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hier--soir · 1 year ago

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a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#finally am i right?#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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k1ngpin42 · 11 months ago

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POV: 𝘼𝙗𝙗𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙙𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧r- (mini fic)

Warnings: Dating, public 18+, dominant Abby, fingering

You, Abby, Mel, Manny and Whitney are sitting at a table in the WLF base. You and Abby aren’t allowed to be paired together on patrols anymore after Mel snitched about the time she caught you two fucking while on duty. To be fair, though, the door of the room you two were in had been locked from the outside, it wasn’t your fault Mel didn’t knock.

Anyway, not being able to see her throughout the day was fucking with you. Images of what you two would do the night and morning before you’d go on patrol, things you two used to do at any available moment on away missions. Against the wall when the other soldiers turned their back, on the floor, against an old car, on the table where you and the others would plan routes around seraphite camps, one time you even fucked while in a room full of clickers. (It was the most terrifying orgasm you had ever experienced if you’re being honest with yourself. Still amazing though.)

She sits down and the tension is immediate, you’d let her take you right here and now if she asked.

“Hey love, how were your assignments today?” She asks. Fuck. You didn’t know what was up with you today cause you were fucking wet at the site of her.

“What? Oh, yeah, it was alright…” You say, eyes scanning her body. You hear the others talk indistinctly and your gaze immediately drops to her hands.

“Did you really have to invite the game nerd?” You hear Mel whisper. You roll your eyes.

“Whitney’s my friend, Mel, don’t be a dick.” You tell her bluntly, and Whitney looks up at this. Mel looks at her with a guilty expression.

“Whitney I didn’t mean….”

“Oh it’s okay Mel. I can just sit by myself like I usually do.”

“Nonsense, you’re with us.” Manny reassures.

Once this drama clears up, Abby and Mel start telling the others stories about their mission today. Various jokes and exaggerations. None of this was relevant to you, though, cause for the love of everything holy, you couldn’t focus.

You watched as she enhanced her story with hand movements, her laugh was a melody in your ears, her voice a chorus. The veins on her hands were still prominent, she must have had to beat up some form of enemy, usually runners. Or maybe she had been lifting something heavy.

A smile smile pressed your lips at the thought of that. The thought of her big arms straining, she would groan slightly before the metal crate behind a door would move and she’d let out another satisfied sigh. Fuck. Those arms, those hands, you needed them inside you, on you, you didn’t care which.

“He grabs the EMPTY gun and points it at the woman. She’s got a fuckin club or something and he says….well, something in Spanish.” Abby explains to the group who have been intently listening, making you feel slightly bad for zoning out.

“ Estás acabado, cabron. You are finished, asshole.”

“Haha…nice.” Abby replies, taking a bite of her food. She looks over at you, who is still too focused on the way the vein on her right hand is more prominent than on her left. When she notices this, she smirks. That same cocky fucking smirk when she knows that, once again, she’s read you like a book.

“Hey so, that new training manual you read, what was it again?” She asks you as she slips a hand on your thigh. You’re wearing baggy blue jeans and even with them on you feel heat trickle down your spine.

“Oh the one about long guns? Well…the main premise is about rounds.” She moves her hand so it’s cupping your cunt through the fabric.

“I-“ You clear your throat. “Each gun has a unique gear that allows the rounds to move more fl-“ Abby cautiously unzips the jeans. “Fluidly.” You explain. She starts teasing your pussy with her index fingers and painting your clit with slick.

“Have you tested it out on a gun? The upgrade?” Abby asks, watching you with an amused expression as she increases the pace.

“Wh-at…oh um, yeah.” You stumble over your words.

“Ah well you can come improve my weapon, do you know how many times this gun has been stepped on? I’m surprised I can put new rounds in at all.” Manny laughs. Your eyelids flutter as she puts her two middle fingers inside you and circles your clit with her thumb. She does all this with her left hand, not even taking her eyes off of the group, she doesn’t have to.

How does this not make her uncomfortable? How does the fact that our whole friend group will watch you cum work for her in any way?

“Only if you gi-mm~” You stifle your moan with your hand.

“You okay?” Mel asks you. You nod.

“Just tired, I was gonna say, only if you give me a….ah~ a good gun too since he always hogs them all.”

“I do not.” He laughs.

Fuck, Abby’s hands rubbing you feels fucking insatiable but you need to be alone with her, you can’t stand how embarrassing this feels. You want her to fuck you till you can’t breathe, not tease you in front of people you have to interact with on the regular.

“I might go to bed early.” You say, attempting to push Abbys hands away. She grabs your arm tightly and gives you a warning look.

“Aw don’t be silly, we’ll go when you’re finished.” She pauses. “…Eating.” Abby adds, increasing her pace as well as the pressure on your clit. Fuck, you could scream at how good it feels. You want to scream.

“Who were you with today baby?” Abby asks. Fuck you could kick her right now. She’s clearly doing this on purpose to hear you make a fool of yourself in front of her your friends. It won’t work, you try to convince yourself.

“Um, I don’t know, it was me, two guys and a girl. The girl was dating one of the guys so me and the other guy did most of the patrolling while they probably, I don’t even know, did each other or something.” You explain, enjoying the feeling of her thick, warm fingers. Fuuuuuuck.

Mel looked guilty again. She always did, maybe this is just her resting face?

“I’m sorry that you and Abby can’t go on patrols anymore.” Mel utters, quietly. You roll your eyes but before you can even think to be annoyed at her, Abby pushes just the right place and you let out a gush of satisfied air.

“Agh~ all good.” You say, keeping your composure fairly well. Abby rewards this by easing up slightly and you instinctively buck your hips forward.

“Do you prefer hot places or cold?” Abby asked, and at this point you’re forcing your eyes open.

“What?” You ask, bitterly. Fuck you’re painfully close, you’re so gonna hit her when this is over.

“Abby…” You whisper to her, her smirk widens, cocky prick.

“Did you say something baby?” You sigh and poke at some of the food on your plate.

“Hot. I don’t like the cold or the rain, snow’s the only…f….um, exception.” You breathe out. Abby can tell by the look on your face that you’re cumming and she tilts her head, admiring you.

“I prefer the heat too. It’s always hot in Mexico.” Manny says, his voice just a murmer as you see colours through your eyelids. Holy fuck, you’d give anything to let out a loud moan right now.

“I’m actually pretty tired too, I think we’re gonna turn in early.” Abby explains to the others. Mel nods and Manny looks mildly disappointed, but doesn’t say anything.

“Have a good night.” Whitney says with a warm smile. You nod and Abby helps pull you up. You bite back a wince at how sensitive it feels to have your legs together and you hurry with Abby out of the hall.

“Abigail fucking Anderson.” You warn, simply. She smiles, kissing you playfully on the cheek.

“Yeah?” She asks. You punch her arm lightly.

“Do you like making a fool of me? All our friends saw-“

“Did you like it?” She asks, that seductive and almost arrogant smirk still evident on her pretty fucking face. You roll your eyes. She kisses your neck and leans in to your ear.

“I bet you were thinking about it. My hands, my fingers, I was just giving you what you want.”

“Yeah but…I mean at dinner? That’s just torture.”

“Aw.” She says with fake sympathy. “Want me to make it up to you?”

°..·°¯°·._.· 🎀 >.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°🎀 >-.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯

#abby anderson #abby x reader #abby tlou #tlou2 #smut #abby smut #abby anderson x female reader #ellie williams

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gatorbites-imagines · 21 days ago

Note

wait come back-

please expand on that one tasm!peter parker dirty secret hc and the injecting venom thing, I actually can't get it out of my head. peter and his spider thoughts and tendencies

Peter Parker (TASM) spider behavior

Headcanons

I had to look up different spider facts and look at so many pictures of spiders and now I feel icky. Ive always loved how they made Peter extra spidery in TASM and I miss it. I may have caught myself spending too much time on mating behavior…

Spiders don’t have ears and do a lot of their hearing through hair on their body. But we all know that Peter has ears, instead he just has heightened senses and is very sensitive to vibrations and physical touch.

I believe that he would be able to turn off parts of his sensitivity to be able to make it through the day, like an instinctive reaction to settle. But when he’s in a situation with high emotion or stress his senses heighten to assist in survival, or so his body thinks.

Peter doesn’t have actual fangs, but his canines are just a bit sharper than the average person. It’s nothing too extreme or enough to be weird, but it’s there. His teeth will also ache sometimes, and he will salivate when he sees food he likes, or you.

I said in the alphabet that he doesn’t produce venom or poison, but I could imagine his saliva could cause a mild tingle if his adrenaline or hormones are very high. If you find yourself in a situation where the spider mutation advances, he grows venom glands though.

One of spiders main ways to communicate is through pheromones, so Peter would be very sensitive to it. Like his hearing, I think it’s something he instinctively turns on and off without noticing. If he finds himself in a situation where he needs extra attention the ability flicks on.

it’s also almost always on when around his partner, since his instincts are saying “we need to keep an eye on our mate and make sure they are thriving”

Peter doesn’t have claws on the bottom side of his fingers like Miguel, but I do believe there would be some small unnoticeable ones if you looked at his fingers and feet under a microscope, like on actual spiders. It’s to assist him in climbing. But it also helps him in hanging on when you ride him too quickly or he’s feeling a little more feral in his rutting.

Peter doesn’t personally produce his webs unless the mutation advances, where he develops silk glands in his wrists. His abdomen is still a bit more sensitive than average, but it’s mainly spider instincts that’s telling him to protect his eggs, even if he doesn’t have any.

His abdomen also allows him to eat a lot of food and not feel too full, its kinda cute when he gets a little food bump when he just indulges himself. Peter always gets extremely embarrassed, but his speedy digestion means it’s not there for long.

Since he doesn’t normally produce venom, he salivates a lot when it comes to food or you. After the bite he gains an attraction to foods he can drink with a straw, so expect a lot of smoothies.

Did you know humans have stripes and patterns in our skin, we just can’t see them? Well, peter can, to a certain degree. It’s not that they’re right there in his face, but if he focuses hard enough and is in a situation where all his senses are turned on, they become more noticeable. He obviously thinks your pattern is the prettiest.

Peter will love to curl up on a web when he’s stressed or just needs to hang out and think. He doesn’t do it a lot because he thinks it’s embarrassing, but sometimes you’ll catch him hanging in a massive pretty web he’s spun on the ceiling. It freaked you out the first time.

He can also jump extreme distances and heights, but most people think that comes from his super strength. It does, to a degree, but it also comes from his whole spidery thing.

Peter is extremely flexible, sometimes you think hes bones are liquid in the ways he can bend and turn, it’s amazing in the bedroom though. It also means he can easily curl up in your lap in a small seat, no worries.

Peter also purrs, because I want him to so he will. It’s not anything loud and can sound a little weird sometimes, but you love it. think of that little almost popcorn noise newborn kittens make, that hasn’t fully become a purr yet. Peter only does it when hes really comfortable and without stress, so its rare, as hes always stressed.

Now we have come to his dirty secret. Did you know some spiders commit cannibalism? Especially the females after mating have a tendency to eat the male. This is why peter has had a thought once or twice to bite you and eat you. And that one fever dream, that felt like something out of an erotic gore movie.

Peter also likes to hunt. Its not something hes proud of, but theres a thrill in hunting down criminals (prey) and webbing them up (for later). He never does eat anybody obviously, but the thrum it puts in his blood is used elsewhere (with you).

If you ever offered to play prey/predator with him, Peter would act hesitant but you can see the interest in his eyes and the way he starts moving from foot to foot, and swallowing the spit gathering in his mouth.

If he tops or bottoms would also change his behavior in some ways, and how strong his instincts are in that moment.

When he tops, Peter would set a fast pace, his instincts telling him to breed his partner before hes eaten, since that’s what a good chunk of female spiders. He might even use his super strength or webs to restrain you, if you guys are into that.

When he bottoms, different results can happen. Did you know that some male spiders go limp and play dead when breeding, to avoid being killed and/or eaten by the female? The first time Peter went from moaning and groaning to just going limp scared the life out of you.

Turns out its just because he was really in tune with his spider side and the excitement and pleasure had made him black out for a moment. You guys make a deal that you will keep going if its clear its just one of these moments, since he wakes up a few moments after.

He can also become quite bitey and demanding when bottoming, depending on his mood. There are times where you just gotta lay back and let him ride you, his eyes clenched shut and drool running down his chin as he digs his canines into his lip. You’ll feel wrung out afterwards, but its great.

Peter has a thing for tying you up as well, or himself, if you guys can find something that will hold him when he uses his full strength. This is almost impossible, outside of maybe his own webs. You end up learning to use his web shooters.

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godmadeaterribleerror · 21 days ago

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Chapter 4 - You Bleed Like Me

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Starting a tradition for my long series when chapter 4 is just love interest bonding. Enjoy!

Chapter title from clementine by Halsey

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an arrangement. Usual warnings, extra graphic violence warning.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Read on A03!

“This doesn’t really seem like an us case, De-“

“There are us cases?”

She glared up at Dean, her eyes narrowed. “Yes. And this isn’t one.”

“Why not?” He propped his elbows on the table, smirking at Her as he picked up his burger. “What’s an us case, sweetheart? So I know what I should be looking for-“

She snorted. “You’re full of shit, Winchester.”

“Oh, yeah, but that’s not going to get you out of this.” Dean took a large bite, grinning at Her expectantly, and she sighed.

“It’s something that goes fast. That’s strange enough to be interesting, but not dangerous enough that, if one of us has to go early, the other is left dead in the water. And it should play off of our strengths, to make it easier.”

“Huh.” Dean swallowed his food, watching Her carefully. “What’s my strength?”

She gave him an amused look. “What do you think your strength is?”

“I think it’s my huge, thick, throbbing…” He leaned forward, wigging his brows. “Brain.”

Her bright eyes rolled, but Dean didn’t miss the way there was no venom behind her annoyed groan, or how her lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “You proud of that one?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “What do you think it is?”

She hummed, tilting Her head at him. “You want the honest answer, or the flattering one?”

Dean frowned. “Both?”

“Cool. You’re the face.”

“I’m…” Dean trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m the face?”

“Uh huh.” She grinned at him, poking Her own food with a plastic fork. “You get us in the door, so I can do all the work.”

“You do not do all the work-“

She gave him a flat look. “Who’s higher up on the kill scoreboard?”

“You. But,” he pointed an accusing finger at Her. “Only because I’ve have to leave early for the past three hunts.”

“And I’m up by nine, dumb dumb.” She sat up a little straighter, pride written all over her gorgeous face, and it made Dean feel all soft and gooey. “And that’s exactly why I should get to veto this hunt-“

Dean clicked his tongue, not even trying to fight his smile. “We’ll get back to this hunt in a second, sweetheart, you need to explain the face thing.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I already did-“

“Well, was that the flattering one or the honest one? Cause if it’s the honest one, you need to start appreciating me more-“

“I appreciate you plenty.” She snapped, flushing slightly. “And that was the flattering one.”

“Alright, what’s the honest one?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Dean gave Her his best puppy-dog eyes—nothing compared to Sammy’s, but he was getting better, at least with Her—and a pout that he hoped made him look adorable and not constipated. “C’mon, I can take it-“

“No. You’ll have to earn it.”

He scowled. “How the hell am I supposed to earn it-“

“Good question.” She gave him a teasing grin, Her eyelashes fluttering slightly, and Dean’s pout turned a little more real as warmth settled in his gut. “But that does sound like a you problem, Deano.”

Dean leaned back in his seat, rolling his eyes. “You suck.”

“I know.” Her smile grew, lips full and wide and slightly parted and fuck, Dean wanted her to suck on them- “You’re still here, though.”

“I am.” Dean stomped down his pathetic, unreasonable need for Her and took another bite of his burger. “But that’s just cause I don’t know how to leave, Princess.”

She flipped him off, returning the conversation to the hunt, and Dean wasn’t sure if the flash in Her eyes was from amusement or hurt. It shouldn’t be hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt Her. He never wanted to hurt Her, it always made him feel ill. Hell, it had been three years since the poltergeist—three years since he’d seen real, pure hatred for him on Her pretty face—and Her expression before she stormed out of the bar was still shifting like ash inside that pit in Dean’s body, reminding him what a piece of fucking shit he was. He’d never apologized for that. He wasn’t sure how he would, because that would require a longer conversation to explain himself, where he finally demanded answers for what Dad had found on Her during the moroi hunt.

And he wasn’t fucking strong enough to have that conversation. Not now. Not when he finally had Her in the loosest possible way, and he didn’t want to screw it up. Didn’t want to open his mouth and poke and prod Her—demand more than he deserved to have—until she left him, like everyone else did. Dean would not whine about his feelings like a little girl. Not when he knew it would drive his only friend away. Not when it would ruin whatever this was with Her.

He wasn’t really sure what this actually was, but he knew it was something. Friendship seemed to be the easiest thing to call it, but there was more than that. It was over a year of meeting up for hunts, hanging out a little while after—laying on a bed or sitting on the floor or leaning across a table—before parting with grins and promises to call and meet up again. And they always did. There were always weeks where Dad was away, Dean was left alone, and he’d kill that time with Her. With another case that they handled together, as a team, and another week of falling into this enigma of a woman he couldn’t avoid if he tried.

Because there had been truth in the joke that he didn’t know how to leave. He’d tried. He’d gotten messages for hunts that were a little further away from his motel then was smart, and still gone to meet Her because it was Her. It was a chance to see Her and talk to her and watch her move through the world as if it had been designed for Her. The idea that Dean was the face was baffling, because She was the one who turned heads wherever they went. Backwater dive bars and small farm towns, crowded cities when they walked down the street and roadside diners where they met up, fancy gated communities where people made odd faces at Dean because they could see that he didn’t belong, but smiled at Her because she was meant to be there. She was beautiful, walked with a purpose—Her steps certain, her chin raised high—and said every word like it was a privilege to hear her voice.

And dammit, it was. In the weeks between seeing Her, Dean would be haunted by her voice. It hadn’t stopped following him into dreams, but now it surrounded him on the wind. Every other voice sounded crude and grating compared to Her’s, to the point that Dean had to tune out every woman he slept with, because their moans were like chalk screeching and scraping on his ears.

He’d started to imagine Her moans. When Dad was gone, and She wasn’t available for a hunt—too far across the country or busy with something else She didn’t need Dean for, although nobody ever really needed Dean for anything—he would wrap his hand around his cock and lose his mind to her in the dark. He thought, if She did moan for him, She’d say his name and smile at him, looking at him like he was the only person in the whole universe. And the longer he indulged those fantasies, the more they spiraled out of control. He had to fuck women on their stomachs, because it was easier to pretend that it was Her beneath him. He’d started to fucking look for chicks that had similar features to Her at bars, started to smell them like a goddamn creep, because if there was a fruity smell it turned him on all the more.

But even when there was, it wasn’t Her smell. None of them were ever exactly like Her, not enough for Dean to find real satisfaction. Their hair was the right texture, but not as shiny. Their eyes were the same color, but they weren’t bright. They seemed passionate, but they didn’t seem like the universe. She was the universe. She was bigger than the universe. She was some sort of ethereal royalty sent to test Dean’s self-control, all laughter and teasing and sharp words in a siren voice, pulling Dean into Her orbit without ever letting him collide.

And that wasn’t something friends were supposed to feel about friends. Which was the more part. Dean wanted more. He wanted Her under him, against him, around him, his skin slapping on Her’s until she moaned and Her smile became blissful and calm. He wanted to pull her into a long kiss until she sighed his name, wanted to have an excuse to see Her that didn’t involve death or blood, wanted to know everything about Her until he either held Her for as long as she’d allow or he found a reason to hate Her again.

Because so far, he wasn’t really having much luck on that last thing. He couldn’t work out how to ask what the hell was up with Her family—her past, her lies, or the way She seemed to shut down at odd moments—without ruining this. And he really didn’t want to ruin this. Even without that more, even without the explanation, this was good. This was the sole constant in Dean’s life. She was the only person who looked at Dean and saw him, the only person who didn’t seem sick of him, the only person he sat with in silence without ever feeling the need to speak.

Dean wanted to know every fucking thing about Her—beautiful, horrible, and twisted—but he also refused to be the one to fuck a good thing up. If She felt the same blinding, consuming pull to Dean that he felt to Her she would’ve mentioned it by now, because son of a bitch it was impossible to ignore. Dean had to spend active effort in Her presence to not touch her, to not blurt that she was the hottest woman he’d ever seen, to not pick Her up and fold her into his chest or fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Her waist, pleading with Her to just stay all the time.

He was pathetic. She was awesome. And he’d have to be insane to mention the pull, because She’d look at him like he was worthless and horrible for even thinking he could ever deserve to be the one she allowed protect her, then he’d be alone again.

It didn’t stop him from imaging a world where he was allowed to be Her knight. Be Her dark, following Her like a shadow and pulling her apart where only he was allowed to see. Which was, again, insane. But Dean had already lost his mind to Her enough.

Because he’d been lying. To Dad.

Dad didn’t have a clue Dean was doing this. Worse, Dean had no plans to tell him. And Dean fucking sucked for lying to Dad when all Dad did was help and protect him, but Dad was also stronger and smarter than Dean, and knew how not to fall for Her entrancing smile and words and face. Dad knew how to hate Her, and Dean didn’t really want to see the disappointment on his face when he found out how Dean would actively look for cases to work with Her, call Her whenever he could, and take any excuse to be in Her presence.

Dean didn’t need the extra shame, because it already flailed around that pit inside of him and ate at his bones. He didn’t need to be reminded of how easily this arrangement with Her could come crashing down, because the thought had been buried deep in his skull, but still managed to worm out whenever he was really, truly alone. Whenever he’d cum in his hand to the thought of Her, or squeeze his eyes shut to imagine that she was the one under him, and then realize was a perverted asshole he was. Whenever She’d look at him too long and he’d wonder if she was seeing that pit inside of him, seeing how hollow and disgusting he was, how he was never fully able to wash the mud off his skin to match the way She seemed to glow. If She was realizing that no matter what lies or tricks she pulled on Dean, he was so worthless that he’d always fall for her, so he wasn’t worth her time.

Even now, in a white tile food court of a florescent mall, She looked a flower growing in a junkyard. Not out of place, but strange. Too beautiful for a place where anything could be, too delicate and natural for anywhere at all. And She wasn’t delicate, but she was something a little to the side of it. She didn’t flinch at blood, and she didn’t balk at challenge, but She didn’t belong at Dean’s side. She was worth more than that. Worth more than the way he wore out everything around him.

And he hoped She never realized that.

Because he was a selfish piece of shit.

“I just think this case is too big.” She was watching Dean with a hesitant gaze, fidgeting with Her own fingers. “We don’t have any real leads, except this,” She made a loose gesture around the mall. “Is the epicenter. No connections between the vics, and most of them aren’t even from this town, which mean no feuds. There’re no connections between the ways they’re dying, either, and no reported odd events-”

“I’d call five random deaths an odd event-“

“But nobody’s ever died at this mall before.” She propped Her chin on her hand, a small, pretty frown on her face. “Which means it’s not a vengeful spirit, and that’s the only thing that would make sense here.”

“C’mon,” Dean said Her name, putting down his burger. “It’s a puzzle! Which mean it’ll feel so much more awesome when we solve it, right?”

“What if we don’t solve it? What if this is above our pay grade?”

“Nothing’s above our pay grade, Princess, we don’t get paid-“

She rolled Her eyes. “You know what I mean. These deaths are violent, random, and without any sort of monster or spirit MO. Hearts stay in the chests, no blood drained from the body, no EMF or temperature drops. Nothing.”

“So we’ll find something.”

“What if we don’t.”

“We will.” Dean grinned at Her, leaning a little forward. “That’s your strength, sweetheart. You’re the puzzle master.”

She snorted. “Puzzle master implies I create the puzzles, Deano. Not solve them.”

“Whatever.” He waved Her off, holding her gaze. “Still your strength.”

“If it’s my strength, why did you say we’ll find something-“

“Because that’s how teams work,” Dean drawled Her name with a smirk. “One person does all the work, and the other,” he gestured to himself, puffing out his chest slightly. “Gives the presentation. That’s my strength, right? I’m the face and the muscle?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

Dean raised his brows. “Really?”

“Nope. And I’m not telling you.”

He frowned. “Would you tell me if I guessed right?”

“Probably not,” She hummed, glancing around the food court with a frown, then looking back to Dean. “Do you really think we can handle this case?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, watching Her carefully. “I think we’ve got this, Princess. We’re gonna kick ass.”

She hummed, and Dean could read the hesitation behind Her eyes. Clouding over the usual light, Her brain obviously spinning as she weighed whatever doubts she had against Dean’s faith that they could handle this.

He hoped they weren’t doubts against him. He always fucking worried She’d get sick of dumbing herself down to his level, of slowing Her pace to match his. This case was right up Her ally—Dean knew how much She loved weird shit—but it wasn’t up Dean’s. Hell, he didn’t even have an alley, he just fought whatever he was pointed at. He knew he was only here because She allowed him to be, because She had, for some unexplainable reason, decided that Dean didn’t get in Her way like other hunters did.

He didn’t think that was true. And this was evidence of it.

But She still sighed and nodded, and Dean felt something tight around his lungs go slack.

“Fine.” She said, running a hand through her hair. Dean wished She’d let him do that. “How long have I got you for?”

Dean blinked at Her. “I, uh, what?”

“For the hunt.” She raised Her brows, giving him an odd look. “How long until your Dad is expecting you back?”

“Oh.” Dean felt his face heat slightly, and prayed She hadn’t caught how he’d short-circuited at the thought of Her having him. “Uh, Dad’s in Arizona, so at least a week and a half with the drive back.”

“Okay,” She ran Her thumb over that scar on her palm, her brow furrowed in thought. “Then I’ll give us a week to get it ourselves, but if we don’t get it by then, or the deaths get out of hand, we call in backup. Deal?”

“Sure, but-” Dean frowned. “Backup? You have backup?”

“You’re not the only one who knows other hunters, Deano.” She shrugged, shooting Dean a teasing grin that didn’t help him collect himself at all. “Let’s get moving, we’ve got some investigating to do.”

Dean muttered an agreement, shoving the rest of his burger into his mouth in one movement, and tried not to let the sore thought of who the fuck else does She know circle around his skull as he stood up. Dean wasn’t Her keeper or guard or partner. He wasn’t Her anything. He didn’t have a right to get pissed off and possessive over the very idea that She might think there were other hunters she’d want to handle this. Hunters She’d chose over Dean. Hunters She’d trust over Dean.

He could handle this. He could prove to Her that he could handle this. He could focus, and be serious, and work this case until they solved it—together, not just Her being cool and smart and Dean trailing in Her wake—so that She’d never worry about needing backup again.

Dean reminded himself as he watched Her comb over the mall map—Her nose adorably scrunched in thought and her tongue tracing over her slightly parted lips—that She only hunted with him. She might know other hunters, but Dean was the only one She sought out for cases. The only one She asked to work with her.

He was pretty sure he was the only one. She might be lying about that, but he didn’t think She was. She was still lying about Her past—Dean had only tried to learn more with careful, casual questions, but she always kept Her answers vague, and Dean didn’t know how to flat out ask—but he’d grown less and less certain that She was, in any way, a manipulative bitch. She’d gotten uncomfortable stealing a pencil from a diner once. That didn’t scream master thief and con woman, and Dean couldn’t understand how what Dad had showed him was the same person before him. Especially because everything She did say about her past seemed to be true. Most everything she said, ever, seemed to be true, despite Dean’s direct knowledge that should tell him it wasn’t.

