#23.5k words about it so like

[yki-dolls]

I'm doing something utterly deranged and it is entirely self indulgent and probably won't ever get posted somewhere I'm just

Very into a ninjago au I made.

Let's put it like that

[velvetdolor]

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐁'𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐙 | 𝐂.𝐒 | 𝐏.𝐒𝐇

⛧ genres: oneshot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, angst, pwp 18+ ⛧

⛧ pairings: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san (have fun struggling)

⛧ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.

⛧please read the warnings below before proceeding! this is a content intense oneshot. i am NOT saying this lightly the warning list is actually insane

elements of dub-con, bondage, dumbification, stolkhom syndrome, manipulation, minor descriptions of wounds, minor violence/high anxiety, a gun being used threateningly, fingering, squirting, corruption, free use, solo play, seonghwa using ur underwear to… 🤭, caretaker seonghwa, hard dom seonghwa, virgin! san, service top!san, face sitting, threesome, mxm action…. ☺️, blindfolding, dacryphilia, overstimulation, toys, vaginal penetration, anal penetration, cum shots, creampies, death threats, objectification, oxygen deprivation, brainwashing, unhealthy obedience, betting on your life, oral, san eventually wears a collar, bitter and unhealthily possessive hwa, a razor (not in a sexual circumstance nor put into use) there will be no middle ground u will either love or hate my characters

⛧ wc: 23.5k

theme songs: perverts (intro) by ethel cain, frosti by björk, and for you i hold my breath by lalleshwari

AN: it’s finally finished!!

His voice slips into the room like incense—soft, saccharine, laced with something almost holy.

“My angel,” Seonghwa coos, circling the sigil etched with care into the cold stone floor. “Are you alright in here?”

The silk binding your arms has long since lost its elegance. It burns now, chafing raw skin, your limbs aching with the dull throb of time passed. Relief pools behind your eyes at the sight of him—his cherubic face glowing pale in the firelight, so lovely it’s almost cruel. Your legs draw together, a conditioned reaction.

“Hwa.” your voice breaks like old glass. “Hold me.”

He smiles—sweetly, softly—but his eyes search you. They always search you. For defiance, for rage, for the threat of rebellion. There’s nothing but a quiet plea in your gaze, and so he breathes out, satisfied.

“I’m sorry it took so long. San got injured during a long hunt and I had to stay back until we were in the clear.” He says lowly, stepping into the sigil to kneel delicately before you, and softly brushes your hair out of your face.

Nudging a cheek into the palm of his hand, you wait for his next words obediently. A dull ache pulses from your back– remnants of old gaping wounds try their best to remind you of something dire in their phantom pains—that there’s something dreadfully sinister in your presence, but you can’t recall exactly what.

The cold palm of Seonghwa’s hand distracted you. Seonghwa’s elated eyes glow at the sight of your truest form of resignation and remain unnoticed by you. Dark eerie eyes sink onto your form like little moons, testing the waters “What do you think about spending a few days here with San? I’ll be…on a mission and I don’t know how long it’ll take. It’s been a good while since the sun has touched you, dove—San could take you to the river?” he lightly disguises his suggestion, inquiring with a sense of casualness.

You shake your head immediately. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

Heavy distraught implodes within your body like a landmine. The anxiety sends a direct shock to your heart—already abhorred by and enduring the hours he spends away on missions during the evenings—and now he’s saying he’ll be gone for days? What if he didn’t come back?

You’d rather die.

You go cold, fighting the urge to well up and vomit at the sudden anxiety induced nausea. Seonghwa shakes his head calmly.

“That wouldn’t be safe–” He throws an attempt at reasoning with you before you disregard his words immediately, cutting in like a dull knife trying to get through a tough surface.

“You’d be there to protect me, wouldn’t you?” You plead adamantly, raising your voice with confidence. No harm would come your way if Seonghwa was around. He wouldn’t let that happen even if it killed him.

“My love, you know I can’t take you with me. If I did, they’d find out and take you away—because you’re special, remember? I can’t risk that. Be a good girl and stay with San.”

You scowl at the reminder.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you mutter, turning your head away in defiance. You don’t even remember Heaven anymore. A dull throb pulses behind your eyes, making you wince—but Seonghwa doesn’t notice.

“I don’t want you to go back either. Can we just… agree to disagree?” His tone is resigned, edged with mild exasperation.

He shakes his head, defeated, then leans in slowly—his breath brushing your lips as he changes the subject. “I’ve missed your mouth. Will you kiss me? Please?”

The yearning in his voice is unmistakable: soft and silken, like a flower petal. A delicate plea in that familiar cadence—moderately pitched, never louder than necessary. Always composed. Always him.

He cradles your cheek and reaches out to smooth down your hair, the gesture almost motherlike. Then he pulls you into his chest, and you tumble forward into his lap. The leather of his trench coat stretches beneath you, releasing a soft, rubbery sound. You lift your head, eyes dilated—wide, unfocused—and tilt your face up. With a delicate lick, you lift his bottom lip, asking for permission to enter—for the unspoken invitation to taste the day he lived outside, the one you lost to your muddled memory.

But it was warm in his arms. He liked to remind you that you were his little bird—placed on Earth for him alone, so he could care for you. No one else loved you enough to lock you away from a world that only wanted to marvel at your mystic rarity, to exploit and desecrate what made you different.

Even when he punished you, it was always—at least in his eyes—for your own good. And on most days, he did everything he could to spoil you.

Your Seonghwa is sweet. He always reminded you that he could do no wrong to you.

He’d asked you to keep your binds on and wait here, in the old mausoleum nestled deep within the woods—secluded enough to quiet his worries. ‘It’s the safest place for you, Dove. Please understand that.’ He’d say and you couldn’t argue with him–Seonghwa always knew best.

This was his hidden sanctuary, and it was the only place fit for his most prized possession.

Seonghwa’s half lidded eyes gaze down at you quietly, a soft simmering that was reminiscent of a God you’d forgotten–watching your tongue flick before slowly parting his mouth.

When you press an open-mouthed kiss onto him, you immediately taste a faint combination of tobacco and ginger candies—a usual indicator of his oversight to his own care and almost pull away to reprimand him for most likely not eating actual food again. An arm wraps itself around your waist with a firm grip rubbing against your rib cage. The initial softness parting away and opening into true realm of Seonghwa’s nature.

“Can you be a good girl and do something for me?” His light voice rings like a bell, requesting softly and waving its frequency sweetly at you. You’d never say no—not to him. Sliding off his leather coat and unbuckling the silver clasp of his black slacks, knowing exactly what your reply will be.

“Anything.” Your eyes shimmer with an unnatural reverence—dull, yet awestruck, as if you’ve never seen anything like him before.

Seonghwa slinks a hand down the flat of his abdomen before slowly unbuttoning his slacks, cat-like and sultry. A trimmed array of hair is revealed as he peels his bottoms to his thighs, not wearing any briefs and exposing the pink velvet that hung neatly between his legs.

A mouthwatering and painful girth saddled itself there, its natural vulgarity a direct contrast to his cherubic and idyllic appearance. His cock twitched for a moment, hardening and lifting towards his stomach the more you stared.

He loved seeing how obedient you were and that despite your well-trained appetite, you knew to wait for his words before doing absolutely anything at all—because you’d do anything for him and Hwa would burn the entirety of Heaven and Earth if it meant to keep you by his side, whatever the means necessary.

“You know what to do from here right?” Flattening his palm to the back of your head before jolting you harshly towards him, cock hitting your cheek and momentarily resting on your jawline.

Your arms were still tied as your cheek landed on his upper thighs and shuffled towards him to place him into your mouth somehow. The shape of his cock protrudes from the side of your cheek

Small drops of saliva fall from the corners of your mouth, stifling a gag when he stuffs himself into the back of your throat and settles there unmoving.

Another hand reaches down to pinch your nose, blocking all access to oxygen. He keeps you stationed there, and you forget to count the seconds.

“Don’t think. Don’t fight it either—just focus on feeling my cock in your mouth, got it?” His voice shifts, a little more deadpan and firmer–melancholic, empty, and foreboding in its direction. He presses down on the back of your neck; blank gaze shadowed under a thick blanket of dark lashes.

Your head’s throbbing, alarm signals raising and firing, but you rub your thighs together, unable to resist his temptations, moaning at the friction. The meat on them begin to bead with a mixture of sweat and sweet slick.

At some point, your brain goes numb. The main point of existence, the meaning of the universe led you here to this moment. Nothing else exists here, everything before was a mere figment—a daydream filled with light. There’s a brief flicker and you tug yourself off suddenly, coughing through the spit and paling in realization.

It was a blip but the memory woke you from the disturbing reverie.

Just days ago, he’d nearly snapped your ankles when you offhandedly told him he couldn’t keep you here forever—that he’s a mortal man, and mortal men die in the blink of an eye to beings like you. He wouldn’t be able to bind you to his deathbed, nor hold you in the afterlife either.

Your gaze falls onto the black and blue finger shaped bruises wrapped around the skin of your ankle. It happened again.

It’s becoming harder to separate desire from rationale, especially as your episodes stretch on longer each time. And it isn’t just Seonghwa’s manipulation—it’s the exhaustion of constantly suppressing a twisted longing for the only person around you. You craved his warmth, his affection, and at times, find yourself defending your own captivity.

To forget and damn it all was to experience unconstrained bliss in this funeral of a body, subjecting yourself to pleasures amongst the dead by playing dead. He’ll make your home a Mausoleum if it meant you’d die with him and when you’re in the mist of that reverie, you’d do it willingly. Seonghwa abhorred his mortality and the fact that even with his best efforts he would only be an ephemeral being to you.

There was no heaven that would welcome him.

You avoid his eyes and stare at the moss overgrowth spindling its way above the pillar and towards a stone tomb. This was a grave of Seonghwa’s unreachable hopes– of a dark past you knew nothing of.

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter knowingly over your expression.

He thought this would happen.

Seonghwa knows he has to break you further, but this was the longest he’d ever held you in that space—suspended, stripped of every thought and desire but him. It was working. And soon, it would consume you entirely.

He’ll make sure of that.

The look in his eyes unsettled you, shaking you to the core—gazing at you like the end was already decided, like he knew everything.

Moonlight bled from the skylight above you, dousing your conflicted and horrified features in a shade of blue you began to drown in. An ominous stillness permeated the space as you finally take note of the dark gleam in his eyes.

“There you are, Angel.” A grin slid onto his face as he sat back and leaned his weight onto his palms.

Your heart trembled as it fought the fear and desire to stay here without any effort to push back against that fate, needing to remember yourself and why you couldn’t remain here.

“Why are you still doing this?” A resigned whisper falls from your mouth, your downcast gaze igniting something painful in Seonghwa. You’ve asked this question again and again for however long you’ve been here, and not once has he answered you.

A pensive expressions sways onto his face before he honestly utters. “I have no other motive than my love for you.” Leaning a hand forward to brush a stray eyelash from your cheekbone before continuing

“The world outside is too dirty for a thing like you. Why don’t you understand that?” He whispers out, venom hiding on the sweetness of his tongue.

“—You’d run back to a place where my hands can’t reach you? Do you truly believe you could pass among the innocent, wearing their softness like a mask, after what I’ve done to your body?”

Your lungs tremble, a sharp gasp slipping free as he crawls toward you on all fours—unashamed, his half-bared form moving with the grace of something deceivingly lighthearted. His lips hover a breath above your skin, tracing a reverent path along your abdomen, up your chest, and finally, to the hollow of your throat.

Seonghwa’s tongue flattens vulgarly on your jugular, licking up the length of your jawline. “Your God won’t fuck you. He’ll only watch me desecrate you.” He whispers with a palpable seduction choking the air.

“I wasn’t made to do things like this—it was never my purpose.” You grit out halfheartedly. Angels didn’t have any appetite. Food, water, sex, affection–all of that was unnatural to the celestial thrumming in your bodies. In reality, you were too bitter about his constant restraint and only ever found reprieve in denying him when you could. Perhaps it was also a matter of being able to deny yourself too.

“I’d beg to differ. How else would I’ve been able to fit inside of you? You take my cock so well, little dove.” A hand trembles trails it fingertips above your womb before pressing down on it.

“A shame that Angels can’t get pregnant.” A dark mumble of disappointment leaves his lips.

You hate the fact that you’re falling into it and that you were distorted enough now to still want his praise—to be capable of fulfilling his wants and needs.

He sighs before standing up to brush his legs. “Well, since my angel’s a stubborn one—I suppose I’ll have to try again some other time.” He leans down to swipe your legs from under you, huffing with reprimand, and dragging you up to grip a strong hand at the lining of your underwear to tear it off to examine between your legs. He flings the sad tatters like crocodile tears, absentminded and ignoring the world as all else goes quiet at the sight of you. Seonghwa stiffens when he catches a glimpse of your wetness, gazing at you questioningly passive.

“You’re all bark but little to no bite.” He spits out for a moment, sarcastic in the wake of his joy before continuing

“Say please and I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, legs trembling as they hung in the air–his grip tightening around your ankles to hold your lower body up. Your arms and back are tensing at the uncomfortable burning that squeezes from your intricately bound arms, tied together at the base of your spine.

Seonghwa’s white hair glimmers hauntingly under the moonlight, fluttering slightly as a small gust of wind enters through the cracks of the Mausoleum, and your breath leaves you–he looked lovely.

You open your mouth to reject but the words feel too strained to leave you once an uncomfortable clenching in your chest distracts you. His eyes are black seas, waiting for your reply but maintaining his hold.

“No. I’m perfectly fine. Let go of me.” You swallow hard, body stinging at the mere idea of his hands releasing you. He was too prideful, confident even, to force himself onto you. Seonghwa never needed to– he was tactical and patient, easing you into his seduction bit by bit before you caved to him time and time again on your own volition whenever he broke you enough to desire him without thought.

He says nothing for a moment, gaze stoic.

“Suit yourself then.” He mutters, a dance of a smile playing at his lips before he picks your body up and into his arms, reaching down to cut your bindings for the night. “I’m off to bed—” He stops to pick up your discarded underwear “I’ll bring you a new pair. Don’t forget it’s bath time tomorrow.”

He stretches his lithe body, yawning into his hand before exiting the lonesome section of the Mausoleum, leaving you to your own haunts. His Silhouette turns to the immediate makeshift room to the right of the corridor. Your gaze remained where his phantom shadow, illuminated by the haunting torches aligning the walls, swayed off into another direction, squeezing your eyes shut with bitter reprimand.

You’re unsure if you’re bitter about not falling into his hands

Or by the fact that you sickeningly wanted to, the fever spreading throughout your body and drenching it in an uncomfortable humid heat.

Perhaps you’re already damned.

The thought drifts through you as you flinch, your fingertips grazing the tender flesh of your arms. A sigh escapes your lips, weary and hollow, as you sink onto the cold stone floor—long past the point of trying to decipher a way out of the ornate sigil that binds you here.

There’s comfort in the darkness that greets you once you shut your eyes, fading away into the only kindness you knew these days, sleep offering reprieve and blurring the lines of your desire to offer yourself to him on a platter—ominously willing to pay the price, if only for a moment of joy and basking in his praise. You dream of distant sunlight at the edge of a horizon that night—by the end of it, you turn away to walk back into the shadow you crawled out of with your bleeding body.

Seonghwa stifles a frustrated groan, the sound muffled by the fabric of his black sweater as he bites down on it to keep from crying out. His teeth sink into the material, holding it taut against his abdomen, as he clutches your underwear around his cock. He throws his head back, eyes clenched shut, as anguished bliss courses through him. The throbbing in his hand drives him mad, recalling the image of your body, suspended by the ankles, vulnerably exposed and pulsing with unfulfilled desire.

He can't comprehend your restraint. The God you serve is a warlord, thirsty for blood and conquest—nothing remains pure in this world. Murder, lust, gluttony—these desires plague every living thing, from animals to angels. You were no exception, merely isolated in your divine garden.

Seonghwa's palms grow slick as he rubs himself against the fabric, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Images of you assault his mind, driving him to the brink of insanity. He sees your flushed breasts, bouncing gently, slick with sweat. He hears your loud, innocent moans, your eyes wide with astonishment as new sensations corrupt your body.

"Fuck," he whimpers, increasing the pace of his strokes. His stomach rolls and tightens with each wave of pleasure, but it's not enough. He needs you broken open before him, exposed and mindless, drooling and desperate.

Born with a darkness he's worked hard to repress, Seonghwa has always been determined not to tarnish his family's name. Descendants of a prestigious lineage devoted to hunting and eradicating the "otherworldly," they have always been a beacon of purity and righteousness. Until he found you.

Injured and alone near the old mausoleum, you were a curiosity he couldn't resist. Tending to your wounds, he found himself unable to let you go. Since then, his disciplined moral compass has crumbled, burning away in his descent into madness.

He grits his teeth, huffing against his sweater as he adjusts the pink cloth to envelop the tip of his cock. Jerking his hand wildly, he throws all reservation to the wind, his heart pounding as erotic images assault his mind.

Your silken cloth, the one he imagined rested against your pussy for hours, is a torment to him. He wants to be that cloth, to wrap himself around you, to be your skin, your breath, your sweat, your spit. The thought sends shivers down his spine, and he moans loudly, his eyes fixed on the steadily drenched underwear, glistening with his pre-cum.

"Be patient, Seonghwa," he mutters, reminding himself that it's only a matter of time. The thought of rushing back to you, of breaking you completely, invades his mind, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the sensation of your cloth against his sensitive flesh.

He imagines the bulge in your stomach, the maddening clench of your cunt as he ruts against you, his groans hot in your ear. Wanting to fuck you without restraint, to corrupt your body entirely, to take your ass with wild abandon.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his hips lifting and falling in a desperate rhythm as he fucks his hand. His weight presses against the back of his neck, his feet planted firmly on the ground as he tries to keep his hips raised. Gibberish and phrases fall from his lips, a mix of endearments and insults—'my pretty angel' and 'stupid little thing' can be faintly heard from the corridor.

With a final, hard thrust into his hands, Seonghwa orgasms, gripping tightly onto his base as he arches his back off the floor. Cum shoots up, landing on his abdomen, chest, and near his eye, a sticky, white mess.

He collapses, his chest heaving as he stares at the cold marble ceiling, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. You were still learning, still dancing on the precipice of desire, your celestial understanding of the world at odds with the mortal realities of sex and emotion.

Seonghwa knows that it's only a matter of time before you fully succumb to your desires, before you understand the true depth of your feelings for him. Until then, he will wait, biding his time, his patience wearing thin as his need for you grows more desperate by the day.

With a final shake of his head, Seonghwa doesn't bother dressing himself, descending into a cold, dark, dreamless sleep, his body hardly sated— mind still hungry for you.

San’s sharp face said all of the words refusing to leave his mouth. The cool, damp air of the mausoleum sickened him— even more so in the presence of the captive angel Seonghwa liked keeping for himself. Spindly vines seemed to grieve their bodies over graves, almost symbolically curling their fingers to reach out to you but not quite making it to where you lay, he notes. Perhaps—they too—pity only being capable enough to witness your bindings, yet unable to do anything on their own. Too seemingly powerless and brittle.

San perches his back against a cold wall facing you but closes his eyes. Donning his formal attire for the task, he didn’t want to risk appearing either casual or familiar in front of Seonghwa—specifically concerning his assignment to watch you. The wrinkled white button up paired with an ankle length trench coat saddled against his form stiffly, and he longingly questions himself when he'd get the chance to sleep. San was here for work. Nothing more—nothing less.

Though, he didn't know how to see you without choking on an unknown feeling. San was admittedly softer than his cohorts, despite not caring for your kind in particular—somewhere along the lines of trained ambivalence rather than violent superiority. You're bound again, arms knotted with silk and everything that made your ethereal beauty glow like a comet, and he fleetingly wonders if all Angels looked like that—like you.

San’s loyalty for Seonghwa was written in blood. For each generation, the eldest son of his family was destined to guard the most elite of their faction; the eldest son of the oldest family of Hunters. Madness be damned, Seonghwa was inarguably the brightest of them all—an elegant sword of a man who danced through the throes of darkness without so much as a blink. Yet San had noticed something inherently absent in their heir—too precise, too mechanical, a masterful yet hollow imitation of human connection and humility. A vast shadow accompanied the brilliance of his skill, and that is precisely why an angel lies hidden on this… barren excuse of— what the fuck is this place even called again? A mausoleum?

Even someone like Seonghwa wouldn’t be able to evade the consequences of hiding a being like you. The entirety of their lineage’s codex believed in human superiority—motivated by a primal desire to eradicate all else with the exception of what they can feed off of. The fragility of his beauty did nothing to negate the carnality of his true nature. No starlike quality can dim that murderous hand of his

Before Seonghwa departed and left you in San's care, he'd only said one thing: "You know what and what not to do."— in other words, 'protect her but you may not care for her.' Thus began San's mildly uncomfortable task of sleeping in Seonghwa's wretched morgue and dread fills his body when he sees the rain falling through cracks on the skylight, directly onto your body.

The dresses Seonghwa adorned you with were often too extravagant for comfort and the chiffon layers that ballooned from your waist weighed your posture down. San assumed Angels couldn't get sick, but the sight of your trembling body told him that angels could, in fact, get cold—that they could register the absence of warmth, feel hurt, and know right from wrong. He hated that he couldn't shake off the sudden understanding.

"Angel... what does Seonghwa allow you to do when you're cold? Don't lie to me—you'll only get us both punished without reason, and I don't feel like being taxidermized by the man I'm chained to for the rest of my life." San steps towards your kneeling figure hesitantly, coming close enough to be seen and acknowledged, but no further.

Your head hangs low, a slow tilt raising your strange eyes to gaze at him. It's with a trepid sense of innocence and lack of awareness that you let a small utter leave your lips—almost as if afraid to speak.

"He bathes me until I'm warm if I don't want to be warmed in... other ways." A rosy blush paints your cheeks, and you look lovely as a spring's day even under the dread of rain. He quirks his eyebrow in awkward surprise, blinking, and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Right. That makes sense." For Seonghwa at least. San didn't receive any detailed instructions other than to protect you from exterior harms and to be his eyes while he cleans up after a massacre of witches in another city. Some new recruits were too hell bent during their first hunt, and it resulted in a bloodbath.

There's a small twitch to his leg when he inches a slow hand towards you, silently warning you of his incoming touch—San didn't know how to care for something and worried for a moment that you'd dislike the roughness of his hand. Droplets of rain pelted his head as he shielded your body from the crack above you. Arms curl under your knees and wrap around your back, cradling you to his chest—stiff as he makes his way to the bathing room.

He falters at the entrance, carefully setting you down before scrambling to steady you. Your knees were still too weak to bear your weight. With a quiet sigh, he pushes open the old wooden door and lifts you onto the bathroom counter, striking a few matches to chase away the darkness and ignite the array of candles scattered across the room.

"I'll, uh—leave you to it. I'll be outside right outside of the door so please don't do anything unsavory." His tone is unintentionally gruff, only accustomed to speaking to men with higher levels of testosterone than others, stepping back to nod and swiftly turn away.

A small clunk alerts him as you stare at him owlishly, arms still tied behind your back. You didn't seem to like talking much but were expressive enough to communicate without words—tapping a small finger against a cup carrying two wooden toothbrushes that clink charmingly while you attempt to alert him of your distress.

"Oh." A small flush decorates his neck, embarrassed at being caught so obviously wanting to leave. His hands dexterously unwind the silk and eyed the swelling imprints on your body. Again, a sinking feeling weighed his stomach and those open eyes—wide and expansive as the universe—adorned his heart and anchored it with guilt.

A hand shakily reaches to grab at his shirt sleeve, sliding down the counter to the best of your abilities, leaning and standing against him. "Why are you leaving?" The voice that finally leaves you renders him breathless—almost a bell-like whisper tumbling to form a genuine question.

"To give you privacy." San's direct reply still confused you— his expressionless face gazed down at your form, but not unkindly.

You give a slow blink, thoughts thumbing through your database of a mind—but don't recall learning this particular form of etiquette since arriving to the mortal realm. "I don't know... how to do it myself."

It was an honest reply, not performatively sweet or innocent yet all the more enticing.

"You don't know how to do it yourself?" San's eyebrows shoot up, an incoming tide of dread contorting his face into slow horror. Fuck, Hwa's gonna kill him.

"I didn't know Human's didn't wash or accompany one another to this—chamber?" You hesitated on the word, unsure if it was right. Your cheeks warmed as the silence stretched, a quiet worry creeping in—maybe you were saying it all wrong. Seonghwa didn’t like it when you got things wrong or asked too many questions—it always ended badly. His quiet anger rendered you from sleep—a slow seduction crawling onto your bed to erase any desire to doubt him, and in the anxiety, you'd cave into your disturbing yearning for him. Scrambling quietly, you attempt to correct your mistake

Seonghwa didn't even allow you to be alone in the restroom—just how far gone was he? San's eyes furrow and you grow increasingly afraid. He tugs you lightly towards the bathtub, holding you upright with an arm wrapped around your waist before pointing around.

"Here, I'll get it set up for you. Just watch and learn." Shrugging off his coat finally, San takes a moment to explain what each knob was meant to do, measuring hot temperatures from cold, and instructing that you don't use only one knob, else you'd burn your skin or freeze. Hands are flying around, pointing at strange knobs. You stand and try your absolute best to take it all in diligently, but you feel your eyes spin. San stiffens for a moment, realizing he’s rambling before turning to look at your expression of devoted seriousness. Fidgeting, your small hands clutch at your dress, accidentally squeezing out some of the rainwater weighing it. To be honest, you didn't want to do it yourself. While you were anxious around San, you craved and welcomed any other interactions from outsiders—but you didn't know how to approach without the words getting stuck in your throat and berating yourself for sounding stupid.

San takes notice of your anxiety, sighing out into the air and gazing up at the ceiling, backing down from his previous resolve. "What does he do for bath time?" He grumbles out, eyebrows furrowing—positively disturbed by the task.

Muscle memory clicks as soon as you hear his frustrated tone, and you wait for permission to speak. Your eyes strain and San tilts his head in confusion. Truly—he's starting to feel like Angel's spoke a different language entirely. "Well? Got any answers for me?" He prods, a little exasperated. Of all the tasks Seonghwa could've given him— bathing the object of his absolutely heinous obsession wasn't exactly on the top of his list. He couldn't say no to the heir, else he'd likely summon the murder of his family. The life of a hunter and the society's hierarchical structure wasn't one for the weak—and once sworn onto the path, no descendant can escape without wiping out their entire line.

"He puts little 'bombs' into my bath and scrubs my skin to keep it soft. I'm unsure about my hair though." Almost mechanically, you let out a reiteration of what you faintly recall Seonghwa explaining to you—he lathered a multitude of fragrant oils in your hair and removed all labels to ensure you never tried to do it yourself. San seemed to have caught onto the label situation with an anguished groan. Christ—what is wrong with that man—and why was he destined to monitor his strange tyrannies? Another faint grumble leaves his lips.

"Fine." You don't reply, immediately taking his words as both permission and a command, before reaching behind your back to drag the zipper down your spine. San feels his heart jump to his throat, frozen at the wake of your shamelessness.

Shimmying out of your undergarments, a part of you anticipates small praise at your immediate response. As much as you abhorred Seonghwa, you indulged in his sweetness from time to time, and your all-time favorite treat is whenever he flippantly calls you his good girl. A soft grin would gracefully pull at his lips, unreadable marbled face in the state of calm Nirvana as he'd watch you memorize his wants without needing to explicitly tell you. This is why he couldn't let you go— you were a juxtaposition of many things, contradictory in your existence and pale desire, perfectly malleable—maintaining the delicate amount of innocence necessary to constantly indulge in corrupting you. You were naive and doll-like; ethereal and dishonest. You're glowing, legs practically thumping— waiting to hear that you were best girl ever. San's eyes twitch, appalled

The slowly gliding of your panties drift down to the slim of your ankle and you lift a leg up, waiting for San to pull it off as Seonghwa always did for you. His face reddens at the sight of you exposing your opening, cunt clenching due to your movements and exposing the fleshy insides. A thick finger raises to curl into the loop of the fabric, pulling it off and successfully avoiding coming in contact with your skin. San's never seen a naked woman in this circumstance—only ever during moments that called for an objective view; torn clothes in order to dress wounds, ritualistic practice, paintings even. Not this. He’s never taken time to really notice his lack of motivation to indulge in desire—too busy playing guard dog to love or want anything properly. A woman has never laid in San's bed, and she’s certainly never stood this close to him completely nude either.

The sound of his heart thrumming silences everything else, your figure suddenly deifying before him, as if watching Venus rise from her beloved waters—born into immediate beauty. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing once an unfamiliar heat throbs and thickens in his jeans. San's eyes glance down fleetingly before freezing at the hardness that greets him. You catch sight of the obvious bulge and immediately fall onto your knees, wanting to help.

You didn't hate San and Seonghwa might reward you with an outing if you were good and took care of his San while he was away—instantly brightening at the idea. Seonghwa called them dates and always gave you things he noticed interested you on the way back—shiny rocks, flora, perfectly smooth sticks, and even let you play in the stream for a while.

Heat slicks in between your legs in response and San almost shrieks when you rub your cheek against his hard on. "WOAH—CHRIST. Please get away from there."

You immediately comply, confused and saddened. He almost groans at your downturned eyes—the constraint of his jeans bordering on painful. "You don't need help?" There it is. That voice of yours.

Perhaps he'd prefer if you didn't speak after all. Though he's unsure if he could handle being in the presence of your body language any longer either.

San's eyes squeeze together, exasperated. It was clear that Seonghwa taught you mannerisms with the intention of never integrating you into society. He wholeheartedly meant to house you here for as long as he could and San feared that Seonghwa would put his life on the line to ensure you weren't taken away from him.

Which also meant that if Hwa's life was endangered, San had no choice but to get dragged into this—and he couldn't resolve this with your murder. That’d only invite more chaos and Seonghwa's already clearly unwell enough as is.

A tired, anguished, and clearly fabricated smile wiggled its way onto his lips. "I'm...perfectly fine. Let's just get you cleaned up." San swears his soul left his body but steeled himself to see the situation objectively.

There's a cold Angel in the tub who didn't know how to bathe herself.

He convinces himself it's like having to take care of a pet and continues to avoid looking at you any more than he needs to, guiding you into the tub.

You sigh quietly in relief, goosebumps raising on your skin before gazing at him expectantly.

"What is it this time?" He deadpans.

Blinking owlishly, you reply simply

"Bomb."

Your hands are folded together as you try to contain your excitement. Watching the little bomb fizzle and buoy around the water filled you with joy. San yawns into his hand, eying you strangely.

What a peculiar specimen.

Bored, he lays his chin on his palm, losing track of the time passing. After playing in the water a bit, you bravely hand him a small loofah.

"Scrub?"

Ah, that's right. He's playing Seonghwa's role.

Rolling his sleeves up, San grabs the loofah, fumbling with the various bottles littering the bathroom—his hair sticking out due to the humidity and matting with sweat. After taking his best guess, he lathers your body, hoping he wasn't being too rough. Hwa would kill him.

You remain still, not wanting to disturb his process, shifting your head only whenever he needed to get into a particular crevice. A small heat pricks you again when you felt the roughness of his hands glide around your body, instinctively spreading your knees wide enough to knock them against the ceramic edges of the tub. San's laser focused on his task, suddenly dedicated to the nearly tantric calmness the distraction provided him. It's when he grabs your left hand to scrub lightly at your nail beds that his breath hitches when he fleetingly meets the expression on your face.

Red splotches decorate your body, heat dampening you around the edges as you stared at him with glazed eyes. Whenever Seonghwa was here and you were less stubborn, you'd begrudgingly ask him to help you with the fever—saying it was his responsibility because it was his doing to begin with.

“What is it?” San utters hesitantly, moving to continue with his light scrubbing, hair falling into his eyes that pointed downward to avoid yours again

You've never had to explain this heat to someone else—partially still not having the same understanding of the body as Human's do. Seonghwa explained that it was a natural phenomenon, one as natural as water is to the sea: desire was to the body. Though, Angels never took part in these customs, and you felt like the more you indulged your curiosity, the further you got from home—too human to live within Eden. It was natural but it felt like a dark cesspool of filth. Filth you strangely enjoyed rolling around in despite your behest—a painfully delightful and pricey unraveling. Was it wrong? It felt like it was.

"I'm warm." Owlish eyes greet his own feline curve, and he reaches over to turn the knob to let a little bit of cool water enter before he registers the lukewarm temperature, the heat having long left the bath. "Have you been in the water for too long—" San begins innocently, shaking off the water on the tips of his fingers to turn and look at you before taking note of that heated look in your eyes—anguished even.

Oh god, what else does he have to do now?

You inch a hand forward, grabbing his palm and placing it flat against your cunt, unblinking— "I'm warm." You hope he understands what you mean, having no other words to explain. A small urgency sparks within you, but you didn't want to ask anything that might anger him or say anything stupid.

San's never felt this texture— the silk of a woman, and suddenly all of the conversations his men had made sense. Is this what a woman's body feels like? Her warmth?

How can he touch you with the intention to cool you and not look any further? He feels where the soft skin separates and beckons him inwards, pulsing—yearning for the absence to be filled. The lukewarm water licks at the edges of his dress shirts rolled sleeves, and the heat is moderately dizzying, unable to think straight in the strange conditions.

He reminds himself of his position, knowing that there'd be no way Seonghwa wouldn't find out—senses too sharp and observation of you much too detailed— to allow room for another man to touch you without his noticing.

It's Seonghwa's fault that you didn't know any better, but he also couldn't risk going out of his way to teach you, and he could see a small pain in your eyes that still didn't understand the concept of hunger.

If Seonghwa caught wind of you offering yourself to someone, San doesn't want to think about what punishments he'd deal to you and the person on the other end of it. Your wide, expectant eyes gaze at him—unknowingly pleading and he internally curses at you for your naivety. Shutting his eyes in acceptance, he searches his brain for middle ground.

"No matter what, you can't tell Seonghwa. Okay? You'll have to guide me." His tone is resigned, coating itself in hopes of preserving his desire to deal with by himself later on his alone time.

You nod obediently, not completely understanding why you couldn't tell Seonghwa but agreeing nonetheless as San moves the bath stool closer to the edge of tub—trying his best to get into a position comfortable enough to wrap his arms around you to reach your intimacy. Tugging at his shirt lightly, San immediately shakes his head.

"I'm not taking off my clothes." You don't say anything in reply, admitting defeat silently. Once he realizes all attempts are futile—every position promising an awkward hunched back—San almost caves and moves to take off his clothes before you pull him, falling to the impulse of your impatience and forcing him to fall into the tub, still clothed.

He's completely stumped, stabbing at you with his wide-eyed gaze and pointed glare. San pulls you towards him, back flattened against his hard chest completely as he boldly slithers a hand between your legs in frustration.

"Be good. Stop being impatient." He chastises gruffly. You mutter a small yes, wanting so badly to be good— you were always told you existed for that very reason. It felt familiar, almost light— a reprieve from the guilt and gift of your desire.

You squeeze yourself closer, getting comfortable from your place between his legs. Happy to feel the warmth radiating from him and the act of being cradled. San's middle finger experimentally runs itself along your slit and you flinch— he stops immediately, worrying that he's already done something wrong with self-deprecating shame and furrowed brows.

The sound of a small moan leaving your mouth raises the hair on his arms, a strange fascination slowly burning into his body. Again, he runs his finger up and down slowly. Sighing, your lay your head back to rest against the junction between his collarbone and neck.

San's cheek rests against your temple as he stares down between your legs, focusing on the task when he finds a small, firm bud. A loud squeak of surprise leaves you, deliciously over-sensitive at the unintentionally hard press. Easing up his touch, he flicks over it curiously before asking

"Show me what makes you feel good." You tilt your head back holding eye contact curiously before you reach a hand down experimentally, pushing his to the side to touch yourself when he shakes his head.

"No, show me." He instructs and your eyes lighten in understanding, grabbing his hands and guiding them to your cunt. Leading one to softly rub small circles around your clit before pressing another one against your entrance.

"This goes inside of me." You've never pressed your lips against anyone other than Seonghwa, but you instinctively find yourself reaching up to curl an arm around his neck—silently asking for him to part his lips.

San doesn't remember the last time he's had the time to kiss a girl. He wasn't so inexperienced that he's never tasted another person, at the very most.

Yet there was something enticing, welcoming even—about the warmth surrounding your aura like an all-encompassing halo and he finds himself leaning in to capture your kiss. Simultaneously, he dips the tip of his finger inside of you and furrows his eyebrows at the sudden rise in restraint necessary to stop himself from doing anything other than his duty to relieve you. Your cunt clenches, sucking him in until the second notch of his finger eases inside of you, knees knocking together and San smacks your inner thigh lightly, signaling you to keep them spread.

He eases his tongue into the hollow of your mouth, twisting it around yours slowly, wet sounds clashing at the infrequent separating of your lips, Smacks echo and are accompanied by the slow drip of the faucet. A low groan eases out of him when you delicately wrap your doll-like lips around his tongue, lightly sucking and kissing the flat of its pink flesh. Prominent veins stretch along the expanse of his neck, tensing when he presses his lips against you harder, caving into your form deeply. Resuming slow pumps, his other hand reaches to rub small circles around your clit, occasionally offering a small flick to its surface. An open mouthed mewl leaves you, small pants decorating the curve of his jaw when he unlatches his lips from yours—unconsciously kissing the side of your temple.

"More please." You beg politely and he can only oblige at the sweetness of your tender tone. San curves another finger into you, moving his other hand away to fasten the pace of the one remaining inside of you. The flat of his palm slaps against your clit and you arch your back in response, a small scream leaving you as the bath water splashes against the swelling plump of your chest.

Unable to resist, he slides his free hand to cusp your left tit—rolling his thumb against your perked nipple and grasping onto it with a sudden strength that had you gyrating your hips against his hand. The friction of your bare ass rubs against the submerged fabric of his pants and doesn't stop himself from grinding up into the squishy flesh. A pitched moan leaves his mouth, a small "ah!" at the sudden foreign sensitivity and pleasure invading his body. San loses all attempts at being soft with you, staring at your cunt taking his thick fingers repeatedly. Slick coats his fingers when he momentarily takes them out to slide them to caress your pussy lips.

Your hips chase his hand, whining a bit at the sudden emptiness.

"Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?" San peppers small kisses onto your cheeks, begging lightly. He seriously needed you to. Else he'd lose his virginity in a fucking mausoleum to the one girl he really couldn't afford to and risk a death sentence. Seonghwa was too methodical for murdering in a fit of rage—he'd actively search for the unconventional, hitting precisely where it'd kill the soul slowly.

You never took note of how distinct San's voice was until it was muttering uncharacteristically sweet into your ear with a soft encouragement.

Your stomach clenched and coiled, and you reached down to hold his wrist and propel his hand into yourself before you found your release with a shout, chest heaving at the strength of your relief.

"You're such a good girl. Feeling better now?" San's hand rubs at your tummy softly in circles, calming your body as it melted back into him. His hold on you was different—warm in a way that didn't burn but eased you into a puddle. You find yourself rising to turn in the tub to face him, raising your arms to cradle his cheek.

Seonghwa taught you this— a specific kiss that held the weight of gratitude he said.

San's floored at the softness of it—it's sweet and heavenly— all of things he should've known already and Seonghwa intuitively warned him it'd be. Lips wrap around his bottom lip to cradle it intentionally.

The palms of your hands hold him deceptively adoringly—everything Seonghwa trained you to do and more.

"Thank you, San." A small whisper leaves you and you curl into his soaked body, clutching at the wet fabric of his shirt and hiding your face in his neck. Comfortable and satisfied with his physical affection.

He realizes that it's the first time he's heard you utter his name, and it hits his heart like a metal pan—a harsh pang plummeting onto its surface like a cold, dead comet. Soft breaths hit his neck, and San feels your body slump slightly.

You fell asleep.

He shuts his eyes in horror, still unbelievably hard as he sighs into the palm he slams onto the center of his face with. If you're living proof of a God existing, he'll gladly send a prayer out in secret—hoping he'd survive a little longer to at least buy another pack of cigarettes since he's on his last leg.

San picks up your body, waking you up silently to dress you with clothes he found in the extra guest room. Guiding your languid body back to your area of the mausoleum and covering you with a blanket.

"I won't tie you tonight but please, for the love of God—don't try to escape." The sigil should be enough to hold you there, and frankly—he's not feeling up to the task of tying you intricately enough to satisfy Seonghwa if he were to return. Your eyes widen in alarm at the sound of him mentioning your father and you nod in panic. He snorts, tiredly amused.

He's received no word as of yet, which should buy him enough time to think about his actions moving forward. The rubbery sounds of his clothes echo throughout the corridor and San ends his night completely naked in the laundry room, waiting for his only outfit to dry.

It's comical really—the sight of a grown man naked pondering on a stool, waiting for his laundry to dry casually after touching a woman for the first time.

San was too tired to feel shame.

He's fucked out and horny in a way that he's never experienced before, and wonders if it's his belated puberty alas hitting him.

San stands and leans down to momentarily pause the laundry cycle. Reaching for a cardboard box he'd thrown in to dry alongside his clothes—satisfied with the extent of its drying before plucking the lone cigarette that sat in it. Lighting it with a sigh, San waits in nude contemplating silence, reflecting on the madness of his decisions for the next hour.

Seonghwa still hasn't returned.

Over the past two weeks, San has struggled to resist your advances in every conceivable way.

Like clockwork, he has either been left blue-balled or succumbed to your curious gaze whenever he tried to read his lone book while you watched him. Days turned into an unspoken routine—your innocent way of asking to be held without saying a word, and him pretending not to notice while already giving in to your unconscious desires.

He realized you were the cuddly type—naturally inclined to hold a hand or lean into a chest. For the past two weeks, he has been reading his book aloud, cradling you close, your back pressed against his chest, much like your first night alone together.

This is the exact position he finds himself in when he reads the final words of "Paradise Lost" by John Milton: “They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, through Eden took their solitary way.” San mumbles, glancing at you to gauge your reaction to the ending.

Your eyebrows furrow briefly as you digest the words in momentary silence. "I don't understand," you say, gazing at San and awaiting his reply patiently, inquisitive as always.

He nods slowly and adjusts his slim glasses. "Adam and Eve fall from grace and are forced to leave the Garden of Eden," he summarizes simply.

"Why did they have to leave?" Your voice is soft, naturally otherworldly.

"Because they knew too much to stay and remain happy. Salvation to them was following the path from which there was no return," he explains. The silence from you feels heavier than usual.

Lately, you have been more talkative. Still not particularly chatty, but San has noticed things about you he shouldn't have—like your inherent pensiveness, curiosity, and how, in all your innocence, you are undeniably a woman. A beautiful one. There is a dichotomy to you, in all the ways you are wise and pensive, yet unavoidably naive to human social and bodily cues and customs.

Like this moment—you didn’t know how to bathe yourself just two weeks ago, yet you can sit here and question Milton with only your previous understandings of the celestial world and its functions.

You turn, tucking your face into the warmth of his neck as you quietly ask him to hold you. San draws you into his lap without hesitation, settling you with ease—your legs parting naturally, knees resting at either side of his hips. When your fingers begin to toy with a button on his vest, and your dress shifts so you can press closer against the firm center of him, he feels it again—that slow, stirring shift.

For the life of him, he doesn’t know how he’ll make it through this unscathed. It has become your daily ritual—to ask San to soothe your fevers—and like the guard dog he is, he obeys without question, devoted to obliging his lady (he sarcastically began calling you this after he realized he couldn’t help but cater to your every whim.) To be fair, there isn’t much else you need. You aren’t human; you require no water, no food, no sleep. And so, San fills the quiet hours by offering you stories from his books, the cyclical reprieve of his body, or letting you watch him eat—your gaze full of wonder, the simple act always putting you in a state of strange awe.

San makes sure to eat everything nice in the pantry, given that any meal could be his last. His hands slide to rest on your hips, leather gloves squeaking lightly at his tense grip.

"I taught you how to ask properly, Angel," he mutters softly, a disguised gentle reprimand. You blink, trying to calculate the proper words as instructed.

“I want you to touch me, San,” you say, your gaze lifting to meet his as you remain nestled in his lap, arms lazily looped around his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away—just stares, caught between exasperation and something that looks a lot like pride. You’re obedient, after all. Almost too obedient.

San sighs before leaning back flat on the ground. "Lift up your dress and come here," he instructs, dragging you to situate yourself above his face. You obey and lift the silk fabric just above your hips, and San immediately places his mouth over your lace panties.

The thin, airy fabric is immediately doused in spit. San licks up the creased lining, pressing into your skin, and your tummy clenches with a red-hot want. Gloved hands stroke soothingly over your thighs, massaging lightly at the skin and pushing you closer to his face. “Don’t hover—sit,” a gruff admonishment slides out of him, his neck aching from how he had to crane to meet your core.

San tugs your underwear to slide directly between your lips, pulling it a few times so it presses and massages the bud, and enjoys the sight of your puffed skin sandwiching the cloth.

You shiver when he eases a hand between your legs, pulling your underwear to the side to press an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, and separating your lips with his tongue.

“San—it feels good,” you gasp, the confession ripped from you. Something in him breaks—splinters, like he's been holding back too long. He snarls, the sound low and feral, then yanks off his glove with his teeth, careless and shaking. His hand is on you in the next breath, fingers slick as he drives his middle and ring fingers into you—deep, unrelenting

You yelp, startled, clenching tightly around his fingers. Your body moves without permission—grinding softly against the press of San’s touch, his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, glasses fogging, and you find yourself staring, unsure why the sight pulls at something deep within you. Carefully—almost reverently—you reach to remove them, fingertips brushing warm skin. A sensation follows—gentle, strange. It spreads through your chest, unfamiliar and unnamed. You don’t understand it, but it doesn’t frighten you.

San feels it—the strange shift in the air that curdles his intestines, blooming like a wildflower in concrete, somewhere it shouldn’t be, but nonetheless continues to root itself in. The partly cloudy day reflects on your hair like a halo, dousing your body, and he’s suddenly even more aware of what sort of holiness he holds in his arms—that he even tastes it on his tongue like false salvation. A profound emotion of wanting to carve inside of you, to ease every burn in your body, and cater to your strangeness bleeds inside of him. San knows what this means—that although it is too soon to call it love, it is nonetheless devotion. Momentary fear throbs in him—

Did Seonghwa feel it too, in the beginning? Was he lost from the start—or did he slowly unravel, seduced by the gravity of your existence, slipping over time into the skin of a madman, his fall from grace etched in stone?

He pushes the thought away—now’s not the time to contemplate dread. The sooner he gets you off, the sooner you both can go on with your day.

A slow lap flicks at your clit, the stringy liquid attaching itself to the tip of San’s tongue—following his movements as he slides and sandwiches it between your folds, drinking in the sounds of your melodic moans. His fingers piston themselves inside of you, curling up to graze a spongy spot, and you spark up—eyes seeing stars.

A desperation inside of you wells before it reaches a boiling point—you want more. This isn’t enough for you.

It clicks in your mind before you can fully process what it means. You’ve done this with Seonghwa countless times, but back then, you were too raw—too angry and unmoored to truly sit with the feeling of wanting someone inside you. Desire was still a foreign language, one you hadn't yet learned to speak fluently.

You hold your stomach and reach a hand down to hold San’s cheek, pausing him. He eyes you curiously—bottom half of his face glistening with slick. “Everything okay up there?” A dry remark leaves San, accompanied by a raised brow despite his best efforts at being softer with you—losing his mind at the thought of having to beat off in the bathroom after this for the third time today.

“I want more.” You confess, hesitant—gazing down at him like he was a puzzling thing. You push his head down, shaking your head when he moves to drag his tongue down and into you with more fervor. San’s eyes flick around your face, looking around for an expression he’s registered and committed to memory. He finds himself at a standstill, despite typically being able to read you like a dog-eared book. And so he waits for the words to fall out of you on their own, as they often did once he was patient enough to truly learn you.

“I think… I want more of you.” Wonder coats your honeyed tone, and you reach out to cup his warm cheek.

San stills at your words, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts invading his mind, but he fumbles to regain his composure.

“I don’t think you fully understand what that means, Angel,” he says, offering a shaky smile as he gently tries to urge you away, not wanting to rush you into something you might not fully comprehend.

“San,” you say softly, requesting a pause to calm his anxious thoughts. He takes a deep breath and looks at you expectantly.

“I’m still adjusting to these urges,” you explain. “Parts of me want to resist, to hold onto the world I knew, but I’ve given in to Seonghwa’s touch again and again. I’m still learning, San, what it means to have a body, and I feel it. I don’t fully understand it, but I want you, as I’ve wanted Seonghwa. But I want you differently. It’s easier to want you…it doesn’t feel like a sin.” You exhale, as if confessing a secret.

To Seonghwa, these words would be sacrilegious in his doctrine. San knows this. Something’s burning off in his stomach, fragments of the desire he’s forced himself to chew off were coming together to form a dark mass.

The silence is thick, broken only by the faint rustling of nature outside the marble walls of your private sanctuary. A drop of your wetness trails down to San’s cheek, snapping him out of his internal struggle. A ravenous hunger consumes him, and he hoists you up, sliding out from between your legs and pulling you close with a searing kiss.

Groans escape his lips as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving sloppily across your jaw and neck, nipping and breathing heavily into the hollow of your throat. His arm snakes up your leg, tugging your underwear down as a small whimper of anticipation escapes you.

This desperation is new to San, a feeling he’s never experienced so intensely. It makes sense now—the verses and prose written throughout the ages about the carnality of desire. He scoffs at his past self for thinking he was superior for never having experienced it. There’s no muscle memory here, only sheer instinct—a fragility hanging in the air as San loses the last of his innocence.

San shivers as your nail gently drags across his hard-on, slipping a finger between the teeth of his zipper to slowly pull it down. Your curiosity guides your hands as you explore his body, something you’ve never done in the two weeks he’s been caring for you. The flush on his face spreads from his nose to his cheekbones, and his chest heaves with anticipation.

Should he tell you he’s never done this before?

His other still gloved hand reaches out to grab your wrist, and he gazes into your eyes.

“It’s my first time,” he admits, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrays his anxiety.

You blink slowly, processing his words.

“Your first time being touched?” you ask, and San stifles a laugh, feeling suddenly inexperienced by comparison.

“I suppose it’s my first time being inside, Angel,” he says, a mix of embarrassment and defeat in his voice.

“Oh, I get it. That’s okay,” you reply simply, and San exhales, ready for you to pull away before you move to slide down the top of his boxers. You lay a soft kiss on the underside of his cock and take his tip into your mouth. San’s body tenses, and his hands shoot out to clench his thighs, eyes squeezing shut to keep them from rolling back.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, overwhelmed by the sensation of your mouth wrapped around him, soft and silky, working him with your throat. What has Seonghwa been teaching you? He shakes his head briefly. Probably doesn’t want know.

San is particularly well-endowed, and he’s aware of it. He watches you, worried, as you take him deeper, feeling your saliva dribble down his shaft. His skin turns pink and engorged, and a small gag escapes you as he hits the back of your throat.

San’s hips rise, folding into your face as he shakes with pleasure. You guide his hand to your head, looking up at him curiously.

“What is it?” San asks, sweat beading his brow as he grits his teeth, trying to understand what you want from him.

Your words are muffled, so you push his hand against your head again, telling him it’s okay to control your movements. The vulgarity of it all sends a rush of heat to his face. Unable to resist, he thrusts deeper into you, pleasure drowning out the sounds of your struggle. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, groaning at the feeling of his cock moving in your mouth.

“Wait—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, using the last of his willpower to slide your mouth off him. A string of saliva remains attached to your bottom lip, and he’s captivated by the sight of your teary, red face.

Saliva smears across your jaw, and San knows there’s no going back. You take a moment to catch your breath, blinking away residual tears, and wait patiently for San’s next move.

Your gaze pulls him in like a magnet, and he crushes his lips against yours in a fiery kiss. His hands grip your hair, tilting your neck back as he slides his tongue into your mouth, sucking on yours eagerly. He’s panting as he unravels your dress with practiced hands, having tied and untied your corsets daily. He peels off the last of the fabric concealing you from his eyes.

By the gods, you're beautiful. You were worthy of the crime he was about commit, on the edge of betraying the strange man he was born to protect.

Though his hands are often on you, San has made a quiet effort not to look too long trying, in his own way, to soften the weight of his wanting and make it easier to swallow. But today, he can hardly blink. He dips down, taking your left breast into his mouth, nipping gently as if to memorize the way your body trembles, the soft mewl spilling from you like a wave pulled towards the moon.

He marks your swelling chest with slow, deliberate bites, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sealing the moment with a wet, reverent kiss. Your fingers find the buttons of his vest, working them open before slipping his dress shirt from his shoulders—pausing only to admire how the sunlight sets fire to his golden skin. When you lean in to nip at his collarbone, San moans, low and shaken, his hands gliding over your bare form like he’s trying to memorize every inch before he loses control.

There’s a silence in the air, a stillness broken only by the dancing dust particles in the light. When San lays you onto the cold marble, shrugging off the last of his clothes and tossing them aside, he stills himself between your legs. The moment is reminiscent of a prayer as he kneels before you, your legs parted like a pathway to heaven—your slick dripping onto the floor, cunt clenching around nothing, begging for him to fill you.

San lets out a shaky breath, sheathing himself slowly into you. He immediately presses his temple against yours to gather himself. You litter small kisses onto his cheekbone, stuttering out a moan as he slides out and then back in fully.

San feels drunk on the sensation of you wrapped around him, willing himself to savor the moment and not finish too quickly.

"W-wait please." He stutters out softly when your hips roll against him, hitting his pelvis—already damp with the slick you rubbed against him in the process. San tenses once the sensitivity hits him at full force, trying to hone in on your small palms grasping his jawline.

With his eyes open, it finally hits him—undeniable and heavy that nothing will wash away the image of your silhouette draped on the dreaded mausoleum floor, as the dust particles billowed around your energetic halo like soft winter. His palm drags itself down the softness of your stomach, cradling the flesh around your form—so willingly full of him and he thinks he wants to sit inside of your forever, and pales at the thought.

He couldn't afford you.

Not in the ways he needed to be able to.

However—he did nothing to stop himself from rolling into you with a sudden desperation, wanting to fill the hollowness of his thoughts.

