once healed was gone. What remained walked willingly into blood and violence, no longer guided by right or wrong. Only by the need to feed. And the emptiness that could never be filled. He blamed the lycans. He needed to. There had been no proof. No face to the arrow. No voice behind the trees. But the war had already drawn its lines, already given him an enemy. And so he chose them. “It was them,” he would say, more to himself than to anyone else. “It had to be.” No one argued. They did not need to.
As blood coated his hands, as his fangs sank into flesh, he felt it. Not relief. Not peace. But something close enough to keep him moving. The hunger drowned out the memory. The violence dulled the pain. Each life he took pushed the image of her just a little further away, buried beneath layers of rage and red. For years, he was nothing but a monster. Efficient. Ruthless. Unquestioning. He rose quickly within the coven, his name spoken with a mixture of respect and unease. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. “Send Jay,” they would say. “He will finish it.” And he always did.
Eventually, he was given his own command. A branch of the coven under his control. A troop that followed his lead without question. They feared him. He preferred it that way. Years passed. Decades even. Seventy winters had come and gone since the night he had buried her beneath the earth. Seventy years of blood and silence. Seventy years of nothing. Then, one night, something changed.
The wolves’ village burned. Flames rose high into the sky, devouring homes, devouring lives. The screams of those trapped within echoed through the night, sharp and desperate, before fading one by one. Jay stood at the edge of it all, watching. “Leave no survivors,” He had said to one of his men, they had given a small nod. Now, the work was nearly done. He turned away from the destruction, already finished with it. His troop would handle the rest. They always did.
The forest greeted him with quiet as he stepped beyond the flames. Then he stopped. Two figures lay ahead. A young woman, barely more than a girl, sat slumped against a fallen tree. In her arms, she held a boy, small and fragile, his body limp against her. Jay’s gaze sharpened. They were still alive. Barely. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. Normally, there would be no hesitation. No thought. He would end it quickly. Efficiently. But something held him back. The girl shifted slightly, tightening her hold on the boy as if she could shield him from what was coming. “Please…” she whispered, though her voice was weak, barely carrying.
Jay stopped a few steps away. He looked at them. Truly looked. The boy’s breathing was shallow, uneven. He would not last long. The girl was not much better, blood staining her clothes, her strength fading with each passing second. Siblings, he assumed. The way she held him. The way she refused to let go. Something twisted in his chest. A memory. Unwanted. Unbidden. He saw himself. Snow beneath his knees. Blood in his hands. A body in his arms. Jay’s expression faltered, just for a moment.
The girl looked up at him, her eyes filled not with anger, but with fear. And something else. Hope. “Please,” she said again, her voice breaking. “Do not… do not hurt him.” Jay said nothing. For the first time in seventy years, he felt something other than rage. It was quiet. Fragile. But it was there. Sadness. And something deeper. Something he had long since buried. Empathy.
As Jay stood there, staring at the girl clutching her brother, something shifted in the silence. A voice. Soft and faint, as if carried by the wind itself. Save them. Jay froze. His breath caught in his throat, his entire body going still as the sound echoed through him. It was familiar. Too familiar. “(Y/n)” he whispered, the name leaving his lips before he could stop it. He turned, almost desperately, his gaze searching the darkness behind him as if she might be there, as if she might have returned just for this moment. But there was nothing. Only the distant glow of fire, and the quiet of the forest. She was not there, she had not been there for seventy years. It had been seventy long and dark years.
Jay stood frozen, his chest tightening as something long buried surged to the surface. He had not said her name since the day she died. Had not allowed himself to remember it, to feel it. And now it was everywhere. Her voice, presence, her memory. It overwhelmed him. Then something else came. A warmth, that spread slowly at first, subtle and unfamiliar. Then stronger, rising through him in a way that made no sense. Vampires did not feel warmth like this. Not in their blood. Not in their very being. Jay looked down.
A strange, flickering glow had begun to gather in his hands. Pale blue, almost translucent, like something not entirely of this world. It sparked faintly, dancing across his skin. “What?” he breathed. He tried to shake it off, wiping his hands against his clothes, but it did not fade. It clung to him, pulsing softly, as if it had found its place there. He did not understand it. But something in him moved anyway. Jay stepped forward. Not with purpose. Not with thought. Just instinct. He reached the two injured lycans, lowering himself to his knees in front of them.
The girl tensed, her body instinctively trying to shield the boy, but she was too weak to move. Jay did not speak. He simply reached out. His glowing hands hovered for only a moment before he placed them gently against the boy’s chest. The light flared. Brighter. Stronger. The boy’s body jerked slightly as the glow spread, seeping into him like water into dry earth. The wounds across his abdomen began to close, slowly at first, then faster, skin knitting together as if time itself had been reversed. The blood that had pooled around him seemed to retreat, drawn back into his body until there was nothing left behind. Jay watched, unable to look away. Within moments, the boy looked… whole. Unharmed, and alive.
Jay pulled his hands back slightly, staring at them in disbelief. Then he moved again. He turned to the girl. She did not resist this time. She only watched him, her eyes wide, filled with something between fear and awe. Jay placed his hands against her, the light rising once more. It responded instantly, brighter than before, flowing into her as it had the boy. Her wounds closed, the color returning to her skin, her breath steadying as strength returned to her body. It was over just as quickly as it had begun. Jay pulled away. The light in his hands flickered weakly, then began to fade, the glow dimming until it disappeared completely.
He stared at his palms. Empty. As if nothing had ever been there. Slowly, he leaned back, his mind struggling to understand what had just happened. “I…” he began, but the words would not come. The girl shifted, looking down at herself, then at her brother, who now breathed steadily in her arms. “What did you do?” she whispered. Jay did not answer. He could not. He only sat there, stunned, as the last traces of warmth faded from his body, leaving behind something unfamiliar. Not emptiness. Something else. Something he had not felt in a very long time.
Jay’s head snapped to the side as he heard the sound of movement. Voices. His troop. They were getting closer. For a brief moment, he remained still, his mind racing as the weight of what he had just done settled over him. Then he turned back to the two lycans. “Go,” he said quickly, his voice low but firm. “You need to leave. Now.” The girl hesitated, her arms tightening slightly around her brother. “But…” “They will not hesitate,” Jay cut in. “If they see you, I will not be able to stop them.” Her eyes searched his, as if trying to understand why he was helping them at all. “Go,” he repeated. This time, she nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice filled with something deeper than simple gratitude. Then she stood, pulling her brother with her, and ran. Jay watched them disappear into the trees.
Only then did he turn. By the time his troop reached him, his expression had returned to something colder, something familiar. “Commander,” one of them called. “We thought you had already returned.” Jay gave a small nod. “I was finishing something.” They looked around briefly, noting the quiet, the lack of survivors. No one questioned it. Still, a few of them exchanged glances. Something about him felt… different. But none of them dared to ask. “Which way?” another asked. Jay looked toward the direction the siblings had fled. Then he turned the opposite way. “This way,” he said. And they followed.
Days later, when they returned to the coven, Jay stood at the edge of it, watching as the others moved about, continuing as they always had. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had. He did not stay. “I am leaving,” he said simply when one of the elders questioned him. “You would abandon your post?” the elder asked, disbelief clear in their tone. “Yes.” “There will be consequences.” Jay met their gaze without hesitation. “Then let them come.” He turned and walked away. No one stopped him. For years, he wandered. Not aimlessly. Not entirely. He searched. For something quieter. Something… different. Eventually, he found it. A coven that had chosen neutrality.
They did not involve themselves in the war. They kept to themselves, hidden from both sides, choosing survival over conquest. Jay stayed. And for the first time in decades, he did not pick up a weapon. Instead, he returned to something older. Something that had once defined him. Healing. He spent his days buried in books, learning everything he could. Ancient texts. Forgotten knowledge. Anything that spoke of what vampires could become. Sage’s words often returned to him. “Some are given gifts.” He remembered how she had spoken of them. Fire. Ice. Shadows. Minds. Her own gift had been knowledge. “If I see a plant, I know it,” she had once said with a small smile. “What it is. What it does. What it can become.”
Jay had always admired that. Now, he searched for his own answer. What he had done that night… it was not normal. Not even among vampires. Most could heal themselves, to a degree. Faster than humans. Stronger. More resilient. But what he had done… That was something else entirely. Rare. The books confirmed it. He read of it in scattered entries, in half-faded ink and careful warnings. A gift not meant for many. The ability to heal others. Not just wounds. Not just flesh. Something deeper. Something that defied what they were meant to be. Jay closed one of the books slowly, his gaze distant. “A healer,” he murmured to himself. The word felt strange. Unfamiliar. But not wrong. Not anymore.
He spent decades learning. At first, it was instinct. Uncontrolled. Unpredictable. The light would come and go without warning, sometimes answering his will, other times ignoring it entirely. “I know you are there,” he muttered once, staring down at his empty hands. “So why will you not listen?” It took time. Years blurred into decades as he studied, practiced, failed, and tried again. He worked in silence, far from battlefields, far from the noise of war, focusing only on understanding what he had been given. Or what had been forced upon him.
He read every text he could find, compared every account, every fragment of knowledge left behind by those who had come before him. There were few like him. Fewer still who had left anything behind to learn from. “You must feel it,” he said quietly one night, pressing his hands against a shallow wound on his own arm. “Not control it. Not force it.” The light flickered. Weak at first. Then stronger. The wound closed slowly beneath his touch. Jay exhaled, a faint sense of something close to relief settling in his chest. He was learning. He lost track of how long it took.
Years meant little now. Time passed without weight, without urgency. But eventually, he found control. The light answered him. Not perfectly. Not always easily. But it listened. Perhaps it had always been there. Perhaps it had only needed him to understand. Or perhaps… it had been given to him. A quiet thought lingered in the back of his mind. Fate had taken everything from him. Maybe this was what remained. Jay did not dwell on it. Instead, he chose what to do with it. He devoted himself to healing. Not just his own kind. Everyone.
It was not something the covens approved of. “You would waste your gift on them?” one vampire asked, their tone laced with disbelief. “On humans? On lycans?” “They are the same as we are,” Jay replied calmly. “They are not.” Jay held their gaze. “They bleed the same.” Word spread quickly. Some called him foolish. Others called him dangerous. Many simply turned away from him entirely. He did not stop. He healed humans when he found them, quietly, without drawing attention. Broken bones. Deep wounds. Illnesses that would have otherwise taken them. He healed lycans, too.
That was… harder. For they did not trust him. “You expect us to believe you mean no harm?” one had asked, their voice filled with suspicion. “No,” Jay answered. “I expect nothing. But I will help if you allow it.” Some refused. Others, desperate enough, accepted. Over time, a few began to trust him. Not many. But enough. The war faded. Slowly, over the centuries, it lost its hold. The endless cycle of blood and revenge began to weaken, carried on only by those who refused to let it die. The world changed. Cities grew. People forgot. What had once been whispered as truth became nothing more than myth. Vampires. Werewolves. Stories told to frighten children.
Even within the covens, fewer remembered what the war had truly been. What it had cost. Jay remembered. He always would. But he no longer fought in it. He chose something else. Something quieter. Something that, in its own way, felt far more difficult. He chose to heal a world that had spent centuries tearing itself apart.
~~~
Over the years, Jay found something he had never expected to have again. A place. Not a coven in the traditional sense, bound by rules and hierarchy and old ways of thinking. Something smaller. Quieter. Seven of them. Seven who, in their own ways, had grown tired of what they had been. There was Jay, of course. And Heeseung. Heeseung was older, by nearly a century, though he did not carry it with the same visible weight. Where Jay had once been sharp and distant, Heeseung was calm, composed, his presence steady in a way that grounded the others. “You think too much,” Heeseung said once, watching Jay stare out into the distance. “And you think too little,” Jay replied. Heeseung smiled faintly. “That is why we work well together.”
Then there was Sunghoon and Jake. Sunghoon had seen too much of the war. He had not just participated, he had immersed himself in it, carved his place within it. There was a quiet intensity to him, something that never fully faded, even in peace. Jake was the opposite. “I stayed as far away from that madness as I could,” Jake admitted one evening, leaning back with a quiet sigh. “Never understood why anyone would want to be part of it.” Sunghoon glanced at him. “It was not always a choice.” Jake met his gaze, then nodded slowly. “I know.” They understood each other, in their own way.
Sunoo and Jungwon had come later. Both had been part of the final years of the war, when it had already begun to crumble under its own weight. “It did not feel like a war anymore,” Jungwon said once. “Just… people refusing to stop.” Sunoo nodded. “We left as soon as we could.” Neither of them looked back. And then there was Niki. The youngest. Only fifty years as a vampire, which, to the others, was barely the beginning. “You all talk about the war like it is some distant nightmare,” Niki said one night, a small frown on his face. “For me, it is just… something I have heard about.” Jay looked at him for a moment. “That is not a bad thing.”
Niki shrugged. “Does not mean I have not done things I regret.” None of them had clean pasts. Not even those who had avoided the war. But together, they had found something better. They did not follow the old ways. They did not hunt without reason. They did not involve themselves in conflicts that had long since lost their meaning. They tried. That was what mattered. They tried to be better than what they had been. For Jay, it was enough. It was more than enough. He found a kind of happiness there, something quiet and steady. Not the overwhelming warmth he had once known, not the all-consuming love that had defined him centuries ago.
But something real. Something lasting. He thought of (Y/n) sometimes. Not as he once had. Not as the memory of her lifeless body in the snow. That image had faded with time. Instead, he remembered her laughter. The way she had smiled at him beneath the lanterns. The warmth of her hand in his. The light in her eyes. “I think they reach somewhere,” she had said that night during the lantern festival. Jay looked up at the sky sometimes, watching the stars in silence. “I hope they did,” he murmured once. No one asked what he meant. They did not need to. Their small coven moved through the world quietly, doing what they could to make up for what they had once been. Helping where they could. Healing where it was needed.
Jay now ran a small clinic in the heart of a sprawling city. It was nothing remarkable from the outside. A quiet place tucked between larger buildings, easy to overlook if one was not searching for it. But inside, it was always busy. People came and went throughout the day, each carrying their own worries, their own pain. Jay listened. He always listened. “Tell me where it hurts,” he said gently, his voice calm as he examined a patient. Here, he was careful. He had learned that lesson early. He could not heal everything. Not all at once. Not without drawing attention. So he worked within limits.
A broken bone would heal a little faster than expected. A lingering illness would ease just enough to give hope. Pain would fade, quietly, without explanation. And when it was something more serious, something he knew he could not fix without raising questions, he adapted. “You should go to the hospital,” he would say, his tone steady, reassuring. “I want them to run some tests. I believe it may be something more specific.” “How do you know?” a patient asked once, worry clear in their voice. Jay gave a small, reassuring smile. “Let us call it experience.” He knew.
His ability had grown over the centuries, not just in healing, but in understanding. He could sense what was wrong beneath the surface, identify illnesses before they revealed themselves fully. It allowed him to guide them. To give them a chance. Sunoo handled everything else. “Next patient is in five minutes,” Sunoo called from the front desk, glancing at the screen in front of him. “And you are already behind schedule.” Jay looked up from his notes. “I am aware.” “You say that every time,” Sunoo replied, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. “And yet, nothing changes.” Jay allowed a faint smile. “Perhaps one day.” Sunoo hummed, clearly unconvinced, before answering a ringing phone. “Good afternoon, yes, we are open. Do you have an appointment?” He moved through his work with ease, managing calls, bookings, and paperwork with a precision that kept everything running smoothly. “Without me, this place would fall apart,” he muttered once. “You are not wrong,” Jay admitted.
Sunghoon helped when needed. Mostly when deliveries arrived. “Where do you want these?” he asked one afternoon, carrying in a heavy box as if it weighed nothing. “Storage room,” Jay replied. Sunghoon set it down with ease, glancing at the label. “Vaccines?” “Yes.” Sunghoon nodded. “You always did prefer healing over everything else.” Jay met his gaze briefly. “It is the only thing that makes sense.” Sunghoon did not argue. The others came and went. Jake stopped by occasionally, usually with something in hand. “Brought food,” he said one evening, setting a bag on the counter. “You would forget to eat otherwise.”
Jungwon appeared quietly, offering help where it was needed without ever making a fuss about it. Heeseung visited less often, but when he did, he stayed longer, observing, listening, always watching in that calm, knowing way of his. “You have built something good here,” he said once. Jay inclined his head slightly. “I am trying.” Niki came by the most unpredictably. “Busy?” he asked, leaning against the doorway. “Always,” Sunoo answered before Jay could. Niki grinned. “Then I will come back later.” Despite their separate lives, their separate paths, they always found their way back to each other.
Evenings were theirs. They gathered together, sometimes at the clinic after it had closed, or at their home. Food filled the table, though most of them did not need it. It was the ritual that mattered. “You are cheating,” Sunghoon said flatly, narrowing his eyes at Jake. “I am not,” Jake replied, far too quickly. “You are.” “Prove it.” Laughter followed. Games were played, arguments sparked and faded just as quickly, conversations drifted from meaningless to unexpectedly deep and back again. For a few hours each night, they were not what they had been. Not vampires. Not survivors of a war that had shaped centuries. Just seven men, sitting together, existing in a world that had moved on. Jay watched them sometimes, quiet, a faint smile resting on his lips. This was something he had never thought he would have again. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet, here it was. Simple. Steady. Real. For the first time in a very long time, it felt like it was enough.
~~~
The knife moved in steady, precise motions against the cutting board, a soft rhythm that filled the quiet apartment. Jay barely had to look at what he was doing, the slices of cucumber coming out even, almost mechanical. The faint sizzle from the pan beside him grounded the moment, oil whispering as it heated. Then came the knock. Jay didn’t react. A second later, the door opened anyway. He exhaled through his nose, not even turning his head. “You could at least pretend to wait.” Shoes scraped lightly against the floor. A familiar presence slipped into the space like it belonged there, uninvited but entirely expected. Niki.
Jay flicked his gaze toward the kitchen entrance just long enough to confirm what he already knew. The younger vampire gave him a brief nod, casual, like he had just dropped by instead of letting himself in. His attention shifted immediately to the stove, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “What’s for dinner?” Niki asked, already stepping closer, peering at the pan like he might lift the lid himself. Jay didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up a slice of cucumber and, without much thought, tossed it in Niki’s direction.
It hit him square in the chest before falling to the floor. “You can ask to join me for dinner first,” Jay said flatly, returning to his cutting. “Before just barging in. You know. Basic manners.” Niki glanced down at the cucumber on the floor, then back at Jay. He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Whatever. Now tell me.” Jay let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. Of course. Niki had always been like this. Walking in like rules didn’t apply to him, like doors were just suggestions. Acting detached, uninterested, like everything was beneath him. A spoiled kind of indifference that would have been irritating if it wasn’t so predictable.
Jay slid the chopped cucumber into a bowl and reached for something else, his movements never breaking rhythm. “Food,” he replied dryly. Niki clicked his tongue. “Wow. Very helpful.” Jay didn’t look at him, but there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you’re going to stand there and criticize, you can at least make yourself useful.” “I didn’t come here to cook.” “No,” Jay muttered. “You came here to eat.”
Niki leaned against the counter, folding his arms, watching him work with quiet focus now. For all his attitude, he didn’t interrupt again right away. His eyes tracked every movement, sharp, observant in a way that didn’t match his usual laziness. It was easy to forget sometimes that beneath the nonchalant front, Niki paid attention. More than he let on. Jay reached for the pan, stirring whatever was cooking with practiced ease. “If you’re staying,” he added after a moment, “set the table.” Niki didn’t move. Jay glanced at him. A beat passed. Then, with a quiet scoff, Niki pushed himself off the counter. “You’re bossy.” “And you’re still here.” Another pause. Then Niki grabbed a couple of plates. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for him, that counted. The clink of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound that filled the room for a while.
Jay had just taken his first proper bite when he noticed it. Niki wasn’t eating. Not really. The younger vampire sat across from him, shoulders slightly hunched, pushing pieces of meat around his plate like he was trying to rearrange them into something that made sense. No second helping. No half-mumbled complaints about seasoning. No impatient reaching across the table before Jay had even settled in. Just… hesitation. Jay lowered his fork slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied him. “That’s new.” Niki didn’t look up. “What is?” “You not inhaling everything in sight.” A shrug. Casual. Practiced. “Not that hungry.”
Jay leaned back slightly in his chair, unconvinced. He watched the way Niki’s grip on his fork shifted, the subtle tension in his shoulders. It didn’t match the words. “What’s wrong?” Another shrug. Smaller this time. “Nothing.” Jay exhaled quietly, dragging a hand down his face before letting it rest against the table. Of course it was going to be like this. “Out with it.” There was a slight edge to his voice now, firmer, but not harsh. The kind of tone that didn’t leave much room for deflection. Niki knew it well enough to recognize what sat underneath it. Not annoyance. Not really. Something closer to concern. The coven had learned, over time, that silence could rot if you let it sit too long.
Niki’s fork stilled. He stared down at his plate for a few seconds, like he was deciding whether it was worth saying at all. His jaw shifted slightly before he finally spoke. “I walked into a store the other day,” he muttered. Jay didn’t interrupt. “They had some commercials playing. On one of those big screens.” Niki’s gaze stayed fixed on the plate, his voice quieter now. “It was for some movie. About… I don’t know. Some mythical creature or whatever, who finds their fated love.” He huffed faintly, like he was already annoyed with himself for bringing it up. “Made me think.” Jay’s fingers tightened slightly around his fork, but he stayed still. Niki swallowed, then continued, words coming a little more uneven now. “About how that works. For us.” A brief pause. “Mates.”
The word hung in the air longer than it should have. “And, well…” Niki shifted in his seat, finally glancing up for a second before looking away again. “I wanted to know what it’s like.” Another pause. “You’re the only one who really knows.” Jay froze mid-motion, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. For a moment, he didn’t move at all. The question landed heavier than Niki probably intended. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was something quieter. Something that came from not knowing, from standing at the edge of something everyone else seemed to understand but him.
Jay lowered the fork slowly, placing it back onto the plate with a soft clink. His gaze dropped to the table, unfocused. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him that. Long enough that he had almost convinced himself he wouldn’t have to answer it again. A faint tension settled in his chest, sharp and familiar, like a memory pressing against something that hadn’t quite healed right. But he understood. Of course he did. Niki wasn’t asking to pry. He was asking because he didn’t know. Because he hadn’t lived long enough to understand what that kind of bond meant. Not the way Jay did.
Not the way Jay still carried it. Jay exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, one hand coming up to rest against the back of his neck. “You picked a hell of a topic for dinner,” he muttered under his breath. But there was no real bite to it. Just weight. Niki let out a small sigh, shoulders easing just a little as he glanced up. “You don’t have to tell me. Not now, at least.” Jay shook his head, drawing in a slow breath. “It’s okay.” His voice was quieter now, steadier. “Just caught me off guard.” A brief pause. “I’ll tell you.”
Something in Niki’s expression softened. He gave a small, almost relieved smile before finally picking up his fork again. And just like that, the shift was immediate. He started eating. Not picking. Not hesitating. Actually eating. Within seconds, he was back to his usual pace, like the earlier tension had never existed, reaching for more before he had even properly finished what was on his plate. “You added more salt this time,” he muttered between bites. “It’s better.” Jay huffed faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “High praise.” It was normal. Familiar. Easy. And Jay found, unexpectedly, that he needed that moment more than he thought.
He set his utensils down, the faint clink barely audible, his attention drifting elsewhere. His gaze settled on the small table off to the side of the room. The vase. Simple. Unremarkable to anyone else. But the yellow flowers inside stood out, bright against the dimmer tones of the apartment. He had replaced them more times than he could count. Not because they lasted. But because the memory did. His eyes lingered there for a moment longer than necessary before he spoke again. “When I first found my mate…” His voice came quieter this time, threaded with something distant. “I was on a mission.”
Niki slowed, but didn’t stop eating, listening now without interrupting. “To find a flower. A specific one. For the woman I worked for.” Jay let out a faint breath, almost like a quiet laugh at himself. “I was focused. That was all that mattered.” His gaze didn’t leave the flowers. “But the second I saw her…” He paused, his jaw tightening just slightly. “Everything else disappeared.” The room felt still. “She…” Jay swallowed, the word catching just enough to notice. “She shone brighter than the sun.” A faint shift in his expression followed, something softer breaking through the restraint. “Everything around me felt warm.” His fingers curled slightly against the table. “Like the world had… tilted into place without asking me first.”
Niki had stopped moving entirely now, his fork hovering mid-air, eyes fixed on Jay. “I felt alive,” Jay continued, quieter still. “In a way I hadn’t since before I became a vampire.” The words settled into the space between them, heavier than anything that had been said before. Niki reached for a second serving almost absentmindedly, more out of habit than hunger, but his attention never left Jay. And for the first time since he’d known him, Niki really looked. The subtle twitch in Jay’s eyes. The way his expression didn’t settle on just one emotion. There was warmth there, unmistakable. But it was tangled with something deeper. Something sharper. Sadness. Love. Longing. Happiness, too. Somehow. All of it, layered together in a way that didn’t make sense unless you understood what had been lost.
Niki’s grip tightened slightly around his fork. A small, quiet guilt settled in his chest. He hadn’t meant to drag this out of him like that. But now that it was there, he couldn’t look away. Jay’s gaze didn’t move from the flowers as he continued, his voice quieter now, like he was speaking more to the memory than to Niki. “Her smile…” He let out a soft breath, something fragile in it. “It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.” His fingers shifted slightly against the table, as if grounding himself.
“The same night, we met again. There was a festival in her town. A celebration for their harvest god.” His eyes softened, the image clearly vivid in his mind. “Lanterns everywhere. Music, laughter… it felt like the whole world had gathered in one place.” A faint warmth touched his expression. “She wore this yellow dress.” His lips curved just a little more. “It made her look even more like the sun than she already did.” For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “We danced for hours,” he murmured. “I don’t even remember how it started. One moment we were talking, the next…” A quiet exhale. “I just didn’t want to let go.”