But he’d developed a sense for when She was lying. Something would scratch at his head and he’d know that She did care that he was leaving a case early, She did think Dean’s joke was funny, and She didn’t actually care about cars, but She did want to hear Dean talk about them.

Which clashed with what Dad had told him all the more. Dad had repeatedly painted a picture of a spoiled brat, who didn’t care about people like them. That’s what he’d said when She left after the poltergeist. That Dean couldn’t have expected her to stay, because She’d never be able to even pretend to give a shit about people she saw as lower than Her. But then She’d watch Dean with an unwavering attention and soft amusement as he told Her about cowboys and cars and other stuff she obviously didn’t give a fuck about, but listened without ever complaining or trying to shut him up.

She seemed like that with almost everyone. Dean conducted the interviews at Her side—moving through store after store to ask about the various deaths—and watched Her look at everyone with a similar open, gentle interest in what they told her. At the Radio Shack a tall man with long, ratty hair somehow ended up talking about how his wife loved those solve the crime shows, saying that she would be thrilled he got to act as a witness, and She let out an intoxicating, sweet laugh before telling the man that, while She wasn’t a fan of those shows herself, she’d once been thrilled to be let into a big house like the one in the Sound of Music, so she understood. She said Her dad had to threaten to leave because they were the for work, and She shouldn’t be singing on the staircase.

Dean had frowned for a brief second after, because She should’ve been raised in a big house.

“Did you do the dancing too?” He asked as they walked out of the store, leaning down to mutter in Her ear. “On the staircase?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah. I even got to go back and do a different song after he was done with the case.”

Dean blinked. “Your dad let you do that?”

“His idea.” She looked back to give Dean an easy, mind-numbing smile. “He’ll never admit it, but he enjoyed it more than I did. He said I was big screen talented.”

She wasn’t lying. He didn’t get that story at all—not only the house thing, but Her dad letting her waste time on something pointless, let alone enjoying it—but She wasn’t lying, so Dean’s returning grin was wide.

“You think you’ll ever sing for me, Princess?”

“I don’t sing in front of people.”

“You just said you sang for your dad-“

“I’d kill someone for my dad.” She shrugged, waving Dean off with a casual hand. “He doesn’t count.”

“You wound me,” Dean mock-whined Her name, and She wrinkled her nose at him. “You wouldn’t kill someone for me?”

She hummed. “Night’s young.”

Dean’s heart almost stumbled to a halt as She just kept moving, and he had to physically shake himself to jumpstart his brain. She wouldn’t kill for him, or sing for him, but the night was young. Dean could jog after Her and walk by her side with the hope of being important enough to Her—Dean would like to be important to anybody, but being important to Her would be awesome—that she’s kill for him. That She’d sing for him.

Walking at Her side, though, was just as awfully simple as speaking to Her. Just as contradictory to everything about Her Dean was supposed to hate. He knew that already—from hunting and walking with Her for a year—but the force of that fact still shocked him. The person Dad said She was wouldn’t toss strangers genuine smiles as they passed each other in the crowd. Those smiles wouldn’t be softer for children, wide regardless of if people smiled back, and somehow bigger when aimed at Dean. She wouldn’t smile at Dean in the crowd like he was the only one she was truly happy to see. She wouldn’t walked so close to him, and look around the world as it parted for Her like it might cave in just as fast.

The person Dean should hate wouldn’t look so entranced by the dirty, loud mall around Her. Wouldn’t watch everyone with a fasciation that didn’t seem to come from watching animals in a zoo—caged and lower, made only for Her amusement—but like they were beautiful. Like She was water in a bottle watching the river flow, and longer to be a part of it.

Hanging out with Her was making Dean smarter. He wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it sounded pretty. And it felt right. That was how She watched people laugh with each other, how She looked at the clothing in the stores, and how She stared at all the little pastries in the bakery.

“Do you want one?”

She looked up at Dean with wide eyes, shaking Her head with a nervous laugh. “No, I’m- I don’t need one.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s food, ‘course you need one. C’mon, we can get one of the small ones, they’re like, two bucks-“

“Dean, I’m fine.” Her voice was firm, Her back a little straighter, and Dean frowned. She had called him Dean. That meant she was serious.

“Whatever,” he shrugged it off, watching Her carefully as he continued. “I’ll get one, I’m fucking starving-“

“You just had a burger-“

“Two hours ago,” Dean drawled Her name, lowering down to examine the display case. “I’m gonna get that one, it looks like a tiny pie-“

“This isn’t going to work, Winchester.” She snapped, and Dean glanced up to see Her glaring down at him, arms folded over her chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.“

“This.” She made a circling gesture over Dean’s hunched body. “You can’t guilt me into splitting one with you.”

Dean grinned at Her. “I’m not trying to guilt anyone-“

“Good. Because it’s not working.”

“Yeah, I don’t care, cause I’m not trying to do anything.” Dean turned back to the display, flagging down the chick behind the counter to grab four of those awesome mini pies, ignoring Her glare behind him. “You got something you wanna say, Princess?”

He could easily picture Her glare deepening. “Why’d you get four.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

She snorted. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Well, you’re not a doctor. I could grow some more.” Dean turned with his bag in hand, guiding Her out of the shop—they’d already decided it was a dead end, and Dean had pies to eat and a point to prove—with a smirk. “Never know.”

“I do know.” She mumbled. “You won’t.”

“Not if you don’t believe in yourself. That mindset, you’ll never get anywhere in life-“

“Shut up.”

Dean tossed the first mini pie into his mouth. “Bossy-“

“I’ll hit you, Winchester.”

He winked at Her, speaking through his half-chewed mouthful. “Promise?”

He dodged Her kick to his shins, only to fall right onto Her elbow in his gut, spluttering up some of his pie.

“Shit!” She grabbed his arm to steady him, Her eyes wide. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to get you that bad-“

“Nah, ’s fine.” Dean dusted himself off, pulling himself back to full height, giving Her his best winning smile. “You warned me, that one’s a freebie.”

“I’m still sorry-“

“Don’t be.” He winked at Her. “I’m careful, sweetheart. That’s why I got four.”

She flushed, mumbling another apology, and Dean really didn’t care. He still had three pies, She was adorable when she was embarrassed, and it was kinda funny. He’d spat that up like a cartoon.

He did only get two of those pies, but that was because he won the previous argument, so all was right in the world. Dean made it through his first whole one with dramatic and vulgar sounds of pleasure, watching Her scowl at the air, then flush, then start to glance at Dean with hungry eyes.

He was unable to hide the smug glee in his voice when he raised his brows at Her.

“Hey, Princess.”

She glared at him, Her lips in a pretty pout, and Dean’s smirk grew as he dug around through the bag, pulled out one of the pies, and offered it to Her.

She looked between Dean and the pie, snatched it like She was worried it was a bomb set to go off, and marched away as she shoved it in Her mouth.

Dean didn’t understand Her at all.

He didn’t really care.

Most of the stores were dead end leads—everyone they interviewed not able to mention anything strange about the mall or off about their store the day before someone was literally murdered in it—so they ended up fucking around more than any two hunters on a case probably should. Dean was cracking more jokes than Dad would usually allow, but She was a receptive audience, and Her giggle was like lightning through Dean’s blood. She kept watching everything with that same fasciation, and the pie had seemed to open some sort of dam in Her as the afternoon crept on. She spent the half the time in Yankee Candle smelling things, inspected over the stuffed animals in a toy store like she was choosing a counsel, and spent so long starting at books in Barnes and Noble that Dean decided it was fine for him to take an hour in the vinyl store.

“Of course you like vinyl.”

Dean frowned at Her. “Yeah, I’m not a freakin’ heathen-“

“I know.” She said the words simply, like they were obvious, and Dean felt something hum happily in his chest, just to the right of his heart. “But it’s been an hour, De, and I know for a fact you already have that album as a cassette tape-“

“It’s about appreciating art, Princess.” Dean shrugged Her off, turning back to the shelves. “You can head out whenever you want. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

She scowled, but didn’t leave. She stayed right at Dean’s side, even asking him a few questions about the albums and not acting like She regretted it when his answers were long and detailed. She scanned over the store with a small, thoughtful furrow in Her brow as Dean spoke, but he knew She was listening because then she’d ask fucking follow up questions. She must have been looking for a clue or lead, because halfway through talking about Metallica She grabbed his arm and dragged him to a corner of the store, crouching down to run a hand over a crack in the wall, and looked up at Dean with a sigh.

“Sorry, I thought I-“ She shook her head, frowning at the crack. “Never mind.”

“You thought it was something for the case?” Dean dropped at Her side, not really caring to examine the crack. It was a plaster wall, there were going to be cracks and he didn’t really think it was anything at all.

But She had. And Dean always wanted to know why she thought something.

“I’m not sure, I just-” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, twisting a ring on Her finger. “I don’t know.”

Dean frowned. Lie. “Don’t know what.”

“What we’re looking for.” She muttered, her voice lined with frustration. Truth. “I don’t have a fucking clue, De, and I don’t like it. I mean, we can interview the victims’ families again, but they’re all different demographics, and I don’t- I don’t know-“

Dean said Her name cautiously, placing his hand on Her back, but She just kept talking.

“I don’t know, this, it feels bad.”

He frowned. “Yeah, it’s a bunch of gruesome murders-“

“No, I mean- I know you can’t- Only I- It’s just bad. It’s really bad and I can, I can feel- it’s like-” She sighed, slumping slightly into Dean’s touch, which made him feel like he was flying. “It’s wrong, Dean. It’s dark.”

Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what She was talking about, or why She was watching the crack like it might spread up and collapse the building, but She looked really worried. He’d never seen that on Her before, and it felt like a blaring alarm in his chest, demanding Dean listen to Her. That he fix this.

“Look, Princess, I’m not sure what you’re talking about-“

“I know. I sound insane.”

“Yeah, you do, but-“ He offered Her a small grin, even though her attention was still fixed on the crack. “We’ve still got a few more stores to go, and we’re going to find something. No funny business on our watch, right?”

“No, but,” Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she let out a long breath. Dean wanted to pull it between his teeth. “This… I don’t really want to know what it is.” She finally looked to Dean, and there was something nervous in Her eyes that made his whole body tight.

“We can’t just give up,” Dean said Her name carefully, rubbing his hand in a careful circle. “We deal in the nasty and bad, that’s the job-“

“I’m not saying we give up, De.” She mumbled. “We’re going to fix this, but I’m saying I really don’t like this. I can’t describe why, but I don’t, and maybe we should call in the backup now-“

Dean shook his head. “You promised me a week-“

“I know, I’m just saying we don’t have anything. Not even a real lead.”

He shrugged, rising up and offering Her his hand. “We’ll find one. It’s about attitude,Princess. Fake it till you make it.”

“I don’t think you can fake evidence. I think that’s actually a felony.” Her voice was a little lighter as Dean helped Her to her feet, and it made him feel hot, bright pride. He’d cheered Her up. Just Dean.

“Lucky we’re not real cops then, right?” He winked at Her, and she snorted.

“No, that’s actually also a felony-“

“You’re focusing on the negative,” Dean drawled Her name, guiding Her out of the store with a hand on her back. “Remember. Attitude.”

She rolled Her eyes. “You’re a dork.”

“I’m hilarious and charming.” He corrected, trying not let Her small smile move too deep into his heart. “That’s my strength, sweetheart, I keep the spirits up while you get all emotional-“

She whacked his chest, giggling as Dean took a large, dramatic step back. “I am not emotional-“

“You just hit me because I hurt your feelings- Shit!”

He barely dodged the kick to his shins, taking a large step back to avoid the elbow.

“Ha,” he let out a loud, triumphant laugh. “I’ve learned all your tricks- fuck!”

Dean did not dodge the tackle. She side-slammed into him with a light force that Dean should’ve been able to absorb, but still sent him stumbling. Not because he was hurt—She never actually hurt him, her every hit controlled and delivered with a gleam in Her eyes that made Dean grin—but because She seemed to not anticipated catching him off guard, and ended up pressing Her whole body to Dean’s and setting him on fire. She fit there, soft and warm and natural, and Dean couldn’t stop his arms from flying to wrap around Her, to take her down with him.

Landing them both on the floor of the mall, looking more like teenagers than the official police investigators they were supposed to be. But if people were staring, he couldn’t see them. He could only see Her. Beautiful and consuming in his lap, his arms around Her torso and her hands braced on his chest. Smothering him with the smell of fruit and sugar, drawing him in closer as they just stared at each other.

He was blinded. Her eyes were wide and vast and seemed to be wrapping around Dean until everything in the universe was one color, and that color was Her. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing down to Her lips. Slightly parted, the feeling of them still branded onto his cheek, just as bright as the rest of Her and luring him closer like he was only moth-

She swallowed, shifting slightly above him, and it broke him out of the spell. She could not be squirming above him in public. Not when they had a job to do and Dean wasn’t sure She’d like or want the consequences of that action.

“We should, um-“ Her words were slow, as if she had to think every single one out. “Case. Evidence.”

“Right, yeah. Case.” Dean stood carefully, helping Her to her own feet. “What, uh, where are we-“

“Macy’s.” She mumbled. She was still standing too close, where Dean could feel the heat of her body. “It’s actually the last stop.”

“Good, awesome-“

“No, not awesome.” She gave Dean a flat look. “This is our last store, and we have nothing.”

“I told you, Princess, we’ll find something.” He trailed at Her side as they began walking, staring at Her as they moved through the crowd. She’d stop him from hitting anyone, and she was so much better look at than a bunch of random strangers and shops. “It’s all about the attitude and teamwork, about playing to our strengths. My strength is, of course, being the level-headed decision maker-“

She laughed. “No.”

“Alright, but you gotta tell me-“

“I don’t have to do anything.”

He sighed. “You’re so mean to me.”

“That’s because you’re a loser, Winchester.”

“If I am, you’re losing with me.” He grinned at Her, she glanced at him with a light in Her eyes, and those words didn’t stab him deep in the soft tissue of his stomach like they should’ve. Dean was a loser, but she didn’t say it the way most people would’ve. She said it like it was endearing. Like She wouldn’t want Dean any other way.

He hoped She wanted him at all. The most evidence he had that She did was that she was here. Hunting with Dean, talking to the cashiers and walking by his side. Giggling as he made stupid jokes about the glittering heels in the shoe isle, making Her own jokes about a rack of hideous dresses, watching Dean with amusement as he glared at a bedazzled belt in the men’s isle.

“What would you even use that for?” He asked Her, turning it over in his hand. “It’s all freakin’ sparkly-“

“I think that’s the point, De.” She shrugged, standing right at Dean’s shoulder as he continued to glower at the belt. “Sparkly cowboy belt, who wouldn’t want one?”

Dean scoffed. “This is not a cowboy belt-“

“Yeah, it is.” Her arm brushed over Dean’s as she grabbed the tag, and he almost completely forgot what they were talking about as every bit of his existence flew to that touch. “Bling Western Belt, Men’s.”

“That’s… that’s fucking dumb as hell, cowboys don’t wear glitter-“

“Fun cowboy’s wear glitter.” She nudged her shoulder with his, Her smile brighter than every stupid rhinestone on the belt. “Maybe you’re just a boring cowboy.”

Dean raised his brows at Her. “So I’m a cowboy? Is that my strength?”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “That’s not a strength, it’s a characterization-“

“But I am a cowboy-“

“A boring one.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

“You do that.” She hummed, looking over Her shoulder with a frown—that little furrow in Her brow deep, her eyes focused—and Dean paused, letting the belt drop from his hands.

“You good, Princess?”

“Huh?” She looked back to him with an open expression, the wrinkle still there, and God, he wanted to touch it. “What’d you say?”

He scanned over Her carefully, looking for any sign of distress, anything he needed to fix. “I asked if you’re good-“

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She grabbed Dean’s arm and tugged him away from the belt, down the aisle. “Let’s keep moving.”

She didn’t seem fine, but she also wasn’t frantic or edged enough for pushing Her to be worth it. Dean had a feeling She’d just bristle and snap, or shut down completely, and he didn’t know how to the hell to fix it if She did. He didn’t want to ruin this. He couldn’t ruin this. He had Her as close as she’d allow, and he wanted to keep her there until he was forced away. Dean wanted to keep listening to Her speak about things he normally wouldn’t care about, but felt fascinating when She said them. He wanted to know Her every thought on this case, understand what she meant by it feeling bad, and maybe learn enough that, if She tested him, he’d pass and be allowed closer. Close enough that She’d explain herself without Dean ever needing to ask.

Close enough that he might be able to spend whole days with Her walking through a mall, no threat of death hanging over their heads. Just Dean making dumb jokes, Her explaining things to him, and Dean telling Her his opinions and kissing Her on the head when she hit his chest, both of them smiling and their hands tangled perfectly together-

Dean did not need to hold Her hand. He was not a toddler. His fingers might be aching to touch Her skin and his body might be straining to press against Her’s, but that was just his body. His body that didn’t seem to care that She was, still, lying to him. That Dean should be a lot more focused on the people being murdered part of this rather than lost these countless fantasies of Her. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t dream of them tonight, where they couldn’t affect anyone but Dean. Where all they did was carve into his resolve and pull him further down into Her, where he couldn’t afford to be.

Where he didn’t have the will to leave.

It was why he kept trying to get his head in the case, but couldn’t. He just kept thinking of Her in front of him, kept getting lost in Her voice with no need to be found.

“God, this shit is expensive.” She mumbled at Dean’s side, her eyes scanning over the price tags of various perfume bottles as she fidgeted with the EMF reader. “I mean, I use that one, and it is not worth a hundred bucks.”

Dean mumbles a passive agreement, glancing at the bottle She’d nodded to. Fancy and crystal looking, filled with golden liquid and labeled with a French word he couldn’t pronounce. He almost looked away—he didn’t really care about perfume at all—but then he realized that could be it. That could be the fruit smell.

He grabbed the bottle, turning it in his hands, and She gave him an amused look.

“You looking for a new perfume, Deano?”

“Shut up.” He muttered. “What’s a keynote.”

“It’s like the main smell of something.” She hummed, and Dean frowned between Her and the label.

“This says the keynote is vanilla.”

“Uh huh.” She looked back to the EMF reader. “I think this area is clear, which means we still have-“

“And you’re sure you wear this?”

“Pretty sure, considering I got it for myself-“

“This.” Dean held it up for Her to see. “Vanilla. You wear the vanilla.”

“Yep.” She gave him an odd look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,“ Dean placed the bottle back on the shelf, shooting Her his best winning grin. “I’m fantastic, Princess, just didn’t pin you for the vanilla type.”

She raised Her brows. “What did you pin me for?”

Dean couldn’t answer that, because he’d sound like an insane person. He already felt like an insane person, because every time he’d been near Her, he’d smelled fruit. He was goddamn certain of that, because it drove him out of him mind and made him feel like a giddy, dumbass teenage boy. And there was no universe where Dean would be able to look her in the eyes and say well, I think about how you smell all the time, sweetheart. And you do not smell like vanilla.

So he just winked, shoving his hand in the pockets of his jacket and moving right back to Her side. “I’ll tell you if you tell me my strength.”

She sighed. “Nice try.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope.” She was scanning the store around them, and Dean was about to ask what would work when She did a double take, grabbed his arm, and yanked him down to the floor.

Dean’s balance stuttered slightly as he went down, and he flinched as he landed flat on his ass. “Damnit,” he grunted Her name, rubbing his tailbone. “What the hell was that for-“

Her hand shot out to cover his mouth, Her voice falling to a whisper. “Quiet, I need to-“ She cut herself off, craning her neck up, then ducking back down a second later. “Fuck.”

Dean raised his brows at Her, and she glanced at him with a that little furrow between her brows.

“What?”

He gave Her a flat glare, pointing to her hand, and she flushed.

“Shit, sorry-“ She pulled Her hand away and Dean glowered her, his voice rising to a hushed shout.

“Why’d you do that-“

She covered his mouth again, giving him a stern glare. “Quiet.” She hissed. “I think we’re being followed.”

Dean blinked at Her, dragging her hand off of his face. “By who?”

“Tall, hot lady with the dark hair.” She whispered. “She’s been right behind us through the whole store, she was at the food court, and in almost all the shops-“ She paused, giving Dean an odd look. “You haven’t noticed?”

“No, uh, not really-“

“She tried to hit on you, De. Like, five times.“

Dean frowned. Nobody had hit on him today, let alone multiple times. It had just been Her and Dean the whole day, only ever speaking to other people when they were doing the interviews or getting food. He’d remember if a tall chick had been coming onto him. He’d remember if he’d spoken to a hot lady at all.

But he only remembered talking to Her.

“You said she’s has been following us all day?”

“She called you cute in the bakery, Dean. And complimented your music taste in the vinyl shop.”

Dean frowned into the air, trying to will the memory into existence, and came up blank. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She snapped, glancing over Her shoulder wearily. “I was right next to you.”

She sounded sour. Like the words tasted bitter on Her tongue. Shit, even Her pretty face was scrunched slightly, Her nails scratching at her skin and her body tensed.

Dean’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Holy shit,” he leaned a little closer to Her, dropping his voice into a loud whisper. “You’re jealous.”

She looked back to him with that gorgeous flush and wide eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

“You’re all pissy because I might have not been paying attention to you-“

She rolled Her eyes. “You literally don’t remember her. And even if you did, I would not be jealous.”

Dean knew She wouldn’t be. The sour thing was probably more from Her overall worry about them being followed. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep taunting Her until she shoved him, not when he got to see her all adorably and mumbly and embarrassed.

“It’s okay, I get it. You don’t have anything to worry though.” Dean’s grin was probably shit-eating, and he took the risk to lean in closer, until his body was almost covering Her’s. “I only got eyes for one lady to stick around in my life.“

She raised Her brows at him, her voice dry. “Your dads car?”

He shrugged. “Two ladies.”

“You don’t know two ladies.”

“You’re a lady, genius-“

She snorted. “I am not a lady.”

Dean waved Her off, bracing his other hand on the perfume self. “You’re the most lady lady I know, you use perfume-“

“Because I like smells, Winchester, not because I’m a lady.”

“You can dance-“

“I’ve told you, anyone with legs can dance.”

“Not me.”

“You can rodeo, cowboy.”

Dean gaped at Her for a long second—still scanning around them for his alleged stalker—and he couldn’t really remember how to speak. She’d called him cowboy. She’d said it like it was plain and obvious and shouldn’t set off fireworks along his ribs. Like it shouldn’t suddenly be incredibly important to Dean that she call him that again very soon, ideally now-

“Our shadow’s gone.” She muttered, looking back to Dean with a small frown. “I still think we should be careful.”

Dean shook himself out of the gaze, giving Her a lazy grin in the hope She hadn’t noticed his almost drunken daze. “I’m always careful, sweetheart-“

“Says the guy who didn’t even notice he was being followed-“

“I can’t be expected to remember every chick that hits on me, Princess.” He spread his arms wide, smirking as She rolled her eyes. “I mean, look at me. C’mon.”

She gave him a dry look, opened Her mouth to spar back at him, but froze with a gape and flash of Her eyes.

“Uh,” Dean waved his hand in Her face, saying Her name. “You good in- damnit-“

He lost his balance as She grabbed his hand out of the air, turning it palm up and running a light touch over his fingertips. Small sparks of electricity flew over his skin at the contact, at how feather like and gentle it was, like Dean was worth being touched carefully, and fuck, he wanted to hold Her hand so bad-

“What are you-“

She raised one finger, and Dean fell silent, watching Her examine his skin like it was priceless. Turning it between Her hands, leaning down to look closer, really touching Dean, lighting him up golden from inside-

“Hey, uh-“

“Dean.” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “I’ve got it.”

He blinked at Her stupidly. “Got what.”

“What we’re after.” She dragged two fingers over the pad of Dean’s thumb, then held them up for him to see. “Sulfur.”

His brain still wasn’t back to normal. Not while She was still holding his hand. “Huh?”

“There’s sulfur.” Her grin was almost manic, and Dean would be a little freaked out if it wasn’t Her, and he didn’t recognize that as Her I’m about to be right about something smile. “Which means…?”

She was prompting him, and Dean had to rub his head slightly to remember. “Uh, demons, right? They-“ His eyes widened as he finally caught up, all the pieces—violent murders, random victims, no normal leads—fell into place. “Shit. That’s not good.”

“No,” She hummed, squeezing Dean’s hand slightly. “But it’s something.”

——————

You can’t keep living like this. You can’t keep crashing into Dean over and over, expecting it not to leave a mark. It does. It always does. He keeps sinking into you in ways you don’t expect, until your back feels bare without his hand and everything is worse when he’s not there with you. You’ve spent the past year running your fingers over cassette tapes and fighting to urge to get one for him, lost money to buying food because you think Dean would like it, and wasted time staring at your phone and willing it to ring so you could hear his voice. It’s gotten worse the longer your arrangement has gone on. You still don’t know what it is, but you know it’s all only gotten worse.

It’s not a maintainable way to live. Dean has only left you in your motel room, and you already miss him. It’s been ten fucking minutes and you’re uneasy, the White twisting and coiling because Dean’s not next to you and it seems to believe that he’s a given. Everything falls into smooth harmony when he’s there, and when you separate it’s like being doused in ice water that grips your throat and drags the world to press against your skull. He’d walked you to your room with a wink and reminder that he was just down the strip, and you waved him off and told him you were a big girl who wasn’t going to hurt herself changing her shirt. Then he’d shrugged, you’d closed the door, and everything had been worse.

It all felt smaller. The room was too narrow, the ceiling too short, the mirror too close and its reflection too sharp.

And that’s not Dean. That’s just you. That’s how it always is, how it’s always been. The White glows and the darkness eats you and everything is too small until it’s not. Until the darkness makes you not only you, and it’s all vast and infectious until you drag yourself back down and it’s all small again. It’s dangerous. You’re dangerous. The darkness has gotten stronger in this past year, and you’ve grown sicker, and it’s dangerous. You can’t control it, and the old ways don’t work as well as they did before.

“I had another one,” you’d mumbled at few weeks ago, glancing up at Bobby from across the table. “Wendigo hunt, in Oregon.”

Bobby had grunted, running a hand over his beard as he watched you carefully. “You alright?”

“Yeah. But I,” you’d swallowed, a foul stench still trapped in your nose. “I ruined a creek.”

“Whatdy’a mean, ruined.”

“I mean the water flew out of it.”

Bobby had blinked at you. “Out of- out the whole damn creek?”

You’d nodded, and he’d leaned forward in his chair, his voice low and cautious.

“You’re still tryin’ to remember what sets them off, yeah?”

“I was…” You’d swallowed, because you couldn’t tell Bobby the full truth.

You’d been hunting with Dean. He hadn’t been answering your messages, and the darkness had started to expanded until you were the dirt and the leaves and the mud and the water, and the water had felt distressed, and you’d been falling apart and Dean wasn’t there and then-

He’d been fine. His stupid, dollar store pager had been snapped in his backpack while he was pissing, he hadn’t had signal to call you, and he’d just laughed and brushed you off when you’d shoved him and shouted that he couldn’t just vanish on a hunt when he was the asshole who insisted you hunt together in the first place. If he’d noticed the suddenly dry creek bed, he hadn’t said anything. If Dean has noticed any of the real outbursts—the ones you don’t catch before you lose control—he hasn’t mentioned it, or even given you an odd look.