He hated that even now, Seonghwa's presence seemed to fill the air—branding and consuming your habitual desires that were a mere extension of his deliberate teachings

In a flicker of fragile honesty, he admits he could never refuse you. His body never stood a chance—but now, unsettlingly, his heart might be tangled in it too.

A gasp, an opening, a tongue in mouth: the minutes pass as sweat drips down from San's body, and he memorizes every gap formed between your bodies, praying that somehow his heart will be torn away in the process.

Yet desire persists and consumes him with an open jaw, breaking him open until he's crashing against your whimpering and delirious body—leaning to teethe at your neck and grope at the swell of your breasts. Hands drag to the dips of your waist, squeezing the skin until it bloomed red, craving to bring you as close as possible to the act of bleeding.

San wanted you and feared that his desire would sentence him to his own damnation—

And so, he carved into you with a sort of violence his usual attempt at softness never permitted, and you welcomed him as a means to fill the gaps to ease a desire you may never understand or compute for who it may actually be for.

His hips smacked against your skin, filling you to the brim until cream wrapped around the smoothness of his cock, repetitive motions unknowingly sealing your shared fate.

A throbbing vein,

the betrayal of his own visible pulse,

and most of all— his lips that couldn't seem to stop their spewing of sweet nothings even at the firmness of his actions.

"Is this okay, Angel?" He breathes, panting against your mouth, stomach churning at how beautiful you look—at how grace seemed to be imbued even in the simple action of a subtle nod to your head.

San was betraying himself—every law he'd lived by, every truth etched into his bones—but your mouth was the most real thing he'd ever touched. Centuries of inherited hatred unraveled themselves beneath the lips of a girl too innocent to understand what men like him and Seonghwa truly were, or how they hunted—like wolves, by nature, not choice.

San was raised to be subservient to Hwa but that didn't unwrite his own genetically imbued violence—the irrefutable instinct to conquer and own.

And for the first time in his life, San prayed for and pitied his hunt—cumming into you so as to not deny himself his long-awaited reprieve, before gazing down at the tragically beautiful mess he's made in more ways than one. Your chest rises in shallow breaths, hands gliding up his body, wrapping tenderly around his neck.

There's a particular warmth you feel when you press your skin against San's—one you'd never found or experienced, even in Eden's pastures. It flickered in the air like a sunspot, and you curled into him slowly, syncing your breaths to his heartbeat.

Did Seonghwa ever feel like this?

You think you miss him, but the thought of his name falls hollow like an empty shell into your heart: all remnants of war and nothing at all like a day in the sun.

San found himself in a sticky, sticky predicament.

He failed to gauge his own desperation and found himself spoiling your appetites to excess, which have only seemed to worsen after your first sin.

What used to be early mornings spent gazing at his chewing mouth morphed into an ugly, saturated desperation that manifested in hiking you up and fucking you hard into the kitchen counter and having to profusely apologize for the small and swelling bump on the back of your head after it repeatedly banged against the cupboard door.

He's even lost count of how many times you've woken him up, mouth stuffed full of his cock, and blinking up at him like you could do no wrong. It seems you've developed a bit of an attachment for San, trailing after him in silence wherever he went.

Showers? You were there clinging to his leg, not minding the water flooding your eyes as you blankly sat in the tub—unbothered and patiently waiting for his "bath time" to end. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner? He had to maneuver around your body to avoid accidentally knocking you with a knife or a pan because you held onto him like a second skin.

San tried his best to appease you and yet you ate at his body, energy, and hours with a level of gluttony more similar in form to a demon rather than an angel.

He held onto the headboard of Seonghwa's bedframe for dear life as you rode him like your life depended on it, after you followed him into the room when he left to grab you a change of clothes. You easily made your way in, interrupting his internal debate on whether a pair of lace or floral socks would accompany your baby doll dress better.

San made it a nasty habit to finish inside of you—too entranced by the look and feel of it to reprimand himself the amount he should've.

This is exactly how he falls into the horridness of the day he dreaded for the last few weeks.

Moments after your escapade, you slip back into your designated corner of the morose establishment—just as the faint clank of the mausoleum’s hidden entrance echoes through the dust-laden air. The sound of jagged stone dragging against the rigid entrance of the doorway stirs something in you, a slow flood of anticipation laced with unease.

When Seonghwa walks in, he immediately takes note of the stillness in the room—sharp eyes drinking in your form for the first time in weeks, squinting minutely at the womanly softness gracing your face. He came immediately after the final mission debrief in a hurry, still donning a pristine suit and slicked back white hair. Only a few strands now poking his forehead expose the rush he was in.

He makes a small movement, almost unnoticeable, to gaze at San, and clenches his jaw at the sight of the flush decorating his nose bridge. Seonghwa marches forward; quiet, elegant, and dreadfully beautiful as he approaches you— fear, admiration, and denial painting your tummy in a confusing amalgamation of emotions. He leans to press a small kiss to your jawline, patting your hair down, and stares at you for a couple of moments.

“Dearest, have you been good?” his voice is a soft, melodic mutter and a sudden queasiness overwhelms you. You have been, right? Then why can’t the words fall out of you truthfully?

His eyes sharpen at your lack of reply, a simple command fluttering out of his mouth

“Spread your legs and lift your dress.”

You immediately comply, lifting the soft white lace to your stomach and Seonghwa immediately pushes your underwear to the side before shoving two fingers inside of you—noting the slickness between them and how easily they slid inside of you.

His breathing stills as he removes his hand to reveal cum coated fingers. Eyes burning, Seonghwa’s head flicks over to San, holding his fingers up in quiet anger on the verge of boiling over.

“Care to tell me what my dog’s been doing while I’ve been away?” He seethes, voice teetering from its usually performative gentleness.

San squeezes his eyes shut, already knowing this would happen. Your own eyes widen, recalling one of San’s first warnings to you— “If I do this for you, don’t tell Seonghwa.”

Did you put him at risk? Horror fills your body.

San doesn’t respond and merely moves his gaze to the floor.

“Well? Does anybody have a lovely explanation? And you—“He flips back to you with a shaking finger and a tsk.

“—and you, my angel, seem to need to be educated on manners. Specifically, on how to host a guest and not fuck them. Bad girl.” Seonghwa pinches his nose bridge in annoyance, tapping his foot as he stared at the two people he rightfully owned: his own personal guard dog since birth and the angel he earned through…trial and error—but that’s beside the point.

Pointing at San, Seonghwa instructs firmly

“Kneel.”

Wide eyes flick up to gaze at him in surprise, but San obliges, nonetheless. Seonghwa pulls his tie off before slowly walking towards him, and the boy stiffens as his footsteps drift closer, echoing throughout the hallowed hall.

San’s vision is immediately obscured by the thick navy cloth of Seonghwa’s tie, and flinches at the sudden darkness.

“Hwa, what are you— “He attempts to question, a dry tone leaving him in exasperation.

“Don’t even speak. Don’t move either or God so help me, your entire lineage will fall to my sword.” The words are tense, promising.

Seonghwa’s step fade away, moving towards you once again. Leaning down to capture your lips and your body is a fire—burning and yearning for him beyond all logic. It knows him best and it’s craved him despite your admonishments.

"I didn't explain this because I thought it was obvious, but you aren't supposed to offer yourself to anyone else, stupid girl." He chides casually.

"You're mine. In life and in death. If you want to play with my puppy so badly, fine. Both of you will pay the price." There's a promise in his words, and you worried for San. Seonghwa takes note of this—gaze sharpening again and distorting his typically cherubic features with a wolfish grin.

"Now, will you be a good girl today? I don't have the patience to deal with your dishonesty to your body."

You didn't think you had it in you to deny Seonghwa today either. Your body called for him, growing wet at the sight of his familiar beauty that invoked a strange comfort now. You nod, staying silent and await his next orders.

"Strip and bend over." A sharp inhale comes from San, as he comes to the slow understanding of Seonghwa's intention.

He's going to take you while he's in the room.

The sound of your rustling clothes spur both his imagination and memory, and his pants grow stiff as he grits his teeth in restraint.

Your nipples harden at their exposure to the cold air, goosebumps raising as you stare meekly into Seonghwa's eyes. More than likely, due to San's spoiling affection, you dare yourself to step forward and wrap your arms around the slim of his neck.

Seonghwa's dead eyes maintain their dull pallor, face unmoving but he can’t deny that his heart stuttered at the wake of your foreign approach. When you reach up to kiss him with an apology laid out on your tongue, he melts into you slightly and brushes away his white hair—pulling stray strands entangling themselves on your tongues.

He reaches a hand to pull hard at your hair, smacking your hip

"You're going to take it today, yes?"

"Yes—"

"Yes, what?" He deadpans questioningly.

"Yes sir." Your big eyes are clear like spring.

He turns his head slightly to San "Did she bathe recently?" It was a double-sided question he already knew the answer to. San slowly nods, blindfold still intact and rustling against the collar of his shirt.

Seonghwa side eyes you for a moment.

"I wanted to take my time in training you to take me in other ways, but today seems suitable, given that we have such an esteemed guest with us." He turns you around, pressing you against an old statue. "Hold on tightly." is all he says, before sliding two fingers in your cunt, immediately smacking into it repeatedly. A small scream leaves you at the suddenness, spine straightening at the brutality of his ministrations.

"Don't forget who taught you how to use this fucking cunt. You're a stupid little thing—an object. A little cock sleeve who gets mindlessly fucked when she's good." He spreads his fingers to widen you, and you whimper at the stretch. Your slick splashes itself onto his palms before you jolt at the feeling of his finger rimming around your ass.

"Hwa?" You question, apprehensive. He'd been putting strange objects into your other end for weeks, and it felt strange—different from how it usually felt whenever Hwa was inside of you.

"Stay still." He pulls his fingers out of you and walks to his room. You overhear the sounds of him rummaging through his dresser before returning, stationing himself behind you when you feel a thick, cold substance being poured onto your ass. "I was going to wait, but I really don't feel like it anymore." He lathers his tongue around his middle and ring finger, before popping them in your ass, pulling out to push the lube inside.

You yelp at the burning stretch, eyes widening in realization. "Wait—why there?"

"Why not there, is the question—What do you think I've been doing with that ass of yours?" He says simply, unbuttoning his slacks and vest haphazardly, lathering the heavy pink flesh with lube.

"Now, are you going to take it like a good girl or are you going to be the biggest pain in my ass?" His tone is light, and he stills behind you—waiting for your confirmation.

There was a part of you both fearful yet curious of the incoming pain. Whenever Seonghwa experimented on the other relatively unused... end of yours, new sensations would drift through you—dancing between pain and small blips of ecstasy as time progressed.

However, you had no idea if you could fit Seonghwa inside. "Hwa, it won't fit." Seonghwa reaches a hand to stroke your cheek in momentary softness.

"There you go doubting yourself again. Have I ever been wrong, my love?" His voice is sweet, soothing even; serpentine and lovely in all of the worst ways. "Need I remind you how I fit so well in you already?"

Seonghwa pushes inside of your cunt with one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A shaky, exhilarated sigh leaves him, eyes rolling before he grits his teeth in frustration when he feels San's remnants and proceeds to pound into you intentionally. Silent screams leave you, open mouth dragging down the statue as you struggled to hold yourself up.

San is left entirely forgotten, chest heaving at your sounds. This feels like torture. He's queasy at the thoughts overwhelming him. Of course, Seonghwa knew your body better. A chuckle breaks his reverie, as Seonghwa peers at San with dark eyes without his knowledge. "You can take the blindfold off, San." He says dryly, pounding away at you and reaching to wrap an arm around your waist to hold your body up when your knees weaken.

San hesitates

"Come on, Sannie. You don't wanna see my angel?" The words are a deceptively gentle encouragement but were in reality—a thinly veiled mockery.

San sighs, unraveling the blindfold, and his jaw goes slack at the sight of you getting absolutely wrecked. You don't register San, body going numb and mind blank at the incessant banging against your cervix. Seonghwa beckons San over with a silent finger.

He moves you to kneel on the floor, and you do so obediently— before nudging you into San's arms.

"Hold her upright" is all he says before he pours another round of lube onto you, sliding in his middle and ring finger. You hiss at the burn, clutching onto San's sleeves with teary eyes but say nothing. San observes your expression, soothing your body with his hands and pulls your head to rest against his chest. He can't help the morose look decorating his eyes and Seonghwa scoffs.

"Oh, how sweet." He deadpans before sliding out his cock to ease his tip into your ass.

"—ah!" You gasp, eyes flying open.

"Hang in there for me." He grins before shoving himself further into you with shallow thrusts. You crane your head to San, silently begging for his kiss before Seonghwa's hand intercepts, fingers crawling into your mouth to use it as a pulling force to enter you entirely. He only waits for a singular moment before jumpstarting his pace.

San can't seem to force himself to look away at Seonghwa's brutal force, eyes glossed over at the sight of your ass rippling at the force he slapped into you with—the grotesque squelches of him pummeling into your ass and balls patting your cunt with an awe-inspiring vulgarity distracts him from his insecurities.

He sees the sudden dark vacancy in your eyes, almost doll-like as you still to let Seonghwa take you in whatever way he wanted. There wasn't a singular thought behind them— you were gone. Seonghwa seemed to sense this with a sharp smile, cooing down at you

"Is my dumb little angel enjoying getting fucked in the ass? You're fucking disgusting." You moan out in reply, falling into San's lap as Seonghwa only seems to dig deeper into you, and nod in reply. Your brain couldn't compute anything outside of Seonghwa's body and words.

Seonghwa's eyes brighten maniacally before leaning down to speak directly into your ear. Stilling completely and chuckling as you drive your ass back onto his cock in desperation.

Slick drips down your thighs, pussy clenching around nothing—crying at the emptiness inside of it.

"You'd do anything for me, won't you?" He asks lightly, a kind suggestion.

"Anything." You reply instantly.

Bingo.

"Renounce your God for me." The smile on his face practically splits passed his cheekbones. San's head raises in alarm, eyes wide in shock.

There's a miniscule sliver of light fighting through the overcast haze in your mind. Alarms blare in your mind, screaming for you to wake up—something is horribly, irreversibly wrong. But Seonghwa has always been your safe haven.

He’s shielded you from the cruelties of the world, even brought San into your life. Your Seonghwa would never hurt you. He couldn't.

"I renounce my God for you." An ecstatic giggle bubbles from his throat and San's face contorts into an expression of absolute horror. You weren't in your right mind—the usual brightness of your curious eyes is nowhere to be found and his heart clenches. Seonghwa broke you.

The moon seemed to hide itself from your words, disappearing behind a cover of clouds, and taking away all light from the room in its absence. San holds your face with equal amounts concern and aching desire.

Seonghwa’s gloomy eyes roll over San’s form like a disappointed God—peering through the eerie starlight lacing his gaze.

“Angel, why don’t you make room for our San?” He says suddenly and you pull away from San’s arms before he chided at you

“No darling—here.” Seonghwa practically purred, trailing a hand down to cup your soaked cunt. His head digs into your neck to bite lightly; eyes still trained onto San’s.

San’s pulse throbs erratically, veins strangling against the surface of his neck. Your eyes join Seonghwa’s in staring at him, waiting expectantly.

Slowly, he peels off his slacks, and sighs in relief at finally releasing himself from the uncomfortable constraints.

Seonghwa’s hand pulls at San’s wrist, guiding it to replace his hand, and to his surprise—wraps around the base of his cock.

San flinches at the sensitivity, a small moan of surprise leaving him at having Seonghwa’s soft and cold skin against him. A soft jerk at his shaft causes him to fall against your shoulder and unconsciously fucking his hips into Seonghwa’s hand.

Seonghwa uses the other to cup your jaw to crane towards him, licking into your mouth and parting it to spit directly into your tongue. “Go and accommodate our guest. Show me what you’ve learned while I was away, my love.” There’s a playful glint to his voice, now in a much better mood after hearing you renouncing your father for him.

You crawl over to San slowly and whine at the sudden emptiness as Seonghwa slides out of you. San gazes up at you with reverence when you seat your self onto his lap, spreading your cunt and taking him entirely. His head snaps back, jaw slack, choking a groan at the sudden grip.

Seonghwa still peers at San with dark eyes and reaches forward to brush a strand of hair matted with sweat from his temple.

His fingers pull at San’s jaw towards his lips and kisses him like he was trying to take something back.

In all of San’s years, he’s never imagined kissing Seonghwa. They grew up together and it was his job to take care of Hwa’s messes— every day was spent next to one another as childhood friends, deceivingly as equals even if that weren’t the truth.

He’s never denied being Seonghwa’s dog and despite never thinking of Seonghwa in a sexual or intimate way—kissing him felt like an act of loyalty. It touched at a sensitive part of San’s boyhood like an apology, squeezing his tongue into Hwa’s mouth as if to say

‘I didn’t mean to like her, but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.’

San mewled into Seonghwa’s mouth and opened his eyes slightly to take a look at you—almost choking on a laugh but swallowing it down. Your mouth is slack, wide eyed and curious at the interaction— never having witnessed two boys kissing but found yourself admiring their conjoined beauty. San was a night sky laid beneath Seonghwa’s moonlit form.

His hands find their way back on your hips and lays back down, rocking you against him slowly. Seonghwa follows him shortly, peppering kisses onto your shoulder blade before thrusting back into you.

Your mind goes blank at being stuffed to the brim and Seonghwa only adds to it when he shoves his fingers down your throat—laughing when you cry out and gag in surprise. Drool dribbles out of your mouth as they both fuck into you, and San quickly loses all reservations, jackhammering into you whenever Seonghwa would pull out.

“She looks stupid, doesn’t she?” Seonghwa chuckles dryly, face contorted into a horrendously disturbed—almost murderous expression as he nails into you.

San, body trembling with exertion, begins to move in sync with Seonghwa, their cocks moving in and out of you in a brutal, relentless rhythm. You're sandwiched between them, their bodies pressing against yours, their cocks filling you completely. For a moment, Seonghwa feels a sense of satisfaction at San's fucked out expression—grabbing at his face with a rough hand. "—and look at this stupid fucking dog. You've kept it in your pants for years and I come home to your cum inside of her?" Seonghwa taps at San's cheeks before sliding two fingers into his mouth, immediately hitting the back of his throat and forcing him to take it. "Since you're all grown now and clearly your balls have dropped—you can take this much, can't you?" He's still pile driving into you, and you were residue of the person you were an hour ago.

"Pretty angel—" He hits your ass, the surface flushing red and clammy with sweat. "Cum for me so I can show our dearest San how pretty you look when I do it." Your trained body immediately adheres to his words, digesting his voice the way a computer is coded.

San stills, spit trailing onto your neck before he forcibly pulls his throat away from Seonghwa's hand—crying out at your cunts vice grip before cumming an unholy amount inside of you. Hwa's face is cold when he drills into you before pulling out—ejaculating on both your and San's bodies.

Seonghwa's skin is drenched in sweat as he tilts his head up to gaze through the broken skylight—heart thrumming, chest heaving—too cherubic for his own good, despite the brutality of his possessive nature.

You were his. That was final.

And San—San was his too. Always had been.

Maybe he didn’t crave San the same way he craved you—didn’t ache for him in that raw, possessive way—but Seonghwa didn’t let go of what was his. Not ever.

He tossed his suit jacket over your tangled bodies and turned without a word, vanishing into the dark recesses of his room. He needed space. Time to think. To breathe.

San stayed on the floor beside you, too drained to move. The weight of what had happened pressed down like a storm.

Something had shifted. And none of you could take it back.

You wake up groggy, peeling your eyes open against the onslaught of sunlight. Flinching at the soft breath on your neck, you peer down in surprise at San’s figure—completely nude and barely covered by the corner of Seonghwa’s suit jacket.

Where was he?

Anxiety churns in your stomach. You attempt to rise, but your knees give out—waking San in the process. He squeezes one eye to shut out the brightness before wrapping a toned, tanned arm around your waist to steady you.

“You doin’ alright there, Angel?”

He groans as he feels a crusted substance on his cheek, quickly realizing it’s Seonghwa’s cum. What the fuck’s wrong with that guy?

San knows he went along with it in the desperate heat of the moment, but his brow creases at the strangeness of it all as he recalls the feeling of Seonghwa’s fingers in his throat—silken tongue in his mouth.

You open your mouth to speak, but an overwhelming dryness hits your throat quickly followed by a foreign clenching in your stomach. San stills at the clear rumble, eyes widening in apprehension: you were hungry.

Mumbling a quick “wait here,” San stumbles into Seonghwa’s room—ignoring his groggy protests to shut the door because he’s letting in too much light. In his desperation, San doesn’t even register the cold air clinging to his naked body before jumping onto Seonghwa’s bed and tugging at a white tuft of hair.

“Hwa, it’s bad—I think she’s hungry.”

Seonghwa lies quietly for a single beat, still trying to ignore San in extreme annoyance—until his eyes shoot open, finally registering the words.

He falls out of bed, bolts upright, and rushes into the open space with a wide, maniacal smile. San picks up the blanket Seonghwa had flung away, wrapping it around his waist before hobbling after him.

Seonghwa kneels in front of you, softly grabbing your shoulder and San couldn't quite hear his mummering—but takes note of the dangerous spark in Hwa's eyes, a soft simmering settling in his stomach.

San plops down next to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as you both watch Seonghwa flutter to and from the kitchen. The distant cacophony of pots and pans clanging finally seize before the man returns with a glass of water and half-burnt pancakes. At least the effort was there. San grimaces.

You raise your brows in surprise when he hands the plate to you, shaking your head sweetly.

"Hwa—thank you for making...that for me, but I don't need it." You didn't know what pancakes were, but San commended your instinct for knowing that whatever it was—wasn't supposed to look like that. Giggling lightly at your recoiling before clearing his throat and manually stiffening his expression.

"Sweet girl, yes you do—now you do. Just try it, yeah?" Seonghwa hums sweetly before slicing into the pancake, prodding your lips with the fork. Maple syrup and honey butter coat your lips before you hesitantly part them, stilling at the foreign feeling.

"Chew slowly, taste, and then swallow." He holds your chin with two fingers, guiding your jaw gently. "There you are—is it good?"

You think it is—but can't know for sure, you've never tasted anything bad before either; not really comprehending the concept yet.

Body stilling, a small voice in your brain prods at you—why are you eating? Your eyes go white before the horror falls on your body like a bucket of water, legs pushing themselves with a tremor. Please God—no. Anything but this.

Chest heaving, you swallow hard before hesitantly poking a leg out of the sigil and bracing yourself for a sharp, painful sting—but are greeted by nothing. Seonghwa only places the fork down onto the plate before watching you with his dark eyes, holding his chin up with the palm of his hand. San feared this would happen—your inevitable fall from grace. Seonghwa got exactly what he wanted—your mortality.

and now, there was nowhere else for you to return to.

With watery eyes, you jump onto Seonghwa—crying into his arms, and he smiles maternally, adjusting to cradle you to his chest.

"Now—what's the matter, my love?" He hushes you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and wiping your nose lovingly. "Are you not happy?"

San watches you both, stomach churning. "I suppose now that you're back, I should return to headquarters." His eyes avoid you both, rubbing the back of his neck, heart aching when your arms reach out towards him.

"Please don't leave." He pauses, finally shifting his gaze back to you. There was something in your voice—something familiar, even if you weren't aware of it. Having watched you day and night, San recognized it as easily as he recognized every pattern that adorned your skin.

It was fear. Fear you weren't present enough to understand.

That same uncomfortable squeeze makes him unconsciously reach up to grab the skin above his chest absentmindedly, as if it'd soothe the unerasable ache.

A part of you had to still be there and San racked his head to find a way to return to you. Seonghwa observes, smiling lightly—fully aware of what was transpiring before him. "There's no need."

San turns his head, looking at Seonghwa questioningly. "No work to do or somethin'?"

"Your work is here. I told your family you'll be gone for a long while." Seonghwa's tone is airy and melodic—sweet, soft spoken, and angelic.

San's eyebrows furrow "What are you talking about?"

Seonghwa merely scooches you off his lap, dusting his knees once he stands before striding into his room—returning with an item San couldn't quite see yet, but hears a faint chime emit from it.

The calm in Seonghwa's eyes break for a singular moment—stormy, brooding, resentful—betrayed. He wraps his arms slowly, seductively around San's neck as he clamps a collar around his throat. Seonghwa's lips graze San's ear, whispering low.

"Since you wanted to act like a dog, you get to live like one now. You know better than to disobey—right, San?"

San isn't surprised. He knew Seonghwa like the back of his hand—He pinches his nose bridge, shrugging him off with a sigh. "Are you gonna give me a shirt at least?"

Seonghwa walks back to you, throwing back a laugh.

"Nope."

After that, Seonghwa had you and San start sleeping in his room, ordering a bigger bed. He was restless after the incident—San could tell. And now, he finally understood: Seonghwa didn’t just own you. He owned him, too.

The dynamic was strange, to say the least. When Seonghwa was away at work, he left San to look after you—calling him a good dog, telling him to indulge your every whim. Over time, intimacy between the three of you became routine and almost mundane. San didn’t even flinch anymore when Seonghwa kissed him. A part of him had learned to enjoy it, though he couldn’t quite explain how he’d grown so numb to it all. Exhausted? Absolutely. Disturbed? Not really.

Seonghwa breezes into the room, unintentionally elegant and languid in his barely dressed form, silk robe untying and sliding down to expose his pelvic bone, and landing just above the well-maintained patch of hair saddling his soft phallus. A pitcher sloshes around in his hand, as he rests it on the nightstand. He found joy in feeding and reminding you to drink water— a consistent reminder of your mortality and how your body functions the way his does.

Bed creaking, he slinks towards your exhausted form—the night before left you spent. Being human meant you were easily exhausted now, energy needing to be replenished by consumption. The memory was a haze, doused by the wetness between your thighs when he and San made you squirt for the very first time. Safe to say, Seonghwa was ecstatic you drank water now for this very reason, and committed himself to the task of draining you of every fluid that your body could produce at moments notice. The dynamic worked well—Seonghwa delved into your body until you cried at the overwhelming sensations consuming it, and San would wipe them away diligently.

San slept to the very far right, arms still reaching for you in his sleep to try and drag you closer with the tips of his fingers. His obsidian, cropped hair was slightly damp from overheating under Seonghwa’s thick sheets.

Dark eyes land on him, observing, calculating. Seonghwa didn’t necessarily…desire San in a carnal way. Not to say that he didn't enjoy some of the convenience involved in the change of events. It was the one concrete way to keep the two you tucked in tight by his side—he didn’t like sharing but if he had to share with anyone, it’d be San. Intimacy between them two was more of a means of tactic—of softening you.

San was his since birth. His previously faultless champion.

However, not long after his return, Seonghwa caught onto your strange attachment to his guard dog and despite his qualms, found it hard to say no to you in the ways he had available to spoil you.

San's departure would only push back the progress he's made.

Thus. he integrated the boy in—sharing his other possessions with you because that acted as a relic of Seonghwa’s love for you.

Seonghwa slips off the last of his hanging silken and lavender colored robe, laying on his side to trace a finger down your nose bridge.

"My angel, wake up." Your doll-like lashes flutter at the groggy opening of your eyes, stifling a yawn and you scoot closer to curl into his arms. You weren't coherent enough to pull away.

“—Come take a bath with me.” Seonghwa’s hand cusps your cheek, thumbing at the skin tenderly before he scoops you into his arms. He smiles down at your limp form, digesting your languid body with quiet adoration.

Steam rose from the hot water, as Seonghwa lathered a fragrant concoction onto your hair. The Edison lightbulb flickered in asynchronous flutters and only the sounds of Seonghwa’s soft breathing, sloshing bath water, and the hypnotic electric buzzing filled the room.

“Hwa?” You question lightly and receive a small, absentminded hum in reply. Seonghwa’s laser focus on the task at hand hadn’t broken.

“Sometimes you scare me.” He stills, palm freezing halfway down a strand of your hair.

“…and why is that?” His soft voice flutters into the air, strangely uncomfortable as he shifted—going back to fidget with your hair.

"I don’t really know how to explain it. The only fear I’d ever known was the fear of God. But then I met you. It wasn’t always like this—don’t you remember?" you say softly, your voice gentle, almost forgiving, free of judgment. Even though you were no longer an Angel, there were still moments when your tone carried that same layered, otherworldly resonance.

Ah, You were awake.

Seonghwa noted, continuing on with his task but his face goes slack from the original gentleness he displayed—the one he often plastered to try and keep soft with you. However, only another masks takes its place: feigned indifference

“Remember which part?” He doesn’t blink, trying his best to busy himself as an act of burying the uncomfortable experience of feeling the queasiness churning in his stomach. Of course he remembered. If he could forget, you wouldn’t be here—in his ancestors remote Mausoleum no one bothered to visit.

The dead remained dead, unsurprisingly. It seemed that in death, after a lifetime of being worshipped by Hunters— they were left on their own with dusty stone and marbled coffins, only the overgrowth providing cold and obligatory company, as nature often does. All of that infamy, the shallowness of his position, it all bored Seonghwa.

“The beginning, Seonghwa. The very beginning.” That tone again. Ringing through sound waves, unnerving; unsettling. No personal feeling detectable, only something alike to the deifying of words. He imagined that the oracle of Delphi may have sounded something like this.

Your words were seemingly omnipresent—prophetic.

“—why did you keep me here?” You continued

“I had no other motive than my love for you.” He utters softly, pausing the business of his hands to stare at your spine. The water sloshes as he leans forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer and leaning a cheek onto your shoulder.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking Hwa.” You turn slightly, facing him as best as you could but Seonghwa holds you still. He doesn’t want you to look at him. Not right now.

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. The thick silence choked the two of you—full of ugly and profound emotions you both were scared to face.

“…I remember how it felt when I first saw you.” He starts, voice husky and filled with an emotion you didn’t know how to name yet.

“—my first instinct was to kill you. You didn’t need the wings on your back to tell me what you were—I just knew. You were so palpably innocent. Didn’t even realize the barrel of a gun had been pointed at your head only a couple of feet away for a long while.” Seonghwa’s gaze melts into the bath water, watching your expression from its reflection, eyes still needing—yearning to be on you. He chuckles, aghast at the recollection.

You sit for a couple of beats in silence. The confession, on its own, didn’t scare you.

“But then, you spoke. A small word—insignificant, really, in retrospect. You said hello and I froze for the first time in my life. My instincts—even the most primal of them told me that it was fate. It had to be. I don’t know what it was that made you different; that allowed you to live until now unlike the other Angels that had the unlucky experience of crossing my path. And so I sat next to you on that old stump and asked for your name. For the very first time in my life, someone had regarded me with fascination and not for my position of power. I dare say you were my very first friend. Not even San filled that empty space within me. Y/N, I never had a moment to myself, but I’ve always been lonely.”

Seonghwa strokes your arm, cupping the water in his hands to warm the now cooling skin. Your heart clenched at the sound of his voice, finally uttering your true name after so long, and were immediately thrown back into a time when you’d felt safe with Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, the kind human that made you question the teachings of Eden.

Seonghwa, who was initially proof that humans were good, kind, and capable of emotions and complexities Angels weren’t taught to have.

Seonghwa, who would sit next to you—teaching you the names and descriptions of emotions you’d never felt. The man who would read you books and wrapped your wounds.

Your first and only friend on Earth.

“Why did it all have to change?” You grieved your old friend, not believing that the lot of it was entirely a lie. It was easy to forget in more ways than one: during episodes when you lost yourself entirely or at the wake of your resentments.

“You would’ve left. For good. I couldn’t stomach that.” And for the first time Seonghwa’s voice broke. You couldn’t help the pity dousing your stomach like kerosene, waiting for the fire to start again. Before all of this, you were an angel after all. Maybe that’s why you still had the maddening struggle of wanting to forgive Seonghwa despite his captivity.

“I would’ve came back to visit you—“ you start, but he only clutches you closer, eyes wide and afraid, like a small child for a fracture of a moment.

“I had no way of knowing that. My people are sharp—they would’ve found you if I didn’t hide you myself. And your God? He wouldn’t have let you leave a second time.” Seonghwa’s typically soft, overcast voice squeezed out from his throat—desperation coating its edges.

“Please. Just…please don’t truly hate me. Not you. Anyone else but. Not. You.” He slowly lowers his temple onto your shoulder, breathing out shakily.

And then muscle memory kicks in. You couldn’t help the softness this particular version of Seonghwa summoned from you.

Your arm delicately reached behind you to cradle him closer to your neck. In the thick of his emotions, Seonghwa snaps open—gutted at the wake of what he knows is an irrational amount of love for you. Digging his face into your neck to press deep, desperate, and reverent kisses down its slope before dragging a wet hand from the water to cup your right breast into his large hand.

Your body shakes, neither out of fear or desire—but a strange third option you didn’t know by name. And that? That was the scary thing.

It was frigid, undeniable; all gunmetal stuffing itself into your mouth and you knew you’d accept the blow if it’d come. You feared the fact that it was entirely possible that you truly desired Seonghwa, with and without the delirium of captivity clouding your senses. His fingers break your reverie, as they curled around your jaw to greet you with a kiss. Bath water spills off the sides of the claw foot tub when Seonghwa turns you and pulls you into his arms to sandwich your breasts against his chest. He groans at the feeling of your cold skin, trailing his hands to feel the litter of goosebumps decorating its expanse.

His own muscle memory kicks in, reaching down to curl his fingers into you. You yelp at the intrusion of his thin, soft fingers—clenching your cunt automatically and panting against his open mouth. A pink tongue gives a kittenish lick to the corner of your lip, chuckling softly.

“You’re being so well behaved today.” He notes curiously, driving his fingers deeper and not minding the loud pounding of water. Your hands shoot up to clutch at his shoulders, hiding and crying sweetly into his neck. His other arm curls around you, trying to soothe you with soft hushes.

Seonghwa stops to peer at you meaningfully before reaching into the nearby by bath tray, and leaning back into the water.

He hands you a facial razor— heavy with antiquity, and its iron handle curved slightly. Its blade had to be unsheathed and pulled directly up to station itself upright with a small click. He guides both your hand and the blade so that it hovers a hair above his jugular.

“You can do anything to me. Understand that no one else can do this, my love. And if you want me dead, then so be it.” His unwavering gaze meets your unreadable one, noting the tremble in your hand. The air stills, electric buzzing droning out into a mere hum in the background.

You contemplate it. You truly did. Tried to. But imagining a cold, dead Seonghwa beneath you brought you no peace. The ominous part of it all is that if Seonghwa died, a part of you would want to follow him.

And he knew this. You knew he did: the ever-so cunning Seonghwa, brilliant and primal—elegantly perching against the morose shadows his light casted. He doesn’t blink when you fling the razor behind him, white strands of hair lightly caught in the crossfire fall and stick onto his wet collarbone.

But then you kiss him with the closest thing to emotion he’s ever felt from you and he crumbles under the weight of his desperation to be loved by you; to mean something. A part of him abhorred San for being able to do that so effortlessly. He almost laughs—if San knew that he was jealous of his qualities, he wouldn’t be able to process the fact that someone like Seonghwa felt frighteningly small and inferior to him.

He felt it in your hands, in your tears that fell into his mouth as you kissed him. Seonghwa knew there was no turning back from this, from his crimes: every beautiful and organic emotion you may have felt at one point in time was marred by rage and betrayal. Something like love: simple, grandiose, and seemingly pure couldn’t define your sick entanglement. It didn’t surprise him when you denied him so fervently.

Love was powerful and entirely capable of being hideous—but not like this. Which is exactly why he never taught you the word nor its definition, too distorted and dark in his natural form of pursuit to have any right to speak it out into the air.

But he taught you desire and the ugliness of hanging from the edges of sharp teeth. He kissed you like he was begging you to stay—to stay even if he shackled you right there to him. To want to stay even without his restraints.

You didn’t mind the clumsiness of this Seonghwa—a far visage from the commonly elegant, skillful and unflinching hands he carried. When you rise from the water, he gazes up at you with helpless, reverent eyes: palms squeezing at your hips in case you tried to leave him. There was a boyish quality to him, eyes wide with a palpably emotional gleam.

You only cradle him to your chest, soothing him for a moment with the sound of your heartbeat. He digs his face into your breasts, inhaling deeply before pulling your hips down to hover above his cock, sliding you down and moaning at the feeling of you stretching to accommodate him.

“Please. Do whatever you want to me—just don’t leave.” He begs, head thrown back as you slowly pushed him deeper into the water, rocking your hips as he tore you open.

Your hand mimics the common ministrations of his own, and he gasps when you clutch softly at his throat, leaning down to bite hard on his jugular. There’s a word for the feeling pounding in your chest, throbbing like life in your stomach.

“What word would describe what you’re allowing me to do to you?” You pant out, arching into his hand the petted your breasts lightly with adoration.

“Power. The word is power, my love” and he smiles from his heart for the first time in a long while in reverent defeat, having not been able to since he’d taken you for his own.

When he finishes inside you, Seonghwa doesn’t let you go for several hours, even when the water ran cold. For a moment you thought he cried but he didn’t answer when you asked and only dug his hands tighter into your skin in response.

“Up you go,” San murmurs, lifting you with practiced ease to grab the box of linguini from the top shelf. He lets out a playful groan, more for show than effort. The small bell on his choker swings as he moves, a delicate sound that barely registers over the quiet thrum in your chest.

You laugh—without meaning to, without knowing why. It’s light, fleeting, the kind of laugh that almost aches on its way out. Maybe it’s not the moment itself, but the way it clings to something that already feels like a memory.

San laughs too, louder than you, and for a second, it almost feels real. But as he sets you down, your smile falters at the edges. The warmth between you is still there—but so is the knowing. The awareness that this softness can’t last. That you're stealing moments from something inevitable.

Still, your laughter lingers, echoing in a space that already feels too quiet.

San's been teaching you how to cook, should the day come when you’d have to do it on your own. Out of the three of you, he seemed to be the only one gifted at making a fully digestible meal. Hwa tried his best to impress you, or better yet, get back into your good graces. However, each attempt seemed to end in worse form than the last.

With Hwa's busy schedule, the two of you were often left to your own devices. Boredom consumed the days you were only permitted to stay inside of the mausoleum. San—who was instructed to stay by your side at all times because the sigil no longer had the power to keep you stationary—was sentenced to another form of imprisonment. He never complained about the duties Hwa left him, especially those involving you.

The only time he could afford to truly thaw was when Hwa was summoned away to play the part of the dutiful eldest son. In those borrowed hours, he’d sink into the warmth of your body, unguarded, or eat your imperfect meals—meals that somehow became his favorite flavor despite its obvious flaws, second only to the taste of you. It felt different when San touched you: it was easier to relax—the equivalent of breathing, a sacred sinking into his flesh. You didn't experience this sort of reverence for someone—even for your father, who is a true god.

You found the words to describe what you felt for San one evening, after panting out a confession without your knowing. His skin clung to yours, pulling away and sticking back with each movement, but he froze after hearing the words that fell out of your mouth.

“San, I feel... warm when I’m with you. What does that mean?”

His breath stills. Your head rests quietly on his bicep as silence settles between you. Then, with a slow shift, San turns and draws you into his chest. A few quiet heartbeats pass before he finally speaks—each word chosen with careful deliberation.

"Well—it could mean lots of things" He starts with, a whisper traversing the air, afraid he'd somehow disturb the fragility of this moment if he spoke even a decibel higher.

You tilt your head to gaze up at him with clear, curious eyes.

"Like what?"

"Maybe I'm familiar. Or my skin warms you because you get cold easily." San hesitates, dancing around the final consideration.

"That's true." You hum lightly, instinct telling you that something about those options isn't quite as right—but you can't expect San to know everything.

In a moment of bravery, San pushes passed his fear, stuttering and gazing at the doorway of the bedroom—afraid that Seonghwa would suddenly appear without warning.

"Or something like love."

San has seen many horrors throughout his life: massacres, seemingly bottomless gore, unsightly creatures that run on the sheer instinct to kill—but he's never known this sort of fear before. Something in his chest feels torn open, and like the words falling from his mouth were a plea for you to check inside the purposeful wound.

"Love?" You pause. The word's familiar; love thy neighbor— love as written in the scriptures of your kind. It feels correct on your tongue, even if it took on a different meaning with San.

You've come to find that days with San didn't feel like captivity or isolation: they felt like dancing into the arms of another world.

There was another word, one that Seonghwa taught you many moons before—desire. It was undeniable, all consuming—jagged teeth pointing towards skin as the body trembled in anticipation. You couldn’t help its existence inside of you.

A small recollection pushes to the forefront of your mind of Seonghwa sitting on that familiar old stump, legs spread as he gazed outward into the decay of the autumn forest, the morning fog marred and thickened the cold air around you to describe the word desire with a cold, casual objectivity.

“It’s a primal instinct. Ugly, running on old fuel that seems to keep burning through despite it hitting points of exhaustion. Its consumption, Y/N. Desire is for beasts. And men are the true beasts of this world.”

You didn’t understand it then, the obsessive struggle he may have been dealing with already without your knowing.

But love?

Was the only difference that it was almost unconditional? That it fell into you without much fight?

You didn’t want to fight it. Not San. And so you say it, breathing to life words you’d only just begun understanding.

“— it seems that I love you, San.” You peer up at him smiling peacefully, accepting the kind churning and warmth in your stomach as you gaze at his features you committed to memory: the sharpness of his jaw, the razor edges of the upturn of his eyes—his dark hair.

He pauses, heart throbbing—yearning for the bravery to fall into it. He squeezes his eyes in defeat, knowing it was too late. He already did.

“As do I, my lady.”

Seonghwa’s dark silhouette perched silently against a nearby wall, torches yet to be lit as he slinks from the shadow he rested in.

He won’t lose you both.

He’ll make sure of it.

When Seonghwa returned one night, something was terribly amiss. Unsettling, on the brink of breaking and sharpening into something with the intention to tear open—to cut; to make you bleed.

The only light came from the broken skylight, the half-moon doing its best to illuminate the room but casting more shadows than clarity over Seonghwa’s features. None of the torches were lit, and you stepped forward slowly, instinctively hesitant in the face of the ominous energy radiating from him.

As you approach, you catch sight of Seonghwa's porcelain face—forebodingly still and unreadable as you register the blood painting its pale surface. Pausing mid-step—your heart thrums and rises to your throat, body pushing passed the fear to move forward. Was he bleeding?

Seonghwa melted into the shadows, the sharp edge of the hunt still clinging to him as he eased back into the illusion of normalcy. The high was fading, but not gone—belligerent on an unnamed violence from earlier on in the night. Dressed in black from throat to heel, he wore a heavy leather trench coat, its high collar snapped shut over a sleek turtleneck. No skin showed—his hands gloved, his silhouette precise.

The light illuminated his hair like a halo when his voice fell like an empty husk in the cold and damp air. He waits a couple of ominous beats before speaking.

“My love, what do you say about playing a game with me?” His eyes were still unreadable, glimmering like the tip of a steel blade.

You tilt your head, confused.

“A game?” Melodic, sweet, inquiring.

Seonghwa hums, still not blinking but the corner of his lip quirks up.

“Mhm, a game.” Sweet, convincing—falling from his blood red mouth like a simple suggestion.

You shuffle a bit, rubbing a hand over your other wrist, and only nod slowly in reply. He tilts his head, you weren’t awake. Not yet—your true self resting beneath the layers of delusion.

The click of Seonghwa’s slow approach lifts your head before his hand cradles your chin, as he leans down to brush his lips against yours—delicately licking at the familiarly soft skin.

“I had an interesting thought” he starts with, rubbing his nose against you, whispering softly before continuing. Your stomach churns instinctively.

“—I thought that if my Angel were to stay, I’d want her to choose to stay. Did I ever tell you the coming of age custom of my people?” His finger on your chin tightens, lips ghosting over your pulse and momentarily pressing at skin when you shake your head innocently in silent reply. He skulks around you, walking a circle around your form; suddenly a predator eying his prey.

Another soft hum—an intimate voice that refuses to raise and disturb the air and foreboding of the moment

“In order for a hunter to even embark on his very first mission, he first has to be able to hold his own and escape our land. Several proctors will follow him on his way out and if he can’t fight them off—he’s unable to complete his rite of passage. So, I wanted to offer you an option of freedom.” He starts with, trailing a hand down his torso to slowly grasp at the cold gunmetal hidden in a holster beneath the thick leather of his coat.

“—thus, my sweet, sweet girl— I’m offering you a chance to run as fast as you can. If you escape, your life is your own. But if I catch you? Your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

What do you say?” His tone is a light whisper, dancing around with the initial simplicity coating his original thought.

He turns to look behind him and towards the shadows with dark eyes “And you. Don’t intervene—you know the customs.” San steps out, jaw clenching.

“You know she’s not one of us. Don’t subject her to this.” His tone is firm, a thinly veiled plead, already knowing Seonghwa wouldn’t relent.

“Aha! That’s exactly what I thought. Because of that—isn’t that all the more reason to initiate her?” He brightens slightly, voice rising in mock excitement.

“She’s no Hunter, Hwa. She’s a fucking captive.” San seethes, nails digging into the bed of his palms.

Seonghwa scoffs, a saccharine smile decorating his features.

“Do you think you’re any better?” He walks towards San, dragging a finger down his throat and chest before rubbing imaginary dust from its surface. “What right do you have? Night and day you indulge in my angel with the dishonest excuse that you’re doing it for her. You’re just as guilty of the crime. Not once have you thought about helping her escape. Of all my men, San—you are the only one who’d have the chance to actually succeed. You were trained alongside me—to protect me in the case that I wouldn’t be able to do so myself, after all?”

San stills, squeezing his eyes shut at the uncomfortable reminder of his cowardice. In many ways—he too was Seonghwa’s captive but the mentioned man would never change his approaches to adoration. He steps back with a prayer and tries to will himself to not vomit. Hwa wouldn’t kill you.

He couldn’t, right?

Your eyes danced between the two, confused.

“Hwa— I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I want to play the game.” Your voice rises, apprehensive at his ploy. Did he grow tired of you? Did he not want you anymore?

He sees your face fall in distress, noting your quivering lip with a clenched heart.

This is the final stretch.

Seonghwa will have you, one way or another.

“If you don’t want to, why are you already stepping away?” Again, his casual tone unnerves you—too much perceived sweetness clouding your frazzled mind before his expression distorts back into a sobering reality.

You flinch, waking up from your long reverie. He wasn’t sweet—Seonghwa’s tone was calculated. His touch wasn’t firm; it’s bruising you.

Your body moved before your mind could agree and process, the voice of your consciousness finally breaking through the fog in your head.

Seonghwa pushes you by the small of your back, nudging you towards the entrance obscured by shadows of the mausoleum far across the area you stood in. “Run little rabbit.” a conflicted whisper tumbles

and your legs move. Slowly; unsure.

But there’s a throbbing in your heart as Seonghwa’s words echo through your body

If I catch you, your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

And the sudden adrenaline shakes you—the gateway seemingly only grows further as you push your way towards it.

Please.

“Please God. This is my last shot”

Seonghwa’s slow steps are lax; calculated. A finger rests near the trigger, two hands hold the gun down as he slinks towards you.

He raises the gun—bang. The shot tears through the air. You don’t know what it hits, only that it’s too close. It’s still sharp and beautiful, like Seonghwa under the moonlight—a thinly veiled prowess of a hunter disguising himself as your benevolent savior.

His eyes—all gunmetal and bronzed blood fixate on your form, spotting and following you easily in the dark of the room.

He slowly counts, knowing from the start you wouldn’t make it out.

One.

Another bang. Does it hit something else?

Two,

“Can you run faster darling?” He released a small chide, almost hopeful and genuine in its inquiry. It’s quickly followed by a spark, another sonic ricochet of an unseen bullet.

Three.

Your ears ring—tears fill your eyes. The more the fear settles, the sicker you feel.

You miss him as the distance grows, even as something inside you begins to splinter—slow, tragic, and wrong.

You want to go back.

You want to turn around.

You want him to hold you and not point the gun at your head—you want Seonghwa to love you better, but he will never know how to love you kindly.

Seonghwa was primal—cold-cut precision born of blood and legacy. A creature blessed with the God-given gift of the Hunt.

He could only love you as prey.

Maybe you’d be able to love him without needing to fracture and erase yourself in order to do so.

Where’s San?

Your heart throbs and you close your eyes—remembering for a final moment the glow of his tanned skin under sunlight, kissing him between the empty spaces of uncharted time and illuminated dust particles. San was warm.

You remember love—distant, fading like a dream at dawn. His face, his warmth, almost gone. Now there’s only this: another man’s arms around you, steady, unyielding. His eyes find yours, and you let go.

Your last cohesive thought was of the sensory memory of his arms wrapped around your form, squeezing you tightly but his eyes—

Oh, his eyes

The held you with a soft hand.

When Seonghwa’s gloved hand squeaks like the hinges of a coffins door once they catch onto your wrist

You fall into it—into him, completely. For good into the belly of his sharp mouth—never to remember the truth of your captivity under the wake of your desperation to survive all of this somehow—to outlive the sick reminder of your desire and captivity. You've always been afraid of loving Seonghwa, but you never had a choice in the matter. You're right back at entry point one.

This is how you’ll survive.

The chamber is dim, the air heavy with fear and something darker. You're forced down—arm wrenched behind you, cheek crushed against the filthy floor. Seonghwa rises and presses the cold metal tip of his steel toed boot down onto your face lightly.

“Got’ya.” His voice is mellow; soft, tired. Mud from his shoe collects on your cheeks.

“—You know what this means now, don’t you?” He releases the pressure on your face before tugging you up to kneel.

Seonghwa stands before you, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. You kneel on the cold stone floor, a shiver running down your spine as you gaze up at him with a mix of terror and devotion. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but one thing remains clear: your fate is sealed in his hands, and you have come to accept it—alas embracing your inner conflict in full.

Devotion scores your body, tallying the days you were able to withstand him before the inevitable fall.

Seonghwa's hand rests on the gun now tucked into his waistband, his fingers drumming a slow, ominous rhythm against the cool metal. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear as he whispers, "I want to see how much you trust me, my angel. I want to know if you're truly mine."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird. You know what he asks of you, and you're willing to give it, to prove your devotion. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his, a silent promise passing between you. An exchange.

He steps back, his hand wrapping around the gun as he pulls it free from his waistband. The click of the safety being disengaged echoes through the chamber, a chilling symphony that sends a shiver down your spine. He presses the barrel against your forehead, his eyes searching yours for any sign of fear or hesitation. You find none, only a deep, abiding trust, a disorienting submission that has taken root in your soul.

"Good girl," he murmurs, a calculated and searching smile playing on his lips as he trails the gun down your body, pressing it against your chest, stomach, and thigh, before finally resting it between your legs. You shudder, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you feel the cold metal against your cunt

"Seonghwa," you whisper, your voice barely audible—surrendering and praying for his touch. You spread your legs wider, inviting him in, offering yourself to him without reserve.

His eyes are dark as he holsters the gun and begins to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, a teasing striptease designed to torment and arouse. You watch him with anticipation, body aching with need.

Pink velvet, intimidatingly vulgar in its engorged appearance—a testament to his arousal during the hunt. He takes your hand, placing it on his length, as a silent command. You wrap your fingers around him, touch tentative at first, then more confident as you stroke him, your eyes locked on his, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Seonghwa groans, his head falling back— eyes clenching shut as he savors the sensation of your soft palms. But he wants more. He wants your softness that he, himself, could never have nor embody. He’s always wanted more. More of you—more of something to fill the gap where he knows humanity should’ve been within him. He pulls you to your feet, hands gripping your hips as he turns you around, pressing your back against his chest. The gun’s still tucked into his waistband, ominous and patient.

"You trust me, don't you, my angel?" he murmurs, his lips against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You know I would never hurt you, not truly. You're mine, and I protect what's mine."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel his cock press against your ass, a hard, insistent demand. You reach back, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to your entrance, a silent invitation

He enters you slowly, inch by inch, his breath hot on your neck— hands gripping your hips tightly as he fills you completely, utterly, and without reserve. Your jaw goes slack, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes clenching shut as you savor the burning sensation of him stretching you

He begins to move, his hips thrusting against yours, cock sliding in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. You rise to meet him, spine arched, fingers clutching at his thighs. Breathless and breaking

The gun presses against your stomach. You welcome it, letting the fear simmer into something delectable. you lose yourself in him—relinquishing the last of your faith, existing for the sole purpose of being consumed whole. His breath is on your neck, hands on your hips, and voice in your ear—a love song or a threat. Maybe both. You welcomed it either way. Seonghwa was in every direction: he was inside of you and the cherubic voice echoing from every wall—heralding the arrival of a new world of his very own making.

“Do you still love me, dove?" The cold tip of the gun drags into your hair, against the back of your head before settling there; erotic in the way only Seonghwa was capable of configuring such a disturbing, gut wrenching action—but you feel nothing. You feel whole, unafraid—willing. Pushing your head towards the gun as a reverent "Always" falls from your lips. Seonghwa merely smiles before raising the gun towards the ceiling—his arm pin straight and aiming towards heaven before pulling the trigger three times in a row. You flinch at the loud sound, turning to gaze at him owlishly—cradling your ears in surprise.

He smirks charmingly, muttering "They were blanks." before shrugging and flinging the gun passively to the side.

"You're mine, my angel," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fuck, mine to own. You trust me, don't you? You know I would never let anything happen to you. You're safe with me. You are everything."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation and emotion, a release, a redemption, a madness. You cry out, your voice a high, keening wail as you come undone, body convulsing. Your mind shatters, fragments flinging to a place out of reach—sanity recoiling to save you from the fear and anguish of your own desires, and in this—you find salvation. Reprieve.

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you, his seed spilling into your womb, a mark of his ownership, his possession, his love. He holds you tightly, his body shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finds his release, his redemption, his madness.

As the waves of your orgasm subside, you slump against him, your body boneless, your mind a blank slate, your soul at peace. He turns you around, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head as he rocks you gently, a lullaby, a promise, a love song. A hand drifts to rub at your womb with curious eyes.

"You did well, my angel," he murmurs, his voice soft, gentle, a stark contrast to the dangerous lover who had just taken you with such genuinely murderous ferocity. "It's you, our little puppy San, and I—nothing else is important. Always remember that my love."

You nod, eyes clenching shut as you savor the sensation of his arms around you. No thought of heaven or hell—only him and San.

San’s name stirs a strange, hollow ache in your chest—a voice whispering not to lose him, not to forget that he’s the one you truly love, despite the darkness of Seonghwa’s pull.

But you don’t hear it. Not anymore.

Not in Seonghwa’s arms. Not with the thrill of his gunmetal aimed at you.