His voice dipped, softer, almost distant. “For the first time in years, I felt like myself again.” A small pause. “Not a vampire. Not someone bound to a war I never wanted.” His jaw loosened slightly. “Just… a man in his twenties.” Another breath. “I was happy.” The word lingered. A tear slipped free before he could stop it, tracing quietly down his cheek. He didn’t move to wipe it away. Niki noticed immediately. His posture straightened just a fraction, concern flickering across his face, but he stayed silent. Because Jay was smiling. Not the usual faint, controlled expression he wore. Not the dry amusement or quiet patience Niki was used to.
This was different. Soft. Open. It carried something real, something untouched by the weight Jay usually held. For a second, it reminded Niki of the first time they had met. That same quiet warmth, before everything else had settled back into place. Niki’s grip on his fork tightened slightly, his chest pulling in a way he didn’t quite understand. Jay inhaled slowly, the smile fading just enough as he steadied himself. “Having her…” he continued, voice gentler now, “was the best time of my life.” He shook his head faintly, like the words themselves weren’t enough. “It’s hard to describe it properly.” His gaze dropped from the flowers, unfocused now. “It’s not something you can explain and have it make sense.” A quiet pause. “It’s something you have to feel.”
The silence that followed lingered, heavier now, filled with everything Jay hadn’t said yet. Niki shifted slightly in his seat, watching him, hesitating only for a second before speaking. “Do you ever regret… what you did after losing her?” Jay’s eyes flicked up to meet his. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jay’s gaze dropped back down to his plate, the food long forgotten. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Who wouldn’t regret genocide?” There was no bitterness in his tone. No defensiveness. Just a blunt, almost tired honesty. “A madman, maybe.”
His fingers traced faintly along the edge of his plate, slow, absent. “But that’s not the part that stays with me the most.” Niki leaned forward slightly, his brows pulling together. “Then what is?” Jay was quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “What I did to Sage.” The name settled between them, unfamiliar yet weighted. Niki’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve mentioned her before,” he said, more carefully now. “But you never told me who she was.” Jay lifted his gaze again, meeting Niki’s directly this time. “Sage… was the one who turned me.” A brief pause. “I hated her for it. At first.” His jaw shifted slightly. “I blamed her for everything I became. For everything I lost.”
His voice dipped, quieter. “But time changes things.” Something in his expression softened, just enough to show what that meant. “She became…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Something like a mother to me.” Niki stilled completely. Jay looked away again, his gaze unfocused now, like he was seeing something far beyond the room. “The same day I lost her…” His voice tightened slightly. “I killed Sage too.” The words came out calm. Too calm. “I was…” He exhaled slowly, his hand curling into a loose fist against the table. “Burning. With rage. With grief. There was nothing else in me at that point.” His eyes darkened faintly at the memory. “She tried to reach me,” he continued. “She was worried. She cared.” A bitter flicker passed through his expression. “And that was enough to set something off.”
A quiet, hollow breath left him. “I turned into something monstrous.” The room felt colder. Niki didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just listened. “So yes,” Jay said after a moment, his voice steady again, though quieter than before. “I regret that.” His gaze softened, just slightly. “But,” A pause. “I also know she doesn’t resent me for it.” Niki blinked, thrown off by that. Jay’s expression shifted, something gentler threading through it. “She had a mate,” he explained. “He passed long before I ever met her.” His fingers loosened, the tension easing just a fraction. “And in the end… I gave her the chance to be with him again.” Silence followed. Not empty. Just… full.
Niki sat back slowly, the weight of everything settling in all at once. He hadn’t known. Not really. He had picked up pieces over time, fragments of Jay’s past, but never like this. Never laid out so plainly, so honestly. And now, hearing it, understanding even a fraction of it… Something clicked. The way Jay carried himself. The restraint. The patience. The quiet heaviness behind everything he did. It wasn’t just who he was. It was everything he had been through. Niki glanced down at his plate, his appetite gone again without him noticing. “…I get it now,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. And for once, he didn’t have anything else to say.
The conversation didn’t continue after that. Not in the same way, at least. The weight of it lingered for a while, sitting quietly between them, but it no longer pressed down like before. It had settled, softened at the edges. Niki eventually returned to eating, slower this time, more thoughtful, but still slipping back into small, familiar habits. A quiet comment here, a faint complaint there. And Jay… Jay felt lighter. Not completely. But enough. It had been years since he had spoken about her like that. Truly spoken about her. Not in fragments, not in passing thoughts he quickly buried, but out loud. Given shape. Given breath. He hadn’t realized how much of it he had been carrying alone until now.
His gaze drifted, not to the flowers this time, but to Niki. The younger vampire was leaning back in his chair now, one leg hooked loosely around the other, still picking at what remained on his plate despite already having eaten more than enough. There was a faint crease between his brows, like part of him was still turning over everything he had just heard, even if he didn’t say it. Jay watched him for a moment. And then, almost without meaning to, something softened in his expression. There were moments. Small ones.
When Niki laughed too loud, when he got excited over something trivial, when he let himself act his age instead of pretending he was older than he was… it reminded Jay of her. Of the way she used to look at the world. Curious. Bright. Unafraid to ask questions that didn’t have simple answers. There had always been something childlike in her wonder, not naive, but open. Like she believed the world was still worth discovering. Niki had that too. In flashes. Jay exhaled quietly, leaning back in his chair.
It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. But the resemblance was there, in the smallest, most unexpected ways. And it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. If anything, it grounded him. The same way he had once reminded Sage of someone she had loved long before him. The thought lingered. A quiet cycle. One person carrying pieces of another, passing them forward without even realizing it. Jay’s gaze softened further, something almost resolute settling beneath it.
If Niki ever found that kind of bond, that kind of love, Jay would be there. Not just to watch. But to guide him. The way Sage had guided him, even when he had fought against it. Even when he hadn’t understood. His hand shifted slightly against the table, fingers curling loosely. And more than anything… He would protect that. He would do everything in his power to make sure Niki would never have to feel that kind of loss. Not like he had. Not all at once. Not in a way that shattered everything that came after. Because some pain changed you. And some… Stayed with you forever.
~~~
One day, his schedule was… empty. Not completely, but close enough that it felt strange. Sunoo had stared at the screen for a long moment, brows furrowed. “This is wrong,” he said. Jay glanced up from his desk. “What is?” Sunoo turned the monitor slightly toward him. “This. We have… three patients before evening.” Jay looked at it, equally confused. “That cannot be right.” “I checked twice,” Sunoo said. “No cancellations. No errors. Just… nothing.” They both sat with that for a moment. “Should we be worried?” Sunoo asked. Jay let out a quiet breath. “I am not sure.” Sunoo leaned back in his chair. “Well. I am not complaining.” Jay allowed himself a faint smile. “Neither am I.”
With time to spare, Jay made a decision he had put off for weeks. “There is a place nearby,” he said, standing. “A restaurant. I have been meaning to try it.” Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “You? Taking a break willingly?” “It seems the world has forced one upon me,” Jay replied. “Go,” Sunoo said, waving him off. “Before the universe corrects itself and we are suddenly overwhelmed again.” Jay stepped out into the city, the air carrying the familiar hum of modern life. Cars passed. Voices overlapped. The world moved fast and constantly.
He walked the ten minutes easily, hands tucked into his coat, his mind quieter than usual. But something felt… off. The streets were busier than they should be for that hour. More people. More movement. Jay glanced around briefly. “I wonder why,” he murmured to himself. But he did not linger on it. He continued forward, his thoughts drifting, his attention turning inward. And then he collided with someone. The impact was light, but enough to pull him from his thoughts. “I apologize,” he began, turning toward them. Then he stopped. Everything stopped. The noise of the city faded into nothing. The movement around him blurred into something distant and unimportant. Because standing in front of him was her. Exactly as he remembered. The same eyes. The same features. The same presence that had once filled his entire world.
For a moment, he thought it was a trick of his mind. A memory brought too vividly into the present. A hallucination. His breath caught. “(Y/n)?” he asked, the name leaving him in a quiet, disbelieving whisper. The girl blinked at him, confusion crossing her face. “Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice. It was the same. Jay stared at her, searching for something, anything that would prove this was not real. But she was there. Standing in front of him. Alive. His chest tightened, something deep within him stirring, something he had not allowed himself to feel in centuries. “You…” he began, but the words failed him.
This was not a dream. Not a memory. She was real. Fate had brought her back to him. Or perhaps… Jay’s thoughts faltered, something darker creeping in at the edges. Was this a gift? Or something far crueler? A second chance. Or another way to break him. He did not know. All he knew was that she stood before him once more. And this time, he could not look away. “I am sorry,” Jay said, forcing his voice into something steady, something normal. “You just… resemble someone I used to know.” The girl chuckled softly, the sound light, easy. “What a coincidence,” she said. “My name is also (Y/n).”
For a moment, Jay simply stared at her. Then she extended her hand toward him, waiting. Jay hesitated for only a second before taking it. The moment their skin touched, something surged through him. A spark. Sharp. Electric. It ran up his arm, through his chest, settling somewhere deep within him in a way that made his breath catch. Just like before. Four hundred years, and it felt exactly the same. “I am Jay,” he said quietly. (Y/n) leaned in slightly, studying him with a curious expression.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “you look a bit familiar.” Hope flickered. Brief. Dangerous. Jay held her gaze, waiting. She glanced around, searching for something, her eyes scanning the street behind him. Then her expression lit up. “Aha,” she said, pointing past him. “That is you.” Jay turned slightly. A large screen displayed an advertisement. The clinic. His clinic. A clean image of him and Sunoo, both standing in white coats, calm and composed. He let out a small breath. Not what he had hoped for. But enough. He turned back to her, allowing a faint smile to form. “That is right. That is me. Doctor Park.”
(Y/n) laughed softly. “I hope I did not ruin your magical arm by bumping into it, Doctor.” “Just Jay is fine,” he replied. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, a hint of something lighter in his expression, he added, “Though now that you mention it, my arm is feeling a bit sore.” She raised an eyebrow, amused. “And in my honest medical opinion,” he continued, a small smirk forming, “the only cure is your number.” (Y/n) gasped dramatically, then laughed, the sound bright and effortless. “That was good,” she said. “Smooth.” She held out her hand expectantly. Jay handed her his phone without hesitation.
She typed quickly, her fingers moving with ease before handing it back. “If you do not text me by tonight,” she said, her tone playful, though her eyes held a hint of challenge, “I will make sure your clinic has no customers.” Jay let out a quiet huff of amusement. “That sounds like a serious threat.” “It is,” she said with a grin. Then she turned, beginning to walk away, disappearing slowly into the crowd. Jay stood there, unmoving, watching her go. Something tightened in his chest. Not fear. Not quite. But something just as urgent. As if this moment, this chance, balanced on something fragile. As if losing it again would mean losing everything. His hand tightened slightly around his phone. This was not four hundred years ago. He would not make the same mistakes. He would not lose her again.
Jay never made it to the restaurant. He turned halfway down the street, his steps faltering for only a second before shifting direction entirely. The world around him blurred, sounds fading into something distant and unimportant as his mind struggled to keep up with what had just happened. Four hundred years. Four hundred years of silence, of absence, of forcing himself to believe that what he had lost would remain lost. And yet, his hand tightened into a fist at his side as he moved faster.
He didn’t remember unlocking the clinic door. Only that it was suddenly there, the familiar space wrapping around him like something solid enough to hold him together. Sunoo looked up the moment the door opened, surprise already forming on his face. “You’re back already? I thought,” The door clicked shut. And Jay broke. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t controlled. It was everything at once. His knees gave out before he could stop it, hitting the floor with a dull sound as his breath hitched sharply, chest tightening in a way that felt almost unbearable. The tears came immediately, unrestrained, years upon years of grief and longing breaking through all at once.
Sunoo froze for half a second, shock flashing across his face. “Jay?” But there was no response. No explanation. Jay couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words even if he wanted to. His hands pressed against the floor like he needed something to anchor himself, his entire body trembling under the weight of it all finally spilling over. He had found her. He had actually found her. Just like he promised. The thought alone was enough to shatter whatever control he had left.
Sunoo didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved. Quickly, without hesitation, dropping down to the floor beside him. “Hey, hey…” His voice softened immediately, concern threading through it as he reached out, pulling Jay into a firm embrace. Jay didn’t resist. Didn’t try to pull away. For once, he let himself fall into it, shoulders shaking as he buried his face against Sunoo’s shoulder, the sound of his uneven breathing filling the room. Sunoo held him tighter. He didn’t understand what had happened. Not fully. But he didn’t need to. Not right now.
So he stayed quiet, one hand coming up to rest against the back of Jay’s head, grounding him, steady and warm. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly, even if he didn’t know what he was reassuring him about. And for a while, that was all there was. No questions. No explanations. Just the quiet release of something that had been buried far too deep for far too long. Minutes passed. Slowly, the intensity faded. Not completely, but enough for Jay to start pulling himself back together piece by piece. His breathing evened out, his grip loosening as he leaned back slightly, dragging a hand across his face in an attempt to compose himself.
There were still traces of it there. In his eyes. In the way his chest rose and fell a little too heavily. But he was steadier now. Grounded again. Sunoo studied him carefully, hesitant. “Do you… want me to cancel the rest of the appointments?” Jay shook his head almost immediately, though the motion was slower than usual. “No.” His voice was rough, but firm. “I want to work.” Sunoo frowned slightly. “Jay,” “I’ll explain later,” Jay added, quieter this time, but no less certain. A pause. Then, after a moment, “Text the others.” Sunoo blinked. “The others?” “Tell them to come tonight.” Jay’s gaze shifted, more focused now, something determined settling behind it. “All of them.” Sunoo hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”
He reached for his phone, but his eyes lingered on Jay for just a moment longer. He knew enough. Not everything. But enough. Enough to recognize what this could be tied to. Her. Jay’s mate. The one name that carried more weight than anything else in his past. Sunoo didn’t say it out loud. But the thought sat quietly in his mind as he typed out the message. Something had changed. And whatever it was… It was big enough to bring four hundred years crashing down in a matter of seconds.
~~~
That night, the apartment filled quicker than usual. Not with noise at first. With tension. Sunoo’s message hadn’t exactly helped. Emergency meeting at Jay’s tonight, he’s broken. That was all they had gotten. No explanation. No context. Just enough to make all of them uneasy. Niki was the first to arrive, aside from Jay and Sunoo. Of course. The door opened without warning, as always, and he walked in like he owned the place, dropping his jacket onto a chair before heading straight for the couch. He flopped down into it, stretching out like this was just another casual evening.
Sunoo turned immediately, already frowning. “You could at least knock.” Niki waved a hand dismissively, not even looking at him. “Jay’s cool with it.” From the kitchen, Jay’s voice came, quieter but clear enough. “That’s a lie.” Niki smirked faintly, like that proved nothing. Sunoo rolled his eyes, but didn’t push it further. Niki leaned back into the couch, glancing toward the kitchen. He watched Jay for a moment, more carefully than he let on. He looked… normal. Mostly. Composed. Steady. Not like someone who had apparently been “broken” just hours ago. But Niki wasn’t convinced. Not after their conversation before.
His eyes narrowed slightly, a thought forming in the back of his mind. Before he could dwell on it, another knock sounded at the door. This time, it was actually followed by waiting. Sunoo opened it to find Jake and Sunghoon standing there. “At least someone has manners,” Sunoo muttered, stepping aside to let them in. Jake smiled easily as he walked in, glancing around. “We try.” Sunghoon gave a small nod in greeting, already looking like he had been dragged out of something he would have preferred to stay in. Jake didn’t linger long in the entryway. He headed straight for the kitchen, like he already knew where Jay would be.
He found him by the counter. And immediately, he noticed. The slight redness around Jay’s eyes. The faint tension still sitting in his posture, even if everything else about him looked composed. Jake didn’t say anything about it. Not yet. Instead, he leaned casually against the counter, glancing at what Jay was doing. “You called an emergency meeting,” he said, tone light. “Should I be worried, or is this just your way of forcing us into another one of your cooking experiments?” A beat. Then, just barely, Jay huffed. “Careful,” he muttered. “You’re still eating it.” Jake grinned. Good. That was enough for now.
Behind them, Sunghoon made his way over to the couch, dropping down beside Niki with a quiet exhale. “If this is another one of your dramatic messages,” he said, glancing toward Sunoo, “I’m going back home.” Sunoo shot him a look. “I didn’t say it for no reason.” “‘He’s broken’ isn’t exactly helpful context.” Niki snorted softly at that, shifting slightly but saying nothing. His attention flicked back toward the kitchen. Watching. Waiting. Because whatever this was… It hadn’t settled yet.
The next knock came not long after. Sunoo moved to open the door again, revealing Jungwon standing there, a small bag in hand. He lifted it slightly as he stepped inside. “I was at a café when you texted,” he explained, slipping off his shoes. “So I brought desserts.” Sunoo blinked, some of the tension in his face easing. “You’re the only one who came prepared.” Jungwon smiled faintly, walking further in. “Felt like the situation called for it.” Jay glanced over from the kitchen, giving a small nod. “Thanks.”
Jungwon returned it, setting the bag down on the table before quietly taking a seat, his eyes moving between the others as he tried to read the atmosphere. It didn’t take long for him to realize something was off. A few minutes passed. Then came the final knock. Except this one didn’t wait. The door opened almost immediately after. Heeseung stepped in like it was his own place, completely ignoring the concept of knocking altogether. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, already scanning the room. Sunoo stared at him, unimpressed. “Wow. Great. Your bad habits have officially spread.” He jerked his thumb toward the couch. “Look at what you’ve done to him.” Niki didn’t even react, sprawled comfortably where he was. Heeseung followed the gesture, then smirked faintly. “Looks fine to me.”
He walked past Sunoo without another word, heading straight for the couch before dropping down beside Niki and Sunghoon. He leaned back, completely at ease. “See?” he added, glancing at Niki. “Good little brother.” Niki smirked slightly at that, not bothering to deny it. Sunoo let out a long, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down his face. For a brief second, he looked like he was genuinely considering grabbing something from the kitchen and throwing it at both of them.
Jake noticed. And laughed. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You really are a failed mother.” Sunoo snapped his head toward him, shooting him a sharp glare. “Say that again.” Jake only grinned wider, clearly entertained. Jay exhaled from the kitchen, the sound cutting through the growing noise. “Behave.” It wasn’t loud. But it was enough. The room settled, just slightly. Jungwon raised both hands from where he sat, expression calm. “I’d like to point out that I’ve done nothing.” Jay glanced at him, a faint, almost tired smile appearing. “Yeah, yeah.” A small pause. “You’re okay.” Jungwon nodded once, satisfied, while the others shifted back into place, the energy still restless but contained.
All of them were here now. And whatever Jay had called them for… It was finally about to be said. Once everything was ready, they gathered around the table. The familiar setup brought a sense of routine back into the room, even if the reason for it lingered in the back of everyone’s mind. Niki didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. The second he sat down, he started eating, quick and unbothered, like nothing else mattered. Heeseung wasn’t far behind, reaching for food with the same lack of restraint, barely pausing between bites. Sunoo glanced between them, already exasperated. “Can you two at least pretend to have manners for five minutes?”
Neither of them responded. Jake snorted quietly under his breath. “See?” Sunoo muttered. “This is what I deal with.” “You raised him,” Jake shot back lightly. “I did not,” “Enough,” Jay cut in, though there was no real heat behind it. The table settled, at least a little. For a while, the only sounds were the usual ones. Cutlery, quiet comments, the occasional complaint from Niki that didn’t really sound like a complaint at all. But it didn’t last. Sunghoon was the first to break the silence properly. He set his fork down, leaning back slightly as his gaze moved to Jay. “So,” he said, tone more serious now. “What happened?”
A brief pause. “What did Sunoo mean by ‘he’s broken’?” Sunoo groaned immediately, dropping his head back. “I meant broken down,” he muttered. “I panicked, okay?” Jake huffed a quiet laugh. “Not helpful,” Sunghoon replied dryly. Jay exhaled slowly, setting his utensils down. The shift was subtle, but immediate. The room quieted. “I haven’t told all of you everything about my past,” Jay began, his voice steady, though quieter than before. “Not in detail.” His gaze moved across them, meeting each of their eyes briefly. “But you know enough.” A pause. “That I had a mate.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And that I lost her.” Around the table, heads nodded. Some slower than others. They knew that much. Jay inhaled deeply, his fingers curling faintly against the edge of the table before he continued.
“Earlier today…” He hesitated, just for a second. “I ran into someone.” The words alone were enough to draw their full attention. “A woman.” Another pause. “She looked identical to my mate.” The air shifted. Even Niki slowed, his fork hovering mid-air. “From four hundred years ago,” Jay added quietly. “Same face. Same presence.” His voice dipped just slightly. “She even has the same name.” Silence. Then, “What?” they all said at once. Even Sunoo. His head snapped toward Jay, eyes wide. “Wait, what?”
Jay nodded once, confirming it wasn’t a joke. Not an exaggeration. Nothing about this was. “I never knew if it was true,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “The idea that people can be reborn. That something like that could… happen.” His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again. “But it seems…” A small pause. “At least this time…” His expression shifted, something almost fragile settling into it. “It is.” Heeseung pointed his fork at Jay, leaning forward slightly, interest clear now. “So,” he said, “what are you going to do?” Jay leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair, the earlier composure slipping just enough to show uncertainty.
“I got her number,” he admitted. That alone earned him a few looks. “So I’m going to ask her out,” he continued, then paused, his brows pulling together slightly. “I just… don’t know how to do it.” There was a beat. Then Jake snickered. Niki followed immediately after. Jay closed his eyes for a second, already regretting where this was going. “So that’s why we’re here,” Niki said, leaning back with a grin. “To help you with your rizz.” Jay let out a long sigh, dropping his hand from his hair. “Not exactly,” he muttered. “But… yeah. I need advice.” He gestured vaguely toward them. “You’ve all been a bit more active in your dating lives.” Jake straightened slightly at that, a smug smile forming. “So you’ve come to the experts.” Jay stared at him for a second. He regretted everything.
Sunghoon, completely unbothered by the dynamic, shrugged lightly. “Why don’t you just text her?” he said simply. “Ask if she wants to go on a date.” Jungwon immediately shook his head. “That’s not how it works anymore.” Sunghoon frowned slightly. “It’s not?” “No,” Jungwon replied, folding his arms. “It needs more than that. You can’t just be direct like that right away.” He tilted his head slightly. “There has to be… effort. Style.” Niki nodded like that made perfect sense. “Exactly. You can’t just go ‘hey, date me.’ That’s boring.” Jay looked between them, his expression flattening. “This was a mistake,” he muttered under his breath.
Sunoo, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward slightly instead, his attention fixed on Jay. “How did it feel? Seeing her, I mean,” The question cut through the noise instantly. Jay’s gaze shifted to him. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quieter, more honest than before, “It was…” He paused, searching for the words. “Shocking.” His fingers curled slightly against the arm of his chair. “Relieving.” A small breath. “Hurtful.” His gaze dropped briefly before lifting again. “I don’t know.” He shook his head faintly. “It felt like… everything at once.” The room stilled again, the teasing fading just enough to let that settle. Because no matter how they joked about it… They all understood. This wasn’t just about asking someone out. Not for him.
Heeseung smiled, the teasing from earlier gone, replaced with something steadier. “Jay,” he said, tone calm, certain, “if anyone knows how to win her over… it’s you.” The room quieted just slightly at that. “It might be a new life for her,” he continued, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “A different timeline. Different memories.” A small pause. “But in here…” He tapped lightly against his chest. “She’ll be the same.” Jay looked at him, caught off guard. Heeseung wasn’t always like this. Most of the time, he joked, teased, acted like nothing ever weighed on him. Like centuries of existence hadn’t left their mark. But moments like this… They reminded everyone exactly how long he had lived. And how much he understood.
Jay’s gaze lingered on him for a second longer before dropping back down to his plate, his thoughts shifting. Slowly, almost unconsciously, his eyes moved again. To the side. To the small table. To the vase. The yellow flowers had started to wither, their petals curling in on themselves, their brightness fading. It was time to replace them. The thought came quietly, but it stayed. His gaze softened slightly as memories slipped in, uninvited but not unwelcome. The lanterns. The warmth of that night. The way her laughter had blended with the music, the way her dress had caught the light, turning her into something almost unreal. Their first night. The beginning of everything.
Jay exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. And then, another memory surfaced. Different. Recent. The letter. The one that had arrived that morning, half forgotten in the rush of everything else. Some city-wide announcement, printed in bright colors, easy to dismiss at a glance. A summer festival. Jay stilled slightly. His brows drew together as the thought settled. A festival. His gaze drifted again, distant now, piecing things together in a way that felt almost too deliberate to be coincidence. It was almost ironic. How history had a way of circling back. Of repeating itself in different forms, across different lives. A quiet breath left him. He wasn’t sure if it was fate. Or something else entirely. But the similarity was there. Clear enough that it couldn’t be ignored. And despite everything… Despite the second chance sitting right in front of him… There was still one thought that lingered, quieter than the rest. A hope. And a fear. That this time… It wouldn’t end the same way.
After dinner, the atmosphere shifted again. Lighter. Easier. The tension that had filled the apartment earlier slowly faded as they moved around the kitchen, cleaning up without much coordination but somehow making it work anyway. Sunoo directed most of it, despite the lack of anyone actually listening to him properly, while Jake dried dishes he hadn’t washed and Niki hovered nearby, stealing pieces of dessert before they were even plated. “Stop touching it,” Sunoo snapped, swatting his hand away. “I’m taste testing,” Niki replied, completely unbothered. “You’ve taste tested five times.” “And I’ll do it again.”
Sunghoon leaned against the counter, watching them with mild amusement, while Heeseung reached past both of them to grab something anyway, ignoring Sunoo entirely. “I give up,” Sunoo muttered under his breath. Jungwon just smiled faintly, setting the desserts out properly despite the chaos around him. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Jay stepped away. Just for a moment. His phone felt heavier in his hand than it should have. He stared at the screen longer than necessary, reading over the message again, even though he already knew every word of it.