But Bobby didn’t know you were hunting with Dean. He still doesn’t.

So you’d said you were afraid, because it wasn’t a lie.

“The… the wendigo was near me, I could feel it, and I freaked out.” You’d sighed, twisting a ring on your finger. “And that was it. No deaths.”

“Good.” Bobby had muttered, glancing down to your hands. “Any injuries I need to know about?”

“No, I got the wendigo-“

“Injuries on you,” Bobby had said your name with a knowing look. “I know how you handle this shit, kiddo, and it ain’t my place to tell you how to deal with it, but if ya’ got anythin’ I need to patch up-“

“No.” You’d whispered, hanging your head slightly. “Nothing.”

Nothing visible. Nothing Bobby could see. He knows about the scratching and biting and picking, but he doesn’t know about the iron. He still thinks you wear the rings because they’re fashionable. He doesn’t know about how they crush the darkness further down by force, or how they leave stains along your bones and over the White.

He doesn’t know how they seem to be fucking useless lately. How the blowups have not only been more powerful, but the darkness has risen with more ease.

You think that’s Dean. You’re not sure why, but when you’re with Dean with darkness and the White seem to meld peacefully, right up until they don’t. Right up until you’re in another situation like Vitus last year, and Dean’s by your side, and it’s all suddenly devouring. Over and over the blowouts have been bigger when you’re hunting with Dean, over and over you’ve had more… episodes when you’re together. When there’s a monster you know wouldn’t look or lunge at you, but now Dean’s here and he’s in danger.

Danger from the monster.

Danger from you.

Because you really can’t control it, and if you have a real blowup—not just everything being too big as you cling to a little bit of control with your teeth—Dean will pay the price. He hasn’t asked much about the episodes, only given you strange looks after and patted your head awkwardly when they linger a little longer, cracking soft jokes and refusing to leave your side. Thankfully, he just seems to think it a girl thing, because he’s an adorable dumbass who mostly hangs out with his dad.

Which is another problem. Every time you indulge yourself—every time you cave into this strange need to be wherever Dean is—you’re a step closer to a death at John Winchester’s hands. All it would take is one easy case, one slip up where he finds out what Dean does when he’s left alone, and you’d be fucked.

But you’re already fucked. Because you really don’t care. You don’t care that John might find out what’s happening and try to kill you, because you’re faster than that asshole, and you know how to disappear. You don’t care that Bobby will kick your ass when he finds out what an idjit you’re being. You only care about the way the world seems to fall into place when Dean greets you with a wide grin and shout of your name across a parking lot. You care about how he’s still here, and he hasn’t gone anywhere, and you don’t think he will. You don’t know if he’s grown blind to what you are, or forgotten, or simply isn’t bothered by it anymore, but you know he’s here.

In the same motel, just a few rooms down.

He’s tried to convince you to share a room—it’s just a room, Princess, and if I was gonna stab you, I’d have done it by now—but that’s where you draw the line. You simply cannot put yourself in that situation. Where Dean showers and you can hear the water, where you wake up and he’s sleeping across the room. You can’t allow yourself to find out whether or not he wears a shirt to sleep, or what side of the bed he prefers, or if he tosses and turns through the night.

You’ll get weird. You’ll be tending to a part of this desire for him that will consume you if you’re not careful. It’s already pathetic and strange that the White is always tugging you to his side. That you always smell grass and spice, even when Dean must be states away. It’s bad enough that you dream about him, that his touch is like a cure to the pain that lives in you, that it feels like you’re growing and for once it’s not malignant. It’s already too much how the darkness is soothed into the White when he’s there, that those fractured pieces scattered through your body always grow towards each other like a spiderweb that’s learned to mend itself. That when Dean smiles at you all those pieces start to catch light and throw it across the darkest, deepest corners of your innards.

It’s worrying that when Dean’s gone, they curl and fester until he returns.

It’s the fucking worst that whenever he’s even near you, you want… more. Not just his hands on your bare skin or his lips wherever he wants to put them, but all of him.

So you can’t share a room with Dean. Because if he wanted all of you, if he had even a sliver of what kept calling you back to him, he would’ve mentioned it. He would’ve had to, because the words tell me you feel this too, please, just so I know I haven’t lost my mind always live on your tongue.

But he hasn’t said anything.

And you don’t want to destroy this. If it breaks, you won’t know how to live with only the pieces left in your hands.

Not when it’s been this good.

Because you’re crashing into Dean every single moment, but you’re bending to him too. You’re allowing him to be something you’ve never really had.

He’s your friend.

He looks out for you. He talks to you like you’re not only ever speaking out of turn. He’s even convinced you to start hunting with a weapon.

“What’s this?” You’d asked him, and he’d shrugged, a wide grin on his face.

“It’s a knife, Princess, it goes chop-“

You’d rolled your eyes. “I know what a knife is, I’m asking what this one is doing here.”

“It’s for you.” His voice had dropped slightly, his eyes scanning over your face slowly. “So you don’t get yourself killed when you hunt alone.”

“Dean, I’ve never gotten killed before-“

“Yeah, it’s kind of a one-time thing,” he’d drawled your name, his hands in his pockets so you couldn’t shove the knife into them. “And now I’m not gonna have to worry about you-“

“Aw,” you’d grinned at him. “You worry about me?“

“No, I-“ He’d scowled. “Just take the goddamn knife.”

“Say you worry about me.”

He’d swallowed, his eyes narrowing, and grumbled so low you’d barely heard it. “I worry about you. Pinky promise you’ll actually use that thing.”

Dean had raise his pinky, you’d beamed at him as you locked it with yours, and now that knife stayed under your pillow when you slept. And Dean worried about you. As a hunting partner. As a friend.

You think that’s what this will have to be. It doesn’t seem to be enough for any singular part of you, but it’s more than you’ve ever had before.

It’s poking fun at each other in a way that doesn’t bite and sharing amused looks when someone says something dumb. It’s telling him most everything about yourself and him acting like you’re the most fascinating person in the world. Him doing the same to you, and you hanging onto his every word like they’re the most important things you’ll ever know. It’s not as if you never tell people about yourself, but you really like telling Dean things. He only looks at you when you’re speaking, then he makes stupid jokes that pull a giggle from your lips, and his face wears a shit-eating, prideful grin that makes you want to touch his lips to check that he’s real.

If you don’t count Bobby—and you usually do—Dean might be the only person in the world that knows you and likes you.

Mostly knows you.

Knows everything but that one last, foul truth. And sometimes, you do want to tell him about you being… whatever you are. A witch, a monster, something bigger, something worse. Times like when he sits with you after one of your episodes and you want to explain. Times like when he seems to think you’re more important than you are, when he makes a passing remark about you being fancy.

Times like at the mall, when you’d felt something sicker and darker than you in that crack on the wall. Rotting and molding inside of and around it, reaching out to you and trying to wrap around your skin.

It had felt like you, but with nothing colorful cast around it. The whole mall had felt like that, but that crack had been worse. Focused.

You’d checked your notes when you’d gotten back to the motel. Checked what you’d gotten on the vic in the vinyl shop.

A lumberjack who’d had skin under his nails, like he’d fought back. Bruising on his ankles like he’d been yanked down by them.

So now you’re bent over the sink, trying not to choke on bile or look in the mirror. Because unless you’re wrong—and you don’t think you are—that had been damage left by the demon’s anger and pain. Damage that had been like you.

You pull it together. You run a shower that burns your skin, sit in the tub with your knees folded into your chest, and pull it together. Dean will be here soon, so you have to fucking pull it together.

But you take off the rings. They’re not nearly enough to stop anything, and even when you stop feeling the suffocation of your tangled sheets, pure pain is still wrapped around your skull like a halo. You know taking the rings off won’t heal or mend it, but at least it will lessen the agony.

And that will have to be enough.

Dean knocks on your door with a wide grin and dramatic bow, and from here the night should be simple. You’ll go to a bar, Dean will get a beer, you’ll get what he calls a girly drink, and you’ll figure out the Demon’s pattern so you can kill it. You’ll lean back in your booth as he leans forward, and you’ll laugh and talk until you realize it’s almost midnight, then you’ll have to actually work on the case.

From there it will be easy. For you. You’ll lay out all the pieces—it’s a demon, Dean’s pointed out that all the killings seem to happen at night, and you’ve been caught on the fact that over half of the victims seemed to live outside the county—while Dean offers adorable and mostly useless comments. He’s not dumb, but he seems to think he is, and likes playing it up for the bit. And White always sings when you tell him he put something together and his grin becomes toothy and boyish, so you never bother telling him to shut up in a way that you mean.

And that is how the night goes. Dean’s foot keeps pressing against yours—making everything silver and your body melt closer to his—and he orders a lot of food when you finally get to work, but you’re still thinking aloud and Dean’s still cracking dumb jokes, so it’s easy.

Right until around 1am, it’s easy.

“I don’t understand why all the murders are different.” You lean your head back onto the booth, keeping your eyes on Dean’s. “It’s not just the different stores. There’s never the same kind of murder. One blunt-force, one neck snapped, one hanging, and one girl’s report said she was flayed-“

“Hey,” Dean points to his burger, raising his brows. “As much as I love your dirty talk, Princess, I’m kinda eating.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just…” You trailed off, frowning at the ceiling and rubbing your palm with your thumb. “Demons don’t always follow a pattern, but they usual have an MO. A favorite type of victim, a favorite way to kill them, something that can be used to figure out where they’ll strike next.”

Dean shrugs, speaking through a mouth full of fries. “You’ll find it. I’m gonna get more fries, you wanna basket?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes as Dean shuffles out of the booth and racking your brain for anything you can use. Night killings, never in the same store. Inconsistent timeframes, too, because it seems to have been two nights since the last murder. But that means there’s probably a new one coming, and if it’s nighttime right now-

“Hey, baby, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here all by herself?”

You open your eyes to see a man that’s definitely not Dean dropping across from you. He’s a litter shorter, a little more wiry, with gelled hair and a smirk that crawls on your skin instead of sparks on it.

“Uh, I’m not by myself.” You glance over to the bar, your eyes finding Dean in a second. His back is to you as he leans over the counter, and you can easily imagine his wide grin as he watches the bartended collect his fries. “My friend’s just getting food.”

“Well,” the man settles into the booth, leaning forward with a wink. It’s not as pretty as Dean’s. “I can keep you company until she gets back.”

“Actually-“

“Name’s Frank.” He extends his hand, and when you shake it, his hands are clammy. “Pretty girl got a pretty name?”

You say your name, watching him wearily. “And I’m kind of working-“

Frank laughs. “It’s one in the morning, baby, you should take a break-“

“I got two, ‘cause you always say you don’t want any then you try to fucking eat mine-“ Dean cuts himself off with a scowl when he sees Frank, and you think he’s suddenly standing a little taller. “Hey, buddy, you’re in my seat.”

Frank shrugs. “Sorry, man, I got here first-“

“You did not.” Dean snaps, dropping the fries down on the table. “Cause that’s my seat.”

“Didn’t see your name on anything, bro. And she,” Frank gestures to you, and you blink. “Is way out of your league, so beat it.”

“Beat it?” Dean laughs, and that’s his hunter laugh. You’ve mostly heard it right before he kills something. “Listen, bro, I’m asking one more time before your ugly mug and my fist have a chat-“

You grab Dean’s wrist—you’re in no position to get in a bar fight, especially not over a seat—and give him a pointed look. “De, my root beer is empty, I’m gonna go get another.”

He frowns at you. “That’s your fourth one-“

“And?” You squeeze Dean’s wrist slightly as you rise out of your seat. “You’re not my dad, Winchester. I’m a grown woman, I’ll have fifteen if I want.”

“Damn right you’re a grown woman, baby-“

Dean shoots Frank the most venomous glare you’ve ever seen. “Shut it, haircut. And you,” he turns back to scan over your face. “I can go get your root beer, you eat the fries-“

“I’m not hungry.” You nod to your booth. “And you can have my seat. Compromise.”

Dean stares at you, an emotion you can’t read painted over his every feature, and shakes his head slightly. “No, I’ll, uh, I’ll come with you.”

“Sure.” You shrug, giving Frank a sweet, polite smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry, we have to go-“

Frank frowns, his words clipped as he cuts you off. “So you are with pretty boy over here-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “We’re partners, douchebag. C’mon.”

You don’t get another word in before Dean’s pulling you to the bar, sitting you on a barstool and dropping at your side.

“Are you okay?” You ask, watching him scowl at the bartender. “You look like someone shat on your burger.”

“I’m fine.” He grunts, giving you another odd look. “Did you give him your number?”

“No, why would I have done that-“

“Good. Wouldn’t be safe.” Dean turns back to the bar, ordering your root beer as you stare at him.

“Yeah, I know.” You tilt your head at his bitter expression, and let it go for now. Dean can be strange, and you’ve learned to mostly ignore it. Besides, you have bigger things to worry about. “I had an idea by the way, while you were getting the food-“

“Before or after Slimy McHairgel sat down-“

“Before.” You shrug, giving the bartender a full-lipped smile as she passes you your root beer. “I got distracted after, but-“

“You got distracted-“

“Yeah, he was talking to me. But look, all the murders have been happening at night, it’s been a minute since the last one, and they’ve never hit the same store twice, so, if we patrol the mall tonight-“

“We might catch the demon in action.” Dean finishes your thought, turning his own beer in his hands. “Good plan, Princess. See that’s your greatest strength-“

“You’re really hung up on that, huh.”

Dean throws up his hands, his voice almost a whine. “Sue me for wanting to know what my-“

“Is this seat taken?”

You and Dean blink at each other as a silky voice cuts him off, and you turn to see a tall, hot woman with dark hair smiling at you.

The lady from the mall. Who’d been following you all day, and Dean apparently had never seen.

You didn’t go insane.

“No.” Your hand shoots out to grab Dean’s on instinct, and he tenses, sitting a little taller. “We’re actually talking-“

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I saw you at the booth with him,” Mall Lady points back to Frank, still wallowing in Dean’s seat. “And thought you were together, so-“

“They’re not.” Dean snaps. “We are.”

You’re going to kill him later. He can’t just say shit like that, because he means you’re at the bar together, physically, but the White grabs those words and flies away with them. You’re together. You’re two things, but now you’re one because you’re together, and that’s not true but it doesn’t stop the bellowing of your whole body to move further down into Dean. It’s annoying.

Mall Lady said something to you. You didn’t hear it.

“Sorry, can you-“

“Oh, I was asking where you’re from.” Mall Lady doesn’t even seem to be looking at Dean, her eyes focused on you with a strange glint that makes your skin crawl.

“America.” You keep your voice flat, raising your brows at Dean in a silent confusion. He just shrugs.

“Where in America?“

“The part with land.”

Dean snorts, and you kick him under the table.

“I see.” Mall Lady still won’t look away from you. “And have you always been… on the land part-“

“I dunno, I’ve on a boat a few times-“

Dean says your name as he stands, and you realize you’re still holding his arm. “I’m getting tired, you wanna get out of here?”

He’s squeezed himself between you and Mall Lady. You’re not sure he knows he did that. It still makes you smile.

“Yeah,” you rise up, linking your arm through his. “Let’s go.”

Dean drops his voice as you move out to the parking lot. “That was weird.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “Are you actually tired, or are we ready to look at the mall.”

“You mean break in-“

“It’s not a break in. I’m picking the lock, nothing’s getting broken. So,” you raise a finger at him with your best stern glare. “Shut up.”

Dean chuckles. “Bossy.”

This time, he dodges your every hit, laughing the whole time.

It’s not a big mall, but there’s still a lot of space to cover, and Dean flat out refuses to let you split up. You suggest it three times on the drive and twice as you pick the lock, giving it one last shot as you scan over the colorful, peeling map, and he’s just pretending he doesn’t hear you.

“Real mature, Winchester-“

“I’m not trying to be mature.” He grumbles, watching you pull out your knife out of your bag. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get killed.”

“I am not going to get killed-“

“Yeah, you’re not. Because we’re not splitting up.”

You’d lost the argument, and now you’re wandering through the mall in the dead of night—Dean only a pace behind you—finding absolutely nothing and only listening to Dean’s slow breath.

“You breathe really loud,” you grumble, and he scoffs.

“Yeah, well, you breathe really quiet.”

You shoot him an amused look over your shoulder. “Good one.”

“Shut up.”

You hum, turning around and scanning over the empty halls. The darkness feels hot. The air is heavy and burning in your lungs, your skin is covered in a phantom cold sweat, and everything is so quiet. Too quiet. Quiet in a way that buzzes in your ears and rattles your head.

“Something’s wrong.” You whisper, your voice sounding small in your own ears.

“I’d say, this whole place is freakin’ freezing-“

“No, I’m worried-“ You stop, turning to face Dean with a frown. “No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is, look,“ Dean lets out another loud breath, and it clouds the air around him. “And my fingers are like damn ice, can we stop at a gas station for hot chocolate when we’re done-“

“No, we’re not getting hot ch-“ You cut yourself off with a sigh, another flash of heat hitting your body.

You’re losing your mind.

Dean says your name slowly, taking a tentative step forward. “Are you feeling alright-“

“Yeah.” Your voice is tight and clipped, every breath scraping at your throat, and you don’t sound fine. “I, uh, c’mon. If it hits dawn and nothing happens, we’ll go get hot chocolate.“

You turn on your heels and march away, Dean’s voice slightly out of breath as he jogs after you.

“Wait, you said no hot chocolate-“

“Don’t question me, Winchester.”

He laughs as he lands back at that pace behind you, and you feel dizzy. “Yes, ma’am.”

You waste another hour, finding nothing. Hearing nothing. Doing nothing. You’ve checked all the spots that haven’t been hit yet multiple times, nothing. Not even a drop of blood.

“I need to pee,” you mumble, and Dean grunts from behind you.

“Let’s go to the bathroom-“ You turn to frown at him. “Let’s?”

He nods, and you give him a flat glare.

“You’re not going to the bathroom with me, Dean.”

“We’re hunting a freakin’ demon, Princess, I’m not leaving you alone-“

“You are so I can pee!”

He shakes his head. You’re going to punch him. “No, it’s not safe-“ “What if you stand outside?” You offer, because he’s a fucking toddler you have to barter with. “And I get to piss alone.”

He scowls, but gives in, and you go into the bathroom alone.

You don’t see it until you’re at the sink. And even then, you feel it first. Dark without any reprieve all around you, withering and drenching your head in something spiked and heavy.

The sink cracks, but your hands are by your side. There’s a feeling like you’re underwater, you see your reflection grow jagged in the mirror as it shatters from the edges, and when you turn, she’s there.

Mall Lady.

And you’ve seen dead bodies before.

But something about this one is worse.

It’s filled with that same rot that was in the crack. Her eyes are bloodied, and her arms and chest are covered in scratches, and her fingers are missing nails and her teeth have little bits of something soft and sickening caught in the gaps. Like she’d fought for her life.

Then, she’d lost.

And now she’s strung up by her neck for you to see, and you can feel the strain of the rope to hold her up and the suffocation of the water trapped in pipes over your head and it’s too big, this is all too big-

You think you screamed, because suddenly Dean’s there and his hand is in yours, but he can’t be here right now, because this is too big and you don’t want to hurt him-

Something strong wraps around you, and it doesn’t drag you back down, but it keeps all the darkness inside you. Not soothed, not pushed, but just down. Pressing at the edge of everything but not trying to explode.

You’re not at ease until cold, untainted air hits your lungs. Until something steady grabs your head and brushes sticky hair from your eyes, and you know that you’re you. You’re not the coldness of the building behind you, or the wear of the concrete under your feet. You’re just you, sitting on the curb of the parking lot as Dean tries to talk to you, his thumb running down the bridge of your nose.

He looks worried. He looks panicked. Eyes wide on yours, his grip nervous—like he’s worried he’ll make one wrong twitch and you’ll burst apart—and he keeps muttering your name in a tone that’s almost too low to hear.

“Hey.” You whisper, and Dean lets out a long breath, dropping his head.

“Shit,” he mutters, looking up at you under hooded eyes. “You good?”

You nod, unable to break his gaze. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you petting my nose?”

He stares at you, then at his thumb. “I dunno.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna, um,” Dean’s grip on your face tightens slightly, his expression filled with something you don’t understand. “I’m gonna go get the car.”

You nod, and Dean still doesn’t move. He just watches you in the dark, his thumb still pressed to your nose, and neither of you move.

Then he leans forward and kisses the top of your head, and the world does a strange sort of stutter. Like a vinyl scratch or static on the TV, all color and noise when Dean’s lips press against your skin, leaving a glowing stain you know will linger when he’s gone.

It had been like that last time too. The same feeling, the same tattoo, the same burst of silver over your ribs, blooming and twining through your body as the fractured pieces on your body begin to grow back together.

It lasts only an infinite second, and then Dean’s gone. Walking away to get the car, with one last glance at you over his shoulder.

You don’t want him to go. You can walk. You can go get the car with him, then drive somewhere that’s not horrible to work out your next steps. You really don’t need to wait here. You really don’t want to be alone. You should stay with him, just so you can see him and know he’s real and you’re you enough to touch him-

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you flinch as someone says your name over your head. “Funny meeting you here!”

You glance back and it’s Frank. In the parking lot. At almost 4am.

“Uh, hi.”

“Small world, right?” Frank grins at you, leering above you. “First the bar, now here. Some might call it fate!”

“Yeah, sure.” You glance around the lot, entirely empty. You’d made Dean park off to the side. You’d been a fucking idiot. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Just out for a walk.”

“At 4am?”

Frank laughs. It’s bone-chilling strange, and it’s a little harsher than it had been in the bar. “I like to get a head start on my day, babe. What are you doing here?”

You push down the bile in your throat from babe. “I’m, um, waiting. For my friend.”

“What, your partner who talks like he thinks he’s some big shot?”

You frown. “No. I mean, yeah, but-“

“I don’t see him.” Frank does a dramatic sweep of the abandoned lot, then grins at you. “How could anyone stand a pretty thing like you up-“

“I’m not a thing.” You snap, your nails digging into your skin. “And he didn’t stand me up.”

Frank shrugs. “I mean, you could do better.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to curve your body away from where Frank’s still touching you. “I don’t think I could.”

“You could. With someone better.” Frank’s hand creeps over to your neck, and you freeze, looking up to see a strange glint in his eyes. It was the same one Mall Lady had, before her eyes were only blood.

And something snaps into place in your brain.

Fuck.

“Like…” You trail off with your best innocent look, letting the pain of Frank’s grip hold the darkness down for you. “You?”

“Oh yeah, babe.” He says, and you think it’s meant to be charming. “I know a back entrance in there,” he jerks his head to the mall. “And we could have a little fun, get some privacy. What’d you say?”

There it is. You’ve got it. And this time, when you narrow your eyes and focus all the darkness with a deep scratch on your skin, you can see something revolting and glinting roll around inside Frank, leaving the same horrible imprint on him it had left on Mall Lady.

The demon. Trying to lure you as he had lured all the other victims, like he had probably meant to lure Dean with Mall Lady.

A date or hookup, a strange, interesting spot to explore. People from out of town who won’t know about all the previous murders. The most horrific death the demon can think of in the moment, probably for some sort of sick sport.

You don’t really want to be a part of his score. You don’t want to know why he’d switched from Dean to you so quickly, why he was so set that he’d follow you. Why he’d still target you like this, when he must know that you’re a hunter.

When he might know that you’re something like him. Something wrong.

“So?” The demon leans down, barely a breath away. “Wanna have some fun?”

You open your mouth—hoping you figure out how to talk yourself out of this one when you start speaking—and feel relief wash over your body as headlights blind your vision and Dean screeches to a stop right before you.

“Hey!” You almost melt at the sound of his voice. He can never know. “What the fuck are you doing here, bitch-“

“I’m talking to your bitch.” The demon sounds proud of his not-joke, and you scrunch your face. “You dropped a hot piece of ass, bro, sorry she’s moving onto bigger things. Right, babe?”

The demon squeezes your neck right as Dean looks to you with a deep glare. “Right,” you whisper, holding Dean’s gaze as he blinks at you.

He’s only blinking at you.

And you blink back. Two firm times, keeping your eyes wide otherwise.

He catches it instantly, his eyes flicking down to the demon’s hand near your throat, then back to yours. Blinking once. Check in.

And you blink twice. Not safe.

Dean’s moving in a flash. Gunshots echo around the lot, and you duck and roll as Dean charges forward. When you push yourself to your feet he’s already trading blows with the demon, but they’re not even. The demon is stronger, far stronger, and you think the only thing that’s keeping Dean matched is all his pure fury. You can see it covering the profile of his face, cast in the shadows of the streetlamps, but there’s already blood on his lip and a swelling mark on his cheek and he can’t keep this up-

You fumble for your knife, but Dean must have taken it and put it in the car. You can feel the darkness crashing back up and out, but you can’t detonate, not here, not now-

The demon raises Dean up by his neck, you hear a strangled sound that might have been a scream leave your throat, and there’s a crunch when Dean falls down.

And there’s the rush. Big and not all yours to control, the darkness all around you and a little more, but aimed where it needs be. Over Dean’s slumped body, and right at the demon.

Your hands don’t move this time, but the demon still implodes. You’re everything around you—chilling wind and cracked sidewalks and chipped paint on the pavement—and it’s crushing the demon, folding and caving it in inside of Frank, gathering it into a tiny ball before bursting like a nebula out of his body. Frank’s eyes flash with gold and orange and red light, his mouth opens in a distorted roar, and then the darkness sucks itself back into your body, and it’s over.

You fall to Dean’s side, barely feeling the scrape of your knees of concrete. He’s groaning, eyes fluttering slightly, but you’re certain he’s survived worse. This just needs rest and water. The crunch looks to be only his hand—at an odd angle and completely slack—and there is a larger bruise near his temple, but he’ll be alright. You will make it so he’s alright. You’ll move his big-ass body as carefully as you can into the car and ensure that he’s comfortable in the passenger’s seat before you set off to the motel. You’ll keep careful attention on him as you call 911 for the real Frank, who will be traumatized, but live. You’ll keep a hand on Dean’s chest as you drive, because he keeps slumping forward and it makes your blood cold.

When you park, you’ll run to unlock your room before lugging him inside. You’ll lay him on your bed and take his hand in yours, wincing slightly as you hold his hand and feel the cracks in his bones.

This is the first time since the poltergeist that you’ve seen him knocked down like this. The first time since the poltergeist that the darkness has felt like it could fix something. Fix Dean. It’s right at the tips of your fingers, moving in an odd harmony with the White, and you could fix this.

You let a little of it out. Just a drop, moving from your hand to Dean’s, and you might chew through your lip because what if this just hurts him, what if this makes it worse-

Dean’s fingers flex. And when you trace over his hand, there’s nothing. Not even a fracture.

It worked. You fixed him.

And it hurts. The White and darkness are starting to clash against each other, and every part of them that touches seems frayed and fragile. It hurts just as much as when the darkness gets the better of you, but this is somewhat worse, because it’s just you hurting. Just you caving in on yourself, and just you deserving it because what if you hadn’t healed Dean. What if you’d infected him, and now he was going to be in pain like this too.

You fist your hands, tuck them behind your back, and move to your couch. You can’t be close enough to Dean that you could touch him. You might make all of this worse if you touch him again. But you can’t leave him, not when he might need something.