San watches, hiding in the shadow of the hall, as he leans against a stone pillar, solemn eyes fixed ahead. For more reasons than one, he can't leave you both. But most of all—he can't leave you here, even if you forget him. You wouldn't have wanted him to leave you. He tugs at the collar on his neck, uncomfortable at how it strangles against his skin but stops himself from removing it. He's scared that Seonghwa will find a way to make him forget too and so he recounts the memory of the first time he'd made love to you, again and again, just in case Seonghwa takes it away from him someday. He’ll be here. He’ll always be here with you.

As you stand there in Seonghwa’s arms—your body used, your mind quieted, your soul no longer your own—you feel… peace.

You would do it all again. Every touch that tore your mind open until you were a remnant of Heaven and a living gash, personified. Every bullet—Every time he broke you open just to remake you in his image.

Because whatever you were before doesn’t matter now.

You are his.

And he is yours.

Not because you chose it—

But because there is nothing left of you that could refuse.

Forever, you whisper. In this life or whatever comes after. In madness. In silence. In the dark where your name used to be.

You are his.

And the only one left who remembers who you truly were stands silently beside you—bound by the same chains, held in quiet captivity for the rest of his life. Loyal to the end.

And Seonghwa—oh, Seonghwa.

He buys a grave big enough for three.

Author's note: Please don't shoot me *Smiles nervously, dabbing at a bead of sweat*

taglist: @faerouzia @tenxouttanine @tunafishyfishylike @lemon-sage17 @clarizz08 @calilovesdilfs

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 21

Word Count: 23.5k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, manipulation, coercion, tw for rape, ptsd, panic attacks, caleb appears, nicknames like pipsqueak, kitten, sweetie, honey

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia

AN: Hi guys! I know its been a minute since such a scene has been included so just an extra warning that there is noncon in this chapter! Stay safe pls!! Also some of you had some questions about whether MC will fall for any other love interest that appears, so I just want to say Mc has no romantic or sexual feelings for Caleb, just as she had no romantic feelings for Zayne or Rafayel when they showed up. I just felt it made sense for him to have a significant part in the plot considering they grew up together. Any romantic feelings she has is solely focused on Xavier and Sylus in this story! Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone got confused! Ty :3

“It’s her father, isn’t it?” You said nothing, but your shoulders stiffened, and that was enough. “Screw him,” Caleb continued, his tone sharper now. “Seriously. Whatever happened, he's clearly abandoned you. Left you to figure it out on your own. You don’t have to keep searching or struggling. You both can have a home here.” He leaned forward slightly, sincerity ringing through every word. “With me.” He meant it. You could see it—no bravado, no games. Just the raw earnestness of someone who wanted to do the right thing for someone they still cared about. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Your hands started to sweat, palms clammy as anxiety crept up your spine like a slow, cold hand. You curled your fingers inward, trying not to shake. He didn’t know.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

You felt like nothing was real.

One moment, you had been on the verge of tears, your voice cracking in the vitals records office beneath the clinical fluorescence of the overhead lights, desperately trying to piece together a life where you and Sylvia could both be free. The clerk had looked at you with sympathy, yes—but it was the kind of sympathy reserved for people drowning in their own chaos. You had no address. No papers. No destination. You had been scrambling just to make it from one hour to the next.

And now?

Now, you were in a car.

A warm car. Heated seats humming softly beneath you. The windows rolled down just enough to let in a gentle breath of winter air. The hum of tires against pavement a strange, calming rhythm under your feet. It smelled faintly of leather, cologne, and something that reminded you of pine. And in the back seat, tucked safely into the car seat, was Sylvia. Her tiny form rose and fell gently with sleep, bundled in the soft blanket.

And at the wheel—

Caleb.

A man who, by every rule of logic, every memory of fire and destruction and goodbye, should not have been breathing.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Every few seconds your eyes would dart to the rearview mirror, or the curve of his profile as he turned the wheel, or the shape of his hands gripping the leather. You kept waiting for him to disappear, for the car to dissolve into smoke, for the world to tilt and drop you back onto the sidewalk outside the records office, heartbroken and sobbing.

But he didn’t vanish.

He was right there.

"How many times are you gonna pinch yourself?" Caleb laughed, tossing a glance at you in the mirror, his voice light, almost teasing.

You blinked down at your arm, realizing with a start that your fingers were still gripping your sleeve, caught in the act of pinching. You let go like it burned and turned to look out the window instead, cheeks flushed with heat. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it.

It was easier to stay quiet. To lose yourself in the motion of the road, the blur of buildings and trees and traffic signs. To pretend, even just for a second, that the world was okay. That this was normal. That your life hadn’t imploded and left you breathless in its wake. The low hum of the engine soothed something deep inside you. Sylvia’s soft breathing anchored you. But none of it made sense.

“I just…” you murmured, voice raw, catching in your throat. “You’re supposed to be dead. I must be dreaming.”

“You could say I was,” Caleb said, his voice casual, but his eyes flicked toward you with something softer, heavier. “Didn’t take, I guess.”

You shook your head slowly, biting your lip. The joke wasn’t funny. Not to you. Not when you’d spent endless nights grieving him. Not when you’d whispered his name into pillows soaked with tears, praying that he hadn’t suffered. Praying that wherever he was, he wasn’t in pain.

The silence stretched.

You looked back at Sylvia, heart clenching as you watched her squirm lightly in her sleep. Even with Caleb in the front seat and a moment of calm settling around you, the questions clawed their way back into your mind.

How was he alive?

Where had he been?

Why now?

Why did it feel like, even in this surreal moment, everything was about to fall apart again?

Nothing was fine.

But for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a thin thread of safety wound its way around your ribs. It wasn’t security, not really. But it was something. A promise. A fragile sense that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to be alone anymore.

Something almost felt safe.

And that was terrifying in its own right.

You had a million questions crowding your mind, each one elbowing the other for space, but none of them could find their way to your mouth. They piled up like traffic behind your teeth, heavy and stalled by disbelief. So instead, you sat in silence—shell-shocked, emotionally paralyzed, your hands cold in your lap despite the warmth of the car. Your eyes flicked between the dashboard and the man in the driver’s seat, who should have been dust and ash. Your breath felt caught somewhere in your throat, stuck between a scream and a sob.

It wasn’t that you weren’t happy to see him. No, that wasn’t it. Deep down, a part of you ached with relief. The sight of him—the curve of his jaw, the cadence of his laugh, the way his hands still gripped the wheel like he was built for steadiness—it was like coming home. But the rest of you—the louder part—was afraid. Terrified, even. That this was some kind of cruel joke. That maybe you’d finally cracked and this was all in your head. The idea that Caleb was actually here, alive and real, seemed too fragile to hold. Like one wrong word might break the spell and leave you in pieces again.

You were balancing on the edge of hope and horror, and neither felt stable. Better to just go with the flow for now before unraveling any mysteries.

Caleb, ever observant, seemed to pick up on your inner storm. His voice broke through the silence like sunlight through storm clouds. "Did you see that woman’s face when you said `You’re alive?' he laughed, the sound warm and familiar in a way that made your eyes sting.

You looked up at him, the corners of your mouth twitching into a weak, uncertain smile. “Yeah,” you said softly, voice still frayed from earlier. “It was a good thing I came up with that lie about you being in the attack with me…”

He snorted, nodding in approval. “Smooth save. Pretty sure her brain short-circuited.”

You gave a soft huff of air that was almost a laugh, but the tension didn’t lift. Your eyes fell to your hands again. There were so many things you wanted to say. To ask. Where had he been? Why fake his death. What had he gone through? Why hadn’t he found you sooner?

But still none of it came out.

Your throat locked tight, as if the questions themselves were too dangerous. Too sacred. And if you asked them now—if he answered—you weren’t sure your heart could take it.

"Ehh..."

Sylvia’s soft, restless whine from the car seat behind you was the first sound to cut through the haze that had settled in your chest. You turned instinctively, your hand already moving, gently stroking her soft hair to soothe her. She blinked slowly, her tiny lashes fluttering as her eyes opened halfway, still glazed with sleep. Her fussing faded under your touch, and her lips twitched into something almost like contentment. That small reaction—so pure, so undeserved—tugged at something deep and fragile inside you.

Your fingers lingered in her hair a little longer, like you were trying to memorize the feel of her, brand it into your memory before the world shifted again.

You turned back to the front, eyes drifting once more to Caleb. As if your brain had finally caught up to the moment, a fresh rush of disbelief surged through you. Caleb. Alive. Driving. Not a hallucination. And you were here, somehow, in a world that still had him in it.

He hadn't asked any questions yet. But you knew he had them. God, he must’ve had dozens.

After all, you had a baby in tow. You weren’t in Linkon. You weren’t on any assignment. You were living out of a beat-up car, with dark circles under your eyes, trauma stitched into every movement, your clothes wrinkled and worn from weeks of running. You were the definition of a red flag right now.

And still, he hadn’t said anything about it.

It wasn’t like him not to pry. Not to crack a joke or dig with teasing persistence. That silence said more than words ever could—maybe he was giving you space? Letting you collect yourself. Letting you choose when and if you were ready to speak.

The thought made your chest tighten with gratitude.

But still, your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. You couldn’t help it. The car. The one you’d left behind in that parking lot. Caleb had promised it would be handled, that one of his guys would tow it to a secure location until you were ready to deal with it again.

But the thought nagged at you.

That car had been your shelter. Your shield. Your cocoon when the world outside was too hostile to face. You’d driven it through storms, slept in its back seat when Sylvia wouldn’t stop crying, spilled breastmilk on its floor mats. It smelled like desperation and stale snacks and newborn sweat. It was disgusting and broken and home.

And now it was gone.

Or at least, not with you.

The back of your throat tightened. You told yourself it was stupid to get emotional over a piece of metal and upholstery, but that car had meant survival. And you’d lost so many things already—you couldn’t lose that too.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap. You didn’t say anything, not yet. You just sat there, letting the weight of everything hover in the stillness between you and Caleb, trying to ground yourself in the fact that—for now—you were safe. Right?

“We’ll have to take my jet the rest of the way. Hope you got over your fear of heights!” Caleb said, casting a glance in your direction with that same crooked smirk he used to wear when you were kids—only now, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You blinked at him, the words barely registering at first. Jet? Your brows lifted before you could catch the reaction, and your head turned slowly, like your brain was trying to catch up with your body. He owned a jet now?

Jet—as in private aircraft? Caleb?

Your Caleb?

The same Caleb who used to beg Grandma to drive you both to school because his bike had a flat tire again, and once duct-taped the soles of his shoes back on because he used his savings from dogwalking to buy you the new pairs of shoes you were wanting. You stared at him, trying to align that boy—the one who used to eat cereal straight from the box on the kitchen floor at 2 a.m.—with the man sitting in front of you now, dressed very nicely, driving like someone who had nothing in the world to run from.

How many versions of Caleb were there now? And how many had you missed?

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. Your brain was still doing somersaults, flipping back and forth between the past and this unfamiliar present. So you did what you always did when the feelings were too big to name—you rolled your eyes. Not with irritation, but with the kind of self-protective sarcasm that had once made you both laugh under the blankets after Grandma had gone to bed.

“I’m more worried about her,” you muttered, your voice quieter, more grounded as you reached back automatically to check on Sylvia. Your fingers slid beneath the edge of the blanket and gently adjusted it over her chest, tucking her in a little tighter. She didn’t stir, her breaths slow and even, but still your heart twisted. The idea of her ears popping mid-flight, of her tiny face scrunching up in pain with no way to understand what was happening—it gutted you.

“She’s never been on a plane before.”

“Don’t worry, Pipsqueak,” Caleb said, waving one hand like he was swatting away a fly. “The cabin’s pressure-stabilized. She won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

You nodded slowly, but didn’t quite relax. Not because you didn’t want to trust him—but because trust didn’t come easy anymore. Not after everything. Not with Sylvia in the picture. There was too much at stake now. You weren’t just responsible for yourself anymore.

And then the name hit you.

Pipsqueak.

God. That name. It hadn’t been spoken in years.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, like no time had passed. Like he could just reach through the space between now and back then and pluck that version of you back into existence.

But it didn’t feel casual to you. It felt like a gut punch wrapped in nostalgia.

Because Pipsqueak didn’t belong to the person you were now. It belonged to a girl who had climbed trees barefoot, who had raced him down the hallway to call shotgun, who snuck junk food into the house because Grandma said sugar stunted growth. Belonged to the girl who sat beside Caleb on the roof when neither of you could sleep, pointing out constellations with chipped fingernails and whispered dreams. That version of you had been young and fierce and full of fire, long before trauma and survival had hollowed her out and filled her with something colder.

You weren’t her anymore.

You hadn’t been her since the first time you ran. Since you started sleeping in shifts and counting canned food like currency. Since the first time Sylvia screamed and you didn’t have a clue what to do and thought you might throw up from the sheer weight of it all.

But it was clear Caleb wasn't the same little boy either.

You looked over at him, more carefully this time.

Caleb was clean-cut now. Sharp jaw, newer clothes, posture like someone who’d spent a lot of time trying to stand taller than his past. But there were tells—little ones. The faint crease in his brow. The way his fingers tapped anxiously against the steering wheel when he thought you weren’t watching. That edge behind his jokes. The ghosts still lingered.

Neither of you had made it out whole.

You looked away before the memories swallowed you whole, your hand drifting down to Sylvia’s tiny cheek. Her warmth anchored you. Her soft breaths pulled you back into the present.

For now, she was safe. For now, you were in a car with someone who had once been your entire world, who still knew your middle name and your worst habit and probably remembered the way you liked your toast. For now, you could pretend this was normal.

For now, you could pretend this new version of Caleb—with his jet and secrets and unreadable eyes—was still the same boy who used to sneak you extra pancakes and call you Pipsqueak like it meant something sacred.

Neither of you said much else. The silence hung in the space between you like thick fog—unspoken words pressing at your lips, but none of them quite right, none of them quite safe. The weight of everything that hadn't been said settled heavily in the air, dense and unmoving. What was there to say? Too much, and all of it too tangled to unravel right now. Every sentence you might’ve spoken felt too fragile, too prone to crumbling under its own emotional weight. Silence, uncomfortable as it was, felt safer. Cleaner. A truce carved out of restraint.

In a strange way, you were grateful for the jet. Not for the speed or the luxury of it, but for the sheer, unapologetic distance it offered from Sylus. Even if it was temporary, even if he’d still live in your head rent-free for a while longer, there was something deeply comforting about physically putting space between yourself and everything you couldn’t yet face. A few hours of altitude between you and the weight of everything that had happened. You didn’t have to look back. Not yet. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A buffer. A breath.

The drone of the engine had settled into a low, steady rhythm—soothing in its own way. You watched clouds slide past the window for a while, your thoughts drifting in and out of coherence, like pieces of a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto. Eventually, without meaning to, you slipped beneath the surface of sleep. Your head tilted, your eyes closed, and the world faded away.

You didn’t even realize you’d dozed off until you felt a light tap on your knee, delicate but insistent enough to pull you out of the haze.

"Hey," Caleb’s voice stirred you gently back to consciousness. It was soft but grounded, laced with that practical warmth he always carried. He was half-turned from the front seat, one hand still out from tapping you, the other braced casually on the seat back. "We're here. Just grab the baby—I’ve got your stuff."

You blinked, bleary-eyed, and sat up straighter, trying to orient yourself. The car had stopped. The window beside you now showed a blur of unfamiliar buildings and muted light filtering through an overcast sky. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your muscles still heavy with sleep.

"Oh! Thank you…" you murmured, your voice still touched by that soft post-nap haze. It came out quieter than intended, wrapped in surprise and a thread of embarrassment. You turned your attention to Sylvia, who was still snoozing in her car seat, her tiny hands curled into fists.

You unbuckled her with care, every movement measured and quiet, not wanting to jostle her awake.

Caleb had already moved toward the trunk. True to form. Just like you remembered. There was something reassuring about the way he moved—efficient, no-nonsense, always one step ahead when it came to practical things. He slung the bags over his shoulder like it was nothing, sparing you the trouble without needing to be asked. He hadn’t changed in that way. Still Caleb. Still quietly, stubbornly helpful.

You stood there for a moment, watching him work, Sylvia curled against you, and felt a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe. Or just the strange comfort of familiarity in a world that didn’t feel like yours anymore.

The process of getting on Caleb’s jet was shockingly smooth—almost unreal in how effortless it all felt. Then again, it was his jet. His rules. There was no need to wrestle your way through crowded terminals or suffer the usual travel-day gauntlet of TSA screenings and endless lines. No security conveyor belts demanding you strip down your dignity piece by piece. No plastic trays, no pat-downs. Just a private hangar, a silent set of staff moving like clockwork around you, and the unspoken understanding that everything had already been taken care of. Caleb simply offered a few clipped words to the crew and a nod, like royalty checking into his estate.

You followed him as he led the way down a private runway, the rhythmic crunch of your shoes against the pavement echoing under the vast sky. The heat from the tarmac shimmered in soft waves around your feet, making the air feel thinner, dreamlike. And then, as you rounded a corner and the jet came into full view, you slowed your pace, your breath catching in your throat.

It looked like something out of a high-end magazine spread or an action movie—sleek and purposeful, its metallic silver body gleaming like liquid light under the filtered afternoon sun. A single stripe of midnight-blue curved down its side in a minimalist arc, subtle and elegant. Its windows were tinted so dark they looked like polished onyx, and the stairway was already lowered as if the jet had been expecting you personally.

You couldn’t help but let out a low breath, your eyes wide. "This is yours? Like...actually yours?"

Caleb gave you a side glance, his mouth tugging into a familiar half-smirk. "You sound surprised."

"I am," you said, not taking your eyes off the jet. "The last time I saw you, you were driving that beat-up car that only started if you begged it and hit the dashboard twice."

The last time you saw him was in a burst of flames.

"Hey," he said with mock offense, raising a brow. "That car had character."

"It had a death wish," you shot back, your voice full of disbelief. "Pretty sure it stalled just from looking at a hill."

He chuckled. "Yeah, well. Turns out the car was just shy. Needed a little love."

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress the laugh bubbling up. "Right. Shy."

"Exactly," Caleb said smoothly, already climbing the stairway like he belonged in that world. He paused a few steps up and looked back down at you, one hand braced on the railing. "You coming, or are you going to stand there and fall in love with the plane?"

You gave the jet one last sweeping glance—the polished curve of its nose, the pristine angles of its wings, the seamless shine that made it look more like art than aircraft. You adjusted Sylvia carefully in your arms; she stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

With a soft exhale, you nodded and followed Caleb up the steps.

The interior met every expectation and then some—cream-colored leather seats, warm wood paneling, soft lighting that made everything glow like golden hour. It smelled faintly of something clean and expensive, like fresh linen and vanilla.

You weren’t sure what was waiting at the other end of this flight—what conversations, what challenges, what healing or hurt—but for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sliver of relief. Of air. Of something untangled.

The inside of the jet was just as luxurious as the outside—maybe even more so. You stepped into the cabin and immediately felt like you’d crossed an invisible threshold into another world, one far removed from the chaos, noise, and exhaustion you’d been living in lately. It was quiet in the kind of way that made your ears ring a little, like luxury had its own gravity.

The lighting was soft and golden, like perpetual sunset casting a warm glow over everything it touched. Wide cream-colored leather seats were arranged in a staggered formation, each one more like an armchair from a high-end hotel than anything you’d ever seen on a commercial flight. Every seat had its own console and polished wood side table with built-in touchscreen panels, chrome fixtures, and tiny storage drawers.

The carpet underfoot was a plush gray so thick your footsteps made no sound. Subtle overhead lights twinkled like stars, embedded into the cream ceiling panels, while small windows filtered in natural light through polarized glass. Even the air smelled expensive—crisp, with a hint of something floral and fresh, like linen mist. Built-in compartments disappeared seamlessly into the cabin walls, leaving everything tidy and curated to perfection. There wasn’t a single scuff mark or fingerprint in sight.

You paused at the top of the steps and just… stared, wide-eyed. "Wow," you breathed out, barely above a whisper. "This is insane."

Caleb turned around with that familiar crooked smirk of his. "Better than coach, huh?"

You snorted, your lips twitching despite the awe. "You think? This looks like something a billionaire would use to run away from their problems in style."

"What do you think I’m doing?" he teased.

The space was mostly empty apart from the seats, a few sleek tables, and a refreshment bar tucked at the rear, stocked with bottles and glassware that caught the light just right. Everything had that untouched, carefully maintained look—like the jet wasn’t just a mode of transportation, but a symbol.

It had been a long time since you’d flown anywhere. Long enough that your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The buzzing in your limbs wasn’t just nerves—it was the tightball of anticipation, a kind of vulnerability stirred by the idea of flying again. You took a deep breath and looked down at Sylvia, still cradled against you. She was awake now, her big eyes blinking slowly, peacefully.

You followed Caleb down the narrow aisle as he gestured toward one of the larger seats. He placed a hand lightly against the backrest, as if offering it like a proper host.

"Here," he said gently, helping you ease into the plush leather. He didn’t say much else, but he didn’t need to. His presence was steady, calm. He made sure the seat reclined without sticking, adjusted your footrest, and moved Sylvia’s baby bag into an overhead compartment without being asked. Small things, but they steadied you more than you expected.

You sat back and tried to breathe normally. The hum of the engines was so faint you almost forgot they were running. The quiet was comforting at first, but as the minutes stretched, your mind began to wander. You glanced down at Sylvia. She was quiet now but would need to be changed and fed soon. You swallowed hard, the idea of handling that in front of Caleb making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the reminders of how much things had changed.

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, Caleb stood up and made his way to the front of the cabin, past the bulkhead and toward the cockpit.

"Gonna talk to the pilot?" you called after him, blinking as you tried to make sense of what he was doing.

He paused in the doorway, looked over his shoulder with a glint in his eye—and then pulled something out of his jacket.

A pilot’s cap.

He slipped it onto his head with a theatrical little tilt. "I haven’t talked to myself since I was a kid, Pips," he said with a wink. "Don’t be silly."

You just stared. Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. "Wait...you’re flying this thing?"

Caleb gave a soft chuckle and disappeared into the cockpit like it was no big deal, like you hadn’t just found out that your ride through the clouds was being personally flown by someone you once saw get stuck trying to parallel park at sixteen.

You sat in stunned silence, clutching Sylvia closer. She looked up at you with that calm, curious expression babies had when they sensed something strange was happening. You weren’t sure whether to be impressed, horrified, or both.

Probably both.

Sylvia began to fuss right before the plane started to move, her soft whines piercing the serene quiet of the cabin. You felt her small body shift against you, tiny fingers clenching and unclenching as her restlessness grew. With a quiet murmur of reassurance, you shifted in your seat, gently picking her up by the armpits and adjusting her in your lap so she was sitting in a new position, facing outward to take in the soft, ambient glow of the jet’s lighting.

Her little legs kicked against your thighs, and you could feel the tension in her body—restless and searching for comfort. You bounced your knees lightly, hoping the motion might soothe her, but her unease lingered.

You glanced around the cabin, your awe at the luxury around you temporarily eclipsed by the more immediate reality of having a fussy infant in your arms. The pristine elegance—the rich leather seats, the gleaming wood accents, the hushed air of wealth—suddenly felt a little less impressive. You dug through the diaper bag for a fresh diaper and a soft blanket, your hands moving quickly but carefully.

Balancing Sylvia in your lap, you began to change her diaper as discreetly as you could. The wide seat helped, its buttery-soft cushions giving you just enough space to manage the awkward angle. It wasn’t the most dignified moment, but you’d gotten used to that by now. Motherhood didn’t wait for convenience. You kept one eye on the cabin door that led to the cockpit and the other on Sylvia’s wriggling feet.

Once she was clean and dry, you gathered her back into your arms, wrapping the blanket loosely around her and beginning to feed her. Her fussing eased into quiet suckling, the tension in her body gradually fading. You rocked her slightly, syncing the motion with the subtle vibrations of the jet’s engine beneath your seat.

Even as your hands stayed busy, your mind wandered—inevitably—to Caleb. You pictured him seated in the cockpit, hands steady on the controls, posture confident, eyes scanning gauges and readouts with the same sharp focus you remembered from years ago. Maybe he was humming softly to himself, something rhythmic, a habit he'd had when he was deep in concentration. You wanted to see it. You wanted to witness him in that moment—so completely in control, so competent—but you told yourself not to interrupt. He was flying a jet, after all. Best not to distract the pilot.

You still couldn't quite believe this all. The cracks were starting to form in your mind. Yeah, it was easy to just go along with this. Pretend you didn't have a million questions but you felt like you were about to sob any second from it all.

The jet began to taxi, the movement smooth and steady, but as it picked up speed for takeoff, a sudden jolt of turbulence bounced through the cabin. You gasped quietly, instinctively wrapping your arms tighter around Sylvia. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t cry—just made a small uncertain noise and tucked her head into your chest. The turbulence only lasted a few moments, the bumpiness quickly smoothing into a steady, level glide as the jet ascended into the sky.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your muscles slowly unclenching.

Sylvia finished the milk with a few soft gulps, her lashes beginning to flutter as sleep started to tug at her once more. You wiped her chin with a small cloth, adjusting the blanket around her once more, tucking her close into the crook of your arm.

"There we go," you whispered, brushing your fingers gently along her forehead. "See? Nothing to be scared of. Just a little rumble. Your first flight. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Ah..."

She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused, mouth slightly parted. Her hand wiggled near your collarbone, searching for something familiar to hold onto.

"I mean, not that you’ll remember this," you added with a soft laugh. "But still. Big day for you. A jet, even. Not bad for someone who’s barely mastered neck control. You’ve got some high standards to live up to."

She made a soft grunting sound, somewhere between interest and complaint.

"Yeah, I know," you said with a sigh. "You didn’t ask for all this. It’s just happening around you. Same, kid. Same."

Her hand curled lightly against your chest, warm and impossibly small.

"Bet you didn’t know your mom used to be scared of flying," you said, lowering your voice even more. "Still kind of am, to be honest. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got someone to protect. You do it anyway. Even when it feels like too much. You just…keep going. I feel like I'm on autopilot. Nothing surprises me anymore. Hell, I still feel uneasy about being your mom. "

Sylvia shifted, her breathing deepening, her body relaxing completely against yours. You leaned back in your seat, the plush cushion cradling your spine, and rested your head against the window.

She wasn’t at the stage yet where she reacted to much. No words, no laughs, no mimicked sounds. It made talking to her feel strange sometimes, like tossing words into a void and hoping they landed somewhere meaningful. You felt the awkwardness creep in occasionally—was this silly? Did it matter?

But you kept talking. Because she was listening, even if she couldn’t show it yet. She could feel your tone, your breath, the warmth in your voice. And maybe, someday, she’d remember it not as words, but as comfort. As presence.

Or maybe you just needed to say the words out loud. Up until this point she had been your only company. And its not like you could suddenly vent all this to Caleb. You had to remind yourself that you were still here, still trying. That the fear didn’t win. That something inside you was still strong enough to carry both of you forward.

So you whispered to her until she slept, your words quiet but steady, carried softly through the cabin like a lullaby meant for both of you.

The rest of the flight went smoothly, the cabin wrapped in a quiet stillness that made it feel like time had slowed down. After Sylvia finally fell asleep, the gentle hum of the engines faded into a soft, constant murmur—almost like a lullaby in the background. You felt yourself melt into the comfort of the wide leather seat, the plush cushions cradling your tired frame. The golden cabin lights had dimmed just enough to cast everything in a warm, dreamy haze, and with Sylvia breathing softly against your chest, it didn’t take long for your own eyelids to grow heavy.

Your fingers idly traced the edge of her baby blanket as you reclined the seat a little farther, nestling into it as far as you could without disturbing her. It was the first moment in days—maybe weeks—where you felt remotely at peace. Somewhere between consciousness and sleep, you drifted, your mind floating untethered. Thoughts of the past, of Sylus, of Caleb at the controls drifted in and out like soft ripples.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But exhaustion won.

The jolt that woke you was sudden, sharp—a thump and a rumble beneath your feet as the jet's wheels kissed the tarmac. Your body reacted instantly. You lurched forward, nearly smacking your forehead against the cold window beside you. Heart racing, you blinked rapidly, trying to remember where you were.

"Ugh," you groaned under your breath, reaching up to rub your eyes with one hand while steadying Sylvia with the other. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her small fists twitching beneath the blanket. You yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it, and sat back, momentarily dazed.

It hadn’t been a long flight—at least, not in actual time. But in your body, it felt like you’d slept through a pocket of stillness carved out just for you. You still felt tired, foggy around the edges, like you’d only just dipped beneath the surface of real rest and been yanked back too soon.

You stared ahead, letting your senses catch up. The soft overhead lighting, the elegant silence of the cabin, the gentle rocking motion as the plane slowed—everything felt strangely familiar now. Like this place, this jet, had become its own little cocoon. You weren’t sure what to do next. There was no flight attendant giving instructions, no passengers rustling around you, no urgency.

So you just pressed the button on your seat, listening to the quiet mechanical hum as it slowly unreclined to its upright position. You adjusted Sylvia gently, making sure she was still snug and warm, her little head nestled just beneath your chin.

And then, you waited.

It didn’t take long. Footsteps padded softly over the carpeted aisle, and soon Caleb appeared from the cockpit, still wearing that damn pilot’s cap. He looked annoyingly well-rested, a slight sheen of effort on his skin, but not a hair out of place. The cap was tilted back in his hand, and his expression had that smug glow that told you he was absolutely waiting for your reaction.

"So," he said with an easy grin, leaning casually against the armrest of the seat in front of you, "how’d I do? Would you say...five stars? Maybe even a glowing review? 'Pilot was easy on the eyes, kept turbulence light, snacks were mid-tier, but landing was theatrical—10/10 would fly again'?"

You snorted, half amused and half groggy, a slow smile tugging at your lips. "I don’t know. I might have to knock off a star for that landing. I nearly got catapulted into the overhead bin."

Caleb let out a laugh, pretending to clutch his heart. "Harsh. That was a textbook landing. You just sleep like a corpse."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," you muttered, shifting in your seat and stretching your back. You felt the familiar pinch of stiffness from sleeping in a less-than-ideal position, but compared to what it could’ve been, it wasn’t bad.

He stepped closer, peeking down at Sylvia with a softened gaze. "She sleep the whole time?"

"Eventually," you said. "She wasn’t thrilled at first. Had to do the whole routine—changing, feeding, coaxing. But she passed out somewhere over the clouds."

He nodded, then smiled. "Classic baby stuff. She’ll be a pro in no time."

"I’ll be lucky if I survive her becoming a pro."

Caleb chuckled and straightened up, then extended a hand to you, the same hand that had flown you across the sky just moments ago. "Come on, co-pilot. Let’s get you two off this bird before you give me a one-star review."

You took his hand, rising slowly from the seat with Sylvia still tucked securely in your arms. Her head lolled against your shoulder, warm and drowsy. You glanced once more around the cabin—this strange little haven in the sky—and felt something catch in your throat.

You didn’t know what came next. The world outside was waiting, probably still complicated and messy and too big. But for now, you’d landed.

You and Caleb exchanged casual conversation as he led you away from the sleek, humming jet. The tarmac stretched wide under a cloudless sky, and just ahead, a striking structure captured your attention—a gleaming building of sharp angles and flawless design. Its mirrored glass façade caught the sun like a blade, sending dazzling flares across the pavement, forcing you to shield your eyes as you approached. The air was crisp with altitude, clean and cool, wrapping around you like a fresh breath after confinement. A breeze tugged gently at your clothes and hair, as if the city itself was reaching out to greet you.

Caleb moved with an easy confidence, his posture relaxed but purposeful. You noticed the way others looked at him—not just with familiarity, but respect. Deference. One of his men, dressed in understated tactical black, stood beside a vehicle so polished it looked poured from obsidian. The car was sleek and understatedly powerful, exuding a quiet luxury that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. In the backseat, Sylvia’s car seat had already been installed, precisely and securely, its presence an unspoken reassurance that Caleb had thought ahead. You hadn’t even needed to ask.

You eased Sylvia into place, adjusting her carefully before sliding into the seat beside her. The soft click of your buckle was oddly grounding. Caleb glanced at you through the rearview mirror, offering a quick but sincere smile. “Your things will be delivered shortly,” he said. “They’re being handled.” His voice was calm, confident, and somehow grounding amidst the surreal shift in scenery.

He started the engine with a quiet purr, and the vehicle glided forward with barely a whisper of resistance. The road climbed steadily, winding upward into the heart of the city.

Your heart thudded with nervous anticipation, each breath tight with emotion. It wasn’t fear—at least not exactly—but the overwhelming sense that your world was about to change, and drastically. Caleb began pointing out familiar features of the landscape: landmarks, districts, old stories you faintly remembered from conversations long ago. You listened, nodding, but your attention was drawn outward—your eyes devouring the city with silent awe.

Skyhaven was a marvel of impossible engineering and artistic grace. The entire city floated, cradled high above the world, perched like a crown among the clouds. Towering structures spiraled upward with organic elegance, crafted from strange, shimmering alloys and ultra-clear glass. The sunlight painted everything in surreal gradients—blush pink, molten gold, soft lavender—while the skyline shifted with every curve in the road.

The architecture wasn’t just advanced. It was alive with intention. Roads weren’t merely functional—they danced in graceful curves, linking neighborhoods like silver threads through a tapestry. Suspended bridges arced through open air, connecting terraces filled with life: vines spilling over stone, flowers blooming in impossible colors, trees with leaves that shimmered faintly with bioluminescence.

People moved with purpose but no urgency. On translucent skywalks and in open plazas, they sipped from ceramic cups, browsed open-air markets, laughed beneath the gentle spray of fountains that spilled like liquid crystal. Hovercrafts glided soundlessly between levels, their soft lights blinking in harmony, maintaining rhythm in the city’s slow, serene pulse.

It was beautiful in a way that unsettled you—too perfect, too distant from the world you knew. Skyhaven felt like a dream captured in glass and gold, like a city lifted from the pages of a story and somehow made real. And now, it was yours to enter.

A city above the world. Alive, luminous, and waiting.

Caleb gestured casually out the window as the sleek vehicle moved smoothly along the suspended roads of Skyhaven. His voice was easy, relaxed even, as if nothing unusual had happened earlier.

“Over there’s the Grand Spire,” Caleb pointed, nodding at a towering structure with spiraling glass panels glinting softly in the afternoon sun. “They’ve got the best view of the whole city from that observation deck. Maybe we’ll go sometime?”

“Maybe,” you said softly, barely registering what he was actually pointing out. Your thoughts were elsewhere entirely, spinning in tight, anxious circles. The image of Caleb standing at the vital records office wouldn’t leave your mind. What had he really been doing there? He was that voice you had heard right? Had he truly stumbled upon you by pure coincidence—or had he been deliberately watching you? Could he be trusted?

“And down there,” he continued with enthusiasm, seemingly oblivious to your distant responses, “is Skyhaven’s central plaza. Great place for concerts and festivals. Pretty sure you'd like the food stalls—they have amazing pastries.”

You forced yourself to nod, but your throat felt tight, the words sticking painfully as you murmured another half-hearted reply, “Yeah, sounds nice.”

Every innocent glance, every friendly gesture he made suddenly felt suspicious. Your heart raced with unease, your pulse hammering in your ears. Was your anxiety purely trauma-driven paranoia? Were you being irrational, or were your instincts finally alerting you to something real—something dangerous?

“Ah, over there is the Archive,” Caleb said, his tone slightly softer, almost reverent as he gestured toward an imposing building with tall, arched windows. “You can find practically anything there—records, old manuscripts. Vital documents,” he added, his voice briefly catching your attention.

Your gaze shot sharply to him at the mention of records, breath hitching painfully in your chest. Was that deliberate? Was he testing your reaction?

You quickly dropped your eyes, fingers tightening around the edge of your seat, forcing a neutral voice. “Interesting,” you muttered flatly.

Caleb gave you a brief sideways glance, brows knitted faintly in confusion, but he let it pass without comment, turning his focus back to driving as you struggled internally. The paranoia, the unanswered questions—they gnawed at your mind relentlessly, turning every small kindness he showed you into another reason to doubt his true intentions.

“We'll be at the house shortly,” Caleb finally said, his voice slicing gently through the thick fog of silence that had settled uncomfortably between you. He tried to smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards softly, but it never quite reached his eyes. Instead, his gaze remained troubled, distant, as though he were carefully treading the line between reassurance and apology. He felt the tension just as acutely as you did—how could he not? The space between you both was filled with a storm of unspoken words, confusion, mistrust, and unanswered questions, all ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

You gave him a weak nod, eyes briefly meeting his before swiftly turning away, afraid your swirling suspicion and anxiety might spill over, betraying how utterly confused and terrified you felt inside. Your hands gripped the edge of your seat, knuckles pale from the pressure, as you forced your attention to Sylvia, who was thankfully still blissfully unaware, sleeping soundly as if nothing had happened.

When Caleb had first appeared at the vital records office, swooping in at the exact moment you'd desperately needed someone—anyone—to help you, he'd felt like a miracle. At that moment, you’d clung to him without hesitation, driven by the urgent need to escape immediate danger. Caleb, the boy who’d shielded you countless times, who’d once sworn he would always protect you. His familiar presence had been the lifeline you'd instinctively grabbed onto.

But now, after hours spent sitting beside him, listening to his easy yet careful conversation, your mind had begun to unravel, spinning with nagging doubts and relentless paranoia. Had you been too desperate, too reckless? Had you blindly placed your trust in someone who'd been a stranger for years now, just because he'd once been apart of your childhood?

Your stomach churned painfully at the possibility that you'd made a mistake, that you'd been careless in trusting so easily again. But it didn’t make sense—this was Caleb, the very same Caleb you'd grown up alongside, the one who'd protected you from bullies, who'd walked you home when the nights got too dark. The Caleb you’d known had always been safe.

Yet that only complicated things further.

If Caleb was truly safe, then why had he disappeared? Why had he faked his death, vanishing completely from your life, leaving behind nothing but grief and unanswered questions? What had he been doing at the vital records office, at precisely the moment you'd found yourself there? Could it really have been mere chance, a cosmic twist of fate, or had he been deliberately watching, waiting for the perfect moment to approach you?

Your thoughts circled chaotically, a vicious, exhausting loop. Your fingers trembled slightly as you stared at the city passing outside, the gleaming structures and lush terraces of Skyhaven suddenly blurring into meaningless smears of color. Each heartbeat grew more rapid, each breath more labored, as anxiety twisted sharply in your chest.

Why hadn’t he sought you out sooner? If Caleb had truly cared, if he truly was safe, then why had he let you struggle alone for so long, enduring pain and isolation without a single word or sign that he was alive and well? It didn't make sense.

You stole another careful glance at him, studying the relaxed yet cautious way he navigated the hovering vehicle. Caleb seemed calm, unaffected even, while you sat beside him in quiet turmoil, battling questions that felt impossible to ask aloud. Your confusion was tinged with guilt—how dare you doubt him?—but the fear felt justified, too deeply rooted to ignore.

As the vehicle wound along the graceful, elevated roads, drifting gently toward Caleb’s home, your thoughts twisted further inward, forming knots too tight to unravel alone. Trusting him had felt easy at first, natural even. Now it felt dangerous, like blindly stepping toward the edge of a precipice, unsure if the next step would hold firm or crumble beneath your feet.

Your heart sank at the realization that you knew nothing anymore. Caleb might have saved you, but he had also left you drowning in uncertainty. The once comforting silence now felt suffocating, filled to the brim with secrets and unspoken truths.

The remainder of the drive stretched out before you like an endless road, wrapped thickly in an uncomfortable, heavy silence that neither you nor Caleb dared break. Instead, the quiet was only gently interrupted by Sylvia's soft, innocent murmurs and coos from the backseat, filling the oppressive atmosphere with moments of lighthearted innocence.

“Mmnh… gah,” she cooed sleepily, small fingers flexing and unflexing in mild restlessness. She drew in a breath, sighing sweetly as if having a conversation entirely with herself. “Blegh…mmm,” Sylvia continued, her soft, whimsical voice drifting up through the tension in the air like bubbles rising to the surface of still water.

You glanced over your shoulder, offering a tender smile at her small form, relieved by the familiar comfort her presence provided. Sylvia was blissfully unaware of the tension crackling between the two adults in the car, entirely consumed by her innocent musings.

“Ah-gooo…eh…eh,” she chirped, an impatience beginning to edge into her tiny voice as her small hands reached upward, grasping at nothing in particular.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips despite the churning anxiety deep in your stomach. You leaned back slightly, gently soothing, “Almost there, sweetheart,” your voice little more than a whisper. You hoped the softness of your words concealed the tremors caused by the uncertainty clenching your throat.

At your quiet reassurance, Caleb briefly turned his head, eyes darting sideways to catch a fleeting glimpse of your face. His gaze lingered only for a second, long enough for you to notice the hesitation etched into his expression, before he returned his attention to the road, jaw tight, eyes fixed firmly ahead. Neither of you ventured a word. Instead, the silence grew again, heavier now, broken only by the hum of tires on smooth pavement and Sylvia’s occasional sighs and murmurs.

Finally, after what felt like hours rather than minutes, Caleb eased the sleek car from the wide main road, guiding it effortlessly onto a private driveway that uncurled gracefully through an impeccably maintained landscape, drawing you closer toward your destination. You straightened slightly in your seat, your heartbeat quickening in anxious anticipation.

As Caleb slowed the vehicle, your breath caught sharply in your throat. Your eyes widened as the impressive mansion emerged fully into view. It loomed majestically ahead, sprawling outward like a fortress born from elegance itself, cloaked in deep, cool shades of grey stone and accentuated subtly by delicate veins of white marble. The sun traced golden paths across the building’s façade, making the polished surfaces gleam softly, shifting fluidly from silver to pearl as the daylight played against it.

The mansion’s tall windows, trimmed neatly with darkened frames, rose grandly upward, glistening and reflecting the drifting clouds overhead, creating a surreal impression that the estate itself hovered effortlessly among the skies. Ornate moldings framed every arch and window, meticulously carved patterns intertwining like the vines that cascaded down from elevated terraces. Each doorway stood imposingly tall and arched, their dark, polished wood surfaces inlaid with intricate brass details, beautiful yet strangely intimidating in their grandeur.

Surrounding the estate were expansive gardens so perfect they seemed more like paintings than living spaces. Symmetrical hedges were impeccably sculpted into precise geometric shapes, lined along polished stone pathways that wove through lush flower beds overflowing with blooms of every color imaginable. The air seemed fragrant with hints of lavender, roses, and something delicate and sweet you couldn’t quite name. At the center of the circular driveway sat a magnificent fountain carved from marble, water sparkling brilliantly as it cascaded gracefully from the outstretched hands of an elegant sculpture, catching the sunlight and scattering tiny rainbows across the manicured grass.

Caleb slowly brought the car to a halt directly before the mansion’s grand entrance. He killed the engine with a swift, practiced motion, plunging you both once more into the silence. This quiet felt different now—charged with a blend of awe, anticipation, and a nagging anxiety you couldn't shake.

You stared at the estate, eyes unblinking, mouth slightly parted in disbelief at the sheer opulence. Caleb’s home was more than just impressive—it was intimidating, beautiful yet distant, seemingly reflective of the man himself. A stranger to you now, in many ways. Even the familiar boy you’d once trusted implicitly seemed impossibly far away, replaced by a man who surrounded himself with wealth, secrecy, and uncertainty.

You gripped the edge of your seat once more, heart pounding unsteadily against your ribs. A thousand questions raced through your mind as you gazed upon the mansion. It was both a sanctuary and a fortress, welcoming but secretive. And for the first time since you'd stepped into Caleb’s world again, you wondered genuinely whether you truly belonged here—or if you'd just stepped into something you weren’t at all prepared for.

"Home sweet home! Come on!" Caleb said, his voice suddenly infused with forced cheerfulness, starkly contrasting the tension that had suffocated the car moments earlier. His attempt at enthusiasm seemed strangely jarring, like sunlight breaking abruptly through storm clouds.

You hesitated for a brief moment before slowly getting out of the car, your legs unsteady beneath you. Carefully, you leaned into the backseat and unbuckled Sylvia from her car seat, gently lifting her against your chest, and reaching in once more for the diaper bag slung haphazardly beside you. The cool evening breeze brushed lightly across your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as you straightened and took in the sight of the sprawling mansion once more. Such overwhelming luxury—so much excess—made your heart pound with nervousness, unease settling deeply within your bones.

Living with Sylus had left deep scars, a lasting fear of houses overly grand or imposing. The echoes of your past lingered, whispering anxieties that tightened your chest and quickened your breath. You closed your eyes for a moment, willing the fear away, taking several careful, slow breaths to steady yourself.

“Hey, you good?” Caleb asked gently, noticing your hesitation. His voice was softer now, tinged with quiet concern.

“Yeah...yeah, I’m okay,” you lied softly, swallowing down the lump in your throat as you forced a reassuring smile. You shifted Sylvia carefully in your arms, pressing her gently against your shoulder as you approached the elegant porch alongside Caleb, who watched you closely, saying nothing else for now.

He pressed his finger into the biometric lock beside the doors. The heavy doors opened with a hushed, almost reverent sigh, welcoming you into the expansive interior of his home. Immediately, you found yourself surrounded by opulence—marble floors gleamed softly beneath a chandelier dripping with tiny crystal teardrops, walls painted in delicate shades of dove grey, accented tastefully by touches of silver and ebony. Everything looked perfectly placed, yet oddly cold.

"This is nice..." you murmured in awe, stepping slowly across the polished floor. You meant it, yet couldn’t help but feel something unsettling about the stark emptiness. The vast interior was beautiful, undeniably luxurious, but utterly devoid of warmth. A chill hovered over the space, shadows stretching quietly in corners untouched by the pale glow of the lamps.

Caleb flicked on another set of lights, illuminating a wide staircase curving gracefully upward to the second floor. He offered a small, awkward smile, shrugging slightly as if embarrassed by your reaction.

"Thanks, pips," he said gently, rubbing the back of his neck. "Though, honestly, I’m not here a whole lot usually. Guess it does seem kinda…empty.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond, and began wandering further inside, your footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor. Caleb followed closely behind, his presence both comforting and strangely unsettling, a shadow you couldn't quite shake. Sylvia stirred gently in your arms, and you adjusted your hold instinctively, kissing the crown of her tiny head.

Caleb cleared his throat awkwardly, breaking the uneasy quiet as you moved toward the main hall.

"There’s six bedrooms upstairs. You’re welcome to choose any of them for you and, er—" Caleb paused abruptly, suddenly realizing he hadn't yet learned your baby’s name. His face flushed slightly with embarrassment, eyes flicking quickly away and then back again, hesitant.

"Oh, her name is Sylvia," you said quietly, your voice warm and affectionate, a soft smile curving your lips as you gazed lovingly down at your daughter. The moment felt oddly grounding in the midst of all the uncertainty, the simple act of naming her filling you with comfort.

"Sylvia," Caleb repeated softly, testing the name thoughtfully, offering a small, genuine smile. "That’s beautiful. It suits her."

For just a fleeting instant, the guarded edge in his eyes softened, revealing a glimpse of warmth that felt painfully familiar—like a ghost of the Caleb you had once known.

Yet even as your heart tugged gently at that familiarity, the questions remained unanswered, the tension still lingering in every careful step, every uncertain glance. The mansion around you seemed to swallow your voices, absorbing the warmth of the moment into its vast, elegant emptiness.

"Caleb…I..." you began softly, your voice cracking painfully as the words died in your throat. The sudden wave of emotion caught you off-guard, a rising tide of grief, anxiety, and overwhelming relief swelling within your chest. You didn’t even realize tears had begun falling until you felt their warmth trickling slowly down your cheek and onto your neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt.

Caleb’s awkward expression quickly melted into genuine concern, his brows knitting tightly as he stepped closer. He reached out instinctively, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, guiding you softly toward the massive couch in the spacious living room. You allowed yourself to be led, clutching Sylvia protectively to your chest as your body shook uncontrollably, each breath growing heavier, more painful.

The moment your knees touched the plush cushions, your strength unraveled entirely. A sob ripped itself free from deep inside you, the sound raw and desperate as you finally let the barriers you'd carefully constructed crumble away. Caleb didn't hesitate—he sat immediately beside you, his arms wrapping gently but firmly around you and Sylvia, pulling you both safely into the shelter of his embrace.

You sobbed openly, unashamedly, into his shoulder, the flood of emotions overwhelming you completely. The relief of finally seeing him again, the unbearable paranoia, the uncertainty—it was all too much, every tangled thread of emotion finally breaking free in a torrent of tears.

Sylvia, thankfully oblivious, nestled quietly against your chest, making tiny comforting noises as if sensing your distress.

"You were dead," you choked out through your tears, your voice muffled against Caleb’s shirt, the fabric becoming damp from your tears. "I saw the smoke and the flames…I can't pretend anymore. I can't—"

Your voice broke again, lost in another harsh sob. The memories were vivid, sharp, and painful, burning images you'd buried deeply, suddenly surging violently to the surface.

Caleb sighed deeply, the heaviness in his chest clear as he held you tightly, gently rubbing your back with one steady hand, murmuring quiet, soothing sounds. His other hand softly cradled your head, his fingertips gently threading through your hair as though desperately trying to ease your pain.

After a long, heavy moment, he gently tilted your face upwards, looking down at you with sorrowful eyes. With the sleeve of his shirt, Caleb carefully wiped away your tears, his thumb grazing your cheek tenderly.

"Look," he whispered, his voice quiet and strained with emotion, "we shouldn't talk about that right now. You're barely holding it together as it is."

Your breath hitched slightly, an edge of frustration flickering sharply in your chest. He had deflected your plea for answers, sidestepping the issue with practiced ease. You wanted to push, to demand clarity and truth, but exhaustion tugged heavily at your limbs, dulling your resolve. The energy to fight had temporarily drained away in the wave of tears.

Caleb gently cupped your cheek, catching your gaze, concern clear in his eyes as he continued quietly, "Your stuff is here. Do you want to unpack? And…well, I ordered more stuff for you and Sylvia, too."

You blinked slowly, still foggy from the emotional upheaval but sharply aware of the careful way he'd shifted the subject. You wanted answers more than anything, but right now, you lacked the strength to press further. The grief, frustration, and vulnerability had drained your fight, leaving you feeling hollow, fragile.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you relented, shoulders slumping slightly in quiet acceptance. "Sure," you whispered hoarsely, nodding tiredly.

Caleb offered a gentle, sympathetic smile, clearly relieved that you'd accepted his temporary peace offering. Slowly, he stood, helping you gently to your feet while you still clutched Sylvia protectively, your heart aching fiercely within your chest.

Yet, even as you moved toward unpacking, doubt lingered stubbornly in the back of your mind. Caleb had rescued you, welcomed you into his home with warmth and care, yet beneath his comforting presence remained a veil of secrecy and unanswered questions—ones you knew would inevitably surface again.

As promised, Caleb let you freely choose the rooms for yourself and Sylvia. The mansion had felt overwhelmingly large at first, the endless hallways and cavernous spaces almost swallowing you whole. But after exploring briefly, you settled on two adjoining bedrooms near the end of a softly lit corridor, each room elegantly decorated yet still warm enough to ease some of your anxieties.

Despite the comfort of having Sylvia close by, the thought of her sleeping alone, even just one wall away, still sent anxious chills down your spine. Your stomach twisted nervously as you gently laid her down in the bed located in the smaller room beside yours. You took a step back, pressing a hand to your chest as if trying to physically steady your fluttering heartbeat. Maybe this separation would actually be good for you—giving you some mental and emotional breathing room after months of constant closeness and vigilant care. Still, it felt terrifyingly new, like taking an uncertain step into dark water without knowing how deep it might go.

You took another calming breath, quietly murmuring reassurance to yourself, What’s the worst that could happen? She's safe. You glanced back at Sylvia, watching her small chest rise and fall rhythmically in peaceful sleep, and slowly your pulse began to calm.

Just as your tension began to ease, Caleb’s voice broke through the quiet from behind you, casual and slightly sheepish, carrying a note of uncertainty you hadn’t heard from him before.

"So…I'll admit," he began, stepping carefully into the room carrying several large cardboard boxes stacked precariously in his arms, obscuring his face. "I don't exactly know a whole lot about babies." He paused awkwardly, setting the boxes down carefully near the doorway and giving you a hesitant, almost apologetic smile. "But while we were on the plane, I went ahead and ordered some things that seemed like they might be useful."

You stared at him for a moment, eyes widening in shock and disbelief—not only at the sheer volume of items now crowding the doorway, but also at the lightning-fast speed with which they'd arrived. The boxes seemed to multiply endlessly as Caleb brought in more from the hallway, stacking them methodically. You tried to mask your surprise, though it must have shown clearly on your face.

Caleb noticed your stunned expression and shrugged, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "Express shipping," he offered by way of explanation, chuckling softly as if embarrassed by his own extravagance. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Thought maybe it’d make things a little easier for you."

A quiet warmth bloomed in your chest, gratitude mixing strangely with lingering suspicion and unease. The overwhelming generosity Caleb displayed was unfamiliar territory—so different from the strained conditions you'd grown accustomed to under Sylus's oppressive control. Sylus had generous yes, but only to the extent of what he wanted you to have. Or wear. Or eat.

It had only been when you got pregnant that he had started offering you more choices. Seeing Caleb so freely provide felt almost unreal. It reminded you again how dramatically your circumstances had changed in just a few short hours, and how little you actually knew about Caleb’s new life. Clearly, wealth was not a concern for him, yet it was still startling to witness firsthand.

Stepping forward hesitantly, you reached for one of the boxes, gently running your fingers along its cardboard edge, curiosity briefly overpowering your lingering anxiety.

"Thank you, Caleb," you said softly, your voice sincere but quiet, feeling simultaneously grateful and overwhelmed by his generosity. "You didn’t have to go through all this trouble."

Caleb gave you a careful look, his expression gentle yet thoughtful. "It's no trouble, really," he assured you softly. "If it makes things even a tiny bit easier for you both, then it's worth it."

The kindness behind his words warmed you, despite the lingering uncertainty, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to believe things might be okay again—at least for tonight.