Simple. Direct. Maybe not perfect. But it was honest. His thumb hovered for a second. Then he pressed send. That was it. No overthinking. No second guessing. Just done. He exhaled quietly, slipping the phone back into his pocket as something in his chest settled, not fully, but enough. Whatever happened next… At least he had taken the step. When he returned, the others didn’t ask. Not yet. And he didn’t say anything either. Instead, he let himself fall back into the moment with them.
The rest of the night unfolded naturally after that. Games were pulled out, arguments over rules started almost immediately, and laughter filled the apartment in a way that felt almost too normal for what they were. Niki got competitive. Jake cheated and pretended he didn’t. Sunoo threatened to end the game at least three times. Heeseung encouraged the chaos. Sunghoon sighed through most of it, though a faint smile gave him away. Jungwon kept things from completely falling apart. And Jay… Jay laughed. Genuinely. For the first time that day, the weight of everything didn’t sit so heavily on his shoulders.
Because in moments like this, it didn’t matter how long they had lived. It didn’t matter what they had lost, or what they carried. They weren’t centuries old. They weren’t shaped by war, or grief, or time. They were just… themselves. A group of young men, sitting too close together, arguing over nothing, laughing over everything. And for a little while, the past didn’t reach them. It stayed where it belonged. Behind them. Because for once… The future felt brighter.
~~~
A few days later, Jay stood just outside the festival gates, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, though the evening air wasn’t nearly cold enough to justify it. It was just something to do. Something to ground himself. The entrance buzzed with life, people moving in and out in steady waves, laughter and music spilling out from inside. Strings of lights hung above the path, casting a warm glow over everything, and for a moment, it almost felt like stepping into a memory he hadn’t fully prepared himself to face.
Jay checked his phone again. 7:33 pm. His jaw tightened slightly. He had told her he’d be there at 7:30. Three minutes. Three minutes wasn’t long. Not at all. But to him, it stretched. His thumb moved across the screen, pulling up their messages, reading over them again like something might have changed. It hadn’t. She had agreed. Happily. That part alone replayed in his mind more times than he could count. Still… A quiet unease settled in his chest. What if she didn’t come? What if something had changed? Or maybe, his thoughts shifted. Maybe this was just like before. That night, all those years ago, when he had waited, uncertain, searching through a sea of people until he finally found her. Maybe history wasn’t repeating itself exactly. Maybe it was just… echoing.
Jay exhaled slowly, lifting his gaze from his phone, and then, he froze. There she was. Walking toward him. For a second, the world around him faded into nothing. The noise, the people, the lights… All of it disappeared. All he saw was her. (Y/n). The same face. The same presence. And, her yellow dress. Light, flowing, catching the glow of the festival lights in a way that made her stand out effortlessly. Jay felt his breath catch. Of course. Of course it would be yellow. He almost laughed at the irony, if his chest didn’t feel so tight.
She spotted him quickly, her face lighting up as she lifted her hand, waving. “Jay!” Her voice carried easily over the noise, bright and familiar in a way that made something deep in him ache. She hurried the last few steps, her smile wide, open, completely unguarded. And just like that, he felt it again. That same warmth. That same pull. As if nothing had changed. As if everything had. When she finally reached him, Jay didn’t hesitate. “You look beautiful,” he said, the words slipping out before he could even think about them. (Y/n) giggled softly, a faint flush touching her cheeks. “Thank you,” she replied, tilting her head slightly as she looked him over. “You don’t look too bad either.”
Jay let out a quiet breath, something in his chest easing just a little. She was here. Right in front of him. And this time… He wasn’t going to lose her. “Shall we go in?” Jay asked, his voice softer now, steadier. (Y/n) smiled immediately, nodding without hesitation. Before he could react, her hand slipped into his, warm and firm, and she pulled him along with her through the gates. Jay blinked for half a second, caught off guard, before letting himself follow, adjusting his pace to match her eager steps. She was already looking everywhere at once. Lights, stalls, people, decorations, everything seemed to catch her attention, her eyes bright with excitement as she took it all in.
“This is amazing,” she said, almost breathless, her grip on his hand tightening slightly as she pulled him further in. “I’ve never been to one of these before.” Jay glanced at her, a small smile forming. “Really?” She nodded quickly. “Every year it’s been held, I’ve either been overseas, or in another city, or just… buried in studying.” She laughed lightly. “I always said I’d go next time, but I never actually did.” Jay hummed softly, his gaze drifting around the festival for a moment before returning to her. “I haven’t been to one in a long time either.” A brief pause. “So… it’s nice to be here tonight.” (Y/n) smiled at that, something softer settling into her expression before the excitement took over again.
“Come on,” she said suddenly, tugging him in a new direction. Jay barely had time to react before she was dragging him toward one of the game booths. “Let’s try this one!” He let out a quiet laugh under his breath, following without resistance. She stepped up first, determination clear as she took the game seriously, brows furrowed slightly as she focused. Jay watched from the side, arms loosely crossed, amused as she gave it her full effort. “Okay, I’ve got this,” she muttered. She didn’t. The attempt fell just short. (Y/n) groaned softly, shoulders dropping as she stepped back. “That was so close.”
Jay glanced at the setup, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the details. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out. A small adjustment. A slight difference in angle. That was all it needed. “I’ll try,” he said. (Y/n) looked at him, curiosity replacing the disappointment. “You think you can do it?” Jay didn’t answer. He stepped forward, picking up the piece, his movements calm, controlled. A second later, he won. The booth attendant handed over a large panda plush, clearly impressed. Jay turned, holding it out toward her without hesitation. “Do you want it?” (Y/n)’s face lit up instantly. “Do I?” she repeated, already reaching for it. “Of course I do, it’s adorable.”
She hugged it close, smiling brightly, completely delighted in a way that made something in Jay’s chest tighten. He watched her for a moment, quiet. And then he smiled. Gently. Heeseung had been right. It didn’t matter that this was a different time. A different life. Because in the ways that mattered… She was still the same. “Oh, a dance floor!” (Y/n)’s voice lit up instantly, her attention snapping toward the open space where music played and people moved freely, laughter mixing with the rhythm. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, already leaning slightly in that direction like she might run off at any second.
Jay chuckled softly at her reaction, something warm settling in his chest. Of course. Some things never changed. He stepped in front of her slightly, catching her attention, then gave a small, playful bow, one hand coming up as he extended the other toward her. “May I have this dance?” (Y/n) blinked, caught completely off guard. For a split second, she just stared at him. Wow. He’s so handsome… and such a gentleman. The thought hit her all at once, warmth rushing to her face as she quickly nodded, a shy smile slipping through. “Yes.” Jay straightened, his hand gently closing around hers again as he led her toward the dance floor.
The music was lively, people moving without much structure, more focused on enjoying themselves than anything else. It should have been simple. But it wasn’t, The panda made sure of that. (Y/n) tried to balance it between them at first, but it quickly became clear that it wasn’t going to cooperate. It bumped into Jay, nearly slipped from her grasp, and got in the way of almost every movement they attempted. She burst into laughter. “This is harder than it looks,” she said, adjusting her hold on it, only for it to tilt again. Jay laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in years. “You could always put it down.” “No,” she said immediately, tightening her grip. “It’s part of the experience now.”
He shook his head, amused, as they continued anyway. Their movements weren’t perfect. Not even close. But it didn’t matter. They laughed through it, stepping on each other’s feet once or twice, the panda nearly getting dropped again before Jay steadied it with one hand. “A little chaos never hurt,” (Y/n) said, grinning as she tried to spin, only to be slowed by the plush in her arms. Jay couldn’t help but smile at that. To him… It didn’t feel like chaos. It felt like something else entirely. The music, the voices around them, the lights, all of it slowly faded into the background.
And for a moment, it was just them. Just the two of them beneath the night sky, moving together like nothing else existed. Her laughter. The way her eyes caught the light. The warmth of her hand in his. Jay’s gaze lifted slightly, drawn upward. The moon hung above them, steady and quiet, watching over everything. He held that moment for what it was. And silently… He thanked it. For this. For her. For the chance to stand here again, to feel this again, after everything he had lost. A second chance.
After the dance, they wandered a little further into the festival, the energy around them still lively, but softer now as the night settled in. That was when Jay spotted it. A small booth, lined with delicate paper lanterns, their soft glow flickering gently in the dim light. For a moment, he just stood there. The familiarity of it all didn’t hit as sharply this time. It didn’t hurt the same way. Instead, it felt like something quieter. Like a nudge forward. A reminder, not of what he had lost, but of what he had found again.
(Y/n) followed his gaze, her expression lighting up instantly. “Oh, those are beautiful.” Jay nodded once, already stepping toward the booth. “Let’s get one.” “Two,” she corrected with a small smile. He huffed softly, but didn’t argue. A few moments later, they stood side by side, each holding a lantern. Jay carefully helped her set it up, his movements gentle, steady as he adjusted the frame and lit the small candle inside. The soft flame flickered to life, casting a warm glow between them. “Ready?” he asked. (Y/n) nodded, her eyes reflecting the light. Together, they released them.
The lanterns lifted slowly at first, then steadied, rising higher and higher until they joined the others scattered across the sky. For a moment, it looked like the night itself was filling with stars. (Y/n) watched them, her expression soft, almost thoughtful. “Do you think they reach somewhere?” she asked quietly. Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because for a split second, the world in front of him shifted. The image blurred, overlapping with something else entirely. A different night. The same glow. The same question. The same look in her eyes. It was too exact. Too familiar. Like memory and reality had collided, unable to separate. His breath caught, chest tightening as emotion surged up before he could stop it. A tear slipped free. (Y/n) noticed immediately, her brows pulling together slightly as she turned toward him. “Hey…” Without hesitation, she reached up, gently wiping it away.
The touch grounded him. Jay inhaled sharply, finally taking a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice a little uneven. “You just… reminded me of something.” (Y/n)’s expression softened. “That friend of yours?” she asked gently. “The one with the same name as me?” Jay nodded. Her smile returned, small at first, then a little brighter. “You’ll have to tell me about her sometime.” She tilted her head slightly. “She seems to mean a lot to you.” Jay’s gaze lingered on her. More than you know. The thought came unfiltered. But he didn’t say it.
Instead, he looked back up at the sky, at the lanterns drifting higher, becoming smaller, blending into the stars. “About the lanterns…” he began, his voice calmer now. “I think they carry something.” (Y/n) glanced up again, listening. “Our deepest wishes,” he continued. “Things we don’t always say out loud.” A small pause. “They take them somewhere. Turn them into something real.” He exhaled softly. “Maybe not here. Not in this moment.” His gaze softened. “But somewhere.” The lanterns kept rising. And for the first time in a long time… That belief didn’t feel like a distant hope. It felt possible.
All too soon, the night came to an end. The festival lights faded behind them as Jay walked beside (Y/n), the distant sound of laughter and music slowly replaced by the quieter rhythm of the city at night. Neither of them rushed. There was no need to. The moment stretched naturally, comfortable in its silence, filled with everything that didn’t need to be said. When they reached the train station, Jay slowed slightly, glancing at her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked. “It’s late.” (Y/n) smiled, shaking her head gently. “I’ll be fine.” There was no hesitation in her voice. Just reassurance.
“But…” she added, her expression softening just a little. “I hope I’ll see you again.” Jay didn’t need to think about his answer. “I’d love to.” The words came easily. Naturally. Like they had always been there. She smiled at that, a little brighter now, before stepping back as the train approached. They said their goodbyes, simple but not empty, and then she turned, stepping inside as the doors slid shut behind her. Jay stayed where he was. Watching. Until the train began to move. Until it disappeared from sight completely. Only then did he exhale. Slowly. His gaze lifted, drawn upward once more.
The night sky stretched above him, quiet and endless, the moon hanging in its place like it had always been there, like it always would be. Jay closed his eyes briefly. And once again… He gave thanks. For this. For her. For the chance he had been given. When he finally turned to leave, his steps felt lighter. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just… steady. He made his way home, the quiet of his apartment welcoming him in a way it hadn’t in a long time.
And that night, for the first time in centuries, he slept. Truly slept. No restless thoughts. No shadows of the past pulling him under. No nightmares. Only peace. And in that peace, he dreamed. He stood in a field. Endless, soft, filled with flowers that swayed gently in the breeze, their colors blending into something almost unreal. It felt familiar. Warm. Ahead of him, a figure turned. Sage. She looked the same. Just as he remembered her, yet lighter somehow, unburdened by everything she had carried before. She smiled. And behind her, there was someone else. A man. Jay couldn’t make out his features clearly, but he didn’t need to. He understood.
Sage lifted her hand, giving a small wave. “I’m happy for you, son.” Jay’s chest tightened as he took a step forward, words rising in his throat, everything he had carried for so long finally ready to be spoken. But before he could say anything, she raised her hand gently. Stopping him. “I know,” she said softly. There was no accusation. No pain. Only understanding. “It was a blessing.” Jay stilled. The weight he had held onto for so long shifted, something loosening, something finally beginning to let go. Sage turned then, reaching back. The man behind her took her hand without hesitation. And together… They walked away. No sadness. No lingering. Just peace. The image faded. And just like that, Jay woke.
The sound of his alarm filled the apartment, steady and familiar, pulling him back into the present. He blinked, staring at the ceiling for a moment as the dream settled into memory. His chest felt lighter. Not empty. But… at ease. After a second, he reached over, turning off the alarm. Another day. Another beginning.
~~~
The next time Jay saw her, it wasn’t planned. At least, not by him. The clinic was already full by the time the doors had properly opened. Voices overlapped, footsteps echoed across the floor, and the steady rhythm of work had settled in early. It was one of those days. Discount days. The kind Jay had insisted on keeping, no matter how busy life got. Basic shots, flu vaccines, simple treatments, all offered at a price low enough that no one would have to think twice, but still high enough that it didn’t feel like charity.
He understood people too well. Free made some turn away. Affordable let them stay. And so the clinic was packed. Jay moved through it with ease, sleeves rolled up, expression calm, focused. There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted time, but he never rushed anyone either. That was the difference. He was fast. But never careless. Sunoo stood behind the counter, organizing the line with practiced efficiency, calling out names, directing people where to go, occasionally snapping at someone trying to skip ahead. “Everyone gets their turn,” he muttered, scribbling something down before looking up again.
Jake and Jungwon moved between stations, carrying trays of chilled vials, restocking supplies, stepping in wherever they were needed without being told. It was controlled chaos. And right in the middle of it, Jay. (Y/n) stood off to the side, unnoticed for now, her gaze following him as he worked. She hadn’t expected this. Not really. She had just wanted to see him again. But what she found instead… Was this.
An old man sat in front of Jay, shoulders slightly tense, clearly not fond of needles. Jay crouched just enough to meet his eye level, saying something quietly, something that made the man huff out a small laugh. A second later, it was done. Quick. Clean. Jay smiled, handing him a small cotton pad, saying something else that made the man nod, more at ease now than before. Then Jay was already moving. A child this time. Crying. Loud enough that a few people nearby glanced over. Jay didn’t flinch. He crouched again, softer this time, speaking to the child in a low voice, something light, something playful. (Y/n) couldn’t hear the words. But she saw the effect. The tears slowed. The sniffles turned into confused little hiccups. And then, a laugh. Small at first, then brighter.
Jay moved in that exact moment. Precise. Fast. Before the child even realized what had happened, it was over. The kid blinked, then looked at their arm, surprised. Jay smiled, ruffling their hair lightly before standing again. And just like that, he was gone. On to the next. (Y/n) watched it all, her expression softening without her noticing. He looked… Different. Not in a way she could fully explain. But there was something about him here, something that felt natural, effortless. Like this was exactly where he was meant to be. The way he spoke. The way he moved. The way people responded to him. He wasn’t just doing his job. He was… caring. Truly. And he looked happy doing it.
A small smile formed on her lips. He really is in his element. The thought settled quietly, but it stayed. And for a moment, she didn’t step forward. She just watched. It wasn’t until Jungwon noticed her standing there that anyone realized she had even arrived. He had been carrying another tray of chilled vials toward the front when he caught sight of her near the wall, watching the room quietly. Since she wasn’t standing in line or checking in, he assumed she might be looking for someone. So he walked over.
“Hi,” he said politely, offering a small smile. “Are you waiting for someone?” (Y/n) looked at him and smiled back immediately. “Oh, yeah. I’m a friend of Jay’s.” Jungwon paused. A friend? For a split second, confusion crossed his face. Jay didn’t really have friends outside of them. Then realization hit him all at once. Ah, this must be his mate. The expression on his face softened instantly, amusement flickering briefly in his eyes before he hid it well. “Well,” he said smoothly, introducing himself, “I’m Jungwon.”
(Y/n) repeated his name with a smile before glancing around the crowded clinic again. “I didn’t realize I picked his busiest work day to show up.” Jungwon laughed quietly. “Yeah, these days get a little intense.” A child cried somewhere in the background, immediately followed by Sunoo’s voice telling someone not to block the hallway. Jungwon barely reacted. “If you want,” he continued, “I can show you to Jay’s office. I’m sure he won’t mind.” (Y/n) blinked. “Really?” He nodded. “He won’t be free for a couple of hours though.” “That’s okay,” she replied quickly. “I don’t mind waiting.” Jungwon smiled again and motioned for her to follow him.
As they moved through the clinic, weaving between patients and staff, Jay remained focused on the woman sitting in front of him, carefully cleaning the cut on her hand while explaining how to keep it from getting infected. Then, her scent reached him. Soft. Familiar. His entire body stilled for half a second. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges as instinct took over, every part of him immediately recognizing her presence before his mind could properly catch up. Jay’s breath caught. He looked up instinctively. And there she was.
Walking past him beside Jungwon. He wanted to move. To follow immediately. To stop her, speak to her, just see her properly again. But years of control held him in place. So instead, he forced himself to focus back on the patient in front of him, even as his heart pounded hard enough to feel almost human again. “There we go,” he said gently, finishing the bandage around the woman’s hand with steady fingers despite the chaos inside him. “Just keep this clean for a few days.” The woman thanked him warmly before leaving. Jay smiled automatically, polite and calm like always. But the second she was gone, his eyes lifted again toward the hallway where (Y/n) had disappeared. And despite the crowded clinic, despite the noise and movement surrounding him… He could still feel her there.
Four hours later, the clinic finally closed. The last patient had left nearly ten minutes ago, yet the exhaustion still clung to the building itself, lingering in the quiet that followed such a chaotic day. The doors were locked. The lights dimmed slightly. And all that remained were the final papers waiting to be signed. Jay let out a slow sigh as he rolled his shoulders back, a faint stiffness settling through his body. Despite what he was, despite how little human limitations truly applied to him anymore, days like this still wore him down. Not because of the healing. He had only needed to use his actual abilities on three patients all day. But because of everything else.
The constant movement. The focus. The emotions of hundreds of people brushing against him for hours on end. His entire body felt heavy. Sunoo looked no better. He sat slumped against the front desk, head tilted back slightly, eyes half closed in pure exhaustion. “If one more child screamed today,” he muttered weakly, “I was going to walk into traffic.” Jake laughed tiredly from nearby as he stretched his arms over his head. “You say that every discount day.” “Because every discount day is horrible.” Jungwon finished putting away the last tray before stretching as well, though compared to the others, he somehow looked the least destroyed by the day.
Tired, yes. But still standing properly. Jay narrowed his eyes slightly at him. “You’re suspiciously energetic.” Jungwon smiled innocently. “I’m young.” Sunoo groaned loudly at that. Then Jungwon seemed to remember something. “Oh,” he said, turning toward Jay. “You have a visitor in your office.” Jay blinked, confusion flashing across his face for a brief second. Then it hit him. (Y/n). His exhaustion vanished almost instantly. Not completely. But enough. He had gotten so consumed by work that he had nearly forgotten she was still there waiting for him. A soft smile appeared on his face before he could stop it.
Jake noticed immediately and snorted quietly. “Wow.” Jay ignored him. “Thanks for today,” he said instead, looking between them. “I owe you all for helping out.” Jake pointed at him immediately. “You can repay me with food.” Jay huffed softly. “Of course.” “Your cooking’s the best,” Jake added with absolutely no shame. Jungwon smiled faintly. “I’m just happy to help.” Jay nodded once before walking over to the front desk where Sunoo still looked moments away from passing out. Without a word, Jay gently took the papers from his hands. “Go home,” he said quietly. “You did well today.” Sunoo looked up at him, tired but pleased by the praise. A small smile tugged at his lips before a yawn interrupted it completely. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he mumbled. Jay chuckled softly under his breath before glancing toward the hallway leading to his office.
And despite the exhaustion pulling at every part of him… He suddenly found himself looking forward to the rest of the evening. Jay made his way down the quiet hallway toward his office, the sounds of the clinic fading behind him with every step. When he reached the door, he paused for a moment. Then, despite the room technically belonging to him, he knocked gently. No response. He waited a second before carefully opening the door, peeking inside. And immediately, his expression softened. (Y/n) was asleep on the small couch tucked against the wall, curled slightly onto her side. One arm rested beneath her head while the other loosely held onto the edge of the blanket someone, probably Jungwon, had draped over her earlier.
The room was dim, lit only by the warm lamp near his desk. For a moment, Jay just stood there. Watching. The softness of her features. The slow rise and fall of her breathing. The peacefulness in her expression. Everything about it felt strangely intimate. Quiet in a way the rest of the world never seemed to allow anymore. Jay stepped inside carefully, shutting the door behind him with barely a sound before crossing the room. He crouched beside the couch slowly, his movements gentle as he reached out, resting a hand lightly against her shoulder. Giving her a small shake. “Hey,” he said softly. “(Y/n).” She groaned faintly, brows twitching before her eyes slowly opened. The second she saw him, she smiled. Instantly. “Oh hey,” she whispered sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion before a yawn escaped her.
Jay couldn’t help the small smile that appeared in return. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.” (Y/n) pushed herself upright slowly, stretching her arms above her head for a second before letting them fall back into her lap. “It’s okay,” she said, still waking up properly. “I’m the one who showed up unannounced.” Jay shook his head lightly. “I’m happy you came.” And he meant it. His gaze lingered on her for just a second longer before he added, quieter, “I just wish it had been a calmer day.” (Y/n) laughed softly at that, leaning back slightly against the couch. “I hear you never have calm days.” Jay chuckled, tired but genuine. “I can’t argue with that.”
The room settled into a comfortable silence for a moment after that. Not awkward. Just warm. The kind that came easily around her. Jay leaned back into his chair with a quiet sigh, exhaustion still lingering in his body as he looked over at her. “So,” he asked softly, “what made you decide to stop by today?” (Y/n) smiled slightly and reached for her phone, unlocking it before holding it out toward him. Jay took it, his eyes scanning the screen. A news article. A meteor shower tonight. One of the biggest expected in years. He looked back up at her just as she glanced down, suddenly seeming far less confident than usual. It caught him off guard.
She rubbed the back of her neck lightly before speaking. “When I saw the news… I kind of immediately thought about you.” Jay’s chest tightened softly. “I wanted to see it with you,” she admitted. “So I texted you, but you never answered.” Her lips pressed together briefly before she added, quieter, “So I just came here instead.” Jay blinked. Then leaned forward slightly, unable to stop the small smile forming on his face. “That’s cute.” (Y/n)’s eyes widened immediately as she looked up at him, brows furrowing. “What?” “The idea,” Jay corrected quickly, though amusement lingered in his voice. “I mean.” She stared at him for another second before laughing softly under her breath. Jay shook his head faintly, smiling now without restraint. “I’d love to go stargazing with you.”
The nervousness vanished from her expression almost instantly, replaced by the bright confidence he was beginning to recognize so easily. “Alright then,” she said, standing quickly. “Come on, let’s go find a good spot at the beach before they’re all taken.” Jay laughed quietly at her sudden urgency. “Can I at least have two minutes to change clothes?” (Y/n) looked him up and down dramatically, pretending to evaluate him seriously. Then she nodded once. “Okay,” she said firmly. “But only two.” Jay laughed again, the sound warm and effortless. “I’ll be out in two minutes.” She pointed at him as she backed toward the door. “I’m counting.” Then she slipped out of the office, giving him a brief moment alone.
The second the door shut, Jay stood. And thanks to vampire speed, the entire process took less than fifteen seconds. By the time a single minute had passed, he was already done, leaning casually against the door with the faintest hint of amusement on his face. For someone who had lived centuries… He had never changed clothes so fast for anyone before. As they walked out of the clinic together, the cool evening air greeted them immediately, carrying the distant sound of waves from the shoreline. Jay glanced over at (Y/n), hands tucked loosely into his pockets now that the exhaustion from work had begun settling properly into his body.
“Do you have a plan for food?” he asked. “Or anything else?” The question made her stop walking entirely. Her eyes widened. “Oh no.” Jay blinked at her reaction. (Y/n) looked genuinely distressed for a second as she admitted, “I only thought about asking you.” She let out a small laugh at herself. “I didn’t prepare anything else.” Jay laughed softly, unable to help it. “It’s okay,” he reassured her. “We’ll be fine.” Before she could ask what he meant, he pulled out his phone quickly, typing out two short messages. To Heeseung and Sunghoon. Need help. Beach. Picnic blanket, snacks, food. Save us a spot. The replies came almost instantly. A simple: 👍. That was it. Jay smiled faintly to himself. Good enough.
With those two, it meant everything was already handled. He slipped his phone back into his pocket before reaching his hand out toward her. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s walk.” (Y/n)’s expression brightened immediately as she took his hand without hesitation. And together, they headed toward the beach. The walk took around twenty minutes, filled mostly with easy conversation and occasional laughter. The city lights slowly gave way to the darker stretch of coastline ahead, the sound of the ocean growing louder with every step.