So, couch.

You track Dean’s every, even but slow breath as he lays on your bed, and your own exhaustion begins to catch you. It creeps over your eyes until you’re eased down into soft, dreamless sleep. You’re not sure when you fall fully under, but you blink and suddenly there’s light leaking through the slats of the motel shades, and Dean’s not passed out on the mattress.

He’s sitting up on the headboard, his jacket discarded to the side, watching you with another one of his unreadable expressions.

“Morning, Princess.” He mutters, and his voice is low and rough and still filled with sleep.

This is exactly why you hadn’t allowed yourself to sleep in the same room as him. His hair is messy and sticking up at funny angles, and there’s still some dried blood on his chin and a bruise on his cheek, but he’s also relaxed. Splayed out on the bed, his eyes softer than you usually see them, and it’s really amazing how the universe keeps finding new ways to fuck you. New reasons to crash and bend and mold further and further into Dean, until you’re all the way down and there’s no turning back.

So all you can do is rub your face clear of your own sleep, and give him a small smile. “Are you feeling okay?”

He raises his brows. “No morning back?”

“You know what time it is,” you sit up a little straighter, studying his face for any further evidence of injury. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling like I want you to say good morning-“

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Good morning, Dean Winchester.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shit, full name, I’m in trouble-“

“You will be,” you give him a pointed look. “If you don’t answer my fucking question.”

“Bossy,” he mumbles, his eyes glimmering as he tries to coax you further down. Even if he doesn’t know it, he’s trying to make you crash fully into him.

You’re going to re-break his hand.

“Dean-“

“Jesus, alright, I’m okay.” Dean gives you his wide, winning grin that’s usually designed to make you roll your eyes and giggle, but right now just makes you scowl. “See, barely a scratch. All that’s left of that demon douchebag is a headache.” Dean pauses, his grin faltering slightly. “Shit, what happened to the demon.”

“I exorcized it,” you lie through your teeth—he can’t know the truth, he’ll either call you crazy or try to kill you—twisting your skin on your finger as you watch his reaction. “We’re good.”

Dean’s face drops into a frown. “You’re lying.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“You didn’t exorcize the demon.” He mutters, watching you through narrowed eyes. “I know you didn’t.”

“You do not know-“

“Yeah, I do.” He snaps, sitting up a little higher in the bed. “I’m goddamn certain, sweetheart, so tell me the truth.”

“Dean-“

“Truth.” He spits, and you might be drawing blood on your skin with your nails.

He’d called your bluff, and it might just be luck, but it doesn’t seem like it. He didn’t sound like he was making a gamble. He sounded like he was taking a shot a foot in front of him. But you can’ttell him the truth. The truth will take him away from you forever. The truth is building wider and wider around you, all while strangling your throat, and your tongue always hates lying to Dean but everything else in you doesn’t want to lose him-

“I didn’t-“ You try to swallow the words, but you can’t seem to keep them down. “I didn’t exorcize it, I-“

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouts your name, running a hand over his face. “You just like the asshole get away! Just because I was injured?”

Your brow furrows as you gape at him. “You were passed out, Dean-“

“And that was a goddamn demon, who’s killed over half a dozen people in two weeks! You always prioritize the hunt-“

“Over your life?!” You rise up on your knees, glowering at Dean, the darkness starting to rumble as he glares back. “We’re partners, Dean, my job is to have your back, that’s the whole point of hunting together-“

“Not over the case.” He pushes off the bed and moving to tower over you, his hand braced on the couch. “Other people are going to die because you decided to play hero for me-“

You laugh up at him. “Like you never play hero, Dean. Dragging me out of the building like I’m little damsel for you to save, like you’re rescuing me and I’m just too fucking pathetic without a big, strong, white knight serving me.”

The words hit their mark. Hit deeper than you’d meant them to. You don’t even know where you were aiming, or why you’d fired, or when you’d found the bullet, but you’d hit Dean so far down, you can almost see him flinch.

He doesn’t say anything. His jaw ticks, and his fists clench and unclench, but he won’t just say something and you’re losing your mind because you didn’t mean it, the darkness had just been everywhere and it had all been too much but Dean had felt real. He’d still felt real and it all hurt because you’d always prioritize him over some stupid demon, and you were still lying to him, and you hadn’t played hero. You’d just matched the demon, and gone darker. You were the monster, and you’d always save Dean-

Suddenly he’s moving. Hunching down to grab his jacket and stomping to the door.

Going away.

You don’t want him to go away.

“Dean, wait please-“ You know sound pathetic. You don’t really care. “Just- I’m sorry-“

You’re faster than he is, and you manage to fly over the couch and move in front of the door before he can reach it.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I-“ You shouldn’t be about to cry over this, but you’re clenching your jaw until your teeth break to stop the tears. “Dean, I’m sorry, I-“ He tries to move around you, and you shift to block his path once more. “Just wait-“

“Why, you still need a hero?” He sneers, leering down at you

“No, I didn’t- I didn’t mean-“ You take a long, shaking breath, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “I don’t think you’re trying to play hero, Dean, I just, I think you’re-“

“Your knight?” He sneers, raising his browns. “Your fucking bodyguard or toy-“

“I think you’re my partner!” You shout, because even calling him your friend feels like it’s too much right now, because it would make this need for him all little more real. Something that you really could break. “I think I’d probably have been fucked without you, and I didn’t- I didn’t mean to- You’re-“

You run a hand over your face, scratching slightly to try and drag the words together, and Dean’s frown almost seems to falter.

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“Your strength is that you’re a fighter, Dean.” You snap, and his eyes widen slightly. “But not just in a muscle way, you’re… smart. Under pressure. Any pressure. I freak out but I get to freak out because I know you’ve got me. I don’t think you’re trying to play hero. I think you’ve got my back.”

“Oh.” He blinks, and all the electrically in the room seems to dissipate as he just looks at you. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “No problem.”

Neither of you move for a long moment. The darkness is settled back down, and the White is straining for Dean, but it’s always doing that so everything is back where it’s meant to be. But you’re still watching Dean to make sure he doesn’t flicker and vanish. To check that you’re not asleep, or this isn’t an odd torture from the demon or your own mind.

Dean looks like he’s watching you the same.

And he’s really close. You’re drowning in him. In grass and spice and gunpowder, in his eyes on yours and the warmth that radiates off his body.

You can’t touch him.

You really want to.

“Are we-“ You rub your arms as you hug your body, and it’s a dumb question but you have to know. “Are we good?”

“Yeah.” He gives you an odd look, but his words sound like the truth. And if they’re not, you’ll just pretend they are. “We’re good.” “Cool.” You mumble, trying not to lean forward as Dean takes a step back. “Do you, um, do you want hot chocolate?”

His brow furrows slightly. “Aren’t we gonna look for the demon?”

He won’t find the demon. The demon’s gone.

But you can waste a little more time looking for it. Eventually you’ll suggest that maybe it just skipped town, and if you see another series of mall killings, you’ll know exactly what’s going on.

And you’ll get to stay next to Dean a while long. Talk to him. Laugh with him until you forget the look of real, hateful pain on his face.

“Yeah.” You shrug, offering him a small smile. “After hot chocolate?”

Dean chuckles. “I think I can live with that.”

“Good.”

You’re watching each other, and it’s not angry, but it’s tense. Dean looks like he wants to say something. You know that you want to say a million things, and you’re not even sure where to start. Another apology, an explanation of your episode in the bathroom, the truth about the demon, a scream of can he feel this, is that why he’s staying, he shouldn’t stay, he should run and never look back because you’re stuck with you, but he can go-

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, and Dean’s lips drawn into a small pout.

“You, uh, you talk about your dad a lot.” He mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you guys still close?”

“Yeah, we are. He, um,” you glance down at your hand, running your thumb over your palm. “I visit him all the time-“

“Where does he live?”

“North.” You keep your words simple and vague, and Dean gives you an odd look. “But when I visit him, we always try to do something that isn’t…”

“Fucking depressing?” Dean offers, and you let out a small laugh.

“Yeah. Fucking depressing.” You let out a long breath. “Usually it’s just going grocery shopping and not buying doomsday bunker food, eating something sugary and stupid, and sitting out in his yard to, um, watch the stars and talk. I tease him about the cashier that flirted with him at the grocery store, how his best friend pulls more that he does, and he tells me that I shouldn’t talk when I-“ You cut yourself off, flushing slightly. Dean does not need to know that you’re worse at flirting than Bobby is. And you’ve seen Bobby try. It’s horrific. “I- uh- I need his house and food for the next week. Then we go inside and watch a really old movie, then go to bed.”

You glance up at Dean, and find his mouth slightly open.

“That’s… awesome.”

You look up at Dean’s open expression, so pretty, and real, and here. Dean’s still here. Not touching you, but close to it. Not trying to push past you anymore. He’s staying.

And you smile at him. “Yeah. It is.”

End Note: I love leaving little clues for things that won't be evident until chapters later.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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reader-wandering18 · 2 months ago

Text

Arcane Yuu (Zaun)

He was very surprised by the air of the place. So clean and full of magic, literally.

When he ended up in another timeline, separated from Ekko and Heimerdinger, he did not expect that when he tried to return he would end up in a world where Magic is the main basis that moves it.

Something very different in Runeterra where in some places it was considered something cursed and in others as a weapon. He expected a destroyed world but found himself in a paradise of magic.

But he couldn't stay in that place.

—Move

After having met a couple of idiots from that school (Deuce and Ace), an expulsion, almost dying in a mine and being accepted as a student, now Yuu found himself in front of the students of that place.

—Your pet ruined my food. I want you to give me what you have.

That boy along with his partner approached Yuu, to which he handed his tray to Deuce who took it confused.

— Oh, I'm going to...

And in just 4 moves, Yuu had finished off 2 third-year students. Both now staggering on the ground, one with a broken nose and the other missing a tooth.

A silence fell over the dining hall and certain gazes of people he would soon meet fell upon him.

—They are definitely like those Piltillos. They talk a lot, fight little.

That was his first impression at Night Raven College.

The students of that school were everything that Yuu identified as the same idiots from his world. Egocentric, proud, and they thought they were superior just for having magic.

He hated them... but not all of them.

— So, whi are You?

While he was investigating ways to get out of that world, a green light outside his dormitory was what caught his attention. Believing it was an intruder, he took one of the devices he had created from the scrap metal that the director got him.

Great was his surprise to find an imposing figure with horns in his yard.

— Don't you know me?

— Should I? — he said with a certain annoyed tone.

That person, being or whatever it was, laughed in a funny way which bothered Yuu.

— You shouldn't wander around other people's yards. You never know if they can react badly.

Malleus' gaze dropped to Yuu's hands where he noticed an object in his left hand. He didn't know what it was, at first glance it looked like junk but seeing how that human held it so tightly...

— I'm sorry, this was previously an abandoned place so I came to have some peace and quiet.

Yuu glanced at the bedroom that Director Crowley had given him as a temporary residence. His grip on the electrical grid he had made loosened a little.

— No, I'm sorry. This place must be very busy for you to come here tonight in a quiet manner. I'm going to start living here for a while so I'm sorry to take away one of your places where you can rest from the world.

Yuu's words surprised Malleus. Despite being young. (a child in his eyes) his words sounded tired.As if he also needed to be able to rest and forget everything even for a moment.

— If you've settled here, I'd better find another place to think. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you..

— You're different from the other students. Although you seem somewhat intimidating, you're much more polite — Yuu smiled kindly.

— ... What's your name?

Seeing the good atmosphere that was being produced in that place, Malleus couldn't help but want to meet that human who from the beginning saw him in a threatening way, and then, smiled at them in a friendly way.

There was a slight silence between them to which Malleus thought it was rude to ask his name when he hadn't given his own, although it seemed strange to him since he was very well known.

— Yuu

That was how a curious friendship was formed between a Zaunita and a fairy.

—Shishishishi, you spoiled rich kids always have your guard down.

Riddle looked furious, apparently wanting to go towards Ruggie who seemed to be about to run when Yuu's voice made him stop.

—You're right about that.

The gazes of the three boys and the cat turned to Yuu who looked at Ruggie with a bored look.

—However, being here with them has made you let your guard down as well.

Yuu showed what he was holding in his hand, what seemed to be a wallet, something that at first glance didn't seem to be that important. Those from Heartslabyul thought he was trying to bribe Ruggie due to his already known taste for money from that beastman, but upon closer look at that wallet, it seemed to be a little different from the others the two knew.

But Ruggie was quick to recognize the wallet and quickly and somewhat nervously searched in what seemed to be the hiding place where it should be, but it was empty.

—This, it's not yours right?

Yuu opened the wallet and searched inside finding a large amount of money that in that world was known as madol.

— Leona Kingscholar?

Ruggie laughed with irony and apparent annoyance.

— Funya! Yuu if you don't have magic, how could you take it from her?

— Yuu, you shouldn't search and much less steal another person's wallets!

— Answering Grim's question, no magic is needed to do this. And he answered Riddle, where I come from doing this is as normal as breathing the Kalima of Zaun.

Before Riddle could ask what the kalima was, Ruggie's voice interrupted him.

— So, you're like me.

The boys now turned to look at Ruggie who looked at Yuu with a mocking smile. To which Yuu answered with the same.

— You could say.

— Working for the top?

—Just like you.

His answer made Ruggie's smile fade and he looked at Yuu in annoyance.

—Look, I'm not looking to fight, let's just make a trade. Give me back their wands and I'll give you back your wallet.

—Wait a minute supervisor! We can't let go of our guilt! — Cater said

—We have nothing to blame him for in the first place, just suspicions. Talking to him won't make him tell us the truth. And with nothing against him, we can't stop him. Unfortunately for you, I'm not a vigilante who likes to arrest indiscriminately.

—That's not what I meant.

—I know, I'm sorry... I got carried away.

Yuu stretched out his arm to hand the wallet to Ruggie in a show of peace. Ruggie looked at the feathers in his hand and seemed to think for a moment.

They both approached and exchanged the items, but before walking away, Yuu couldn't help but whisper.

—We have to support ourselves from below.

His words made Ruggie look at him in surprise

Once the three of them walked away, Ruggie checked Leona's wallet, noticing the slight lack of some bills.

He simply smirked.

—Why are we here, Yuu? Didn't you say we no longer had money for our sweets?

—Well, it turns out fate smiled on me.

Of course, sometimes one can't help being the way one is.

— What brings you to the second year floor? — Riddle asked

Ace, Deuce and Jack were in the second year hallways after their last classes, which had made them meet Azul, Jamil, Riddle and Jade.

— We're looking for Yuu. — Deuce said

— My minions went to deliver some documents to Professor Trein. But he hasn't returned.

— It's been too long, so Jack suggested to go look for him.

— Jack seemed very worried~

— Grr it's not true, I just want to make sure he doesn't get into trouble.

— Certainly since Yuu's arrival, there hasn't been a single day when the school is silent. — Jamil said

— Don't mention him, he's someone really troublesome, I won't forget the ruckus he made in the monster room. — Azul couldn't help but sigh — It's the first time I've seen how a human was able to carry the twins. Yuu is really...

— Interesting. — Jade finished with a smile that sent shivers down the spine of the first years.

Suddenly, cries of surprise were heard throughout the hallway.

— Why so much noise? — Riddle asked

The group looked towards a corner of the left hallway, the sound of quick footsteps and an unfamiliar voice made the first years and Riddle's skin crawl.

It didn't take long for those two figures to appear, causing a stir.

— Yuu!

— Floyd!

The two approached them with great speed.

— YOU CAN'T RUN IN THE HALLWAYS! — Riddle shouted, standing in front of the group with an annoyed face. But seeing the ever-present case of his warning, he took out his pen and created a wall of wind that would catch both offenders.

But Yuu had done something that no one had anticipated.

He jumped off the balcony.

— YUU!!!!

— IDIOT, YOU'RE ON THE SECOND FLOOR! — Jamil shouted

The first and second year groups, as well as some students who noticed the jump of that boy without magic and the twin, ran to the balcony to expect the worst.

They were greatly surprised to see how Yuu grabbed the ledges and quickly went down to the first floor followed by Floyd with a much more terrifying smile.

— Hehehe This is very fun~. I didn't know that lobster knew parkour.

— Let's see how good a sea mermaid is.

— Heh, it seems that Floyd found a playmate. How envious — said Jade

— Come on!!

Ace ran followed by Jack and Deuce who was carrying Grim.

— Wait a minute!

Riddle ran after them while he was seen with an amused smile from Jade and a tired face from Azul.

— Yes, without a doubt Yuu gives "life" to the school.

— This looks really fun, come on Azul, I want to see what will happen.

— Hey Jade, don't pull me!!

Jamil saw how everyone went after that person without magic who, since he arrived at that prestigious institution for wizards, managed to oppose the leaders of the dormitory and at the same time, turn everything upside down.

—....

He sighed and went after the others.

...................

His breathing was labored, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

— Lobster~

Floyd's playful voice could be heard almost on the back of his neck, being chased like that reminded him a lot of his childhood, when he was chased by the men of Silco who sought to make him work in the mines for the extraction of shine.

Although Floyd was terrifying to many students of that institution, for Yuu he didn't compare at all to the people of Zaun.

But doing this is... Really liberating.

Yuu ran through the halls, running into a few familiar faces and several new faces he didn't know... Yet.

Among his acquaintances was Trey walking calmly through the halls of the first floor accompanied by a stranger with a peculiar cut and a handsome man, the three seemed to be talking until the sudden appearance of Yuu jumping on them made them surprise each other.

The handsome man grumbled in annoyance at seeing how he had been used as a springboard. But the one with the strange cut laughed amused.

Trey's glasses had fallen off in surprise. But Yuu ignored them and kept running until they reached the school's outer courtyard.

Cater and Kalim were walking with two other people, one with silver hair and one with blue hair that strangely seemed to be made of flames.

— Those are...

— Yuu and Floyd? — Kalim finished.

— But behind them are also the first and second years? What's going on? What kind of anime comedy scene is this? — the curious-haired boy quickly muttered.

— It seems like they're playing tag — Silver said.

— I don't think so. Floyd-shi gaze looks somewhat scary.

— But why are they running towards the direction of the cliff? — Kalim said

— WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, YUU! — Cater scream

Idia and Silver were expectant as they watched Cater and Kalim run with the others in an attempt to stop a human without magic.

— What is happening to this school?

When he felt Floyd's fingers rolling around his neck, Yuu jumped again... But this time to the cliff. Something that made all his acquaintances scream in horror and take out their wands in an attempt to catch him with magic.

But unlike them, he wasn't terrified.

Yuu knew he was heading to a cliff, but that cliff was special. He realized that even though it was on the side of the school, the path to get there was terribly long. This was because it was a bit higher than the campus, making it impossible for students to take shortcuts like climbing the school walls to get there faster.

Of course, something like that was no impediment to a Zaunite.

Floyd, as well as the others, crashed into the walls only to see Yuu slide down the eaves that linked the school to his dormitory.

Even though it was awfully steep and one wrong move could send Yuu rolling down. He slid masterfully as if he was already used to it and arrived at his dorm with a smile on his face.

He turned around to see everyone, both his friends and the second years. He couldn't help but smile at their expectant faces.

Yes, just like in the fissures.

In the end he was scolded by both the principal, the teachers and his friends (especially Riddle) as well as receiving expressions of astonishment from Floyd, Jade, Kalim and Cater for such a feat.

It's been a while since I finished the second season of Arcane. I don't like LOL but the series hooked me with its animation, world, story and characters.

Piltover has its thing, but Zaun became one of my favorite regions (I didn't like living there) but its aesthetics are easy, cyberpunk with a biopunk and Steampunk style.

Its champions also became my favorites, Jinx, Ekko, Vi and Viktor. (And although it's not in the series but in the game Renata)

Wow, beautiful characters. Therefore, I leave here my two cents about a yuu from Zaun.

I hope you like its.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x male reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland yuu #twst x reader #twst yuu #twst x male reader #arcane

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cr0ws-cha0t1c-c0llect10n · 8 months ago

Note

yeah okay here's a gay unhinged ramble <3 that gets religious <3 and self loathing <3 and depersonalizing <3

i remember being in love with her not long after we met, she hugged me and i never wanted to let go, though i didn't quite say that she did me she immediately saw me as someone she wanted to stay close with. she said that my rosy cheeks reminded her of a doll and because we were at an age where she didn't understand that she could be in love with another woman she said that she thought she wanted to be very close friends with me, but i personally knew i was in love with her. she was always the light of my life and i saw her in every moment i admirably looked up at the sky, imagining how perfect the sun would be right over our wedding, i did this much more when we lost contact and tried to see her more in everything i could. i thought it all would play out like a fairytale between destined lovers even as i got older. getting to see her in the room after all that time was almost more magical than when i first saw her, i felt complete from what i was so desperately missing!!! i was finally a TRUE person from TRUE love with the TRUEST, KINDEST, MOST AMAZING PERSON I COULD EVER NEED TO BE AROUND!!!!! i stayed as close to her as i could in that room and did things without thinking much of them because all i could focus on was her, from all that time we spent there i was even more CONVINCED she was a miracle worker than i was before and i grew all the more desperate to be in her life-giving presence and she was just as desperate to grace me with her words, trying to flirt with me through email during school hours cause we couldn't text in school as we usually did a lot otherwise. it was through email she said i take care of everyone and make them feel like they're in the clouds and i tried to take that purpose into our relationship which we had gotten into that day, though i was very unsure of getting into one so fast, i dismissed such doubt cause i was SURE our love (surely strong enough to be holy!!!) would guarantee our fate together and i could reach that fairytale ending as long as i stuck to the script!!!! i was so convinced wherever She would lead me would be the path to my SALVATION, even if it seemed to be going off a cliff, what mattered was i flew to clouds with Her and the glorious wings Her love bestowed me!!!! it was as if we were in a constant conversation once school ended, i could feel the vibrations of Her texts replacing the beats of my heart and i could barely catch a breath with the lack of oxygen left in Her clouds yet She needed my care to remain within Her sky regardless of my request!!!!! i always took Her persisting through me saying no as the strength of Her loving will and why stay with the frail will of humanity when i could follow the will of a GODDESS???? i HAD to stay in HER IMAGE and if that DIDN'T INCLUDE PERSONHOOD THEN SO BE IT!!!!!!!! I FOUND MORE VALUE IN BEING THE DOLL OF A GODDESS THAN I EVER COULD HAVE BEING A PERSON!!!!!!!!!!! I WAS UTTERLY BLINDED BY HER LIGHT AND THE PLASTIC I HAD TRIED TO REBUILD MY DISGUSTINGLY PATHETIC FORM OUT OF HAD STARTED TO MELT TO WAX, I COULD NO LONGER PUT TOGETHER THE RIGHT WORDS YET I TRIED TO STAY AND I DISPLEASED HER SO WITH THE DISTANCE I FELL FROM HER IMAGE, SHE THOUGHT I WAS MORE AKIN TO A STUPID SMALL CHILD AND SHE DOUBTED I HAD EVER EVEN LOVED HER I WAS SUCH A DESPICABLE, DISGRACEFUL FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FALLEN RIGHT DOWN TO THE COLD, CRASHING WAVES WHERE I STAY DEGRADING MY VALUE EVEN FURTHER TO USELESS FILTH and when i broke up with her we thanked each other as we said our goodbyes <3

its pride month you know what that means

huh???? what???? do u want me to make like???? gay unhinged rambles???? what????

#yaaaayyy fun treat for the day after yuri day #i wanted to get this done before the 9th cause that day was two years since i was in a relationship with my ex-partner #but i rlly wanted to save the 9th itself to focus on tc anniversary #i think it’s funny that they’re the same day #also just a bit relevant #i should be like them+i can’t be like them and i’m terrified of them+i would let them keep me in that corner and shove food in their mouth #i’ve always been able to atleast somewhat get what smoothsailing’s main fear of coffee is cause of all the people who drained me #and i’m not stupid enough to unironically think their main fear is the body horror #though i am VERY stupid as i’ve established in that big yapping session #i guess i didn’t get too deep into how stupid my ex made me feel #i think that’s still right out of the many things that were wrong #OH AND I HAVE TO SAY IT EVEN UNSETTLES ME TO SEE PERIODS IN A MORE CASUAL WRITING STYLE FROM ME BUT I COULDN’T HAVE EVERYTHING BE A RUN ON #i couldn’t have gone full on formal writing either cause i had to preserve The Vibe™#would’ve been a bit fitting if i did cause i used proper grammar and stuff more texting my ex but that was from me using autofill to be fas #but like those texts i’m simply barfing this up with little to no proofreading <3 so <3

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starsstuddedsky · 2 years ago

Text

What? Like It’s Hard?

gn reader x soonyoung

summary: With the help of a little bit of bleach, Soonyoung is certified legally blonde–complete to last minute-dedication to scoring as high as Elle Woods on the LSAT. While he has no interest in law school, he’s notorious for never turning down a dare. So how does a frat bro in serious danger of failing his senior year get a 179? He asks the smartest person he knows.

Or, studying for a law test has never seen this much chemistry.

genre: fluff, angst, non-idol au, uni au, friends to lovers, opposites attract

warnings: swearing, drinking, food, arguing, a couple sex jokes, one spicy scene at the end but no actual smut, refusal to acknowledge feelings, what's the word for beyond oblivious????

full wc: 24.3k

playlist! - i'm not very good at this but i tried to add songs alternating between yn and soonyoung :)

a/n: hello!! first of all, sorry this so long! it's been a very very busy summer. thank you to everyone who has continued to show interest in the story, it's really kept me going. i honestly have no idea what this is anymore but i hope it does not disappoint :) as always i appreciate feedback of any form <3 thank you again for reading and have a lovely day! finally, happy scoups day :)

a/n2: a special shout out to @chocolatemilk139 for being my beta and for helping me fact check... why do i keep writing about lawyers when i know absolutely nothing about the field.......

“Nope.” You grab your backpack, shoving your laptop inside, but he gets to your water bottle before you can reach it.

“Come on.” Soonyoung pouts his lips.

“I won’t do it,” you say.

Soonyoung hugs your water bottle hostage against his chest, dark blue hiding in the crook of his elbow, bright against the pale pink sweater he wears. It’s an unusual choice for him, normally clad in baggy jeans and loose t-shirts. Still, the color highlights his new hair, blonde bordering on white. Hardly the first time he’s done something insane for a bet.

“Please! I’m desperate!” He cries again, stepping closer, though he keeps a firm grip on your water bottle. You never should have told him how emotionally attached you are to it; you should have known it would be held against you.

“No,” you say. You sling your backpack on, just in case he gets any other ideas. The other students shoot dirty looks at you, actually in the library to study (like you were, until Soonyoung arrived). So you grab him by the arm, rolling your eyes at how he jerks the water bottle out of reach.

“Walk and talk, we’re not doing this here,” you say, folding your arms over your chest.

“Come on, how hard can it be?” Soonyoung asks. “It’s just a test.”

“Just a test?” You snort. “Soonyoung, you are aware that most people don’t apply to law school on a dare?”

“I don’t have to get into law school!” He says, “just get a 179 on the LSAT.”