You stood quietly by the doorway, holding your breath as Caleb began carefully unpacking the boxes he'd brought in, his movements methodical yet oddly gentle as he worked. His attention settled first on the largest box of the bunch, and he knelt beside it, sliding out the contents carefully. A crib, you realized immediately, feeling a swell of emotion that tightened your throat and quickened your heartbeat. Something about seeing Caleb so earnest and focused on setting up something for Sylvia stirred both gratitude and a touch of sadness deep within your chest. It felt surreal, almost impossible after everything you'd been through, that someone would be this genuinely thoughtful and concerned—especially someone you'd believed lost for so long.

Caleb paused briefly, glancing up at you from his position on the floor, holding up the large flat piece of the crib's base. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes as he gestured toward the parts laid neatly beside him. "This crib is okay, right?" he asked softly, his voice carefully gentle, as if worried about upsetting you. "It meets all the safety standards. But if you had something specific in mind for her, it's no problem at all—I can easily get something different."

You swallowed softly, shaking your head slightly and smiling, though you feared the smile might waver under the weight of your complicated feelings. The very thought that someone might question if something was good enough for Sylvia struck you deeply—especially after weeks of paranoia, trying to conserve most of your money for a new future, having to question everything.

"No, Caleb, this is perfect," you said softly, your voice nearly breaking with honesty. You cleared your throat and pushed on, your tone lighter but tinged with lingering sadness. "She's slept in her car seat…on my chest…in cribs far older than this one. I'm sure she'll be fine with just about anything at this point."

You tried your best to smile, to reassure him—and yourself—that things were okay now, or at least they would be. Still, your words hung between you both heavily, a quiet acknowledgment of the difficult road you'd traveled to get here. Caleb seemed to pick up on the depth behind your statement, the small flicker of pain passing briefly through his eyes before he quickly masked it again with an easy grin.

"Great!" he replied, his voice lighter now, attempting to lift the mood gently. He began unpacking screws and tools, spreading them out carefully around him. "I'll get started putting it together right now. It shouldn't take me too long. I promise I'm not as terrible at this kind of stuff as I probably seem."

His playful humility made you smile genuinely this time, a small bubble of warmth rising in your chest. It felt strangely comforting to see Caleb fussing quietly, carefully organizing small wooden panels and hardware with meticulous precision. For a moment, things felt almost normal, almost safe.

You glanced toward Sylvia again, noting how peacefully she lay nestled against the soft blankets you'd tucked her into. Her tiny body had already settled into a deep, undisturbed sleep, her small chest rising and falling in a gentle, rhythmic pattern. Caleb followed your gaze, his own expression softening instantly as he watched her quietly from his place on the floor.

"Looks like she’s already passed out," Caleb whispered gently, a small, tender chuckle escaping his lips. He shook his head slightly, amused yet undeniably touched by the sight of Sylvia's innocent slumber. "Guess all this moving around and new environments wore her out."

You nodded slowly, breathing deeply to steady yourself. Your heart swelled with affection and gratitude—though the lingering shadows of worry and uncertainty remained ever-present, quietly waiting in the background. Still, at this moment, with Sylvia peacefully asleep and Caleb diligently working to create a comfortable space for your daughter, you allowed yourself to lean cautiously into a fragile sense of safety and hope.

Caleb glanced back up, catching your thoughtful gaze, his own expression shifting subtly into something more earnest and serious. He seemed about to speak, perhaps to finally address the many unspoken things lingering between you—but instead, he simply smiled softly again, returning quietly to assembling the crib. It felt intentional, this careful avoidance of deeper truths.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed, quietly watching him work, each soft metallic click and gentle shifting of wood a comforting, grounding rhythm. Caleb seemed determined to help you find stability here, and even though unanswered questions still tugged at the edges of your mind, tonight at least, you felt a fleeting sense of peace.

You gently touched the side of your daughters face. She stirred only slightly, letting out a soft little sigh, her fists curling up beside her face. You lingered for a second, brushing your fingers along her fine hair, then turned your attention to the boxes Caleb had left stacked neatly beside the bed.

One by one, you opened them, and with each ripped seam and folded flap, your astonishment grew. It was more than just thoughtful—it was excessive in a way that almost made your throat tighten.

Baby monitors—two of them, one basic and one smart with a camera feed. Neatly folded bundles of brand-new baby clothes in soft, breathable cottons and gentle pastels. Clothes, soaps and other necessities for you. Diapers in what had to be every available size. Wipes, ointments, thermometers, baby-safe soaps and lotions, a full infant first-aid kit complete with a tiny nasal aspirator. There were multiple packs of onesies, tiny socks still clipped together in matching pairs, and even a baby blanket. He’d thought of everything, even things you wouldn’t have thought to ask for.

You sat on your heels, staring at the small mountain of care items around you, overwhelmed. Gratitude rose up in your chest, tangled with guilt and confusion. Caleb, who hadn't known Sylvia existed until hours ago, had done more in a single day than most people in your life had in months. You hadn't felt this cared for since you let Clara.

And yet…

You glanced over at him as he knelt beside the half-built crib, screwdriver in hand, brows drawn in concentration. Something about his profile in the warm bedroom light made you ache. You swallowed and stood slowly, dusting off your hands.

"Truly," you began quietly, approaching him, "you didn't have to buy all of this, Caleb." You hesitated, voice dipping a little. "I'm only here till I get the documents sorted. I feel like I owe you now."

Your words seemed to freeze the room.

Caleb’s hands stopped mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering just above a screw. It was only for a second—barely even noticeable—but you saw it. Felt it. The hesitation. He didn’t look at you. Didn't say anything at first. You almost opened your mouth to apologize, worried you'd said something wrong, but before you could, he spoke again. His voice was light—too light.

"Don’t be silly,” he said with a small chuckle, resuming work as if nothing had happened. “It’s always better to overprepare than underprepare. Besides…” He glanced at you with a playful smirk, the edge of his mouth tugging up. “If you end up liking it here with me sooo much and decide to stay, I’ve gotta be ready, right?”

His tone was teasing, like he was trying to make it a joke—but the weight behind the words wasn’t lost on you.

Now it was your turn to fall silent.

You looked at him closely, watching the way he focused again on the crib, how he purposefully avoided meeting your gaze. You wanted to smile, to laugh it off with him, to let the moment pass. But you couldn’t. He didn’t get it. How could he? He hadn’t asked. Not once. Not what you’d been through. Not what you were running from. He hadn’t even seemed curious.

“Caleb,” you said, your voice low and steady now. “I really can’t stay here forever.”

The words sat between you like a dropped stone in water, rippling outward.

He didn’t stop working this time, but his movements slowed, and the smile he’d worn just moments before faded completely. You didn’t want to hurt him—but pretending like things could go back to the way they were, like you could just slot yourself into this picture-perfect mansion and start over without reckoning with the weight of what you’d lived through—that wasn’t fair to either of you.

“I’m sorry,” you added quietly, meaning it.

And maybe, for the first time since you arrived, a little bit of truth settled into the room.

He sighed, long and quiet, and placed the screwdriver down with care, the soft clink of metal on wood sounding far louder in the stillness of the room. Then he looked at you—not with his usual guarded calm or teasing grin, but with something raw and open, like he’d finally peeled back a layer of whatever mask he’d been wearing since the moment you reunited.

"Look," he began, his voice low, careful. "I was going to wait to ask until you were settled, but..." He paused, searching your face as though hoping to read your answer before you even gave it. “It’s her father, isn’t it?”

You said nothing, but your shoulders stiffened, and that was enough.

“Screw him,” Caleb continued, his tone sharper now. “Seriously. Whatever happened, he's clearly abandoned you. Left you to figure it out on your own. You don’t have to keep searching or struggling. You both can have a home here.” He leaned forward slightly, sincerity ringing through every word. “With me.”

He meant it. You could see it—no bravado, no games. Just the raw earnestness of someone who wanted to do the right thing for someone they still cared about. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Your hands started to sweat, palms clammy as anxiety crept up your spine like a slow, cold hand. You curled your fingers inward, trying not to shake.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t understand that you hadn’t been abandoned—you’d escaped. That you hadn’t been left behind—you’d run, because staying would’ve meant losing yourself entirely. And you hadn’t come here hoping to start a new life—you’d come here because there were no options left. You were hiding. From Sylus. From the people he had watching. From the life that had nearly eaten you whole.

You weren’t staying because you didn’t want to get anyone else tangled in that web—not even Caleb. Especially not Caleb.

Your chest tightened painfully. You wanted to tell him the truth. You really did. But how do you explain that kind of fear? That kind of damage? That your every decision these days was shaped by survival, not comfort or hope?

You swallowed hard, your voice shaky as you tried to begin. “Caleb, I…” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “It’s not that simple.”

He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, concern bleeding into his expression. You could see the questions rising again behind his eyes, all the things he hadn’t asked yet.

You looked down at Sylvia, still sleeping peacefully on the bed, her tiny body curled like a comma. How could you protect her and still be honest? Could you really have both?

“I’m grateful. Truly. But this—this is just temporary. It has to be.” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just need to understand…this isn’t forever.” You paused again, feeling the pressure build in your chest. “I’m afraid I’ll drag you into something you can’t get out of.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, listening.

You took a breath and looked at him, eyes stinging. “I wish I could say more. I just can't get anyone else wrapped in my mess."

The room fell silent again, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Caleb didn’t move right away. But something in his face shifted—his expression no longer just concerned, but as if he was quietly pondering something.

"Alright, alright. You don’t have to tell me," Caleb said, his voice light but laced with something quieter beneath it—something that still lingered in the space between you. He reached over and gave your hair a quick, familiar ruffle, his touch gentle, though you stiffened slightly from the unexpected contact.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t let on.

"I’m almost done with the crib," he continued, shifting back into motion, picking up the screwdriver again. “Why don’t you start putting her clothes in the dresser over there? I’ll throw away the tags. you take off.”

You blinked, almost baffled by how quickly he let the conversation drop. One second you’d been teetering on the edge of something sharp, something fragile—and the next, he’d pivoted so casually it left you blinking in place. The tension hadn’t fully left the room—it hung there, thin and ghostlike—but his sudden shift in tone was, admittedly, a relief.

You nodded quietly and moved toward the dresser, opening its smooth, polished drawers and beginning to place the neatly folded baby clothes inside. The scent of clean fabric and new cotton wafted up, oddly soothing. Caleb gathered up packaging and tags without another word, moving around the room like he was trying to keep the air light.

And then, almost as if to test the waters, he spoke again.

“Remember when gran finally upgraded your bed, but couldn’t put it together? She said her arthritis was too bad and had me do it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, lips tugging upward instinctively. “God, yes.”

“I swear I was on my hands and knees all night trying to figure that mess out,” he said, grinning now as he worked. “You passed out on the couch before I was even halfway done. And you were so damn excited when I woke you up in the morning.”

You laughed softly, the sound genuine despite everything. “Yeah, because I thought I was finally gonna sleep like royalty.”

Caleb smirked. “You did, technically. Even if the headboard was backwards.”

That made you snort. “Yeah, don’t think I forgot about that.”

He chuckled, clearly pleased to have pulled you into the memory, even for a moment. “I was so proud of myself until you pointed that out.”

You shook your head, smiling as you tucked a pair of soft lavender onesies into the drawer. “You were lucky I didn’t tell Grandma. She barely noticed.”

“I should’ve gotten a medal for effort,” he shot back, tossing a wad of packaging into the trash. “Or at least some orange juice.”

The two of you settled into a comfortable rhythm, the conversation meandering through old, safer memories like a trail of breadcrumbs leading you both back to something you used to be. It didn’t erase the tension or the questions still looming in the back of your mind—but for now, it gave you room to breathe.

By the time the two of you finished setting up half the nursery—taking frequent breaks to feed Sylvia, change her, and calm her when she grew fussy—the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the mansion in soft shadows and warm amber light. The sleek overheads in the hallways flickered on automatically as evening fell, illuminating your quiet journey through the house with a gentle, muted glow.

Sylvia had her dinner first, followed by a quick bath in the basin Caleb had set up in your adjoining bathroom. She splashed a little, as she always did, sleepy but content, her soft coos bouncing off the tiled walls. You were especially relieved to finally have new clothes for her—ones that fit. She’d grown faster than you expected, outgrowing onesies before you even realized they were tight. Now, wrapped in a fresh sleeper printed with tiny pink stars, she looked peaceful, clean, and safe.

Getting her to sleep was another matter entirely.

You spent nearly an hour pacing slowly around the nursery, rocking her against your shoulder, her body warm and squirmy as she fought off sleep with the stubborn will of a baby who just didn’t want to miss anything. You whispered lullabies, patted her back gently, made long slow circles by the crib, and shushed her over and over. At long last, her little limbs relaxed, her head slumped against you, and her breathing evened out. You eased her into the crib like she was made of glass, holding your breath the whole time, then carefully adjusted the baby monitor beside her and turned on the white noise machine with a low, oceanic whoosh.

“Finally…” you whispered, tiptoeing out of the room like a thief, cringing at every floorboard creak until the nursery door clicked quietly shut behind you.

Your body ached with exhaustion. You hadn't even gotten the chance to change out of your day clothes, much less take a shower or rest. Still, your stomach growled in protest, and the overwhelming scent of something savory hit you like a wave as you padded barefoot down the stairs.

“Caleb,” you called out, your voice low but hopeful. “I wanted to ask if there was anything to ea—oh!”

You froze in place as you rounded the corner into the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was a masterpiece—gleaming marble counters, glass-fronted cabinets lit from within, and a double oven you were fairly certain could roast a whole deer. But that wasn’t what stopped you. It was the spread on the island counter.

A full meal had been laid out, warm and waiting like something from a dream. A perfectly roasted herb-crusted chicken sat in the center, skin crisp and golden, steaming gently in the soft kitchen light. Surrounding it were elegant side dishes in gleaming ceramic bowls: creamy garlic mashed potatoes swirled with butter and chives; roasted carrots and parsnips glazed with honey and a hint of thyme; a vibrant salad made with mixed greens, pomegranate seeds, candied walnuts, and crumbles of goat cheese; a cast-iron skillet filled with buttery cornbread; and a pot on the stove simmering with what smelled like a rich, savory gravy.

You stared at it, slack-jawed, completely thrown off by the sheer care and coordination that had gone into making it. Your body, starved and tired, nearly buckled at the thought of eating something warm, fresh, and lovingly prepared.

Caleb turned from the sink, drying his hands with a dish towel, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just cooked a small feast. “So I went with a bit of everything.”

You blinked at him, still trying to find words. “Did you…make all of this?”

He shrugged, looking far too casual. “Of course. Do you doubt my skills?”

You shook your head slowly, your voice soft with disbelief. “Caleb… this is…”

He gave you a tired but proud smile. “You’ve got to keep your milk supply up right? Least I could do was make sure you didn’t go to bed hungry.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosened, if only a little.

You smiled reflexively, grateful beyond words for the food—but just as you reached for a plate, Caleb stepped in, his fingers curling gently around your wrist.

“Let me do it,” he said warmly. “Just tell me what you want, pips.”

There was that nickname again. His voice was soft, familiar. His eyes full of fondness. Anyone would have found it sweet. Caring, even.

You mirrored his smile, polite and composed, but deep inside something cold began to ripple beneath your skin. You didn’t pull away immediately.

“Caleb, it’s fine,” you said, keeping your voice light as you gently tried to free your hand. “I can get my own plate. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

You shook him off with a small flick of your wrist, subtle but clear. He let go without resistance, still smiling like he hadn’t felt the shift in your tone, or worse—like he had, and was ignoring it.

You reached again, your hand brushing the edge of the porcelain plate—only to find that it wouldn’t move. It stuck to the counter, as if bolted in place.

Your brow furrowed. “What the…”

Then you saw them—faint, silvery arcs in the air, like rippling strands of light bending in patterns only you and a few others in the world would recognize. The gravity pull streaks, barely visible, humming quietly around the plate’s edges.

Of course.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. And there he was, leaning casually against the counter, a knowing grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Ha ha, Caleb,” you said flatly. “Very funny. But I am really hungry.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Then just let me do it, silly” he replied, still smiling like this was nothing, like it was a sweet callback and not something vaguely suffocating. “I always made your plate when we were kids, remember?”

You inhaled slowly. Sharp. Controlled. But your chest tightened anyway.

There it was.

The tilt. The subtle shift in the room. That invisible thread pulling tighter around your ribs. You knew this feeling. You knew it too well. The warm voice. The gentle insistence. The way someone could steal pieces of your autonomy while smiling the whole time.

It wasn’t fair—Caleb wasn’t Sylus. You were sure his intentions weren't cruel, but they were familiar. And right now, that was enough to send you spiraling,

You saw Sylus’s face flash in your mind—eyes full of patience, arms always a little too helpful, hands always exactly where you didn’t want them.

You clenched your fist under the counter. Your nails dug into your palm. It was just a plate. It wasn’t about the plate. You reminded yourself of that.

“Now,” Caleb said brightly, picking up a serving fork, oblivious—or pretending to be—to the quiet storm flickering across your face. “What do you want first?”

You smiled. Or at least, you pulled your lips into something that looked like one. A practiced mask.

“Potatoes,” you said, voice breezy, almost chipper. “Please.”

He beamed. You watched him turn back to the food, humming softly as he scooped generous portions onto the plate, the streaks of gravity dissipating as he lifted it.

And all the while, you stood there, smiling through the tightness in your chest, wondering how long it would take before the quiet, polite mask you were wearing began to crack.

Caleb plated the food exactly the way you’d asked—carefully, almost dutifully—passing it to you with brisk precision. The dish was still steaming, buttery potatoes curling around the edges of the roast chicken, the aroma rich and savory. To anyone else, it would’ve been a small, comforting gesture. Maybe even sweet.

You forced a smile, grateful but reeling, your fingers tightening around the plate as if it might anchor you. The panic hadn't crested completely yet, but it was rising steadily beneath your skin. Your chest was too tight. Your thoughts too loud. Each breath felt like you were dragging air through a narrow straw.

You kept your face neutral. Calm. Just tired, you told yourself. Just overwhelmed from the day.

You hoped he didn’t notice.

“Hey, so,” Caleb began, drying his hands with a towel, his voice light, hopeful, trying to bridge the distance between you. “I was wondering if you wanted to play a game, maybe watch something while we eat, or—”

“Actually,” you cut in, softer than you meant to, trying not to sound as sharp as you felt. “I’d like to eat in my room.”

He paused. His face changed—his smile faltered for a second, not quite falling away, just…hesitating.

“I still have a lot to unpack,” you continued quickly, eyes dropping to the food in your hands so you didn’t have to look at him. “And I…I need time to decompress from today. A lot happened.”

You sucked in a slow breath through your nose and held it, trying to steady your pulse, trying to ignore the shaking in your chest. It wasn’t the food. It wasn’t Caleb. Not really. It was the moment. The forceful kindness. The gravity trick. The easy way he had kept control of the plate—like it was a harmless gesture, a callback to your childhood, and not a tiny theft of choice. You knew he probably didn’t mean it that way, but that didn’t matter to your body. Your body didn’t care what he meant.

What your body remembered was Sylus. The way he’d do everything for you, smiling the whole time. The way he’d keep you from lifting a finger, unable to do much without his permission or watchful eyes.

You couldn't live like that again.

And now—here, with Caleb—your brain knew this wasn’t the same. Caleb wasn’t Sylus. Caleb didn’t tower over you. Caleb was just trying to be nice. But the feeling was the same. The dissonance made it worse.

Still, you couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t find the words. The thought of trying to explain that such a small thing—a plate—had triggered a trauma response made your stomach twist with shame. You didn’t want to see confusion on his face. Or pity. Or worse: defensiveness.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’d done all of this—fed you, welcomed you, bought things for you and Sylvia—not because he wanted to harm you, but because he cared. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That it didn’t unravel something inside you.

“I just need a little time,” you added quietly, as if that might soften the sudden distance.

Caleb took a half step toward you, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you sure? I mean, I can—”

You lifted your hand automatically, not sharply, but with finality. A gentle wall.

“It’s fine,” you said again, a little firmer now. “I’m just tired.”

He stopped. You saw the way his shoulders deflated just slightly, how his mouth pressed into a flat line. It wasn’t anger—just disappointment. Not at you, maybe, but at the invisible wall you’d just built between you.

There was a beat of silence, and then you offered a quick, practiced smile.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said, already turning away. “Goodnight.”

Your feet moved quickly, almost too quickly. Not quite running, but more than walking. You clutched the plate to your chest, fingers curling into its edges so tightly it hurt. Each step felt like your body was trying to outrun your own spiraling thoughts. You just needed to be away from him. From the kitchen. From the memory that had pressed itself into your ribs like a bruise.

As you reached the stairs, just before the sound of your footsteps overtook everything else, you heard his voice behind you—quiet, unsure.

“…Goodnight then.”

You didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. You didn’t trust yourself to.

You made it to your room, locked the door gently behind you, and leaned against it, finally letting your head fall back with a long, trembling breath. The food still steamed in your hands. But now it felt heavier than ever.

You barely made it through the door before the plate in your hands nearly slipped.

The room blurred—walls bending slightly around the corners of your vision, your breath coming in jagged bursts. You set the plate down on the nearest surface with a trembling hand and stumbled toward the bed, your legs no longer sure they could carry you upright. The moment your knees hit the mattress, everything cracked open. You buried your face into the blanket and cried—ugly, gasping sobs that shook your entire body.

You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t want to. You’d promised yourself you’d hold it together until you were alone. But even alone, you weren’t safe from the memories clawing their way to the surface.

You pressed your fists into your eyes, willing it all to stop, but the tears kept coming. It was like your body had been holding onto them all day, just waiting for a door to close. And now they spilled out in waves. The sheets grew damp beneath your cheek. Your breath came in shuddering hitches.

Eventually—when the sharpest edge of it dulled just enough—you reached for the plate, telling yourself to do something normal. Eat. Focus. Keep moving.

You forced yourself upright, still trembling, and began to eat. Shaky hands, uneven bites. The food was probably delicious—Caleb had gone out of his way to make it, after all—but your taste buds were drowning under salt. Not seasoning. Tears. They fell steadily, silently, splashing onto the mashed potatoes, streaking down your cheeks and over your lips.

You chewed through it like your life depended on it.

It felt grotesque—this mixture of comfort and collapse. But you didn’t stop. Maybe if you kept chewing, kept swallowing, you’d crowd out the voice in your head. The one that was whispering he’s still here. The one that remembered the exact way Sylus used to gently take things from your hands, the way he’d feed you when you were too anxious to eat, saying things like “Let me take care of it, honey. You don’t need to think.”

And it had felt good, hadn’t it? Safe, even.

You hated that part the most. Not the fear. Not the damage. But the fact that some part of you missed it. Missed him. Missed the stability he created by stealing every ounce of control from you. Every time you cracked, every time you stumbled under the weight of your new reality, Sylus had been there to smooth the surface. To hush the panic. To reset you.

It was like being held underwater by someone whispering lullabies into your ear. Who brings you up for air, only to drown you once more. They keep doing it enough that you start to be thankful for the moments that they bring you back up.

And now? Now you were free. He wasn't here to fix it, to soothe the shakes or force calm back into your bloodstream—and your body hated it. Your chest screamed for it. The part of you he rewired to crave his hands.

You hated it. But missed it all at the same time.

Even here, miles away. Even in another man’s house. Even with someone familiar.

Yeah you were beyond fucked up.

You shoveled the last forkful into your mouth like it might hold the unraveling back for one more second, chewed furiously, swallowed hard. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t help. You dropped the plate unceremoniously to the floor and curled in on yourself again, the bed pressing up against your shins as you folded, folded, folded.

You collapsed forward in a pile of gasps and tears, clutching your chest as if that could stop the way it hurt—tight, clenching, seizing. You grabbed the pillow and shoved it over your head to muffle the sound, to make the room feel smaller, darker, safer.

“He’s not here,” you whispered against the fabric, voice breaking. “He can’t come here. He can’t. He won’t.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Your lungs kept misfiring. Your brain kept showing you his face, like a film on repeat. Smiling. Calm. Soft.

“Stop it,” you whispered. “Stop…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, curling tighter under the pillow, your breath coming in desperate little gulps.

You’ll never see him again, you told yourself, over and over. You’ll never see him again.

But a part of you didn’t believe that either.

The tension, the tears, the panic—your system couldn’t hold it anymore. You cried until your whole frame shook, until your limbs felt numb and heavy, until your throat burned and your eyes swelled. It didn’t even feel like crying anymore—it was like bleeding from the inside out.

You barely registered when you lost consciousness. There was no drifting off, no calm descent. One second, you were shivering in a spiral of exhaustion and grief, the next your mind had flickered off like a dying lightbulb.

What followed wasn’t rest. It was murk. A thick, dreamless space you floated through, weightless and untethered. There were impressions—heat on your back, the murmur of distant voices, the phantom pressure of a hand brushing your hair—but none of it made sense. It all bled together into a muddled blur of memory and sensation.

Then your body began to stir.

You woke slowly, groggy and disoriented, your head heavy and your lashes sticky with dried tears. You rubbed at your sore eyes, swallowing against a dry, aching throat. For a moment, your brain struggled to catch up. You weren’t sure where you were—or when. Everything was a soft haze.

Then the confusion cleared just enough to make out the shape of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

The blanket beneath your hand wasn’t the one from Caleb’s mansion. It was smoother. Denser. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl. You blinked more rapidly, taking in the sharp lines of the furniture, the dark design, the scent of sterilized air laced with a faint trace of cologne you hadn’t smelled in what felt like forever.

No.

The walls were the color of wet stone. The floor was polished to a mirror shine. The fireplace. The tall bed with its sleek black headboard, the high mirror across from it, the sharp gleam of chrome on the drawer handles—it was all exactly as you remembered.

Sylus’s room.

You sat up fast, panic swelling before you could suppress it. Your breath caught painfully in your throat, and your body turned cold despite the warmth of the bedding.

"Please...not again,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible in the dense quiet.

Your eyes locked on the door across the room—the only exit.

You stared at it, heart hammering.

A shared dream again, maybe? That wasn’t new. You’d experienced it before, been pulled into his space even while asleep. If the emotional bond ran deep enough—if the door was still cracked open—he could reach in. Even from miles away. Even if you were trying not to think about him.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to tell yourself it wasn’t real.

Then the doorknob shifted.

Your breath hitched hard. You felt the cold stab of adrenaline, not in your chest, but lower—in your gut. That primal sense of run, even though you had nowhere to run to.

The knob turned slowly, deliberately, like whoever was on the other side knew exactly what they were doing. Knew you were watching.

You didn’t think. Your body acted on instinct—an old, well-worn one. You dropped back into the bed, rolled toward the far side, and pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. You shut your eyes tight, forcing your body into stillness. The only thought that came to you was desperate and absurd: Maybe if he thinks I’m asleep, he’ll think this is his dream. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.

It made no logical sense, but it was all you had. Sylus had made it clear he knew when you weren't really sleeping.

Your breaths came slow, shallow, measured. Your heart pounded so loudly it made your ears ring, and you wondered if he could hear it too. You focused on stillness. On silence. You tried to make your body limp, heavy, at ease. You were a girl asleep. That’s all.

You heard the door creak open.

The sound was quiet, but in this silence, it sliced through you.

The footsteps that followed were soft, precise. Barefoot. Unhurried. You could picture them without opening your eyes—those long, calm strides. Always calm. Always in control. That alone terrified you.

He approached the bed. Closer. Closer still.

Then he stopped.

No greeting. No command. No pet name laced with ownership. No cryptic remark or smug sigh. Nothing.

Just silence.

You felt him standing there, his presence thick in the air, oppressive and electric all at once. You wanted to flinch. You wanted to scream. But instead, you stayed still, trying to convince even yourself that you were asleep. That this was all just a dream. That any second now you’d wake up in Caleb’s mansion, and Sylvia would still be safe, and your chest wouldn’t feel like it was being squeezed from the inside out.

But he was there.

Watching.

You tried to keep your breathing steady—slow, even, shallow enough to sell the lie. Every muscle in your body fought against the instinct to bolt, to brace, to scream. You could feel the tension in your limbs, the static buzzing just beneath your skin. You told yourself again and again: Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

But then you felt it.

A shift in the air. A weight leaning over you. The soft press of fingers against your shoulder, just enough to rock you gently.

“Good morning, kitten,” he murmured, voice low and syrupy smooth. That same damn tone—warmth poured over steel. “You know what time it is.”

You opened one eye slowly, cautiously, as if you were peeling it back into a nightmare. You stared up at him, disoriented at first, the sight of his face so familiar that it made your stomach churn. His expression was calm. Too calm. His eyes held a patient glint, as though you were a child sleeping in too late and not someone who’d fled him like he was a fire.

What the hell did he mean, you know what time it is?

Still half-curled on your side, you slowly rolled onto your back, your spine tense, your hands clutching the blanket without realizing it. The panic you’d kept at bay started to return in sharp waves as you met his gaze—steady, unreadable, unforgivable.

“Don’t fucking touch me, bastard” you hissed, the words slicing out of you before you could think to soften them. You jerked your arm away from where his hand had rested on your shoulder, flinching like he’d burned you.

His smile didn’t falter. Not even a flicker. That same calm, maddening curve of his lips, as if everything you did was expected, forgivable, even charming in its defiance.

That only made your skin crawl more.

He straightened up slightly, clasping his hands together in front of him, the picture of composure. “I know these past few days have been hard,” he said, his voice still maddeningly soft, like this was a conversation you’d had a hundred times before. “But I won’t tolerate any fighting today.”

You blinked, your face twisting in disbelief. You stared at him as if he’d just grown a second head.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snapped, sitting up now despite the alarm pounding in your chest. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Your eyes scanned the room again, half-expecting it to morph around you. Your brain raced to make sense of it. Was he trying to gaslight you again? Was this a loop? A game?

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stood there, watching you like someone observing a particularly stubborn animal—tenderness in his expression, but with an undercurrent of warning. Of control. That same suffocating sweetness you remembered all too well.

He let out a sigh, then got onto the bed and started unbuckling his belt. Your eyes widened, and your heart raced as you instinctively began to struggle. "No! What the actual hell, Sylus, stop!" you yelled. "Don't use this as an opportunity to rape me again you sick fuck!!"

Your resistance halted when he quickly seized both of your wrists and leaned in closer. You were frozen with fear. "I'm trying to be gentle today, so please stop," he said, sounding more exasperated than angry.

Gentle today? What? Did that mean...your mouth opens in realization. This isn't a shared dream. It was a memory. In your early days of captivity with Sylus. When he was very insistent on "breeding" you daily, several times a day. He often used force, but this particular morning he had been very gentle.

This was your own mind. A memory you had tried so desperately to rid yourself of, had come crawling to the forefront. You begin to sob. You were having a nightmare. Relieving one of your worst moments.

Which meant there was no escaping. This would play out as it always had. Sylus seemed satisfied with your sudden lapse in movement, as he began to pepper small kisses across your neck.

"Sweetie, don't cry. It won't hurt as bad this time I promise" Sylus coos gently, before slipping a finger into the hem of your underwear. You were frozen as he pulled them past your butt, and eventually discarded them on the floor. You hadn't even realized you weren't wearing pants.

"D-don't please..."

Sylus gently shushed you, and you tensed as you felt a warm finger begin circling your clit. The intense waves of pleasure you felt were electrifying and you again began to struggle again.

"I'm not doing this! Let go of me!" you yelled, using your free hand to push against his face. He sighed again as a red mist wrapped around your wrists, pulling your arms over your head. The grip was tight and warm, almost painfully so. You cried out, fresh tears streaming down your face again. Despite your protests, his fingers continued to work on your sensitive spot, and he started to slip a finger inside your now wet folds. You groaned as waves of pleasure surged through your body once more.

“Does that hurt?” Sylus asked, his voice low and steady, laced with that same gentleness he always wore when he was doing something cruel.

His hand cupped your chin—not harshly, but firmly, guiding your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The touch was deceptively tender, but the power behind it was undeniable. It made your skin crawl, made your breath come out in tight, uneven sobs.

Your hands—still suspended above your head with that sickly red mist, wrists straining under invisible pressure—throbbed with pain. Your fingers had gone numb. You whimpered, trembling from the hot ache and the rising terror in your chest.

“Y-yes,” you choked out, your voice wet and broken. “Please… let my hands go.”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was pondering his next move. His expression remained calm, measured. Too calm. That was what made it worse—the lack of rage, the way he treated your pain like a conversation.

“Then,” he murmured, stroking his thumb once along your cheek, “are you going to behave?”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat, chest heaving. The words caught somewhere between your ribs and your pride, but the pain was too much. The helplessness. The fear.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes full of tears. “I’ll behave.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if searching for even the smallest flicker of defiance in your eyes. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him. The pressure around your wrists loosened instantly, and the mist evaporated like smoke, vanishing without a trace.

Your arms dropped to your chest, limp and heavy, and you gasped in relief. The freedom stung as the blood rushed back into your fingers, but the ache was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted. Your shoulders shook with silent sobs as you cradled your arms close to your chest, trying to catch your breath, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

Sylus’s fingers, warm and deliberate, curled around yours, interlacing with a slow, practiced ease. His other hand remained steady pushing another finger in and out of you, a gentle pressure that belied the tension crackling beneath the surface. You tensed immediately, your breath catching in your throat, your whole body going rigid as you instinctively tried to pull away—but he didn’t stop.

Your whimper escaped before you could silence it, soft and instinctual, like a warning to yourself. But there was no escape. It felt good. Even for just reliving a memory it felt exactly the same. Shame crept up and you felt your face getting warm.

He leaned in, and his voice came low—measured, sweet in tone but wrong in every possible way. “You make it very hard to be gentle, kitten,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across your lips before you could flinch away. It was soft, deceptively so, a contrast to the raw ache in your hands and the weight in your chest. His smile hovered just after, patient and expectant. “Tell you what…no more fighting me,” he said gently, “and this will be the only time this happens today. Okay?”

You already knew how this went.

The script never really changed—just the tone, the setting, the subtle reshuffling of his words. But the bones of it, the bargain, were always the same. He offered control dressed as kindness. Compliance cloaked in calm. And you—drained, desperate—were expected to accept it.

You had learned not to hesitate.

So you didn’t.

Your head bobbed quickly, instinct overriding reason, and your throat tightened around the sob clawing its way up. “Yes,” you whispered first, the word catching. You swallowed hard, forcing down the fear, the shame, the heat burning behind your eyes. “Yes,” you repeated, louder this time—pleading, broken, automatic. "Please just be gentle.”

You hated how you sounded. Had you sounded this desperate when this actually happened? You weren't sure.

Tears slipped more freely now, tracing hot lines down your cheeks as your voice cracked into silence. Your whole body trembled—not from pain this time, not exactly—but from the surrender. From the ritual of it. The exhausting necessity of giving in. The part of you that still wanted to believe the more obedient you were, the faster it would be over.

He nodded, stopping his movements and removing his fingers from inside you. You watched in shock as he licked the remnants of your essence from his fingers, then began undoing his belt again. You were wet enough now.

"Good girl. Lay still and this will be over before you know it".

You lay there frozen as he lifts your dress to expose your breasts. It wasn't long before you felt the burning ache of his cock spearing itself into your folds, stretching to accommodate his size. It still hurt, you weren't sure if it was ever not going to, but your slickness did help quite a bit. He groans in pleasure as he pushes himself into your body, slightly pulling back and then pushing in again.

"Shit..."

It happens the same way. The ache gives way to pleasure, your squeezing his hand as if your life depends on it and your moaning with him. Your body betrays you. Your mind betrays you. Mind numbing pleasure sears itself into your core. He pumps his cock into you faster, and you feel your brain begin to melt as he hits that spongey part within your body. Your breasts squeeze together as he holds you closer. You both become one.

"It hurts..."

You hate it. Your body loves it. You climax. You sob. He rubs your tears from your face with his thumb.

"Shh, its okay. You're doing so good, honey. I'm close, I promise."

It ends with hot, creamy liquid burying itself within your womb, and sweet sick promises of a new life being whispered in your ear.

"You'll see very soon just how happy you can be".

No...no!

You frantically thrash beneath the covers, breath coming in sharp gasps, heart racing like a jackhammer in your chest. When you finally manage to pry your eyes open, you're back—Caleb's spare room. You shiver violently, sweat cooling on your skin. Nightmare again. Another one. Even here, even in the safest place you could possibly be in, they follow you.

You sit up slowly, arms wrapped tightly around your torso as if to hold yourself together. For a moment, you just breathe. Tears are already sliding down your cheeks, warm and quiet. You wipe at them with the back of your hand and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, pressing your feet to the carpet. It's soft, grounding, but the tremble in your limbs refuses to fade.

You stand and shuffle toward the bathroom, eyes blurry with sleep and emotion. The tiled floor sends a chill up your legs, but you welcome it. Something real. Something solid. You sit down on the toilet, the cold seat a small shock to your senses. Everything is slow and disconnected—muscle memory pulling you through motions your mind hasn’t caught up to.

Then, you glance down.

A giant, darkened spot blooms in the middle of your underwear, unmistakably damp.

You freeze.

Your first thought is confusion. A small jolt of panic hits your stomach. Did you pee yourself? It wouldn’t be the first time—not lately, your body was still recovering from giving birth. But no. You hadn't woken in a soaked bed. The sheets were dry. Your thighs weren’t sticky, the fabric not clinging with that awful familiar weight. It’s localized. Contained. Different.

And that's when your breath catches.

Your mind scrambles, fumbling through memories of the dream. The edges blur, slippery as oil. There had been fear—yes, fear. You’d been powerless again, frozen while Sylus hovered over you, ripping away your autonomy once more. Claiming your body as his. That same choking dread had sunk its claws into your spine. But then—something had shifted.

No. No, no, no. That couldn’t be right.

But the evidence is in front of you.

Your stomach turns violently, as if rejecting the realization before it can fully settle. You shake your head hard, almost like you could rattle the thought out, dislodge it before it roots.

Had you actually...enjoyed that? That grotesque, warped thing masquerading as a dream?

You can’t breathe. You suddenly feel like you’re floating outside of your own skin, like your body has betrayed you in the most obscene way possible. What kind of person—what kind of victim—reacts like that? Your heart pounds against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. The shame is a physical thing now, thick and suffocating, like a weight pressing into your chest.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Or it was, but your body hadn’t understood that. It had responded.

A wet dream instead?

A sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a gasp. You slap both hands over your mouth, but it’s too late. Tears blur your vision, your breath hitching in short, helpless gulps. You feel like you’re rotting from the inside out.

You’re disgusting. You’re wrong. You're broken.

How could your body react like that to him? After everything he’d done? After everything he’d taken?

You feel like you're going to throw up. The air feels thick. Too thick. Like trying to breathe through wet wool. You curl in on yourself without thinking, arms wrapped around your knees, head pressed to your thighs, like maybe you can collapse into a space small enough to disappear entirely.

Your thoughts won’t stop. What if it happens again? What if this means something worse? What if you’re not really a victim at all—what if you’re complicit in your own nightmares?

You shake harder. Tears pour freely now, soaking the collar of your shirt.

It wasn't supposed to feel good.

You know, on some level, that it isn’t your fault. That it’s probably just your body reacting instinctively to certain sensations—some automatic, unconscious response to sexual stimuli. That’s what bodies do, right? That has to be it. It has to be. Because the alternative is too frightening to face. But that rational voice inside you is barely a whisper, drowned beneath waves of confusion and self-loathing. You don’t recognize yourself anymore, and the weight of not understanding this new version of you—this stranger living in your skin—is becoming unbearable.

You hop in the shower quickly, as if trying to scrub all the horrible thoughts away. The water is hot—almost too hot—but you welcome the sting. You lather shampoo into your hair with too much force, digging your nails into your scalp like you can claw the memories loose. You scrub your arms, your legs, your chest, over and over until your skin is aching and raw. It’s not about getting clean. It’s about feeling something else. Anything else.

You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes? An hour? The bathroom fills with steam, thick and heavy, clinging to every surface. You clean and scrub until the exhaustion settles deep into your bones, until your thoughts finally grow dull and hazy around the edges. When you finally turn off the water, you’re lightheaded and weak, limbs trembling slightly beneath you.

Seems Caleb has a good water heater—you never ran out of hot water.

You grope around blindly for a towel, the fog blurring your vision as much as your tired eyes. Wrapping it around yourself, you step in front of the full-body mirror. The glass is fogged, but you wipe it down with your palm, revealing your reflection piece by piece.

Your body…it had changed.

You realize, with a strange jolt, that you haven’t really looked at yourself since giving birth. Not properly. Not like this. The last time you examined your reflection this closely, you were heavily pregnant, body swollen with life. Now, the bump is gone—mostly. Your belly has deflated, but there's still a soft protrusion that wasn't there before.

You’ve lost quite a bit of the baby weight. Stress, probably. Poor nutrition. Skipped meals. Your hips are still wider. Breasts firm with milk. Everything feels a little out of place—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

It’s not terrible. You still look like you. Just…different.

You remember reading in one of the baby books that it can take up to a year for the body to return to "normal," whatever that means. You’re not sure if this new shape will ever feel like home again. or if it'll even stay. Maybe you would eventually return to "normal". As much as you could anyway.

You get dressed in a long, comfortable shirt and slip into a fresh pair of underwear. You were thankful you didn't seem to be bleeding much anymore. The fabric is soft against your skin, still warm from the dryer. You realize you hadn't brough the clothes Caleb bought you in here. There aren’t any clean pants nearby—just a couple of ones you’d already worn this week—and after a moment of frustrated searching through the small stack of folded laundry, you give up. No one else is around. You’ll be in the house, just for a bit. It’s fine. You tug the shirt down as far as it will go, more for comfort than modesty. Its almost to your knees. Should be fine until you can grab some pants in a bit.

You step toward the bathroom door, towel still draped over your shoulders, drying your damp hair with lazy, tired motions. The steam from the shower clings to your skin like a second layer. You twist the knob, still half in your head, and swing the door open.

Then freeze.

Caleb is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, gently rocking Sylvia in his arms. Her face is scrunched, her mouth pulled into a frustrated whine. Her tiny fists punch the air, and her legs kick as if warding off an invisible foe. Caleb is murmuring something softly under his breath, his movements tentative and gentle, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

Your chest tightens. You could've sworn you had locked the door?

He looks up, and the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up. His worry melts into relief.

"Hey! Sorry to just walk in," he says, giving you an apologetic half-smile. "I heard her crying from the hallway and figured you were sleeping. I thought maybe I could soothe her, give you a little more time. She seemed hungry, though, so I came in here."

You feel a jolt of panic snap through you like a rubber band stretched too far. The breath leaves your lungs in a stuttering rush.

“No—Caleb, please put her down!”

Your voice comes out louder, harsher than you meant, and the room seems to go still. His smile falters, confused. You’re already moving before he can say another word. The towel slips from your shoulders and lands in a heap on the floor as you rush across the room, hands outstretched.

“Just give her to me!”

Your heart is pounding, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out rational thought. Visions flare up unbidden—images of things going wrong, of Sylvia slipping, of her getting hurt, of hands that aren't yours doing something wrong. But deeper than that is something even worse: the fear that Sylus will find out. That he’ll somehow know another man held her, touched her, cradled her so gently like he never would. And if he knows, he’ll be angry—not at you but at Caleb.

You don't even want to imagine the horrible things Sylus would do to him.

Caleb’s eyes go wide, and he lifts his hands in surrender as you reach him. He says nothing, just instinctively transfers the baby into your arms with slow, careful movements. Sylvia lets out a protesting little squawk as the transition jostles her.

“Okay, okay—it’s alright,” Caleb says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "She’s okay. I was just trying to help."

You clutch Sylvia to your chest, holding her as tightly as you dare. Her body fits against yours like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there. She lets out a soft sigh, her flailing limbs settling. The fussing tapers off to little hiccuping breaths, and soon she’s quiet again.

You press a trembling kiss to her forehead, eyes fluttering shut. You’re still shaking.

There’s a long pause.

Caleb is silent, his hands now folded awkwardly in his lap. He looks at you like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. The tension in the room crackles softly, a quiet hum beneath the stillness.

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he says finally, his voice cautious. “I just thought maybe I could help. You looked like you needed rest.”

"Y-you can't... if he finds out you even breathed the same air as her he'll—" Your voice falters, collapsing under the weight of what you almost said. The words die on your tongue, leaving a silence that's louder than anything else in the room. Your heart races, hammering against your ribs, and your fingers tighten protectively around Sylvia, who stirs softly against your chest. You hadn't meant to say that much—not even close.

Caleb’s eyes narrow slightly, but his voice remains low. "Who?" he asks, the question sharpened with suspicion. "He’ll do what? Her father?"

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes drop to the floor, to a speck of lint you suddenly find fascinating. Anything to avoid his gaze. The air between you thickens with tension.

"Just trust me, please," you whisper, almost pleading. "Leave me to her care, okay? It's for the best."

For a moment, you expect him to nod, to accept it like he did earlier. But this time is different. Something in him has shifted. Caleb doesn’t step back. He doesn’t drop it. Instead, he straightens up abruptly and takes two steps toward you, closing the distance.

"I just can't understand," he says, voice still calm but more insistent now, tinged with something rawer underneath. "You've never kept anything from me before. And now I find you stranded in the middle of nowhere, no ID, no records, no phone—not even a hospital bracelet. And you’re holding a baby that’s, what—a few weeks old? And you expect me to just pretend everything’s fine?"

The words hit you like a slap—not cruel, not intentionally—but real. Honest. Caleb’s always been the one person you could count on to be gentle. But he’s also always been the one who notices everything. He’s not stupid. And he’s not letting this go.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to look at him. Sylvia shifts slightly in your arms and lets out a soft sigh, a small reminder that she’s the center of your world now. The only thing that matters is protecting those you care about.

"She's seven weeks. I’m just protecting her and you" you say, your voice barely above a breath. "That’s all this is. That’s all I can do."

Caleb doesn’t move. He watches you carefully, waiting, like he knows there’s more. And there is. There’s so much more. But you can’t let it spill out. You can’t drag him into this mess. If Sylus ever found out—if he even sensed that another man had held his daughter—Caleb could get hurt. And you couldn’t live with that.

"You don’t understand what he’s capable of," you murmur, mostly to yourself. But it’s too late. Caleb hears it.

"Then help me understand," he replies. "Don’t shut me out. You think I wouldn’t want to protect her too? Or protect you?"

Your eyes sting. Your grip on Sylvia tightens, but she’s already asleep, little fist curled near her cheek. The words hover on your lips—I want to tell you. I wish I could. But you don’t say them.

"Just let me do this," you say finally. "Please. For now. That’s all I’m asking."

The silence stretches. Caleb’s face shifts slightly, from confusion to something softer, sadder. He sighs, but the hesitation is still there, written in the set of his jaw.

"You know I can't do that," Caleb says, clasping his hands together tightly. His voice is calm, but there’s something desperate underneath it, something raw and pleading. "If you'd just move in here with me permanently, that would solve all of this. He won't hurt you. He can't hurt you. You know I'd protect you. And her."

He looks down at Sylvia as he says it, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest ache. That softness—it's genuine. There's no doubt in your mind that he believes every word he’s saying. But belief isn't enough. Not when it comes to Sylus. Not when it comes to the kind of danger that lingers like a shadow behind every moment of peace.

You shake your head, jaw tightening until it aches. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Not really. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. He hasn't lived through it, hasn't felt the cold dread of waking up every morning not knowing what the day would look like. He doesn't know what Sylus is capable of when he's even slightly displeased. And if Caleb ever got in his way—if he even touched Sylvia again—

You force the thought away, swallowing hard.

"I already told you, I can't!" you snap, your voice sharp and unfiltered. The frustration explodes out of you like a dam finally giving way. "It would just cause more problems! I already lost you once, I can't go through that again!"

He takes a half-step back, startled, but doesn’t retreat fully. His eyes are still on you, searching, waiting for something he can grab onto. He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re not done. Not even close.

"Besides, you want to talk about my secrets? What about you, Caleb? Huh? Let’s talk about you!" Your voice rises with every syllable, fueled by confusion and betrayal. "I saw you explode. I saw you die, Caleb. I felt the ground shake. I watched it happen. And now you’re just... here? Alive? Like nothing ever happened?"

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp, chest heaving.

"You just conveniently show up in Windsor—of all places—alive and well? Sporting fancy jets and luxury mansions like some kind of billionaire guardian angel? What is this, huh? What am I supposed to believe? That you’re some kind of miracle? That you just happened to show up the second I needed someone the most?"

Your voice cracks again, anger giving way to something more fragile underneath—something scared and overwhelmed. The question you’ve been swallowing down for weeks finally pushes its way out.

"What about that, huh? Why don’t you answer my questions for once instead of dodging every single one of mine like I’m too fragile to know the truth?"

The room feels electric with tension, thick and heavy like the air before a thunderstorm. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your arms tightening around Sylvia’s small body. She stirs slightly in your embrace, murmuring softly, her warmth the only anchor keeping you from spiraling entirely.

Caleb’s face shifts slowly, his mouth opening like he wants to speak—but he hesitates. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not anger. Something more complex. Like he’s weighing whether the truth is even his to tell.

The silence stretches between you, pulsing with all the things that remain unspoken.

You feel it again—that gnawing feeling that something isn’t right, that the Caleb in front of you is the man you knew, but also...not. You can’t put your finger on it, and maybe that’s what terrifies you most. You thought you could trust him. You want to. But how can you, when he’s hiding just as much as you are?

He says nothing at first. Just watches you, the tension stretching so thin between you it feels like the room might snap in half from the pressure. His expression is unreadable, carved from silence and restraint. Then, finally, he sighs. Long and quiet, like he's been holding his breath for hours.

"I guess we all have skeletons in our closet," he says.

You stare at him in disbelief, your lips parting in a breathless huff. That’s it? That’s his answer? That’s all he has to offer after everything you just spilled, after weeks of uncertainty and swallowing back every cry for help? Weeks of unraveling silently at the seams?

What kind of bullshit answer is that?

You feel it rising in your chest—the pressure, the heartbreak, the helplessness. It presses against your ribcage like something alive, like it wants out. Your throat tightens, and your hands start to tremble.

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t. The tension, the secrets, the lies—they’re suffocating. You’re trying to hold it together, trying to survive while keeping a tiny human safe and clinging to the edge of your sanity, and it feels like no one around you is willing to meet you halfway. It feels like no one sees how close you are to shattering.

You just want one person. One. Someone who will be honest. Someone who will stop pretending. Someone who will look at you and see the wreckage and still say, "You're safe. I'm here. I’m not lying to you."

Clara had been that person. Sweet, gentle Clara with soft hands and quiet reassurances. She had been your lifeline when everything else was chaos. But now? Now she was gone. God only knows what Sylus did to her. You wake up thinking about her sometimes, wondering if she’s alive, if she’s okay, or if she was just another casualty of being close to you. The guilt eats you alive.

Xavier, too. God—Xavier. Dragged into the hell of EVERS experiments, brutalized just for trying to help you escape. And what did he get in return? Pain. Silence. Disappearance. He thinks you lied to him. Everyone who tries to help you ends up broken.

You'll be damned in Caleb ends up that way too.

You press a hand to your face, swallowing down the sob trying to climb its way up.

"I’m done," you mutter, voice strained and trembling. You turn away from Caleb and move toward the bed, carefully laying Sylvia down on the softest part of the mattress. You adjust the blanket around her, brushing a fingertip over her tiny cheek. She stirs, sighs, but doesn’t cry. She blinks up at you, clearly too confused with all the commotion to be upset you weren't holding her anymore.

"I can’t stay here," you say, eyes locked on Sylvia’s peaceful face. "This is all eating me alive. I’m not healing—I’m unraveling. And staying here is just...making it worse. I need space. I need air. I need to feel like I’m free, not like I’m still in someone else's trap."

You cross the room, the weight in your limbs making each step feel heavier than the last. Your bag is still where you left it, slumped against the wall. You crouch down, unzip it, and dig around to try and find your envelope of cash.

"No," Caleb says.

You freeze.

The word hits the room like a dropped stone, quiet but heavy. Your spine stiffens. The air changes.

You slowly turn to look at him.

He’s standing taller now, shoulders squared, something simmering behind his eyes. It’s not fury. Not sadness. Not even desperation. It’s something steadier. A line drawn in the sand.

"No," he repeats, and his voice is steel. "You’re not leaving. Not like this."

You scoff. What the hell did he mean by no?

"You won't find that envelope either. It's somewhere safe," Caleb says calmly, like he's discussing the weather. Not an ounce of guilt, not a flicker of shame.

Panic spikes through your chest like a sudden jolt of electricity. Your breath catches, and you lunge for the bag again, and begin tearing through it with trembling hands. You flip it upside down, shake it violently, throw it to the floor. Then you're on your knees, digging—harder, faster. You check the side pocket where you always kept it. Nothing. You tear open the lining. You throw out every item of clothing. You unzip every hidden pouch, check every crease.

Still nothing.

The air seems to get thinner. Your heart slams against your ribcage.

"You asshole!" you scream, whirling on him with a voice so raw it scrapes your throat. Your chest heaves as the words tumble out. "I pawned my ring to get that money!

Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Your vision blurs at the edges. The room feels like it’s shrinking, the walls closing in, bending and tilting like the floor can’t quite decide which way is up.

You feel yourself spiraling—fast and hard. Everything inside you starts to slip. Your thoughts crash like waves in a storm, and you can’t catch a single one long enough to think.

"No, no, no," you whisper, stumbling back, your voice fraying like torn fabric. "You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be safe."

Your voice rises, caught between anger and desperation.

"You’re acting just like him. Please—please, stop."

Tears spill freely now, thick and hot, tracking down your cheeks in heavy streams. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, rocking slightly, like your own body is trying to shield your heart from cracking wide open.

Caleb steps toward you slowly, hands slightly raised, his movements calm and measured, like he’s trying not to startle a wounded animal. But you don’t feel soothed. You feel cornered.

"Calm down," he says, voice low and maddeningly composed. "I’ll return the money once your documents are here. You don’t need it right now anyway. I’ll provide everything you and Sylvia need."

He takes another step closer, closing the gap between you by just enough to send another pulse of fear through your gut.

"I’m not going to let you be reckless and endanger yourself or the baby. This is the safest place for your right now."

The words land with a cruel chill. Cold steel straight through the ribcage.

You stare at him, blinking, unable to form a coherent thought through the storm of betrayal and confusion ripping through you. Behind you, Sylvia stirs softly, as if sensing your distress. Her tiny body turns slightly under the blanket.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You had no right to take anything of mine."