But the second they reached the beach, (Y/n) stopped. “Oh no,” she groaned softly. The beach was packed. Blankets stretched across the sand in every direction, people gathered in groups while waiting for the meteor shower to begin. “We’re never getting a good spot.” Jay looked out over the crowd calmly. Then he inhaled slowly. Among the countless human scents carried by the sea breeze, he searched for something familiar. And found it almost immediately. A small smile tugged at his lips. “Oh,” he said softly, glancing at her. “We will.”
(Y/n) blinked in confusion as Jay gently tugged her hand, leading her further down the shoreline, weaving between people with complete certainty. A minute later, they reached them. Heeseung and Sunghoon. And behind them, the perfect spot. Right by the water. Unobstructed view of the sky. A large picnic blanket already spread out with snacks, drinks, and containers of food neatly arranged across it. (Y/n) gasped softly. “No way.” Jay chuckled under his breath at her reaction before looking at the two vampires. “Thanks.” Sunghoon only nodded once from where he sat.
Heeseung, meanwhile, grinned immediately as he stood. He walked over to (Y/n) first, gesturing dramatically toward the setup. “We hope there’s something you’ll enjoy eating.” Then he glanced toward Jay. “Except for him, of course.” Jay deadpanned instantly. “I hate you,” he muttered under his breath. Heeseung only looked more pleased with himself. (Y/n) laughed brightly beside them, the sound mixing with the waves and sea breeze so naturally that for a moment, Jay forgot about the exhaustion still lingering in his body. Because somehow… This already felt perfect.
Sunghoon let out a long, exhausted sigh, clearly having reached his limit with Heeseung. Without a word, he walked over, grabbed the back collar of Heeseung’s shirt, and started dragging him away across the sand. “Hey,” Heeseung complained immediately, trying to dig his feet into the ground. “I’m being friendly.” “No, you’re being annoying,” Sunghoon replied flatly. Heeseung attempted to resist, but it was completely useless. Sunghoon kept dragging him forward anyway, leaving long trails behind in the sand where Heeseung’s shoes scraped helplessly through it. As they moved further away, Sunghoon lifted one hand in a brief wave over his shoulder. “Goodbye.” “Traitor!” Heeseung yelled dramatically.
(Y/n) burst into laughter beside Jay as she watched the scene unfold. The sound was bright and unrestrained, carried away slightly by the ocean breeze. Jay sighed deeply, though there was no real annoyance behind it anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My friends are maniacs.” He glanced toward the increasingly ridiculous sight of Heeseung still being dragged away. “But,” he added, “at least they saved us a spot.” (Y/n) smiled warmly as she stepped closer to him. “It’s wonderful.” Her gaze lingered briefly on the distant pair before returning to Jay. “And they seem fun.” Jay huffed softly, amused despite himself. “That’s one word for it.”
Together, they settled down onto the blanket, the sound of waves filling the comfortable silence between them as they looked through everything Heeseung and Sunghoon had brought. There was far too much food. Naturally. (Y/n) laughed quietly at some of the snack choices while Jay immediately recognized which items had definitely been picked by Heeseung. “You can tell who packed this,” he muttered. (Y/n) grinned. “Your friends seem to know you well.” Jay glanced at her briefly. Not nearly as well as they will know you. The thought came quietly, natural now instead of painful.
They picked out a few things to eat, talking softly between bites while more and more people settled along the beach around them. Then, slowly, the sky darkened fully. The stars became clearer overhead, scattered endlessly across the night. (Y/n) shifted closer beside him, naturally, easily, until she was tucked against his side, warmth pressing gently into him through the cool nighttime breeze. Jay stilled slightly for half a second. Then relaxed. His arm settled carefully around her without thought.
And above them, the meteor shower began. One streak of light crossed the sky. Then another. And another. Soon hundreds of meteors painted silver trails overhead, illuminating the beach in brief flashes as quiet awe spread through the crowd around them. (Y/n) gasped softly beside him, her eyes reflecting the light as she stared upward in wonder. Jay looked at her instead. At the way the sky danced in her eyes. At the smile resting gently on her lips. The ocean breeze was cold against his skin. But somehow… He had never felt warmer.
As the meteors continued to streak across the sky, (Y/n) slowly turned her head, noticing the way Jay was looking at her instead of the stars above them. Her expression softened instantly. Without thinking much about it, she lifted a hand and rested it gently against his cheek. Jay leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. “It’s weird,” she said quietly. The waves rolled softly onto the shore behind them as she looked at him, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “Moments like this,” She hesitated slightly. “They give me such a strong feeling of déjà vu.” Jay’s chest tightened. “Like I’ve lived this before,” she continued softly. “Somewhere.”
The meteor light reflected in her eyes as she glanced briefly back up at the sky before returning her gaze to him again. “And it’s always connected to you.” Jay didn’t breathe. “It feels like…” Her voice lowered slightly, almost shy now. “Like we’ve met before.” A small pause. “In another life.” The words struck him harder than anything else had that night. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest so suddenly it almost hurt. If only you knew. The thought came immediately, tangled with love so deep it frightened him sometimes. But all he did was smile softly. “Maybe we have,” he said quietly. (Y/n)’s gaze lingered on him. Her thumb moved gently against his cheek once more. Then, slowly, she leaned closer.
Jay met her halfway without hesitation. Their lips touched softly, carefully, like both of them were afraid to rush the moment. Sweet. Warm. Gentle. Jay felt everything all at once. The faint taste of raspberries and soda still lingering from the snacks they had shared earlier. The softness of her lips. The quiet sound she made against him when he deepened the kiss ever so slightly. It was simple. And yet to him, it felt more precious than centuries. A taste he never wanted to forget. Because it was hers. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved very far away.
(Y/n) slowly looked back up toward the sky again, the meteors still painting light across the darkness above them. “Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked quietly. Jay followed her gaze upward. The answer came so naturally it almost felt like breathing. “Yes.” Barely above a whisper. One simple word. And yet it carried four hundred years of love, grief, longing, and hope within it.
~~~
A few days later, Jay found himself more nervous than he had been in decades. The apartment was clean, dinner nearly finished, soft music playing quietly in the background just to fill the silence that otherwise threatened to consume him. Usually, he liked the quiet. Tonight, it only gave his thoughts more room to spiral. He leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, staring down at his phone. He knew he couldn’t hide it anymore. Not from her. Not when things between them were becoming more real with every passing day. She deserved the truth. About him. About what he was. About them. Even if the thought of telling her made something uneasy twist deep in his chest. Because there was always the possibility that once she knew… Everything would change.
His phone buzzed again. Another message. Jay unlocked it, immediately recognizing Jungwon’s name. You’ll be okay. She already likes you. Just don’t make it weird. Jay huffed out a quiet laugh through his nose. A second later, another notification appeared. This time from Jake. If she runs away screaming, call us. We’ll help you move apartments. Jay rolled his eyes. Then another. Sunghoon: Try not to traumatize her. And finally, Heeseung: Tell her dramatically under the moonlight. If she faints, catch her. It’s romantic. Jay laughed properly at that one, shaking his head. Idiots. Still… The nervousness eased slightly. His gaze lingered on the messages for a moment longer before his expression softened.
They had become his family in ways he never expected. Jake and Sunghoon had found him early into his journey as a healer, back when he still wandered more than he stayed anywhere. The three of them had crossed countries together over the years, moving through history like ghosts no one noticed for long. Then came Sunoo and Heeseung. Chaos, mostly. And somehow warmth too. And finally Jungwon. Jay smiled faintly at the thought. The youngest at the time, had attached himself to Jay almost immediately, deciding without discussion that Jay was his favorite person in the world. At first, Jay had found it exhausting. The constant following, the endless questions, the way Jungwon always looked at him with quiet admiration. But after a hundred years or so… Somewhere along the way… Jay had grown soft. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
The same thing had happened with Niki too. Different circumstances. Different personality entirely. But somehow the result had been the same. Jay sighed softly, locking his phone and setting it aside. For someone who once believed he was destined to lose everyone he cared for… Life had been strangely kind in giving him people who stayed. A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts instantly. His chest tightened. She was here. Jay straightened automatically, smoothing a hand over his shirt before stopping halfway through the motion. He had faced wars. Kings. Monsters. And somehow this still made him nervous. With one final breath, he walked toward the door.
Jay opened the door, and immediately smiled. (Y/n) stood there practically bouncing on the spot, her excitement obvious before either of them had even spoken a word. Before Jay could say hello, she leaned slightly closer, breathing in deeply. “Oh, it smells so good.” Jay chuckled softly, warmth instantly easing some of the nervous tension sitting in his chest. “Hi to you too,” he said. “Come on in, the food’s almost done.” He stepped aside, letting her into the apartment. (Y/n) quickly slipped off her shoes near the entrance before wandering further inside, her eyes moving curiously across everything she could see.
The apartment was clean. Warm. Simple, but comfortable. Exactly what she would have expected from him somehow. Nothing overly decorated or extravagant, but everything felt intentional. Calm colors, soft lighting, shelves lined with books and little pieces of history gathered over years of living. It felt like him. Jay watched her quietly for a moment as she looked around, the faint smile on his face refusing to leave. “There’s something weirdly comforting about this place,” she admitted softly. Jay leaned lightly against the wall. “That’s probably the first time anyone’s ever said that about my apartment.”
(Y/n) laughed under her breath before following him toward the dining table. As she sat down, Jay moved toward the kitchen again. “Do you want wine?” he asked casually. “Or something else?” The question was almost instinctive. A test he hadn’t even meant to make obvious. And the second her face twisted into immediate disgust, Jay had to fight back a smile. “No thanks,” she said quickly. “I’m not a fan of wine.” Especially red a voice echoed in his head. The memory hit him so vividly that for a split second he could almost hear her centuries ago making the exact same expression after trying it for the first time. Jay looked down briefly, smiling to himself before nodding. “No worries,” he said softly. “I have soda too. Or water.” (Y/n) relaxed immediately. “Soda sounds perfect.” Jay nodded once and turned toward the kitchen, unable to stop the quiet warmth spreading through him. Different life. Different time. And yet somehow… Still her.
Dinner passed easier than Jay expected. The conversation flowed naturally between them, moving from one topic to another without effort. (Y/n) told stories from university, Jay spoke a little about the clinic, carefully avoiding the more supernatural parts of his work while still making her laugh with stories about difficult patients and Sunoo threatening to quit every discount day. “He never actually leaves though,” Jay said as he cleared a few plates. (Y/n) smiled. “Because he likes you.” Jay glanced at her briefly before looking back down at the table. “Unfortunately for him.”
She laughed softly at that. As they continued talking, something suddenly occurred to Jay. He paused slightly before looking back at her. “Wait.” (Y/n) blinked. “What?” “You mentioned studying before,” he said. “But I never actually asked what you study.” “Oh.” She smiled, leaning back in her chair slightly. “I’m still studying.” Jay looked surprised. “Really?” She nodded. “Final semester.” “Of?” “A master’s in economics.” Jay genuinely blinked at that. “Wow.” (Y/n) laughed at his reaction. “What?” “That sounds difficult.” She shrugged lightly, though there was quiet confidence in the gesture. “A bit.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Jay smiled softly. Of course it wasn’t. That determination had always been part of her too. The conversation drifted again after that, easy and warm all the way until dinner eventually ended.
And then, the silence changed. Subtly. But enough. Jay gathered the last few plates mechanically, though his mind was no longer focused on them. It was time. His chest tightened slowly as the reality of what he needed to say settled heavily against him again. He had faced this conversation in his mind countless times over the past days. And somehow none of them felt right anymore. Because now she was here. Smiling at him from across his table. Real. Jay set the final plate down in the kitchen a little too carefully. His hands trembled faintly. Small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But she did. (Y/n)’s expression softened immediately as she watched him. It was strange seeing him like this.
Jay always carried himself with quiet certainty, with an almost unshakable calmness that made everyone around him trust him instinctively. But now… He looked nervous. Almost vulnerable. Slowly, she reached her hand across the table, resting it gently over his. Jay stilled instantly at the touch. (Y/n) smiled softly at him. “Whatever it is,” she said quietly, “you can tell me.” Her thumb brushed lightly against his skin. “It’s okay.” Jay looked at her for a long moment. And slowly… He smiled too. The tension in him loosened just slightly. Because she had looked at him like this once before too. With trust. With warmth. Without fear. Last time he told her the truth… She had accepted him. Loved him anyway. Hopefully… She would again.
Jay held her hand a little tighter before speaking. “The thing I’m about to tell you…” He paused, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “It’s going to sound strange.” A faint, nervous laugh escaped him. “Actually, strange is an understatement.” (Y/n)’s brows pulled together slightly, confusion flickering across her face, but she nodded softly anyway, encouraging him to continue. Jay inhaled deeply. “Here goes,” he whispered under his breath. His chest felt tight. Not because he feared for himself. But because he feared losing this. Losing her again.
“I’m a vampire.” The words settled heavily into the room. Jay watched her carefully, but forced himself to continue before he lost the courage to do it. “I’ve been alive…” He corrected himself quietly. “Or kind of alive. For a little over four hundred years.” (Y/n) stared at him silently now. No interruption. No reaction yet. And somehow that almost made it worse. Jay swallowed before continuing. “You asked me the other night if I believed in soulmates.” His voice softened slightly. “And I said yes because… vampires do have soulmates.” His gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands. “People we’re fated to find.” A pause. “To love.”
He took another breath. Slow. Careful. Then finally said the part that truly terrified him. “You’re mine.” The words barely left above a whisper. “And the truth is…” Jay’s chest tightened painfully now. “We have met before.” (Y/n)’s expression didn’t change. She just stared at him. Completely still. “In your previous life,” he continued quietly. “Four hundred years ago.” His voice almost broke on the final words. “We were soulmates then too.” Silence. Complete silence. Jay stopped speaking. And suddenly every second stretched unbearably long. (Y/n) didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. She simply stared at him like her mind had stopped processing entirely.
Inside, panic immediately began clawing its way through him. Too much. You said too much too fast. Jay’s thoughts spiraled instantly. Maybe he should have explained it slower. Maybe he should have waited longer before telling her. Maybe this was a mistake. His fingers twitched slightly against hers before he forced himself still again, terrified that even the smallest movement would make her pull away. But she hadn’t yet. She was still holding his hand. Even as disbelief filled her eyes. “Okay,” she said quietly. Jay blinked. That was not the reaction he had expected.
(Y/n) looked down for a second, clearly trying to process everything racing through her mind before she looked back up at him again. “So…” She hesitated slightly. “If you’re a vampire…” Jay tensed instinctively. “Can you prove it?” He tilted his head slightly, caught off guard by the question. “Prove it?” “Yeah.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Like… show me your fangs or something.” For a second, Jay simply stared at her. Then, despite the tension still twisting in his chest, he let out a faint breath of disbelief. She wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t running. She was asking questions. Jay nodded slowly. “Okay. Sure.” He leaned back slightly, taking a steadying breath before closing his eyes briefly.
Then, when he opened them again, the warm brown slowly bled into crimson. At the same time, his fangs extended smoothly. The shift was subtle by vampire standards. But unmistakably inhuman. (Y/n) gasped loudly, her whole body jolting slightly in surprise. “You weren’t lying?” Jay almost laughed at how shocked she sounded. A second later, he let the transformation fade, his eyes returning to brown, his fangs retracting until nothing supernatural remained visible. “No,” he said softly. “I wasn’t.” His gaze stayed fixed on her carefully. “I promise. Everything I told you is true.” (Y/n) sat there silently for a moment. “Okay,” she repeated quietly.
Jay waited. Waited for fear. For panic. For the moment everything would fall apart. But instead… She just kept looking at him. Thinking. “So,” she said slowly after another moment, “when you knew my name that day we ran into each other…” Understanding slowly settled across her features. “It was because I resemble,” She hesitated. “the version of me you knew before?” Jay nodded gently. “You don’t just look like her.”
(Y/n)’s eyes stayed locked onto his. “You look identical.” His voice softened instinctively. “It’s basically like looking at the same person.” A small pause. “Just in a different century.” (Y/n) stared at him again after that, quieter now. Not scared. Just overwhelmed. Jay’s chest tightened as he watched her process it all piece by piece. And somehow… The fact that she was still sitting there felt more miraculous than anything else he had experienced in centuries. Jay watched her carefully for another moment before speaking again, his voice softer now.
“I know you love the color yellow.” (Y/n)’s brows twitched slightly. “A lot of people don’t like it,” he continued quietly. “But you do. You always said it felt warm.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Bright. Like happiness.” (Y/n)’s eyes widened just a little. “You freeze easily,” Jay added gently. “Even when the weather isn’t that cold.” A tiny laugh almost escaped her at that because it was painfully true. “You hate wine,” he continued. “Especially red.” Now she looked genuinely startled. “You spend a lot of time thinking about things most people ignore.” His gaze softened further. “The universe. Stars. The idea of what exists beyond what we can see.” Every word made her expression shift more and more into disbelief. “You’re ambitious,” Jay said quietly. “And kind. Even when people don’t necessarily deserve it.”
A small pause followed before his expression dimmed slightly. “The you I knew before…” He hesitated carefully. “You didn’t have the best relationship with your family.” His voice gentled further. “But I don’t know if that’s still true now.” (Y/n) stared at him for a long moment before slowly answering. “I don’t know if I’d call it ideal,” she admitted softly. “But…” A small smile appeared. “I’m close to my mom at least.” Relief visibly softened something in Jay’s expression. “I’m glad,” he said honestly. Because she deserved that. More than anyone. (Y/n) nodded slowly, still clearly processing everything he had told her.
Then finally, after another quiet moment, she asked, “So… what does it actually mean?” Jay tilted his head slightly. “To be your soulmate.” The question made him huff out the faintest laugh, not mocking, just soft with emotion. Honestly… There were hundreds of ways he could answer that. Ancient ways. Painful ways. Beautiful ways. But instead, he chose honesty. “It doesn’t have to mean anything different from a normal relationship,” he said gently. (Y/n) blinked slightly, probably expecting something far more dramatic. Jay smiled faintly at that. “It just…” He searched for the words carefully. “Carries more weight for me.” His gaze held hers steadily now. “But it doesn’t have to change anything for you.”
And he meant that. He didn’t want her trapped by destiny. Didn’t want her to feel obligated simply because fate had decided something centuries ago. If she stayed with him… He wanted it to be because she chose him. Not because the universe did. (Y/n) looked down at her hands quietly, her fingers twisting slightly together as she processed everything. “You know…” she began carefully, “people always talk about werewolves having soulmates too.” Jay listened silently. “Or imprinting,” she continued. “And it’s always described as this eternal thing.” Her brows furrowed slightly as she searched for the right wording. “Like… unchangeable.”
Jay understood what she was really asking immediately. Despite the fact she hadn’t technically asked it yet. “Yes,” he said softly. “First, werewolves do exist.” (Y/n)’s eyes flicked up toward him again, still looking mildly stunned every time he casually confirmed another impossible thing. “And they do have soulmates too,” Jay continued. “But their bond is very different from ours.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, giving her room to absorb the information. “A wolf can’t really survive losing their mate,” he explained quietly. “The bond becomes part of who they are.” His gaze softened. “But vampires are different.”
(Y/n) listened carefully, not interrupting. “A vampire doesn’t need to stay with their soulmate to survive,” Jay said. “The bond can strengthen us. Ground us.” A faint pause. “But it isn’t a necessity.” (Y/n) nodded slowly, clearly thinking through every word carefully. “So…” She hesitated slightly. “I wouldn’t be bound to you forever if…” Her voice softened. “If we ever broke up?” The question hurt. Not because she was rejecting him. But because Jay could hear the concern underneath it. The fear of losing her own freedom. Immediately, he shook his head. “That’s correct.” His answer came without hesitation. “If you wanted to leave,” he continued gently, “you could.”
(Y/n)’s eyes searched his carefully. “You could walk out that door right now,” Jay said quietly. “And we would never have to speak again.” The words felt heavier than he expected saying them aloud. But he forced himself to continue anyway. “Nothing would force you to stay with me.” (Y/n) stared at him for a long moment. “And you’d be okay with that?” Jay’s chest tightened painfully. No. Never. But that wasn’t the answer she needed. So instead, he nodded slowly. “Yes.” Because loving her had never been about possession. Not four hundred years ago. Not now. If she chose him, it had to truly be her choice.
“Why tell me now?” The question came quietly. Not accusing. Just honest. Jay exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly as he searched for the right words. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he admitted. His fingers curled loosely together. “But it became harder and harder to hold it back.” (Y/n) listened silently. “It hurt,” Jay continued softly. “Being this close to you while hiding something so important.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to hers. “And knowing I was carrying memories you didn’t have…” A faint tension crossed his expression. “Using knowledge from your previous life while you had no idea.” He shook his head slightly. “It started feeling like I was deceiving you.” The word lingered heavily between them. “So,” he said quietly, “I figured it was better for you to know the truth.” A pause. “And decide for yourself what happens next.”
(Y/n) stared at him after that, her thoughts suddenly moving far too quickly. It hurt. That part stayed in her mind. The way he said it. The grief hidden underneath the words. And suddenly a realization crept into her chest slowly enough to make her uneasy. Something bad happened to me. Or… to the version of me before. She swallowed slightly. Jay had spoken about losing her. About grief. About centuries of pain. Her fingers tightened together in her lap. A part of her wanted to ask. Needed to ask. How did she die? What happened four hundred years ago? But another part of her was terrified of the answer. Because if she truly was the same soul… Would history repeat itself? Would she suffer the same fate again? The thought alone made her chest tighten.
No. She wasn’t ready to hear that yet. Maybe it had been peaceful. Maybe she had simply grown old. Maybe, (Y/n) forced the thoughts away before they could spiral further. Instead, she looked back at him quietly. “Can I…” She hesitated slightly. “Can I have some time to think?” The question hurt Jay more than anything else had that evening. Not because it was unreasonable. Because it was. But because for the first time since finding her again… He truly didn’t know what would happen next. Still, he nodded immediately. “Of course.”
His voice stayed gentle despite the heaviness settling in his chest. “You can have all the time you need.” (Y/n) smiled faintly at him, though it looked distant now, thoughtful more than warm. And slowly, the evening came to an end. No argument. No dramatic reaction. Just quiet uncertainty. Jay walked her to the door, and when she left, he stayed standing there long after it closed behind her. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet again. Too empty. And as her footsteps disappeared further down the hallway… Jay realized something terrifying. He had no idea if she would come back.
~~~
He didn’t hear from her for two weeks. No messages. No calls. Nothing. At first, Jay told himself it was fine. She needed time. He had expected that. But as the days stretched on, silence slowly became something heavier. Something harder to ignore. And despite what he had told her, despite claiming he would be okay if she chose to walk away… He wasn’t. Not even close. He moved through the days mechanically after that. Working. Cooking. Speaking. Smiling when he was supposed to. But none of it really reached him.
It felt like his body continued out of habit while the rest of him remained stuck standing in that apartment doorway, watching her leave. Even the others noticed. Jake stopped teasing him as much. Sunoo hovered worriedly. Niki started quietly sitting near him more often without saying why. And Jungwon… Jungwon looked at him with the same concern Sage used to carry. That one hurt the most. Tonight had been some kind of celebration. He barely remembered what for anymore. One of the others had achieved something important, and they had all gathered together to eat and drink and laugh while Jay sat among them feeling strangely distant from it all.
A walking corpse. That was the closest way to describe it. Now, close to three in the morning, he walked home alone through quiet streets, hands tucked into his coat pockets as cold air drifted through the city. Fall was approaching. The breeze carried that familiar sharpness now, leaves beginning to gather along sidewalks beneath dim streetlights. It used to be her favorite season. Jay’s gaze lifted briefly toward the dark sky. He wondered if she still loved it. Then the thought twisted painfully. Because winter came after fall. And winter, winter was when he lost her. His chest tightened. If she stayed with him this time… Would history repeat itself? Would fate take her from him all over again? The thought hollowed him out from the inside.
A scream shattered the silence. A woman. Close. Jay moved before he consciously registered it. His body reacted instantly, vampire instincts taking over as he crossed the street in a blur, turning sharply into a narrow alley. And froze. (Y/n). She was pressed against the wall, tears streaking down her face, panic filling her expression as she struggled against the figure cornering her. A vampire. Jay recognized it immediately. The scent. The eyes. The bloodlust. A rogue. One of the vampires who still clung to the old ways. The ones who still hunted humans openly, who still worshipped the war and violence their kind had spent centuries trying to leave behind.
The rogue had one hand pinned beside her head, fangs exposed as he snarled something low and threatening. (Y/n) sobbed, trying desperately to push him away. And something inside Jay snapped. The air in the alley shifted violently. The rogue barely had time to react before Jay was suddenly there, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him hard into the opposite wall with enough force to crack the concrete behind him. The alley shook. (Y/n) gasped sharply.
Jay’s eyes burned crimson now, far brighter than before, rage pouring off him in waves so intense it made the entire alley feel colder. “Get,” he said, voice low and deadly, “away from her.” The rogue stared at him in shock for half a second before recognition hit. Jay was stronger. The rogue reacted fast. But not fast enough. The second Jay loosened his grip even slightly, the other vampire lashed out violently, claws extending as he tried to tear free. Jay didn’t let him. Not this time. Not when (Y/n) was standing right there. The alley became a blur of movement, too fast for human eyes to fully follow. The rogue snarled, trying to strike again, but Jay caught his wrist mid-motion, twisting hard enough to force a sharp crack from the bone.
The rogue screamed. Jay didn’t even flinch. His eyes flicked toward (Y/n) instantly. “Close your eyes.” She stared at him, frozen completely in place, tears still streaming down her face. Jay’s chest tightened. “(Y/n),” he said again, louder this time, urgency slipping into his voice. “Close your eyes. Please.” Something in his tone finally reached her. Slowly, shakily, she squeezed her eyes shut. The last thing she heard clearly was movement. A loud slash. A wet sound.