As if that makes it any better. You eye Soonyoung and his tight grip on the plastic. Maybe it’s a lost cause and you should just swing by the bookstore to get a new one instead. But that water bottle has butterfly stickers that have survived since freshman year and a dent from the time Jun tried to use it as a weapon in a fight against Jihoon (that was declared a draw when the bottle busted open and doused both of them equally); it holds memories better than water and you’ll be damned if you let Soonyoung hold it hostage.

“That’s actually harder,” you mumble. From the corner of your eye, you can see him tucking the blue bottle under his right arm, farthest from you. This won’t be easy, especially since you saw the poorly disguised thirst trap of him and one of his frat bros at the gym: those arms are not to be underestimated.

“I’ll pay you!”

“With what money?”

Soonyoung pauses. You’ve reached the exit by now, sunlight warming you through the glass doors. He turns to the sunlight, and you know he’s pretending to be a main character from an artsy film (not that he’s ever seen on). He takes a deep breath, as if he already regrets what he has to say next.

“Okay, I’ll offer you the only services I have.” He turns to face you, eyes on the floor.

“Oh my god, Soonyoung!” You shove his shoulder. “You are not selling your body for a test!”

“But it’s all I know!” He says. He pokes your arms. “You could have so much muscle if you lifted just twice a week.”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “You meant working out?”

“What did you think I meant?”

You feel heat rush into your cheeks. You push the door open, praying Soonyoung doesn’t notice. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, not daring to check if he’s following. “I don’t have time to workout.”

“Then what do you want?” Soonyoung asks. He stays just out of reach, adjusting his grip so that the water bottle hangs from his hand. “Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Why do you need me?”

“Because you’re the smartest person I know,” he says without hesitation. In the three years of your friendship, you’ve learned that the only time Soonyoung isn’t serious is when he flirts.

“You are,” he insists. “Plus you’ve already taken it, so you’re my best chance. My only chance, it’s not like I have a good track record with tests.” He gives you a lopsided smile as he tries to pretend like he’s joking. But Soonyoung has always been easy to read. You see the sparkle in his eyes dim, and you remember freshman Soonyoung–when he failed the midterm and holed up in his room in the frat house for two full days, not even venturing out to drink. It’s that damn sparkle that gets to you. He isn’t paying attention anymore, water bottle hanging loosely from his hand, but you can’t bring yourself to snatch it.

“You can pass it,” you say with a sigh. “It’s about studying correctly.”

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung says. “I’ve never really studied.”

“Well, that’s what I’ll teach you.”

Soonyoung freezes, grabbing your arm. “Seriously?” When you turn to face him, his smile is so bright it warms you from the inside out, hotter than the actual sun on your skin. He throws his arms around you, wrapping you in a hug so tight he lifts you off the ground. Your heart does this strange thing where it hops into your throat. Your arms come up as a reflex but his embrace is too tight for you to even hug him back.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He shouts. He doesn’t let go, even when he sets you back down. He loosens his arms just enough to look at you, the full force of his smile directed at you. “I swear you’re welcome at the frat house any time, I’ll buy you anything you want when I have money, I’ll drive you wherever you want if I can get Seungcheol’s car, I’ll do whatever, just thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You know you should answer, or say something, but thinking is too much when he’s so close you can smell the strangely sweet combination of laundry detergent, cologne, and sweat. You push out of his arms, snagging your water bottle on the way out.

“It’s whatever,” you mumble. Though his arms aren’t around you anymore, you feel strangely hot, like your blood is boiling, and your heart still pounds.

“It is not whatever,” Soonyoung declares. “I swear, whatever you want, I’ll do it.” He holds a hand over his heart and if it was anyone else you’d think they were joking but it’s Soonyoung: he’s deadly serious.

You can’t handle his gaze anymore, turning to study your beat up sneakers. “Really? You’ll get my first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice from Jun?”

“I’ll get that book back.” He glances at you. “It is a book, right?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Though there’s been some good adaptations.”

“That’s the one with the zombies?”

“Zombies?” You frown. “Oh my god, do you mean Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?”

“That’s not the original book?”

“No,” you say, laughing. “The original is Jane Austen, in the 1800s.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says.

“I’ve actually never seen that one,” you say. “It’s the only adaptation I haven’t seen.”

“How many movies are there?”

“Well, there’s the 1940 adaptation, the BBC series that’s widely regarded as the most faithful adaptation, the 2005 Kiera Knightley movie that’s iconic, plus the Lizzie Bennet Diaries, which is a vlog-style Youtube adaptation. Then of course there’s Jane Austen’s other works, like Persuasion, which, the new one, for the record, was a terrible adaptation.” You stop when you realize you’re dangerously close to going on what Jihoon calls ‘an Austen tirade.’

“I liked the movie,” he says after a pause. “I don’t know if it was that good, or close to the books. But it was fun.”

“I’ll have to watch it, then,” you say. “I know it’s the obvious choice, but Pride and Prejudice really is my favorite Jane Austen novel. Good luck getting it back from Jun though. He’s studying abroad this semester.”

“He’s the friend from your history class?”

“No, that’s Jihoon, my roommate,” you say. “Jun was in my language class.”

“I thought you hated everyone in that class.”

“Oh, I did,” you say. “But Jun is friends with Jihoon, so he sort of just became my friend too.”

Soonyoung hums, saying nothing else. You don’t recognize the song, though you tend to mostly listen to classical music when you study or whatever Jihoon blasts from his room, so it’s not that surprising. The melody is nice, though. Well, Soonyoung’s voice is.

“I really am grateful,” Soonyoung says. “I know I was begging, because I don’t think I can do this without you–well, I don’t know if I can do it with you, but you’re my only hope and–I’m rambling again.” He flashes a smile. “The point is, thank you.”

You shrug, feeling shy under his gaze. “It’ll help me study anyways,” you say. “You learn a lot when you teach.”

“I thought you already took it?”

“I only got a 150,” you say, sighing. “I need at least a 165.”

Soonyoung nods, forehead creasing like it always does when he’s lost in thought. “Thank you anyway.”

“Well, you swore to do whatever I tell you,” you say, desperate to change the subject. “Don’t think I won’t abuse that.”

“Oh, YN,” he says, “I’m counting on it.” He even winks.

You cough, choking at the outright flirting. Soonyoung hasn’t tried a line on you in so long you thought he’d used them all. He isn’t serious–it was engraved in his DNA the second he became a fully fledged member of Sigma Beta Tau but it’s not like many people flirt with you, so it’s hard to stop your heart from jumping.

You check your phone, unable to look him in the eyes. It’s 2:18 now, prime naptime if you can get back to your apartment before Jihoon gets back. But if it’s past two, unless he lied to you at the start of the semester, that means Soonyoung should be in his data ethics class. “Hey, don’t you have class right now?”

Soonyoung glances at the time on his phone. “Shit.” He takes off, sprinting across the grass, dodging three picnics and narrowly avoiding getting rocked in the back of the head by a frisbee. He pauses at the edge, turning back around to wave wildly at you.

“Thank you!” He shouts. The picnickers glance between you and him and you can feel the blush returning. Soonyoung doesn’t notice all the eyes on him, waving like a goofball one final time before sprinting off again. Like a whirlwind, he’s gone again, leaving you to stroll across campus and wonder what you just signed up for.

Soonyoung’s brow furrows into a frown, lips pulling together in a pout. He rests his chin on his hands, looking up at you from the table like a puppy that knows he’s in trouble. “That bad?”

“Your analytical reasoning was good!” You say, not wanting to destroy him just yet. “The logical analysis wasn’t that bad either, you just need practice.”

“Wasn’t there a third section?”

“The score for reading comprehension was pretty bad.” Horrendous, actually, but you can’t tell him that, not when he’s deflating faster than a balloon at a knife throwing contest. He sits back, head knocking lightly against the back of the stiff library chairs.

“We can work with this! It’s really not that bad,” you say. You reach out instinctively, wrapping your hands over his hands. Your thumb rests against the soft smooth skin of the back of his hand, the rest of your fingers brushing lightly against his calloused fingers. You jerk back when you realize what you’re doing, patting his hands once and grabbing the workbook in front of him as if it’s what you meant to do all along. You study the upside down words, not daring to look at the disgust that’s probably painted on Soonyoung’s face.

“You can start with practicing the logic problems,” you say, flipping through the work book. “I’ll figure out a strategy for the reading portion.”

Soonyoung heaves a sigh, sitting up and hunching over the workbook. You flip open one of your old workbooks and try to pretend like you’re not trying to melt away from embarrassment.

“This isn’t very much teaching,” Soonyoung says without looking up. “Lots of problem solving.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing either,” you say. “I just watched a lot of youtube videos when I was studying last year. I should have known better than to take it over the summer, though.”

Soonyoung glances up. “How come?”

You chew on your lip. You’ve known Soonyoung for a while now, but you’ve never talked to him like this, mentioning any real things other than complaining about roommates. Soonyoung would listen, probably say the ‘right’ things, but it’s a study session, so you just say, “Just not good timing.”

He nods, returning to his humming. You turn to your own workbook, trying to figure out how to get Soonyoung to actually read the passages for the reading comprehension. Twenty minutes pass in an instant and Soonyoung drops his pencil, sliding his journal with the answers back in front of you. You flip to the answer key, scanning between the two.

“When are you taking it again?” Soonyoung asks while he waits.

“Just before Halloween,” you say. Exactly 38 days from now, according to the IMPENDING DOOM countdown clock on your phone.

“That soon?”

You shrug. “I wanted to give myself time to take it again in case I bomb it and it had to be before midterms, so, yeah.”

“Is it really that bad to take all your tests at once?” Soonyoung asks.

“I mean, finals week pretty much kills me every semester. I actually thought I was cutting it close with only two weeks between it and midterms.”

“Is November cutting it too close?”

“Depends on when in November you plan on taking it,” you say, “though you probably won’t be able to take it again if you don’t like your score.”

“Not a problem for me,” Soonyoung says. He doesn’t waver against your raised eyebrow. “I’m getting that 179, first try.”

“You’re that confident?”

“In you.” He winks. “Also the bet is off if I don’t get it on the first try.”

You nod. “Yeah, that makes more sense.” You glance at your calendar. “

“November 18th.”

“That’s not too bad, you dodged between midterms and finals, there should be plenty of cram time.”

Soonyoung shrugs. “I just scheduled it so that I would get the results before the Christmas party.”

“I didn’t think you would be the religious type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he says. “The frat has this annual post-finals party before people go back home for holiday break, usually on the last day of finals. There’s no way I’m letting Seungkwan get away with my hard earned Playstation, and there’s no way he’d miss the party.”

“You can’t just buy your own game?”

“It’s a console actually,” he says, “and that’s not the point.” You prepare for some lecture about honor or frat code or something overly dramatic and inspired by any of the countless war propaganda movies he loves, but he closes his mouth.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter,” you say. You turn back his sheet, half the answers marked with a dark blue X because red feels too cruel. “You’re clearly committed.”

He sighs at the answers, flipping back to the first question and frowning. You think the conversation is over, but without looking up from glaring at the right answers, he says, “You should come.”

“To?”

“The Christmas party.”

You stare at the top of his head but he doesn’t seem to notice. You wonder how he manages to keep his hair so blonde without ruining his scalp but you don’t see any dandruff. “Me?” You finally say.

“You said you’d come, like, freshman year,” he says. “You never did.”

You did promise, back when you saw him for class every day. But frat parties weren’t your scene back then. They aren’t your scene now. Nothing about blasting music and binge drinking appeals to you, and yet Soonyoung peeking at you from his notebook makes you feel guilty anyways. He looks at you like he really doesn’t understand why you wouldn’t want to go.

And that’s the worst part: for Soonyoung, you would go. When he looks at you with the damn Soonyoung Sparkle, you’d do anything.

“I’ll… think about it,” you finally say.

He looks at you for a moment longer, then nods, like he didn’t really expect you to say yes. You try not to feel like you’re letting him down.

“Can you explain this one to me,” he asks, turning the book so you can see it from across the table.

You skim the question, which turns out to be a series of questions about stained glass windows. You take a moment to glance between Soonyoung’s answers and the correct ones.

“Walk me through your process,” you say.

“Okay, I start with…”

“Soonyoung, are you even listening?”

He blinks at you, lifting his head from his arms. “Something about strategies? For reading?”

You snap the book shut, shaking your head. You open your mouth, speech on responsibility and studying on the tip of your tongue but one look into Soonyoung’s Sparkle Eyes (patent pending) and all the words are gone. You really need to figure out how to get around that super power.

“Come on, it’s so nice out,” he says. “We should be outside.” He grabs your hand. “This is not studying weather, this is dating weather.”

“Soonyoung your test is in two months, you seriously want to skip?” You don’t dignify the second part of his complaint with a response. The idea of Soonyoung on a date makes your stomach flip.

He sighs. “No, but it’s October, we won’t get many more nice days, so can we at least go outside?”

You hesitate a heartbeat too long and Soonyoung jumps up. He closes the workbook, knocking loose papers off the table and sending highlighters of every color flying in every direction. The chaos earns a couple side eyes from the people around you and a full on glare from the person directly next to him, but Soonyoung, as Soonyoung as ever, doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up the papers and highlighters, shoving them into his backpack without a folder and slinging it over his shoulder. You can only follow him, grabbing the drinks before he tries to carry them along his laptop. When it comes to Soonyoung, mixing liquids and technology is more dangerous than mixing alcohols. You haven’t forgotten The Coffee Incident, flooding his backpack at 8 in the morning.

He drags you out of the library, though you don’t put up much of a fight. Soonyoung makes you want to relax, just a little, and when he smiles back at you as soon as he steps out of the sunlight, you find you don’t regret a thing.

Soonyoung pulls his emergency blanket out of his blanket, passing it to you. He’s more prepared for naps than any class he’s ever taken but the thin fabric is soft so who are you to judge? He heads straight for the quad, which is already filled with people, some groups of friends, too many obvious couples with heads in each other's laps or arms wrapped around each other. Soonyoung settles down in a relatively unpopulated corner, taking the blanket back to shake it out the blanket a few times before laying it flat on the ground.

Soonyoung groans when you pull out the workbooks as soon as you sit down. “There isn’t anything more fun to study?”

“Soonyoung, it’s the LSAT,” you say. “It’s not really meant to be fun.”

“But–”

“You’re the one that wanted to go outside,” you remind him, tapping his arm with a pen. “If you’re too distracted we’ll have to go back into the library.”

He gazes at the other people laughing for a long moment before turning to face you again. You raise your eyebrows and he takes the workbook from your hands, flipping it open to the sticky-note bookmark.

The next twenty minutes are relatively quiet, the only noise coming from the chatter of the people around you, too far away to clearly hear, and Soonyoung humming while working through practice problems. You’re not sure if he even realizes he’s doing it, though he bobs his head slightly. You wonder what Soonyoung is like when he isn’t trying to get out of studying–even outside of the party invites you’ve avoided, you rarely see him on campus (because you aren’t on campus when you don’t have to be). You almost went to dinner with him to celebrate passing the business class freshman year where you met him, but you got food poisoning and he never rescheduled.

It’s for the best, though. Even like this, tutoring him minus payment of any kind, you can tell that spending too much time with him will be dangerous. He flirts so easily it feels genuine, and even though he can be ridiculous, he’s never been anything but lovely to you. And it doesn’t help that he’s hot. He glances up, as if he can feel you staring, but he just flashes a smile at you and ducks his head again. Damn frat bros with endearing charms that melt you like the perfect grilled cheese.

Perfectly blue without a cloud in sight, the sky is an empty canvas above you. The air is just the right temperature, just between hot and cold, the sun ensuring that it never dips into the latter. Just the slightest breeze kisses your skin, lifting the edges of the papers but never flipping them. Soonyoung was right: the perfect date weather.

“Soonyoung?” You turn your head to see a dark haired man standing over you. Wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and sides ripped open, you figure there’s a 80% chance he’s one of Soonyoung’s frat brothers.

“Seokmin?” Soonyoung frowns.

“You were actually serious?” Seokmin asks, gesturing to the books. “You know Seungkwan said it as a joke, right?”

“Yeah, but a bet is a bet,” Soonyoung says. “And I really want his Playstation.”

Seokmin snorts. “You know he only said it because he knows you can’t do it.”

“I’m not like I’m losing anything by trying.” Soonyoung sets his lips in a sharp line of determination (which you recognize from the dining hall when he sweet talks his way into free cookies). Seokmin raises his eyebrows at his aggression but eventually decides it’s not worth the fight. Instead, he plops down on the blanket, making a little triangle between the three of you.

“You must be YN,” he says, extending his hand. His easy smile and the way he sat down without waiting for an invitation reminds you of Soonyoung. Unlike the faux blonde, it feels foreign and you shift a little closer to Soonyoung instinctively.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you lie. Seokmin’s eyes curl into little half moons when he smiles, apparently not noticing your awkwardness. You can’t help but feel like he’s intruding as he turns to Soonyoung and asks him to explain what he’s doing. Soonyoung explains it well, though it helps that he was working on the analytical reasoning section.

It’s because he’s interrupting Soonyoung’s studying. That’s why it bothers you that he’s here, even though Soonyoung doesn’t seem to mind and Seokmin seems genuinely interested. Unfortunately, the revelation doesn’t stop you from wishing Seokmin would just leave.

“I don’t know how you do any of this,” Seokmin says after Soonyoung explains the next problem.

“It’s easy!” Soonyoung says. “Half the time the answer is in the question, you just have to know where to look!”

“Quoting me?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Well I did learn from the best!”

“So cliche,” you mutter but the compliment gets you smiling anyway. You look up to find Seokmin looking at you. He has a strange look on his face, frowning, but not angrily. He looks a little bit like when Soonyoung can’t decide between the right answer and the second best option. He doesn’t look away when you catch him staring.

“What?”

He pauses a long moment before answering, as if pondering how to answer. Finally, he says, “I like you.”

You stare at him. Soonyoung had been diligently working on practice problems but his head jerks up at the words.

“I mean, you’re a cool person,” Seokmin quickly says. “Good tutor for Soonyoung.” After hearing his name, Soonyoung grins and turns back to underlining in the workbook.

“Tutor?” You say. “I really don’t think I’m doing all that much.”

Seokmin shrugs. ”I don’t know many people that would spend this much time with someone if they aren't helping. Besides, either way, I’ve never seen Soonyoung this dedicated before.”

“That’s because you don’t dare to bet against me,” Soonyoung says without looking up.

“He might have a point there,” you say. Soonyoung takes a moment to smile at your support.

“What I’m trying to say is that you’re cool,” Seokmin says.

“Thank you?” You wait for him to say something else but he sits back and rests his hands behind him, stretching out in the sun a little more. Sighing, he tilts his head toward the sun.

“Seems like the weather will turn cold soon,” he says. “This might be the last warm day of the year.” He glances at Soonyoung. “And you’re spending it here instead of pre-gaming the Tau party.”

Soonyoung’s pencil freezes. He peeks up at Seokmin, then at you, then shrugs. “I take my bets seriously.”

“Whatever,” Seokmin says. He lays back fully, half of his body sticking off the blanket into the grass. “What are the Ke$ha lyrics? ‘The party don’t start ‘til Soonyoung walks in?’” He doesn’t wait for a correction. “I think I’ll wait until you're finished and we’ll tear it up together.”

Soonyoung glances at you, then unsuccessfully tries to hide his laughter at your expression. You don’t mean to be rude, but Seokmin really just invited himself all on his own and crashed your picnic. Study date. Outdoor study session. The name doesn’t matter, what does matter is it’s only supposed to be you and Soonyoung.

“He’ll fall asleep in about five seconds,” Soonyoung whispers. “He doesn’t actually care about the party, he just likes my nap blankets.” On that point you can’t really blame Seokmin.

“As long as it doesn’t disrupt your studying,” you say.

“Right,” Soonyoung says, more to himself than you. “That’s what’s important.”

You aren’t so oblivious that you miss his bitterness, but you are enough of a coward to decide not to ask about it. How do you even ask about something like that? You can barely answer his questions about the LSAT, so feelings? No chance.

You flip open your own workbook and set a pencil case down to keep the book open and ignore the soft snores from Seokmin. Soonyoung hums, the soft breeze carrying the gentle tune to you and easing you into a false sense of comfort, planting the idea that it’s always been like this and it always will be. But Soonyoung will take the LSAT in November and you will graduate in the spring and there won’t be any more excuses for seeing him, let alone laying out in the sun with him. Letting yourself enjoy this moment has dangerous consequences for your heart.

And yet you enjoy the warm sun on your skin and hum along with Soonyoung anyway. Seokmin is right: this kind of day won’t last long.

You jump awake at the sound. It takes you a moment to register where you are, to blink the sleep out of your eyes and recognize the stiff library chairs, the yellow tinted lighting of the study rooms on the third floor. Built like a prison cell with no windows and stained linoleum floors, you aren’t entirely sure how you fell asleep. The last thing you remember is working on your essay on Sense and Sensibility, which was rather difficult since you haven’t had the time to finish rereading it. Your book rests on the table next to your open laptop, screen dark.

A second knock reminds you why you woke up in the first place and you turn to the door. Through the glass door you see a student with a backpack hanging off their shoulder, half smiling. They turn the knob, opening the door just enough to stick their head in.

“Hey, sorry, I think I have the room scheduled,” they say.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I lost track of time,” you say, slamming your laptop shut and shoving everything into your backpack. To their credit, the other student doesn’t rush you, even apologizing and telling you to take your time. But if you’ve lost the room, that means the two hours you had booked the study room for–the two hours you designated for writing the essay and doing problem sets–were spent asleep, which means the LSAT cram schedule has been completely thrown off with only three days before the test.

You groan as you step into the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor. The farther up, the more intense the quiet levels get. Hopefully it won’t be so quiet that you fall asleep, but since you got a nap, you should be able to power through an all-nighter. It wouldn’t be the first time. You brace yourself to check your phone for the time, though being kicked out of the room means you already know your fate. 9:08 means that you have a little less than three hours until the library closes. You’ve done more with less time.

The first couple desks are occupied by students but you don’t stray, heading for a familiar corner, ignoring the empty desks that line the stacks. Your corner, that you found freshman year during finals season when you couldn’t find an empty desk, is perfect: hidden behind the encyclopedia shelves with a light directly above it, only three dicks carved into it–all on the underside (discovered on a particularly bad day where you found it most comfortable to lay underneath and rethink your entire life). You smile at the small comfort, striding through the stacks with Sense and Sensibility still in your arms.

You nearly drop the book when you see the backpack, abruptly turning despite the fact that it must have been obvious to whoever stole your corner that you were headed there. You feel rage boiling up and threatening to spill. You close your eyes, reminding yourself that the corner isn’t actually yours. Still, as you settle into a desk facing a giant window that reveals the dark campus, you can’t help but feel bitter. Your thoughts stray to the desk that should be yours, even as you pull out your computer.

BATTERY LOW

The words light up your screen, mocking you before the screen falls dark again. You dig in your backpack for your charger that you always slip into the main pocket. You feel your underused pencil pouch, the single journal since you keep most of your notes on your laptop, LSAT prep book, your three folders, and no charger. Even when you look inside and lay the entire contents of your backpack on the desk in front of you, the only charger you find is for your phone. Which means the longer laptop cord is probably sitting on your desk, all the way back at your apartment.

A twenty minute walk back, twenty minutes less for writing your essay. You can start it on your phone, maybe, though the thought of switching between reading the Sparknotes and typing already exhausts you. It’s moot anyways, since all you can do is sit and stare at the desk, covered in the contents of your soul. This is what your life has become: a stack of paper that weighs less than the digital universe on your laptop that’s all contingent on a $15 charger that abandons you when you need it most.

In the end it isn’t the rage that gets to you. It’s the hilarity of it all, how silly it is that your life is dictated by something so stupid.

The fifth floor decrees silence, so you make sure that your sobs don’t make a noise. You can’t control the tears but you can hold your breath. When your head starts to feel light and your lungs are desperate for air, you can breathe through your mouth and inhale as slow as you can to keep the shakiness to a minimum. You can do everything you can to hold it together, even when you’re falling apart.

Someone taps you on the shoulder. You lift your head, ready to face a tired librarian kicking you out but instead you see bleach blonde hair and a forced smile over a furrowed brow.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper, glad for the quiet because you don’t trust your voice to support you.

He holds up a thick, leatherbound book. LSAT for Dummies. “Extra reading couldn’t hurt, right?”

You blink at him. The only times you’ve seen Soonyoung in the library on his own has been with a thick blanket and closed eyes (it’s how you know he sleeps with his mouth open, just a little). You can’t quite believe he’s in front of you and yet he takes a step closer and doesn’t vanish.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“Shhh,” you say, holding your finger to your lips to get him to quiet down, even though there’s no one in sight. “Quiet floor.”

He nods, looking around as if he’s waiting for someone to kick him out. He turns to look at your desk, the contents of your backpack still strewn about. He tilts his head but doesn’t dare raise his voice to ask. You know he hasn’t missed the tears, still wet on your cheeks.

You done? He mouths.

Not even close, you think, but you nod anyways because it’s the easier answer. Soonyoung doesn’t hesitate, gently closing your laptop and sweeping everything into your backpack. You watch as he dumps it all into the biggest pocket, zipping it up and slinging it onto his back. He tucks the law book under his arm and holds out his other hand for you to take.

“Come on,” he whispers. And you take it, let him pull you out of your chair. The walk to the elevator; out of the library; toward the edge of campus; nothing feels far when Soonyoung doesn’t let go of your hand. You follow him in a daze, clinging to his hand in the off-chance that all your luck rides on him–like if you let go, you’ll lose your tether to this planet.

Soonyoung rarely walks in silence and today is not an exception. He rambles about the only member of the frat capable of cooking that apparently can’t do anything without creating a giant mess. Even as he complains about the guy, Soonyoung can’t help defending him, explaining in mouth-watering detail how good his food is.

“One time he crowd sourced some steaks and did a grill for the new pledges and they all thought it was a prank or something and nearly cried when he actually let them eat them. I think they burnt their mouths from eating it too fast, afraid someone was going to take it away from them.” Soonyoung stops at the edge of campus. He glances at you, a question in his eyes. Where are we going?

“Soonyoung,” you say. Squeezing his hand feels natural. “I don’t really want to go back right now.”

He nods, squeezing your hand back. “You want to go for a ride?”

“You have a car?”

“Nope.” Soonyoung fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes a call. You can only hear Soonyoung, who says, “I need a ride,” and “Pick me up by the duck statue,” and then he hangs up.

The edge of campus that Soonyoung drags you to is right next to the athletic fields, which explains why there is a giant statue of the mascot that towers over you. It has three of its own personal spotlights and shiny claws from fans rubbing them for good luck, despite there being no official tradition. You only went to one game, mostly to confirm you would rather be anywhere else (except maybe the bathroom of the stadium). Either way, the only thing you do know about the statue and mascot for your school is that it is not a duck.

“That’s a raven.” You point at the statue.

Soonyoung frowns between you and the hunk of metal. “Oh, Larry?”

“It has a name?”

“Well, there’s the official name, which is like, Midnight Rain or something, and the frat name.”

“And the frat name is Larry?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “I didn’t choose it.”

“And you call it a duck, too?”

“It looks like a duck.”

You study the statue. You aren’t an ornithologist, but you’re pretty sure ducks have webbed feet instead of talons, and different beaks. Plus you’ve never seen a pure black duck. But you’ve spent enough time with Soonyoung to know it doesn’t have to make sense when the frat is involved (in fact, you’ve found sense is rarely involved in their decisions).