But Caleb doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move. There’s something unsettling in the way he holds his ground—not like someone who’s trying to help, but someone who knows he’s already won this round.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

You feel the sting of fresh tears, the kind born of helplessness, not rage. You want to scream, but your throat feels tight, your breath shallow. You sink slowly to your knees, still clutching the empty bag like it might miraculously return what’s been taken.

"You can't see it now because of whatever you're battling in your head, but I'm protecting you," Caleb says quietly, his voice low and steady. "If he's really as dangerous as you say, then you absolutely need to stay here. You're being very impulsive."

You flinch as he gently pulls you into an embrace. His arms are warm, steady, secure—too secure. A quiet cage dressed in tenderness. It doesn’t feel like safety. This doesn't feel like the boy you grew up with. It feels like a door quietly closing behind you.

You don’t reciprocate.

You just sit there, stiff in his arms, your face pressed against his shoulder, eyes wide and unfocused. The weight of your body is bone-deep exhaustion, but your muscles stay tense, locked tight like a coiled spring. Tears continue to fall, slow and silent now, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t flinch or move. Just holds you.

You want to scream. To shove him away. To run. To trust. To collapse into someone and finally let go. You want everything and nothing all at once.

And you hate—hate—that he might be right in some way.

Because the truth is, you are locked in a bitter, daily war with your own mind. Your PTSD isn’t just in your head—it’s in your chest, your spine, your skin. It lurks in your muscles, whispering that no one is safe. That no place is real. That even a moment of rest is a trap in disguise. It claws at your reality, distorting every sound, every touch, every kind word into something laced with threat. Every door closed feels like entrapment. Every gentle voice feels like manipulation.

Your trauma-bruised brain doesn’t know the difference between comfort and control anymore. Safety and suffocation have blurred at the edges. You want to believe Caleb. You want to trust him. But part of you is screaming that this is just another gilded cage.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Just to rest. Just to quiet the noise. Maybe if you shut it all out, it’ll stop.

But your body doesn’t relax. It stays frozen in his hold. Your arms hang useless at your sides. Because no matter how softly he’s holding you, no matter how many promises spill from his lips, it still feels like a trap. Like one more person trying to decide what’s best for you without asking. Like one more decision made for you instead of with you.

You are so sick of people telling you what's best for you.

"Just until the documents get here...?" you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if speaking any louder might break the fragile truce settling over the room. You close your eyes, trying to block out the gnawing doubt that’s coiled itself deep in your gut, trying to make the words feel true even when everything inside you is screaming they aren’t.

"Yes," Caleb replies, his tone soft and steady, almost relieved, like you’ve just agreed to something simple. Like your surrender is peace, not quiet devastation. "It’s for the best."

You want—so badly—to believe him. To believe that he knows what’s right. That this is safety. That this is care, not control. That his arms around you are protection, not boundaries. That his words are a balm, not a leash tightening around your throat.

But he’s still a liar.

Still keeping things from you. Still offering only partial truths, carefully curated phrases, and gentle redirections when you ask too much. He’s danced around every answer with the grace of someone who’s done it before. He’s protecting you—yes. But is he protecting you from the world? Or from the truth?

Or from himself?

You remember the way he looked when you confronted him. Calm. Measured. Like he was already several steps ahead of you. Like he knew he’d find the right words to stop you from walking out that door. That scares you more than anything—how easy it was for him to pull you back in. How much you wanted to stay, even after everything.

You know better now. You’ve learned. Painfully, repeatedly.

So you nod. You breathe. You stay.

But you do not relax.

Your body remains tense even as you curl up with Sylvia that night. Your hand never leaves her. You listen for every creak in the house, every footstep, every shift of breath from the next room. Sleep only comes in fragments, and when it does, it’s light and uneasy.

You’ll sleep with one eye open. You’ll memorize the exits. You’ll keep a backup plan, even if it’s just in your head. You’ll stash essentials in places he doesn’t know about. You’ll practice smiling when he speaks. You’ll say thank you when he brings you things. You’ll pretend to trust him, because pretending is safer than provoking.

You’ll keep your daughter close and your thoughts closer.

You truly can't afford to freely trust anyone.

You’ll watch him. Study him. Learn his rhythms, his moods, the things that make him soften and the things that make him quiet. You’ll map him like a threat, even when he acts like a sanctuary.

Because you have no choice.

Because you refuse to be in someone else's trap.

[chocosvt]

HER | part one.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.5k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, coke, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

potentially triggering scenes within the fic are NOT MARKED in advance

the content is already quite mature, so pls heed the warnings!

bolded and italicized text implies characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts

everyone's patience and understanding has been endlessly appreciated! you have no idea ;_; i give you all shining stars 🌟

⇢ part two | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MARCH 19TH.

“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”

 No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.

The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.

“Uh, Wonwoo?”

“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.

“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”

“Whose been breathing down your neck?”

At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.  

“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”

Her.

No, not her, you.

But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.

And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.

“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”

“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed a very short disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”

“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”

He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.

“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”

“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”

“Minutely, they are being considered.”

“Liar.”

It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.

In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”

“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”

“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.

In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.

“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “

Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.

“This is such a fucking waste.”

And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.

“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.

“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”

His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.

“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”

“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”

“Stop.”

“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”

A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.

“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”

“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”

“You’ve cornered me?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.”

“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”

“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”

“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”

“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”

 “With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”

 “Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”

Wonwoo had one very distinct memory of you: creative writing with Mr. T. It had been an elective class he took amongst all his compulsory maths, and at the time it was a much appreciated break when Wonwoo grew apathetically bored from looking at matrices and confidence intervals and equations that engulfed the length of his notebook. Professor T was late one day in the fall.

And that’s when Wonwoo remembered you walking in.

There was a sort of sharpness about your presence that pulled everyone’s spines straight. People tended to angle themselves away from you, though they did it subtly, feigning an adjustment in their seat or a plunge into their bookbag for something that wasn’t even there. Wonwoo lacked the words to describe you. To be honest, he most likely could if he put that infinitely expanding lexicon of his to work, but even then, he feared that everything would fall flat.

Some scruffy looking guy had made the mistake of sitting in your seat—someone who probably skipped most lectures and only happened to find himself near Gildan Hall purely by chance.

It was the seat squat in the middle of the small auditorium.

He remembered the hand propped on your hip as you sashayed up to him—you always sashayed places. Wonwoo found it funny, like there were paparazzi stuffed behind potted plants and vending machines waiting to spring out with their blinding flares, just to capture you picking up a half-empty bag of flavourless popcorn.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.”

“Hm?”

“Excuse me? Yes, hello. You—can you get up please?”

“Up...? Why?”

 “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry… what’s this about?”

 “Are you a first-year or something? Never bothered going to class until now? All the moshing and beer pong and ending up in some random basement of a friend of a friend of a friend is done so you’re deciding to actually get your money’s worth? Well, let me tell you this—I’ve been showing up to class punctually, and this is my seat. I always sit here. It’s my unofficially-assigned-assigned seat, which seems to be a known fact to everyone in this room except for you. Everyone has one. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sit in other people’s seats. I don't care who you are. You could be my own mother. You could be my best friend, even. President of the universe. That doesn't make it okay, 'cause it’s a respect thing. It's one of those assumed societal rules and you just fucking kicked dirt all over it.”

Whoever he was, he never came back to another lecture.

Since then, Wonwoo had dually made it his mission to never cross paths with you, look at you, or even so much as huff one single carbon-dioxide filled breath in your general direction, just in case that was some degree of unbeknownst personal law he might violate.

Seokmin had royally screwed it up for him.

What could you possibly want to write a book about, anyway?

—MARCH 26TH.

Wonwoo didn’t know how he was expected to find you in this gigantic mall. As he brushed through the streamlines of people, bumping their shoulders and mumbling the driest, most insincere apologies, he couldn’t stop looking at his phone. Seokmin had given him your number with the instruction that he could find you, here, on a busy Saturday afternoon. So far, Wonwoo had sent you four texts, none prompting a response or the grey-dotted bubble, even. Fuck, why did he agree to this? He couldn’t stop thinking it.

Why did he agree to help you, whom he was beginning to not even like, or want to be aquatinted with, write a book, when he’d been struggling to fill the same page of his own story for months?

Squeezing the phone tighter in his fingers, Wonwoo’s broad shoulder then smacked into someone else while he was busy steeping in his misfortune. It earned him a wildly disgusted look.

“Maybe watch where you’re going," the stranger grumbled, some man with an engrained scowl and big, bewildered eyes.

But Wonwoo ignored him.

He didn’t fucking care, and he was sick of wandering through this mall. It made him feel overstimulated, like his clothes were sticking to his skin differently, like the back of his head was swelling, and like all the smells in his nose were somehow making him warmer.

The stranger just stared at Wonwoo as he walked away.

Ding!

A text, but not from you—Seokmin, instead. Apparently, you were in some clothing store on the second floor. Wonwoo stepped onto the escalator, pressing himself into the barrier to make room for the especially speedy people who couldn’t simply stand and wait. He felt a random touch on the back of his head. Scrunching up the glasses on his nose and turning around, Wonwoo stared at the downward escalator, locking eyes with a pretty dark-haired girl he’d never seen before. She wiggled her fingers at him with a flirtatious smile, the scent of her perfume still lingering. Fresh roses, he thought.

He blinked at her once, twice, then turned back around.

Never in a million years.

It was funny, though.

Once Wonwoo stopped outside the clothing store you were supposedly inside, he felt the myriad of distractions and scents and noises dampen behind him. The irritability he couldn’t shake was slowly transforming into nerves. He’d never met you before, unless half-glances controlled by fear from across the small, basement auditorium that hosted creative writing counted.

Focusing on one breath, and then another, followed by a deep, self-soothing inhale, Wonwoo attempted to convince himself that he was in control, not the emotions quivering at his fingertips.

He cracked his neck and walked in.

After a minute or two of confused isle-pacing, Wonwoo rounded a corner, his eyes immediately fixating on a girl who was picking through a neatly assorted dress rack, her head tilted elegantly and her lipstick glimmering under the sterileness of the lights—you.

He gulped. Just suck it up.

She can’t be that bad. You can’t be that bad.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Wonwoo. I know we have a mutual friend in Seokmin. Lee Seokmin. He’s in one of your seminar classes or something, and, uh…. anyway. I believe I’m supposed to help you with a book you’re interested in writing… that’s what I was told, at the very least. And… I know we’ve never met but… um… I guess…” he trailed off upon noting your lack of acknowledgement.

Suddenly, he was taking a step back, letting you progress further along the clothing rack, your fingers hopping between each hanger and your eyes scanning their corresponding fabrics.

Wonwoo jerked on the inside with panic. He hated the situation already, though he somehow found the resounding courage, or perhaps, humility, to address you again, even if he’d rather die.

“So, I’m not sure if you—”

“Can you move, please? Over here or something? I want this dress.”

He kept his mouth shut in order to avoid spilling out any obtuse nonsense, instead watching with a nervous, analyzing gaze as you removed the hanger and shook out the purple, wine-coloured fabric, its sparkles rippling when you stroked your hand along it.

“Woah. This is too pretty.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, unsure if you were speaking to him directly. You already had a bundle of dresses tossed over your arm. Why would you meet up with him when you were clearly busy?

“Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Me?” He found himself echoing.

“No, the mannequin wearing that hideous plaid mini skirt. Of course I’m talking to you. Should I get you a q-tip or something?”

“No... I don't need a q-tip. It’s Wonwoo.”

“Wonwoo?” You exercised the name slowly on your tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, just so you’re aware, it’s 11:35. You were supposed to meet me outside the boutique at 11:30. I can see you’re not very punctual, so that’s noted…” for a moment, you stood back, and the searing line of your gaze judgmentally raked him from top to bottom. “Anyway… you’ll have to assist me with some things now, thanks to your big delay. I got all bored waiting for you, so I decided to do a little self-indulgent shopping."

It could have been wiser to continue biting his tongue, but even Wonwoo, who had practically vowed to avoid you for all eternity  due to his fear, felt compelled to challenge your unorthodox logic.

“Big delay? I don’t mean to be rude, but I did take the bus to get here, and their timing is never right. I feel like five minutes is a reasonable time to wait. Not that I’m saying you’re impatient.”

“Well, here’s the thing…” your back turned to him as you took a few slow steps down the clothing rack, probing between the different, pricy materials for anything exuberant you might have missed. “That is what you said, isn’t it? That I’m impatient? I mean—jeez—why bother dancing around it when you can just say it?”

He watched you face him again, except he was keeping perfectly silent, clutching his hand into an anxious, balled fist.

“Well, I suspect you lack urgency, making you apathetic, so therefore you have no sense of initiative. I’m sure you’re already aware, anyway. I can be slow, too, with certain things. Like, when I’m icing a cake. Or painting my nails. But I don’t walk slow, ever. That’s for unmotivated, pointless people who will probably go nowhere in life.”

“… Pardon?”

“Hold this, please.”

Suddenly, you draped the wine-coloured dress over Wonwoo’s shoulder. And he left it there for a second, still gobsmacked, chest shuddering from the pressure of his pumping heart, and wondered how you were even a real person. Once you began walking elsewhere in the store, Wonwoo questioned a very understandable escape toward the exit, though, for some reason, he snapped from his stupor and quickly paced after you, now folding the dress more straightly over his arm. He realized he was too afraid to surrender.

“I’m supposed to help you write a book,” he stated, feeling his lungs dig deep for air, “Seokmin said you needed help.”

“Okay, I’m tired of holding these two. Here—” you again blanketed the dresses into his arms, “—please keep this olive one in good shape, no crinkles. I have yet to find this colour anywhere else.”

Swinging back around, you began heading toward the change rooms, your uncomfortably tall looking heels clicking with each step. Wonwoo stuttered, and he couldn’t stop doing it—just, absolutely baffled by you and your consuming sense of worth. He didn’t know what to say, he could only follow, producing bits and pieces of sentences that you were either ignoring or genuinely hadn’t heard in comparison to the monologues in your own head.

“At what point will we discuss why I’m here?”

Finally, he spat out something coherent.

You paused, and for a fleeting moment, flicked your very intense eyes up and down in an examination of Wonwoo, who felt like he was being intrusively picked apart under a microscope.

 He swallowed tautly, “I’m just wondering… that’s all.”

You pressed your wallet against the top of his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the white leather stool placed just outside the fitting rooms. He sat, too, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans—even worse, the dresses you’d dumped on him.

“Let’s talk after I try these on, ‘kay?”

There was something different about your voice. It fell lower, sweeter, and he shivered with the thought that you had quite possibly just hypnotized him. He looked up at you, nodding his head.

“Good. Everyone calls me Her, by the way.”

“I know.”

He held his breath as you reached out to take a dress, the wine-coloured one, which was more like a dark, nightly amethyst now that Wonwoo was observing the fabric up close. So, what the hell was he supposed to do? Just sit there, twiddling his thumbs and shaking his knee while you busied yourself with fitting into all those wildly sumptuous dresses? There was a plethora of other things he’d rather be doing—too many to name, in fact. But he wasn’t going to bother slithering away now, chiefly because you petrified him too much and he wasn’t in the mood to be further guilt-tripped by Seokmin.  

Throwing his head back, he blew out a tired huff and looked at the ceiling. Why the fuck was he doing this? He just couldn’t stop thinking it. What on earth could he possibly gain from being terrorized by your weird authority.

“Hey, I’ve been there, for sure.”

Wonwoo noticed an older man waltzing past him, probably in his early thirties or so, who’d spoken in a sympathetic tone. He seemed very polished and clean-cut, made apparent by his sleek suit, and as a university student who was routinely on the verge of going broke after most rents, Wonwoo knew money when he saw it.

“Pardon?”

The man stopped and smiled.

“Waiting for your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. I’m just—”

He was interrupted by the squeak of the change room door.

“Be honest. How does this look?”

You had stepped out to examine your silhouette in the large, full-body mirrors against the wall, taking advantage of the heavier lighting to scrutinize every divot and ruffle that textured the amethyst dress. Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to say in the moment, and the man he was explaining himself to had wandered off into another aisle to answer a phone call. He watched your fingers pick and pull at the material so it could be readjusted in certain places, your bottom lip pursed as you angled your hips and tensed a leg to make a pose.

There were at least three other dresses strewn in his lap, and you were most definitely going to make him sit there and judge each one. Now, he could be honest. The dress was glittery yet sophisticated, something like a gloaming, purple-stained sky and its first emergent stars encapsulated into fabric, though he wasn’t completely sold on it. But he also wanted to leave the mall as quick as time would allow, so rather than being verbose, he shaved it down.

“It’s pretty, not great. I don’t really know.”

“Hmm…” you mumbled, keeping your eyes fixated on the mirror, “not great? What’s not great about it? The frilly parts?”

“Yeah, the frilly parts.”

God, he wanted to go home so bad. Warm tea would be nice right now. There were crinkle-cut fries in his freezer.

“Ugh, but I love the colour. I’m getting conflicted. Maybe I’ll toss it aside and think about it again later. Yeah, I’ll do that... okay, let me get the white one next. It’s a little short but I can make it work.”

 Wonwoo carefully pulled out the white outfit from the bottom of the pile and handed it off to you. The skirt was notably cropped.

Again, you strode back into the change room and softly clicked the door shut behind you. Wonwoo pulled out his phone almost immediately, navigating to his texts with Seokmin. His thumbs blasted against the screen, tapping out literary warfare that expanded into a decent sized paragraph Seokmin would most likely respond to with an apologetic smiley face. It might take a day or two for Wonwoo to cool off, but he always forgave him. Mr. Sunshine.

When he heard the door rattle, Wonwoo quickly hid his phone back in his pants pocket; however, he severely regretted that decision because holy fuck—that vinyl white skirt was indeed short and tight and the winding, crossed straps of the top were just maintaining your cleavage. He needed something to help avert his eyes because Wonwoo felt them itch with the urge to stare at your body despite how uncomfortable he was. The floor tiles—count the floor tiles, or count the lights—something, anything to distract his brain.

“Okay, this is like—if I bend over, I’m flashing someone.”

He prayed you wouldn’t ask him his thoughts.

“But like—okay, I can make this work, right? This has potential. If I stand really straight, and proper, and, just… pull this down a bit here—okay, fuck, that was too much. Don’t look for a second… don’t look…. don’t look… m’kay, fixed it.”

Wonwoo wanted to cradle his head in his hands. And, right when he swore that the situation couldn’t sink much lower, the wealthy, black-suit man returned from his phone call. He paused the second he saw you in the mirror, watching intensely as you fiddled with the vinyl and attempted to adjust the x-shaped top a little higher over your cleavage. Except he wasn’t exactly modest about his gaze. It was drinking you in like some sort of insatiable alcohol.

“This is tough,” you huffed, pressing your hands against your chest, “the top is super sexy. I love how open the back is. But it’s such little fabric considering the price. It sucks that I look so hot in it.”

Horrendously, Wonwoo noticed a jewel bracelet slip off your wrist onto the tiled floor. Even more horrendously, he watched in the tensest position possible as you began to bend over and grab it.

No. No, no, no, no way.

The last two dresses spilled in a silk and cotton heap off his lap, nearly tripping him during his rush toward you. He managed to cover your backside in the most heart-hammering nick of time, his hands accidentally brushing in static sparks against yours to help you pull the tight fabric back down your hips. Knowing the man was still watching in the mirror, Wonwoo clasped onto your arm and dragged you back toward the fitting room, his cheeks turned to rubies.

“Fuck, you need to be more careful,” he rasped, “the skirt is too short for you to bending over like that, alright?”

“I’m not leaving a gifted two-hundred-dollar bracelet on the fucking ground. Should I have just kicked it into the change room?”

“Gosh…” Wonwoo rubbed along his neck with tire and lowered his voice. “Bending over in a skirt that short, especially when there’s a fucking weirdo watching you, is not the best procedure.”

“So, it’s my fault he’s a creep?”

“Okay—that wasn’t what I—um—”

“Do you even like this outfit?” You deadpanned.

Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief, “I’m not answering that.”

“This is useless." Your eyes agitatedly rolled. “I’m changing.”

“Great, whatever. Do that.”

He gently pushed you further into the change room and closed the door with a smooth, loud shutter. His heart was still racing.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend wear that either.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Wonwoo didn’t care that his tone was snappish and clearly tired as he collapsed back onto the stool, making a point to ignore the perverted bastard until he left.

“Wonwoo!” You called his name after a few minutes of silence from the fitting room, “please bring me the green one!”

He wanted to utterly vanish, have the building collapse and crush him in a pile of dust plumes and rubble. Sliding the dress through the small gap in the changeroom door, Wonwoo found himself pausing.

“Why don’t I just hand all these to you?”

“Because, I’m using the hangers in here for my clothes.”

“Why can’t you just pu—”

“Thank you!”

Impatiently, you nabbed the dress and shut the door.

However, that dress was the last one you tried on, and Wonwoo couldn’t have been any more relieved. Talking to you seemed like it might give him heartburn or a hemorrhage.

He thought the shiny colour of olive green suited you best.

The dress was silken and long, slightly form-fitting, with a slit cut far up the right thigh and thin spaghetti straps at the shoulders.

You picked the first three dresses to take home, and left the last shimmery one on the rack.

“We’re leaving now?” Wonwoo asked, cracking his fingers.

“Yes, after I pay. Don’t seem so eager.”

“With all due respect, this place isn't really my scene.”

“Your attitude isn't really my scene.” You swiftly corrected him.

He stood next to you at the counter, observing as you zipped open your small black wallet to pull out a credit card. If you were shopping at a store like this, you must be making bank. But Wonwoo was somewhat nosey, and when you set the card on the countertop, he glanced at its embossed name. It definitely wasn’t your name.

Kim Mingyu.

It was your boyfriend’s.

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm ]: Goddammit Seokmin answer me

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm]: I’ve sent you at least ten texts

[ Wonwoo | 1:16 pm ]: Truly how do you do anything with this girl? I feel like she’s somewhat psychotic and you just fucking had to flash your sad mopey eyes at me in that café so I would break and help her write her book. I’m sitting here with dresses in my lap, pretty much acting as her unpaid personal assistant. Why the fuck is she asking me about dresses, anyway? Did you help her orchestrate this bullshit? I’m actually pissed at you. I want an entire paid lunch.

He wasn’t all that surprised you made him carry the matte silver shopping bag (with these twine handles that he absolutely hated because of how they suffocated around his fingers), and by a certain point, Wonwoo just didn’t give a damn any more. What little social battery he’d maintained since leaving his apartment had officially depleted, for he could feel it weighing in the plaza air around him like an imperceptible mist. Unfortunately, you weren’t lying about being a fast walker. He’d never seen someone stalk with such vigor.

It was nearly an endurance test to keep at your swaying hip, and the few times he fell behind, you would pause and beckon for him.

But Wonwoo discovered that even you needed to stop, to eat and drink like a normal human rather than the disguised cyborg he fleetingly speculated you were. Your touch was so abrupt—a hand had curled around his bicep and suddenly Wonwoo found himself being jerked into a café on the bottom floor of the mall. Of course, you had to pick the most expensive place to buy food in the entire fucking vicinity, and since Wonwoo was penny pinching at the moment, he opted to stand back and let you order.

But then he saw you flick open your wallet, waving Mingyu’s sleek yet flashy credit card between your fingers with blatant enticement.

“I can pay for you.”

He shook his head, muttering a careless, “no thanks.”

“Don't BS me. What do you want to eat?”

Wonwoo couldn’t stop staring at the credit card.

“What’s the limit on that thing?”

“Enough.”

“You haven’t burned through it already?”

“These openly snide comments you’re making aren’t appreciated, you know. Now, please give me an answer before I break off the temples to your glasses so I can use them to stir my drink.”

“… What?” Wonwoo mumbled, completely lost.

“Pick something!”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll just get a coffee, then.”

He took a step forward to examine the menu boards that the employees were wildly scuttling around underneath, browsing down their chalk-written cold brews until he picked one at random.

That was all Wonwoo asked for.

You bought a lemonade and some sandwich he didn’t catch the name of, toasted on panini bread. It felt amazing to sit down. Wonwoo let the silver bag slide completely off his arm and hit the floor, to which he could sense your gaze stinging over him in disapproval. He should have gotten a sandwich himself, but Wonwoo still wasn’t sure how he felt about using the money on your boyfriend’s credit card.

Wonwoo relaxed in his chair, angling a glance down at his phone that he kept below the table, checking for any Seokmin texts.

None. He was supposed to be Wonwoo’s stupid life preserver in this situation with you, and so far, he’d been left for dead. Taking a lengthy sip from his drink was the only way he could stomach it.

“You should put your phone on the table. Screen down.”

“For what reason?” Wonwoo responded in a dull tone, quickly checking his social media with impatient swipes of his thumb.

“So we can have a conversation.”

At that, he almost gagged, slapping down the coffee cup he’d just picked up.

“Now?” Wonwoo laughed, his deep voice reverberating louder than he intended around the café, “you want to talk now?”

“Uh, yes,” you answered, picking up one half of your sandwich and readying it before your mouth, “why is that shocking?”

“Because—you—ah, whatever.”

“You seem crabby. Is that your normal shtick or are you just hangry? Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

He was in a worse mood than usual, but that could be blamed entirely on the mall and how exhausted it made him feel—everything about its environment sucked out his soul. It was most likely the reason he was even daring to act so impatient. You took another bite as you waited for him to answer, and the delicious crackling sound of the toasted bread managed to fissure something inside him.

“Your eyes tell all. Here’s the other half.” You offered.

Finally, he’d experienced his first flares of contentment that day, though he wasn’t expecting it to be from a panini sandwich with what he could taste to be lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, and different types of melted cheese.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll at least give us time to finish eating.”

[ Seokmin | 2:30pm ]: I can do one paid lunch :)

[ Seokmin | 2:30 pm ]: Her’s not psychotic she’s just uhh

[ Seokmin | 2:31 pm ]: She probs did it to mess with you 

[ Wonwoo | 2:37 pm ]: She thinks being 5 mins late warrants putting me through one of the worst experiences in my life.

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Awwww

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Who doesn’t like a little shopping??

[ Wonwoo | 2:39 pm ]: It wasn’t shopping it was torture. You owe me so much more than a fucking lunch.

—MARCH 29TH.

Unfortunately, Wonwoo never got the opportunity to discuss your book that Saturday. In the middle of eating, your phone buzzed with a brief call that had interrupted your peculiarly passionate rant on the different cup sizes at the movie theatre (Wonwoo had listened without saying anything, mostly because he dreaded the circumstances that may come from peeping a word when you were so fixated on explaining that ‘the medium is too much but the small is too little and they’re both obnoxiously priced’).

He then watched cluelessly as you launched up from the table, collecting every little belonging between your fingers, babbling about some wax appointment that had escaped you.

It was just that simple—you were gone.

In the beginning moments of your absence, Wonwoo had sat there without much inclination of what to do next.

He’d worried it was another test, and that he was supposed to dutifully follow you to said wax appointment and continue bending to your every endeavour with no retaliation throughout the day. He had also found the silence across from him unsettling, in a way.

Nonetheless, if you weren’t there, then Wonwoo figured he didn’t need to be there either. So he left, taking the fifty-six back to his apartment, and you hadn’t contacted him since.

Wonwoo actually knew his landlord quite well.

Her building was comprised of four apartments, which sat above her pottery shop on the ground floor. She wasn’t a very bothersome landlord and it was fairly easy to connect with her whenever something broke or caused problems.

When he first moved in three years ago, Wonwoo had ardently adored living there, constantly studying the shelves of shiny glazed vases in addition to the beautiful water colour paintings that were created by his landlord or her students. It had been an inspiration supernova in terms of his personal literature, and he was able to start writing his book. Though, at the time, Wonwoo hadn’t been living alone in his apartment, and it was an inescapable fact that the only reason he began writing his book was with the hope of eventually presenting it to his old girlfriend-slash-roommate.

Now, it was just him.

And as Wonwoo pushed up from his grave of rumpled bedsheets, feeling lethargic and empty, he tried concerningly hard to pinch those thoughts from his mind. It was nearly lunch. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have allowed himself to rot that long in bed, but the other half of himself, the self-sabotaging kind, just couldn’t be bothered to fucking care. Wonwoo reached for his glasses that lay half-opened on the nightstand, raking them onto his face while brushing the hair from his eyes. The first thing he properly saw was his tall, skinny, orange bottle of venlafaxine. No. He was ignoring it.

Wonwoo had been ignoring it for the past few months.

Whenever he got particularly sick of staring at the bottle, he’d shove it in his drawer, making sure to bury it deep under old, amply-scribbled notepads and inkless pens that he’d worn to the bone. At last getting up from the bed, Wonwoo experienced his entire body sway and he caught the room spinning at the distant edges of his peripheral. But he walked through it without a care in the world, utterly too used to the feeling of imminent nausea even without his medication. He decided on a shower, then dressing himself, one Poptart, a swig of water from the kitchen tap, and almost walked out the apartment door with the minty toothbrush still in his mouth.

After walking three blocks down from his apartment, Wonwoo stepped across the dead, spiky grass and into the lacklustre parking lot behind the bowling alley that always smelled like stale pizza.

He knew the vanilla Camry well enough to identify it—stalled smack and centre amongst the emptiness—the licence plate being chiselled into his head like his old locker combination from high school (16-12-24, because Wonwoo for some reason liked fixating on prehistoric details that were glaringly useless in his present).

Early two-thousands R&B was blasting from inside the outdated-looking car, though it was thankfully turned down once Wonwoo threw the door open and shimmied inside.

The odor permeated Wonwoo’s lungs in a heartbeat.

“I thought you were getting this dry-cleaned,” he sighed to his friend, Vernon, who was busy rifling through a backpack.

“Uh, didn’t happen. Didn’t wanna pay all that. M’gonna find someone else to do it that’s not taxin’ my ass. Air fresheners are all dried n’shit so you’re gonna have to deal. My bad, Glasses.”

Glasses. That nickname had always made Wonwoo huff a little half-chuckle, and almost instinctively, he pushed the glasses a bit higher back up his nose. He was introduced to Vernon at a New Year’s Eve party he was forced to attend back in December, though it had been difficult to speak with him because he was blitzed out of his fucking mind—not to mention the choking pain of ignoring the girl who had been sliding her hands along the divots of his shoulders and chest from behind, kissing at his neck.

But Vernon was branded in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal in his face, and was blessed with concupiscent, honey-burnish eyes magnetized every woman in the vicinity straight to him.

Somehow, Vernon had become Wonwoo’s plug in the mix.

“Now, what are you gettin’, Glasses? The usual quarter ounce, right?” Vernon’s tongue poked between his blistered lips as he dug a heavily-inked hand further into the backpack seated in his lap.

“Yeah, quarter ounce.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Found it. This one.” Vernon exchanged the plastic-bagged ounces of weed with Wonwoo’s cash. “Gimme, gimme. I know it’s all here, but let me check… “ he flaked out the tinted bills with a satisfied head nod. “Prettier than a princess. You’re golden.”

“Did you just say princess?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said… what?”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s not princess?”

“It’s picture, isn’t it? Prettier than a picture.”

“Really? Oh. That’s not how I remember—why the fuck are we even talkin’ about this? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Now, that’s gonna last you if you’re cute,” he said, throwing his notorious bag into the seat behind him, then tapping at his busted radio with a thick strip of tape across it, the next song rasping through the speakers, “don’t go crazy on it with your meds and shit. Do you still got enough papers?”

Wonwoo scoffed dryly at Vernon’s assumption while he hid the plastic bag within an inside pouch on his navy-blue jacket. A second later and his phone buzzed with a text message.

“Fuck the meds, honestly,” Wonwoo grunted, shifting his hips up in the seat to remove the phone from his back pocket.

Vernon itched his dark eyebrow. “Alright. Just askin’.”

Wonwoo opted to say nothing as he checked the text message without much expectation, and he was thankful that Vernon was the type to drop a subject easily. Instead his friend transitioned into a different conversation, something about another tattoo that he’d been debating, but in the kindest way possible, Wonwoo wasn’t listening to a goddamn word. You had texted him. Finally. For the first time. After three days of radio silence. And Wonwoo didn’t know why he’d suddenly exploded into such a fidgety, heart-pounding mess. You wanted to meet up again in order to discuss the book’s details.

“Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ?”

“No,” Wonwoo laughed, clasping his right hand into an anxious fist, “um, I dunno. Just—Seokmin’s got me doing this thing with a friend of his. She’s trying to write a book and he kinda threw me into helping her. We’re supposed to meet up and talk about it.”

“Oh,” Vernon answered, leaning his elbow against the window and sweeping a hand through his black tresses, “do I know the chick?”

“Maybe?”

“She got any social media? An Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

“Ou, let me see.”

Wonwoo wasn’t following you. Then again, he was hardly following anyone. His Instagram had remained completely empty since his girlfriend left him, which had prompted Wonwoo to archive every single picture and delete all the ones that contained her, even the ones that captured mere traces of her in beaded bracelets and hair ties and white socks left on the carpet.

Wonwoo used Seokmin’s account to find you. Honestly, he hadn’t ever looked at your Instagram before. Without gleaning a single photo, Wonwoo thrust his phone at Vernon.

“Oh, yeah, I do know this chick,” Vernon chuckled, thumbing through your profile with a growing smirk, “Her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm, yeah. Know her. Tried to fuck her. Didn’t work at all.”

Snapping his head to look at Vernon, Wonwoo gaped, “what?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Vernon adjusted himself in his seat, pulling up his knee to rest a tattoo-coated arm across it, “—ran into the chick at a party that some rich dude at your university threw. Sweet-talked her for a bit until I realized she had a stupid boyfriend. She told me a million different ways to kill myself. Yeah, she’s somethin’, for sure.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ha—a little. She didn’t tell me to kill myself,  just scolded me for about ten minutes. God, she was wired as fuck though. Her boyfriend—fuckin’, Mingyu, or whatever—he gets her coke. I’ve seen her take a line like it’s pixie dust, man. This was like, over a year ago, though. Dunno if she’s still that loopy. I don’t care. She’s pretty hot.”

Vernon then flashed him a picture from your account, a full body picture of you sprawled across sparkling white sand in a bikini, meanwhile Wonwoo could only stare at it with the blankest possible expression as his brain splattered with computing Vernon’s story.

“Is she still with him?” Vernon asked.

Wonwoo cleared his throat and sat with his spine rigid against the leather, nearly forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

“With who?”

“Lady Liberty. Mingyu.”

“Oh… yeah. They’re dating, still.”

“No fuckin’ way,” his friend lamented while he continuously plunged further into your pictures, thumb pressed to his chin, eyes glimmering, “you coulda flipped this book thing on its head and actually got some fuckin’ head, especially with that deep ass voice you got there. I know it’s gotta feel good. I mean, look at her lips—”

“You’re being gross as fuck,” Wonwoo groaned, swiping his phone back and stuffing it away, “get a girlfriend yourself, man.”

“I’m tryin’ to clean up my act a bit before I do that.”

“That’s definitely a work in progress, I’m assuming.”

“Asshole,” Vernon’s voice was gritty as he coughed into a fist, slipping his knee back under the steering wheel and proceeding to crank his stereo until the music was practically suffocating Wonwoo, “now get the fuck out. You’re not my only deal today. Sorry, Glasses.”

“Later.”

Wonwoo pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cold afternoon breeze. He sucked in a long, relieving breath. At times the fresh air disgusted him, especially when he cozied into one of his mental ruts and everything in the world seemed so grey it was soul-crushing, but Vernon’s car smelled like straight fucking cannabis.

Fresh air was heavenly.

“Don’t forget to text your girl!” Vernon laughed just before Wonwoo slammed the door shut to swallow up the melodic lyrics.

He wanted to make a snap comment before the boy drove off to his next endeavour, but he didn’t care enough to think of one.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: hey wonwoo, it’s her. I think we should finally settle a date to talk about this book thing. let me attach a pic of my schedule and you can pick any open slots

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: 145_348.JPG

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]:  seokmin isn’t going to be our communicator anymore, so u can stop complaining to him about it

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: Okay, thanks.

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm]: I’ll take a look soon.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:45 pm ]: I’m excited to see you again

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: no likewise?!

[ Wonwoo | 1:50 pm ]: Likewise.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: ugh. thx

—APRIL 1ST.

It was around six in the evening and Wonwoo was seated in the SRX building, the sky rolling with lambent, hazy-toned pastures of peach in the windows behind him. He had arrived about an hour ago, taking the staircase up to the third floor. It was much quieter there, making it easier for Wonwoo to endlessly stare with glazed, void eyes at his laptop screen and the cursed document he couldn’t finish. After tapping his fingernails in a bored, repetitious pattern against the shiny white table, he felt the urge to delete each and every paragraph as if he hadn’t poured months of earnest love into them.

You would be meeting him soon.

He could still remember looking at your schedule, pinching into the screen and examining all the different colour-coded blocks: dinner parties, SSA meetings, gym sessions, errands—how the fuck you managed to juggle those things and more left him marvelled yet terrified. You were pretty on point regarding your arrival time, to which Wonwoo could immediately identify you before even seeing your face due to the heel clicking and the sounds of tapping jewelry on your bag.

Emerging onto the floor with a very intense scowl and a notably crushing grip on your drink, you were to say the least, angry. Wonwoo gnawed slightly on his tongue as you sat down.

Your purse clunked like a cinderblock onto the table.

He watched you inhale a slow, shaky breath, raising your hand with the expansion of your chest in order to calm down.

 “I’m going to kill myself.”

Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, subtly trying to establish more distance between you. He flicked a glance at his laptop.

“Damn. Why is that?”

“Because of stupid, incompetent people.”

“Yeah?”

“I just—I don’t get it!” You laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly jovial sound and more than anything it seemed like you were going to start smashing glass. “I don’t get how people are unable to understand that we don’t do walk-ins unless one of the stylists are free—” you dug a hand into your purse, pulling out a straw, “—which in the salon’s case, is almost never! I tell them we can’t in my very sweet, established customer service voice: ‘I’m sorry, but the only way to receive a chair is to book online.'”

Wonwoo tilted his head, grinning a little.

“Blah, blah. I tell them the entire story in the kindest way I can, even though I want to grab them by their fucking neck and drag them over the counter to show them our website.” You slipped out your laptop next, accidentally dragging out a lanyard along with it that you agitatedly shoved back into the purse. “And then, they get all uptight and pissy when we can’t wriggle them in! Sorry, our makeup artists are busy! Working with people who made scheduled fucking appointments! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

You scraped the drink toward you, slamming the straw straight through the plastic film lid with such force that several people ended up turning their heads. After taking a long sip, you gulped and glared until they probably realized it was you and pretended not to care.

For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t know what to say, so he’d folded his arms instead. Considering that Wonwoo worked the late shift stocking shelves at the pharmacy department, your predicament sounded like an entirely new world to him.

“Ugh, I’m sorry to bring all this negativity with me,” you apologized, still exasperated, “I don’t need this fucking tea—I need straight vodka. I’m seriously frazzled.”

“Seriously frazzled?” Wonwoo repeated, finding your choice of words funny as he resumed leaning forward, arms still crossed.

“Very, seriously frazzled.”

“I’m sorry about your day.”

Again, you sighed deeply while removing your long, warm jacket to drape over the chair’s spine—it was a rather elegant reveal of the strapless pearl dress underneath, tinted by the evening light, peach-pink as it rained from the ceiling length windows and framed your body like you were some sort of resurrected angel. Tension at last started escaping your shoulders. Wonwoo quickly realized that he'd been staring, and his fingers curled into a nervous fist.

“You’re actually such a good listener.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Um, thank you.”

“I like that you don’t interrupt me.”

Settling his elbows on the table and ruffling the back of his messy black locks, Wonwoo felt himself panic a little on the inside.

“Well,” he heaved in, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I know," you chirped, posturing yourself confidently, “anyway, the book. We need to talk about it.”

“Table’s yours.”

Wonwoo’s knuckles pressed softly into his cheek while he waited for you to prepare your laptop. His own document was glowing at him, and he swore the emptiness of the page made the screen brighter (in the absolute worst, most mocking way).

“Okay, I’ve got my ideas and such pulled up.”

He expected you to continue and introduce the concept, but you had suddenly stopped, and Wonwoo thought you appeared almost smitten and somewhat timorous. It was strange, because from what he’d known and gauged so far, you were nothing akin to that.

“Well, promise that you won’t think it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s why I want you to promise!”

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses and sighed, “I will need to be honest at some points you know, depending on what kind of help you want from me. Not that I’m going to be a straight-up dick.”

You scoured at him from over your laptop.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll promise if it makes you feel better.”

“Just—shut up." You wiggled your hand at him dismissively and proceeded to tug the laptop closer. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Once you spent a moment affirming the document to yourself, you looked up at him and smiled. “I’m going to write a book for Mingyu. Our fifth anniversary is coming up in the winter—it’s actually on Christmas Eve—the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. I just want to write him a little memoire thingy that tells our story. I want it to walk through the events of our lives, and how I remember them. First encounter, first date, first kiss, stuff like that. I’ve already collected some good memories to include. I have… somewhat of an outline? But my problem is the writing. I can spew nonsense from my mouth at a million miles an hour, but when I try to actually write? It’s crickets.”

You sat back, a hand poised thoughtfully at your cheek while one leg folded over the other. Wonwoo knew you were granting him the space to speak and at least offer a slice of his thoughts, yet, in that moment, he found himself to be drowning. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything of the delusional like; however, hearing you explain the exact premise of a story that he had been successfully writing until a certain breakup—it had shaken him, and Wonwoo felt like the universe was smearing salt fresh into his unsewn wounds.

“So…” your head cocked to the side. “Can I at least an ‘okay’ or a head nod or some sign of life? Or are you just too disgusted?”

What could he say? What was he supposed to say?

Wonwoo was genuinely clueless on how to help you write a story that he’d been utterly failing at writing himself. And, sure, maybe Wonwoo should just give up completely. His ex-girlfriend had ripped out his heart without a single indication that it would happen, and then exited his life in the blink of an eye, disappearing so fucking abruptly that Wonwoo could have said she was a shadow that he imagined in pure lunacy. But he hadn’t dropped the story because there was this very stubborn, unwilling part of his being that could not move on from her—her, who had been his love, and breath, and bones.

He’d decided to finish the story as a manner of easing into closure. If that closure never came, then so be it.

“Are you seriously fucking ignoring me right now?”

His silence had promptly disturbed your peace, and now you were glaring at him with the beginning licks of fire and hell in your eyes.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“What?” You pronounced sharply. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said while closing his laptop and sliding it back into his shoulder-sling bag, “I just—I’m not the right person to help you. I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Seokmin told me you could write fucking anything. He made it out like you were some literature God with a golden quill. And—great, you’re just packing up fucking everything. Are you serious? Am I even allowed more of an explanation or are you gonna leave it at that? Wonwoo, you couldn’t have told me this at a worse time.”

“I didn’t plan for it to be like that.” He could hardly push the syllables up his diaphragm. “It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t lift a finger to stop him from leaving, though the wavelength of your incinerating stare was felt like a hot, melting scratch down his neck. This was terrible, he was terrible—Wonwoo already knew that about himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut himself away in his room and sink straight through the sheets until he was swallowed. His anxiety was webbing around him. It was pulling him down into the soil and earth like he belonged there.

He truly hated this part of himself.

More than anything, he truly hated when other people saw it.

Especially people like you.

—APRIL 8TH.

Wonwoo didn’t think you would ever speak to him again, in person or over text message. In retrospect, he was fine with it. You were rather overwhelming and especially tiring for someone like Wonwoo who would be perfectly fine never seeing another human in his lifetime. Not to mention he was freed from helping you with your book, which he learned was a technical love letter to your boyfriend in addition to a romance he wanted a nonexistent part in. Going down that path once was already excruciating enough, and given his anxiety attack that saw him locked in a cold washroom stall last week, it was best you just forget about him. He assumed you already had, anyway.

After he stocked the last red bottle of sinus medicine onto the shelf, Wonwoo used his boxcutter to break down the cardboard package and fold it flat with the others he’d opened. It was time for his break, and then he would only have one more hour until the pharmacy section closed for the night. Once it hit ten o’clock, the store was automatically still and hardly anyone came in—minus the few student couples whom Wonwoo had to point in the direction of pregnancy tests or plan b. But it was a Tuesday night. He was at the bare minimum appeased he didn’t have to console a sobbing, snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old girl imploring for a First Response.

When he collapsed down at his favourite seat in the breakroom, Wonwoo pulled out his phone. He had sent Seokmin a text yesterday evening about going studying at the SRX building for their upcoming math midterm, though Seokmin had yet to respond and Wonwoo couldn’t evade wondering if you were pulling some strings behind the curtain.

He opened his bottle of juice and spent the remainder of his fifteen listening to music and jittering his knee.

Wonwoo took his earbuds with him back onto the floor, sneaking the wires under his shirt to pull out his collar. There were only a few boxes left on his cart that required stocking, and whatever didn’t fit would have to be scanned into storage. That shouldn't take long. Wonwoo could almost taste the crisp atmosphere of the night air and feel the gentle chilliness soon to ghost against his face.

However, halfway into shelving the cough drops there had been a polite tap on his shoulder, and Wonwoo wanted to wither up and lose his head right there on the tiles like a sundried rose.

He didn’t know who to expect when he turned around, pulling out a single earbud while the other continued to blast his music.  

“Oh, shit—I didn’t know you worked here.”

Fuck. He wanted to kill himself.

“Yeah, started a couple months ago, actually.”

Mingyu.

It’s not that Wonwoo didn’t like speaking with him, because they had definitely exchanged cordial conversations in the past, particularly when they both took that Probability Poker elective last semester and Wonwoo learned that Mingyu was a pretty decent bluffer. Unfortunately, Mingyu’s belief that he was a great bluffer was actually the one indication that he was indeed bluffing. It showed in his overly confident eyes before a twitch of the lips or a subtly shifted foot, meanwhile Wonwoo was able to sit there the entire time like he was an Easter Island statue incarnate.

Put simply, Wonwoo had always preferred to avoid Mingyu because he was your boyfriend, and per routine, he attempted to slip around most people that were associated with you.

“Cool.” Mingyu smiled and the flashes of his pointed teeth caught the light. “Stuff’s got switched around in here again.”

“New mods came out last week,” Wonwoo answered, placing the last cough drop box onto the shelf and facing it straight.

“Well, don’t know what the fuck that means,” his tone was brassy as he laughed, “I just came to ask where the plan b is now.”

 “Two aisles down, check the endcap.”

“Appreciate it, thanks—oh, condoms?”

“Next aisle.”

“Got it.”

“Just come get me when you’re done,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his boxcutter and running the blade along the taped seam of the cardboard to satisfyingly slice it open, “I’m the only one in pharmacy right now, so I have to ring you up.”

As soon as Mingyu disappeared around the corner, Wonwoo tossed the flattened cardboard onto his cart with the loudest, most life-draining sigh that could be harboured. He wasn’t the kind of person to cultivate those racing, panicky thoughts that consumed his brain like a merciless hurricane, rather it was typically one single thought that was an eternal black space to swallow him. But Wonwoo had to admit that seeing Mingyu had triggered something of the latter, and now he was feeling sick with the fact you possibly told Mingyu about his episode at the SRX building last week. To Wonwoo it had been the shackles of his anxiety, though it probably came across as a very ill-mannered, abrupt rejection from your perspective.

Mingyu didn’t take long picking out his items. It was clearly a run of the mill routine for him at this point—a mere grab and go.

At the register, Wonwoo mentally questioned why Mingyu had grabbed such a plethora of condoms. He didn’t mean to be vulgar in his thinking, but how often were you getting fucking railed?

Either that, or Mingyu preferred being well stocked.

Vernon would be bruising his knuckles on his steering wheel right now, considering how devotedly he attempted to seduce you.

As payment, Mingyu pulled out that godforsaken credit card that you had borrowed during the dress shopping. Wonwoo felt nauseous just looking at the damn thing. He swiped all of the items into a small plastic bag which he then handed to Mingyu with a notable impatience, wanting to whisk the boy out as quick as possible.

“G’night, man. Thanks for the help.”

“Night,” he answered in a deep, tired sigh, watching Mingyu’s head of thick and bouncy black hair disappear toward the aglow exit.

Well, clearly you weren’t wasting anytime thinking about him despite the dramatics pertaining to the situation last week, not even in the most marginal fraction. Mingyu must rail it out of you every night—not that Wonwoo would be surprised to learn such a thing considering the tall boy’s physique and your openly lascivious nature.

Well, good luck to you both, he supposed.

At least it was closing time.

Wonwoo had always suspected there was something ever so slightly off kilter about his body, especially in the way it reacted to certain situations and emotions. He knew it probably wasn’t the most mundane, ordinary act—locking himself in his aunt’s washroom the day of his sixteenth birthday, sliding down onto the cold, hard tiles, feeling his heart jolt, punch, and thump again his chest like a battering ram. There had been a pattern of rubber ducks on her eggshell blue shower curtain, and Wonwoo remembered counting them row by row, over and over, until his breath managed to steady.

Twenty-four ducks. He could still recall the number.

A doctor’s visit about three weeks later had granted him the diagnosis and a scribbled venlafaxine prescription. Wonwoo was already collecting his sweater off the tissue sheet bed, ready to leave.

In the beginning, he was strict about his medication. He organized them into pill cartridges and set alarms and always ate them with cooked, warm meals. Understandably, his habits dwindled every now and again, however, Wonwoo was quite pious to the routine for a good couple years. But then he met his most recent girlfriend in university. She was shy and reserved. All about the books.

Cute as buttons.

He fell in love.

And it was all such a rush of rose petals and sweet symphonies that Wonwoo became distracted from his healthy habits.

Of course, everything crashed and burned once she abandoned him. He capitulated in an instant, and the sight of the orange bottle made him paler than winter moonlight. It’s not like he wanted to suffer, or despise the way his body put him through a neural hell beyond his own control. The fact of the matter was that Wonwoo just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take those stupid pills.

It was a mountain. Every. Single. Time.

And for the third time that week, Wonwoo found himself awake at an ungodly hour, rifling through the black lunchbox he kept in his closet with his glasses about to slip off the fine point of his nose.

He pulled out the baggie filled with the quarter-ounce, his silver grinder, and his rolling papers. Moving to his desk, Wonwoo clicked on the small overhead lamp to illuminate his space, in which he tapped some of the weed into his grinder and began twisting the lid until he was satisfied. He liked preparing joints to smoke on the roof. It wasn’t particularly hard to access, anyway. Right outside his bedroom window was a balcony with a short ladder attached to the brick, and once Wonwoo had discovered it, he made a habit of climbing up to spark his joints so that their pungent aroma could be carried away by the fresh winds usually stirred up at gloaming.

Honestly, it was the only thing he enjoyed.

Just before he slipped out the window, Wonwoo grabbed a pair of black jeans he’d worn earlier in the week, discovering the lighter he’d accidentally left in the back pocket.

The ladder shuddered slightly when Wonwoo gripped it, though if he were being candour, he didn’t care whatsoever if all the bolts suddenly loosened and he were to splatter against the sidewalk like an uncooked pancake. In fact, the fall probably wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe a few broken bones and scrapes, some blood staining the street akin to little patterns of rain, bruises that signatured violets into his skin, but Wonwoo would still be painfully, vividly alive, enough to see the stars if the glasses didn’t snap off his face.

It was a colder night, so Wonwoo made sure to tuck on his beanie and huddle into his thicker-sized coat. He sat with one leg dangling over the building’s edge, feeling the wind whiplash against his back and crawl in these chilly, indecipherable whispers from his shoulders to his neck, almost tickling him, like it had missed him.

An orange flicker popped to life from the butane of his lighter, which he used to lightly singe the joint perched at his lips. Wonwoo then tilted his head back, blowing the cloud and its loose, airy curls straight into the sky’s deepest purples.

He loved being alone.

Even when his ex-girlfriend had moved in with him all those months ago, there was an unyielding part of him that hadn’t been ready to forfeit all his space and privacy.

But, over time, his love surmounted the sacrifice.

He would wake up to her sleeping face, and with thoughtful nudges, clear the hairs off her cheeks. He would spend an hour working on his homework or writing his story while waiting for her to stir so messily in the sheets that it became graceful. He would tease her with his cold hands as she boiled up tea in the kitchen, pinching at her hips with the utmost softness and giggling huskily into her neck when she would twist in the arms that bracketed her body against his chest. He would trap her between the counter, sunshine striking the room aglow in these nearly blinding seas of light, mouthing at her throat and tugging at her shorts and hitching his fingers so deep into her heat because all Wonwoo wanted to do was make her feel good.

Opening his eyes again, Wonwoo saw the stars rather than her face. The high was disseminating past his lungs and mingling with the pain that festered in his heart, concocting something that hurt so wonderfully, in all the right places, in all the right spots.

He was a fucking mess.

It wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t care enough to fix himself.

 —APRIL 15TH.

Why did Wonwoo keep coming back to that café? The number of times he’d sat down with conviction that today would be fruitful—today, the eloquence would flow from his fingertips like perfectly pitched music notes and the symphony would read as beautiful and mellifluous as it sounded in his mind. Today, he was going to write.

Except, he accomplished nothing of the sort.

Repeatedly tapping his index finger against the space bar, he waited for the right adjective or phrase to leap out—to grasp him in a headlock even—whatever it took, Wonwoo was willing to sit there all afternoon until one fucking word conjured in the infinite blankness that was his imagination. He reached for his drink, only to take a sip of dry air that smelled like his earlier cocoa. Wonwoo realized the cup was empty. Had he wasted this much time already?

It pricked similarly to a bee sting. His passions felt impossible. A sigh upheaved from his chest and fingers curled into his hair, musing up the already disarrayed strands and slowly warping himself to look more and more like a mad scientist. Wonwoo removed his glasses and slumped back in the chair, rubbing at the reddish prints left on his nose. Writing had soaked itself in agony and he was going to remain in the storm of it until the bitter, ungratifying end.

‘Till death do us part.

 And then, something struck.

Though it wasn’t what Wonwoo had hoped for.

Literally—it was your hand hitting the glass of the café window, which had jerked Wonwoo out from his self-pitying.

He scrambled to fix his glasses back on, your face clarifying in an instant. You smiled at him with your glossed lips, and he didn’t like the nuance of your countenance one bit. Watching you enter the café was jarring and uncomfortable and his fist immediately clenched, his index nail picking at the ruined cuticle of his thumb. Two weeks ago—that was the last time you had spoken. At the SRX building.

“Hey!” You sounded friendly. “Can I sit here?”

“Well, uh—”

“Great, thank you.”