Silence. Her breath hitched sharply as footsteps approached again, and instinctively she pushed herself harder against the wall, panic threatening to rise all over again. “It’s okay.” Jay’s voice. Gentle and soft. “It’s just me.” (Y/n)’s breathing shook unevenly as she slowly opened her eyes again, fear lingering long enough that part of her expected to see the rogue vampire standing there instead. But it was only Jay. Standing a careful distance away from her. His eyes had returned to brown. His expression calm despite the faint traces of violence still clinging to him.
Relief crashed through her so suddenly it almost made her knees give out. “Jay,” He smiled softly at the sound of his name leaving her lips. “It’s okay,” he repeated quietly. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to touch her. He knew better. Right now she was frightened enough already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, keeping her attention fixed entirely on him. Not the alley. Not the blood. And especially not the body lying motionless nearby. “Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked gently. (Y/n) blinked rapidly, still shaking slightly as she tried to ground herself in his voice instead of everything else around them. “No,” she whispered after a second. “I… I don’t think so.”
Jay visibly relaxed. Only slightly. But enough that she noticed. “You’re safe now,” he said softly. And somehow… Despite everything she had just seen… She believed him completely. “Let me walk you home.” Jay’s voice stayed soft, careful, as they stepped away from the alley. (Y/n) nodded immediately. She still looked shaken, her movements quieter now, slower than usual as the shock settled properly into her body. Jay stayed close enough to protect her if needed, but not so close that it felt suffocating. Every few seconds his gaze flicked around the dark streets automatically, checking for danger out of instinct more than necessity.
The city felt colder now. Too quiet. (Y/n) wrapped her arms around herself as they walked, but her thoughts weren’t really focused on the streets around them. They stayed trapped somewhere else entirely. On his words from weeks ago. It hurt. The way he had said it. The grief in his eyes. And after tonight… After seeing what vampires truly were capable of… The fear she had pushed away before no longer stayed quiet. Something terrible happened to me. She knew it now. Or at least, she was almost certain. The question sat heavily in her chest the entire walk home until finally, just as her apartment building came into view, she stopped walking. “Jay?” He halted immediately beside her.
(Y/n) turned slightly to look at him, nervousness flickering through her expression despite her determination. “Was this how I died last time?” Jay froze. The question caught him so off guard that for a second he genuinely forgot how to breathe. The night around them seemed to still. (Y/n) watched him carefully, waiting. Jay slowly looked up toward the dark sky instead of answering immediately. “No,” he said quietly after a moment. “It wasn’t.” Relief flickered briefly across her face. But only briefly. Because the heaviness in his voice remained. Jay lowered his gaze back to her slowly. “Do you really want to know what happened?” His tone wasn’t warning. It was almost pleading. Giving her one final chance to step away from the truth.
(Y/n) swallowed slightly. Then nodded. “I have to.” Jay stared at her for another long second before finally nodding too. “Okay.” His voice dropped softer. “But not out here.” (Y/n) understood immediately. So without another word, she turned and continued toward her apartment building, Jay falling silently into step beside her once more. And between them… The conversation waited. Once inside her apartment, the silence returned. But this time it wasn’t comfortable. It sat heavy between them, filled with anticipation neither of them knew how to ease.
(Y/n) sat down on the couch slowly, still shaken from everything that had happened that night. Jay stayed standing for a moment before lowering himself into the armchair across from her. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Jay sighed quietly, exhaustion and grief tangled together in the sound. “Are you sure you want to know?” One last chance. (Y/n) looked at him, her expression soft but determined as she nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” Jay lowered his gaze for a moment before nodding slowly in return. “Okay.”
His voice came quieter now. “Four hundred years ago… I met you in the middle of summer.” The memories surfaced painfully easily. “We spent one week together before I told you my secret.” A faint, broken smile flickered briefly across his face. “But unlike now…” His eyes softened at the memory. “You already knew.” (Y/n) blinked slightly at that. “You figured it out almost immediately,” Jay continued softly. “And without hesitation, you chose to come with me when I had to leave your town.” The warmth in his expression grew stronger for a moment despite the tears already gathering in his eyes. “We traveled together for months.” His voice drifted quieter. “Those months were wonderful.”
(Y/n) watched him carefully now, noticing the way his entire expression changed when he spoke about those memories. Like part of him had gone back there. Back to her. “Until winter came.” The warmth vanished. Jay’s breathing faltered slightly. He looked away briefly, jaw tightening as tears finally slipped free despite his attempts to stop them. “One day…” His voice cracked softly. “Someone attacked us.” (Y/n)’s chest tightened immediately. “They shot you with an arrow.” Silence filled the room for a second before he forced himself to continue. “You died in my arms.”
The words shattered something inside her. Jay’s hands curled tightly together now, like he was trying to physically hold himself together through the memory. “I buried your body,” he whispered. Another tear fell. “And then I became a monster.” The self hatred in his voice made her chest ache painfully. “I lost everything that day.” His gaze stayed lowered. “It took me years before I woke up from what I became after.” (Y/n) felt tears slipping down her own face now too. Not just because of the tragedy. But because of him. The way he carried it all still. For centuries.
“For a long time,” Jay continued quietly, “I believed the arrow came from the lycans.” His expression darkened faintly. “The werewolves.” A bitter breath escaped him. “But years later… I learned the truth.” Slowly, he looked back at her. “It came from my own coven.” (Y/n)’s breath caught. “They wanted me back in the war.” His voice hollowed slightly. “And they believed you were holding me back.” Silence followed. Heavy. Painful. Jay didn’t say anything else after that. He didn’t need to. Because everything else was already there in his eyes. The guilt. The grief. The love that somehow still survived all of it. And despite the pain in the story… The moments where he spoke about their life together had sounded different. Warm. Bright. Happy in a way she had never heard from him before. Like loving her had once been the best thing that ever happened to him. And somehow… That hurt the most.
Jay broke completely after that. The tears he had been barely holding back finally spilled over all at once, his breathing uneven as years upon years of buried grief resurfaced violently now that the memories had been spoken aloud again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly, dragging a hand over his face uselessly. “I’m sorry…” Saying it out loud made it real again. Not a distant memory dulled by centuries. Not an old wound buried beneath time. Real. Fresh. Painful enough that it felt like winter had returned to tear him apart all over again. His shoulders trembled slightly as he tried to steady himself, but he couldn’t stop. Not anymore.
For so many years, he had carried this alone. The truth about the arrow still haunted him more than almost anything else. For a long time, he had believed the lycans were responsible. It had been easier that way. Easier to direct his rage toward an enemy already shaped by war. But later… He learned the truth. Heeseung had been the one to tell him. Not because he wanted to hurt him, but because Jay deserved to know.
Heeseung was once a high ranking vampire in the war against the lycans, and so he had found himself at a meeting between high ranking officers and elders during the war. Jay’s old coven leader had spoken about him there, about his wasted potential, about how love had weakened him, made him refuse the war they demanded he fight in. And then one of the elders had suggested removing the thing anchoring him. Heeseung had disagreed. He didn’t believe they should call mates, they shouldn’t impact such a holy thing. But one voice against twenty meant nothing. Jay had never blamed Heeseung for staying silent back then. He knew the other vampire carried guilt over it already.
Still… Hearing the truth had destroyed something inside him all over again. Because it meant she hadn’t died because of war. She died because she loved him. Jay lowered his head into his hands as another sob broke free from his chest. “You were doomed because of me,” he whispered shakily. “Four hundred years ago… loving me killed you.” (Y/n)’s own tears slipped free now too as she listened. “And now you’re here again,” Jay continued weakly. “And all I can think about is losing you the same way.” His voice cracked entirely. “I can’t watch you die again.” The words shattered apart in the room between them.
Then suddenly, warmth, arms wrapped tightly around him before he even realized she had moved. Jay froze completely. One second she had been sitting across from him. The next she was there beside him, hugging him tightly, crying against him too. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered shakily. Jay’s body trembled harder at those words. Because despite everything… Despite centuries passing… Some part of him had never stopped blaming himself. (Y/n) held him tighter as he shook in her arms, her own tears still falling freely. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered again firmly. Jay closed his eyes tightly. “You didn’t shoot the arrow.” Her hand pressed gently against his back. “You didn’t order it to happen.” Her voice trembled slightly, but the conviction in it never wavered. “You were a victim too.” Jay’s breathing faltered. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Something in him cracked further at the words. Not painfully this time. Just enough to let some of the guilt finally breathe. Slowly, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her too, pulling her closer as he buried his face briefly against her shoulder. Her scent surrounded him instantly. Warm. Safe. Alive. “You’re so strong,” he whispered shakily against her. “Now and back then.” His fingers tightened slightly against her. “Much stronger than I’ve ever been.” (Y/n) let out a watery laugh through her tears as her hand moved slowly up and down his back, comforting him instinctively. “I don’t know about that,” she admitted softly.
Jay lifted his head slightly to look at her. “I’m just good at pretending.” Her lips trembled faintly. “I’m terrified all the time.” She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Of stupid things.” Jay frowned gently. “Sometimes making a phone call makes me freeze up completely,” she admitted quietly. “Like I’m being held at gunpoint.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “That doesn’t sound very strong to me.” Jay leaned back just enough to properly look at her then. Really look at her. At the vulnerability in her eyes. At the courage it took to admit that out loud.
Slowly, he lifted one hand, resting it gently against her cheek. “To me,” he said softly, “you are.” (Y/n)’s expression softened immediately. Through the tears, she smiled. And somehow it looked exactly like the smile he had fallen in love with centuries ago. “You’re strong too,” she whispered. Before Jay could answer, she leaned forward. And kissed him. Soft. Gentle. Just a small peck against his lips. But somehow… It shattered through the guilt in his chest more effectively than centuries of suffering ever had. Because for the first time since losing her… Someone was holding him like he deserved to be forgiven.
~~~
That night, neither of them made it to the bedroom. Somewhere between tears, quiet conversation, and simply holding each other, exhaustion finally claimed them both. They fell asleep in the living room. (Y/n) curled against Jay on the couch while his arms stayed wrapped securely around her even in sleep, like some part of him feared she might disappear if he let go. For once, his dreams were quiet. No snow. No blood. No screaming. Only warmth. Morning light slowly spilled through the apartment windows, soft and pale as the city outside began waking up. Jay stirred first, though he didn’t move immediately. He simply stayed there for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing against him. Alive. Still here. The thought alone eased something deep inside his chest.
A few minutes later, (Y/n) shifted slightly too, blinking sleepily before looking up at him. Neither of them spoke right away. They just looked at each other quietly in the golden morning light. Then slowly, (Y/n)’s expression softened. “There’s something I need to say.” Jay’s chest tightened slightly, but he nodded gently for her to continue. (Y/n) took a small breath. “I can’t promise you forever.” The words hurt a little. Not because they were rejection. Because they were honest. And somehow honesty always reached deeper. “But…” Her fingers curled lightly against his shirt. “I can promise you the present.” Jay stayed completely still, listening carefully.
“Right here,” she whispered. “Right now…” A small smile appeared on her lips. “I’m in love with you.” His breath caught softly. “And I choose to be with you.” Not fate. Not destiny. Choice. Jay felt his eyes sting slightly again as he pulled her closer instinctively, holding her tightly against him. “Thank you,” he whispered. The words carried more emotion than anything else he could have said. (Y/n) smiled softly against him. Jay closed his eyes briefly, resting his forehead against hers. “That’s enough,” he said quietly. And he meant it. After four hundred years of grief, guilt, and longing… This moment alone already felt like more than he ever thought he would be given again. “I don’t need forever,” he whispered softly. His arms tightened around her just slightly. “I’ll happily accept the present.” Out of the fire an ashen healer rose through hatred and trauma, but here, in the arms of his beloved, he’s no longer broken and faded.
~~~ The End ~~~
And that’s the end of Jay’s focus chapter.
What do you guys think? Did you cry? I sure did.
I promise the next one will be less hurtful. Maybe.
𝐈n which you wake up inside a dating simulation game where the male lead is destined to fall for you. The only problem? A self-aware and jealous NPC keeps sabotaging every romance event — ℳ.list | 19k w.c
❪ 6102 ❫ ｡ 𝒵. james 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 stealing my ending! ⏻
⟳ warnings : if there are things that don’t make sense, this is a different reality. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, smut, violence, video game vocab, glitches, angst (a lot of angst imo) jay from enhypen, oral, unprotected sex, crying during sex & more; controversial attachment, a lot of ‘humanity’ talks, heartbeat talks etc, ───── this song is so them like litteraly “i don’t wanna say what’s scripted” hello???
⌯⌲ Achievement Unlocked: Wrong Guy
𝒴ou’re a total geek, picture this— spending 7 hours trying to finish Resident Evil Requiem while you’re technically supposed to work on a long due assignment for uni?
Hah, easy.
Forgetting to text back your family for days because you have a fortnite cup ongoing?
Piece of cake.
You’ve played them all, from Final fantasy to Cyberpunk, even Palia— you’ve spent at least 10k on steam. Your gaming setup is basically a shrine: shelves packed with switch games, a beefy PC that’s seen every major release, and a backlog longer than your actual to-do list.
Yet here you are at 2:17 PM, still glued to the bed in fuzzy socks and an oversized hoodie, switch gripped like it’s your lifeline. The RE9 screen glows in the dark, painting your cozy room in creepy greens and reds while your overdue uni assignment sits open on the laptop across the desk, cursor blinking accusingly on page 3.
You’re deep in a frantic hallway chase inside the chronic care center, muttering “just one more try” for the fifteenth time when your phone rings.
You pause the game with a sigh and answer on speaker.
“Dude,” your friend Mei laughs on the other end. “did you do the assignment ? You know I can see you’re online right?”
“…yeah yeah, multitasking,” you mumble, rubbing your tired eyes.
“Get dressed. I’m pulling up in ten. GameSphere’s still open and you clearly need a break from your addiction. We’re getting something cute to reset your brain.”
You glance at the sad assignment document, feel a stab of guilt, then shrug. “Fine. Thirty minutes max. I swear I’m finishing that paper tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Famous last words.”
Fifteen minutes later you’re both inside the bright, welcoming aisles of GameSphere. The store is dead, chiptune music playing softly in the background, colorful displays and pastel posters make the whole place feel cozy and inviting.
Max, the super enthusiastic vendor in his heart-embroidered polo shirt and Switch lanyard, spots you immediately and beams.
“Whoa, my favorite big-spender gamer returns! What’s up what’s up?” he says, grabbing a sparkling pink game case from the new releases shelf like it’s treasure.
He doesn’t even let you answer, his mouth pulling a script from some part of his brain and reciting it with jolly salesman energy.
“My Cozy Crush! the ultimate cute dating simulator for your Nintendo Switch! Limited edition bundle with the official immersion headset. After all those epic RPGs and cozy games, this is the perfect fluffy palate cleanser!!”
“Yeah, hello to you too…” you furrow your brows, eyeing the bright pink game case.
Mei reads the back dramatically: “‘Wake up every morning in your adorable Blossom Grove apartment! Daily romance events with dreamy Jay! Will today’s picnic date by the fountain be successful? Heart points, cherry blossom festivals, minigames, and the coziest soundtrack this side of Animal Crossing!’”
The cover is pure old-school Nintendo cozy vibes: bubbly glitter font, anime-style sunny town full of floating hearts and drifting pink petals, and a stylish guy winking.
It screams : ‘ew let’s get the fuck out of here before Mei buys it.’
Max leans in, full salesman energy. “The main guy Jay is the star— stylish, always got something to say. The soft pink immersion headset makes it feel real: picks up your voice, reacts to you. Every day you get stuff like ‘Today you have a picnic date by the fountain— will it be successful?’ Classic cozy game feel with dating sim mechanics.”
You cross your arms, unimpressed “Sounds awful. I’ll pass, thanks.”
Mei grins, ignoring your vibe completely. “Come on, it’ll be hilarious. We get it as a joke, roast the lines. Just shits and giggles.”
Max beams like he’s already won. “You won’t regret it. The headset is super comfy too— feels like stepping into a warm, pink hug.”
Oh he needs to go. Why is he so jolly all the time, he sounds like those christmas elves in bad seasonal movies.
You sigh, rubbing your temple. The assignment is waiting. Your eyes are burning. But Mei’s already pulling out her card.
That’s her money, she can do whatever she wants to do with her money.
“Fine,” you grumble. “Whatever. As long as that dude doesn’t get too close to the player it’ll be fine.”
Back at your apartment, Mei drops the pretty pink game box on your desk with a wink. “I’m leaving this with you. If my brother sees it he’ll never let me live it down. Play it first and send me the cringiest screenshots, okay?”
Alone now, you stare at the sparkling case. The assignment document is still open and judging you, but the pull of procrastination is stronger.
You’ve always been like this — the kind of person who watches hour-long compilations of the cringiest videos just to laugh at how painfully awkward things can get. There’s something weirdly satisfying about it. Might as well test this out for the ultimate secondhand embarrassment material.
Who knows maybe bright-smile-Jay might be entertaining.
You shove the RE9 cartridge aside, pop My cozy crush into your Switch, and slip on the soft pink immersion headset. It’s surprisingly lightweight and cozy against your ears, like wearing a warm cloud— Max was unfortunately right.
The title screen blooms in gentle pastels —animated cherry blossoms drifting across the screen while a happy, nostalgic melody plays.
You hit New Game.
The world fades to white, then everything shifts in the blink of an eye. Soft, warm sunlight kisses your skin— actual sunlight, not just pixels on a screen. You can feel it, gentle and golden on your cheeks.
Damn this game is… surprisingly surprising?
You’ve never seen something quite like it, the graphics are top tier, the sensations are out of this world— literally. The air is filled with the sweet scent of fresh cherry blossoms mixed with warm vanilla and a hint of sugary baked goods drifting from somewhere nearby.
The headset seems to be gone from your senses; instead, you’re lying in a ridiculously cute bed piled high with frilly pastel pillows and a fluffy comforter that feels impossibly soft against your arms.
You sit up slowly. The room is adorable in that classic cozy Nintendo way— white wooden walls with pink accents, little heart-shaped decorations, a window framed by lace curtains fluttering in a real breeze. Outside, you see a charming little town square: cobblestone paths lined with blooming cherry blossom trees, pink and white petals swirling gently through the air like slow-motion snow. Flower boxes overflow with pastel blooms, little shops have striped awnings in soft candy colors, and everything feels warm, inviting, and almost too perfect.
A cheerful notification floats in bubbly pink font right in front of your eyes, as clear as if it’s part of the real world:
Customize your Blossom Grove Self! 💕 Make it perfect for your romance adventure~
Ok, here goes nothing. Still half-asleep from your all-nighter, you tweak a few things. You slide the social skills stat all the way to max, watching the little heart meter fill up with sparkles. Why not?
You start messing with the sliders just for fun. Height? Normal. Hair? Keep it simple. But when you get to the body options, you see there’s a slot for… boob size?
Okay what? Wasn’t this a children game? Why would there be an option like that in the first place? You give yourself noticeably bigger boobs regardless— nothing ridiculous, just a generous, flattering boost. Just because the option is already here anyway, it can’t hurt anyone.
You hit confirm.
The menu dissolves in a shower of pink petals. The changes settle naturally into your body — the added curves and a quiet confidence hums in the back of your mind like a new skill unlocked.
Another notification pops in the air.
Good morning, Y/n! Welcome to Blossom Grove 💕 Today’s scheduled event: A sunny picnic date with Jay by the fountain at noon! Will it be successful? Your choices matter~
A warm, smooth voice calls from just outside your open window, dripping with over-the-top charm.
“Hey there, my shooting star! Ready to make today the most romantic one yet?”
Your stomach does a surprised flip.
“Oh my fuck… shit. Motherfucker.” you jump, bracing for whatever’s about to come. But nothing comes, because this is just a cozy game, no zombies or monsters.
You scramble back from the window, heart slamming, and yep — there he is.
Leaning against the windowsill like he was born leaning against windowsills, all tousled hair and a side smirk that screams ‘roblox noob avatar’.
“Sorry, did I startle you?” Jay says, not sorry at all. “I just couldn’t wait to see you. You’ve been on my mind since the loading screen.”
He sounds overly enthusiastic, then again he’s a video game character, of course he’s not gonna act normal.
“…um hi?.” you clear your throat, already cringed out.
“Too much?” He winks. “I’ll dial it back to a nine.”
He needs to stop winking. Expeditiously.
You stare at him, he stares back, expectant, like he’s waiting for you to swoon on cue.
Not gonna happen buddy.
A new notification blooms in the air, cheerful and oblivious to your internal thoughts:
Heads up! Today’s event has begun: Picnic Date with Jay 🧺💕 Affection Meter: 12%
Someone please point out where the affection is ?
The meter is floating next to his head like a health bar, except instead of HP it says how much he likes you, and right now you’re apparently performing about as well as a tutorial boss.
“Come on,” Jay says, holding out a hand that’s somehow already got a wicker picnic basket looped over the other arm, “the fountain’s waiting. So is destiny, probably.”
You can’t help the snort that comes out of you, it’s a mix of ‘im actually terrified’ and ‘what is this man talking about??’
You take his hand because what else are you supposed to do, you’re trapped inside a Nintendo cartridge and the alternative is standing in your underwear-adjacent pajama set in the middle of a sentient bedroom.
The walk to the town square is genuinely beautiful in an offensive, almost-too-charming way —petals drifting, a little bell jingling somewhere, an NPC baker waving at you from a window with flour on her cheeks like she’s been placed there specifically to be wholesome.
That’s when you feel it. The prickle of being watched.
You glance sideways and catch him —leaning against a lamppost half a block down, arms crossed, hood up despite the perfect cherry-blossom weather, looking like he wandered in from a completely different, much broodier game. Dark eyes. Unimpressed mouth.
Is there a villain in this story? You should’ve read the back of the game before starting it.
He’s not in your sightline for more than two seconds before he turns and walks the other way. But you’d swear —swear — his eyes flicked to the affection meter floating over your head before he left.
“Who’s that?” you ask.
Jay doesn’t even look. “Background character. Don’t worry about him.”
“He didn’t look very background.” you look around.
“Trust me,” Jay beams, flashing a smile that’s maybe forty percent too white, “the only character you need to worry about today is me. Now —picnic blanket, or my arms? Either way you’re landing somewhere soft.”
You actually gag a little. Out loud. He doesn’t seem to register it as anything other than enthusiasm.
The fountain comes into view, sunlight scattering gold across the water, and there’s already a checkered blanket laid out with a spread that looks suspiciously like every cottagecore pinterest board had a baby —little sandwiches cut into hearts, a teapot that’s steaming despite no visible heat source, a plate of strawberries arranged in a smile.
“Sit, sit,” Jay points, already lowering himself down. “So. Tell me something about you that the data doesn’t show.”
“The data?” you raise an eyebrow.
“The character sheet. Your stats. I can see your social skills are maxed, by the way.” His eyes do a slow, deliberate sweep that makes you suddenly very aware you also adjusted other sliders. “Bold choices all around.”
“Okay, eyes up weirdo.”
“I’m not complaining though.” he shoots back.
What the— since when are characters in these types of games so shameless?
But you don’t even have the time to complain because somewhere behind a hedge shaped suspiciously like a heart, you catch the hood guy again. Watching. Not even pretending not to this time.
The affection meter over Jay’s head ticks up one percent for god knows what reason— and the hooded guy’s jaw visibly tightens, like he felt it happen.
You blink. “Okay, that’s —he’s reacting to the percentage. NPCs don’t react to the percentage.”
“He’s glitchy,” Jay says smoothly, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “Ignore him. Now. Quick— if you could compare your smile to one weather phenomenon, which would it be? I’m guessing sunrise, but I’m open to ‘gentle drizzle.’”
“What??” your eyebrows furrow.
What the hell is he talking about? Is this his version of a date?
“Was that a yes to sunrise?” he winks and suddenly moves to another subject, “let me teach you my signature handshake.”
You put your face in your hands and laugh, because honestly, what else is there to do?
The “signature handshake” is really just him holding your hand for an unnecessarily long time while narrating each step like a cooking show host. “And now, we rotate… we squeeze… we maintain eye contact for exactly four seconds— ”
“Please stop. Im begging.” you cringe, too unserious for your own good.
“Oh come on! It’s romantic choreography.”
The affection meter ticks up another two percent, and you swear you can feel it— like a tiny dopamine hit you didn’t consent to. Somewhere in the back of your skull a part of you that is definitely not you is going ‘aw’ at the stupid handshake thing, and that’s deeply concerning. Concerning is also the fact that you’ve done nothing that could potentially make Jay like you— so the affection meter augmenting is slightly weird
You’re mid-eye-contact, mid-cringe, when suddenly, a strawberry hits Jay square in the forehead.
“OW—”
You both turn. The hooded guy is standing maybe ten feet away now, arms crossed, looking like he has personally never thrown a piece of fruit in his life until thirty seconds ago and is already regretting the life choices that led here.
“James,” Jay groans, rubbing his forehead, voice suddenly a lot less dreamy-narrator. “We talked about this.”
“Did we,” James responds flatly. “I don’t remember agreeing to anything. I remember you talking at me.”
So he has a name. And a voice —lower than Jay’s, no honey in it at all, just dry and a little tired, like he’s been awake for too long.
“This is a scheduled event,” Jay says, gesturing at the picnic blanket like it’s exhibit A in a trial. “You’re going to tank my completion percentage.”
“Good.” he gives a sassy look.
“Okay,” you cut in, looking between them, “Is this a part of the script or something?”
James’s eyes cut to you, and that startled flicker is back — like the question landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to.
“Ignore him, he says weird stuff for attention,” Jay stage-whispers, like that’s supposed to be reassuring and not deeply alarming.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Forget it. Enjoy your picnic.”
“See? Glitchy,” Jay says cheerfully, already reaching for the teapot like the conversation is over. “Some NPCs just don’t get good dialogue trees. Sad, really. Now—”
“I have a name idiot,” James interrupts, sharp.
You blink, caught between secondhand embarrassment and genuine curiosity. This definitely doesn’t feel like normal NPC behavior.