“We just call it the duck. Or Larry, when we want to be formal.” Soonyoung jumps at the honk of a horn. You turn around with him to find an obnoxiously red convertible parked against the curb. The driver’s smooth black hair is styled to look effortless, hair falling just above his eyes, and he wears sunglasses despite the fact that the sun went down three hours ago. He might be attractive, if he wasn’t trying so hard. You never thought you had a type, but someone like Soonyoung, who wears clothes that he likes and sticks his hair straight up because he thinks it looks funny–that’s more your style.

“Here’s our ride,” Soonyoung says. He starts walking, pulling you with him, still holding your hand. You aren’t sure if he even realizes, but you’re in no hurry to remind him.

“Hey Josh,” he says.

Driver (Josh, apparently), finally pulls off his sunglasses. “Soonyoung, you have a friend.”

“I’m YN,” you say, wishing your voice didn’t sound so scratchy from crying.

“Oh, I know,” he says, a twinkle in his eye that flirts between danger and fun. “I’m Joshua.” You try not to feel unsettled by it. He raises an eyebrow as Soonyoung slides into the backseat and you sit beside him. “Am I just an Uber to you?”

“Seungcheol is out and I knew there was no way you would let me drive your car,” Soonyoung says.

“So, yes?”

Soonyoung shrugs and laughs at Joshua’s expression.

“Where are we headed?” He asks with a resigned sigh as if he’s used to Soonyoung’s antics. Has he done this before? You frown. Why does it matter to you if he’s done this with someone else? You’re so busy with the internal war, you miss Soonyoung’s answer.

“Seriously?” Joshua asks. “It’s a weeknight.”

“Like that’s ever been a problem for you.”

Joshua glances at you. “You’re okay with this?”

You pause. You don’t actually know where Soonyoung said to go. But it’s Soonyoung, your heart says. You're inclined to agree with it tonight. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head and mutters something you don’t catch and kicks the car into gear. Before long, you are flying down a two lane road you didn’t even know existed. The wind starts to pick up with the top of the car down, blasting your face. Though your nose is still stuffed from crying, the air fills your lungs, tasting like dead leaves and unnatural warmth courtesy of climate change. For the first time tonight, you can breathe.

The clock reads just shy of 1 am by the time the car stops. As soon as the rumbling engine cuts out, another noise takes over, drowning everything else out. Crashes too rhythmic to be thunder, the blows softened by tall dunes illuminated by the car’s headlights that Joshua didn’t turn off.

Soonyoung turns to you with a grin. “Ready to have some fun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, jumping out of the car instead of opening the door, ignoring Joshua’s shout. He sprints toward the crashing waves.

Joshua shakes his head, opening his door and ushering you out from the back. He even closes the door behind you, folding his arms over his chest and walking slowly to the beach with you. The headlights cut out but the moon and stars shine enough to see where the boardwalk ends and the sand begins. Soonyoung’s movement gives him away more than any light, running alongside the water and dancing with the tide.

You clear your throat. The ride cleared your head enough for you to feel properly embarrassed about meeting someone right after sobbing. You shudder to imagine how terrible you looked when he first picked you up, clinging to Soonyoung like he was the only thing keeping you alive. A blush forms just at the thought of it.

“So, you do this often?” You ask.

“Do something truly insane because of Soonyoung? All the time.” Joshua laughs. “We don’t usually end up this far away though, and usually someone’s life is in imminent danger.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you say, watching Soonyoung strip his socks and shoes off and toss them behind him. One sock gets caught in the wind and blows back toward you and Joshua.

Joshua stops before the two of you can catch up to him. You turn to look at him. It’s difficult to read his expression in the moonlight but he frowns like he’s not sure he should say something. Eventually he says, “I’m going for a walk down the boardwalk.” He glances at Soonyoung, then back at you and smiles. “Have fun with him.”

You watch him turn around and trudge back up the sand, wondering if all of Soonyoung’s friends are this strange. Maybe it’s just being in a frat. You grab Soonyoung’s sock and set it with his shoes, smiling when he turns around and waves like a maniac.

“It’s the ocean!” He shouts over the crashes.

“You’re soaked!” You shout back. He glances down and apparently finally realizes his shirt is wet, clinging to his shoulders already. He strides back toward you, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer.

“My shoes are not coming off!” You warn him.

“Just come closer!” He says. “It’s amazing!” You stand with him at the edge of the water, watching it rise in the darkness and draw closer and closer. It crashes on the sand first, a violent move, kicking up wet sand and mixing it with white water. The frothy white water creeps forward, until you have to dance backward. Soonyoung stays in the water, letting it wash around his feet.

“It feels better like this,” he says.

“My feet are covered in enough sand,” you say, though he does look like he’s having fun. The water must be freezing this time of the year–it would feel so nice running over your skin. But you’d end up with wet socks and even more sand in your shoes to clean out.

Soonyoung holds out his hand. “You’d like this.”

You chew on your lip. Normally you’d laugh in his face and say ‘not a chance.’ But normalcy has never been running three hours away to the beach in the middle of the night when you have class at 9 in the morning. You pull off the sneakers without untying them and pull your socks off, setting them next to Soonyoung’s and joining him at the edge of the water. His hand isn’t out by the time you return but he slips it into yours when you join his side.

Another wave crashes and you watch the water creep forward, faster than you expect it to be–and you’re right, it’s freezing, but Soonyoung’s right too, it sends an icy shock throughout your body that sends a tingly rush up from your toes to every nerve in your body, setting them on fire. You squeeze his hand and laugh.

“Good?” He asks.

“I love it.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, holding onto Soonyoung’s hand and letting the water wash over you. After a few waves, it doesn’t feel cold anymore. You stand until your feet are buried in wet sand, each wave sending you lower and lower.

“My feet are freezing,” Soonyoung eventually says.

“Mine, too.” You lift your feet reluctantly, already missing the coarse sand and cold water. You have to let go of Soonyoung’s hand to put on your socks and shoes, shuddering at all the sand in your socks. The cotton became damp from sitting too close to the water, your shoes faring the same. Yet you don’t regret a second of it.

You stand up and stretch, feeling your spine pop. When you turn back around, you almost scream. You manage to contain it to a gasp, a wheezing Soonyoung’s name. He blinks at you innocently, like he isn’t standing in front of you with his shirt in his hand.

“What are you doing?” You choke out.

“We’re at the beach,” he says. “I have to take pictures.”

“And you need to take off your shirt for that?”

“Why? Does it bother you?” He smirks.

Muscles have never been a selling point for you. The “people” you’ve crushed on have all been smart or kind, crushes of intellect rather than bodies. His toned abs, sculpted shoulders, the way his body curves gently as he allows you to stare at him–normally it wouldn’t get to you at all (other than the embarrassment of being this close to a shirtless man for the first time in a long time). But it’s not just the muscles. It’s Soonyoung, your Soonyoung who calls you at four in the morning to tell you about the movie he just finished and is too endearing for you to truly be annoyed at. It’s the Soonyoung that gets lost in the Engineering building even as a senior. It’s the Soonyoung that drags you to the beach in the middle of the night just to make you smile. Yes, it bothers you. No one should be this incredible and hot.

“No,” you mumble, failing to convince yourself of the lie.

Soonyoung seems to be done teasing you, dropping his shirt into your hands. He walks a little closer to the waves, apparently not bothered by the chilly ocean breeze. He starts to pose, then raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

“Where’s your phone?”

“The camera’s broken,” he says. “Just use yours and you can send them to me.” He continues to pose, flexing his arms as subtly as he can which isn’t particularly subtle (though the muscles are even more impressive in person). You are tempted to reach out and feel the tension, before you realize you are staring again.

You numb to Soonyoung in this half-dressed state as you take the pictures. The frat must have a professional photographer or something, because Soonyoung knows how to pose. Despite some of the angles and positions seeming awkward, each picture comes out as if from a photoshoot. He only gives you a few instructions on taking pictures, and compliments you way beyond your talents.

“Just like that!” Soonyoung says, breaking his model face to grin at you. “You’re really good at this.”

“You can’t even see the pictures,” you say. You bite your lips so you don’t smile. Apparently that doesn’t matter, because he keeps posing. It’s a good thing you just upgraded your phone storage because you estimate at least a thousand pictures are taken for each pose.

“Are you guys done?” You jump at the voice next to you. Apparently Joshua returned from his walk, sneaking up using the crashing waves as cover. “We should head back soon if you want to make your morning classes.”

“Definitely want to,” you say. You haven’t gotten any work done, but that’s no excuse to skip class. Soonyoung pouts but doesn’t argue.

“Perfect!” Joshua claps his hands together. He shoves you toward Soonyoung and grabs your phone. “One more picture together and we’ll go.”

Being at a distance worked perfectly fine but those muscles have you frozen in place again. Soonyoung throws an arm over your shoulders and grins like you do this all the time. His biceps press through your jacket, the flex of the muscle exactly as you imagined it, not that it stops your heart from thundering.

You can’t help but steal a glance at Soonyoung. Despite feeling like you’ll malfunction at any second, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Soonyoung’s features look soft this close, even the sharp cut of his jawline. You want to study every line of his face, each curve, memorize it until the way his lips slowly curl into a smile is carved into your heart. Spending the rest of your life here doesn’t seem too bad.

“Let’s go,” Joshua says, breaking whatever magic froze time for you. You are left with cold toes and sand in your sneakers as you march up the dune and back to Joshua’s car.

“I just cleaned it,” he groans, looking at all the sand you and Soonyoung tracked in.

You mumble an apology but when you try to offer to clean it for him, he shakes his head. “Nobody touches my baby.”

You glance at Soonyoung, who followed you into the backseat again. He rolls his eyes at Joshua, smiling in a way that you know means he isn’t serious. You smile back at him and click your seatbelt into place.

“Address?” Joshua asks, handing you his phone. You punch it in and hand the phone back. 3 hours and sixteen minutes.

Joshua whistles, seeing the arrival time of 4:53. “Remind me never to do this again.”

“The beach was your idea,” Soonyoung says. His words slur a little.

“Just go to sleep already,” Joshua says. The engine rumbles on and he pulls away from the empty boardwalk.

“‘m not even tired,” Soonyoung says, fighting a yawn. He slouches and leans against the headrest, rolling his head to look at you. “You have class in the morning?”

“Not until nine.”

“That’s good.” He doesn’t succeed in fighting the yawn this time. His blinks become longer and longer, eyes closing more than opening. It’s like watching the energizer bunny shut down.

“Soonyoung?”

He opens his eyes and you think maybe he’d wait for the rest of his life for you to say something.

“Thank you.”

“Always.” He smiles lazily. “I swore I’d do anything.”

His sworn loyalty. It should be fun, having a boy like him dedicated to fulfilling your wishes. But what would it be like if he wasn’t sworn to you? If he did these kinds of things just because he wants to?

You didn’t think you were tired but the next thing you know, Soonyoung gently shakes you awake.

“We’re here,” he says in a quiet, very un-Soonyoung voice.

You blink at him, trying to figure out why your neck hurts so much, frowning at the unfamiliar surroundings. From the rear view mirror, Joshua watches you. Right, instead of writing your essay, doing the problem sets, or any of the readings, you went to the beach. You wait for the guilt to set in but it doesn’t come. None of the anxieties from earlier in the evening (the technical part of your brain reminds you it was the night before) overwhelm you.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Your mouth tastes nasty but before you can say anything, Soonyoung hands you a water bottle. You take a sip before saying thank you.

Soonyoung unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you up.”

You nod, grateful you don’t have to ask him. The night has been a full adventure on its own yet you aren’t quite ready for it to be over. At least you aren’t ready to say goodbye to Soonyoung.

There’s still something you want to tell him. You want to tell him that you like his blonde hair, even though everyone else thinks it’s ridiculous. You want to tell him that you lied earlier, you nearly lost your mind seeing him shirtless. You want to tell him that you feel proud when he gets the right answer on the first try, that you think his concentration frown is cute, that you’ve never enjoyed studying like you do when he’s by your side. You want to tell him that on your worst days, days like today, just being Soonyoung makes it better.

But you learned a long time ago tired ramblings and drunk confessions are siblings. They both end in heartbreak and twelve packs of ramen.

So you ride the elevator with him and watch the lights flicker. You never cared when Jihoon brought his friends (well, Jun) over, but the carpets that look dirty no matter how many times they’re cleaned and beige walls are even worse tonight. You can stand to live in a boring apartment, but not a dirty one.

“This is me,” you say, gesturing to 808. You turn your back on the door, facing Soonyoung instead. He looks radiant under the fluorescent hallway lights, which really isn’t fair. They make his bleach blonde hair look natural, highlight the blemishes on his skin, easy to see when he’s this close.

You should go inside and he should go back down but neither of you move. For the second time tonight, you are frozen in time with Soonyoung.

The floor creaks and you jump, turning around at the same time, accidentally knocking into Soonyoung’s chest as you turn to face the noise behind you. Jihoon, gym bag over his shoulder, frowns at you across the hallway.

“Are you seriously just getting back now?”

Shit. You never texted him. “Um, Jihoon, this is Soonyoung,” you say. He waves behind you. “Soonyoung, Jihoon.”

Jihoon folds his arms. “I’ve heard about you.” You glare at him, which he ignores. “You’re taking the LSAT on a dare?”

“You’re the one that wants to be a music producer?”

Jihoon raises his eyebrows and looks at you. “You’ve mentioned me?”

“Only the worst,” you say, smiling at him.

“I thought you were at the library all night?” Jihoon says.

“We went on an adventure,” you say. You show him your sandy shoes. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear he knows he interrupted something, but the stubborn asshole doesn’t move.

You turn back to Soonyoung. “Goodnight,” you say, resisting the urge to hug him.

“It’s morning,” Jihoon says.

“Goodnight,” Soonyoung says, glancing at Jihoon. He pauses and fidgets with the hem of his shirt but finally gives you a half hug that feels more like a bro hug than anything else. He disappears into the elevator then pops his head out a final time “Send me the photos!”

You turn to Jihoon. “I forgot to text you.”

“I figured I’d wait until the morning to call,” he said. “Even if you were kidnapped there’s still a 90% chance you’d figure out a way to show up for class on time.” He turns the key in the lock and strides into the apartment. You’re too tired to argue back, especially when he’s right, so you just follow him into the apartment.

“I like him,” Jihoon says before you vanish into your room.

“Should I find you a wedding dress?” You say. “Soonyoung is single.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and grabs a protein shake from the fridge. “Why do I even bother?”

You don’t wait for him to leave first, peeling your shoes off in the entryway where you can sweep up the sand and practically fall into your room. It’s race to change into an old t-shirt before you collapse onto your bed.

You set an alarm for 8:30 and check fifty times to make sure it’s actually set. Then you open your camera roll, shaking your head at the countless pictures. You choose twenty non-blurry ones before your eyes start to droop. You scroll to the bottom and click on the pictures Joshua took. Soonyoung grins for the camera, his easy smile as captivating on your phone as it is in person. You are staring at him, a soft smile on your lips and hearts practically bugging out of your eyes. It’s so ridiculously obvious how you feel. You send him his thirst traps and keep that picture for yourself.

It takes a week for you to realize Soonyoung never posted the pictures.

The weight of the world has the decency to wait until you’re home to fall on your shoulders. You hold your keys up and can’t push it into the lock. If you didn’t do well today, it means the past two months have been a complete waste–all the studying, the assignments you got low grades on because you were studying, the nights you spent at your desk–wasted and doomed to repeat.

All but the time you spent with Soonyoung. Even if you fail (again), he should at least score decently, and you can’t consider that a complete waste.

You raise your key to insert it into the lock but the door flies open. Jihoon glares at you, arms folded over his chest. “What the hell is taking you so long, your boyfriend is here.”

You peer past him and find Soonyoung lounging on the couch, feet resting on the coffee table. He sits up when he sees you, grinning and waving. You wonder if he’s been there since you told him you were finished. You make a mental note to get Jihoon his favorite protein shakes.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Me and your boyfriend heard you shaking your keys in front of the door for like twenty minutes,” Jihoon says.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you mutter, praying Soonyoung didn’t hear either of you. You push past Jihoon, letting him lock the door behind you. Soonyoung jumps off the couch as soon as you drop your bag, almost tackling you in a hug. You pretend not to hear Jihoon’s scoff as he locks himself in his room again.

“How’d it go?” He asks, squeezing you one more time before letting go. You try not to feel disappointed about it. “I mean, I know you did amazing, but how do you feel? Was the room super hot or super cold? Did the proctor give you the evil eye when you turned in your paper because they were secretly trying to sabotage you?”

“No?” You frown. “And the room was fine, I felt pretty good about it, but I felt good last time, so I don’t really know, I just really don’t want to take it again.” You sigh. “I know you want to know as many details as possible for your test, but I really, really don’t want to think about it right now.”

Soonyoung grins and pulls out a package of White Claws and a bottle of vodka from a plastic bag that you just noticed sitting on your coffee table. “That’s perfect because I brought a gift from the whole frat.”

“That seems pretty on brand,” you say.

“And a gift from me.” He digs again and pulls out a DVD. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

“You’re kidding.” You say. “I think I have to be drunk to watch that.”

“You don’t have faith in my taste in movies?” Soonyoung asks but he pops open the first drink and slips something shaped concerningly like a knife out of his pocket and stabs the can, chugging it before it can really spill on your carpet. Before you can register what he did, he tosses the empty can on the coffee table, immediately scrambling to straighten it. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Soonyoung, I don’t think I can keep up with you,” you say, sitting slowly onto the couch.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a lightweight,” he says. “I definitely should not have chugged that.”

“I guess I better catch up,” you say, unscrewing the vodka and pouring a shot in the little paper cups that Soonyoung brought. The acrid scent curls your lip but you knock it back as fast as you can, forcing it down when you miss the back of your throat and it burns your tongue. Soonyoung hands you a can, the lime flavored seltzer pushing the nasty flavor out of your mouth.

“Yeah, I’m terrible at that,” you say.

Soonyoung shrugs. “I’m not one to judge. You should have seen me as a pledge.”

You grin at the mental image of Soonyoung wearing a fake toga made of bedsheets. “I bet you were adorable.” You take another sip of the drink (which tastes significantly worse when you aren’t comparing it to straight vodka) and miss Soonyoung scrambling for words.

“I can’t drink this,” you declare, setting the can down. You cross the room to the fridge, opening it and studying the contents. Soonyoung follows you, resting his chin on the door and glancing inside.

“Jihoon does most of the cooking,” you say, feeling self-conscious. Not much populates your fridge, a package of chicken breast and a carton of eggs. A couple containers of take out that are either two days or two weeks old sit in front, and the drawer of fruit that is filled with apples from Jihoon’s mother definitely smells funny.

“I live in a frat house, this is heaven.”

You flash him a smile and grab the orange juice, shaking it as you grab a glass from the cabinet (thank god Jihoon did the dishes last night). Soonyoung follows you back to the couch and waits for you to pour a glass and add two shots of vodka. You raise the glass and he takes your rejected White Claw and clinks it.

“Cheers,” he says, sipping this one instead of chugging it. He sets it down and leans against the armrest so that he can face you. “How did you meet Jihoon, by the way? He seems like a pretty reserved dude.”

“Yeah, sorry if he was short with you, he isn’t half as mean as he pretends to be,” you say.

“We actually talked a lot.” He pauses, tilting his head as he thinks about it. “Well, a lot about working out. I think I could turn him into my gym buddy with enough pressure.”

“I would pay to see that,” you say. Jihoon tried to bring you to the gym exactly once, and you have regretted it ever since. The soreness haunts you, but you think Soonyoung might be one of the few people on the planet that could keep up with him with those arms.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” Soonyoung says with a giggle. You roll your eyes.

“You know for a fact that’s not what I meant,” you say, “and to answer your question, we lived in the same dorm freshman year. He was next door, and both our roommates were psychotic, so we ended up trading. We’ve been living together ever since because I’m the only one that can put up with his annoying ass. Also he cooks and keeps me alive during finals.”

“I can’t believe I was a dorm assignment away from living with you.” Soonyoung shakes his head and pretends to sigh. “Fate isn’t on my side.”

“Don’t you live in a frat house?”

“Semantics,” Soonyoung says. He pauses. “Semen-tics.” He starts to laugh and though the joke is far from funny, you find yourself giggling too.

“You’re drunk,” you say.

Soonyoung points at you. “I’m pretty sure you’re drunk too.”

You tilt your head from side to side, trying to think at first but the motion feels nice, toeing the line between dizzying and comfortable. Right, you were checking if you were drunk. You have your answer, but you don’t want to stop spinning just yet.

“Do you really want to be a lawyer?” Soonyoung asks. You freeze with your head on your right shoulder, frowning at him. “I mean, like, how do you know?”

“It makes good money,” you say. “Well, corporate law does. Everything going according to plan, I’ll be out of debt before I’m thirty, retiring at 65.”

“But how do you know that’s what you want?” Soonyoung asks. You wonder if he’s asking you or himself. You think about the first day you met him.

It was the first day of your sophomore year, 8 in the morning in the worst classroom in the Armhayer Building at the end of a dead end hallway with no windows. The business program had a required career building course and some cruel administrator decided to make the other available class clash with the other required business class for the year, so half the class was people you were stuck with for the full year. Despite its reputation, the business school at the university seemed to only accept idiots.

You settled for a long semester of biting back your eye rolls and yawning through class, choosing a seat in the front so that at least you won’t have to look at anyone else. And for fifteen minutes, you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Then Soonyoung walked in.

He was out of breath, telling the professor that he got lost several times and someone gave him the wrong directions. You didn’t really pay attention to him until he dropped into the seat next to you. Fully prepared to give him a side eye and judge him for the rest of the semester, Soonyoung flashed a smile at you and apologized for disrupting you. He was so obviously not your type, yet when his head dropped on your shoulder, you didn’t wake him up. Two classes later when the professor told the class that you would be in a semester-long partner project, you didn’t hesitate to say yes when Soonyoung asked you.

Soonyoung hadn’t ever taken the class seriously, going through the motions and doing the bare minimum for most of the assignments. You never paid any attention to it, but you realize that he never actually told you what he planned to do with his life, always asking you what you planned to do with your copious amounts of money. Now you wonder if it was because he really doesn’t know.

“I want stability,” you finally say. “This plan is stable. Safe, as long as everything goes according to plan. I guess it’s not as cool as dreaming about being an astronaut or whatever, but it’s what I want.”

“I think it’s cool. Knowing what you want to do.” Soonyoung says with little enthusiasm.

“You don’t have any idea?”

He shrugs. “I have to be smart to do the things I want to do.”

“You are smart.”

“You don’t have to pander to me, I’m not looking for your pity.”

“Soonyoung.” You wait for him to look you in the eyes. “You are smart. This isn’t pity. Sure it takes you a little longer to read things, and you have to work a little harder to answer some questions, but that doesn’t mean you’re not smart. You’re just as capable as me, more capable when it comes to emotional intelligence. Have you ever noticed that wherever you go, someone is always waving to you? I don’t think there’s a single person in this world that doesn’t like you. Don’t downplay how important that is.”

He chews on his lip and you know he doesn’t believe you. How many people have told him he’s dumb? You want to drag every single one of them here and make them apologize, make them realize how special the boy in front of you is. Eventually he shrugs. “I’ll just end up being an intern, and then I’ll be so charming they’ll promote me without realizing I don’t know what I’m doing and I’ll become a CEO that pays people to do the job for me.”

You smile and shake your head. “We can vacation together in the Bahamas.”

“Please, that’s where the semi-rich people go,” Soonyoung says, lifting his head from the back of the couch. “We’ll have our own islands and sail past each other.” This time when he smiles, the sparkle glints, just a little. His bleach blonde hair sticks in strange angles from rubbing against the couch, looking a little like a fuzzball. You reach a hand out and pat it down, except the hair is fried from being bleached so many times and almost breaks under your hand.

When you pull your hand down, Soonyoung is staring at you. Except staring isn’t the right word. He looks at you like no one else ever has, a thousand unsaid words behind his eyes, a language like no other that maybe only you can understand. Those dark eyes, so soft and warm, begging you to drown in them. He’s a siren, luring you in with a song of desire that only you can hear.

You don’t realize you’ve leaning closer until you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. Soonyoung’s hand flies to your waist, moving so fast it must have been reflex.

“Sorry,” you mutter but you don’t get off him. Resisting his eyes from this close is impossible. Soonyoung blinks at you, frozen. It occurs to you that you’re almost kissing him. All you have to do is lean forward, press your lips against his. Would his lips be chapped? Would he kiss you back? Would he make fun of you for being a terrible kisser? You hold your breath, wondering if you are about to find out.

You jump at the bang of a door slamming shut. You push off Soonyoung’s chest, back to your side of the couch until your back slams against the armrest. The pain is almost enough to sober you up and you realize exactly what you were about to do. You can’t bear to look at Soonyoung staring at you so you look at Jihoon instead, who doesn’t seem to realize that he interrupted anything by walking into the kitchen, headphones blasting music so loud that you can hear it. He grabs one of the takeout containers from the fridge and finally notices you and Soonyoung staring at him.

“What?” He shouts over his headphones. You shake your head and he stares at you all the way back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to make you jump again.

“We should probably start the movie,” you say, turning to face forward, anywhere but Soonyoung. “I’ll get my laptop.” He doesn’t say anything but you can feel Soonyoung’s eyes on you as you jump up. Ignoring the spinning in your head, you walk to your room. You lean against the door as soon as it shuts behind you, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

You wish you could blame the idiocy on the alcohol, but you aren’t drunk enough for that. Besides, regardless of the reason, it was a mistake, it would be a mistake, to kiss Soonyoung. No matter how badly you want to do it.

Your computer sits on your desk. The longer it takes for you to get back, the stranger it will be, so you grab it and return to the couch. Dizziness gives you an excuse to peer at the floor, perfectly valid reason to avoid Soonyoung’s eyes.

“Are you ready to have your mind blown?” He asks when you insert the DVD into your laptop.

You raise your eyebrows but still don’t have the courage to face him. “It’s that good?”

Soonyoung laughs easily, as if nothing happened. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He faces the computer, sitting back against the couch. Other than his red tinted cheeks, you can’t tell he’s drunk at all. You have no idea what you’re in for, he said. He has no idea how right he is.

You hold Soonyoung by the shoulders, staring him down. Your eyes begin to water but you hold them open, determined not to lose. Soonyoung squints, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. You just have to hold out a little longer, but your eyes begin to ache and the air pierces into them.

“Damn!” Soonyoung cries, throwing himself back onto the couch and squeezing his eyes shut. You let go of his shoulders and resist the urge to rub your eyes, settling for blinking as fast as humanly possible. Your eyes burn but you smile anyways, wiping tears away with the back of your hand.

“How are you so good at that?” Soonyoung asks. He gives into the impulse, hands pressed against his eyes.

“I’m really not, I think you’re just bad at staring contests,” you say. “Now hurry up, you lost so you have to answer.”

He sighs as if he didn’t beg you to help him study. With only a day before his test, you’re not sure how much this is really helping, but at least he isn’t partying with the rest of his frat (who do a pre-finals bar crawl, apparently). Instead, Soonyoung is on your couch, again. You try not to think about the last time he was here. Not productive thoughts, especially not when Soonyoung is one day away from taking the most important test of his life.