You pulled out the chair across from him, then set your bag delicately on the windowsill. Wonwoo watched with nervous, fluttering eyes as you smoothed out your cropped skirt before sitting down, ensuring it was tucked under yourself appropriately.

“How are you?”

Gulp.

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s really good. I’m glad.” Your nails drummed once against the table. “I actually didn’t plan on coming here, but I saw you as I was crossing the street, and I thought, ‘I should stop by and check in on him’ because, y’know, we haven’t been talking.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Slap your hand against windows to get people’s attention.”

You swept something off the table with your palm, and this sunshine-like laugh turned your entire face to sweetness, but it wasn’t entirely earnest, and Wonwoo bit into his lip because you fucking terrified him. He caught your sparkling eye and wanted to melt.

“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, you’re good.”

“What are you working on?”

“A paper.”

Obviously, he was going to lie. Whether or not you could pick up on his lie was beyond Wonwoo’s control at that point. He didn’t know what you wanted, or why you were interrupting the flow of your very organized scheduling system to seemingly toy with him.

You didn’t respond to his paper comment. There was a thick silence between you despite the distant clattering of dishes, bubbling coffee machines, and conversations that coalesced into one big buzz.

Wonwoo bit the bullet.

“Something you want from me, yeah?”

“Not… exactly… I mean, after you left me at the SRX building, I wanted to get very angry about the whole situation. My day was terrible, and you responding to my idea with that sickly look on your face didn’t help. But I thought about it. You said no. I can’t ask anything more of you, y’know? I have to respect what you said.”

“Oh.” Wonwoo unclenched his fist, stretched out his long legs a bit more. “Yeah, sure. I get it. Thanks for understanding.”

“I just didn’t think my idea was that bad.”

“Well… no. It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.”

A twitch to your lip suggested you didn’t believe him. Wanting to clear the air a bit, Wonwoo stopped slouching. He sat straighter and lowered the lid of his laptop, inviting the space between you.

His mouth opened, and then closed.

Fuck, just breathe you idiot—he cursed at himself.

You did that little head tilt thing, half-smiling at him, looking radiant underneath the café sunlight and so oddly patient with his tied-tongue that Wonwoo was miraculously able to find his words.

“There is nothing wrong with your idea. I made it seem like there was. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to help you write a romance story, for personal reasons that would be useless explaining. But you seem very confident in everything you do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Hm, well, thank you for believing in me. Romance can be a touchy subject—I didn’t think of that, and I get it… I guess I felt more insecure about your reaction because writing is the one thing I can’t ace. I do need help with my story, even if I don’t want it. Well, it’s just the truth, isn’t it? There are some things I can’t do!”

You chuckled at yourself, and Wonwoo thought it to be actually endearing. All your hard edges softened in that moment.

“So, I haven’t made any progress in my story, which sucks because I’m operating by deadline—” reaching into your bag, you unveiled a small, compact mirror, using it to remove something invisible from your eyelash, “—do you have any writer friends that would help me?”

Wonwoo scratched his nose.

“Uh, with the book?”

“Yes.”

“None.”

“What?” The mirror snapped shut as you gagged at him. “How do you have no writer friends? Isn’t that your major? Literature? Do you even have friends that aren’t Seokmin?”

“I’m a math major for fucks sake.”

“You’re fucking joking, Wonwoo. Please, tell me it’s a joke.”

He leaned back, folding his arms and propping an ankle onto his knee. You were still gaping at him, and he wanted to smirk.

“What’s wrong with math?”

“Nothing. Math is… math,” you gritted, shoving the mirror back into your expensive-looking, gold-buckled bag, “but why math? Why straight math? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”

“Man, Seokmin really didn’t tell you fucking anything, did he?” Wonwoo chuckled. Or, maybe you had only heard the things you wanted to hear, which was what Wonwoo assumed.

“Like I have space in my brain to remember the multiverse of information that constantly comes out of his mouth.”

“So what is there space for then?”

“You're toeing a dangerous line.”

“Well, I like math and writing.”

"And what kind of papers would you be required to work on as a math major? Did you stumble across some quintessential theorem that nobody else really cares about except for you and all the other pocket-protector wearers out there? Or is this a Good Will Hunting scenario? Even better—are you waiting for someone to walk by behind you and see all that really complicated mumbo-jumbo on your screen and think to themselves, 'woah, this guy is really smart. He's working on a paper with numbers, and I only work on papers with words. Where did I go wrong in my life?' so you can develop some sort of alternative complex that writing just isn't giving you?"

Wonwoo cocked his head at you, perplexed.

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” He felt a laugh in his chest, but he pushed it down. Wonwoo had never met anyone like you before. “You made up everything you just said.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I go on tangents. It’s just something I do.”

“Damn. I can tell.” Wonwoo rubbed at the corner of his eye and slipped the ankle off his knee, further spreading his legs. “You like hearing the sound of your own voice, yeah?”

He always hated when people bothered him at the café, especially when he was trying to write. Today, it was different.

“Well, that’s true.” You beamed at him so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. “The most beautiful sound in the world, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Thought so. Ugh, I just can’t believe you have no writer friends to hook me up with.” He watched you slouch forward, slapping your arms across the table. “I’ll have to go wait outside Gildan Hall and start ambushing all the smart-looking literature majors.”

Wonwoo found himself examining your perfect nail polish.

“Good luck with that.”

“Can you at least try to sound more sympathetic?”

“You don’t seem like a person who appreciates sympathy.”

“Pft. According to who? I like being comforted when the time is right, and you’re not being very comforting.” You groaned into the table.

“You like being comforted?” He scoffed.

Your head popped up, and you were pouting. “At certain times, yes. Most times, no. It’s a complicated system. No one’s really cared enough to learn it except for Mingyu, and that was by force, and I think even he hates it. But I’m not asking for the moon. Just a reasonably sized chunk of it. I have to be worth something, right?”

“What’s life without someone catering to your every whim at the drop of a hat, huh?” He couldn’t help but mutter with sarcasm.

“Yes, exactly! See—you read my mind.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue.

“Ugh, now where’s my stupid phone?”

It was in your purse. Immediately, your eyes lit up.

“Jesus Christ. I’m gonna be late to my electrolysis!”

Like a burst of lightning, you shot up from your seat and quickly fixed the cream-white purse back over your shoulder. It reminded him of that time at the mall. One second you were engrained into a tangent, and the next you were scrambling about, attempting to recover the lost time in your meticulous schedule.

“If you think of anyone, please text me!”

Wonwoo nodded his head.

Now, there was a vacant seat before him, left slightly tugged from the table due to your hectic departure. For a moment, he just sighed, feeling the breath emerge from somewhere so deep in his chest that it ached. That was the thing about you—in a confusing turmoil, you managed to fill him up when he felt empty, but then empty him once he felt full.

He didn’t know what kind of person you were.

But there was an odd thrill to it that Wonwoo couldn’t articulate.

—APRIL 18TH.

Sat with Seokmin at the boy’s dining room table, Wonwoo popped a purple grape into his mouth while flipping a pencil between his fingers. The two had been staring plainly at their last problem from the math homework, but the question was horribly long, and his handwriting had morphed from legible penmanship to the most slurred hieroglyphics. Wonwoo wanted to dump a ramen packet into some boiling water and call it a night. He’d devoured a whole stem of grapes. His head was pounding and his stomach growled for a meal.

“Oh! You see—this is what gets me every time!” Seokmin exclaimed, leaned over his scattered papers, shoulders hunched with strain, “I mess up one multiplication in a matrix, and it screws me all up! Now I have to go over—uh! My fucking pencil just snapped.”

“Good,” Wonwoo mumbled, pressing a hand along the groove of his stiff neck, cracking it, “take it as a sign to give up.”

“We’re so close.”

Scooting the chair back to stretch his legs, Wonwoo then snatched his phone off the table. It was nearly ten at night.

“I’m hungry, and I don’t care anymore.”

Seokmin sighed, “are you going to eat now?”

“Yeah. Any ramen left?”

“It’s in the box sitting on top of the fridge. Soup broth is in the cupboard beside the microwave. I think there’s some eggs, too.”

Wonwoo easily grabbed the noodle packet off the fridge. He asked his friend if he wanted a bowl as well, and Seokmin agreed, abandoning their math homework after his defeating pencil-snapping incident. While they waited for the water to start bubbling over the stovetop, Seokmin had joined Wonwoo in the kitchen, though he leaned against the counter, holding his phone six inches or so from his face. Wonwoo had never seen anyone text that fast.

Gosh—he didn’t even need to ask who it was.

Noticing a few smudges on his glasses, Wonwoo lowered them down to the hem of shirt, beginning to massage the marks away.

“Our math final is the twenty-eighth, right?” Seokmin asked.

“Should be, yeah.”

“Thanks. If it’s on the twenty-eighth then I can definitely go.”

Wonwoo slid the glasses back onto his nose.

“Go to what?

Taptaptaptap—Seokmin’s fingers were practically electric.

“Uh, this thing that Her is having… at her parents’ house… like… a big dinner party… I’m helping her plan it… just need to make sure… I’m free those days… there! Okay, all settled.”

At last, Seokmin had clicked off his phone and slid the device back into the pocket on his sweatpants. Wonwoo folded his arms, staring at his friend with a deeply furrowed yet confused brow.

He sucked in a helpless breath.

“I don’t get you, Seokmin.”

“What—why?”

A few hot droplets of water had leapt from the pot, slightly scalding Wonwoo’s arm. He promptly ripped open the ramen packet and submerged the noodle brick, poking at it with chopsticks.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, “are you obsessed with her?”

Seokmin laughed, sounding astounded.

“No, I’m not obsessed. I’m just helping. We’re friends.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Setting the chopsticks beside the stove, Wonwoo turned around again, habitually crossing his arms low along the chest.

“I guess I don’t understand what you get out of that relationship.” He admitted. “Why can’t she do shit herself?”

“Ha!—That’s an interesting question.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s not that.” Seokmin lifted himself onto the kitchen counter, his head thumping back against the wooden cupboard. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. And—I meant it’s interesting to see your interpretation of it. Like, my friendship with Her.”

Wonwoo nodded. He wasn’t going to coax anything out of his friend that he wasn’t already willing to say. In fact, Wonwoo had only begun talking to Seokmin back in the early, rainy days of September, since they ended up in the same discrete mathematics course and happened to choose seats right next to each other. Their bond had formed fairly quick, but they never really conversed about topics more intimate than school work and their own interests.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, don’t apologize. I mean, I totally get why you’re curious.”

Seokmin glanced down at his knees, scratched his chin.

“Uh—well, what did you say, anyway? Why can’t her do shit herself? I mean, her life is super busy. Her mom’s a writer and editor for that popular fashion and beauty magazine you always see at all those glamour stores—Stunning Monthly—something like that. Her’s dad is this business tycoon guy. He works with my dad, actually. I’ve known Her since high school. Our families are close, so naturally we’ve spent a lot of time together. Her family picked up all their stuff and moved into Hillcrest on account of her dad needing to relocate for work.”

Wonwoo remained silent at the revelation, even though he was urged by curiosity to badger Seokmin with questions.

“But, uh—without all my non-essential rambling—the relationship with her parents is tumultuous. Who doesn't have a shaky relationship with their parents, though? A few lucky souls, probably. But they've set things up for her quite well, in my opinion. Her mom got her a job at the Milestone—that fancy beauty place down Bank Street? She has a makeup chair from time to time and works reception. She’s definitely gonna graduate Cum Laude with some big fancy scholarship. Not to mention the little power couple thing she’s got going on with Mingyu. She just tends to be…” Seokmin winced, massaging his shoulder, “she’s just a bit unpredictable. It would be way too easy for things to start falling all over the place. She’s a busy girl so I figure it’s nice to help her out. Keep things organized.”

Wonwoo bobbed his head, thinking.

“I guess I’m curious about the book thing. I mean, if everything is so perfectly laid out for her, and she’s so busy all the time…. why write a book? That takes months, extreme dedication, planning out the ass… it’s loving everything you’ve written and then hating it so atrociously… I don’t know,” he sighed, shrugging with confusion, “if I were her, writing a book would be the last thing on my mind.”

Folding his arms, Seokmin leaned back against the cupboards and agreed. “I know. But sometimes she just lurches onto random things out of nowhere. One year she practically turned her entire living room into a freakin’ art studio and I slipped on an open tube of paint on the floor—nearly popped out my tail bone. To be fair, her passion projects never last long. She never has the time, as you said… I know you’re not helping her anymore. She’ll probably drop it without help.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin answered, smiling, “just like that.”

For some reason, Wonwoo gritted his teeth. He would hate for you to discard the feat so readily, just because he couldn’t pitch in as initially planned. Yes, writing was not always a fruitful cherry blossom tree and sometimes chalking down one sentence was equivalent to a month of effort and squeezing out all the creative fibres in one’s brain, but there was so much worth and occulted beauty to it at the same time. It was the art of expression.

Wonwoo thought it was quite cruel to deprive oneself of the ability to express and articulate things as they coursed through the fragile skin and the warm veins, and chiefly, the heart.

“Anyway, maybe I didn’t really answer your question,” Seokmin laughed, “but, y’know, don’t worry too much about turning down the book. You’re right. She’s got more important things to focus on, as I was telling her over and over, and—oh! Fuck, the ramen’s bubbling!”

Wonwoo quickly twisted around as the water began spilling over the edge and sizzling like fried meat. He lifted the pot off the piping hot, orange element, to which Seokmin joined him, twisting the stove dial to a much lower heat. Blowing at the white froth, Wonwoo waited a precautionary minute before returning the pot.

Once dinner was ready, they gathered back at the dining table, entwining the noodles with their chopsticks and hardly allowing a second for the ramen to cool before they were shovelling in burning mouthful after mouthful. The bite in Wonwoo’s stomach was gradually appeased. He soon felt warm, and full, and less tempered.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?” His friend glanced up from his phone.

“So…” Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, his fist clenched. “I guess what—from what I understand—if I don’t help Her, or if she doesn’t find someone who can, then the book just won’t happen ”

At his observation, Seokmin nodded, seeming unbothered.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

“That’s sad.”

“Hey, you two just aren’t destined for each other,” he replied, slurping his noodles, “you were right back at the café.”

Picking up the white and blue patterned bowl, Wonwoo prepared to drink the broth, feeling the delicious heat fan back against his face. Once he finished eating and helping Seokmin with the dishes, he planned to catch a late-night bus back to his apartment above the quaint pottery shop. He didn’t know if he would sleep or not.

Maybe, however, that would give him time to rethink some choices, even if he shouldn’t trust the musings his brain happened to curate past nine at night. Especially any musings concerning you.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: Sorry to message you this late.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: I’ll keep it brief: I’ve given your book idea some thought, and if the offer still stands, I’d like to help you write it. Though, I understand if you want someone else’s help.

[ Wonwoo | 11:50 pm ]: Goodnight.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: AHHHHHHHHHHH

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: good morninggg

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: no that’s so perfect

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: okay. OMG. there’s just so much we have to sort out. I’m trying not to overwhelm myself lol

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: thank u for giving it more thought. I’m excited to plan everything and see u again ofc :)

[ Wonwoo | 12:55 pm ]: Likewise.

—APRIL 24TH.

Since last November, Wonwoo hadn’t invited many guests to his apartment—not even his older brother, who had never stepped foot into the building after Wonwoo originally signed the lease. Seokmin visited once or twice, but everything was curt, and while there had been one time that Vernon slept overnight on the couch, it was hardly notable.

Knowing that you were going to be at his apartment in a few hours was a very daunting thought. Consequently, Wonwoo had done something he hadn’t properly completed in months: clean.

It wasn’t like he just threw out the garbage and wiped down the kitchen counter either. He legitimately cleaned, picking over his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, not allowing one coffee cup or coaster to seem even vaguely incongruous. He fluffed out the couch pillows and vacuumed the floors. He went through his entire room, tidying up piles of clothes on the floor and aligning every book on his shelf. For the first time in months, Wonwoo threw open his heavy curtains, pure sunlight engulfing the space in such a bright glare that his eyes stung and he hardly recognized his own bedroom. Most importantly, he remembered to hide the pill bottle in his nightstand.

After all the anxiety-driven cleaning was done, Wonwoo collapsed onto the couch and stared plainly at the ceiling, the reality of what he just accomplished beginning to sink into his pores.

What the fuck?

He doubted you would care even microscopically if his apartment wasn’t perfectly swept and polished and artistic like a photo from an interior design catalogue. But at the same time, it would have been impossible for him to leave it alone. The burst of productivity undoubtedly left Wonwoo rather hot and sweaty, so he opted to take a shower before you arrived. Standing beneath the cool water and taking slow, languid breaths helped ease his nerves.

And, for the first time in what he imaged to be—months, Wonwoo dried himself off with this feeling that everything was okay.

Not good. Definitely not great. But okay.

While he buttoned up a pair of blue jeans, Wonwoo heard his phone ding from his desk. Reaching over, he tapped the screen.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:05 pm ]: hi, I’m almost there

His chest fucking lurched.

Roughly jerking open his drawer, Wonwoo pulled out the first shirt he saw, tugging the white long-sleeve over his head before he wiggled his feet into a fresh pair of socks. Once Wonwoo found his glasses, he sat on the edge of his bed with his phone.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Okay.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Would you like me to come down?

God—he felt like his stomach was going to collapse.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:08 pm ]: no that’s okay :)

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:09 pm ]: it’s really pretty down here

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm]: sorry I was looking at some of the pottery / painting stuff. it’s the staircase down the hall, right?

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm ]: unit 102?

[ Wonwoo | 12:12 pm ]: Yes.

He reminded himself to breathe. Calm and slow and lifting the pressure that dug so bluntly into his lungs. The webs began to burn away. It had been a narrow escape, but it was successful.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:13 pm ]: heyy, I’m outside

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wonwoo walked to the front door. His fingers brushed the knob in a flash of doubt, though his mind had already committed and now the door was pulled open and you were there, just as you said.

“Well, hello.”

He nodded at you, and then gestured for you to enter.

“Where should I take off my shoes?”

“There’s good,” Wonwoo answered, pointing to a textured mat in the corner that you proceeded to leave your simplistic heels on.

How absurd was this? Never in his life would Wonwoo imagine you at his apartment of all places—the one girl whom he adamantly tried to avoid because you were his gleaming opposite, and everything that you were, certain and in control, scared him. You were gazing around with your hands politely clasped together, ignited in the fulgurant sunlight, a small smile on your mouth.

“Wow, you’re very clean.”

Wonwoo stepped after you, maintaining a shy distance.

“It doesn’t normally look this neat,” he admitted, watching you readjust the strap of your tote bag, “I did clean for you.”

You turned to face him, and your laughter filled the space with a refreshing, long lost tone that made everything brighter. His fist clenched up anxiously and he knew his cheeks were pinkening.

“Um, cleaned or power-washed?”

He merely stared at you. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?

“Jeez, don’t look so afraid. I���m joking. And I obviously appreciate the effort.” You spun back around, continuing to walk past the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “It’s a lovely place, and it’s definitely got your personal touch. Oh—this is a cute mug.”

He breathed out, unfurling his hand and stretching his fingers until the air in his knuckles popped. You began wandering in the natural direction of the bedroom, and so Wonwoo followed, his eyes drifting up the jeans that hugged your legs and your sashaying hips, to back of your delicious-smelling hair. What was that scent, anyway?

Manuka honey?

But it was just a trivial glance, really.

Nothing meaningful.

“Is this your room?” You asked, stopping at the doorframe.

“It is.”

Biting your lip, you peaked inside and started to grin.

“Do you care if I go in?”

 “No.”

He tried not to crumble right there on the floor. Wonwoo’s room was his sanctuary, a fortress, something that barred out everyone but himself and granted him the freedom to do whatever he pleased (whether it was self-detrimental or not). The thought of others in his room was a gash in that perfect sanctuary, in which he could see the walls bleed out all their comfort and familiarity. His ex was the last person to be in his room, typically sprawled across the bed with a good novel in her hand.

It was a sour, sour reminder.

“Oh, and there’s the bookshelf,” you pointed out, “how fitting.” That penetrating gaze of yours roamed his desk and his bed and all his knickknacks in between. “Hey, why’s there a balcony outside?” You then asked, settling your hands onto the window frame and leaning out, the wind fluttering minimally through the layered curtains.

“Just a remodelling error,” Wonwoo explained, “it was supposed to be removed, I think. Never happened.”

Allured by curiosity, you leaned further out, examining the ladder that led up to the building’s roof. He looked at you again, specifically the arch in your back and the way your arms were planted so firm at the windowsill. He looked at the sunlight rippling on your cheek and your lips that appeared to sparkle, like you had kissed glitter.

“You definitely go up there, right?”

“Yeah.”

Half-shutting the window as to keep the breeze flowing, you chuckled. “I figured… so, I guess we should stop dawdling and get to the meat and potatoes. Is here a good spot? Or do you want to go back to the living room?”

“We’re in my room anyways,” Wonwoo commented, pulling out his desk chair and promptly sitting down, “so, why not.”

“Cool. Let me get my laptop.”

You slipped the tote bag off your arm and sat on the edge of his freshly made bed, being careful not to rumple the sheets.

“Okay!” Your hands echoed a series of soft claps. “I’m all ready now. I’ll try my best not to ramble—oh, and please, please don’t interrupt me until I’m done. I’m going to be very pissed if I lose my train of thought and I’d like this meeting to remain pleasant.”

Wonwoo nodded. “I know.”

You flashed him a brief smile.

“So, as you know, Mingyu and I’s fifth year anniversary is coming up in December. My gift to him is this so far nonexistent book. We’ve been through a lot as a couple, and as individuals, and I want the book to fully capture this journey we’ve been on and how much I… appreciate him. Also, I’m going to introduce a second, special element—” a hand plunged into your tote bag and suddenly a video camera was revealed, “—I want to record some of our brain sessions, and, like, our voyage of figuring this shit out. I like mementos. I hope that’s okay.”

“… Do I answer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then, yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Secondlyyy—” you lilted while scrolling a little ways down the notepad on your laptop, the video camera stuffed back into your flower-and-honeybee-patterned tote, “—there are a few places we’ll need to visit—not the actual places that Mingyu and I went to since we grew up nowhere near here—but places that more so have a strong resemblance to the ones in my memory. I feel like it will help me with visual aspects of the writing. I’m a very visual person. Y’know, setting up the scene and technical things like that. I like touching and feeling and seeing and breathing everything in. I want all my senses on fire, basically. Like… the way your lips feel after eating insanely hot noodles.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Wonwoo didn’t really care. He just agreed.

“Lastly, I want to make a schedule for us. So, I’m kindly asking you to set up a schedule of your own—work shifts, doctor’s appointments, tests—the like, so I can incorporate them into my own hectic life and make us one colourful, super writing schedule.”

And then, with a big, winded sigh, you shut your laptop.

“That’s it. Done. Thoughts?”

Honestly, the entire premise didn’t sound all that terrible. He had braced himself for the worst, but you were unsurprisingly organized and had pinpointed all your desires quite clearly. Of course, he knew it was going to be sheer hell—flames up to his knees and desert sun beating on his skin like a hot skillet frying butter. You were structured and dedicated and Wonwoo was none of those things.

No doubt, Wonwoo would have to learn to deal with you.

You would either be his trigger or his pulse.

But, even worse, you would have to learn to deal with him.

“I’m just following your lead on this,” Wonwoo announced, lacklustre of much interest, resting his hands against his stomach while he rotated back and forth in the swivel chair, “whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. How soon do you want the schedule thing?”

“Like, as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Do you really have no questions?”

Wonwoo scratched the side of his head.

“Uh, have you got anything written down yet?”

“Yes,” you propped open your laptop again, “an intro.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t question me. It was already difficult enough to write it, and I agonized over it for hours.” You pouted, slumping slightly.

He shifted up straighter in the desk chair.

“I’m sorry. I was just wondering. It’s good you started.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you. “Do I get to read it?”

Your feet crossed and twirled together. He didn’t think you had any nervous ticks, but that was something easy to pick up on.

“Um, not yet. Not until we officially start.”

“Okay.” He answered with a gentle voice, noticing your swaying feet still again and a bit of rigidity dissipate from your body.

Well, he didn’t really know what to do at this point. Wonwoo suspected you were constrained by more tasks for today and your time with him was limited. It’s not that you were sitting in an awkward, stifling silence, but he would rather occupy himself with something rather than nothing, because nothing left his heart to race.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Glancing up from the laptop, you shook your head. “I ate before I came here.”

“Are you going to be leaving soon?”

At that, your face crinkled with laughter. “Sick of me already?”

Wonwoo crossed his arms. “No. Just asking.”

“Well, I have a wax appointment soon. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so.” Finally, you looked up, and your eyes clicked with his in a way that made the fine hairs along his neck prickle coolly. “Does that answer your question?” A subtle grin pulled at your soft lips.

“It does, yes.”

“You don’t like having people in your room, do you?”

He huffed at the observation and delved a hand through his black hair, feeling the dampness slide against his fingers. “Not particularly.”

“You should have just said that.” Rising off his bed, you closed the laptop and shoved it back into the tote bag.

Wonwoo’s entire chest jerked. It felt like a ten-story drop.

“Are you leaving?”

“Mm, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.”

Why did his throat close up just then? Why did his vocal cords abruptly feel so coarse and tight? Why was his heart hammering? He didn’t mean to project the wrong impression. He didn’t hate you in his room. It just felt misplaced, and new. Like picking up a puzzle piece from the box and attempting to jam it into a different puzzle.

“It’s fine. Seriously. I should be early, anyway.”

Wonwoo stood up, realizing he needed to breathe. “Um… would you like me to walk you down?”

You stopped on your way out, faced him with a pretty smile.

“That’s okay.”

But then you did something rather strange; your hand sank into his firm upper arm and suddenly you were leaning into him, so carelessly close that he could feel the fanning, light warmth of your breath against his neck. Wonwoo’s head started to spin, and he thought a cloud had enveloped the room because his vision fuzzed.

“Sorry,” you took a step back, removing your hand, “you just smell really good. Like an ocean or something. It reminds me of this beach in Puta Cana. But your hair’s all damp and fluffy so that’s probably why. That was weird. I’m sorry.” Again, you laughed.

Why the fuck did you do that? He was almost angry. But not at you. At himself. For reacting in such a giddy, stupid way. Your touch and breath had burned him and there was this sharp, cutting flare inside Wonwoo that didn’t want to let you leave.

“All good…” he mumbled, sounding groggy and slow.

“I’ll see myself out then. Bye!”

And with a final chirp, you left, the front door closing in the distance while he could only stand there, shuddering and strangely hot and beyond confused. Wonwoo moved to swing the heavy curtains shut, the entire room succumbing into its usual shadiness. He sat on the edge of his very neat bed, removed his glasses, and buckled over while rubbing his veiny, pale hands through his hair.

The feeling was so lost and suppressed to his memory.

Wonwoo didn’t even know what it was.

He was relieved you were gone, but he also wished that you were still there, leaning out his open window with the wind and sunshine in your face. It was a sight so sweet and equally intimate.

Who are you?

What are you doing in his meaningless life?

—APRIL 28TH.

Wonwoo had finished his math final with half an hour to generously spare, and now, he was sitting, bored, sketching his pencil against the last page of the thick packet. The professor wouldn’t care.

Hopefully.

On one hand, Wonwoo knew he  should really just stand up and hand the damn thing in, but on the other hand, he hated—no, abhorred being the first person to return a test, especially an exam at that. Wonwoo was pretty smart. He knew that about himself and he never bothered to maintain the guise he wasn’t. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t pretentious. If he had to wait until the final fucking minute to hand the packet in, solely to avoid being the first student up, then so be it.

Besides, there wasn’t anything too pressing that required his immediate attention—minus the pertinent schedule he was supposed to make and have sent to you approximately three days ago. You had called him last night, to which the phone crackled with a loud, static bark of his name as you admonished him for his lateness.

“I told you three days ago I wanted the schedule! Three days! I can’t believe this. What’s so hard about making a schedule? Beep boop, you press some buttons on your laptop and it’s done. It would take ten minutes tops! Ugh, I’m so done with you, Wonwoo. In fact, don’t call me back—don’t even text me until you have the schedule!”

And then the line had collapsed, leaving Wonwoo to stare rather expressionlessly at his phone screen, the boy huffing out a breath of tendrilled smoke while he relaxed on the apartment roof. That had been his first experience sat on the receiving end of your seasoned quips, and it left him with this very profound emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and the shell of his body was nothing but a wooden nesting doll. It had been such a long time since he genuinely cared about disappointing someone. Wonwoo had grown far too complacent with the feeling of disappointing himself.

That would never motivate him to do anything.

But you were different. In the sense that Wonwoo mostly remained proactive out of fear you might bite his head off.

From somewhere near the back of the room, Wonwoo heard chair legs scraping, and he eagerly flexed his fingers while observing a girl with the slickest ponytail he’d ever seen march past him to the professor’s desk. She set her packet down. He thanked her. She left.

Jesus Christ. Finally.

“All finished, Wonwoo?” His professor mumbled in a tone that hardly escaped his own lips, glancing up at the boy expectantly.

Pushing up his glasses, Wonwoo nodded.

“I suppose it’s harder for you to sit there and wait than it is to write the actual exam, isn’t it?” The professor noted with an almost undetectable smirk as he slid the test packet inside a tan-coloured folder, to which Wonwoo turned January cold.

“I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugged, pretending to feel unbothered when in reality his skin was slithering like a snake pit at the thought of being even marginally perceived. “Maybe.”

“You have a good summer, alright?”

“Thanks. You too.”

Wonwoo swept a quick glance over the classroom right before he left, noticing that Seokmin was sat beside the wall, one hand tangled tight into his black, ruffled tresses as his pencil scribbled all over the paper like he was writing pure nonsense. He probably was.

And Wonwoo meant that in a nice-this isn’t really your sweet spot, but you’ll manage nonetheless-way. After leaving the classroom, Wonwoo thought he might go home and plunge head first into his oasis of bedsheets and flat, foam pillows that he loved so much, and permit himself to decay until it was physically impossible to lie down any longer. But he decided against it at the last minute, turning up at the café instead with his shoulder-strung book bag and the timely urge for a scone. He then sat down at his favourite table.

Pulled out his laptop.

Opened the document he was at incessant war with.

The last scene he’d written was breakfast.

“Uh, okay. Orange juice… or orange juice?”

“Did you say orange juice?”

“I did.”

“So… chocolate milk?”

“Ha! Funny... is there any sort of correlation between being a complete nerd and making such well-woven jokes?”

“Not sure. But I’ll get back to you when I find out… thanks. Your tea is sitting on the island, by the way.”

“Thank you, Won. Oh—you even put it in my Woodstock mug!”

“Yes, why are you so surprised that I remember?”

“Because it’s always hidden at the back of our cupboard, behind ten other mugs that we certainly don’t need and all our plates. I mean, I guess it’s my fault. Half of them are from my mom.”

“It’s sweet.”

“It takes up too much space. But I can’t tell her no.”

“That, you’ve got to work on.”

“The Christmas thing isn’t happening anymore, if that helps. I think the thought of having to cram all my family into our living room for a night was what motivated me the most. My mom said she’ll send us poinsettias instead. I think that’s way easier.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Believe it or not, I can assert myself. Sometimes.”

“No, no. I do believe you. I’m proud. Okay—bottoms up.”

“How’s the combination of venlafaxine and orange juice?”

“I don’t know. Juicy?”

“Better juicy than anxious?”

“You could say that.”

Right, back when Wonwoo actually had the willpower to make himself breakfast rather than slapping a mixed berry Poptart into the toaster or worse, nothing at all. Back when he could wake up before noon without feeling nauseous enough to curl into a ball and drape the sheets over his aching head. Back when he actually took his medicine. Her face beaming at him from across their table had always been like a glass of sunlight and citrus. She had been his own vitamin.

Wonwoo knew he wasn’t going to write. He was just going to stare and mope and ensnare himself in the pinwheel of memories that blew over him whenever he had the gall to reread his past literature.

The Woodstock mug. She’d taken that with her.  

He decided it was strange and sometimes irritating how love, broken or not, could suture itself into even the most mundane things. Orange juice was just that—juice—the carton he used to pick up and impetuously drop into his grocery cart every so often. Now, it wasn’t juice at all, but slow mornings, steaming tea kettles, and reading together on the couch with legs all tangled up until lunch time.

Now, Wonwoo couldn’t drink it at all.

Breaking the lemon raspberry scone in half, Wonwoo dropped a flaky piece into his mouth before it got too cold, and then proceeded to close the document. There was no way in hell he would write, and while he loved drowning in his own misery in order to snuff any glimpse of productivity more than the average individual, he thought it might be worthwhile to finally start that schedule.

[ Wonwoo | 8:20 pm ]: schedule.pdf

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: thanks

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: don’t piss me off again

—APRIL 30TH.

For an April morning, it was surprisingly bright. The sun was out in full and glistering warmth by the time Wonwoo stepped onto the sidewalk and began pacing down to the park, practically needing to squint the entire way. He almost hated it. Early mornings were not his friend, nor were the blades of light cutting across his glasses. But today was his first writing session with you and Wonwoo knew it was more than crucial that he was the furthest thing from tardy—it would be akin to willingly setting his hands inside a burning fire if not.

You agreed to meet at the park since it was roughly equal distance between Wonwoo’s apartment and some breakfast place you wanted to stop at. He thought it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to shoot him a text asking if he wanted anything, though Wonwoo declined nonetheless. It was damn near impossible for him to eat a bite of food until lunch time, hence his expression softening in confusion when he at last climbed into the passenger seat of your sleek silver car and was greeted by you passing him a cold tea.

“Am I… holding this for you?” He wondered, sitting still.

You shook your head. “No. It’s yours.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Yes, I realize that. I can read, thank you.”

Wonwoo wasn’t going to argue. He simply shut his mouth, clicked on his seatbelt, and set the tea into the cup holder. He then began looking around at your car’s interior. Everything was exceptionally clean and smelled sugary, like iced gingerbread.

The thing was, Wonwoo still wasn’t very sure how to talk to you, and most often there was the stiffest frog in his throat whenever he sat around you in silence for too long. Your thumbs were tapping against your phone at light speed. It reminded him of how Seokmin was texting you back at the boy’s apartment when they were studying for finals. Wonwoo couldn’t help but wonder if Seokmin was naturally more inclined to respond to you out of friendship or fear. Maybe even a pinch of both if that was possible. Another quiet minute passed by.

“Okay, fuck, sorry,” you suddenly spluttered at random, quickly slotting your phone into the GPS holder, “just some shit with my mom. Um, okay. Yeah. We can get going.”

“All good," Wonwoo answered.

“You know where we’re off to?”

“Vaguely. The track by Caldwell High School.”

He watched you flit him a smile. “That’s the place. I’ll explain more once we get there. And, by the way, I am expecting you to drink that tea. It’s not anything crazy. It’s oolong. Only a bit of caffeine.”

“I drink coffee, you know.”

“Yes, and it probably makes you jittery and insufferable.”

Wonwoo preferred not to comment.

The car ride wasn’t too long. Actually, Wonwoo did love a good car ride. He remembered the long trips he used to take with his family to the water park when he was a child, the sensation of the breeze blowing into his face and how different shades of green would scatter in through the windows as the sun hit the tree leaves like emeralds. There was something so limerent and sadly distant about the memory that Wonwoo felt his chest hurt. Even if he were to take that same road, and smell the same breeze, and see his skin glow with the same hues of the forest, he doubted it would feel the same.

His mouth had gone awfully dry. Wonwoo then reached for the cold tea sitting in the cup holder and took a sip, suddenly very appreciative that you had thought to get him something, anyway.

And while he couldn’t be too certain, Wonwoo wanted to think that maybe this would be a good memory, too.

After the half-hour long car ride, Wonwoo made sure to stretch when he stepped out into the empty parking lot. It was cloudier now, a bit more of a breeze to help counteract the warmth that remained in the air. You came around to join him, twisting out a cramp in your leg while adjusting the purse over your shoulder.

The walk to the track field wasn’t long, no more than a few minutes, and Wonwoo obediently trailed at your side until he witnessed the bleachers slowly coming into view. It resurfaced memories from his own high school days in PE, which Wonwoo had actually been quite successful at despite his distaste for sports and their atmosphere in general. He remembered liking kickball the best.

You sighed in a wistful tone while staring across the marked asphalt and fresh April grass. “All high school tracks look the same, don’t they?” Then, you carefully set your purse onto the bleachers.

Wonwoo rolled his shoulders, taking a more observant look around. It wasn’t strikingly different from the track at his high school.

“Sure. I guess.”

“I mean, there are some differences. We had ditches by our track. Come to think of it, I honestly believe they put them there for kids to hurl in from heat stroke or over-exertion… that’s what I did, anyway. It was right before I had to do triple jump. I hated it because you had to really build up speed. I didn’t want to run. So, even if I hadn’t thrown up from heat stroke, I probably would’ve made myself throw up some other way. Straight to the nurse. She gave me a popsicle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’d rather throw up than hop, like, three times?”

“I said it was the running part I didn’t like.”

Wonwoo couldn’t imagine purposefully making himself upchuck in order to get out of something. If his anxiety was terrible enough, then he wouldn’t even have to worry about it, really.

That was its own mechanism of disaster.

“Running is eighty-percent of Activity Days," Wonwoo said.

You clicked your tongue at him. “Exactly. And I’d do anything to never run. I tried to sit in one time with the seventh graders. They were in their art block and they were doing painting under the trees; birdhouses or something. But their teacher kicked me out. And she didn’t even let me take the fucking birdhouse that I was painting.”

“The nerve,” Wonwoo answered, scratching his temple.

He proceeded to take a seat on the metal bench, rubbing his hands together. He still didn’t know how Mingyu fit into everything.

“So… what’s your plan, here?”

You sat next to him, folding one leg over your thigh and proceeding to reveal a journal that you had stuffed inside your expensive bag. The tips of your fingers skimmed through a few fluttering pages, until you stopped on one in particular that was ink-abused with cursive scribbles. Wonwoo assumed you did most of your planning on a laptop, hence his surprise to learn that you actually used a journal. He had a journal himself, though it hadn’t been touched in months. It mostly contained small poetic excerpts.

Next, you pulled out a pen.

“This is how I first ran into Mingyu. At my school’s track field. He was new and good at all the activities. I swear, his name spread like wildfire. Anyways, I haven’t figured out all the bits and bobs. I want to really soak in the feeling of—oh!” Suddenly, you grasped the journal back onto your lap, the pen hitting the paper in a cursive ribbon that Wonwoo could hardly read. “I just thought of a great line. His eyes, I wanted to soak in them, like an oasis.”

You stabbed the paper again to make a period.

“Not bad,” Wonwoo commented.

“Okay, here it is!” A black case was pulled from your purse, and once you unzipped it, Wonwoo realized it was the video camera that you had initially shown him at his apartment. “Okay, I want you to film some stuff. The field, obviously. I need it from different perspectives. It will help me with setting the scene later on.”

“Why do I have to film it?”

“Because, Seokmin told me you’re quite handy with film equipment stuff, and I don’t want to drop it. So just do it, please?”

Accepting the video camera from your hand, Wonwoo sighed in agreement. Flipping open the side-screen of the camera, Wonwoo began clicking some buttons and adjusting the focus. Luckily, he was familiar with the particular camcorder thanks to a film education course he’d taken outside of school.

While you busied yourself at the bleachers with starting up your laptop, Wonwoo began collecting footage, slowly panning the camera across the vast length of the gravel track and the grassy soccer fields situated beyond. He kept a concentrated eye on the side-screen to ensure the lighting wouldn’t change too drastically. A wind had picked up from over the forest, and he could see how the clouds were consequently being pushed along like herded sheep in the sky.

Once he brushed back the floppy, black hair that kept tickling his face, Wonwoo lowered the camera and turned to you.

“So, where else should I film?”

You were typing something, and didn’t bother looking up.

“Go across the field. Film from the other side.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to go all the way over there?”

“Yes. Walk, crawl. Skip, hop. I don’t care. Just do it, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed out, feeling tired and yearning to go home, “I hate how seriously you’re taking this, y’know that?”

Your fingers continued blitzing against the keyboard.

“Nobody likes a complainer.”

Ironic, he thought, but obviously kept to himself.

There wasn’t a point in expecting any sympathy from you—that, he already knew—which engendered Wonwoo’s long, trudging walk from one side of the track to the other, the wind irritably blowing his grown-out locks over his glasses every time he attempted sweeping them back. Hoisting the camera back up, Wonwoo adjusted the side-screen and began his same ritual of steadily panning the camera along the landscape.

You appeared in the view, still sat on the bleachers, though nothing about your face or figure was too discernible. It felt like you were a background character in a painting, just a little glob of acrylic.

“All done?”

Finally, you had glanced up at him with a smile.

Wonwoo nodded. “Unless you need anything else filmed?”

“No, that should be enough. The track is most important.”

“Right.”

He tried giving back the camera.

“Actually, do you mind keeping it?”

“Um, okay. But how will you look at the footage?

“Dropbox. We’ll share one. Upload the clips there.”

Wonwoo plopped himself back down on the bench, fitting the camcorder into its black case. He pulled the zipper along the seam.

“How much longer do we need to be here?”

“Not that much. Just let me finish this paragraph.”

There was a dull pain throbbing at the front of his skull, edging down to his temples—across his nose bridge where his glasses pressed in more tightly than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath, trying to escape the feeling, the nausea, the chills that were beginning to seep up his neck as the wind blew turbulently against him. It would be embarrassing if this happened here, right in front of you. The hard lump had suddenly lurched forward in Wonwoo’s throat but he leaned his head down last minute and swallowed it despite the roughness. No, everything was okay.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wonwoo opened his eyes, staring down at the trembling hands buried in his lap. Subtly, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan over them. He assumed his face was reflecting a sheer, sickly opacity.

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sure. Now look me in the eyes and say that.”

Again, Wonwoo swallowed, but he managed nonetheless.

“Nothing’s wrong. I get headaches sometimes. That’s all.”

“… Oh. Well, I’m basically done here. I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk a lap around the track with me, but maybe we should just go home. I mean, how bad is it? Your headache?”

Yes, yes. Home. Wonwoo wanted to go home. He had only been away from his apartment for a solid two hours, and yet all his mind and body’s energy had completely drained. He felt dried out, withered, fragile as tempered glass. Going home sounded cosmic. 

“It’s getting better. I wouldn’t mind walking with you.”

“Oh! Cool. If it gets really bad, just tell me.” You then spent a minute collecting your belongings back into the cream purse.

Wonwoo immediately looked the other way, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair, mouthing a string of guttural curse words directed at his discombobulated head. Because what the hell was he doing? All his relief and peace had just suckled itself down an invisible drain. Why on earth did he agree? Why?

“I think this will help me, too," you said, having left the shiny bleachers behind, instead kicking the pebbles at your feet, “if we walk the entire track, then it’s like we did the four-hundred meter.”

“You’re supposed to run the four-hundred meter.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I’m surprised you hate running. I mean, you walk so fucking quickly sometimes.”

He heard you snort, clearly amused by his observation.

“It’s because I’ve mastered the art of sashaying. To have a perfect sashay, you can’t walk too slow, but you also can’t walk too fast. It’s like a strut. You need to have confidence while you do it. It lets people know that you’re serious and professional. I’m not dragging my feet, but I’m also not in a rush. It’s the perfect pace.”

Wonwoo sniffled and scrunched the glasses up his nose, continuing alongside you at a pace that was rather aimless.

“I didn’t realize there was a science behind sashaying.”

“Now you know,” you declared.

Wonwoo’s  upper lip quirked slightly, and a small grin appeared on his face, which was starting to dapple with colour.

“I don’t sashay, do I?”

At that, you laughed, “no, you amble.”

“Yeah, I’m an ambler… which basically means I’m an unmotivated, pointless person who will probably go nowhere in life.”

For a moment, you stopped walking, and you merely furrowed your brow at him while your forehead creased with thought. Wonwoo stopped as well. He raked back his fluttering, windswept hair and smirked, flashing his teeth. The behaviour was uncharacteristically snide and a bit of a dig at your bluntness, but he couldn’t help it.

“Don’t remember, huh?”

“No… but it sounds familiar.”

“You told me that, the day I met you—that people who walk slowly are unmotivated and pointless. Their life is a waste, basically.”

He noticed your eyes shift up toward the right, as though you were pulling the memory forward from the intricate files of your brain. And then you started to smile, and it made Wonwoo smile, too.

“Oh, I do believe I said that.” You started walking again, and he followed. “Ha! Wow, you’re right. I said that. I’m so funny. I mean, I was right. You only walk slow when you have nowhere to be.”

“I did have somewhere to be. I was going to meet you.”

“Well, then you just didn’t care.” He felt your elbow press shallowly into his rib. “See what I mean? Unmotivated and pointless. And, honestly, I would have taken your apathy as more of an insult if it wasn’t for the fact that you seem to treat most things like that.”

“So, I’m just supposed to accept that you’re calling me a loser? How do people normally react when you say things like that?”

“Things like what? They’re just my observations about the world. You are a person in this world. I was making an observation about you. Albeit, it came across strongly. But I don’t know. No one ever cared about being gentle or sugar-coating with me. Gives you tough skin, y’know? Metaphorically, of course! I always moisturize.”

 Wonwoo scoffed, smiling at your nonchalance. “The way you word things is honestly fascinating.”

“Psh. How do you even remember that?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem that hard to remember. It was a pretty memorable, somewhat awful experience, to be fair.”

“Awful?” You retaliated in unprecedented disbelief, pushing into his arm until he allowed his tall frame to stumble. “Try again.”

“Interesting?” Wonwoo substituted, his heart thumping. 

Your eyes were narrowed at him, glimmering with a sharpness that made his fingers clench into anxious fists.

“… That’s a little better.”

He exhaled a soft breath of relief.

As you began nearing the full circle, Wonwoo realized his head had eased from its horrible aching and the chills dampening down his neck were gone. Everything didn’t feel as awful compared to before. He was still tired, and his energy was sputtering in tiny, dying sparks, but at least his desire to crawl under the earth and degrade to his bare bones had subsided into something less morose.

“I heard you were having a get together next week,” Wonwoo decided to ask, rounding the last bend in the track.

“Oh, the dinner party?”

“Yeah. Seokmin’s helping you plan it, right?”

“He is. Which I appreciate. My mom is usually the one in charge of everything, and she loathes it. But, I mean, when we try to help her, she just ends up fretting even more—says we’re basically getting in the way and ruining it. I don’t know. She’s such a snappy perfectionist. Seokmin can have fun dealing with that.”

Wonwoo almost made a thoughtless comment in response to your story—he’s probably had eons of practice with you—though the pieces connected just in time and his mouth sealed shut.

“Your dad can’t help either?” He questioned instead.

“Ha! No way. My dad helping is a recipe for fucking disaster if I’ve ever seen it. He’s painfully bad at decorating, can hardly be trusted to cook or invite anyone from the guest list. The most my mom allows him to do is set the table.” You then scoffed, shooting a pebble forward with the tip of your shoe. “I swear, he knows exactly how to push my mom’s buttons. The faster he does it, the quicker she kicks him out and he’s absolved of all chores. What a cheat, huh?”

“Hm, yeah… is Mingyu going?”

“Of course.” You smiled. “He always goes.”

At that point, you had circled back to the bleachers. Adjusting the bag strewn over your shoulder, you heaved out a longing sigh.

“Well, that’s four-hundred meters in the books.”

“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”

You cackled, “not even close. I think I was right to avoid it.”

—MAY 3RD.

Wonwoo slid his pharmacy badge through the time-machine until he heard the beep. After an eight-hour shift, he was hungry and tired, but Wonwoo also knew the second that he got home, his urge to eat and desire to sleep would be gone. Instead, he would spend his midnight staring up at the ceiling, thinking. About anything and everything, and nothing at all. When the first cracks of dawn light would spill in from under his curtain, then he would close his eyes.

It was all very typical.

He stood outside the store, phone in hand, waiting for Vernon to pick him up because Wonwoo hadn’t felt like walking home despite the softness of the nighttime wind and the alabaster moon’s shining ambiance. The mirage was pretty and he enjoyed it, but his feet were too sore to inch him another step. Luckily, Vernon didn’t take long.

Luckily, he was the only one of Wonwoo’s few friends with a sleep schedule just as horridly fucked up as his. It was eleven at night, but on a weekday? The dead, empty street testified for him.

“Heyy, Glasses,” Vernon sang in his throaty voice as Wonwoo climbed into the passenger seat, “you look like a prostitute standin’ there, waitin’ for me to come get your ass. But a sophisticated one.”

The interior didn’t smell heavily of weed, he noted. Thank fucking god, Vernon had finally paid someone to dry clean it. Either that, or he took the initiative into his own hands.

“I highly doubt you have ever seen a prostitute in your entire life. And the fact you think they’d be standing outside a pharmacy at one of the quietest parts on this block attests to that.”

“God, I hate when you get all technical n’ shit. Such a stiff.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, well. You’re always tired. N’ for the record, I have seen a prostitute, outside Room 319. It was a week before Christmas; she had this huge coat on, walkin’ up to people in her pink heels and this crazy eyeshadow that made her eyes pop. I bet she’s a nice girl.”

“Mhm. I bet she was.”

“Oh, you’re a cunt, yeah? You don’t believe me.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll take you one day. Room 319’s got a table with your name on it. They’ve got this one shot, the Stabilizer— it’ll put you down like a fuckin’ sick dog but it gets you the best drunk of your life. Maybe we’ll even run into Pink Heels lady. She’s our Halley’s Comet.”

“Halley’s Comet only comes once every seventy-five years. “

“You know what the fuck I meant.”

“Not interested.”

Vernon blinked at him for a moment in the dull light, and then he sighed, forfeiting. He placed the tip of the key in the ignition, but he quickly removed it as though he remembered something.

“Wait, I’ve gotta ask—how’s it going with Her?”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Wonwoo reached for the seatbelt and pulled it slowly across his chest, debating how intelligent of an idea it would be to entertain Vernon’s curiosity. But he could also understand the allure. You were like this enigmatic myth that people craved to know about, even if it frightened them.

Wonwoo’s head collapsed back against the seat.

“It’s going well.”

Vernon spat out a boisterous laugh, a hand slapping down on his knee. “Jesus Christ. You’re so dry, man. That’s it?”

“I mean, it’s true. We’ve started the book. Or, she has.”

“Okay, and?” Vernon attempted to engage him further.

“And, what?”

“What’s she like, obviously? Is she actually a fuckin’ psychopath? Is she normal? Can she walk on her hands? I dunno!”

Wonwoo rubbed underneath his glasses. He didn’t really want to talk about you when you weren’t there. It felt like a Bloody Mary situation, where you’d magically conjure in the backseat to sinch your cold hands around his neck and wrangle him limp and lifeless. But then there were Vernon’s shimmeringly prying eyes that just wouldn’t stop burning Wonwoo no matter how hard he bit his tongue.

“I have nothing to say. She’s cool.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God.” Vernon slacked back into his seat, clutching at his steering wheel. “You just don’t wanna talk about it… oh! Shit. I just remembered. She’s having a dinner party tonight, isn’t she? In Hill Crest. Or as I like to call it, Rich People Neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, that’s where her parents live… how do you know that?”

“Shit!” Vernon immediately shuffled up in his seat and delivered a hard smack into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “We should drive down and check it out! Right fuckin’ now!” He was lit up with excitement, even though Wonwoo considered it a terrible idea.

“No. Absolutely not. And answer my question.”

“Was sittin’ behind Seokmin at Solar Pop, he talks really loud, happened to overhear some things—doesn’t matter. I think we should go! C’mon, allow some spontaneity into your life! Why not?”

“What the fuck do you mean, why? It’s a family party. With some close friends, which—in case you haven’t noticed—neither of us are. You can’t fucking crash a family dinner party. Who does that? Not to mention the fact that it's eleven at night. They're probably washing up. Sending people home. By the time we get there, it's lights out."

“Aren’t you her friend?”

“No. I’m just someone who’s doing her a favour.”

“Favours are from friends.”

“We’re. Not. Friends.”

“Okay—fuck, Glasses. Fine. We won’t crash the stupid dinner party. But don’t you wanna go for a drive or something? I’m tellin’ you, the houses are insane. Last time I went down there, it was for a big fuckin’ party some dude at your university threw. I think I ran this by you already, when I talked about tryin’ to chat up Her. I stopped by with my old friend—y’know, Dots, the guy that died from the overdose and everything. That party was crazy. It was in a mansion.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo had just finished massaging the throbs at his warm temples, “we are not going to Hill Crest.”

His friend swung his head in disapproval, making a tsking sound with his teeth. “Such a fuckin’ stiff.” He started the car. “It’s the fact I know you have jack shit to do tonight, or tomorrow.”

“I’m not gonna do some stalker drive-by on her house.”

“You don’t wanna do Room 319. You don’t wanna judge a bunch of richies sittin’ up in their ivory towers. I mean, it’s not like we’re eggin’ them or spray painting fuckin’ curse words on their eight-door garages. What do you wanna do?”

Wonwoo rolled down the window and leaned his face toward the moonlight, to which he could feel the wind brush up against his skin in feathery strokes, as though it were caressing him. He knew that Vernon meant in a general sense rather than in the heat of the moment. But in a general sense, Wonwoo would rather not be anywhere at all. He would rather do nothing, or even exist.

“Can you just take me home? Please?”

Vernon exhaled a defeated gust of breath and began to angle his tires away from the curb, the pharmacy lights pulled behind them.

“Yeah, ‘course. Mr. Boring.”

—01:49

Wonwoo hadn’t been able to fall asleep since Vernon dropped him off a couple hours ago. He’d anticipated that. Usually, Wonwoo wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t toss or turn, or pace circles around his bedroom, or count down from one-hundred, because even if he did, none of it would work. His mind would still be wide awake.

Hence Wonwoo’s decision to grab his phone. Staring at a lurid screen definitely wasn’t going to help, though he wasn’t trying to sleep, anyway. That conversation with Vernon was repeating in his head like a chattering bird, pushing him, pushing him, pushing him to find your Instagram and dig into your pictures because now Wonwoo was thinking of your dinner party and how vehemently you seemed to hate it. He saw that you had posted something quite recently, around the same time Wonwoo had left the pharmacy.

For a moment, his thumb hovered over the post.

He didn’t want to press it because he didn’t care.

Or, maybe he did.

There were multiple pictures in the set, and Wonwoo flicked through all of them. Some were of food, close-ups of your jewelry—you even included a picture with Seokmin. But then Wonwoo had settled on the last photo and something in his stomach convulsed.