Jay lets out an exaggerated sigh, the kind you’d hear in a low-budget rom-com. “James, buddy, we’ve been over this. You’re supposed to be scenery. Blend. Maybe sell some flowers or stand mysteriously in the background. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely at James like he’s a misplaced prop.
James doesn’t move. His dark eyes flick from the male lead to you, lingering a second longer than necessary on your maxed-social-skills. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scenery doesn’t have to watch this garbage every single loop.”
“Loop?” you mutter under your breath.
Jay laughs it off, all bright teeth and zero awareness. “See? Glitchy. Now, where were we? Ah yes—” He turns back to you, affection meter ticking up another pathetic 1%. “My shooting star, would you like me to feed you a strawberry? It’s practically tradition on day one.”
You make a face. “Hard pass.”
James snorts —from his spot by the hedge. “Sucks to be you.”
The other one’s smile falters for half a second before he recovers with another wink. “Jealous? Some of us here are main characters James.”
“Some of us aren’t douchebags,” James fires back, quieter but colder. He looks at you again, something unreadable in his expression —half irritation, half something warmer. The longer he stares, the more his shoulders tense, like being near you is physically uncomfortable. Annoyance? Intrigue? Both? Hard to tell when he looks like he wants to punt the picnic basket into the fountain.
You feel a weird flutter in your chest that has nothing to do with Jay’s terrible lines— more so the kind that comes when a slightly scary man is staring into your soul.
Before you can say anything else, the world glitches softly around the edges. Pink petals swirl faster.
Picnic Date Complete! 💕 Affection with Jay: 18% Jealousy Meter rising… Returning to apartment for daily recap~
Jealousy meter??? What the fuck is a jealousy meter—
Everything dissolves in a swirl of cherry blossoms and soft light before you can even ask a question. Next second you blink and you’re back in the cozy bedroom, sitting on the edge of the frilly bed.
A gentle recap screen floats in front of you like a pastel pop-up book.
🌸 DAILY RECAP! You survived your first date with Jay! 🌸 He tried his signature handshake (cringe level: expert) 🌸 +18% Affection 🌸 Warning: James from the outskirts has been watching. Rest up, y/n! Tomorrow brings new opportunities for love~
You flop backward onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “This game is fucking weird.”
Your body still remembers the weight of the curves you chose, the warmth of real sunlight, the smell of strawberries and vanilla. And James’s stare. That one felt way too real.
Your body shuts down before you can even process it, your eyes closing by themselves like someone is physically forcing you to go to sleep and darkness surrounds you.
The Next Morning
A cheerful notification chimes brightly, waking you up with birdsong and floating hearts. Everything is so painfully pink it hurts.
Good morning, Y/N! 💕 Today’s Challenge: Flower Festival Meet-Cute with Jay! Help Jay pick the perfect bouquet for you at the Blossom Grove Festival. Will your chemistry bloom? Special minigame included! Success = +25% Affection boost!
You groan, rubbing your face. At least it sounds less painful than yesterday’s handshake tutorial. You’re not sure how chemistry could ‘bloom’ though, bile might rise in your throat but certainly not affection.
You get up, and head downstairs toward the town square. The streets are even cuter today —stalls with pastel banners, strings of heart lanterns, and the sweet scent of candied petals in the air. It’s a complete antithesis to your real life, that’s probably what makes these games comforting, you think.
You spot Jay immediately. He’s standing by a flower cart, waving enthusiastically in a white linen shirt, that signature roblox smirk stretching the corner of his mouth.
“There’s my favorite player!” he calls, voice carrying across the square. “Ready to make floral magic together? I was thinking something romantic like… roses that match the fire in your eyes.”
He executes a hand gesture that looks a little silly, and a dramatic wink, you want to throw up, no need to throw up.
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Dude. It’s 9 am.”
Before Jay can launch into another line, you feel that prickle again. You turn your head slightly.
James is leaning against a nearby stall, arms crossed, hood partially down this time. His eyes are locked on you —sharper than yesterday, more intense.
When Jay reaches out to brush a petal from your hair, his expression darkens noticeably, fingers tightening on the wooden post he’s leaning on. Will he always be there each time? Lurking like a creep, like he knows something you don’t? What kind of game does that…
He hates this. Hates Jay’s scripted perfection, hates how easily the affection meter moves for such shit dialogue. But every time a new player drops into Blossom Grove, every time he sees someone like you —with real choices, real reactions, real messy humanity bleeding through the code— he so desperately wants to be able to experience it firsthand.
Jay doesn’t seem to notice the extra presence at first. He’s too busy holding up two bouquets with a flourish. “Red for passion or pink for sweet romance? Choose wisely, my shooting star!! The minigame is easy! We match petal colors to how we’re feeling. I’ll go first.”
He plucks a bright red rose and holds it up dramatically. “This one’s for the spark I feel every time you walk into a scene.”
You stare at him, deadpan. The affection meter ticks up a tiny bit anyway.
And if you could choose right now, you’d choose to die, respawn somewhere far away from here.
But near, the longer James stares at you, the more conflicted he looks. He wants to get closer. Needs to. To understand why your chaotic, unscripted reactions make something in his code ache for real humanity. But the jealousy burns hotter every time Jay opens his mouth.
As you reach for a pink peony to play along (mostly to get this over with), a light breeze kicks up —just strong enough to scatter a few loose petals across Jay’s face.
He blinks, laughing it off. “Windy today, huh? No problem! Your turn.”
You pick a flower. Jay leans in closer, eyes sparkling way too hard. “Now tell me what it represents. Is it your growing feelings for—?”
A nearby stall vendor “accidentally” drops a small crate of ribbon spools. They roll slowly but steadily toward Jay’s feet, making him stumble mid-sentence as he tries not to step on them.
The affection meter pauses. Jay straightens up, still smiling but a little less smoothly. “Okay, minor glitch. Let’s keep going! I have the perfect matching set for us.”
James isn’t moved much. He’s still by the stall, now idly turning over a small bunch of wildflowers in his hands like he’s just browsing. But every time Jay tries another corny line or gets too close with the flowers, something small goes wrong —a loose heart lantern string dips low enough to brush Jay’s head, a sudden puff of pollen from an overripe blossom makes him sneeze right as he’s trying to do a dramatic “flower toss” minigame move.
You catch James watching your reactions each time. Not gloating, just… observing closely. Like he’s drinking in the way you snort at Jay’s lines or roll your eyes. Like those tiny, unscripted moments are feeding something in him he can’t get anywhere else in this looped little world.
Jay’s smile is starting to strain. “Alright, that’s the third weird thing. James, you don’t even work at the festival. Can you… not?”
James shrugs without looking over, tossing the wildflowers back onto the stall a little too carelessly. One stray bloom lands right on Jay’s shoulder, sticking there like it’s mocking him. The affection meter barely climbs past 15% for the whole event.
You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out and James’s head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. He lingers near the edges of the square as the date drags on, his presence like a quiet shadow that keeps chipping away at Jay’s perfect script.
By the end of the minigame, Jay is brushing petals and pollen off his clothes, trying (pathetically) to deliver one last smooth line. “Even with all the… distractions, being with you makes every day feel like spring.”
“Right right,” your eyes widen awkwardly, “Appreciated man.”
And apparently Jay isn’t designed to feel the friendzone.
The world starts to shimmer with pink petals yet again.
Flower Festival Meet-Cute Complete! 💕 Affection with Jay: 27% Jealousy Meter rising…
You’re gently pulled back to your cozy apartment bedroom as the festival sounds fade. The daily recap screen pops up cheerfully.
Daily Recap! 🌸 Jay really tried with those flowers! 🌸 Some unexpected festival chaos today 🌸 +4% Affection Rest well, Y/N. Tomorrow’s event is loading~
You flop backward onto the mountain of pastel pillows, staring at the white wooden ceiling with its little glowing heart decals. “Okay. How the fuck do I get out of this thing?”
You sit up again, looking around for any kind of menu, pause button, or “log out” option.
Nothing.
Just the soft hum of the game world outside your window.
You try saying it out loud like an idiot. “Exit game. Quit. Home menu. Nintendo Switch menu. Log out. Close application. Hello??”
Nothing happens.
You wave your hands in the air, swipe at invisible menus, even try closing your eyes and willing yourself back to your messy real-life apartment.
Still nothing.
The whole thing is starting to feel less like a funny cringe experiment and more like a very weird, very pink experience.
You’re in the middle of muttering “this is some next-level immersion bullshit” when you feel it again —that prickle on the back of your neck.
You turn toward the window.
James is there. Leaning quietly against the windowsill from the outside, hood lowered just enough for you to see his dark eyes. He’s watching you, observing the way your hands are still half-raised, the frustrated crease between your brows, the way you’re breathing a little faster after yelling at the air.
Your stomach drops. “Jesus Christ—” You scramble back on the bed, heart hammering. “What the fuck are you doing? How long have you been standing there watching me?”
James doesn’t answer right away. He stays perfectly still, eyes tracking every small movement you make. After a long pause, he tilts his head slightly. “You were speaking to yourself,” he asks quietly, voice low and even. “Why?”
You stare at him, still creeped out but trying to catch your breath. “Because I want out of here. I want to exit the game. Go home, but this stupid thing won’t let me.”
”Home?”He blinks slowly. “Where do you go when you leave the Grove?”
You hesitate, sitting up a little straighter. “Well, back to my real life. My apartment.”
James processes that, fingers resting lightly on the windowsill, he wonders if your apartment looks like this one, cozy, pink, welcoming.
“You didn’t follow the script options today. Or yesterday. Most players do. They laugh at the right times. Pick the flowers he suggests. Say the sweet lines back. Why didn’t you?”
You let out a short, tired laugh. “Because I’m not here for any of that. This was supposed to be a joke. Shits and giggles, not… whatever this is. I wanna go home.”
James looks around the room, “Try the top button, right on top of the menu.” He says it calmly, but almost reluctantly, like he doesn’t really want you to go just yet.
You try, but the minute your arm lifts to click on the button, James goes “Wait wait!”
He’s quiet again, studying you like he noticed something. He leans forward slightly through the window, getting a little closer, fascination clear in his expression, as he analyses your eyes.
You tense. “Why are you looking at me like that? Stop being weird.”
James pauses, but doesn’t pull back. “Our bodies are different,” he says simply, almost like he’s stating an obvious fact. “Yours moves more. It’s warmer. Even from here. And your eyes they blink faster than mines.”
You cock an eyebrow, having a hard time understanding, but it’s true that he does look a little stiffer, like his skin is in slow motion in an inexplicable way.
“What are you talking about?” you ask. “Of course we’re different, you’re a… character. I’m a real person.”
He reaches out slowly —careful, hesitant— and gently takes your hand. His fingers are cool as he presses your palm flat against his own chest, right over his heart. It’s not really more than that, just a clinical touch, a search for explanations.
But there’s nothing. No heartbeat. Just stillness under the fabric of his shirt.
You freeze. “Wow, i thought there’d be at least a heartbeat” Your voice comes out smaller than you want, with a small nervous laugh.”
James looks genuinely confused. “Heartbeat?”
You swallow, heart racing under your own ribs. Tentatively, you take his hand and guide it to the center of your own chest, pressing his palm gently against the soft sweater. He can feel the steady, warm thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat.
James goes completely still.
His eyes widen, a deep flush blooming across his cheeks and up to his ears. His hand trembles slightly against you, overwhelmed by the constant rhythm of life pulsing under his fingers. He just stares at you, breathing a little uneven, completely short-circuited by the simple, undeniable proof of your humanity.
“It… keeps going,” he whispers, voice rough and awed. “It’s warm. What is it?”
The flush on his face deepens, spreading down his neck as he stares at the spot where his palm meets the soft fabric of your sweater. He looks completely overwhelmed, like someone who just discovered color for the first time.
You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady even though your heart is hammering harder now under his touch. “It’s my heart,” you say quietly. “It pumps blood through my body. Keeps me alive. It speeds up when I’m scared or excited or… you know— when something weird like this happens.”
James’s brow furrows slightly, processing every word with the curiosity of a child. He doesn’t pull his hand back, if anything, he leans in a fraction more through the window, eyes flicking between your face and your chest as if trying to match the feeling with what he’s seeing.
“Alive…” he repeats softly, almost to himself. His thumb makes the tiniest unconscious movement, tracing the rhythm he can feel. “Mine doesn’t do that. I’ve tried pretending, sometimes. Standing really still and imagining it. But it never… starts.”
There’s something heartbreakingly childlike in how he says it — curious and a little lost, not bitter. Just hungry to understand why his body seems frozen in time.
You let the silence sit for a second, then gently ask, “Does it feel… strange to you?”
James nods slowly, eyes still wide. “It’s loud. Not in a bad way. It’s like… the whole town gets quieter when I focus on it.” His voice drops even lower. “Players come and go. They laugh at Jay’s lines, they pick the obvious choices, they leave when they get bored. But you make faces when things are stupid. Your eyes move all the time. And this—” He presses just a tiny bit firmer against your heartbeat. “This never stops.”
You feel a strange mix of creeped-out and oddly touched. His fingers are still cool, but the longer they stay there, the more you notice how careful he’s being — like touching something fragile, like a science experiment.
“Well,” you say, a little softer, “I think you can let go now.”
He hesitates, then slowly pulls his hand back, his gaze stays locked on you. “I’ve never felt anything warm like that before,” he admits, almost whispering. “Not really. Everything here is… the same temperature. Always.”
“You’re really not supposed to be doing this, are you?” you ask, half-teasing, half-serious. “Sabotaging Jay’s dates. Watching me through windows. Touching players.”
James looks away for the first time, jaw tight. “No,” he says simply. “I’m not. But I can’t stop watching you either.”
You stare at him for a long moment, the golden evening light catching the faint flush still on his cheeks. The silence feels heavy between you. You want to go back home, this feels a little to close, a little too intimate for a game.
“I’m gonna go,” you say quietly. “Back home.”
You might also sue the company who produced this game, who knows !
You lift your hand and finally select the glowing Exit Game option that appears at the top of your vision.
Except nothing happens.
You try again. Then again. The option flickers but refuses to activate. No stupid swirl of petals. No fade. The bedroom stays exactly as it is.
Your breathing picks up. “No… come on.” You swipe at the air more urgently, voice starting to shake. “Fucks sake, just let me out.”
Still nothing.
Panic rises fast and your chest tightens. You stand up from the bed, hands trembling as you gesture wildly, trying every command you can think of. “Why isn’t it working??”
Your voice cracks. You pace a few steps, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to break through your ribs. The realization that you might actually be stuck sinks in deeper with every failed attempt. Tears of pure stress prick at your eyes.
This isn’t possible, this isn’t conventionally possible, nor scientifically. You must be out of your mind, probably drugs? Did someone roofie your drink? Did someone drug you???
James watches you from the window, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern. When your breathing turns ragged, he leans further in.
“Breathe,” he says, low and steady. “Slowly. You’re panicking. It’s making everything worse.”
“Do you want me to do fucking backflips and dance??” you snap, voice tight with fear. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. What if I can’t get back? What if—?”
“Sit down,” he says gently but firmly. “Just for a moment.”
You hesitate, legs shaky, then sink back onto the edge of the bed. James carefully climbs through the window and sits at the far end, giving you space. He waits until your breathing slows just a little.
“Maybe the game won’t let you leave until you finish the route,” he theorises quietly. “Until Jay falls for you. Until the main quests are complete. That’s how these things usually work.”
You shake your head, frustrated and scared. “And how would you know? It shouldn’t be able to trap me. I should be able to leave whenever I want. I bought this game— things in the real world don’t work like that. I have a head set on and… and.
James doesn’t argue. Instead he seems to focus on the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “Your heartbeat is very fast right now,” he murmurs. “I can see it.”
“Yeah well, i’m just trying to go home. To my life. So if you could help me please?? At least do something— or you’re gonna tell me you don’t know what to do..” you clench your teeth.
Something in the way he looks at you right now tells you he has no clue.
“Oh for fucks sake—” you press the heels of your hands to your eyes.
James stays quiet for a while, then speaks again, softer. “What’s your real name? The one from outside.”
“Oh my fucking god, can you not read the room??” you full on scoff.
But then again, how can he take this seriously— when he’s been stuck here, when all he knows is Blossom grove?
Does he even know what a home is?
“My names y/n.” you say quietly after a beat, defeated.
“Y/n,” he repeats, like he’s memorizing it. “Whats your life like out there? What do you do when you’re not here?”
You let out a deep sigh, truly wondering if you’re gonna spend the next few minutes talking about yourself to a video game character who belongs to a cursed game. Nothing about this is funny in the slightest.
“I- I game and I… well i don’t do anything other than that really.” you shrug, evasive.
You didn’t really have a habit of collecting hobbies, you were strictly into video games and it didn’t get any farther than that— oh maybe the occasional karaoke— you were pretty boring, bland even. So you tell him about Mei, about your boring psychology major and your boring uni friends. You tell him about the president — because apparently he was wondering— then you talk about your dog Juju who can’t stop farting in your bed, he laughs at that even though you doubt he knows what a fart is.
You find yourself talking to him about your incapacity to focus, to study for school and to be the perfect girl your parents always wanted you to be, your lack of interest for anything academic, and your penchant for procrastination.
James listens, does he really have anything else to do anyway? Probably not.
Here, in his world, you’re source of admiration, of curiosity— in your world, you’re a discord mod, a weird house rotting creature who looks hot only when her passions are ignored. You tell him about your favorite dishes, your favorite nail color— dark red, your favorite mismatched avocado socks, and your big gorilla sofa (advertised with Ai but you didn’t know at the time).
He listens with vehemence, like a fish who’s never been out of the water— and comments from time to time, asking what something is, and how it works.
You’re not sure if he’s trying to distract you of the fact that you’re currently stuck here- if it’s some kind of inside-game magic, but it’s definitely working.
Because as time passes, it starts to feel like you just invited him over for a chat.
“So, now that i’ve told you everything, are you gonna help me out?” you try with a small tentative smile.
“Well, it’s not that I don’t want to, it s just— nobody’s ever had this problem. All the players ended up leaving after a while…” James says, eyes dropping to the floor as if he’s embarrassed of not being able to help you.
“So it’s me then? I must’ve done something, I don’t know what though, but… maybe I should ask Jay?”
James straightens up all of a sudden, “No no, he’ll never help you. He’s not —he’s not really nice. Just… just finish the quests, and I think you should be good to go after that.”
James says it quickly, almost too quickly, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bed. He glances at you, then away again, like he’s not sure he should have said anything at all.
You let out a tired breath, shoulders slumping. “How long is that gonna take?”
“It’ll be easy,” he says after a pause. His voice is quieter now, almost reassuring in its own stiff way. “The affection meter goes up either way. Even if the dates aren’t… successful. The game still counts the time you spend with him. You don’t have to actually like him.”
You nod slowly, though the idea of dragging this out still makes your stomach twist. “Fine. I guess I’ll just… show up and let him talk until the bar fills.”
You rub your arms, suddenly aware again of how real everything feels —the fabric against your skin, the weight of the body you customized, the way James’s presence makes the room feel smaller.
“Well, i’ll sleep now…” you clear your throat, gesturing to the bed.
“I’ll be here,” James says simply. “Well not here obviously. But I’ll be around.” His eyes drop to your hands for a second before returning to your face.
You nod, pursing your lips, and as he stands up, he does a quick spin last minute. “Wait. Can I—”
James points at your chest, and you look down, eyebrows furrowed. “Huh?”
Is he pointing at your boobs right now?
“Can i feel it again?”
Oh.
You hesitate, heat rushing to your face.
This is weird. This is so fucking weird. He wants to feel your heartbeat again like it’s the most interesting thing in his entire existence.
Your mind spins, a messy mix of awkwardness, leftover panic, and something strangely vulnerable. Part of you wants to tell him no. The other part remembers how overwhelmed he looked the first time —like your heartbeat was proof the world could be more than scripted loops and automatisms.
Giving him a piece of your world wouldn’t hurt.
“…Okay,” you say softly, barely above a whisper.
James steps closer, innocence of a child and body of a man, you stay seated on the edge of the bed. He sits beside you again —closer this time— and gently lifts his hand.
His fingers are still cool as they rest against the center of your chest, right over your heart.
The moment his palm makes contact, the air feels thinner in your lungs. It’s intimate in a way that makes your face burn, the contact of a stranger, so manly yet so clueless. You can feel every steady thump-thump-thump against his hand, faster than before. James goes very still, eyes locked on the spot where his hand meets your sweater, then slowly drifting up to your face.
He looks at you like he’s never seen a real person before. Like you’re the first woman he’s ever experienced, the first woman he’s ever touched.
His breath catches. The flush returns to his cheeks, darker this time, spreading to his ears. His fingers press just a little firmer, not pushing, just feeling —completely absorbed by the constant, living rhythm beneath them.
He feels jealousy, pain, a pull, everything all at once— he wants a heart too, he wants to be able to to feel it thump in his own chest, to feel its havoc.
“It’s… stronger now,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe. “Faster.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something miraculous— it’s confusing and strangely disarming. You just sit there, letting him feel the proof that you’re alive, warm, and temporary in his world.
James doesn’t pull away, he just stays there, overwhelmed and quiet, memorizing the feeling of a heart that’s beating incredibly fast because of him— like it might disappear the second you finally find your way home.
Good morning, Y/N! 💕 Today’s Event: Sunrise Stroll & Confession Corner with Jay! Walk along the Blossom Grove cherry blossom path with Jay. Share a quiet moment as the sun rises. Special heart-sharing event! Success greatly increases affection.
You stare at the floating text, stomach already twisting. The memory of last night. No exit button. No escape.
You get dressed in another outfit the game provided and head out. The town is bathed in warm morning light, petals drifting lazily as always, some getting in your nose.
Jay is waiting at the entrance to the cherry blossom path, looking annoyingly perfect in his stylish outfit.
“My shooting star! You look radiant today,” he says with a bright smile, offering his arm. “Ready for the most romantic walk of your life? The sunset here is almost as beautiful as you are.”
“Oh you’re doing too damn much” you give a strained smile, because even if you’re rude he won’t even notice anyway, he’s that delusional.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes and take his arm. The date begins.
The path is stunning — tunnels of pink and white blossoms overhead, golden sunlight filtering through, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent. Jay keeps up a steady stream of corny lines the entire time.
“Every step with you feels like a new level unlocked,” he says at one point, affection meter ticking up slowly. “You’re my favorite quest. Final boss of my heart.”
You give minimal responses, mostly humming or nodding— when you all you want to do is cuss him out.
True to his word, James is around. You catch glimpses of his hooded figure on rooftops, behind trees, or leaning against distant lanterns. He never gets too close, but every time Jay gets overly touchy —brushing your hair, holding your hand too long —something small goes wrong.
A branch drops petals right in Jay’s face.
A sudden gust messes up his perfectly styled hair.
A loose cobblestone makes him stumble.
Jay grows visibly irritated as the afternoon turns to evening. “Why is everything trying to ruin our perfect moment today?” “I don’t know, ever think maybe you’re ruining it yourself?” you say through your teeth.
“Haha, you’re so funny.” Jay smirks, “I’ve never met someone truly like you.”
The sun begins to rise, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. You reach the Confession Corner —a cute wooden bench under the biggest cherry blossom tree, overlooking the town fountain.
Jay turns to you, taking both your hands— the affection meter hovering around 45%.
His expression turns dramatically sincere.
“Y/n… being with you these past days has made me realize something,” he says, voice dropping into full romance mode. He leans in slowly, eyes half-closed. “I think I’m ready for our first kiss. I want this moment to be perfect.”
Oh for fuck’s sake, how corny can this get—
You freeze.
At the exact same second, something flies from the rooftop above —a small, overripe peach— and smacks Jay square in the side of the head with a wet thwack.
His eyes widen for a split second before they roll back. He collapses like a ragdoll, unconscious, landing in a heap on the grass with petals gently falling over him.
You stand there stunned, mouth slightly open.
“What in the—”
James drops down from the rooftop in one fluid motion. He doesn’t even glance at Jay’s motionless body— almost like it’s not the first time he’s done this.
“Let’s go”
Without a word, he walks straight to you, grabs your hand firmly, and starts pulling you away from the scene, leading you deeper into the lantern-lit winding paths of the town.
You glance back once at Jay’s unconscious form, then at James. Your heart is still racing from the sudden chaos.
“Was that— was that necessary??” you snort, half terrified half amused. You don’t even know anymore.
“Yes, I didn’t like the way he was looking at you” James says, hand gripping yours.“And the affection meter already updated anyway.”
“But, isn’t there like— a police in this place? Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”
James glances sideways at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s no police. Just a few background NPCs who reset every morning. No one’s coming.”
The town paths are quiet this time of morning, only a couple of distant NPC villagers wandering by with empty, pleasant smiles. No alarms. No consequences.
You squeeze his hand lightly. “Show me around then? Somewhere that isn’t scripted, i’ve got time to kill.”
James doesn’t hesitate. He changes direction, leading you past the cozy shops and toward the edge of Blossom Grove.
The cobblestones eventually give way to soft grass as the town lights fade behind you. He brings you to a vast, open field on the outskirts. It’s huge and breathtaking —rolling hills covered in wildflowers glowing softly under the light, cherry blossom trees scattered like gentle guardians at the edges, and a wide, blue sky above.
James lets go of your hand only when you both sit down in the soft grass. He keeps a small distance, but not as much as before.
The wind here feels freer, less sweetened by the town’s constant vanilla scent.
“So what’s your deal with Jay?” you ask, hugging your knees.
James stares out at the field for a moment. “We’ve just… kinda been stuck here together for the longest time. He’s a dick. Too cocky for his own good. He’s always been the main lead. I’ve kinda always been on the sidelines, you know? Background NPC. So I grew to hate him somehow.”
It must be so annoying living in Jay’s shadow, someone that robotic shouldn’t even deserve any attention.