“Is it B?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“I hate when you say that.” He peers at the paper, eyes moving slowly as he rereads the line. “No, it’s C! Wait, no, B. No, A!”

“Pick an answer.”

He chews on his lip. You have to force yourself to keep your focus on his eyes. “B,” he finally says.

You’re tempted to drag it out and make him wait but he puts on the Soonyoung Sparkle so you go ahead and nod.

“I knew it! Trust your gut!”

“You’re quoting me now.” You pretend to wipe tears from the corner of your eyes. “You’ve grown up so quickly.”

If it were Jihoon, he’d roll his eyes but Soonyoung perks up, as if you’ve given him a real compliment. He pauses before asking his next question, eyes flickering to the papers separating you from him.

“You really think I’ll do well?” He asks softly.

You study him, the way his unnaturally blonde hair has been strategically gelled to stick up in all the right places, the way his plain white t-shirt hangs loose on his shoulders. You wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror because the way he sits now, waiting for an answer as if you’d actually say no, breaks your heart a little. He really has no idea how brilliant he is, in every sense of the word. You don’t know how to make him see it so you just take his hand and wait for him to look you in the eyes.

The second the glittering dark irises meet yours, you see the desperation. He tries to smile, to hide the fear but Soonyoung has always been easy to read. You fight the urge to brush your fingers against his cheek.

“Soonyoung.” You squeeze his hand. What you feel isn’t a passing crush, you’ve known that for a while now. Admitting it doesn’t give you the bravery to do anything except pull the shield of cowardice around your heart a little tighter. “I’d be an idiot if I said I didn’t.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, until it almost looks like he believes you. Then his eyes light up. “I have a surprise for you!”

He digs into his backpack, pulling out a blanket (not the one he used when it was still warm enough to sit outside in the grass), a plastic water bottle half-full of bright green liquid, three crumpled flyers for events on campus, and finally, a small rectangular item, carefully wrapped in paper towels.

“I was a little worried it would get damaged in my backpack,” he says. “I really, really tried to walk gently and didn’t bring it near any coffee.”

You choose not to point out the unnatural liquid in the plastic water bottle, instead appreciating his efforts to protect whatever your surprise is. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t try. He carefully pulls the paper towels off, revealing a navy blue leather bound book with gilded lettering. Not just any book.

“You got it back?” You cry. Soonyoung pulls the rest of the paper towels off to reveal the intricate design on the cover, the golden pages, with Pride and Prejudice inscribed on the spine. “My baby!”

You hover over the book, not wanting to ruin it with the dirt and oils from your hands but so desperately wanting to caress the beautiful book. It’s just as you remember it, down to the tiny dent on the front cover where you accidentally knocked it against a railing. You can’t wait to put it back on your bookshelf where there has been an empty space ever since Jun managed to snag it. You remember Soonyoung is there when you hear his laughter.

“You like it that much?”

“Of course,” you say. “It’s my baby.”

“It’s a book.” But he smiles and you know he’s just teasing. So you figure, why not?

You throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. His frat-bro instincts must take charge because he doesn’t hesitate to hug you back, pulling you against his chest and squeezing you like he’s the one getting a gift.

“Thank you,” you say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“This is my thank you,” he says. You can feel his voice rumbling in his chest, a strange sensation that sends butterflies tumbling around between your stomach and your heart. “It’s the least I could do for you.

The awkward position isn’t exactly comfortable, twisting your body to face him with your shoulder overtop of his forcing your face into his neck but you don’t want to let go. You give yourself five more thundering heartbeats before you let go, turning to study your book again so you have an excuse to avoid his eyes.

“How did you get it back?”

“Same way you lost it,” Soonyoung says. “I made a bet.”

“On what?”

Soonyoung shrugs, turning to look at the book that still sits in his lip. He gently places it into yours, using the paper towels to prevent smudging with his fingers.

You frown. “How? Jun is in another hemisphere.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of video calls and express shipping,” Soonyoung says. “By the way, I’m wearing your friends down. Pretty soon they’ll like me more than they like you.

“Oh really?” You raise your eyebrow. You ignore the vole gnawing at your gut whispering that he might just be right.

“I got Jihoon to go to the gym with me and I got him to admit I was friends with you before he was,” he says, holding a finger out. “Jun says that he wants to meet me the second he returns to the country.” A second finger goes up. “Who else can I add to the list?”

He’s only joking. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but your skin wants to crawl inside out. The truth is, they are pretty much your only friends. Jihoon, Jun, and Soonyoung, the latter two having wormed their way into your life. My only friends.

“You’ve got to start going on the offensive,” Soonyoung says. He avoids your eyes and you know he didn’t miss your discomfort. Great, now he pities you. “I’m serious, Seokmin and Joshua have been asking about you, and Seungcheol keeps complaining that he hasn’t met you yet.”

You snort. “They’re frat bros, they just want more people to party with.”

“I’m a frat bro,” he says.

“Yeah, but…” But what? He’s Soonyoung? Once again, you wonder why he is so different to you–why the epitome of frat boy chaos doesn’t repulse you like he should. But he isn’t some one-dimensional steroid-infused party boy, not the type to bully the freshman trying to join just because he can. He gets drunk after two shots and makes his pledges follow him for 24 hours a day as “hazing,” only to take them for a dinner he can’t afford and skips his own classes so they don’t miss theirs.

He’s not a typical frat boy. But Soonyoung loves his frat, and you can’t find a way to tell him this without making it sound like you are looking down on the rest of the members.

So you just say, “Isn’t this supposed to be a study session?”

Soonyoung sighs, pulling the book in front of him and staring at the words. Even though you can see that he isn’t reading, he doesn’t say anything else.

“Your test is tomorrow,” you say.

“Yeah, I know.” He doesn’t pick up the pencil.

You’ve never struggled to read Soonyoung. He can’t hide when he’s upset, shoulders slumping, a little pout forming over his lips. He doesn’t fully frown but his eyebrows comes together, just a bit. And it’s usually easy to figure out what’s wrong–he’s tired, or wants to be at a party instead of studying. But now? He was fine just a moment ago, even while he was cramming earlier.

“Is something wrong?” You don’t know why you’re so scared of the answer.

“I just thought that… nNever mind.” He sighs again. “You’re right, this is a study session. I should be studying.” He doesn’t look at you and you can’t help but feel like you messed up. But Soonyoung eventually picks up his pencil and asks you to check his answers and the feeling slowly fades.

Will the rest of your feelings fade when you aren’t with him like this anymore? When he takes his test and has no reason to see you every day? Will your heart still beat at the mention of his name? Will you spend the rest of your life thinking about all the almosts with him? Or will it fade until Soonyoung is just a boy that you helped because of a silly bet?

Even as you consider it, you know the answer. He isn’t just a boy, and he never will be. Maybe that’s what really scares you.

You glare at Soonyoung. “Do you know what time it is?”

Jihoon glances at his watch. “7:43.”

Soonyoung grins beside him, arm over his shoulder. Both boys stand in your bedroom doorway looking far too composed for this ungodly hour.

“It’s a Saturday.” Just two minutes ago you were in blissful sleep. Okay, maybe not blissful, since you stayed up until three in the morning because you couldn’t fall asleep, and you were having a weird dream where you were looking for something and ended up by the stadium staring at a giant duck statue instead of the raven. But the point is you were asleep until two fists banged on your door so loud you thought it was going to fall apart.

You can’t even be that mad at Soonyoung, not when he smiles like that. So you glare at Jihoon.

“Honestly, I figured you would be up,” he says. “You were the one that said you didn’t think you were going to get any sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung says. “I really just wanted to help distract you for the last hour.” Right. The last hour until your entire future would be determined by a triple digit number. No biggie.

“Let me get dressed,” you say. They step back before you have the chance to slam the door in their face. You’d like to be able to dress up nicely, but you’re already shivering, so you grab your comfiest sweatpants and the sweatshirt Soonyoung lent you (that still smells like his cologne). You dart into the bathroom and meet the two boys in the doorway of the apartment, pulling on your sneakers.

You pull the hood over your messy hair and tighten the strings. Soonyoung grins at you and taps your nose.

“Ready to go?”

“How did you get out of bed this early?”

“Oh, I never got in,” he says. “Long story, but we gotta go, they won’t wait much longer.”

“They?” You ask but Soonyoung doesn’t hear you. He turns to Jihoon, waving.

“See you tomorrow!” He says, throwing an arm over your shoulders to pull you out the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes!”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” But he looks at you and smiles. “It’ll be fine.” Before you can thank him, he shuts the door.

Soonyoung doesn’t let go of your side, pulling you to the elevators and squeezing you against him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I should be asleep.”

Soonyoung smiles, as if your grumpiness is funny. You decide it’s moot since there’s no way you could fall asleep now that you are an hour and seven minutes away from finding out the results of your future.

“I figured I’d save you from wallowing in worry,” Soonyoung says. “We can do fun things while we wait. I planned out the whole morning, we have options! There’s going to the gym, or for a job around campus, breaking into the science lab and petting the rabbits, going to Barb’s for breakfast–”

“Breakfast,” you say. You aren’t a huge fan of getting in trouble with the college when you have just over a semester before graduation and though you aren’t sure if your stomach will accept food, working out is a guarantee for throwing up. Besides, a hot cup of coffee could clear a little of the fog in your brain.

“Barb’s it is,” Soonyoung says, practically bouncing on his toes. He really seems to only have two settings, and today he’s at 120%.

He lets go of your side when the elevator opens and you step to the ground floor of your apartment. You rub your arms and pretend like the chill is from the weather even though the lobby is still warm. He holds the door for you pretending to be a doorman, bowing and gesturing with his arm for you to pass. You turn so that he doesn’t see that the silly gesture made you smile.

Parked outside is a white jeep that looks larger than normal, and is apparently the asshole that’s been blasting their music for the past ten minutes. You aren’t surprised in the slightest when Soonyoung strides up to the car.

“I don’t have a car,” he says, belatedly apologetic. The two men in the front seat don’t seem to mind, though you suspect they have been up all night along with Soonyoung as soon as the door opens and you hear their voices singing off-tune over the blasting music.

“Boy, you got my heartbeat runnin' away,” The driver cries, using a water bottle as a mic. You recognize Seungcheol from Soonyoung’s descriptions, half from his voice and half from the back of his head. The person riding shotgun is also familiar, a mess of dark hair that must be Joshua. He doesn’t look much different in daylight, sunglasses resting on his forehead. Thankfully they turn the music down a little and stop singing when you get it.

Seungcheol grins at you through the mirror. “So I finally get to meet the infamous YN. You know, you still haven’t shown up to any parties.”

“I’ve been busy,” you say, glancing at Soonyoung who focuses a little too much on his seatbelt.

“Hi, YN,” the passenger up front says, waving at you through the rearview mirror.

“Joshua,” you say. “Get into life and death scenarios with Soonyoung recently?”

“Well, Soonyoung jumped out of a car window.” He pauses. “It wasn’t moving,” he adds when Seungcheol jerks his head towards him. “Though I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I have done it before,” Soonyoung says solemnly. It takes him a moment to realize everyone is staring at him. “It was a dare.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Seungcheol grumbles, turning back around and putting the car into drive. Though you were thinking something along the same lines, the way Soonyoung deflates a little makes you wish Seungcheol hadn’t said anything.

The rest of the drive is quiet–at least in terms of conversation. Seungcheol cranks his stereo up to the loudest setting and blasts the Spice Girls until Joshua starts singing along. Apparently car karaoke for “Wannabe” is sacrilegious to the frat leader.

You can hear yourself think again when the car pulls into the parking lot and he finally cuts the engine. A few cars line the parking lot of the 24 hour diner that sits on the outskirts of campus. The giant neon red Barb’s that hangs over the entrance flickers in the cloudy morning light teeters the line between quaint and electrical fire waiting to happen.

The workers, a host and three waitresses, wave at the boys, and do a double take at you. You swear you hear the host whisper “Is that really them?” to Joshua as he leads the group to a table in the corner but Soonyoung distracts you with the menu.

“I had this thing memorized since freshman year, I can’t believe you’ve never been here. The pancakes are my favorite for hangover cures, not that I’m hungover by the way, I’m actually running on my third energy drink.” He taps the picture, a golden stack of perfectly fluffy pancakes that can only be photoshop.

“Aren’t energy drinks bad for your heart?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Joshua invented this to get through finals, you mix Red Bull, Bang, and Coke and it keeps you up for three days straight. Great for when you’re nervous because you physically have to do something about it.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say. “Wait, why are you nervous?”

“Your test results come out today,” he says too quickly.

You consider debating with him but a waitress approaches, wearing a fifties frock and a high ponytail with a ribbon that probably looked like a bow at the start of her shift but has drooped down and now just looks sad. Her face is a mask of emotions, not a smile, not a frown, just emptiness, a contrast to the button clipped to her collar making her “Happy.”

“The usual?” She asks, pausing at you. She tilts her head and you can see the mask twisting at the edges, a frown almost forming on her brow. She glances at Soonyoung. “Is this who I think it is?”

“Who do you think it is?” Soonyoung asks at the same time that Joshua and Seungcheol say, “Yes.”

The corner of Happy’s lips turn into a tiny smile that seems to be her equivalent of a grin. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Okay, haha, very funny,” Soonyoung says. “Stop harassing my friend. We’ll order when we have a chance to look at the menu.”

Happy raises her eyebrow just slightly at the word “friend,” but closes her notepad. She returns to a pastel pink bar where you can clearly see her whispering and gesturing to you.

“Why do so many people know me?” You mutter, shrinking into the corner of the booth.

“The thing about Drunk Soonyoung is that he doesn’t really shut up,” Seungcheol says.

“That’s being gentle,” Joshua says. “One time he spent four hours describing Finding Nemo. That’s longer than the actual movie.”

“It’s a good movie,” Soonyoung says.

“The point is,” Seungcheol says, glaring at Joshua, “he tends to talk when he’s drunk. Usually about good things, things that he… Well, things that he likes.”

You turn your head to look at Soonyoung, who is once again pretending to study the menu. “You like studying for the LSAT that much?”

Joshua unsuccessfully tries to hide his laugh with a snort while Seungcheol gains slightly more success with a fake cough. Soonyoung doesn’t react at all, staring at the painted flowers on the menu. Eventually, he shrugs. “I’m dedicated to the bet.” He points at a stack of pancakes covered in bananas and chocolate. “That’s what I usually get.”

“Isn’t against all rules of gym core and muscle building to eat decadent things?”

“Did you just call working out ‘gym core?’” Seungcheol asks.

“Am I wrong?”

“Nope!” Soonyoung says brightly. “And cheat days are a thing, so do you want to split it or not?”

“You know I can’t say no to bananas and chocolate.”

“And pancakes!” He waves down the waitress and points to the stack.

“Ah, the new Soonyoung,” she says. “You guys getting your actual usual?”

Joshua and Seungcheol nod and she doesn’t bother to write any of it down. Then again she already knows their orders. Except she called Soonyoung’s “new.” Before you can ask what she meant, a shout makes you jump. You turn around to see a stream of boys entering, enough of whom you recognize that you realize at least half the frat has rolled into the diner. The waitresses roll their eyes and groan but somehow they don’t look all that upset.

“Mr. President!” The tallest boy, Johnny according to Soonyoung’s Instagram tags, holds a fist over his heart and pounds it a couple times. Seungcheol nods and greets each of the boys, most of whom seem to still be in various stages of inebriation. Almost all of them glance at you and whisper to each other, and you get the feeling they know exactly who you are.

Just what has Soonyoung said about you?

“How are we doing on time?” One of them calls out.

“46 minutes,” Joshua says. You frown. 46 minutes… until 9? Do they all know about today?

You tap Soonyoung on the arm. “What’s going on?”

“You see, the thing is,” he says, “apparently I was nervous?” He tries to fake a laugh but it sounds strained. “I don’t really know but the guys made me tell them about today and then I didn’t really know what was happening but I guess they followed us here? Thought you might like moral support, or something.”

You peek out at the booths crowded with frat bros and cringe back into your seat when they grin at you. “They’re all looking at me.”

“Well, I guess I do talk about you a lot,” he says, only loud enough for you to hear. He won’t meet your eyes.

Ask him why. You want to be brave. You want to be right about the answer you think he’ll give you. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Because of the bet?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer for a moment. “I guess.”

Coward.

“Why are we whispering?” Joshua asks, leaning across Soonyoung towards you. “Are we gossiping?”

Soonyoung pushes him off. “Butt out.”

“Just telling Soonyoung that I’ve never had an army of drunk guys rooting for me before,” you say.

“Could have had it sooner if you came to a party,” Seungcheol says.

“You really want me at a party that bad? We just met.”

Seungcheol glances at Soonyoung, who shakes his head. He sighs. “If only I could tell you why you need to come.”

You frown between the three men. “I don’t like when people talk in circles over me.”

“Just promise you’ll come to the Christmas party. It’ll all make sense then,” Seungcheol says. You’ve heard a lot about Seungcheol from Soonyoung, and the more you listen to him, the more you believe it. He’s a strange man.

“I’ll think about making an appearance.”

“Really?” Soonyoung whips around to face you and you know that you have to come now. You haven’t seen him this excited since you let him skip studying to party. No, he’s even more excited now. “You’ll come?”

You can’t stand his gaze so you study the placemats. “Maybe.”

He grabs your hand until you meet his eyes. “Please?”

The Soonyoung Sparkle. You never win against it. “Fine.”

“Get a room,” Joshua says behind a very fake cough. You pull your hand back into your lap and pretend like you aren’t embarrassed.

“How long now?” You shout out.

“40 minutes,” someone answers. You groan and lean back into the sofa. Studying was hard enough but waiting makes you want to pull out each individual hair on your head. You stare at the ceiling, trying to decide if the stain looks more like a horse or a flower.

“Look at this.” Soonyoung passes his phone in front of you, forcing you to look down. His Instagram is open to a picture of a kitten looking drunk, face covered in milk. Such and obvious attempt to distract you but you smile anyway.

“Sweet,” you say and even you aren’t sure if you mean the cat or Soonyoung. He shows you cat pictures until the food finally arrives (33 minutes to go). You have to wait another five minutes because Soonyoung insists on having a photoshoot, despite your protests that you look like you just woke up (he raises his eyebrows at that). You stop fighting when Joshua makes him cut a piece of the pancake and feed it to you. Chocolate nearly drops in your lap but Soonyoung shoots his hand out at the last second and catches it.

“Okay, can we please just eat,” you say. Joshua and Seungcheol shrug and pretend like they weren’t instigating the pictures and telling you and Soonyoung how to pose.

Soonyoung was right about the bananas and chocolate. Rich and decadent, they’re delicious. When he cuts you a slice and pushes it toward you, you can even forget the countdown to the end of the world. Or, more accurately, the end of the world doesn’t mean anything to you when Soonyoung smiles at you like that.

You eat slowly enough to bring you to the ten minute mark. Fear mixes with the dessert for breakfast in your stomach, twisting it until it threatens to jump out of your throat. Soonyoung takes your hand under the table and holds it. You don’t run away this time.

He holds you to the planet again, keeps you from floating away and disappearing before you can reach the stars. It’s Soonyoung that keeps your heart beating. Always Soonyoung.

Seungcheol and Joshua chat, Soonyoung piping in a few times, but their words don’t reach you. Stuck somewhere between crushed beneath the weight of the world and floating away, you focus on the clock, watching the seconds tick closer and closer.

“Last minute!” Someone behind you finally shouts. Soonyoung squeezes your hand. You pull up the website on your phone and put in your login information and hover over the SUBMIT. At thirty seconds, they start shouting it out.

“Ten!”

“Nine!”

“Eight!”

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

Half the guys start cheering already, probably forgetting the count down doesn’t mean as much as the results themselves. You hit SUBMIT and watch the little wheel spin around and around and around until it finally refreshes. The number stares back at you, impossible to read right in front of you.

169.

“Congratulations!” Soonyoung shouts, throwing his arms around you and squeezing while you try to comprehend what that means. 169. The number should be all you can think about but Soonyoung holds you, shouting how proud he is, how he always believed in you.

“169!” Seungcheol shouts, miles away from your bubble. You can hear the guys break out into cheers, hear them chanting the number (which turns into 69) but it’s just you and Soonyoung. The world didn’t end and Soonyoung is still by your side.

The rest of the morning is a blur. Every member of the frat insists on congratulating you, which mostly means a lot of hugs, though one of the more drunk guys tried to spin you around on his shoulder. You laugh when you’d usually frown and find your way back to Soonyoung’s side like a magnet.

Maybe it’s the euphoria that gives you courage.

“Hey Soonyoung?”

“Hm?”

You say it before you can think too much. “Maybe just the two of us next time?”

He grins before you can finish speaking. “I’d love that.”

You have the courtesy to let Soonyoung sleep in as much as he wants. You wait for him at Barb’s, trying to figure out how to call this a date.

You’ve seen him a couple times since you got your score back, but you needed to study for finals and he had to make up for missing a lot of frat activities. You’ve only seen him in passing, nothing to fill the Soonyoung shaped hole in your heart. But today that will change. You will celebrate together and you will tell him how you feel. And then… you have no idea.

It’s just Soonyoung there’s nothing to be nervous about. Too bad your body doesn’t agree with you. Every nerve stands at attention, jumping at the bell that rings when the door opens. You don’t worry when Soonyoung doesn’t get to Barb’s by 8:30 like he said he would. Even at 8:45, you aren’t worried.

It’s only at 8:55 that you really start to wonder where he is. Maybe you should have picked him up. Knowing him, there’s a 50% chance he’s lying in a ditch after a failed attempt to recreate an impossible stunt from Fast and Furious. At 9, you call him. Between each silence in the ring, you wait for his voice but it never comes. He uses the automated voicemail, so you don’t even get his voice telling you to leave a message.

The anxiety turns to fear while you wait. The door rings and you see a fluff of bleach blonde hair and jump up. But though you recognize the face, it isn’t Soonyoung.

Chan, one of the younger members of the frat, with Mingyu and a guy whose name you forgot. They all have the same look in their eyes when they see you, far too much like pity.

“You’re YN, right?” Mingyu asks. “You’re supposed to meet Soonyoung?” The two guys with him, easily identifiable as frat members between their unkempt hair and sweatshirts plastered with Greek letters, stop mid conversation and glance at each other.

“Is he okay?” You ask, still standing in the awkward position in the booth.

“He’s got his score back,” Mingyu says.

“We were supposed to–”

“Yeah, I know,” Mingyu says. “It was a 167. You should really talk to him yourself.” He pauses, glancing at his frat brothers but they shrug. “He’s at the house. See if you can talk some sense into him.”

You’re too afraid to ask any other questions so you just watch Mingyu and the other two walk past, and pretend that they aren’t whispering and stealing glances at you.

Going to a frat house was never on your bucket list but your feet travel without guidance. You find yourself in front of a rather nondescript house. No bodies hang out from windows, no one is passed out in the yard. Then again it’s a weekday.

You pause at the door, wondering if you should knock. You tap your hand on the door and it slides open, the latch bolt pushed completely in. You step inside tentatively, peeking around but it’s quiet. You turn the corner to find an open room and Soonyoung sitting on a couch, glass with a bright liquid in his hand. He doesn’t even look at you.

“Are you seriously drunk right now?”

Soonyoung just shrugs, taking another sip from the glass. Even from here you can smell that it’s more tequila than fruit punch.

You shake your head, crossing the room sitting beside him even though he didn’t invite you to sit down. He was considerably cuter the last time you saw him drunk. You’ve gotten used to the power of Soonyoung’s facial expressions, his smiles, his frowns, the way his eyes glaze over when he’s bored, the way they gleam when he daydreams; they’re as precious to you as Soonyoung himself. But his face is a clean slate now, not a smile, not a frown, just a blank stare.

“You know a 167 is still insanely good, right?”

He shakes his head.

“Soonyoung.” He doesn’t look at you, so you grab his drink. Any other day and you would have failed miserably but his alcohol-impaired senses make him slow enough for you to get a hand on the half-empty glass. He glares at you but you don’t yield, tightening your grip and pulling the bottle even harder.

“Let go,” you growl. “Talk to me like a normal human.”

He shakes his head, pulling on the glass so you yank back, except you overestimate how weak he is like this, and the glass flies out of his hand, the contents spilling all over you. The red liquid sinks into your blue sweater, soaking you through all three layers.

“What the hell?” Soonyoung says.

“That gets your fucking attention? Spilling your drink?” You say. “You know, I really thought you were different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re acting like a child. So you didn’t win the bet. Who fucking cares? Do you know how hard it is to get higher than a 160? Soonyoung, you are smart, and you worked so hard for this. You could go to law school with that score. You could graduate above a 2.3 if you stopped acting like a stereotypical fuck bro and actually studied.

“You know, you could actually be something if you wanted. You don’t have to get a degree and work at a corporate job that sucks your soul away until the Soonyoung that actually matters is gone. I know it’s easier this way, but if you actually tried to dream, you could do something. I don’t get it, honestly. Because everyone thinks you’re an idiot you act like one? Is that what it is?”

“You don’t have to pretend like you don’t think the same thing.”

You snort. “I don’t, but clearly you won’t believe me. You think that if you have to work for something then it’s not worth it when you could be so much more.”

“Why do you even care?” Soonyoung asks, looking you in the eyes for the first time. For a moment, you think you might actually be wrong, because all you see in his eyes is pain. A physical force that constricts your heart and makes you weak in the knees, Soonyoung looks at you like he’s been fighting a war you never knew about, like he’s been suffering in silence for a lifetime. He looks at you like you’ve broken his heart.

Why do I care? You could scoff. Because I’ve been in love with you ever since you fell asleep on my shoulder. I’ve been fighting this stupid crush for so long that I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t know who I am without you. I care because every day the world proves that we aren’t worthy of this planet, that love can’t solve all problems yet you make me question it all. You don’t just bring light into my life, you make it glitter. And I can’t tell you any of this.

“I don’t know.” The lie tastes bitter but it’s still sweeter than rejection.

“Then why are you here?” Soonyoung looks away. Without his eyes pinning you down, you can breathe again, but every inhale still drags against your heart. You stand up. Afterall, you don’t have an answer for him.

“I take it back. You are an idiot,” you mutter over his head as you walk past him. You make it to the corner of the street before the tears finally spill over your cheeks, and all the way back to your room before you can’t breathe.

Without the distraction of finals, you are left with your own thoughts, your words and Soonyoung’s floating around your head. You have always been something of a hermit but you’ve become J.D. Salinger himself, only leaving your room to sneak into the kitchen and scrounge for scraps of junk food that Jihoon hasn’t thrown away yet. You watch so much reality TV that you start to dream about it.

Every episode the people, a family living on a homestead that just happens to dress in brand name clothes and drive a Benz, fight and cry and make up. You yell at the mother when she forces her daughter to change because she didn’t think polka dots are appropriate and cry along with the daughter when she starts to sniffle in her confessional, wondering if her mother would ever approve of her choices, whether it was clothes or the people she wants to date.

You bet your confessional would be a hit if it was ever filmed. Tears run down your cheeks as you practice it in the mirror, choking out an apology for calling him an idiot and telling the whole world what you aren’t brave enough to tell him.

Jun calls but you can’t answer. He leaves three voicemails: an apology, a goofy one telling you he’ll be back soon, and a final one, yelling at you to pick up or at least let him know you’re alive. You text him an apology you don’t know if you mean. He says thank you anyway and doesn’t call again.