He recognized the dress like a flash of light—the sapphire one with the glimmering detail that you had modelled for him at the expensive boutique in the mall. Of course, that arm hanging cheekily low around your hip belonged to your boyfriend, Mingyu. He had a champagne glass pressed to his lips, fitted in his black suit with his hair neatly combed and styled into place. The smugness in his face was stifling. Wonwoo rolled onto his stomach, his eyes refusing to drift from the picture for even an instant. He just kept staring.

Staring and thinking. Staring and thinking.

One minute spent staring at your smile.

The next minute at the low placement of Mingyu’s hand.

Another minute staring at your sparkling dress.

The next minute at Mingyu’s brutally cocky expression.

He would switch back and forth.

But Wonwoo didn’t really care. He was just bored.

And alone with his thoughts.

—END OF PART PART ONE.

NOTE! while i truly cherish & adore all comments, pls refrain from remarks such as "pls post part x" "i need part x" "when are you posting part x" while i do understand the sentiment, i find these comments very dismissive & kinda disrespectful! i don't prefer to post series fics and so i don't receive these often, but pls note that if you comment this i will delete the comment!

the fic itself is completely done, so all i have to do is get the parts ready for posting. however, bc this is the first part, i don't have a set posting schedule just yet. i think it will depend on roughly how long those who read the fic take to finish it! but i will be sure to make a post about it or include the schedule in part two once i figure it out!

again, thank u so much your ur patience :3

much luv!! 💕

[reidmarieprentiss]

Red: Part One

Summary: Spencer, in need of a break, finds himself at a quiet bar where he meets you. What starts as a chance encounter quickly turns into something deeper as the two of you fall for each other. Though your connection is undeniable, both of you struggle with opening up fully, each holding onto personal secrets that linger just beneath the surface. As you grow closer, the trust builds slowly but surely, but what truths are you both holding back? And how will they shape the relationship that’s blossoming between you?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, alcohol consumption, mild withholding of information, season 7 Spencer, this is just so fluffy

Word count: 23.5k

a/n: i am deeply obsessed with these two and i am sooo excited to continue writing for them !!! part two on the wayyy — unedited NEVER be afraid to call me out!!

also so silly but in this gif mgg has pen ink on his hand and that makes me happy

main masterlist part two

Additional warnings: handjob, fingering, grinding, mild breast play

Spencer had his eyes half-closed, nursing his second beer of the evening, the slight buzz in his head both surprising and, in a strange way, comforting. It wasn’t often that he sought out a bar, let alone one like this—a dimly lit, almost hidden speakeasy. The soft, jazzy notes of a piano floated through the air, merging with the quiet hum of voices around him. He liked that no one recognized him here, no one pried, no one asked questions. He could just be.

As he took another slow sip, he felt the weight of the stool next to him shift. Someone had slid into the seat beside him. He didn’t glance over immediately, his mind too cluttered to bother with pleasantries. The cases were piling up like unsorted files in his head, all demanding his attention. His mother’s health was deteriorating again, and the migraines that had haunted him for years had made a sudden, unwelcome return. 

For a moment, he regretted not finishing the bottle of aspirin in his bag before entering the bar. But the alcohol was doing its job, numbing the edge just enough to make the night bearable. It wasn’t about getting drunk—he knew he wouldn’t let himself go that far—but it was about finding just enough peace to ease the constant pressure in his head, even if only for a few hours. Spencer closed his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath, the smell of wood and faint whiskey lingering in the air.

Spencer’s gaze lingered on the woman beside him, unable to tear his eyes away just yet. She looked like she had walked straight out of another world, her style effortlessly unique, her red boots and gingham shorts standing out against the muted tones of the dimly lit bar. There was something about her that drew him in, despite her stoic expression—an air of mystery, as though she held a universe inside her that she wasn’t quite ready to share with anyone.

The bartender slid the espresso martini in front of her, and she barely acknowledged it, her mind clearly elsewhere. Spencer wondered what she was thinking about, what troubles weighed on her. He sympathized, his own mind heavy with stress and worry. He almost felt a kinship with her, like they were both sitting here, burdened by their own worlds, trying to find some fleeting solace in the bottom of a glass.

The scent of her—something sweet, with a hint of spice—drifted toward him. It was a calming scent, one that made him close his eyes for a second longer, hoping it would ease the pounding in his skull. He couldn't help but think that her smile, if she ever chose to reveal it, would be the kind of smile that would light up the darkest corners of a room. 

He wondered if it might also help alleviate the growing tension in his mind, the tight grip of his migraine loosening just at the thought. For now, though, the smell of her perfume was enough to dull the ache, if only a little. 

"Espresso martini, huh?" Spencer asked, his voice soft, not wanting to intrude too much but also not wanting to remain silent any longer. "Interesting choice for a Wednesday night."

The woman turned her head slightly, glancing at him with a raised brow, as though surprised anyone had spoken to her. For a second, Spencer worried he had overstepped, but then her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but enough to make him feel like maybe, just maybe, he had said something right.

"Not going to sleep anyway," you shrugged with a tired laugh, your voice carrying a hint of exhaustion but also nonchalance. "Might as well get a drink I enjoy, right?" You wrapped your fingers around the stem of the glass, feeling the cool condensation against your skin, but your eyes flickered over to the man beside you. 

Usually, you wouldn’t engage with random men at a bar, especially not on a Wednesday night when the world seemed to blur together in monotony. But something about this one had caught your attention. He wasn’t like the others who sometimes tried too hard or made themselves too loud. He was quiet, unassuming, and there was a weight in his eyes that matched your own. 

He was handsome, yes—remarkably so. His sharp, angular features made him look almost statuesque, but there was a softness to him too, something that balanced out the hard edges. It wasn’t just in his face, though. It was in the way he held himself, a little slouched, as if the world rested on his shoulders. There was something vulnerable about him, and that vulnerability intrigued you. 

You weren't the type to make conversation with a stranger, but maybe it was the exhaustion that made you let your guard down, or maybe it was the way his gaze had softened when he glanced at you, as if he understood something about you without needing to ask. Whatever it was, you found yourself more open to this brief encounter than you normally would be.

He smiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to your casual remark, but you noticed. It was a small gesture, but you appreciated it—more than you had expected to. 

"Fair enough," he finally replied, his voice low but gentle, as though he was trying not to disturb the delicate balance of the quiet between you two. He took a sip of his drink, his fingers tapping lightly against the glass, a subtle rhythm that seemed to mimic the thoughts racing through his mind.

For a moment, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, and you wondered if he, like you, had found some kind of unexpected solace in this quiet corner of the bar.

The man spoke again after a beat, his voice soft and almost hesitant, “Spencer.” He offered a small, almost boyish smile that contrasted with the sharp lines of his face.

You turned your body more toward him, your interest piqued by his somewhat awkward yet endearing demeanor. “Y/N,” you replied, returning the smile, though still guarded. 

There was a brief pause, and then Spencer’s eyes lit up, as though something had clicked in his mind. “Did you know that your name, Y/N, has roots that trace back to—” He launched into a surprisingly detailed explanation of the origins and historical significance of your name, mentioning various cultures and meanings, weaving in obscure facts that you had never even thought about.

As he spoke, you felt a mix of emotions. On the one hand, it was oddly charming, the way he seemed so genuinely excited to share what he knew. He made you feel special, like your name was something worthy of deep analysis and thought, and you couldn't help but be flattered by it. But there was also something that put you a little on edge—the way he seemed to know so much, like he had all this information tucked away in his mind, ready to be shared at any given moment.

“I did not know that…” you admitted slowly, your voice a touch wary, even as you tried to keep your tone light. “Why do you?”

Spencer hesitated for a second, his smile faltering just slightly before he answered. “I, uh… I tend to remember things. I read a lot, so I guess some of it sticks.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. “Just ‘some’ of it?” 

He let out a small, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe more than some. I’m kind of a… well, I guess you could say I’m a bit of an overthinker.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you said with a grin, feeling the tension ease slightly between you. “But it’s not a bad thing. Just… surprising.”

Spencer nodded, his posture relaxing a little, as if your comment reassured him. “Surprising in a good way, I hope.”

You shrugged playfully, leaning back slightly in your seat. “I’ll let you know.”

Spencer liked this. You were cautious, guarded in a way that suggested a sharp mind, the kind of intellect that naturally set boundaries when it came to engaging with strangers. Yet, despite your reservation, you kept your wits about you, maintaining a balance of good manners and a sense of humor that was both disarming and refreshing. It made you even more intriguing.

There was something undeniably endearing about the way you interacted—enigmatic and charming, with a touch of playfulness that made him want to keep the conversation going. Spencer found himself wanting to know more, to understand what made you tick in the same way he often tried to solve the puzzles in his own head.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Spencer said during a brief lull in conversation, his tone gentle yet curious, “what brings you to a bar in the middle of the week?”

You squinted your eyes at him playfully, the corner of your lips quirking up in amusement. “I could ask you the same.”

He couldn’t help but smile at your response, appreciating how easily you turned the question back on him, challenging him to reveal his reasons first. It was a fair trade, after all.

"Touché," he conceded, leaning back slightly, considering his answer for a moment. "I guess I just needed a break… from everything. Sometimes it feels like things are piling up and... well, it was either come here or keep staring at the ceiling of my apartment."

You nodded in understanding, your expression softening just a bit. “Yeah, I get that. Sometimes you need to step away from everything and just… exist for a little while, right?”

"Exactly," Spencer replied, relieved that you seemed to understand without him having to explain too much. "And you?"

You tapped your fingers thoughtfully on the bar for a moment before answering, your eyes drifting toward the half-finished martini in front of you. “Same, I guess. Life’s complicated, and sometimes you just want to sit in a quiet corner and let the world pass you by for a while. Maybe with a drink that makes it a little easier to forget."

Spencer nodded, the quiet between you settling into something more comfortable. There was no need for either of you to dive too deeply into your respective reasons for being here. The understanding was enough for now. Two strangers, sitting side by side, momentarily finding solace in each other’s presence without demanding too much.

“I’m glad I picked this bar,” Spencer said quietly, after a pause. “It’s… different. Quiet.”

You smiled softly, taking a sip of your drink. “Yeah, me too. Good choice.”

“Have you... have you been here before?” Spencer asked, his curiosity evident as he glanced at you, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass.

You shook your head, setting down your now-empty glass and signaling the bartender for another drink. “No, actually. I saw it when I moved here, figured tonight was as good a time as any to check it out.” 

Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence. He wasn’t a man who often gave weight to fate or spiritual ideas—his mind preferred the concrete, the logical—but the fact that both of you ended up here on a quiet Wednesday night, for the first time, sharing an unspoken sense of heaviness... It felt like one of those rare moments that made him pause, as though something bigger was at play. 

He smiled again, this time a little more openly. “I haven’t been here either. A friend told me about it. He, uh, likes to come here to meet women—said they’re more sophisticated than the ones he usually meets at clubs.”

You raised an eyebrow, your amusement clear as you leaned in slightly, your tone playful. “Are you, too, here to meet women?”

Spencer felt his face flush instantly, his eyes widening as he waved his hands in front of him, clearly flustered. “No! No, that’s not—” He cleared his throat, regaining a bit of composure, though the faint blush remained. “That’s not why I’m here. I just... needed a break, like I said.”

“Right... and that's why you're talking to the only single woman here,” you teased, gesturing around the dimly lit room with a playful glint in your eye. Spencer, caught off guard by the comment, blinked and glanced around for the first time since he’d sat down. 

To his surprise—and slight embarrassment—you were right. The bar, small and intimate as it was, seemed to be filled mostly with couples. A few groups of friends sat scattered around, but there wasn’t another woman sitting alone at the bar. He hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in his own thoughts, and of course, in you.

A flush of pink crept up his neck again, a small, awkward smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he faced you once more. “I—uh... that wasn’t... I didn’t even notice,” he stammered, clearly flustered, his eyes darting to his half-finished beer in front of him. 

You laughed softly, amused by how easily Spencer was thrown off by your teasing. There was something so endearing about the way he fumbled through conversations like this, so unlike most men you’d met before. He wasn’t trying to be smooth or overly confident, just... honest. 

“Well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” you said with a grin. 

“Thank you,” he sighed. There was a beat of silence before Spencer added, “But, uh, for the record... I’m not here to meet women. You just happened to be... well... someone worth talking to.”

Your smile softened at his admission, feeling the sincerity in his words. You weren’t used to hearing that kind of candidness from someone so quickly. "Well, aren't I lucky?" you teased lightly, though your tone had a hint of warmth behind it.

Spencer’s chuckle had a softness to it, but his next words seemed to strike a different chord. "Luck is relative," he mused, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. Then he glanced up at you, his eyes searching your face with that same genuine curiosity. "Do you feel lucky?"

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His question seemed layered, and though you could sense the sincerity in his tone, the implication sounded... different to your ears. The way he asked it, with a certain intensity, made your mind wander to a more flirtatious place, a suggestion hanging between the lines. You had met men who approached conversations like this before, but there was something about Spencer’s awkward charm that made you hesitate to dismiss it outright.

For a moment, you thought about how you'd respond. You weren’t opposed to the idea of letting this man take you home, not at all. There was something about his presence that felt comforting, something about his awkward nature that drew you in. But you weren’t going to make it that easy. You enjoyed the chase, the cat-and-mouse game that kept things interesting. 

You leaned in slightly, narrowing your eyes just enough to add a playful edge to your expression. "Lucky, huh?" You swirled the last of your martini in its glass, watching the liquid shift before locking eyes with him. “Depends on what kind of luck we’re talking about.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, clearly misunderstanding the subtle shift in your tone. "Oh," he stammered, clearly flustered. "I didn’t mean—uh, I wasn’t implying—"

You bit back a grin, enjoying watching him try to backtrack from what he thought was a misstep. "Relax, Spencer," you said softly, your tone more teasing now. "I know what you meant."

Spencer visibly exhaled, relief washing over his face. He wasn’t used to playing these kinds of games, that much was clear. But there was something about how genuine he was that made you want to keep him on his toes just a little longer.

You smiled, leaning back in your seat. "I guess I’m still figuring out whether I feel lucky tonight." You raised your glass slightly toward him, your eyes twinkling. “Maybe we’ll see.”

Spencer had relaxed as the two of you joked and bantered, and you noticed how much more comfortable he seemed, especially when he started showing you some of his magic tricks. It was charming, really—how this incredibly intelligent, slightly awkward man had such a whimsical side. You watched with genuine curiosity as he produced and shuffled a deck of cards with ease, his long fingers moving expertly. 

But it was when he asked if you had a business card that really caught your attention. You furrowed your brow and shook your head. “No, but I do have a scrap piece of paper,” you said, pulling a folded-up slip from your bag.

Spencer took the paper with a playful smile, and with a quick flourish of his hands, it disappeared as if it had never existed at all. You blinked, leaning forward, impressed despite yourself. "Okay, I have to admit, that was good. Where’d it go?"

He grinned, clearly pleased with your reaction. “A good magician never reveals their secrets.”

You laughed, thinking how absolutely adorable he was. There was something boyish and pure about the way he took joy in the simple act of performing a trick, like he’d just made your night a little brighter. 

Absently, you went to brush a hand over the necklace around your neck, a habit you hadn’t even realized you had. But when your fingers grazed the pendant, you felt something unfamiliar—something other than the smooth metal of your necklace. 

Frowning, you looked down. And there, dangling from your pendant, was the very same scrap of paper Spencer had taken. Your eyes widened in surprise, a burst of giddy laughter escaping your lips as you grabbed the piece of paper, utterly amazed.

You turned to Spencer, wide-eyed and full of wonder. “How did you—?!” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, your head shaking in disbelief, giggles bubbling up uncontrollably. He really had caught you off guard, and it felt... magical.

Spencer, looking very proud of himself, leaned back with a self-satisfied smile, clearly enjoying your reaction. He glanced pointedly at the scrap of paper in your hand, raising an eyebrow as if to say, take a closer look.

Curious, you followed his gaze and unfolded the small piece of paper. Scrawled across it in Spencer's neat handwriting was a number. His number. 

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze with a playful smirk and a flutter of excitement. "So... was this part of the trick too?"

Spencer shrugged, his smile a little bashful now.  

“How many times have you used that trick on women?” you teased, leaning in a little closer, your voice soft and teasing. “And how many times has it worked?”

Spencer blushed again, the pink flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. He shifted in his seat, clearly flustered by your question but still holding your gaze. “I... I used it one other time,” he admitted, his voice a bit shaky. “And it worked... sort of. But, um, it never led to anything.” 

You smiled, leaning back slightly, enjoying how disarmed he was by your teasing. There was something so genuine about the way he interacted, like he wasn’t used to these kinds of moments—at least not often. He wasn’t the type to use smooth lines or rehearsed tricks to impress women, and that made him stand out even more.

“Well, I’m glad I could be the second one,” you said with a wink, letting the playful tension between you simmer. “But something tells me you’re hoping it leads to more this time.”

Spencer swallowed, clearly thrown off by your forwardness, but you could see the slight shift in his posture, the way his confidence grew just a little as he realized you were genuinely interested. “I, uh... I wouldn’t mind that,” he admitted, his eyes flickering from yours to the glass in front of him, then back again. “But I didn’t show you the trick just for that. I wanted to... impress you.”

Your heart fluttered at his honesty. It was so rare to meet someone who was so upfront, so unguarded in moments like this. You couldn’t help but find it endearing, and you leaned in once more, your smile softening.

“Well, you definitely impressed me, Spencer,” you said, your voice low and sincere. “And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you show me another trick later.”

Spencer’s eyes widened a little at that, and for a moment, you could see the wheels turning in his head. He was calculating, thinking, but also clearly intrigued by the promise hidden in your words. He gave a small, nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I guess we’ll see how lucky I get tonight,” he murmured, the blush still lingering on his face but his smile growing more confident now.

You grinned, knowing full well that he didn’t realize just how lucky he was about to get.

As the bar's lights dimmed and the final patrons shuffled out, you already knew you weren’t going home tonight. The air between you and Spencer had been crackling all evening, and the decision seemed inevitable, even as you lingered at the bar for just a moment longer.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, graciously paid for both of your tabs without hesitation. The bartender, who had seemed less than impressed by your modest drinking habits, shot him a look that Spencer either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. After all, this night was about more than just drinks.

Walking out into the brisk night air, you and Spencer moved shoulder to shoulder, your steps naturally falling in sync as if you'd been walking together for much longer than a few hours. The quiet of the evening surrounded you, the distant hum of the city softening the world around you, and the moment felt intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. You could feel the warmth of his presence next to you, the subtle brush of his arm against yours sending sparks up your skin.

Feeling bold, Spencer glanced over at you, his usual shyness tempered by something else—perhaps the electricity that had been building between you all night, or maybe just the quiet courage that sometimes came with these fleeting, late-night encounters. "Can I give you a ride home?" he offered, his voice softer now, as though he didn’t want to shatter the stillness of the moment.

You smiled up at him, a knowing look in your eyes as you accepted. Spencer’s posture straightened slightly, his eyes lighting up as he guided you toward his car. True to his nature, he opened the door for you, his touch gentle as he gestured for you to climb in. You couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness, watching as he quickly walked around to the driver’s side and slid into his seat.

He fidgeted for a moment behind the wheel, his hands gripping the steering wheel loosely as he glanced at you, clearly waiting for directions. “Where should I take you?” he asked, his voice still carrying that sweet, earnest tone.

You met his gaze, your eyes sparkling with both amusement and intent. "Wherever you're going," you replied, your words hanging in the air, full of unspoken promise.

Spencer blinked, taken aback for just a split second, but then understanding settled over him. He glanced down, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips, and you could see the faintest hint of color creeping into his cheeks. There was a brief pause as he weighed his options, but the decision was already made—you could feel it.

"Alright," he said, his voice quiet but full of meaning. "My place it is."

Spencer was a bundle of nerves. The whole drive back, he had rambled—nervous energy pouring out of him in the form of random facts, mostly about the risks of going home with strangers. He’d listed statistics about crime rates, recounted famous cases of mishaps, and even delved into behavioral patterns associated with dangerous encounters. It was almost endearing, the way he was so clearly overthinking the situation.

"Are you going to kill me?" you had asked him at one point, half-joking, hoping to lighten the mood.

His response had been immediate and emphatic. "No, absolutely not! I—I would never do anything like that," he stammered, his eyes wide and sincere. "Statistically, it’s much safer—"

You laughed, cutting him off gently. "I believe you, Spencer."

His relief was palpable, though he still hadn’t fully relaxed, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. And now, as he fumbled with his keys at the front door, you saw how his fingers trembled slightly as he tried to get the lock open. His nervousness was so genuine, so utterly sweet, that you couldn’t help but feel a warmth bloom inside you.

It was obvious he didn’t do this sort of thing often, and that made you feel... special. He was just himself—nervous, brilliant, and genuine—and that vulnerability drew you in even more. 

Finally, after a moment of fumbling, the door clicked open, and Spencer gestured for you to step inside, his cheeks still slightly flushed. "Sorry about that," he murmured, a small, sheepish smile on his lips. "I don’t usually have... company."

When Spencer led you through the front door, the first thing that hit you was the cozy, dark atmosphere of his apartment. Books lined almost every available surface, stacked neatly on shelves and piled in corners in a way that suggested they were well-loved and frequently revisited. The space had an old-world charm, a lived-in feeling that instantly put you at ease. The warm lighting and the faint smell of coffee mixed with old pages added to the inviting ambiance. It was unmistakably his—a reflection of the man you’d spent the evening getting to know, both brilliant and a little awkward.

You couldn’t help but smile, charmed by the intimate, intellectual space he called home. It was entirely different from the sleek, modern apartments of other men you’d been with, and that difference made you like it even more.

You smiled softly, stepping into the warmth of his home. "It’s fine," you assured him. "I like it here. It’s... very you."

Spencer’s eyes flickered with a mixture of surprise and gratitude, as though he hadn’t expected you to say something so kind. His shoulders seemed to relax just a little, and he gave you a nervous but genuine smile.

“Thank you,” Spencer said, his smile sweet but clearly nervous as his hands fumbled slightly in front of him. He took a breath, trying to compose himself, but the words tumbled out anyway. “So... um, I know what usually happens in these scenarios, but I don’t want to be presumptuous—not that I’m expecting anything from you either, but I guess, I’m wondering what, uh... what you want here?”

You could see how flustered he was, the way his uncertainty mixed with his genuine desire to be respectful. It made your heart swell, your affection for him deepening in that moment. His awkward honesty was refreshing, and you adored the way he was so transparently himself, not hiding behind bravado or assumptions.

Stepping closer to him, you reached out, your hands moving up his chest slowly, feeling the warmth of his body through his shirt. You let your fingers trail lightly over him before wrapping them around the back of his neck, pulling yourself just a little closer. Spencer’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as he looked down at you, a mixture of surprise and anticipation flickering in his gaze.

“Well, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice gentle but teasing, “I would like to do what usually happens in these scenarios...”

His eyes searched yours, his body tense with uncertainty and excitement, but before he could speak, you added, “But we don’t have to do anything.”

Spencer blinked, processing your words. The tension in his shoulders seemed to melt just a little as he realized that the choice was mutual, that there was no pressure, no expectations. You were giving him the space to decide, and that made all the difference.

He swallowed, his voice quiet but full of sincerity. “I... I’d like that too. But only if you're sure.”

You smiled up at him, your thumb gently stroking the back of his neck. “I’m sure, Spencer. But if you’re not ready or don’t want to—”

“No,” he said quickly, then softened his tone. “No, I want to. I just... I didn’t want to assume and I–well, I haven’t done a lot before.”

Your smile widened, and you leaned in a little closer, your breath warm against his skin as you whispered, “You’re sweet, you know that?”

Spencer’s blush deepened, but he smiled, more comfortable now as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “I don’t hear that often,” he admitted softly.

“Well, you should,” you murmured, before closing the small distance between you and pressing your lips to his in a slow, tender kiss.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though Spencer was still processing that this was really happening. But then his grip around you tightened slightly, and you could feel him relax into it, his lips moving with yours, the kiss deepening as the warmth between you two grew.

For a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of his apartment, the world outside forgotten. And in that moment, everything felt perfectly right.

You gently pulled back from the kiss, feeling the way Spencer’s lips lingered for just a moment, his eyes still shut as though he wasn’t ready for the moment to end. He followed your movement with a soft, almost unconscious pout, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. 

“Easy,” you whispered, your voice laced with affection, as your fingers trailed up into his soft hair, stroking it gently. You wanted him to feel as comfortable as possible. He was clearly nervous, but the way he responded to you, how earnest he was in everything he did, made you want to handle him with the care he deserved. 

“What are you comfortable with, Spencer?” you asked softly, your tone reassuring, trying to ease the tension in the air. “I don’t want to push you too far, or do anything you’re not ready for.”

Spencer took a deep, grounding breath, his chest rising and falling as he gathered the courage to speak. His blush deepened, his cheeks flushing a bright pink as he met your eyes. “Um… I haven’t had anything, uh, penetrative,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper as if admitting something deeply personal. He swallowed, clearly feeling the weight of the moment. “But… I have been touched. And I have touched.”

Your heart softened at his vulnerability, and you felt a wave of tenderness wash over you. He was sharing something intimate, and the way he trusted you enough to be honest about it made you want to hold him even closer. 

“That’s okay, Spencer,” you said gently, your thumb brushing against his jawline in a soothing gesture. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We can take things as slow as you need.”

He nodded, looking relieved that you weren’t pressuring him. “I… I want to try,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. “I trust you.”

Your heart swelled at his words. You smiled softly, leaning in to kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate, allowing him to guide the pace. Spencer responded, his lips moving with yours, his hands resting tentatively on your hips as he began to relax into the moment.

“We’ll take it slow,” you whispered against his lips, reassuring him once more. “And you tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

He nodded again, his eyes meeting yours with gratitude and something else—something more. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his hands tightened just slightly around your waist, pulling you closer. 

“Take me to your bedroom, Spencer,” you whispered against his lips, the warmth of your breath sending shivers down his spine. He nodded, his lips still brushing against yours as he took your hand and led you toward his room. The eagerness in his movements was evident as you both bumped into walls and knocked over small tables along the way, which made you giggle.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Don’t be sorry, stud,” you teased, your voice playful but laced with affection. “I like how eager you are. It makes me feel desired.”

Spencer flicked on the bedside lamp, the soft glow filling the room and casting warm, golden hues across the walls. The light bathed you in a way that made you look even more radiant, as though the glow itself was drawn to your beauty. Spencer paused for a moment, standing there in awe of you, his eyes wide with admiration.

“You are desired,” he said earnestly, his voice filled with sincerity. “So gorgeous, Y/N.”

His words made your heart swell. You could hear how much he meant it, how genuine his feelings were. Spencer wasn’t trying to impress you; he was simply telling you the truth as he saw it. And in that moment, you found yourself falling just a little for him.

“Sweet, sweet Spencer…” you whispered, smiling softly at the endearing man before you. Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them one by one. As the fabric parted, you kissed the newly exposed skin—his neck, his collarbone, the center of his chest—your lips leaving a trail of warmth with each touch.

You could feel Spencer’s stomach rising and falling rapidly beneath your fingertips, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he struggled to keep his composure. He was nervous, that much was clear, but you could also see the way his body responded to your touch, the way his eyes darkened with desire.

“Relax,” you sighed gently against his skin, your lips brushing softly over his collarbone. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment made him freeze for a moment, and you could tell it wasn’t something he was used to hearing. His breath hitched as you kissed his chest, your hands sliding the fabric of his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Spencer swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as he raised them to your waist, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your clothes. “I… I just don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” you reassured him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his neck. “We’re just here, together. That’s all that matters.”

His eyes softened at your words, and slowly, the tension in his body seemed to ebb away, replaced by a quiet confidence. He reached up, his hands moving more purposefully now as he gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice steadying as he leaned down to kiss you again, this time with a little more certainty, a little more control.

And in the quiet of his room, surrounded by nothing but the soft light and the gentle hum of your shared breaths, you felt completely and utterly desired.

"Do you want to take my shirt off, Spencer?" you whispered softly against his ear, letting your tongue graze the sensitive skin just beneath it. You felt the shudder run through his body as he nodded quickly, his breathing heavy, eyes still tightly shut as if the weight of the moment was too much to handle.

You giggled softly, charmed by his inexperience and how deeply he seemed affected by every touch, every breath. Gently, you took his large hands in yours, guiding them to the hem of your shirt. His fingers trembled slightly, but you could feel his eagerness beneath that nervous exterior. Slowly, he gripped the fabric, carefully lifting it up, still with his eyes squeezed shut, even as he let the garment drop to the floor beside you.

"Spencer..." you whispered, your voice sweet but laced with a hint of amusement. You couldn’t help but notice how his hands had frozen in mid-air, his fingers hovering, unsure of what to do next. His body was clearly responding to the moment, but his mind was racing, overwhelmed.

"You can open your eyes," you encouraged, leaning forward just slightly to nudge him out of his hesitation, your lips brushing his jawline.

Very slowly, Spencer cracked his eyelids open, his breath hitching as he adjusted to the reality of the situation. But the moment he caught sight of your bare chest, his eyes flew open wide, surprise and awe etched across his face.

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. His gaze flickered between your eyes and your chest, as though he were trying to process everything all at once. His expression was a mix of innocence and desire, and it was clear that this moment was overwhelming him in the best way possible.

You could feel the intensity of his gaze, and the way his hands, still trembling slightly, hovered just inches from your skin. “It’s okay,” you whispered softly, guiding his hands to your sides, encouraging him to touch you. “You can touch me, Spencer.”

His breath caught in his throat, but this time, he didn’t pull back. His hands, once hesitant, now slid up your sides, gently grasping your breasts in his hands. His touch was reverent, almost like he couldn’t believe this was happening as he ran his thumbs over your nipples. There was something so pure, so unguarded about the way he looked at you, as though you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re...” he started, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re stunning.”

Your heart swelled at the sincerity in his words. You smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly, pressing your body against his. "So are you, Spencer."

You kept kissing him, your lips moving against his with just enough pressure to hopefully distract him from whatever whirlwind of thoughts his brilliant mind was racing through. You were learning he tended to overthink, and you wanted to help him focus on the moment, on the way your bodies were reacting to one another rather than on whatever internal dialogue was playing out in his head.

Your hands moved down to his belt, working on the buckle with ease. You could feel his breathing pick up as you undid it, but instead of pulling away or tensing up, his hands stayed on your breasts. His fingers squeezed you, almost like he was using you to ground himself, holding you tighter than before, as if trying to anchor himself in the moment. The sensation sent a wave of pleasure through you, and without hesitation, you moaned softly into his mouth.

The sound surprised Spencer, his entire body responding to it. He froze for just a second, his mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t just the physical sensation that had gotten to him—it was the realization that he had made you feel that way. The knowledge seemed to set something off inside him, a surge of wonder and hunger, like he was teetering on the edge of something completely new.

As you undid the button of his pants, letting them fall to the floor, you gently nudged him to step out of his loafers and slacks, which he did, albeit a little awkwardly. Spencer pulled back slightly, glancing down at himself, standing in nothing but his tented purple boxers. He shifted on his feet, clearly still feeling self-conscious despite everything.

“I’m feeling a clothing disparity here,” he tried to joke, though his voice came out more nervous than playful.

You giggled softly at his attempt to lighten the moment, appreciating how vulnerable he was being, even in his nervousness. "I can fix that," you teased, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your bottoms. With a fluid motion, you slipped off your boots, followed by the rest of your clothes, leaving the small pile of fabric on the floor as you stood fully bare before him.

The room seemed to grow quieter for a second, the air thick with anticipation. Spencer’s gaze moved over your body slowly, taking in every inch of your skin with an almost reverent look. His breath hitched again, his hands hanging at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do next.

You smiled, stepping closer to him, your fingers trailing lightly along his chest, leaning in to press your body against his, feeling the heat between you intensify. "Now... let's see what else we can do about that disparity." 

Your hands slid lower, brushing against the waistband of Spencer’s boxers as you tried to ease them down, but there was a bit of resistance—a clear obstruction that made the two of you stumble into a fit of giggles. Some of the nervous tension between you both lifted in that moment, replaced by the kind of playful energy that made everything feel lighter, more natural.

“Well, sir,” you said in an exaggerated, mock-serious voice, stepping back slightly to assess the situation, “it seems as if something has blocked my path.”

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, a full, hearty sound that spilled out of him, the kind that seemed to release the last of his nervousness. His shoulders shook with amusement as he looked at you, shaking his head. “My deepest apologies, ma’am,” he replied, playing along with a grin that stretched across his face. “Allow me to be of service.”

You watched as he reached down, fumbling a bit with his boxers before finally managing to remove them, kicking them aside with a sheepish smile. His face was still flushed, but now it was more from laughter than nerves, and the atmosphere between you shifted again, becoming more comfortable, more intimate.

“Better,” you teased, your playful tone returning, stepping close enough for your bare skin to brush against his. You placed your hands on his chest, your fingers spreading out to feel the warmth of his body beneath your touch. Spencer’s breath caught in his throat again, but this time it wasn’t out of anxiety—it was pure desire.

You noticed the subtle shift in Spencer’s eyes—something deeper, more focused. The playful energy between you had served its purpose, helping him relax, but now you knew it was time to stop teasing and really show him how much you wanted him. The way he looked at you, still unsure but no longer nervous, told you he was ready to explore this new territory, even if he didn’t quite know where it was going.

With a gentle but deliberate push, you guided him back onto the bed, watching the way he looked up at you, his breath quickening. You moved after him with purpose, your movements slow and deliberate as you crawled toward him, like a wolf stalking its prey. Spencer scooted back to the pillows, his eyes locked on yours, his uncertainty fading into quiet anticipation.

His gaze flickered as you settled in closer, your knees on either side of his hips. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly now, his hands resting by his sides as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. You could see he was still processing everything, still trusting you to lead him through this.

“I’m going to touch you now,” you said softly, your voice a quiet promise. You let your hands trail up his thighs, your fingers brushing through the soft hair there, feeling the warmth of his skin. “Is that okay?”

Spencer’s breath hitched, but he nodded, his voice barely a whisper as he responded, “Yeah.”

Everything you had done so far, he liked. He wasn’t sure what came next, but there was no hesitation in his trust—he knew he would like whatever you did. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief second as he felt your touch move higher, and he let out a small breath, almost as if he had been holding it in for far too long.

You took your time, wanting him to savor every moment. Your hands moved with gentle care, exploring his hips and stomach as you leaned in closer, your lips grazing his neck, your breath warm against his skin. Spencer shivered beneath you, his hands finally finding the courage to rest on your waist, his fingers gripping you just enough to anchor himself in the moment.

"You're doing so well, Spencer," you whispered against his ear, your voice filled with warmth and reassurance.

Spencer let out a breathless laugh, one filled with pure, unfiltered arousal. He hadn’t known until this moment how much he liked being praised, but the way your words washed over him—telling him he was doing good, that he was making you happy—lit something inside him. A fire burned in his stomach, spreading warmth throughout his entire body, and he couldn’t contain the way his body responded to you.

But then, when you wrapped your hand around him, firm but gentle, the heat exploded. It was as if you had poured gasoline onto that fire, and Spencer’s reaction was immediate. His back arched off the bed, his mouth falling open as a raw, guttural groan escaped him. His hands flew to the sheets, gripping them tightly as the sensation overwhelmed him, taking him by surprise.

He hadn’t been touched like this in a long, long time. It had been just him, his own hands and his own thoughts, but now—now it was you, and the difference was intoxicating. Every nerve in his body felt like it was alive, buzzing with an energy he hadn’t felt in years. He was losing himself to the moment, to you.

"God... Y/N..." he gasped, his voice low and rough, full of need. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold back the sounds that escaped him as your hand moved expertly, sending waves of pleasure coursing through him.

You smiled softly, watching the way Spencer's body reacted to your touch as you gripped him tighter, the way his chest rose and fell with each shaky breath. He looked so beautiful like this—vulnerable and completely immersed in the pleasure you were giving him. 

“You’re so good for me,” you whispered again, your voice low and soothing as your hand continued to move, squeezing extra on his head and drawing more of those delicious sounds from him. "Just relax and let me take care of you."

Spencer nodded weakly, his head falling back onto the pillows as he surrendered to the sensations. His mind, usually so busy and full of thoughts, was blissfully quiet now, his entire focus on the feel of your hands, your body, and your voice guiding him through this.

"Y/N..." he groaned again, his voice trembling with need, his hands reaching out to grasp your hips, wanting to feel more of you, to be closer to you. He was completely lost in you now, and he didn’t want it to end.

You smiled down at him, feeling a surge of affection and desire for the man who had so easily surrendered to you, his pleasure so raw and vulnerable. “Oh, you poor thing,” you whispered, your voice soft and teasing as your hand sped up its movements, stopping every once in a while to rub your thumb under his head. “You just needed someone to look after you, didn’t you?”

Spencer nodded quickly, his body responding to your words before he could even form a coherent thought. His head pressed back into the pillows, his chest heaving as the sounds of his pleasure spilled from his open mouth, completely uncontrollable. He was lost in the moment, lost in you, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride and tenderness as you watched him.

He looked so beautiful like this—flushed, vulnerable, and entirely open. His eyes, when they did open, were glazed with desire, his lips parted in a silent plea for more. There was something pure about the way he gave himself to the moment, trusting you completely to take him somewhere he hadn’t been in a long time.

And you were honored to be the one to make him feel like this, to be the person who could show him such tenderness and care. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his neck, feeling his pulse racing beneath your lips as you whispered, “I’ve got you, Spencer.”

His response was another shaky moan, his hands returning to your hips as if to anchor himself to you, his grip both needy and gentle. His body was trembling now, his breaths coming faster and more erratically, and you knew he was close, teetering on the edge of release.

You let your free hand reach down to grasp and roll Spencer’s balls, his entire body jolted at the contact and he let out a sound akin to a scream. You could feel the tension building in him, his body reacting to every touch, every word. “You’re doing so good,” you murmured, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “Just let go for me, okay?”

Spencer’s breathing hitched, and you could feel him start to unravel beneath you. He nodded again, unable to speak, but the look in his eyes said everything. He was ready to let go, ready to give himself completely to the moment, and you were more than ready to guide him through it.

And when he finally did—when he let himself go with a guttural moan that shook through his entire body—it felt like you were witnessing something truly beautiful. You held him close, stroking him through his high as he spurted over your hand and stomach, your touch never wavering, your voice a constant, reassuring presence.

Spencer’s body finally relaxed beneath you and you removed both of your hands, his breaths coming in deep, ragged gasps as he tried to regain his composure. His hands, still resting on your hips, loosened their grip, and he blinked up at you, his eyes filled with awe and affection.

"Can... can I touch you?" Spencer asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the weight of exhaustion was too heavy for him to speak any louder.

You smiled down at him, his face flushed and his hair damp with sweat. Gently, you brushed the strands from his forehead, your touch tender. "Not tonight," you whispered back, watching as a small pout formed on his lips.

Before he could say anything else, you leaned down and kissed the pout away, your lips soft against his. "You're tired," you said softly, your fingers tracing his cheek, "and that was plenty for me."

Spencer sighed, the tension in his body giving way to exhaustion as he relaxed into your touch. He didn’t protest further, knowing you were right, but the way his arms tightened slightly around your waist let you know that he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice soft and full of emotion.

You smiled down at him, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “What are you thanking me for?”

Spencer gazed up at you, still catching his breath, his face flushed from both exertion and emotion. His fingers lightly traced circles on your hips, the touch absent-minded but tender. 

“For... everything,” he whispered, his voice a little shaky but filled with sincerity. “For talking to me, being kind to me, patient with me. For... understanding.” His eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching, almost vulnerable. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve felt like this.”

You smiled softly, brushing your hand through his hair again, letting your touch soothe him. “You don’t need to thank me for that, Spencer. I wanted this as much as you did.”

Spencer swallowed, his throat working through the remnants of tension. “Still... it means a lot. You make me feel... safe.”

His words stirred something warm and protective in you, and your heart swelled at the realization of how much this moment meant to him. It wasn’t just the physicality; it was the connection, the trust. He had let down his walls for you, and in that vulnerability, you started to see the depths of who Spencer really was—someone deeply deserving of care and tenderness.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m glad you feel that way. You deserve to be cared for, Spencer.”

His lips curved into a small smile, the tension in his body fully gone now, replaced with quiet contentment. “I’m really lucky,” he murmured, his voice still filled with awe. 

You chuckled softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “No, we’re both lucky.”

And in the warmth of that moment, you both knew that this was more than just a fleeting connection—it was something special, something real. Something neither of you had been expecting, but both of you had needed.

—

Spencer stirred, slowly waking up to the comforting warmth of your body, his head resting against your soft stomach, your fingers gently stroking him. The feeling was intimate, tender, and it brought a sleepy, blissful smile to his face. He could feel your fingers running through his hair as he nuzzled closer to you, feeling completely safe, completely at peace.

When he finally cracked one eye open, he saw you sitting up, wearing your shirt and underwear, looking down at him with a soft, almost shy expression—a side of you he hadn’t yet seen. It was endearing, and for a moment, he just wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped up in the warmth of your presence.

“Good morning,” you said softly, your voice timid, a tone that felt so different from the playful, confident energy you’d had last night. Spencer noticed the way you seemed slightly unsure, as if you weren’t certain what the morning would bring, and it made his heart ache with affection for you.

He opened both eyes fully, blinking up at you in a way that was so sweet and sleepy it melted your heart. “Hi,” he whispered, a smile spreading across his face, his voice still laced with drowsiness. The warmth in his gaze was undeniable, as though waking up to you was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You grinned shyly in response, the soft morning light making everything feel gentle and new. “I hope it’s okay that I’m still here,” you said quietly, your fingers still moving softly through his hair.

Spencer’s smile widened as he shifted slightly, his head still resting against your stomach. “More than okay,” he murmured. “I... I didn’t want you to leave.”

His honesty made your heart swell, and you leaned down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I didn’t want to leave either.”

Spencer sighed contentedly, his body relaxing further as he closed his eyes again, soaking in the moment. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as if to make sure you were really there, that this wasn’t just a dream.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, his voice full of quiet wonder. “And that makes me really happy.”

You continued to stroke his hair, your fingers gentle as you whispered back, “I’m happy too, Spencer. Really happy.”

And in the quiet of the morning, with the two of you wrapped up in each other, it felt like the beginning of something special—something neither of you could deny.

Eventually, the cozy bubble the two of you had created was interrupted by the sharp sound of Spencer's alarm blaring, signaling that it was time to get ready for work. The moment felt bittersweet, and Spencer, clearly not ready to break the warmth of your embrace, pouted grumpily as he reluctantly pulled himself from your arms to head toward the shower.

He paused at the edge of the bed, turning back to you with a hopeful look, still shy but clearly not wanting this to end. “Will you wait for me to get out?” he asked, almost as if he were afraid you'd disappear the moment he stepped out of the room.

You giggled, shaking your head dramatically with a playful smirk. “Nope,” you teased, your tone light and full of humor. “This is when I’ll make my grand exit—after you’ve already seen me, of course.”

Spencer laughed at your playful antics, the sound filling the room as he smiled to himself. Despite the teasing, he appreciated how lighthearted and easy everything felt with you. Still, he quickly got up from the bed, scampering to the bathroom with a newfound urgency, his naked form catching your attention.

Before you could stop yourself, you called out, “Woo! The sun is out but the moon is full! How come I didn’t get to see your ass last night?”

Spencer immediately blushed, his face turning a deep shade of pink as he covered his behind with his hands and sped up his pace, looking over his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll show you mine when you show me yours!” he yelled, his voice echoing down the hallway.

Your laughter rang out, the joyful sound filling the space and making Spencer smile to himself as he entered the bathroom. It was the only response he needed, the perfect note to start his day on.

After Spencer disappeared into the bathroom for his shower, you took the opportunity to give yourself a quick tour of his apartment. It was just as charming as you expected—full of books, eclectic trinkets, and signs of his quirky, intellectual nature. When you found the kitchen, you spotted the coffee supplies and decided to make a quick pot. The smell of freshly brewing coffee soon filled the air, and you figured a simple breakfast would be a nice touch, so you whipped up some eggs and toast, humming softly as you worked.

By the time Spencer emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed, the aroma of coffee and warm food had reached him. His heart swelled at the simple, thoughtful gesture. He had never imagined waking up to something like this. Rushing to get dressed as quickly as possible, he joined you in the kitchen, where you were casually sipping coffee and waiting for him.

You spent the next half hour in easy conversation, talking about simple, everyday things—where you grew up, how many siblings you had, whether or not you had any pets. Spencer seemed eager to learn all that he could about you, firing off question after question. You hardly noticed that he didn’t volunteer much about himself, his curiosity directed solely at getting to know you. You found it endearing, the way he leaned into every answer, his eyes lighting up with each new detail you shared.

Eventually, though, time started to slip away, and the soft glow of morning meant Spencer needed to leave for work. As he grabbed his bag, ready to head out, his shy demeanor returned, his eyes avoiding yours as he fumbled with his words. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearly flustered, “I don’t have time to take you home. I lost track of time.”

You were already sliding on your boots, unfazed by the rush. "That’s fine! I took a cab last night anyway, I can fetch another one," you replied with a smile, waving off his apology.

Spencer sighed in relief, though his brows furrowed with lingering guilt. “Can I pay for the fee at least?”

You laughed, shaking your head. "Absolutely not, Spencer. This wasn’t an exchange of goods," you teased with a playful wink.

Spencer flushed, chuckling at himself as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re right,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. Then his expression softened, his voice quieter, more sincere. “Can I see you again? Take you on a proper date?”

Your smile brightened at his request, your heart warming at the thought. “I would really like that.”

With that, the two of you officially exchanged numbers, the moment feeling more intimate than it had any right to. Spencer kissed you once, then again, as if he couldn’t help himself, savoring every second before he finally had to leave for work.

As he walked out the door, you called a car, feeling a sense of excitement bubbling up inside you. This was definitely just the beginning of something worth exploring.

—

Spencer walked into the BAU that Thursday with an extra pep in his step, his usually focused and somewhat intense demeanor softened by a secret smile that seemed to have taken permanent residence on his face. He barely noticed the way his colleagues, Derek and Emily, glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, instantly picking up on his unusual cheerfulness.

Derek, never one to miss an opportunity, was the first to speak up as Spencer passed by his desk. "Whoa, whoa, hold up, pretty boy," he called out, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "What’s with the smile? Did you crack some unsolvable puzzle overnight or something?"

Spencer blinked, the smile still lingering, though he quickly tried to rein it in. "What? No, I didn’t... I mean, no puzzles," he said, fumbling slightly as he continued toward his desk.

Emily raised an eyebrow and leaned against Derek’s desk, crossing her arms as she smirked at Spencer. "Are you sure? Because you’re practically glowing, Reid. Come on, spill it."

Spencer’s cheeks flushed as he realized he wasn’t doing a great job hiding his good mood. He sat down at his desk, avoiding their teasing stares. "It’s nothing," he mumbled, but his attempt to brush it off only made Derek and Emily more determined.

"Uh-huh, sure," Derek repeated, his grin widening as he leaned forward. "Come on, man, you don’t look like this for no reason. You’re practically walking on air. What happened? Did you learn a new language or something?"

Spencer, unable to resist the opportunity to lean into the joke, shrugged, deciding to give Derek a little win. "Sure, Derek. I technically did begin studying a new language recently," he replied, trying to keep a straight face, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Emily, sensing that they weren’t going to get the juicy details they were hoping for, sighed dramatically, waving a hand dismissively. "Ah, quel gâchis," she muttered, her voice laced with playful disappointment.

Spencer immediately glared in her direction, having caught the meaning of her words. "What a waste?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I’m standing right here, you know."

Emily smirked, clearly enjoying how easily she’d ruffled his feathers. "Well, we were hoping for something more exciting than a study session, Reid," she teased, leaning back in her chair with a grin. "But I guess we’ll just have to live with our imaginations."

Derek chuckled, crossing his arms. "Don’t let her get to you, pretty boy. Just know we’ve got our eye on you."

The teasing didn’t let up throughout the day. Derek and Emily, delighted by Spencer’s unusual behavior, had made sure word got around that Spencer was “studying” something new—something that had him grinning like an idiot at random moments. 

When JJ and Penelope heard the news, they joined in on the fun, leaving their own playful comments. JJ had passed by his desk, nudging him lightly. "Studying something new, huh? I’ve never seen someone so excited over homework, Spence." 

Penelope, ever the drama queen, had dramatically swooned in front of him. "Oh my stars, who knew Spencer Reid could look so refreshed and glowing? It must be some incredible study material," she teased, winking as she fluttered away, her laughter trailing behind her.

Even Hotch, who was usually more reserved about office banter, had joined in. “It’s good to see you more focused and refreshed, Reid,” he commented during a briefing, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, though his tone was as professional as ever.

But it wasn’t until Rossi chimed in that Spencer really realized how obvious he was being. Rossi had been watching Spencer with a knowing look for most of the day. After catching Spencer glancing at his phone for what must have been the hundredth time, he couldn’t resist.

“You’ve touched your phone an awful lot today, Reid,” Rossi mused as he walked by Spencer’s desk. "Waiting for something important?"

Spencer jolted slightly, startled out of his focus. He had, once again, been staring at the text he had prepared to send you but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to hit send yet. He glanced up at Rossi, trying and failing to hide the sheepish grin spreading across his face. 

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, something like that," Spencer replied, his voice softer, betraying the smile that wouldn’t leave his face.

Rossi raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk as he crossed his arms. "Ah, I see. Must be some important 'study material' then, huh?"

Spencer flushed, realizing that Rossi was in on the joke too. “It’s... very interesting,” he said, glancing down at his phone again, but the small smile remained firmly in place.

Rossi chuckled knowingly. "Just make sure you don’t fail whatever test you’re preparing for," he teased, clapping Spencer on the back as he walked away, leaving the young doctor blushing and still holding his phone.

Finally, Spencer shook his head and, after a deep breath, hit "send" on the text to you, feeling a flutter of excitement as he anticipated your reply.

The end of the workday was a welcome relief for most of the team, and everyone was packing up their things, preparing to head out. Conversations were light, the usual post-case fatigue settling in. But as everyone moved about, the sound of a notification buzzed from Spencer’s pocket, drawing all eyes to him.

It was as if the entire team had collectively paused, waiting with bated breath as Spencer reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He hadn’t said much about whatever—or whoever—had been keeping that secret smile on his face, but they all knew something was up. And now, they watched him, each pretending not to care, but clearly all invested in this "mystery" that had made their boy genius so giddy.

Spencer took a quick glance at the screen, and almost immediately, his eyes widened. The smile that bloomed on his face was unmistakable, pure, and full of excitement. Without thinking, he tapped his hands on the desk, unable to keep still. Then, in a burst of happiness, he spun in his office chair—twice. 

Emily, who had been pretending to pack her bag, exchanged a smirk with JJ. Derek raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to tease right then and there, while Penelope was practically bursting with curiosity, trying not to let out a squeal.

After Spencer’s excited spins, he paused, staring at his phone again, as if confirming what he had just seen.

Hi Spencer :) I’m glad you texted, I would love to see you again. How’s Saturday?

Spencer stared at the message for a moment, his heart racing, a goofy grin still plastered on his face. Saturday. Yes. Saturday was perfect. He could already feel the rush of anticipation building up inside him.

Across the room, Derek couldn’t hold back any longer. "Alright, man, spill it. What’s got you doing a victory lap in your chair like you just won the lottery?"

Spencer, still smiling, looked up at his friends and teammates, feeling a little embarrassed by how obvious his excitement had been, but he couldn’t hide it anymore. 

"I, um... I have a date on Saturday," he admitted, his voice quieter but filled with unmistakable happiness.

“Oh, boy wonder, please tell me this isn’t a date with more studying,” Penelope sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart as if she couldn’t handle the thought of Spencer’s version of a romantic evening being spent in a library.

Spencer’s blush deepened as he shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no studying,” he assured her, still smiling. “It’s just... dinner. You know, a normal date.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in mock disbelief. “Dinner? Normal? Spencer Reid, going on a normal date?” She placed both hands on her cheeks in exaggerated shock. “Be still my heart, I’m not sure I’m ready for this new chapter of your life!”

Emily grinned, leaning on her desk. “What’s next? Dancing?” she teased, clearly enjoying how flustered Spencer was getting.

Spencer waved them off, though the smile never left his face. “I’m just... excited to see where it goes,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Derek raised a brow, folding his arms. “Well, don’t keep us hanging, man. You’re gonna let us know how it goes, right?”

Spencer chuckled nervously. “We’ll see.”

Penelope clasped her hands together, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, I am living for this! I expect a full report, Reid. Leave nothing out!” she added, already imagining the romantic possibilities.

Spencer just shook his head with a sheepish grin, knowing that after Saturday, he wouldn’t be able to escape their questions—but for now, he was just content with the thought of seeing you again.

—

Spencer spent all of Thursday evening through Saturday morning in a nervous wreck, spiraling between excitement and dread. The excitement stemmed from the memory of you—the way you looked at him, the way you had made him feel seen and wanted in a way no one ever had. But the dread… well, that came from his mind’s tendency to overanalyze, to question every little detail until it didn’t make sense anymore.

He had almost convinced himself that he had hallucinated the entire night—that perhaps he’d somehow gotten drunk at the bar and imagined everything. You were too good to be true, after all. You were beautiful, smart, and funny. And the way you had treated him with such care… it felt like something out of a dream. Spencer was nearly positive that it hadn’t really happened.

Adding to his anxiety was the fact that after confirming the time and place for your Saturday date, your conversation had ended abruptly. No back-and-forth, no playful banter. Just... silence. He had been waiting, glancing at his phone far too often, hoping for another text that never came.

Maybe the magic had only lasted for that one night and morning. Maybe you had woken up and realized that Spencer wasn’t what you wanted after all. What if the moment had passed and the reality of who he was had set in for you? What if, after thinking it over, you decided he wasn’t worth seeing again?

Then there was the physical aspect—the fact that you had seen him. All of him. You had touched him, and though you had stayed afterward, making breakfast and laughing with him, the irrational part of his brain couldn’t stop replaying the possibilities. What if you hadn’t liked what you saw but had been too kind to say anything in the moment? What if you were regretting the entire thing now? 