“Mmh, I see. Must be tough being here... Is it always a loop? What do you even do in here when the player isn’t here?” you interrogate next, out of genuine curiosity.
You can’t envision a world without 7billion people polluting and accelerating the global warming, committing crimes and being insufferable. Well turns out in his world, there’s only one nemesis, and it’s Jay.
James lies back in the grass, looking up at the sky. “It’s mostly loops. The same days repeat. The same events. I watch Jay run through the same routes with different players. Sometimes I walk the same paths. Sometimes I try changing small things— moving a flower pot, standing in a different spot, saying something that’s not in my dialogue tree. But everything always resets by morning. It’s… quiet. Empty.”
He stays quiet for a moment, then continues, voice low. “When no player is here, I mostly just exist. I go to the field sometimes. Think about what it would be like if the loops broke. I’ve tried leaving the town borders before, but I always end up back at the starting square the next day. So I wait. For the next player. For something different.”
He wants to continue- he wants to say, you’re the ‘something different’, but that would be naive. Just because you’ve given him a taste of your world doesn’t mean you’re singular.
“Sounds awful,” you say softly. “I don’t know how you do it.”
James lets out a small, dry sound —not quite a laugh. “Well, I don’t really have a choice. I can’t really get out of here now, can I?”
You laugh too, the sound surprising even you. “Yeah, I guess. I’d take you with me if I could. Maybe help you find a nice little apartment, help you get into college or something.” The words were meant as a joke at first, but then you realize how silly they sound and wince. “I’m sorry, I’m stupid”
James sits up slowly, turning to look at you with wide, earnest eyes. “No. No, continue. I wanna hear about it.”
You hesitate, then keep going. “I mean… it’d be weird at first. You’d probably hate how loud and messy everything is out there. There’s no reset button. No perfect pink skies every day. But at least there’s real food, there’s music that doesn’t loop,you can actually listen to whatever song you want. You could learn how to cook, or play actual video games instead of being in one. I could show you my favorite late-night ramen place, or take you to a concert. It’d be a mess, but at least it’d be real.”
James listens with complete awe, like every word you say is rewriting something inside him. He can see your world through you, and he loves every bit of it.
“I wish I could come back with you,” he says after a long silence, voice rough. “But people would find me weird there. My body isn’t like yours, I don’t have a… heart.”
You shake your head gently. “That’s fine. People in the real world never get close enough to feel it anyway. They don’t really care about those things, so you should be good.”
James looks at you, surprised. “They don’t? I thought—” He pauses, brow furrowing as he processes it. “I guess that makes sense why people play this game then.”
“Yeah, i think people invented these games to feel things. To have someone look at them like they matter. To hear stupid lines and pretend it’s real for a while.” you complete for him. “Even if Jay’s not the best, and he’s annoying, I still think some people crave to be interesting in someone’s eyes. To go on silly dates and eat strawberries. It’s part of— of how humans are.”
For a long moment James doesn’t speak, just absorbing your words like they’re something sacred— like he’s getting an insight on humans, like reading a book.
“I’ve seen hundreds of players,” he says eventually, voice low. “Most of them laugh at Jay’s lines at first, then lean into it. They like the fantasy. The perfect guy who always knows what to say. They want to feel chosen.” He looks down at his own hand, flexing his fingers slowly. “I used to hate them for it. For picking him every time. But now I get it. A little. Because I don’t know how to do these things, I don’t know how to flirt— and kiss, and whatever the heck he does, i’ve never been like that.”
He turns his head toward you again, the jealousy from earlier still simmering underneath Jay’s name.
“But you feel a hundred times more real. I’m not even sure how you can be a script, you speak, and think like a human. You articulate your thoughts and I understand you. There’s nothing robotic about you.”
James gives a small tired smile, “Do you think we’re the same?”
You nod, convinced, “You might not have a heart but you’re strangely like me yes. Maybe they messed you up in the program.”
The man snorts, amused. “I’m pretty sure they did, I’ve always been… more aware, of what was going on around me. Jay never was. He’s never questioned it, he just plays along and never looks past anything.”
Your worlds were quite the same in a selfish way; feeling like you were way too aware— way too observant, in the margins, for a world too small, wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling to you.
The next days were made of ridiculously over the top dates. Jay had apparently woken up on the ground of the confession center, with zero memory of the peach incident. He simply restarted the loop convinced you two had “lost track of each other during the romantic sunset.” The game smoothed it over like nothing happened. That day, James had taken you back to the room, you’d fallen asleep, woken up to a brand new quest, and the loop went on and on again.
So the cycle continued. Ridiculously over the top dates. Picnics with heart-shaped everything. Boat rides on a glowing pond where Jay sang (badly). A fireworks festival where he compared every explosion to “the spark in your eyes.”
James was always somewhere nearby —sabotaging in increasingly creative and petty ways. A sudden raincloud over Jay alone. A flock of overly enthusiastic doves. One memorable time, an entire table of desserts mysteriously flipped itself.
But still, no kiss. Thank God.
You always ended up alone with the side character— visiting parts of Blossom grove that dates with Jay didn’t allow, talking about everything and nothing, sometimes just standing close without a sound.
You told about things you’d never told anyone, because he was stuck here, so your secrets were undoubtedly safe, and also because there was something easy to trust about him, the way you wouldn’t trust a machine.
One evening after a particularly painful fireworks date with Jay (where he compared every explosion to “the fireworks you set off in me”), James had silently taken your hand and led you to the wildflower field on the outskirts. You both lay on your backs in the grass, shoulders touching, watching digital stars flicker into existence above you.
You told him about the crushing pressure of uni, how you’d chosen psychology because it sounded impressive to your parents but now felt like a daily reminder that you couldn’t even figure out your own mind. James listened without scripted responses, just quiet “mmhs” and the occasional question that showed he was actually trying to understand.
When you admitted you sometimes felt like you were wasting your life on games and procrastination, he turned his head toward you and said, “At least you get to choose what you waste it on. I’m glad you do.”
Another time, after James had sabotaged a boat ride by making the oars mysteriously disappear, the two of you hid in an old, forgotten gazebo covered in ivy. You ended up sitting on the wooden railing, legs swinging, sharing a stolen basket of strawberries he’d swiped from one of Jay’s picnic setups.
You confessed your fear of becoming exactly like your parents wanted— polished, successful, miserable.
James, in return, told you about the hundreds of loops he’d lived through, how every player eventually left and the town reset, leaving him with nothing but echoes. “With you i’m not just decoration” he said softly, juice from a strawberry staining his fingers. You wiped it away with your thumb without thinking, and the silence that followed felt heavier than any confession.
There were quieter moments too. Once, after a long day, you found him waiting on the roof of your cozy house. No words at first—just the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the cherry blossoms. His pinky brushed yours, then hooked gently.
You stayed like that for what felt like hours, breathing the same air, existing in the same fragile pocket of time.
You told him about your dog Juju’s ridiculous habits, the way you sometimes cried during cutscenes in single-player games because the characters felt more real than most people.
He listened like every word was rewriting his code. In exchange, he showed you little treasures he’d collected across resets: a perfectly round pebble, a bent paperclip from who-knows-where, a single playing card (the ace of hearts, naturally). “They’re proof that things can stay,” he explained one night, voice barely above a whisper as he placed them in your hands. “Even when everything else resets.”
The more time you spent with him, the easier it became to forget this was supposed to be temporary. James never pushed. He never demanded. He simply showed up—hood up, eyes watchful, presence steady— and slowly, without either of you realizing it at first, he became the reason you looked forward to the end of Jay’s dates.
Today’s Event: Starlight Rooftop Dinner with Jay!
You’re standing on a beautifully decorated rooftop terrace, string lights twinkling overhead, a small table set with candles and way too many rose petals.
Jay pulls your chair out with a flourish.
“My shooting star! Tonight, the stars themselves are jealous of how brightly you shine,” he says, voice dripping with cheese. “I had the chefs prepare a seven-course meal, each dish representing a different reason why I’m falling for you.”
He spends the first twenty minutes explaining every single plate while you audibly and visibly cringe.
“This pasta? It’s tangled together like our destined fates.”
“This salad? Fresh and crisp… just like the feeling I get every time you smile at me.”
Oh kill me already, you think.
“This dessert —chocolate lava cake— because my heart melts every time you’re near.”
You’re barely responding, just nodding and making small noises while the affection meter crawls upward.
Since when is your patience so high?
Maybe it’s because James is somewhere close. You can feel it.
Jay leans forward, eyes sparkling under the fairy lights. “Y/n… these past days with you have made me realize something important.” He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “I think you’re my endgame. My player two. My—”
A loud crash echoes from the side of the rooftop.
One of the decorative potted plants suddenly topples over, spilling dirt everywhere. Jay jumps up, startled. Then another pot goes down. And another. Like invisible hands are knocking them over one by one.
“What the—?!” Jay shouts.
James appears on the opposite edge of the rooftop, looking far too innocent. He “accidentally” kicks the last large planter. It rolls dramatically and bumps Jay’s leg, making him stumble backward into the dessert table.
James appears on the opposite edge of the rooftop, looking far too innocent. He “accidentally” kicks the last large planter and it rolls dramatically, bumps Jay’s leg, making him stumble backward into the dessert table.
The entire thing collapses in the most cartoonish way possible —chocolate lava cake exploding upward, plates flying, candles tipping over.
Jay lands flat on his ass in a pile of frosting and rose petals.
You can’t help it- you burst out laughing, clutching your mouth.
Jay’s face turns bright red with genuine anger this time. “That’s it!” he snarls, scrambling to his feet, frosting still smeared on his cheek. “I’ve had enough of you, you glitchy side character!”
He charges at James.
You can’t feel your lungs anymore from how hard you’re laughing, you swear you’ve never laughed this hard before. You need a reality check, this isn’t real life.
James’s eyes widen- not with fear, but with a flash of wicked amusement —and he takes off running across the rooftops.
The main lead chases after him, shouting threats and slipping on frosting every few steps.
You grab one last fancy cupcake and hurry after them without thinking. They disappear over the edge of the next building, and you lose sight of them as you scramble down a set of stairs into the town streets, breathing hard. You turn a corner into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway between two pastel shops-heart lanterns flickering softly— but there’s no sign of James.
The street is empty, no NPcs, no petals, just facades that look made out of cardboard.
Suddenly, a hand grabs your arm and yanks you sideways into the shadows.
Before you can make a sound, James presses his back against the alley wall and pulls you flush against him, his hand firmly covering your mouth. His other arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady.
You’re chest to chest now, empty chest to full chest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with adrenaline and barely contained laughter as he listens for any sign of Jay, breathing slightly ragged. The alley is tight, forcing you impossibly close.
He looks human from this angle, his soft blonde hair spiking upwards from how fast he ran, his features are unrealistically accurate, pores, sweat. He’s the copy of a human, only without its principal organ.
You’re honest, you’d gathered this wasn’t a normal game from the second you’d started it. But it takes a lot to scare someone who was already trying to escape their original world.
In this moment while James’ hand stays pressed gently but securely over your mouth, his face inches from yours— the playful spark in his eyes slowly shifts into something heavier, as the seconds stretch.
Neither of you moves. The only sounds are your heartbeat (loud in your own ears) and the distant, fading shouts of a very angry, very frosting-covered Jay somewhere in the distance.
James’ eyes bore in yours, like he’s seeing something there. “Your eyes— there’s always something moving behind them. I never know what color they’ll be.”
The hand covering your mouth doesn’t move, but his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek in an almost absentminded caress. The alley feels smaller, all of a sudden, your words dying in your throat.
Your heart is hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it against his chest. Does he know the difference between a heart that beats faster just because of him— and a heart that only serves its purpose of pumping blood?
James’s breath ghosts across your skin as he leans in just a fraction more, studying you. No human has ever made you feel like this, so why is it that a fictional thing— the fruit of machines, is making you feel so unguarded?
“I’ve watched so many players,” he whispers, hand still gently muffling your mouth, “but none of them looked back at me like this.“
The moment stretches, thick and breathless, his fingers tremble slightly against your lips.
The jealousy, the curiosity, the raw want to understand you — to feel more of you- to be filled with your humanity — is written all over his face.
The moment breaks when James hears Jay’s shouts finally fade into the distance. He blinks, as if coming back to himself, and slowly pulls his hand away from your mouth. His fingers linger for half a second against your cheek before he clears his throat, stepping back as much as the narrow alley allows. 
“…Sorry,” he mutters. “It sounded funny in my mind, the plant.”
You let out a short, breathless laugh, still trying to process everything. “You’re actually insane, you’ve already knocked him out and now this?”
James gives you the tiniest smirk, the tension easing just a little. “Come on. Let’s get you back before he loops around again.”
The walk back is quiet, he keeps close, guiding you through side streets and behind buildings, making sure Jay doesn’t see the two of you together.
When you finally reach your cozy house, he sneaks you toward the door like a criminal.
But just as you’re about to slip inside, Jay’s voice echoes from the end of the street —still annoyed and frosting-free after presumably resetting.
You panic, grab James by the front of his hoodie, and yank him inside with you. You slam the door shut and quickly close the windows, heart racing again.
Both of you freeze, backs pressed against the wall, listening. When Jay’s footsteps eventually pass by without stopping, you both muffle your laughter, shoulders shaking.
“He’s so scary.” you breathe out, wiping the nonexistent sweat on your forehead. You gesture vaguely at the frilly bed. “You can stay for a bit… if you want. In case he comes back.”
He nods and sits on the far edge of the bed.
“I’m almost at the end of the affection meter,” you say after a while, staring at the floor. “I’ll probably be able to go back soon enough.”
“Yeah,” James replies, voice quiet. “I’m glad.” He doesn’t sound glad at all. “you’re lucky Jay doesn’t exist in your world.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Actually, he does. There’s a lot of guys like him out there. All cocky and polished. I always used to hate them.”
James turns his head toward you. “And me? Are there guys like me out there?”
You think about it for a long moment. It’s a complicated question, not one you can answer without sounding crazy.
“No, not really,” you say softly. “There’s plenty of heartless guys… but you, even though you don’t have a heart, you’re still full of feelings. So no… I guess not.”
James stays quiet, processing your words. The silence stretches comfortably between you until you continue, voice gentler.
“You can feel mine from different points, you know. Just like you —your heart’s in your eyes, and in your mouth when you speak. That’s slightly different… but is it that different?”
He looks at you, curious and a little lost. “Can you show me?”
You hesitate, then hold out your wrist to him. “Here. Feel.”
James gently takes your wrist in both hands, fingers pressing lightly against your skin. You can see the fascination return to his face as he feels the steady pulse.
“That’s my radial pulse,” you explain. “It’s connected straight to my heart.”
He nods slowly, thumb brushing over the spot in quiet awe.
You guide his hand higher, to the side of your neck. “This is my jugular. It’s stronger here. If someone cut here… I’d be gone in seconds.”
His fingers rest carefully against your neck, feeling the throb of your pulse. His eyes are wide again, breathing shallow.
Then you move his hand to your temple. “And here. These are my temples. See? We’re actually quite the same. My heart’s everywhere. Just in different places.”
James doesn’t speak for a long long time. His hand stays gently on your temple, feeling the rhythm of your blood, the undeniable proof of life running through you. He looks at you like you’re unraveling the entire universe for him, one heartbeat at a time.
“You should think about it this way,” you tell him softly, still guiding his fingers against your temple. “Your heart’s there somewhere. It’s just not beating loud.”
The words leave your mouth and something inside you twists sharply. What the hell are you doing? You’re deep in this —way too deep— comforting and explaining basic human biology to an NPC who technically doesn’t even exist outside this cursed game.
You’ve gone so deep into a quest for connection, one you’d never noticed before— that you’re looking to comfort a machine.
The realization hits you like cold water. You pull his hand away from your temple, letting it drop.
James blinks, confused. “No… let me feel it again,” he asks, voice quiet but urgent. He reaches back toward you, almost pleading. “When you— when you let me feel it, it feels like it’s mine. Like it’s beating out of my own body.”
And God, that’s heartbreaking. Pity floods through you, heavy and aching.
He’s so hungry for anything real, anything that proves he’s more than background code. And here you are, feeding that hunger even though you know you’ll probably disappear soon.
You hesitate, then sigh. “Come here.”
You shift back on the bed and lie down against the pile of frilly pillows. Your heart is pounding as you pat the space on your chest.
“Put your head here.”
James stares at you for a second, like he can’t believe you just offered. Then he moves carefully, almost reverently, and lowers himself beside you. He rests his head on your chest, ear pressed right over your heartbeat and his arm drapes lightly across your waist, careful not to hold too tight.
You feel him exhale slowly as he settles. It’s so silly, but so beautiful, letting him inside your veins like that.
“How does it feel?” you ask gently, your hand hovering for a moment before resting lightly on his hair.
“It’s… strong,” he murmurs against you, eyes closing. “Steady. I can hear it in my ear… and then it echoes a little in my head. Like it’s spreading.”
You nod, fingers slowly threading through his blonde hair. “That kind of feeling is when you have a really bad headache usually. Or when you’re under a lot of panic or stress. Your body’s trying to push more blood around.”
James stays perfectly still, listening. After a few moments, you feel his body gradually relax against yours —the tension in his shoulders melting, his breathing slowing to match the rhythm under his ear.
This is the safest you’ve felt ever in your life, and it’s sad that it’s with a machine.
James lets out a slow, contented breath against you, his ear still pressed firmly over your heartbeat. His arm tightens just a fraction around your waist possessively.
He wants to say the words, he wants to say you’re his human— only his. His scientific discovery, his beautiful excavated archeological evidence.
“I can feel it everywhere,” he whispers. “Not just here. It’s like it’s traveling through me.” His voice cracks the tiniest bit. “I didn’t know anything could feel like this.”
James stays quiet for a beat again, enjoying the peace of your heart then he speaks, voice soft and hesitant.
“Would you like Jay more— if he had a heartbeat?”
There’s no part of you that could ever like Jay, let alone tolerate him.
You shake your head, letting out a small laugh despite everything. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
He lifts his head slightly to look at you, eyes searching. “Well… maybe you want to lay on someone’s chest and feel their heart too, no? Maybe if he had that, you could want him.”
You shake your head again, still smiling. “I wouldn’t. A heartbeat is nothing if it doesn’t pump to his brain.” You laugh softly at your own words.
James watches you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression.
Then he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a small, strange-looking recording device. It’s compact, slightly glitchy around the edges, like something that doesn’t quite belong in the game’s usual aesthetic.
You don’t even ask where he got it from, would you even get an answer ?
He sits up a little and gently places the device on your chest, right over your heart.
“Be quiet,” he whispers.
He presses record.
The device hums softly as it captures the steady thump of your heartbeat. You stay perfectly still, barely breathing, watching his focused face the entire time. When he finally stops the recording, he looks at you with aquiet vulnerability.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “Can I keep it? For when you’re gone.”
You nod, biting your lip hard to keep from getting overwhelmed— your eyes sting a little, but you hold it together.
James lies back down beside you. He places the recorder on his own chest, exactly where a heart should be, and presses play— the soft, rhythmic sound of your heartbeat filling the quiet.
He closes his eyes, listening like it’s his favorite sound. Like even the birds singing, and the most beautiful songs couldn’t top this.
You watch him, click the way his eyebrows un-furrow, his whole face basking in the vibrations of your staccato heart.
After a few seconds, a small chuckle escapes him. “We share a heart now.”
How can a machine, a program, be so unsettlingly honest, so raw? How can it make you feel things that you haven’t felt in years, in the space of a few incalculable days?
You smile, warmth spreading through your chest despite everything.
James gestures to his chest with a shy tilt of his head. “Your turn now.”
You shift carefully and lay your head on his chest, ear pressed against the recorder. It’s a little uncomfortable — hard plastic against your cheek — but you don’t care. You close your eyes and listen to your own heartbeat playing through him.
It’s strangely intimate, he borrowed your heartbeat the way a starving man borrows sunlight
James threads his fingers gently through your hair, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might glitch if he moves too fast. His other hand rests lightly on your back, holding you there.
The absurdity of it all eventually fades into exhaustion.
Your eyes grow heavy, and for the first time in months you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
You wake up slowly, warm sunlight filtering through the lace curtains. James is still there —curled against you, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, his chin now tucked on top of your head. His breathing is slow and even, face relaxed in sleep in a way you’ve never seen before.
You stay still for a long moment, watching him. The way his dark lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint furrow that’s usually between his brows now smoothed out.
Somewhere in the code, there was a version of the story where he never met you. The tragedy was that you knew it.
Carefully, you reach over and turn off the recorder still resting on his chest. The soft sound of your heartbeat cuts offas you slip out from under him as gently as possible and get changed.
As you finish adjusting your clothes, a bright notification pops up in bubbly pink font:
Final Event: Starlight Confession at the Blossom Grove Overlook! Today Jay will confess his true feelings. Share a kiss to seal your love story! Affection Meter: 92% — One moment left to reach 100%
And how funny, that his meter took days to fill out while James’ took hours, minutes.
James stirs behind you. You turn and see him watching you quietly as you braid your hair in front of the small mirror, gaze soft, almost sad.
“I’ve gotta go,” you say, voice a little rough. “Final event.”
He nods and gets up without argument. “I’ll meet you there,” he says quietly. “Separately.”
He leaves through the window first. But he doesn’t go far.
You’re still standing in front of the little mirror, fingers halfway through braiding your hair, when James’s head pops back in through the open window.
“Forgot something,” he says, voice low but trying to sound casual.
You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He climbs halfway back inside, elbows resting on the windowsill, watching you with a soft, slightly crooked smile. “You.”
Before you can respond, he reaches out and gently tugs the half-finished braid from your fingers. “Let me.”
You let him. Of course you do.
James is clumsy with it — his cool fingers fumble with the strands, clearly having no idea what he’s doing —but he’s so focused, tongue poking slightly out the corner of his mouth in concentration, that it’s impossible not to laugh.
“You’re terrible at this,” you snort, shoulders shaking.
“I’m learning,” he mutters, mock-offended. “I like it, Makes you look… like you’re staying a little longer.”
The words hang gently between you. You both know what today is.
You lean back against his chest as he keeps awkwardly braiding, his chin eventually resting on top of your head.
Then James clears his throat. “So… you’re really going to kiss that idiot today.”
“Unfortunately,” you sigh dramatically. “Duty calls. Someone has to max out the world’s most annoying meter.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your hair. “Tell him I said hi. Right before I punch him in the stomach.”
You grin. “Yeah make it look like an accident. Maybe trip and headbutt his perfect teeth.”
James chuckles — a real, warm sound that vibrates through his chest into your back. He finishes the braid (crooked, with several loose strands sticking out) and ties it off with a little pink ribbon he somehow produced from his pocket.
“Perfect,” he declares proudly, even though it’s clearly not.
You turn in his arms to face him, still half-sitting on the windowsill. “It’s lopsided as hell.”
“It’s nice, a nice little braid,” he argues, brushing a stray petal from your cheek with his thumb. His expression softens again. “You look pretty”
On the way to the overlook, your mind wanders. Back home there’s an unfinished assignment, empty Monster cans, Mei probably worried sick- a normal, lonely life. The thought of leaving this place —of leaving James— feels strangely bittersweet. You’ve only been here a short time, but it already feels more real than half the things waiting for you outside. He feels more real than any real human.
Is this what people feel when they truly reach something deep? The fear of letting it go, the ache of knowing it only started and it’s already over?
No one to be surprised by your humanity anymore, just a room with a PC and thousands of games that don’t contain him.
Jay is waiting at the beautiful overlook, the whole town sparkling below under golden sunlight. He lights up when he sees you. Needless to say you don’t.
“My shooting star! These past days with you have been the greatest adventure of my life,” he says, taking your hands dramatically. “We’ve bonded so much. I feel like you know me better than anyone else ever could.”
What happened to ‘hello’ ‘how are you’ ?
You’ve barely spoken more than a few minutes at a time, you think, fighting the urge to burst out laughing. But you play along, smiling and nodding to push the meter higher.
“I’ve never felt this way before,” Jay continues, voice full of scripted sincerity. “Every moment with you is like a new chapter in our perfect story. You make me want to be the best version of myself. You complete me, Y/N.”
Stupid computer. You let it do its thing, spit out Ai digested romantic prompts with no meaning at all.
The affection meter climbs steadily: 94%… 96%… 98%.
Jay steps closer, eyes half-lidded. “I love you. Truly. Can I… kiss you?”
Love you? Oh my…
You swallow your disgust, just get it over with. “Yes.”
He leans in, lips puckered dramatically, you swear you could throw up in your mouth anytime but you suck it up. This is for a good cause. So instead you count sheep in your head, sing the national anthem— anything to shake off the feeling of his weird—
Suddenly, someone grabs him from behind by the neck and yanks him into a brutal chokehold. You can’t even say anything, the male lead is completely silent, mouth comically open.
James. Of course it’s James.
His face is dark with raw jealousy, eyes burning as he pulls Jay away from you.
The latter makes a strangled sound, flailing but James doesn’t let go, dragging him down to the ground in a surprisingly violent but still slightly comical struggle. Jay kicks and gasps until his eyes roll back and he goes limp, unconscious once again.
James stands over him, breathing hard, fists clenched. He turns to you, voice tight. “Is the meter maxed?”
Straight to business.
You check. It’s still at 98%. It probably didn’t count as anything since —thanks to him— you didn’t get to kiss the man.
“No… fuck not yet.” you palm your eyes, exhausted.
James’s jaw tightens, you can see how much this is costing him. How bad he wanted to kill that man for even thinking he could steal from him again.
The tragedy is that Jay was the designated route, the one the game rewards and James was just a side character who accidentally learns what longing is.
He know it, you know it, hell— even the game knows it.
You hesitate, staring down at Jay’s unconscious form sprawled dramatically among the scattered rose petals and golden sunlight.
This is it. One stupid, scripted kiss and the meter hits 100%. One kiss and you can finally leave this pink-tinted fever dream.
Your stomach twists.