You have no plans to change your schedule (wake up, steal food, cry, sleep) but on the third day you run out of goldfish and can’t find anything in the kitchen that doesn’t make you nauseous. To make matters worse, despite the fact that it’s seven in the morning (the earliest you’ve woken up since the Fight), Jihoon catches you.

You’ve successfully avoided him and his inevitable lecture, slamming your door shut and ignoring his knocks but he catches you off guard today. He sneaks in from his morning workout wearing a black t-shirt and slides that he somehow manages to walk stealthily in, scaring you when you close the fridge and find him standing where the door was.

“Are you done hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter.

He folds his arms.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m not done hiding.”

“Well too fucking bad,” Jihoon says. You try to step past him but he holds his arm out. You’ll never beat him in a physical fight so you step back, shaking your head.

“Have it your way. Go ahead.” You wave your hand. “Get it all out. Yell at me or lecture me or whatever, I don’t care. You’re going to tell me that I’m an idiot? That I shouldn’t be so afraid of rejection, that I’m blind to how he feels?

“Or are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t trust someone like him? That I shouldn’t be crying over a goddamn frat boy, I’m better than this, I’m better than him.” You choke back a sob, not sure what words are coming out anymore. You wipe at the tears in your eyes and are so focused on trying not to cry that you don’t notice Jihoon walking away. You do see him come back, blurry shape coming into focus as you blink away the tears. He holds something in his hand, a navy blue square. A throw pillow from the couch?

He shifts it in his hand until he holds the corner with the zipper, swinging it a couple times back and forth. Then he yanks his arm back and arcs the pillow in a wide loop, landing directly on your head.

“Ow!” You cry but Jihoon just swings again, hitting your arm this time. He hits you so hard it knocks you off balance, sending you to the floor. Jihoon doesn’t hesitate, swinging the pillow into you again and again, every inch of you.

“You. Are. An. Idiot.” He grunts out each word with a blow. “You really think you’re better than him?”

He finally pauses, not even breathing heavily. You shake your head to answer him. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he says. Then he hits you again and again and again.

“Ow, Jihoon, what the hell?” You bury your head in your knees and hold your arms over you, trying in vain to protect yourself.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he says. “I’m not your father, or your brother, or any of that shit. I’m your best friend and you’re being an idiot and I’m not going to stop hitting you until you get some sense knocked into you.” He freezes, as if realizing exactly what he said. “Wait, no–that’s not what I mean, shit, sorry, but–”

You peek out from your arms and find Jihoon opening and closing his mouth, trying to figure out what to say. He looks like a fish out of water, and it occurs to you he is a fish out of water. He’s never had to comfort you before, probably never had to comfort anyone. No wonder he’s so bad at it.

You wouldn’t laugh at him and borderline abuse, but your emotions are beyond fried, and he just looks so funny standing over you with a pillow raised, still sputtering half apologies. You try to stop the laugh before it comes out but it turns into a snort and then you can’t stop laughing, tears that you tried to push back falling freely. You lay back on the floor and laugh until your sides hurt, only vaguely aware of Jihoon laughing above you. Eventually he joins you on the floor.

“You know what I meant,” he says. The pillow rests on the floor between his legs, all the fluff on the far end from the one-sided pillow fight.

“I knew what you meant without the pillow.”

“Too bad,” Jihoon says. “I’m tired of listening to the theme song of that god awful show. You could at least watch something like–”

“I swear if you bring up an anime, you’ll feel exactly how hard that pillow can hit.”

Jihoon laughs, patting it a couple times. “I saw him the other day. He looked tired.” He pauses but you don’t dare speak. “We didn’t speak. I don’t even think he saw me. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not the one he needs to talk to.”

“I know,” you say.

“Then why are you still on the floor?”

Because you’re scared. Because it would be easier to just give up now, for once to ignore putting in the hard work and just let it pass. But just because it’s the easy option doesn’t mean it’s the right option. At the very least you need to apologize to him.

“What if he hates me?”

Jihoon snorts. “Then he’ll get some pillow violence too.” He pauses. “He doesn’t, though.”

“It doesn’t mean that it will turn out okay.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jihoon says. “But no matter what happens, you’ll deal with it. And even if it absolutely sucks in the moment, eventually it will be over, and it sure as hell will be better than that stupid fucking show.”

You nod, setting your chin on your knees. Your stomach turns in anticipation for what you will have to do, but he’s right. It’s time to stop running. Tonight is the Christmas party, and you were never formally uninvited. Somehow you doubt Seungcheol will throw you out. It’s time to get off the floor and get ready.

“Have you ever thought of being a life coach?”

“Hell no.”

What am I doing here? You fake a smile at Seungcheol and swallow the shot as fast as you can, grimacing as the vodka burns everything from the inside of your mouth to the depths of your stomach. You should have just stuck to your mixed drink only policy but Soonyoung always has you breaking your rules. Even when he isn’t with you.

Seungcheol disappears as soon as you take the drink, and you don't see anyone else you are comfortable enough to chat with, though that list is quite short. You do a turn of the house, which looks marginally better than the last time you saw it ,the benefit of bad lighting. It’s already crowded with more people than you’ve ever seen on campus. You make your way through each room on the lower floor, finding more than a couple bleach blondes. None are who you’re looking for. You stop in the living room, where you saw him last.

“He isn’t here.” You turn at the voice. An unfamiliar boy stands next to you, holding a half-empty Smirnoff Ice. “He went to visit family or something.” He pauses, looking you up and down. “At least that’s what he said.”

You nod. You find it doesn’t surprise you that he seems to know who you are. You suppose you’ve grown used to it, just one of the side-effects of being close with Soonyoung. Though it’s still strange, it doesn’t make you uncomfortable anymore. Or it wouldn’t, if you didn’t think this stranger is implying that it’s your fault Soonyoung isn’t at the ‘Party of the Year.’

You can’t stand his gaze so you make your way back towards the drinks, grabbing the first bottle you could find and chugging half of the lukewarm drink. It tastes like a fruit you can’t recognize and carbonation and the more you drink the harder it is to swallow but you force it down.

You came to apologize. He isn’t here, so why do you stay? Because you promised him? Do you really miss him that much? That you would come here and suffer through all this chaos, just for the memory of him? It doesn’t make any sense but you think that might be a side effect of the alcohol. You get another drink just in case you’re still sober.

Your head pounds, the aching feeling of the stage between drunk and sober. Normally you’d like to be sound asleep by now, or at least in the comfort of your home, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. It’s hot and sweaty, the music is way too loud, and you can’t find water anywhere, but you stay anyway, because you’re an idiot that fell in love.

You curl up on the couch, opposite of a couple making out as if the room isn’t full of people, waiting for just a glimpse of him that will never appear. Even drunk, you think it’s pitiful, but you can’t stop.

You didn’t think you could fall asleep in all the noise but you open your eyes when you feel the world tilt sideways. You’re vaguely aware of the arms underneath your legs and back, cradling you against someone’s chest. No, not just someone.

Because you aren’t enough of an idiot, you can tell it’s him, his sweet scent, maybe even just his arms. Soonyoung carries you out of the living room and up the stairs, the blaring music fading only slightly.

“I thought you weren’t here,” you mumble.

Soonyoung frowns down at you. “You okay?”

You shake your head, suddenly realizing there are tears in your eyes. No, I’m not okay, I love you, you want to say. He squeezes you a little tighter, trying to hug you while still carrying you.

With your head resting against his chest, you can fully appreciate his beauty. His hair is black, which suits him even though he looks nothing like your Soonyoung anymore. You reach up and trace the lines of his face that are unchanging, the sharp straight line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his nose, his soft eyebrows. You drop your hand when you realize he’s staring at you, belatedly realizing you never got to his lips. You can only imagine how soft they’d be, soft like Soonyoung himself.

“You’re crying,” Soonyoung says softly. You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or not. He pauses in front of a door, struggling to open it without dropping you. Finally the door swings open and he sets you down on a bed, taking a deep breath and sitting beside you.

He brushes the tears from your eyes, as Soonyoung as ever. Sweet as ever. Sweet and Soonyoung. They should be the same word. You make a mental note to email Merriam-Webster’s dictionary and make the suggestion.

Soonyoung doesn’t say anything, just watching you with those perfect eyes. His hand rests on your face even though the tears are long gone, thumb tracing shapes on your cheek.

“You swore you’d do anything for me,” you say.

“Anything,” Soonyoung repeats.

You turn to the walls, knocking his hand off your cheek, not daring to look him in the eyes. Even drunk, you are a coward. He’s put up pictures on his wall, a couple Polaroids but mostly printed pictures, with the frat, some childhood pictures, and one that you recognize. The picture of the two of you at the beach that you thought you didn’t send, where you are looking at him with all the love in your heart. You trace his smile, blinding even in paper form.

“Could you maybe try loving me back then?” You mumble. Your eyes feel heavy between the alcohol and the tears and you’ve said what you needed to say, so you let them take over, closing your eyes and letting the blasting music from downstairs drown out any thoughts. And because it’s so loud and you’ve already drifted off to sleep, there’s no way you could hear his answer.

“I already do.”

The first thing you do when you wake up is throw up. You make it out of the bed but not to the bathroom, mostly because you don’t actually know where it is. You grab the nearest bucket-shaped item, which happens to be a mostly empty trash can. You lean away as soon as you’re done, breathing through your mouth and looking away from the mess. Belatedly, you realize someone is patting your back, brushing hair out of your face.

“Better?” Soonyoung asks. His knees rests against your lower back, one hand resting on your back, the other caressing your face. Thank god you already threw up because looking at him makes your stomach twist again and if there was anything in you, it would come up again. If you could throw up your heart, you would. As it is, the organ is trying to climb its way up your throat, whether it’s guilt or heartbreak you don’t know.

You nod in answer to his question, letting him help you up. Your head pounds and though you know you won’t throw up again, your stomach flips. Right, your policy of mixed drinks is definitely reinstated after this.

“Sorry I threw up in your trash can,” you say.

“Believe me, that is not the worst that trash can has seen,” Soonyoung says. “Wait, that sounds bad, I didn’t mean it in a weird way, I just mean–” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s a frat house.”

“It’s your room,” you say softly. With sober (albeit heavily hungover) eyes, you take in the room again. It’s tiny, one bed pushed against a wall with a desk set right next to it. Unsurprisingly, it’s stacked with protein powder and a pile of frat flyers, laptop balancing off the edge, not a paper in sight. Except for the one next to his bed, the walls are bare, an ugly shade of beige except for a circle filled with white plaster that looks suspiciously like the reformed crime scene of a fist going through drywall. It must be from whoever owned the room before Soonyoung.

The wall next to his bed is covered in pictures. You remember being amazed by them last night. Your eyes zero in on the picture of the two of you, right next to the pillow that’s still dented from your head.

“Did I steal your bed?” You frown except the movement hurts your head.

“I slept in Johnny’s room since he’s decided to disappear off the face of the planet instead of accepting the fact that he graduates next semester,” Soonyoung says. “I actually just came in here for some clothes, which reminds me.” He rummages through a drawer, pulling out a wrinkled t-shirt and handing it to you. “If you want a change.”

You glance down and feel like throwing up all over again. Your favorite shirt is covered in stains, alcohol, vomit, and something you definitely don’t want to name. If you weren’t feeling so terrible already, you’d cry that Soonyoung is seeing you like this.

“I’ll get you a toothbrush, too,” he mutters, disappearing and leaving you to scramble to switch shirts. The white dri-fit is meant to be a workout shirt, though it’s clear that it would be oversize on Soonyoung. Either way, the soft fabric is gentle on your skin, much better than the jeans you slept in. Too bad you’re stuck in them until you get back to your apartment.

You could run away right now. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t be surprised. But he’s being nice to you, so much nicer than you deserve. Sweet and Soonyoung. But you came here to apologize, and though last night got derailed, you can’t keep running from it. Besides, it’s not like the morning can get much worse.

So when Soonyoung comes back proudly brandishing an unopened toothbrush that he may or may not have stolen from Seungcheol’s bathroom, you accept it gratefully. You stare yourself down in the bathroom, fighting nausea and an impending migraine because you have a mission to achieve, a real mission unlike last night. It’s still a haze, but you don’t think you’ll ever forget how gently Soonyoung cradled you against his chest, the brush of his fingers on your cheek. If he didn’t show up this morning, you’d think it was a dream.

Soonyoung’s door is open when you finish but he isn’t in his room. You grab your bag from the floor and venture down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. There’s a couple people passed out in the living room, and one person snoring softly in the kitchen, head folded in his arms in a position that must be incredibly painful for his neck. But it’s where you find Soonyoung, digging through the fridge and finally pulling out a water bottle. He hands it to you, along with a bottle of pills.

“Thank you,” you sigh, not even bothering to check the label for the brand. You take a couple and chug half the bottle, gaslighting yourself into believing that it will instantly revive you (it doesn’t work and your head still pounds).

“Are you hungry?” Soonyoung asks. He opens the fridge again, this time wide enough to show the shelves that are filled with beer, vodka, and White Claws. There’s a pizza box and some eggs, but not much else.

“How are any of you alive?” You ask softly, glancing at the snoring person on the counter.

“Yuta can sleep through an apocalypse, don’t worry about him,” Soonyoung says, waving his hand. He closes the fridge, leaning against it. “And most of us keep our actual food in mini-fridges. I just cleared mine out for break, so I don’t have anything in it.” He doesn’t say anything else about vanishing.

“I’m pretty sure that pizza has been in there since the start of the semester and I’ve never seen eggs in here before though, so I don’t think you should risk any of this,” Soonyoung says. “McDonald’s fries are a far superior hangover cure, they’ve never failed me.”

“There’s a McDonald’s nearby?”

Soonyoung grins, pulling keys out of his pocket and spinning them around his fingers a couple times, except they fly off and clatter on the floor. The man asleep on the counter, Yuta apparently, stirs but doesn’t move. You can’t help but smile as Soonyoung scrambles to retrieve them from the floor. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was flustered.

“There isn’t one,” Soonyoung explains, leading the way to the door. “But I have the keys to Seungcheol’s car.”

“I’m not really comfortable with grand theft auto,” you say, though you don’t stop following him to Seungcheol’s giant white Jeep.

“He gave me the keys last night when I walked in,” Soonyoung says. “Something about owing me. He was pretty drunk.” He darts around to the passenger side before you can, opening the door for you. He waves his hand when you frown at him, as if you’re the one acting strange. Thinking with this headache is too hard so you just get into the car and strap the seatbelt on.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d steal a car,” Soonyoung says. He turns the engine on and scans the front of the car before finally settling his right hand on the gear shift.

“You have driven this car before, right?”

“Of course,” Soonyoung says a little too fast. You grab onto the door handle and hope that your stomach really is empty.

Soonyoung’s driving isn’t the worst you’ve ever experienced; that title goes to Jihoon, who was banned from touching car keys after his Mario Kart driving. That said, you think he’s a good second place. He slams on the gas and the brakes too hard and drives altogether too fast. He blasts the radio and sings along purposefully off key. You should be terrified but it’s the most fun you’ve ever had riding in the passenger seat.

“I’m never riding with you again,” you say, breathless from laughing. He pulls to a stop at the red light, the Golden arches of your destination still one light away. “You know yellow lights mean slow down right?”

“I stopped at this one!” Soonyoung says. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been in an accident.” He pauses. “Since I was nineteen.”

You nod, pursing your lips to stop yourself from smiling fully. “That’s what I figured.” You peek at Soonyoung and he’s smiling too.

So different from the last time you saw him. You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t be able to laugh and joke around with him so easily, not when you still haven’t apologized. And Soonyoung shouldn’t be looking at you like that, genuine fondness in his eyes.

“The light’s green,” you say. His smile fades a little when he turns his head and drives ahead, stepping lightly for once. You’re so close now, but a car going straight in the right lane prevents him from turning.

The pain medicine must have kicked in because your headache is slowly fading, replaced by heartache that no medication can cure.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You blurt out.

The blinker beeps a steady rhythm in the empty silence. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Nothing’s ever obvious with you, Soonyoung,” you say softly.

“Oh.” The light turns green and he guides the car slowly into the parking lot, stopping in a spot instead of pulling up to the drive through. As soon as the car is in park, he turns to face you. There’s a crease in his forehead that you recognize from the rare occasions that he would actually talk to you seriously. “YN, I genuinely thought I was being clear about this from the beginning, but if you still really don’t get it, then I’ll say it straight up: I like you. I’ve liked you since the day we met and then I fell in love with you.

“Did you know you’re the first person that’s ever genuinely believed in me? I mean, I know I have friends, and my family means well, but they always get this look in their eye whenever I talk about trying for things, like it was cute that I was trying, but they never actually believed in me. And I started to believe them too. I started to believe that I couldn’t believe in myself.” He frowns. “That makes no sense. The point is, you are the reason I started to believe in myself again.

“No one’s ever looked at me like you do. No one’s ever told me to get my shit together–well, they have, but you’re the only one that told me it was because I could be better.

“You say it wasn’t obvious, but I’ve tried to tell you a thousand times. I flirted, I tried to ask you on a date so many times, and I finally accepted that you’d never see me like that, so I was a dick. I told you off, even though you were right. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry I ran away, and I’m sorry it took me so long to apologize.”

“Stop,” you say. Soonyoung’s eyes widen, tears welling up, and you realize he thinks you’re rejecting him. “Stop apologizing!” His brow creases in confusion, an adorable frown. Summoning all your courage, you reach out, resting your hand on his. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I didn’t have any right to judge you and the choices you were making, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you when I knew how much the bet meant to you.”

You squeeze his hand, closing your eyes. “And I think I was a little oblivious on purpose. I’m not the kind of person that has crushes, let alone crushes that like me back, so I freaked a little and missed all the signs.” You open your eyes and grin at him. It’s easy to feel brave when he smiles back at you. “But I like you, Soonyoung. I like you so much, I don’t have enough words to express it. My whole life has been about my future, my career, and it’s exhausting, but being with you makes it all exciting again. Like, no matter what happens, if you’re with me, it won’t just be okay, it’ll be fun.”

Soonyoung beams. “Really?”

You squeeze his hand. “I like you.” Like the first time you took the LSAT, you can’t think of a single word, except instead of damning your future this feels like the start of it. Soonyoung sits across from you and you don’t need words.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but reality sets in when your stomach growls. You glance outside the window and remember where you are. “Did you just confess to me in a McDonald’s parking lot?”

“Better than drunk in my own bed.”

“I didn’t!” You let go of his hand to hide your face.

Soonyoung grins. “You were cute!”

“I don’t remember it, it doesn't count!”

“Whatever you say,” Soonyoung says, leaning over the center console. He gently pulls your hands away from your face, hand circling your wrist gently. You instinctively hold your breath, though you don’t lean away. Soonyoung leans a little closer, forehead resting against yours.

“This okay?” He whispers, breath kissing your lips, and you remember that less than an hour ago, you were throwing up. Your head still aches and your stomach is still queasy and your whole body feels disgusting.

“We are not having our first kiss in a McDonald’s parking lot,” you say, leaning back. Soonyoung sighs, but he sits back in his chair, settling for grabbing your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Fine,” Soonyoung says. He rubs his thumb back and forth, and when you meet his eyes, you see a familiar glint of trouble. “You know I’m still sworn to you. Whatever you want.”

The words go straight to your heart. You could live a thousand lives and never meet someone as genuine as Soonyoung. You know that he means it, heart and soul, that he’d do anything for you. And it should be terrifying that he’s willing to bear his heart for you, that you are willing to do the same. But it’s Soonyoung. It’s easy to trust him with it, because even though he breaks half the computers he touches and can’t hold onto a pencil for his life, he won’t ever drop your heart.

I love you. One day you’ll be able to say it, one day you’ll scream it like you so desperately want to. But until then, you settle for his certified brilliant smile and the gentle brush of his lips on the back of your hand, only letting go to turn the engine back on.

“Let’s get you some fries,” he says. “Then kisses?”

You shake your head and laugh, slipping your hand back into his.

Before he can put the car into gear, his phone rings. He stares at the screen for a moment, frowning like he can’t decide whether he should answer it or not. Finally he slides the green across, turning on speaker.

“Hey Seungcheol, I’m with—”

“Where the hell are you? And where is my car?” Seungcheol’s voice is somewhere between angry and concerned. “You think it’s okay to vanish and then show up only to steal my car?”

“First of all, you gave me the keys,” Soonyoung says. He glances at you. “And I’m at McDonald’s because YN desperately needed a hangover cure.”

“Hey,” you say so Seungcheol knows you’re there.

The line is quiet for so long you think Soonyoung’s phone has finally given up on him but eventually he says, “You’re with YN?”

“We talked,” he says. “And we’re good.”

You snort. “That’s how you’re going to describe it?”

“Are we not good?”

You glance at your hand still intertwined with his, the Soonyoung Sparkle glittering back at you when you look him in the eyes. Good? There’s not a word to describe how you feel right now.

“We are beyond good.”

“Are you crying?” You whisper. Soonyoung shakes his head, chin brushing against your head but when he inhales again, he sniffles. You reach up to pat his cheek and are entirely unsurprised when it’s wet. On screen Elle Woods continues her speech, for once not wearing pink.

“She’s just so cool,” Soonyoung says. You lift your head off his chest so you can look him in the eyes. The temptation to tease him is hard to resist but he pouts his lips and you see another tear slip out. You kiss his cheek, out of habit more than anything. Strange how much can change in two weeks, how something you’ve never imagined doing has become natural. But being with Soonyoung is just like that. New and old at the same time, the kind of comfort that has you planning how to make this last a lifetime.

Soonyoung wraps his arms around you tighter, so you nestle back into his chest, turning away from the end of the movie to close your eyes and breathe in his cologne.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” you whisper, lips brushing against his neck. “The whole bet was based on a movie you haven’t seen.”

“You’re missing the end,” he says. His voice rumbles in your ear, drowning out his heartbeat.

“I’ve seen it before.” Your bed really isn’t built for two people to lay down together. You are laying more on Soonyoung than the mattress but it’s not the first time. From the way he holds you, you doubt it’ll be the last.

The credits roll too quickly, but Soonyoung still doesn’t let go. He pulls you up so that your head is next to his, nose centimeters away from yours.

“So am I officially qualified to go to law school?” He asks.

“You are Elle Woods certified,” you say. “But you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“I mean I have to get in. But I figure if I’m going to waste away at a desk, I might as well do it for something I believe in.” He pauses. “With someone that believes in me.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, breath tickling the sensitive skin. You can’t help but sigh.

“That doesn’t mean it’s what you want,” you say, after several heartbeats of struggling to think.

“I want…” His words “To be with you. However you’ll have me.” His arms loosen, hands sliding down to your waist.

“Still not answering the question,” you breathe out but you can’t even remember what the question is, not when he’s shifting to lay on top of you, lips inching their way up your neck. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips, then stops, pulling away and meeting your eyes again.

The Soonyoung Sparkle. The grinch has nothing on you–your heart swells so large it feels like it’s going to explode out of your chest–Alien style. Does he know what he does to you? How he’s made everything in your life shine? How happy you are when he’s with you?

“I love you,” you whisper.

Soonyoung blinks at you. “You…”

“I love you,” you say again, this time with more confidence. “I really, really love you.”

Soonyoung grins, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours, moving like the world outside has stopped. He makes a bubble around you again, or maybe it’s your own heart; either way the only thing that exists is the way his hands inch up your shirt, the way his lips begin to press harder against yours. You give up on coherent thoughts, settling for wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“I love you, too,” Soonyoung whispers between kisses. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

Soonyoung who always treated you like you were enough already. Soonyoung who does everything with 100% of his heart. Soonyoung who has always been sincere with you, from the first day you met him. Soonyoung, who you are so lucky to be loved by.

You don’t know how to say any of this in a way that makes sense so you let his fire melt you until you are putty in his arms. He pulls away, and the Soonyoung Sparkle burns, your personal stars flickering back at you.

“You want to–” Soonyoung starts to say, but the door slams open. Then Soonyoung falls on you, pillow rolling off his head.

“I’m taking this back!” Someone shouts while you hear Jihoon cursing.

“Read the room, idiot!” Soonyoung pushes off of you, sitting up and pulling your shirt down as smoothly as he can. You sit up, trying to decide if you should be embarrassed or angry. Facing Jun, frozen midstep with his jaw hanging open a little and Jihoon in the doorway with his arms folded, shaking his head slightly, you opt for the latter.

“Does no one knock in Colombia?” You frown at him. “And when did you get back? Why didn’t you call?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he mumbles, staring at his feet. “And you were supposed to be alone, according to my sources.” He glares at Jihoon.

“YN didn’t say he was coming over,” he says with a shrug.

You turn your frown to him. “You walked in halfway through the movie, I literally shouted ‘Soonyoung’s over.’”

“I had my headphones on,” he says, though he’s avoiding your eyes too. Typical of your friends, never claiming responsibility for their actions.

“So this is Soonyoung,” Jun says, turning to face him. Soonyoung moved to the edge of the bed, too far away for your taste but probably an appropriate distance for your friends, especially compared to what they walked in on. Jun tilts his head. “You dyed your hair.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung scratches the back of his head. “Spur of the moment thing.” You miss the blonde, surprisingly fitting considering it isn’t his natural color. But the black suits him too, and probably will help him with law school interviews. Then again, knowing Soonyoung, this color won’t last long either. Good thing there isn’t a color you don’t think suits him.

“We should do this properly,” Soonyoung says. “Go out for dinner or something.”

“Hey, I didn’t get dinner,” Jihoon says.

“You want to get dinner with me?” Soonyoung perks up.

“No, I’m protesting unfair treatment.”

“It’s not unfair, I’m just clearly his favorite,” Jun says.

“Can you guys stop fighting over my boyfriend?” You say.

Jihoon and Jun stare at you. When Soonyoung turns to face you, he grins, eyes sparkling.

“What?”

“You just called him your boyfriend,” Jun says.

“Well… he is.” You feel your cheeks flush. “Why are you guys making it weird?”

“It’s not weird,” Soonyoung says. He scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s cute,” he whispers in your ear. “Adorable.” This only makes you flush even more.

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt, so I’ll just grab this and you two can get back to… whatever.” Jun takes a step towards your bookcase. You grab the pillow that he threw at Soonyoung and nail him in the chest, earning a laugh from Jihoon.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“The book is mine, Soonyoung never fulfilled the bet!” Jun says. You stand up, blocking him from your Pride and Prejudice.

“Hey, I followed through!” Soonyoung says. “We’re dating!”

“I remember the bet stating that you had to ask YN out after you took the LSAT.” Jun turns to him.

“And I did,” Soonyoung says. “You never said it had to be right after.”

Jun eyes him. “That’s cheating.”

“That’s being a lawyer,” you say. “And I think he’s going to be really good at it.”

Jun glances between you and Soonyoung and shakes his head. “Whatever, I’ll get my book back another day.”

You step closer to Soonyoung and he links his pinky with yours. You glance at your friends. “Are you going to stand there forever or are we getting dinner?”

“You two don’t want to get back to what you were doing?” Jihoon asks.

You slip your hand into Soonyoung’s. He meets your eyes and he’s only been your boyfriend for two weeks but looking at him is like looking home. There’s no need to rush.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t want to pick where we go.”

“We should make them pay, too,” Soonyoung says.

You grin at him. “You are the smartest person I know.”

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