The thought of pressing your lips to Jay’s— even while he’s out cold— feels wrong on every level. Not because he’s gross (though he very much is), but because James is standing right there, chest heaving, eyes locked on you like you’re about to carve his imaginary heart out of his chest and hand it to him.
James’s fists are already clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles have gone bone-white. A muscle jumps violently in his jaw, raw, ugly jealousy burns in his dark eyes.
He looks like he wants to kick Jay’s unconscious body off the overlook and into the town square below- like he’s barely stopping himself from doing it.
How does a machine develop this level of awareness— to feel jealousy over someone that isn’t even theirs?
You swallow hard. You have to. You can’t stay trapped here forever, you have a life. Sort of.
This… whatever this is isn’t real, it’s just a form of escapism because your life is too dull to content with.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You’re not sure if you’re saying it to James, to yourself, or to the universe that let this cursed headset drag you into a dating sim.
You kneel slowly beside Jay’s limp body- the grass is soft under your knees. His face is slack, lips slightly parted in that ridiculous, perfect way the game designed him to look even when knocked out.
You lean down, heart hammering so loudly you’re sure James can hear it from where he stands.
Your lips brush Jay’s— brief, mechanical, cold. No spark. No warmth. Just plasticine contact that tastes like artificial and scripted longing. You pull back almost immediately, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like you can erase the moment.
The affection meter above the unconscious man’s head flares bright pink and shoots up the final two percent.
Final Event Complete! 💕 Affection with Jay: 100% Route Unlocked: True Ending — Blossom Grove Eternal Love! Congratulations, Y/n! You’ve captured the heart of Blossom Grove’s golden boy~
your eyes lift immediately to James. He stands a few frozen feet away, fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the tendons stand out like wires under his skin. His jaw is locked, a muscle feathering rapidly.
He won’t meet your gaze.
Those dark eyes that once drank in your every blink are fixed somewhere on the ground, raw jealousy carving deep lines into his face.
The pull grows stronger, but you ignore it, you step toward James, reach out, and gently take one of his clenched fists in both your hands.
“One last time?”
He doesn’t look at you.
But after a long, pained beat, he nods— vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. You haven’t even told him, but he already knows what you’re referring to.
He sinks to his knees right there on the overlook grass, you stay standing as he leans forward, pressing his head against your chest, ear flush over your heart. His arms come around your waist, holding on.
He’s aware of his own disposability. That’s heartbreaking.
You thread your fingers through his hair as his breathing syncs to the rhythm beneath his ear. The world is shimmering harder now, edges softening, but you don’t pull away.
You were the first miracle that ever happened to a man made of instructions.
And the cruelest thing about being human was wanting things so deeply. Without even knowing why. Without knowing what it was.
James stays like that for several heartbeats— listening, memorizing— before he finally lifts his head.
His eyes are glassy, wide with something between awe and desperation as he looks up at you.
“You’re really gonna go now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, throat tight.
“Look, I know we were fast, and I know we missed some steps, I know, God I know,” he says, words tumbling out raw and urgent. His hands stay anchored at your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes. “But y/n, you can’t. Just a little more please? Just a little more. I swear I’ll let you go after.”
In his eyes you see something so devastatingly humane, the look of someone who wants something he can’t have badly.
“You kept insisting I have a heart for so long that even I started looking for it.” he continues, “So don’t go now. Stay with me for a bit.”
The world doesn’t vanish, it simply waits—patient, glitching faintly at the edges like static on an old screen— for you to consciously press the exit button that now hovers persistently in your peripheral vision.
The game is stalled, holding its breath.
You nod slowly, throat tight.
One more moment, just one. You’ve already sold a kiss to a scripted doll for your freedom; what’s a few more minutes with the only person here who ever looked at you like you were real?
James exhales shakily against your chest, then rises to his feet. His hand finds yours, cool fingers threading through your warmer ones with quiet desperation. “I wanna show you a place,” he says, voice low and rough. “Before you go.”
You let him lead you down from the overlook. The two of you walk hand-in-hand through the lantern-lit streets of Blossom Grove— thhe usual cheerful chiptune music feels distant and muted, NPCs frozen mid-wave or mid-step as the game glitches around your deviation. Cherry blossoms still drift, but slower, almost hesitant.
The cobblestones give way to a quieter path on the outskirts— James guides you toward a small, tucked-away cottage half-hidden by wild overgrowth and low-hanging blossom branches.
It’s nothing like the bright pastel homes in town— this one is darker, weathered wood with deep teal and muted gray tones, ivy climbing the walls, a single dim lantern glowing beside the door. The windows are narrow, the roof slightly sloped like it’s tired from carrying endless loops.
It feels lived-in, secret. Human.
He pushes the door open. “This is… mine. When the loops reset, I come back here. It’s off-script.”
Inside is cozy in a melancholic way— low ceilings, shelves crammed with odd little treasures, soft blankets piled on a worn couch, a single window overlooking the wildflower field.
James gives you a quiet tour, never letting go of your hand. He stops at each object with careful reverence.
“This rock,” he says, picking up a smooth, dark stone with faint glittering veins. “Found it on the third loop after a player left. It’s heavier than the others. Feels… solid. Real.” He places it in your palm. “I keep it because it doesn’t change.”
He moves to a small shelf. “This cracked teacup. Jay knocked it over during one of his perfect picnics. I kept the pieces. Glued it back wrong on purpose.” A faint, almost-smile. “It’s imperfect.”
Another item: a single pressed wildflower, dried between pages of a blank book. “You laughed at one of his lines near this flower once. I picked it the next morning.”
These aren’t things computers are supposed to do, put feelings inside objects.
You turn one of the objects over in your hands, throat tight. “These things… they make you human, James. Collecting memories. Holding onto what matters.”
He looks at you, eyes soft and aching. “I’ll always be grateful that you let me get close. You let me feel it through you— and you keep saying these sweet words, I don’t even know why.”
“There doesn’t need to be a ‘why’, i’m saying these things because they are real. I think we’re much more alike than you think.”
A long silence stretches during which the cottage feels insanely smaller.
Then, quietly he says: “If you’ll let me… I want to feel your heart again. For the last time.”
You hesitate, heat rising in your face, but nod. You’ll give this beautiful, sensitive boy what he wants before he stays in a prison for the rest of his days.
“Yes. But wait.” You gesture for him to turn around.
He does without question, facing the wall.
You pull off your t-shirt, letting it drop, and stand there in just your bra, skin prickling in the cool air. “Okay.”
You guide him toward the simple bed in the corner— narrow, with a dark quilt. You ease his t-shirt up and over his head, revealing the smooth, cool expanse of his chest.
There’s no heartbeat, just quiet skin and the faint tension of someone trying desperately to be more.
You both lie down. Skin to skin. The contrast is immediate— his body cool and still against your living warmth.
You feel every inch where you touch: the press of his chest to yours, the subtle shift of muscle as he breathes, the way your heartbeat seems louder in the quiet space between you.
His arm slides around your waist, careful, reverent. No hunger beyond the simple need to be close.
He lowers his head to your bare chest, ear and cheek pressing flush against skin right over your heart. No fabric barrier this time, just warmth meeting coolness. You feel his breath hitch, then slow as he buries his face there, nose brushing the curve of your breast, listening.
His free hand rests lightly on your ribs, fingers splayed like he’s trying to catch every pulse. You hold him tighter, one hand in his hair, the other tracing slow circles on his back.
The intimacy is profound, you’ve never felt something quite like it and it scares you, it strips you bare and open to the wolves— like a sharing of life with something that was never meant to have it.
You’ve lived a whole life with barely any passion— and the second you finally find something thrilling— something that makes you wanna get out of bed and live it— it has to vanish away.
Oh how cruel this world is.
James shifts, sliding his chin up to rest on the upper curve of your breast so he can look at you. His dark eyes are wide, vulnerable —the way abandoned gods must look at prayer.
And you finally feel it, the insane pull.
You feel guilty for it, because he’s not real, because it’s not something tangible or measurable. Because a machine can calculate infinity— it can’t calculate wanting someone.
But James leans in slowly and presses a soft, lingering kiss right where your heart beats strongest —on the bare skin above the edge of your bra— and the contact sends a shiver through you.
Your fingers curl instinctively into his hair, holding him there as he pulls back just enough to search your face. His eyes ask for permission before he leans in again, leaving another kiss, then another —gentle, exploratory presses of his lips across the swell of your breasts, each one a silent question.
He doesn’t even know what he wants.
He has no frame of reference, no scripted dialogue tree for this. He doesn’t know what intimacy is, he has no idea how it works. But all he knows is that he wants to be inside of you and stay there forever —an instinctive, wordless ache to merge with the source of that heartbeat, to crawl into the warmth of your living body and let it overwrite every line of cold code that defines him.
To feel your pulse from the inside, to drown in the proof that life exists and that, for once, it’s choosing him.
You stroke his hair, breathing uneven. “What’s wrong?”
He lifts his head again, eyes dark and stormy. “You have to give me back the kiss.”
“What? What kiss?”
“The kiss you gave him.” His voice is low, rough with jealousy. “It was supposed to be mine.”
James hovers above you, bare chest rising and falling with shallow breaths he doesn’t need but can’t stop, waiting.
There’s a vulnerability in him, that makes you want to give him everything, not out of pity, but because he offers his own softness so freely.
You reach up, cupping his face in both hands. “Come here,” you whisper.
You guide him down. Your lips meet his — tentative at first. He freezes, unsure, mouth stiff and uncertain against yours. He presses too hard, then too softly, not knowing the rhythm. You tilt your head slightly, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
He’s never had to do this, it was always Jay’s thing, kissing players in the most beautiful places in Grove. He totally understands the appeal now.
“Relax,” you murmur against his mouth. “Like this… softer. Follow me.”
You kiss him again, slow and patient, showing him how to move. He learns quickly, mirroring the gentle press and release, the subtle tilt.
When your tongue lightly traces his bottom lip, he makes a small, startled sound —half surprise, half wonder— and parts his lips.
You guide him there too, teaching him the dance, the give and take- while his hands settle on your waist, cool palms sliding over your bare skin as he leans into it, growing bolder but still so careful, like he’s afraid you might glitch away.
The kiss deepens, and James turns needy almost instantly.
His mouth moves against yours with growing hunger, clumsy but fervent as he learns from your guidance— he presses forward, chest flush to yours, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, every point of contact madly electric.
He kisses you harder, deeper, until your back arches off the bed and you’re gasping for air. His weight settles over you, hips instinctively rolling down against yours in a desperate grind.
He doesn’t even know what he’s chasing, only that he needs more—more of your warmth, more of you.
“Slow down, James,” you breathe against his lips, threading your fingers through his hair to gentle him. “Breathe with me. Feel how I move… yes, like that. Open your mouth a little more—let me show you.”
He whimpers softly into the kiss, obeying, tongue tentative as it meets yours. You talk him through every shift, every press. “That’s it… softer now, then deeper. You feel how my tongue moves? Follow it. Good… you’re doing so good.”
He’s trembling, pressing into you until you have no breath left, his hands roam your bare back, cool palms mapping every inch of warm skin as if memorizing it before it vanishes.
You push gently against his chest, rolling him onto his back beneath you. He lets you, eyes wide and dark with wonder and want.
You want him to feel everything.
So you take your time. Leaning down, you kiss along the column of his neck—slow, open-mouthed presses that make his breath hitch.
Down to his chest, lips brushing over the silent spot where a heart should beat.
You trace his abs with your mouth, feeling the subtle ridges of muscle that the game sculpted perfectly but never meant to be touched like this.
Your tongue follows the lines, tasting cool, smooth skin. Then back up to his face—kissing his jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids as they flutter shut.
Your fingers trace the ridges of his abs next, then lower, following the sharp v-line disappearing beneath his waistband.
James shudders beneath you, hands fisting the sheets.
He catches your hand before you go further, bringing your palm to his lips— pressing slow kisses into it, eyes locked on yours the entire time—dark, awed, completely vulnerable.
The intimacy of it steals your breath more than any frantic press ever could.
You pause, hovering over him. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he rasps, voice rough. “I need you— I’ve never felt things so intensely before.”
So you do. You slide lower, kissing down his torso until you reach the bulge straining against his pants. You press your lips there through the fabric— warm mouth against the growing hardness.
James gasps sharply, hips jerking up involuntarily.
You look up at him, still stroking his thigh. “Has this ever happened before?”
It’s your time to be curious.
He shakes his head, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with overwhelming sensations. “Never… not like this. It feels so heavy. It hurts.“
His hand finds yours again, squeezing tight, silently begging you to keep teaching him what it means to be alive.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly slide them down his hips, taking his underwear with them. His cock springs free— hard, flushed, and straining upward against his stomach. He’s fully hard, thick and pulsing faintly with the intensity of new sensations flooding his system.
The sight of him like this, bare and vulnerable beneath you, sends a fresh wave of heat through your core.
You start teasingly, lowering your head. First, a soft kiss right on the tip, your lips brushing the sensitive head. Then kitten licks along the underside—slow, wet drags of your tongue from base toward the tip, tracing the vein there. You circle the head with the tip of your tongue, tasting the cool-smooth skin that’s already growing warmer from your attention. James’s breath stutters, hips twitching as you move lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his length before gently sucking one of his balls into your mouth, then the other, lavishing them with slow, teasing attention.
His hand suddenly threads into your hair, gentle but urgent, guiding you back up.
“I want you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Please. I want you to feel the things i feel.”
You look up at him, lips shiny. “You already make me feel this way, James.”
“Mmh,” James breathes out, eyes dark and determined. “I want more.”
In one smooth motion, he flips you over onto your back, settling above you. Now it’s his turn to worship. He starts at your forehead, pressing a slow kiss there, then moves to your closed eyelids, each one getting its own gentle press.
He kisses the bridge of your nose, the tip, then lingers on your lips—deepening it with the lessons you just taught him, tongue sliding against yours in a needy dance.
He trails downward, kissing along your jawline, behind your ear —where he pauses to breathe you in—, then down the column of your neck.
Open-mouthed kisses cover your collarbones, then lower to the swell of your breasts. He takes off the bra, lingers there, kissing every inch of soft skin, sucking lightly at the peaks of your nipples until they tighten under his mouth. His cool tongue swirls around each one, learning what makes your back arch.
Further down, James kisses across your ribs, tongue tracing the spaces between them like he’s mapping the rhythm of your breathing. He reaches your stomach, pressing slow, worshipful kisses around your navel, then lower to your hips.
He hooks his fingers into your remaining clothes and slides them off with surprising care, baring you completely to him.
James continues his devotion— kissing down one thigh to your knee, then the inside of your calf, all the way to your ankle and the top of your foot. He repeats the path on the other leg, taking his time then he works his way back up, this time along your inner thighs, breath ghosting over your core as he kisses the sensitive skin there, inching closer but not yet touching.
He returns to your center only after covering every other part of you, finally pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss right above your clit, then lower— exploring with gentle lips and tentative tongue, guided purely by your soft sounds and the way your fingers tighten in his hair.
“You’re so warm here,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with wonder. “Tell me… show me how to make it better for you.”
James settles between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with reverent hunger. He gently but firmly opens them wider, spreading you open for him. His dark eyes drink in the sight of your bare, glistening core like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever witnesse — something the game’s perfect pastel code could never have prepared him for.
You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair to guide him. “Start slow,” you whisper, voice already breathy. “Use your tongue flat at first… lick from the bottom up. Yes— like that…”
He obeys instantly, messy and eager. His cool tongue drags broad and wet up your folds, exploratory and uncoordinated but so desperately attentive that it makes your hips twitch.
He’s needy, almost frantic —pressing his face deeper, lips and tongue working with sloppy devotion. He laps at you like a man starved, sucking gently on your clit then licking lower, pushing his tongue inside you experimentally.
A low, broken sound vibrates against your core when he tastes how wet you are for him.
You were the first thing he ever wanted and he can’t keep you.
That truth bleeds into every desperate movement.
James grips your thighs tighter, holding you open as he buries his face completely, nose pressed against your clit while his tongue fucks into you messily. He moans into your pussy, the sound raw and unfiltered, translating all that aching loss into the way he devours you— like if he can just make you feel enough, maybe the game won’t take you away.
“Focus on my clit now,” you guide him, breath hitching. “Circle it with your tongue— slower… then suck lightly. Fuck— yes, James, just like that. Use your lips too.”
He learns fast but stays messy, saliva and your arousal coating his chin as he alternates between long, hungry licks and tight suction on your swollen clit. His hips grind helplessly against the bed, his own cock leaking and untouched, but all his focus is on you. Desperate little whimpers escape him between licks.
“Tell me more,” he mumbles against your soaked flesh. “I need to make you feel good… need to feel you trembling because of me.”
You keep guiding him through i— praising when he finds the right rhythm, correcting gently when he gets too eager and loses precision.
He’s relentless, driven by that heartbreaking knowledge that this is temporary.
Every lick, every suck, every time he presses his tongue deep inside you is him trying to carve himself into your memory before you press that exit button.
The pleasure builds unbearably. You feel worshiped— utterly adored in a way no real person has ever managed. Tears prick at your eyes as the intensity overwhelms you, he’s pouring every fragment of his newfound humanity into pleasing you, like this act alone could make him real enough to stay with you.
You start crying softly at first— quiet tears slipping down your temples as your thighs shake around his head. The sobs mix with moans, your chest heaving. It’s cathartic, vulnerable.
You cry because someone —something— has never made you feel so seen, so wanted, so profoundly cherished.
The tears aren’t from pain or sadness alone; they’re the overflow of being loved so completely by someone who was never supposed to know how to love at all.
Every wave of pleasure pulls another sob from you as the worship becomes almost too much to bear.
James doesn’t stop. If anything, your tears seem to fuel him. He looks up briefly, eyes glassy with his own overwhelmed emotion, chin shiny with your wetness, before diving back in with renewed desperation.
The game taught him how to speak. You taught him how to ache.
So he keeps going until your orgasm crashes over you hard — thighs clamping around his head, back arching, a broken cry tearing from your throat as fresh tears spill. He licks you through every pulse and aftershock, messy and devoted, refusing to pull away until you’re trembling and oversensitive beneath him.
Only then does he crawl up your body, face wet, pressing soft kisses to your tear-streaked cheeks. “Did I do it right?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Did I make you feel even a fraction of what you make me feel?”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his chin and cheeks. “You make me feel too much, so much,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion and lingering pleasure.
James leans into your touch, eyes shining. “Then let me feel everything with you,” he breathes, voice rough and desperate. “I want to be inside you… show me, yeah?”
He shifts between your spread thighs, settling there like he belongs. You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock — hot now from your earlier attention, hard and throbbing in your palm. He bucks sharply into your grip with a broken gasp, hips jerking forward instinctively.
“Easy,” you soothe, stroking him once, twice, guiding the flushed head to your slick folds. You rub him against your clit in slow, teasing circles, coating him in your wetness. The sensation makes you both moan. You kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue —sweet and messy.
He whimpers into your mouth, pressing closer.
You line him up at your entrance. “Push in slowly… feel me open for you.”
James sinks into you with one long, trembling thrust.
The moment he’s fully seated— buried deep in your tight, pulsing heat —his head drops straight to your chest, ear pressed over your racing heart as a raw, overwhelmed sound escapes him. “Warm… so warm inside,” he groans against your skin. “I can feel your heartbeat around me.”
He starts thrusting— deep, needy rolls of his hips, clumsy at first but driven by pure instinct. You wrap your legs around his waist, guiding his rhythm with your hands on his back. “That’s it… roll your hips like this. Harder when you want, but stay close.”
The intimacy is overwhelming. Skin to skin, his cool chest against your warm breasts, your heartbeat thundering against his ear while he moves inside you.
Every thrust drags against that perfect spot, drawing soft cries from you.
He keeps his face buried in your chest, kissing and licking at your skin between gasps, like he’s trying to consume your pulse from the inside.
You stay like that for a long time in missionary— slow, deep, grinding thrusts that let him savor every clench of your walls around him.
Then you roll him onto his back, straddling him. “My turn to take care of you.”
You ride him slowly at first, rolling your hips in deep circles so he can feel all of you. James’s hands grip your waist, eyes locked on your face, then drifting down to where you’re joined. “You’re… taking all of me,” he whispers in awe, voice cracking.
You lean down to kiss him, sharing breath as you move together.
You switch again— him behind you, spooning close, one arm wrapped around your chest so his palm rests directly over your heart while he thrusts into you from behind. The position is impossibly intimate, his lips on your shoulder, cock dragging slow and deep inside you as he listens to your heartbeat speed up.
It’s like you want a lifetime of contact to fit into a single moment.
Eventually you end up face to face again, legs tangled, him moving between your thighs in a lazy, desperate grind.
That’s when it hits him.
His thrusts falter for a moment. His eyes widen, then fill with tears. They spill over, hot against your skin as he keeps moving, unable to stop. “I’m doing it like you,” he chokes out, voice breaking on a sob. “I’m crying.”
You cup his face tenderly, thumbs wiping at the tears even as he continues thrusting deep and steady inside you. “Yes,” you whisper, voice full of warmth and wonder. “You’re like me. Just like me.”
Now, buried inside the first person who ever made him feel, the ache pours out of him while pleasure surges through his body.
He’s never been more human.
You feel him trembling harder, thrusts growing erratic and desperate as he chases the edge. His fingers lace tightly with yours, palms pressed together, hands clasped on either side of your head like an anchor.
You squeeze back just as hard, grounding him as the pleasure coils unbearably tight in both of you.
“Kiss me,” you breathe.
He surges forward, mouth crashing into yours in a messy, tear-streaked kiss. Tongues sliding, breaths shared, his sobs and moans vibrating into you.
You pull one hand free just long enough to thread your fingers deep into his hair and tug firmly at the roots.
James gasps sharply into your mouth, hips snapping forward hard as the sensation pushes him over.
He cums with a broken, shattered cry — deep and endless.
His cock pulses violently inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your walls in wave after wave. He can’t stop. His hips keep rolling in shallow, desperate thrusts even as he spills, pushing his release deeper into you with every twitch and jerk. It’s messy —warm, slick, overflowing.
You feel it leaking out around where you’re joined, coating your thighs and the sheets beneath you as he keeps cumming, hips stuttering helplessly against yours.
James buries his face in your chest again, lips pressing frantically over your racing heart in open-mouthed kisses, almost worshipful, like he’s trying to seal the moment there forever. “I can’t— I can’t stop—” he whimpers against your skin, voice wrecked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.
You keep your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him close while your own orgasm crashes through you —clenching hard around his pulsing length, milking every last drop from him as fresh tears of overstimulation and emotion slip down your own cheeks.
You stay locked together like that, hands clasped tight once more, kissing slowly and deeply through the aftershocks. His hips give a few final, weak rolls as the last tremors of his seemingly endless release fade, leaving him buried deep inside you, spent and trembling.
The aftershocks fade slowly, leaving you both tangled and breathless in the narrow bed. James stays buried deep inside you, softening but unwilling to pull away, his face still pressed to your chest like he could anchor himself there forever. Your combined releases drip messily between your bodies, but neither of you care— the silence heavy and sacred.
You stroke his hair, tears still drying on your cheeks. “James… I can’t stay.”
He hasn’t said the words, but you know he had been taking you like he never wanted to let go seconds before.
He tenses, arms tightening around you. “Don’t say that yet.”
“I have to.” Your voice cracks. “I have a life out there. it’s my world. My real one. I can’t disappear into a game forever, no matter how much I—”
“How much you what?” he interrupts, lifting his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, fresh tears spilling silently. “How much you want to stay? How much this feels more real than anything? Tell me I’m wrong.”
You shake your head, throat closing. “That’s why it hurts so much. You made me feel seen for the first time in years. But I have to go back, you understand that? I’ll die in here otherwise. Or worse— I’ll forget what real life even feels like.”
James’s breath hitches on a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, hips still gently rocking once, twice, like even now he can’t stop chasing closeness. “Then take me with you. Or stay. I’ll glitch the whole town if I have to. Fuck…I learned how to want because of you. Don’t make me learn how to lose you too.”
The words shatter something in you.
“I wish I could. God, James, I wish I could download you into my shitty apartment. Let you sleep in my bed — and have you meet my dog. But you’re code. And I’m flesh and blood.”
Perhaps humanity was never something you were born with. Perhaps it was something another person recognized in you first.
A small part of your believed that. One naive part.
He wasn’t programmed to want you, that’s how you knew it was real.
After long minutes of shared silence, he pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll find you,” he whispers fiercely, voice hoarse and trembling. “Somehow. Some way. Even if I have to tear this game apart loop by loop until the code breaks. I’ll find you out there.”
You nod, unable to speak, and pull him into one last hug. Skin to skin, heart to empty chest.
His hand slides up between your breasts, palm pressing firmly over your racing heartbeat— one final time, memorizing the rhythm that had taught him.
You kissed him softly, tasting salt. Then, with shaking fingers, you reached for the glowing Exit button hovering in your vision.
James held you tighter, hand never leaving your heart, tears streaming down his face as your body started to fade from his arms.
As the cottage, the town, and his broken expression blurred into blinding light, his final whisper followed you into the void:
“i wasn’t ever supposed to want anyone…but I’ll spend every reset learning how to reach you again, my human.”
📩 Ok wow, this was messy. Obviously not very thought through, a little over the top and dramatic (probably because i am) I’m sorry if it landed wrong ~ at least yo, the smut was nice. This isn’t love, so don’t come at me for portraying them like that but i think it deals more with dependency, James is clearly using her to feel something real even though he’s not a mean person, i think that’s how humans work. Not everything is black and white or right or wrong :) Ths made me think about these cases of people falling “inlove “ with AI just bc they’re terribly lonely.
I think my characters are always messy and almost never really in love but that’s why i enjoy writing them more. Intimacy scenes for me are very important because it allows them to talk without their words, i feel like they always have a hard time talking. But not in this, i think they did well.
It was short, passionate and fast-paced bc that’s just how some things are. What can i say. a shit show 😭