Rationally, Spencer knew these thoughts didn’t make sense. If you hadn’t been interested, you probably wouldn’t have agreed to see him again. You definitely wouldn’t have stayed the morning, made him breakfast, and kissed him so sweetly before leaving. But his nerves were gnawing at him, relentless and persistent.

Spencer wasn’t just nervous. He was terrified. In all his 30 years of life, he had never met someone who made his heart race so much in a good way. Someone who made him feel this vulnerable yet eager to dive deeper.

He spent Friday night tossing and turning, replaying every moment he’d spent with you, both wonderful and anxiety-inducing. By Saturday morning, he was an absolute bundle of nerves, wondering if maybe he should’ve done something differently, said something better, or been more... someone else.

But then, just as the clock hit mid-morning, his phone buzzed. Heart racing, Spencer grabbed it from the nightstand. A message from you. 

Looking forward to tonight :) See you soon!

He stared at the screen, a wave of relief washing over him so intense it almost knocked him off his feet. You were still interested. You hadn’t changed your mind. You wanted to see him again. 

For a moment, he just sat there, the nerves easing away as he reread the message. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

As Spencer got ready for the date, the nerves returned. Despite dressing the same way he always did—his usual button-up shirt, vest, slacks, his familiar aftershave, and cologne—there was a sense of urgency in his movements. He didn’t know why he was so anxious; after all, he hadn’t changed anything. But this was different. You were different. He just hoped that you would like him as he was.

You had offered to meet him at the restaurant, which, at first, he wasn’t sure about. He’d wanted to pick you up, to make the evening as special as possible, but when you suggested meeting there, he hadn’t pressed. Maybe it was nerves on your part too, or maybe you just liked the independence of arriving on your own terms. 

When he arrived and spotted you chatting with the hostess, his heart swelled, almost too big for his chest. You looked effortlessly beautiful, standing there in a red dress that hugged your form perfectly. It was simple, yet elegant, and the way it contrasted against your skin made you stand out even more in the dimly lit atmosphere of the restaurant.

You were laughing, completely at ease, talking with the hostess as if you hadn’t a care in the world. The sound of your voice carried over the light murmur of the restaurant, and Spencer was instantly reminded of when he’d first seen you. The way you had drawn him in so effortlessly. There was no pretense about you—just an infectious warmth and natural beauty.

He stood frozen for a moment, just watching, trying to gather the courage to walk up to you. But when you turned your head and caught sight of him, your face broke into the most radiant smile, and Spencer felt his nerves disappear all at once. It was like everything fell into place.

“Hey,” you greeted him as he approached, your eyes lighting up with excitement. “You made it.”

“Yeah, I—wow, you look... amazing,” Spencer smiled, feeling the last remnants of his awkwardness melt away as you grinned at him, doing a playful little twirl in your red dress. The movement was graceful yet lighthearted, making him laugh, a sound full of genuine joy.

“I’m sensing a pattern,” Spencer teased, his eyes gleaming with affection as he took in how the red dress suited you so perfectly, just as your red boots and shorts had. “Do you like red?”

You stepped in closer, your hands resting lightly on his chest, the warmth of your touch sending a subtle shiver down his spine. “I do,” you admitted with a sweet smile. “My, uh, my aunt always called me Red. Like Little Red Riding Hood.”

Spencer’s heart melted at the story, his eyes softening as he looked at you with pure adoration. “That’s so sweet,” he murmured, as if he couldn’t contain how endearing he found the thought of you being called “Red.”

You chuckled, glancing down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah, she said I was always wandering off on my own adventures, and she had to remind me not to get eaten by wolves.”

Spencer’s smile grew even softer, his hands instinctively resting at your waist. “Well,” he said, his voice gentle but filled with admiration, “I think Little Red turned out just fine.”

The exchange left the both of you wrapped in a quiet moment of warmth, the kind of connection that made the rest of the world seem to fade into the background. With a soft smile, you took his hand, ready to start the evening, knowing that it was already off to a perfect start.

After being seated, the conversation flowed easily as you both eagerly dug into the appetizers. The tension and nerves from earlier seemed to melt away entirely as you shared bites of food and laughed at small jokes. The restaurant had a cozy atmosphere, with soft lighting that gave the table an intimate glow, making everything feel even more relaxed.

You giggled, trying to hold in your laughter as you chewed, but it was no use. Spencer had said something funny just as you took a bite, and now you were covering your mouth with your hand, laughing through the food. Spencer immediately looked apologetic, his eyes wide as he realized his timing.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, chuckling nervously, his hand halfway raised like he was ready to help in some way. “I didn’t mean to make you laugh while you were eating!”

You waved him off with your free hand, still laughing softly as you swallowed your food. “It’s okay, really,” you assured him once you could speak, your voice light with amusement. “It was worth it.”

Spencer grinned, a little sheepishly but clearly relieved that you weren’t bothered. “I’ll have to work on my comedic timing,” he said playfully, leaning back in his chair as he watched you, clearly enjoying the easy flow of your conversation.

You smiled at him, feeling the warmth of the moment settle around you. It was the kind of dinner where nothing had to be perfect for it to feel just right. Everything between you and Spencer felt natural—funny, even in the smallest moments.

You stretched your legs out under the table, completely unaware of Spencer’s position, and grazed his shin with your foot. Spencer jolted slightly, his body reacting immediately to the unexpected touch. His brow quirked up, and he gave you a playful look.

"Are you trying to play footsie with me?" he asked, pretending to sound scandalized, though the teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips gave him away.

You burst into laughter, immediately throwing your hands up in mock surrender. "I promise I wasn’t!" you said, still giggling. "I was just stretching my legs!"

Spencer narrowed his eyes at you in mock suspicion, pretending to glare as if he didn’t believe a word of it. "Likely story, Red," he teased, using your intimate nickname with ease.

Hearing him call you "Red" sent a warmth straight to your heart. It had been so long since anyone other than your aunt had used that name, and the way Spencer said it felt special, like a quiet understanding between the two of you. You grinned, feeling that warmth spread through your chest.

"I’m innocent, I swear!" you laughed, leaning forward slightly, your eyes meeting his with a playful glint.

Spencer held your gaze for a moment before breaking into a wide smile. "I’ll let it slide this time," he said, his voice light but filled with a quiet fondness that made your heart skip a beat.

The dinner had gone off without a hitch, and Spencer, walking beside you under the soft glow of the streetlights, couldn’t even remember why he had been so nervous in the first place. The evening had been perfect—easy, comfortable, and filled with laughter. He found himself entirely at ease around you, more than he had been with anyone in a long time.

As you strolled along the sidewalk, your arm occasionally brushing against his, you made small talk, keeping the conversation light and fun. Spencer listened intently, smiling at your stories, hanging on to every word, though you noticed that he still hadn’t shared all that much about himself. You figured he had his reasons, and you weren’t going to push. He seemed too genuine, too kind-hearted, for it to be anything more than him needing time.

For now, you were content to share bits of your life with him—telling stories about your childhood, your adventures in college, and the silly moments that had shaped you. You spoke about your aunt, and how much she had meant to you growing up. Spencer’s eyes softened as he listened, clearly enjoying every word you spoke.

"You sound like you had quite the adventurous childhood," Spencer said with a smile as you finished a story about sneaking into your college library late at night for secret study sessions with your friends.

You laughed, nudging his arm playfully. "Adventurous might be a bit of an overstatement, but I definitely wasn’t the most well-behaved."

Spencer chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I can’t imagine you being anything but well-behaved."

You grinned at him, loving the way he teased you with that gentle humor of his. "You’d be surprised."

He seemed content to let you lead the conversation, and though he didn’t say much about his own past, you could tell that he was listening to every detail you shared. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable; in fact, it felt as though he was genuinely absorbing everything about you, like he wanted to know you better, but in his own quiet way.

When the two of you finally made your way back to the restaurant, where Spencer’s car was parked, he offered you a ride home. His thoughtfulness made you smile, but once again, you politely declined, explaining that you didn’t mind walking.

However, Spencer’s expression immediately shifted, his brow furrowing in concern as he quickly launched into crime statistics about women walking alone at night. His detailed knowledge on the subject was impressive, but it also sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. You couldn’t help but ask, "Why do you know so much about that?" 

His response came with a nervous chuckle. “Oh, I, uh, I work for the FBI. I deal with a lot of crimes.” His words were quick, almost bashful, as though he wasn’t used to dropping that kind of bombshell in casual conversation.

Your eyes widened in surprise as the pieces clicked into place—the secrecy, the knowledge, it all made sense now. "Oh!" you exclaimed, relief washing over you. "Thank god, I was afraid you had experience in kidnapping or something."

Spencer laughed, clearly caught off guard by your reaction. He was so used to people being either overly impressed or intensely curious when they learned about his job, but your response was different—humorous, almost relieved.

"No, no," he assured you, pulling out his badge to prove his innocence, still chuckling. "Nothing like that."

You leaned in to get a better look at the badge, your fingers briefly brushing over the picture. Your eyes lit up with amusement. "Oh my goodness," you said, grinning up at him. "You look like a little baby in this!"

Spencer flushed slightly, laughing awkwardly. "Well, I was 22 when that was taken," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "I’m 30 now… maybe I should retake it."

You smiled, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "No," you said, your voice affectionate. "I like it. It still looks like you, just more… innocent."

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat at the way you were looking at him, your expression so warm and kind. He wasn’t used to being seen like that, not after years of working in the field, seeing the worst of humanity. But in that moment, you saw him—not as a brilliant FBI agent, but as Spencer, the person. And he liked that more than he could put into words.

He gave you a shy smile in return, slipping the badge back into his pocket. “Thanks,” he said softly, genuinely appreciating your words.

You nodded slightly, unsure of how to navigate the next moment. It seemed like the night was coming to a natural end, and you didn’t quite know how to say goodbye without feeling like you were cutting it short. 

“Wait, Y/N,” Spencer said suddenly, his hand gently catching your arm. There was a soft urgency in his voice, like he wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end either. “I can’t let you walk home alone. Please, at least let me walk you.”

You laughed, partly at the irony and partly at his genuine concern. “Oh, well, you see,” you began, biting your lip as you explained, “I didn’t want you to know where I lived, you know, just in case you were dangerous.”

Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned by your honesty, but you quickly followed it up with a lighthearted smile.

“But,” you continued, glancing down at your shoes with a playful sigh, “seeing as you’re probably my safest option, I would love a ride home. These shoes are starting to hurt.”

Spencer’s expression softened immediately, a mixture of relief and amusement. “Oh,” he smiled, clearly trying not to laugh at the situation. “Well, in that case, I’m glad I passed the safety test.”

You chuckled, grateful for Spencer’s warmth and understanding as he quickly unlocked his car, holding the door open for you like the gentleman he was. “I promise I’m just your FBI chauffeur for the evening,” he said with a playful grin. “No funny business involved.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you felt more comfortable now, letting yourself sink into the soft interior of the car. “I should hope there will be some funny business,” you teased back with a grin.

Spencer laughed as he rounded the car and got into the driver's seat, his smile still lingering as he started the engine. “Maybe, if you’re lucky,” he shot back, a hint of playful banter in his voice.

You smiled to yourself, remembering the playful back-and-forth from the first night at the bar. “Oh, I’m lucky, alright,” you teased, letting your words hang in the air.

The conversation during the drive was light and easy, flowing naturally as you both learned more about each other. Spencer shared bits about his life—how he was from Las Vegas, how he’d been a child prodigy, finishing school at an age when most were still navigating adolescence. You revealed more about yourself too, that you were 25 and had just moved to Quantico a month ago. It was the most you’d learned about him so far, and your heart soared with the thought that maybe he was starting to feel more comfortable with you, letting those initial walls down just a little.

When the conversation turned to your age, Spencer let out a visible sigh of relief, as you had teasingly implied you were only 18 when he initially brought up his own youth. You giggled at his obvious relief, knowing he had been worried.

As you both stepped out of the car, Spencer opened the door for you once more, a habit that hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was then that you saw your cat, Poof, sitting in the window, his eyes staring down at the scene below.

“Who is that?” Spencer asked, his eyes following your gaze.

You smiled, proud as always of your feline friend. “That’s Poof,” you said, your voice warm. “My boy.”

Spencer turned to face you, and for the first time, he seemed to muster the courage to place his hands on your waist, the touch gentle but deliberate. His fingertips pressed lightly against your hips, pulling you just a little closer.

You glanced up at him, your eyes meeting his with a playful, sultry look. “I hope it’s not time for that funny business,” you said softly, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “Poof is watching.” 

Spencer’s soft laugh filled the quiet evening air, his voice slightly teasing as he said, “Can you ask him to look away? I’d like to kiss you.”

You rubbed your chin, pretending to think it over, drawing out the moment. “Hmm, I guess I could try.” You turned your head over your shoulder and called up to your cat, “Hey, Poof?”

Poof perked up in the open window, his eyes locking onto yours, and he let out a questioning meow.

“Can you look away, baby?” you continued, your voice playful. “Mommy’s going to do something naughty.”

Spencer immediately flushed at your words, his cheeks turning a deep pink as he laughed nervously, clearly caught off guard by your teasing. Poof, seemingly understanding the moment, let out one more meow before hopping down from the windowsill, likely heading toward the front door to meet you inside. Whether he truly understood or just wanted to meet you, it didn’t matter. The effect was the same: the two of you now had privacy.

You turned back to Spencer with a smile, feeling the playful energy shift into something more intimate. With Poof gone, the evening air felt still, and you reached your hands into Spencer’s hair. Spencer, still slightly flustered but unable to hide his excitement, leaned in. His hands remained gently on your waist, but there was a tenderness in his touch that made your heart race.

Slowly, your lips met his in a soft kiss, the world seeming to quiet around you as everything else faded. It was gentle, tentative, and cozy, his lips pillow soft and sweet. Spencer kissed you like he was savoring every second, as if this moment meant more than he could put into words.

When you finally pulled back from the kiss, your noses still brushing lightly, the moment reminded you of a scene straight out of Lady and the Tramp. Spencer’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips still curved in a soft smile, clearly affected by the kiss. He exhaled softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he said, “I think you are the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

The sincerity of his words hit you like a warm breeze, melting your heart into a puddle. But as much as you felt overwhelmed with happiness, your expression must not have mirrored what you were feeling inside, because Spencer’s smile faltered slightly. He was quick to backtrack, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush.

“Oh no, was that too much? Is it too soon to say that? I’m sorry,” he stammered, his nervousness suddenly replacing the confidence he'd gained earlier. He was clearly afraid he had said something to ruin the perfect moment, his eyes searching yours for reassurance.

You shook your head gently, biting your lip as you looked up at him. There was a newfound shyness in your gaze, an almost vulnerable expression that hadn’t been there before. "Just... please mean it," you whispered, your voice soft, your heart racing as you waited for his response.

Spencer’s eyes softened instantly, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, like a silent reminder he wasn’t going anywhere. “I do,” he said, his voice low but firm. 

Hearing those words, a slow, sweet smile spread across your face, and the warmth in your chest bloomed into something even bigger. You felt seen, appreciated, and for a moment, it was like the two of you were in your own little world—just you, Spencer, and the quiet glow of the night.

“I feel the same way,” you admitted softly, your hand reaching up to brush a strand of his hair from his face.

Spencer’s nervousness melted away in that instant, replaced by pure relief and something that felt like hope. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, and everything felt right. No more hesitation, no more second-guessing—just the feeling of being exactly where you both wanted to be.

—

Spencer Reid had never truly been in love before—not in the way people described it, that overwhelming rush of emotions, the constant thoughts about someone else filling your mind. But as he sat in his apartment later that night, thinking about you, he was almost certain that this—whatever he was feeling—was love. The way his heart skipped a beat just thinking about your smile, how his palms had been sweaty before your kiss, how you had effortlessly made him feel like the most important person in the world.

Still, Spencer was Spencer—his mind always searching for logical explanations, grounded in facts and science. He knew that love was largely chemical, that the brain released dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin, making people feel giddy and euphoric. And he also knew, from one of the countless facts stored in his mind, that both chocolate—and oddly enough, peas—could stimulate the release of similar hormones, mimicking the sensation of love.

So, in true Spencer Reid fashion, he decided to conduct an experiment.

The next day, he went out to buy both chocolate and peas—determined to see if those foods could recreate even a fraction of the feelings you stirred in him. He figured that if it was purely chemical, those foods should make him feel the same warmth, the same fluttering excitement in his chest.

He got home, spread out the chocolate and peas on his kitchen table, and hesitated for a moment. Was he really doing this? Testing whether his feelings for you were real or just his brain tricking him? He almost laughed at how absurd it all seemed.

But, he pushed forward, nibbling on some chocolate first. He waited, focusing on his body’s reactions. There was a slight rush—sweet and satisfying—but no butterflies, no pounding heart. Then he moved on to the peas, knowing they were supposed to have similar effects on the brain's chemistry. But after a handful of peas, he only felt... like someone who had just eaten peas. There was no spark, no overwhelming sense of joy.

Spencer sat back in his chair, staring at the empty plates, and let out a soft laugh. The experiment, while amusing, had proven what he already suspected: his feelings for you weren’t something he could replicate with food. They were something much deeper—something entirely unique to you. 

The thought filled him with a sense of peace, and in that moment, he realized that what he was feeling was real. He didn’t need science or logic to confirm it—he just knew. 

And as he closed his eyes, picturing your smile, he knew that love was the only thing that could explain the way he felt when he was around you.

—

"Alright, pretty boy, let’s hear it!" Derek clapped his hands together, rubbing them with an exaggerated sense of excitement as Spencer returned from the break room, coffee in hand.

Spencer paused mid-sip, his wide eyes blinking behind his cup, brows raised as if he hadn’t the faintest idea what Derek was referring to. “Hear it?”

Of course, he knew exactly what Derek meant. The date. But a small part of him—maybe a larger part than he cared to admit—wanted to keep you to himself, at least for a little while longer. His team already knew so much about him, and this, well, this was different. This was special.

Derek wasn’t having any of it. He narrowed his eyes, giving Spencer a mock-glare. “Don’t play with me, kid. You went on that date, right?”

Before Spencer could even respond, Emily perked up from her desk, always eager for gossip when it came to her favorite awkward genius. “Oh yeah! How did it go?” she asked, leaning in, her face full of curiosity.

Spencer sighed, setting his coffee down on his desk with a soft clink. He wasn’t going to get out of this one easily. He tried to keep his face neutral, his body language calm, but the memories of the evening—the walk under the streetlights, your playful banter, and that kiss—flooded his mind, making it hard not to smile.

"It went... very well," he admitted, his voice soft but steady.

Derek wasn’t convinced by Spencer’s attempt at subtlety. “That’s it? Very well?" he repeated, mocking Spencer’s impassive tone. "Come on, man. You’ve gotta give us more than that.”

Emily leaned forward even more, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, spill! Did she like you? Did you kiss her?" 

Spencer could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to show in his cheeks. He could lie, brush it off, or keep it vague, but he knew his team better than that. They wouldn’t let it go. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to give them every detail.

"Yes, we kissed," he said, avoiding their wide-eyed stares. He could practically feel Emily and Derek’s eyes burning into him. "And yes, I think she liked me."

"Whoa!" Derek exclaimed, slapping his hand on the desk in excitement. "Look at you, Romeo!" 

Emily was grinning now, clearly thrilled with this development. “Oh my God, you’re finally seeing someone. I knew this was going to be good!”

Spencer shifted in his chair, trying to avoid the attention while hiding his smile behind his coffee. "It’s... still early," he said cautiously. "We’re going to see each other again, but I don’t want to rush things."

Derek chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “No rush, man. Just enjoy it.”

Spencer nodded, feeling both overwhelmed by their enthusiasm and touched by their genuine happiness for him. As much as he had wanted to keep it to himself, there was something nice about sharing even this small piece of happiness with his team—his friends. 

Still, in his mind, the best parts of the date were tucked away, memories meant just for him and you.

Just as Spencer was about to respond, Hotch’s voice cut through the bullpen. “Briefing room, five minutes,” he called, his tone all business as usual. But then, with a rare hint of amusement in his voice, Hotch added, “Congrats, Reid,” flashing a brief, smug smile before disappearing back into his office.

The team erupted into cheers and playful whops, their laughter filling the room. Derek gave Spencer a knowing nudge, grinning ear to ear, while Emily clapped her hands together in excitement.

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh along with them, shaking his head at how quickly news spread in the BAU. He gathered his files, his coffee, and his thoughts, preparing for the case briefing. 

As they made their way to the briefing room, Spencer found his thoughts drifting back to you. He wasn’t one to be easily distracted, especially at work, but today, there was a lightness in his step, a quiet happiness that followed him.

No matter what the next case would bring, you were there in the back of his mind, a constant, sweet reminder of the night before. And for the first time in a long while, Spencer felt like he was allowed to have something personal, something good, to look forward to.

—

It had been a few days since your date with Spencer, and though you hadn’t seen each other since then, the excitement hadn’t faded. Every day, you and Spencer shared brief phone calls after work, recounting your days, each conversation leaving you both with a sense of comfort and anticipation. It was enough for now, enough to tide you over until the next time you could be together in person.

Spencer, however, had been cautious about texting you first. He was afraid of coming on too strong, not wanting to push if you weren’t ready. He longed to see you again, and he was planning to ask if you were free this weekend. But the fear of always making the first move held him back, making him hesitate. He wanted to know that you were just as invested, that you’d reach out too.

Before he could summon the courage to ask you out again, the BAU caught a case that took them out of town. Spencer wasn’t sure what the protocol was for this kind of thing—how much should he let you know? It wasn’t like you were officially together, but at the same time, he didn’t want to just disappear without a word.

He decided to wait for your usual nightly call and tell you then, hoping the timing wouldn’t be off, worried that he might miss the window if things got too chaotic. A part of him secretly hoped you’d make the first move and call him tonight—an assurance that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

As the day stretched into evening, the team found themselves in a stuffy precinct in Arizona, dealing with an uncooperative local police department. The frustration levels were high, and Spencer was barely holding onto his patience with an especially difficult sheriff. Just as he was about to lose his cool, his phone rang.

Relieved for the distraction, Spencer pulled it out without thinking, assuming it was Garcia checking in with some intel. He answered with a weary sigh. “What’s up, Garcia?”

There was a brief pause before your voice came through the line, hesitant and uncertain. “Um, hi?”

Spencer’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. His heart leaped in his chest, excitement bubbling up at the fact that you had called him. But it was quickly followed by a wave of embarrassment as he realized his mistake. “Y/N! Hi!” he blurted out, his voice filled with a mix of apology and enthusiasm.

“Expecting someone else?” you teased, but he could hear the slight edge of insecurity in your voice, making his stomach twist with guilt.

“No, no, I’m so sorry,” Spencer rushed to explain, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned against the wall of the precinct, trying to escape the noise and tension around him. “I’ve been dealing with this case, and I just—well, I thought it was a work call. I didn’t look at the caller ID. But I’m really glad you called.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and Spencer held his breath, hoping he hadn’t ruined this. He desperately wanted you to know that you calling meant more to him than he could say.

After a moment, you spoke again, your tone softening. “It’s okay, I figured you were busy.”

“I am,” Spencer admitted, his voice quieter now. “But I would never be too busy to talk to you.”

Rossi happened to overhear the exchange between Spencer and you. Though the older agent smiled with quiet amusement and joy for the young genius, he refrained from teasing him. This was a rare moment for Spencer, and Rossi respected that.

On the other end of the line, you giggled softly, your voice light and teasing. “Never too busy for me?” you repeated, playfully emphasizing the words. “That’s quite the line, Spencer.”

Spencer felt his face warm even more, rubbing the back of his neck as a sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "Mhm, you know me, smooth talker extraordinaire," he replied, his voice soft but playful. 

Your laughter echoed through the phone, sending a wave of warmth over Spencer. He couldn't help the huge smile that spread across his face. There was something about making you laugh that filled him with an indescribable joy.

On the other side of the room, Hotch overheard the exchange. Raising an eyebrow, he glanced over at Rossi. “Did Reid just use sarcasm?” 

Rossi nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "I think the kid’s in love."

While they observed, you continued telling Spencer a story about Poof. "Oh, and today Poof scared a little kid into dropping their ice cream when he meowed from the window," you said with a giggle. "The poor thing was so startled. I ended up running downstairs with a popsicle from my freezer to make up for it."

As you laughed, recounting the moment, Spencer's heart swelled at the thought of your kindness. His mind briefly wandered to the idea of you as a mother, imagining you with a little one on your hip, comforting them with that same gentle warmth. And, to his own surprise, the thought of you being the mother of his children crossed his mind, and it didn’t scare him—it made his heart race in the best way possible.

He shook the thought away, trying to focus on the present, but it lingered, a sweet hope tucked away for the future.

"That's... really sweet of you," he said softly, his voice full of admiration. "That kid’s lucky you were there. I’m sure Poof didn’t feel too guilty, though."

You laughed again, the sound sending Spencer into another moment of quiet happiness. "Nope, he was pretty proud of himself."

Spencer chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in days despite the tension of the case. Just hearing your voice, your stories, made everything feel a little easier.

—

After the team wrapped up the case and stepped off the jet, Spencer’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his heart skipping a beat when he saw your name lighting up the screen. A soft smile spread across his face as he read the message.

Fly safe :) Come around to mine after you’re settled? I have a surprise!

His heart fluttered at the thought of you preparing something special for him. After the tension and exhaustion of the last few days, knowing that you had gone out of your way to plan a cozy night in for him made his chest warm with appreciation. He could hardly contain his excitement as he picked up his pace, eager to see you.

As he sped through the BAU offices, Derek’s voice echoed behind him, laced with amusement. “Got somewhere important to be, pretty boy?”

Spencer didn’t even slow down, not bothering to stop by his desk or respond to Derek’s teasing. He was too focused on getting home, quickly freshening up, and heading straight to you. He had been looking forward to seeing you since the moment your text had come through. The idea of spending the evening unwinding in your presence—feeling the comfort you always brought—was all he wanted after this stressful case.

Once home, he quickly showered and changed into something more relaxed but still nice. The thought of you, the surprise you had planned, fueled his every movement. His mind buzzed with anticipation, wondering what you could possibly have in store.

Soon enough, he found himself standing outside your door, the night air cool but carrying a sense of warmth knowing you were just on the other side. Spencer took a deep breath, knocked softly, and smiled to himself. Whatever the surprise, he knew this night would be perfect just because he’d get to spend it with you.

As you opened the door, your heart swelled with affection the moment you laid eyes on Spencer. He looked so relaxed, dressed down in a casual red sweatshirt, something you hadn't seen him wear before. It made him look more approachable, more... himself. And to top it all off, he was wearing red—a color you were more than familiar with.

“Trying to steal my look?” you teased with a playful grin, your tone lighthearted.

Spencer, however, found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to shoot back a quick, witty reply—keep up with your usual banter—but the sight of you in those shorts, your legs fully exposed, completely derailed his train of thought. His brain short-circuited for a moment, distracted by how stunning you looked in such a casual outfit.

His eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed, trying to regain his composure. "I—uh—yeah, I guess great minds think alike," he finally managed to say, though his voice was a little breathless. 

You caught the way his gaze lingered a bit longer than usual, and it only fueled your affection for him. There was something incredibly endearing about the way Spencer, usually so articulate and brilliant, could be rendered speechless by the simplest things about you.

“Well, I think you look cute,” you added, leaning against the doorframe with a teasing smile.

Spencer blushed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to focus on your words rather than how much he wanted to reach out and touch you. “You look... amazing,” he said, his voice genuine, the distraction momentarily fading as his gaze softened.

“Come on, space-cadet, step inside the spaceship,” you teased, giggling as you made room for Spencer to step inside your cozy, inviting home.

Spencer smiled, still somewhat in awe of you and how effortlessly comfortable you made him feel. He let you take his hand, your fingers lacing together as you guided him through the charming kitchen and into the warm, welcoming living room. The soft glow of the lamps, the greenery, and the sense of warmth that filled the space made it feel like a perfect sanctuary after the long, stressful days he’d had.

"So… I hope it’s not too much," you began, swinging your linked hands back and forth gently, clearly a little nervous. "But I, uh, rented some movies and made some food." Your voice softened as you continued, your gaze meeting his with a hopeful glint. "I thought we could just cuddle and hang out?"

Spencer's heart swelled at your thoughtfulness. The idea of a simple, cozy night in with you, far away from the chaos of work, was exactly what he needed. He could already feel the tension from the case melting away as he stood in your warm, peaceful space. The fact that you had gone out of your way to make him feel cared for, even without saying much, meant everything.

He smiled, squeezing your hand gently. "That sounds perfect," he said softly, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. “Thank you… for doing all this. You didn’t have to.”

You shrugged with a playful smile, pulling Spencer toward the couch. “I wanted to. You deserve a break. And... selfishly, I really wanted to see you.”

Spencer’s heart swelled in his chest, and he had to wonder if it was healthy for his heart to be beating this rapidly, this often. “Thank god,” he said dramatically, bending at the knees a bit for comedic effect, enhancing his performance. “Because I was really starting to miss you.”

You crinkled your nose in affection, finding his antics utterly adorable. Leaning up, you placed a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. “We’re going to be that disgusting couple everyone hates to be around, aren’t we?” you teased, a playful gleam in your eyes.

That’s when Spencer swore his heart stopped altogether. His brain short-circuited as he replayed your words in his mind. Couple? Could this be real? His pulse quickened, and he suddenly felt like his chest was too small for his heart.

“Couple?” he asked, his voice filled with excitement and just a hint of disbelief. He looked at you with wide, hopeful eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

You froze, realizing the word had slipped out without much thought. For a moment, you panicked, unsure of whether you had moved too fast or if Spencer was even ready for that. “I—uh... I didn’t mean to say that,” you stammered, feeling the nerves bubbling up. “But... is that okay?”

Spencer’s expression softened instantly. His eyes were still wide, but now filled with something warm, something deeper than mere excitement. Without thinking, he pulled you into a tender hug, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “It’s more than okay,” he whispered, his voice slightly shaky from the rush of emotions flooding through him. “I… I’d really like that.”

You laughed softly, relief washing over you as you melted into his arms. “Me too,” you whispered back, your hands wrapping around his back, holding him close. The tension that had built up between you moments ago dissolved into something tender, something warm and reassuring.

After a few beats, Spencer pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his smile small but full of meaning. “So… we’re that disgusting couple now, huh?”

You giggled, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. “Looks like it,” you teased, your voice light, yet filled with affection. 

Spencer chuckled, unable to stop smiling, the realization of what this meant finally settling into his mind. This was real—you were real—and the connection between the two of you was deepening in ways he hadn’t even anticipated.

And there, in that cozy living room, something beautiful had started to bloom, and neither of you could be happier.

Of course, that was until you playfully pushed Spencer down onto the couch, the unexpected movement making him let out a surprised laugh. You leaned over him, your lips finding his, and kissed him with a fervor that made his heart skip several beats. His hands instinctively found your waist, holding onto you as you kissed him silly.

Every time your lips met, Spencer’s mind grew foggier, lost in the warmth and softness of your touch. His usual articulate thoughts were reduced to nothing more than pure sensation, and in that moment, he was utterly and completely yours.

But then, when you shifted, your hips settling down on his lap, and ground yourself against him, a low gasp escaped his lips. Spencer’s hands gripped your waist tighter, and he swore he was through the roof with happiness. His pulse was racing, his mind spinning, and yet, all he could think about was how perfect this felt—how perfect you felt.

A breathless laugh escaped him between kisses as he looked up at you with wide, adoring eyes. “I think,” he said, his voice ragged from the emotions swirling inside him, “this might actually kill me.”

You giggled against his lips, your fingers brushing through his hair. “Good,” you teased, leaning down to kiss him again, your movements deliberate and full of affection. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you survive.”

When your tongue traced along Spencer’s bottom lip, he knew he was in trouble—there was no way he was going to survive this, and, really, he was okay with that. But as the intensity of the moment grew, something shifted inside him. He didn’t want you doing all the work, didn’t want to just be the one melting under your touch. No, he wanted to return the favor. 

“Y/N…” he mumbled, his voice low and filled with need as you sucked on his tongue, causing him to let out a deep, involuntary moan. The sound echoed in the room, making the moment feel even more electric.

Before you could continue, Spencer gently pushed you back, his hands still steady on your waist. “I want—” he began, taking a deep, steadying breath, his heart racing. “I want to… please you this time.” His voice trembled slightly, the desire in his words clear.

You paused, gazing down at him with surprise and affection, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. For a moment, you were speechless, feeling the shift in the air between you. There was something deeply intimate in Spencer’s request, in the way he wanted to take care of you.

His hands slid up your sides, his fingers tracing light, almost reverent patterns along your skin as he held your gaze. “Please,” he added softly, his voice now filled with a quiet determination.

The vulnerability in his eyes and the sincerity of his words made your heart race in response. You smiled down at him, leaning in close so your lips barely brushed his. “Okay,” you whispered, giving him a soft, reassuring kiss. “Whatever you want, Spencer.”

Spencer gently shifted your positions, moving you onto your back as he settled between your legs, his body hovering just above yours. You giggled softly, your eyes twinkling with mischief as you wiggled your eyebrows playfully. “Hello, handsome.”

Spencer smiled down at you, a warmth blooming in his chest at how effortlessly playful and sweet you always were. “Hey, gorgeous,” he breathed out, his voice full of affection as he leaned down to kiss you again, slow and deep, savoring every moment.

This time, his hands were braced beside your head, supporting his weight as he kissed you. Your fingers traced soft, lazy patterns along his back, the gentleness of your touch contrasting with the intensity building between you.

But then, Spencer lowered his hips, grinding down into yours, and the sensation sent a shockwave through you. You couldn’t stop the high-pitched keen that escaped your throat, your fingers instantly digging deeper into his back, your body responding to him with a need that left you breathless.

Spencer pulled back slightly, his gaze heated as he looked down at you, his breathing ragged. “Did you like that?” he asked, his voice husky, thick with a genuine curiosity—but the way he asked it, the rough edge in his tone, made your heart race and your blood pressure spike.

You nodded, your breaths coming out in shallow, excited gasps. “Y-yeah,” you managed to breathe out, the simple action of speaking feeling overwhelming with the way he was looking at you, as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him right now.

Spencer’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile, clearly pleased with your reaction. “Good,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you again, but this time his hips didn’t stop moving, rolling into yours with deliberate, teasing pressure that made you arch up into him, craving more.

With each roll of his hips, Spencer was more determined to make sure you felt everything, his quiet confidence growing as he watched the way your body responded to him. The playful teasing from earlier had transformed into something much deeper, more intimate, and as his hands roamed your body, he knew that this—being with you like this—was something he wanted to experience again and again.

“Spence, ungh,” you whined, your voice shaky as pleasure coursed through you. “Spencer, this—this feels so good.” Your words stuttered out as Spencer’s lips trailed warm kisses down the length of your neck, making you arch into him, but something inside you told you it could feel even better. “Can I… move you?”

Spencer paused, pulling back slightly to look at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Move me?” he asked, his voice soft and curious.

You nodded, your breath still coming out in shallow bursts. “If you were situated a little more to the left… you’d hit perfectly.”

Spencer blinked in surprise, the realization dawning on him. “Oh!” He laughed, the sound a mix of amusement and understanding, as his face flushed a deeper shade of red. “Of course.”

He braced himself as your hand went into his pants, repositioning just the way you needed, his hands still braced on either side of your head as his body moved into place. And when he pressed down into you again, the sensation hit in a way that had your back arching and a strangled moan escaping your lips.

“That better?” he asked, his voice low, and though the question was genuine, there was an underlying heat in his tone that sent sparks flying through your veins.

Your only response was a breathless nod, your hands clinging to his back, your nails digging into Spencer’s back as he moved just the way you had asked. The new angle sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, and it was all you could do to nod frantically, your breath catching in your throat as he pressed deeper.

"That’s it," Spencer murmured, his voice laced with both awe and desire. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "You feel so good." His words only heightened the moment, sending a shiver down your spine as his hips continued their slow, deliberate movement against yours.

The tension in your body built with each roll of his hips, and every breathless whimper you made only spurred him on. Spencer's usually calm, thoughtful demeanor had melted away, replaced by something more primal, more intense. Yet, there was still something so gentle about him, like he wanted to savor every moment, every reaction you gave him.

You tilted your head back, giving him more access to your neck as he resumed placing kisses there, each one sending jolts of pleasure through you. "Spencer," you gasped out his name, your voice trembling with need. "Don’t stop."

His lips curved into a small, pleased smile against your skin. “I won’t,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. Spencer moved again, his body aligned with yours in perfect harmony now, and the sensation made you gasp out loud, your back arching off the couch as his name fell from your lips in a desperate moan.

He watched your every reaction with fascination, his gaze full of warmth and desire. “Just tell me what you need,” he murmured, his voice steady but filled with the same yearning coursing through him. “I’ll give it to you.”

The intensity of his words, combined with the way his body moved against yours, was overwhelming in the best possible way. You felt your grip tighten on his back, nails dragging lightly against his skin as the pressure built between you both. 

Your breath hitched again, every nerve in your body sparking with sensation. "Just like that, Spence," you managed to gasp out, your body trembling with anticipation.

And Spencer, ever attentive, ever caring, gave you exactly what you needed, his movements steady and sure as he took you closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer’s eyes were filled with awe as he watched you, the intensity of your expression sending a rush of pride and arousal through him. "Are you going to finish?" he asked deeply, his voice tinged with both excitement and lust, clearly captivated by the way you were responding to him.

But as much as you loved the feeling of him against you, you knew that you needed something more to actually reach that peak. You didn’t want him to think that he was doing anything wrong, because he wasn’t—everything felt amazing. You just needed a little extra.

Shaking your head slightly, you met his gaze, feeling a little shy but determined to be honest. "Um, no," you admitted, your voice soft but clear. "Spence, I’m going to need something more..."

His eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning on him, and he immediately slowed down, his expression one of care and attentiveness. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice gentle, full of nothing but the desire to give you exactly what you wanted. Spencer was nothing if not eager to please, and the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like he wasn’t giving you what you deserved.

You swallowed, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, but you pushed through the nervousness. "I just need more… contact," you said, your voice trembling a little, but you held his gaze, knowing that Spencer was the kind of person who wouldn’t judge you for asking. "Maybe your hands... or your mouth?"

The moment you said it, Spencer’s eyes darkened with understanding and desire, and he nodded quickly. "I can do that," he said, his voice now rougher, the edge of excitement clear in his tone. Without hesitation, he adjusted himself, his hands sliding down your body with deliberate care, his fingertips brushing lightly over your skin, sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

"Tell me how," he whispered, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me what you want, and I’ll make sure it feels good."

You nodded quickly, your lips brushing against Spencer’s as you whispered, “Touch me, please.” The desperation in your voice sent a rush of heat through him, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile at how the roles had reversed. You were the one who was a mess now, needing his touch, and he found it both endearing and exciting.

But Spencer wasn’t one to leave you waiting—he was far too much of a gentleman for that. He wanted to make sure you felt every bit of pleasure you deserved. His hands moved with purpose, pushing your tiny shorts and underwear down as far as they could go in your current position, the fabric bunching up around your thighs.

His fingers hesitated just for a second, brushing lightly over the coarse hair, testing the waters as he sought your reaction. The moment his fingertips made contact with your lips, you let out a soft gasp, your body arching slightly, seeking more of his touch.

Spencer’s gaze flicked back to your face, watching your reaction closely, a mixture of curiosity and admiration in his eyes. He loved how responsive you were to him, how honest your body was in its need. Slowly, gently, his fingers traced lower, gliding through the wet heat of your skin, exploring with a tenderness that made your heart race.

“Like this?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath as his fingers found your most sensitive spot, circling your clit with deliberate care and pressure. He wanted to make sure he was doing it just right, watching for every little tell that told him you were enjoying this.

Your breath hitched, and your fingers dug into his shoulders as you nodded, unable to form words in that moment. Spencer, always attentive, took your reaction as the encouragement he needed and continued, his movements slow but precise, building the tension inside you with every stroke of his hand.

As your body responded to his touch, the quiet sounds of your pleasure filled the space between you, and Spencer’s heart swelled with satisfaction. He leaned down to kiss you again, his lips moving against yours with a renewed sense of purpose as his fingers continued their steady rhythm, determined to give you exactly what you needed.

You were quickly becoming undone beneath him, your body trembling as the pressure built inside you. Spencer could feel it too, the way your breathing quickened, the way your hips subtly lifted to meet his hand. And in that moment, all that mattered was making sure you felt as good as you possibly could.

"That's it," he murmured against your lips, his voice soft but full of awe. "Just let go, Y/N. I've got you."

Spencer's deep voice, laced with desire and tenderness, sent waves of heat coursing through you, and when you whined, your voice high and breathless, "Harder, faster, I'm so close," it was all he needed to hear.

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as his fingers immediately responded to your plea, pressing harder, moving faster. His focus was entirely on you, on making sure you got exactly what you needed. His lips brushed against your temple as his fingers worked you over, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast through your top, squeezing lightly.

"Like this?" he murmured, his voice rough with concentration, the husky edge to it sending another wave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched as you gasped out, barely able to hold yourself together. "Yes, yes, right there!" The sensation built inside you with a blinding intensity, every nerve in your body alight as Spencer's fingers moved expertly, just how you needed.

He watched your face, utterly captivated by how you were unraveling beneath him, your body trembling with need, your breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. His fingers pressed even harder, his movements precise and relentless as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come on," he whispered softly, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth. "Let go for me, Y/N."

That was all it took. Spencer’s deep voice, the way his fingers worked your body, the tension that had been building—it all came crashing down at once. You let out a sharp cry, your body arching into his as the overwhelming wave of pleasure washed over you, your muscles tightening, then releasing in sweet relief.

Spencer slowed his movements as you rode out the high, his hand still gently moving against you, guiding you through the aftershocks. His lips pressed gentle kisses along your jawline, murmuring soft words of praise and affection as you came down from the blissful peak.

"That's it," Spencer whispered, his voice low and tender, filled with awe as he looked down at you. "Wow. You’re so beautiful."

He sat back on his knees, needing to take in the full sight of you beneath him, his chest swelling with an overwhelming sense of admiration. What he saw made his heart race—your flushed face, damp with sweat, your hair slightly stuck to your forehead, the way your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. The rolls of your tummy from the way you lay on the couch only made you more irresistible to him.

But what really caught Spencer’s attention was the wet spot beneath you, a clear indication of just how much you had enjoyed yourself. His eyes trailed up slowly, following the evidence of your release until they landed on the source of that wetness, the sight making something primal stir inside him.

He couldn’t help himself—his hand moved instinctively, reaching out to touch you again, his fingers gently brushing over the sensitive, soaked skin. The temptation was too strong, and before he could think about it, his fingers slipped inside you.

You flinched, your body jerking in a mix of oversensitivity and surprise. "S-Spence, wait—" you gasped, your hands grabbing onto his forearm, trying to find something to hold onto as the sensation overwhelmed you.

Spencer froze immediately, his wide eyes snapping up to meet yours. "Sorry!" he blurted out, his voice filled with concern. "I didn’t mean to—are you okay?"

You nodded quickly, your breath still catching in your throat. "Yeah, yeah... just sensitive." You smiled at him softly, appreciating his eagerness and concern, though your body was still recovering from the intensity of the high he had just given you.

Spencer smiled down at you, his lips soft and warm as he leaned in to kiss you gently. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice low and husky, though there was a hint of teasing in his tone.

You took a few more deep breaths, your chest rising and falling quickly as your body calmed, but there was no way in hell you’d ever ask him to stop—not when he was making you feel like this. Shaking your head, you looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes despite the lingering sensitivity. "Absolutely not," you whispered breathlessly.

Spencer’s smirk deepened, satisfaction and mischief dancing across his features. "Didn’t think so," he murmured, clearly pleased with your response. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring the way your lips felt against his fingers resumed their mission.

His touch was gentler now, coaxing rather than demanding, and the feeling of his fingers moving slowly inside you after you just finished made you shudder, your body responding instantly despite the intensity you had just experienced.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Spencer whispered against your lips, his voice a soft promise, but there was an unmistakable eagerness in his tone. He wanted to keep going, wanted to keep making you feel this way, but only if you were ready.

You nodded, your heart racing again as you gave him the permission he was looking for. "I will," you promised, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, holding onto him as his touch sent more sparks of pleasure through you.

And with that, Spencer’s fingers picked up their rhythm again, slow but deliberate, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched every reaction, every gasp and moan that fell from your lips.

“I—I won’t come like this,” you managed to gasp out as Spencer’s fingers sped up once again, the sensation intense but not quite enough to push you over the edge. 

Spencer chuckled softly, his eyes locked on where his hand was working its magic between your legs. The sound of his voice, low and comforting, sent another wave of warmth through you. “That’s okay, darling,” he said, his words dripping with affection and adoration. “I just wanted to feel you.”

The way he said it—so sincere, so captivated by you—made your breath catch, your body instinctively clenching around his fingers. You groaned, the sensation shooting straight through your core, your body responding to his touch in ways you hadn’t expected.

Spencer noticed your reaction, his smirk growing as his fingers continued to move, sliding in and out of you with steady precision. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I love the way you feel around me,” he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. 

His words, the way his fingers kept you on edge without letting you tip over—it was driving you wild. Even if you couldn’t reach your release like this, the sheer pleasure of having him touch you, of knowing how much he wanted to feel you, was enough to keep you completely captivated in the moment.

You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as you whispered back, “Keep going, please.” 

Spencer grinned, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he quickened the pace of his fingers just a little more, continuing to enjoy the way your body reacted to his every movement. 

After Spencer had taken his fill, and you were far too sensitive to continue, you giggled, gently pushing him off as you sat up. You reached towards his waistband with a playful smile, teasing, “I can help the next customer now.”

But before you could get far, his hands caught yours, stopping you. When you looked up at him, you saw his face flushing pink, an adorably sheepish expression crossing his features. “I—uh, finished a long time ago,” he confessed, his voice soft, almost shy.

You blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter. “What?” you asked, incredulous but deeply amused. “When?”

Spencer groaned, his face turning even redder as he leaned in, hiding in the crook of your neck. “When you did,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

Your eyes widened at the confession, a rush of heat pooling in your stomach as you processed what he said. "Fuck, that’s hot," you murmured, the thought of him finishing just from pleasuring you sending a fresh wave of excitement through your already sensitive body.

Spencer pulled back just enough to peek at you, his face still flushed, a mixture of surprise and bashful pride written across his features. “Really?” he asked, almost like he couldn’t believe that you’d find that sexy.

You nodded eagerly, your hands gently running up his chest as you leaned in closer. “Really,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Spencer exhaled a small laugh, clearly relieved and a little proud, the tension easing from his shoulders as he kissed you softly. Even though he had been shy about it, your reaction had made him feel comfortable. 

After the intensity of the moment, you both excused yourselves to clean up, laughing softly as Spencer ended up borrowing a pair of your sweatpants. He wore them with a grin, clearly feeling more comfortable now. The two of you tidied up quickly, putting everything in order before settling back into the perfect evening you'd planned.

Before you knew it, your cozy movie night was underway, the two of you curled up on the couch together. The living room was warm and inviting, the soft glow from the screen casting gentle shadows around the room. Spencer's arms were wrapped around you, his head resting against your chest as you absentmindedly played with his curls. The sound of his breathing, steady and peaceful, combined with the soft hum of the movie in the background, made the entire evening feel even more intimate.

It wasn’t long before you felt the subtle weight of Spencer's body relaxing against yours, his breathing slowing as he drifted off to sleep. You smiled to yourself, your heart full as you gazed down at him. His face was peaceful, his usually intense expression softened by sleep, and you couldn’t help but think how lucky you were to have moments like this with him.

Gently, you nudged him awake just enough to move to your bedroom, guiding him carefully as he stirred. Spencer mumbled sleepily, still half-asleep as he followed you, reclaiming his hold on you as soon as you both slipped under the covers. His arms wrapped around you again, his body curling into yours instinctively as you both settled in for the night.

With his warmth surrounding you and the peaceful rhythm of his breathing lulling you, you quickly drifted off, the perfect ending to a night full of closeness and connection.

—

Spencer was incredibly content when he woke up to find his head once again pillowed by your chest. The quiet comfort of the moment filled him with warmth, his body relaxed and his mind at ease for what felt like the first time in ages. You were still asleep, your breathing soft and even, giving him a chance to truly admire your beauty without distraction.

He gently stroked your hair, letting his fingers run through the soft strands as he watched the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. Your eyes fluttered ever so slightly, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I am so lucky," he whispered softly to himself, the words barely audible in the quiet room.

But then, he noticed a small, sleepy smile forming on your lips. Spencer paused, realizing you were pretending to be asleep. He sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation as he gazed down at you. “I just hope she doesn’t look me up on the internet… she'd find my porno…”

Your eyes popped open immediately, and you sat up with a start, your voice full of shock and amusement. "What?!"

Spencer couldn’t hold back his laugh, his cheeks flushing a bit as he tried to stifle it with his hand. "I’m kidding!" he said quickly, grinning at the horrified look on your face. "It’s just a joke."

You stared at him for a moment before breaking into laughter yourself, smacking his chest playfully. "Don’t scare me like that! I almost believed you!"

Spencer chuckled, rubbing the spot where you hit him. “Sorry, sorry. You were just too cute pretending to be asleep. I couldn’t resist.”

You rolled your eyes, still laughing, but you couldn’t help the warm feeling in your chest at how playful and lighthearted Spencer was with you. “I’ll have to keep my guard up now,” you teased, leaning down to kiss him softly.

“Good idea,” Spencer said, smiling into the kiss. “Though I promise, no more fake confessions. Just real ones.”

"Better not," you warned playfully, your smile soft as you settled back into the warmth of his embrace, the both of you falling back into that easy, affectionate comfort. 

You traced lazy patterns on Spencer’s chest, your fingertips lightly grazing his skin as you asked, “What would I find if I looked you up, really?”

Spencer sighed softly, clearly thinking it over for a moment before answering. "Some peer reviews, research articles, child prodigy stuff, and, uh… probably some news stories from the BAU."

The mention of the BAU caught you off guard. “BAU?” you asked, your voice holding a slight edge of nervousness. You knew Spencer worked for the FBI, but he hadn’t gone into much detail about it.

Spencer, misinterpreting the nervous tone in your voice, mistook it for confusion. “Oh, sorry, the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” he explained casually, not yet realizing the weight of what he was revealing. “It’s the part of the FBI where I work. We profile and catch serial killers, violent criminals, kidnappers… you know, things like that.”

“Oh… yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Sounds scary.”

“It can be,” Spencer admitted softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers lightly brushing through your hair. “But it’s really rewarding too. It’s sweet that you seem concerned.”

You laughed lightly, trying to shake off the lingering nerves. “Yeah,” you said, your tone warmer now as you tried to ease the tension. “Don’t want my boyfriend being in danger.”

The word had slipped out so naturally, but as soon as Spencer picked up on it, his eyes widened in surprise and excitement. “Boyfriend?” he repeated, his voice practically buzzing with joy. “You called me your boyfriend.”

You laughed softly, feeling the warmth of his reaction settle your nerves. “Well, aren’t you?” you teased, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye.

Spencer’s face lit up, his expression one of pure adoration. “God, I hope so,” he breathed, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and happiness. His arms wrapped around you a little tighter as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening but didn’t want to let go of the moment.

You smiled, your heart swelling as you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, feeling the soft hum of affection that flowed between you both. “Then kiss me,” you murmured against his lips. “Boyfriend.”

Spencer chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m not sure how I got so lucky, but I’m not going to question it.” His voice was filled with genuine emotion, as though this moment meant more to him than he could fully express.

You smiled, nuzzling into him, feeling more at home than ever.

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[marvelous-llama]

Seventeen recs

<<original book

most of the mentioned works is 18+ NSFW, MINORS DNI

pls don´t hesitate to hmu, if any of mentioned links doesn´t work or you have suggestions for more fics... thank you so much for all the love and comments

one shots

the cake in the back by @toruro

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 3.8k) baker!reader, single parent!Sungcheol, acquaintances to lovers - fluff, smut cheol is a regular at your bakery, and it's all because his son loves the banana bread you make—at least that's what he tells himself. it also doesn't hurt that you're cute. and polite. and totally someone he'd like to fuck.

Dream Ride by @bambikisss

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 4.3k) strangers to lovers - fluff?, smut You haven't been able to sleep much lately, so you've been driving around at night to help ease your mind. However, you keep passing by the same jet black colored motorcycle every night, which then keeps showing up in your dreams. So when you stop one night to get gas and see the same motorcycle stopped nearby, you decide to meet the man under the helmet.

Crossing Boundaries by @wonusite

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 8.6k) nanny!reader, boss x employee to lovers, mutual pining - fluff, smut Seungcheol has always demanded that all of his employees keep professional boundaries, but it frustrates him that his son’s nanny is a little too good at keeping things professional.

Let Me Love You by @gyuwoncheol

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 5.3k) established relationship - fluff, smut You just want to shower Cheol with all the love and softness in the world and he’s determined to do the same.

Sentinel´s Serenade by @starlightxsvt

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 29.5k) bodyguard!Sungcheol, heiress!reader - angst, drama, romance, hurt/comfort, smut As you start digging up an accident that has been brushed under the rug, you make an enemy who is out to get you no matter what. Amidst all the chaos you develop feelings for your bodyguard who has built walls of steel around him.

Black Suit by @gyuranhae

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 5.3k) mafia AU, established relationship - smut You just couldn't help if you husband looked so good on an all black suit.

Seungcheol´s Letters by @wonustars

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 23.5k) best friends > fwb > lovers, university AU, slowburn - angst, fluff, smut all it took was one kiss and suddenly you and Seungcheol’s friendship has turned upside down. In other words: exploring how far the boundaries of your lifelong friendship can take the two of you, you and Seungcheol try to navigate what it's like to be friends with benefits. just because you're secrelty in love with each other won't fuck everything up...right?

Like You Do by @hannieehaee

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 7.8k) brother´s best friend, enemies to lovers - angst, fluff, smut when your brother's best friend suddenly reveals his newfound crush on you, you find yourself at a crossroads, thinking back to your own unrequited crush on him from back in middle school, making you wonder if you should be the better person and give him a chance.

off the market by @gyuzgrl

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 4.5k) strangers to lovers - fluff, smut You have a crush on your favourite customer. He's big and kind and pretty and god the things you wanted to do to him were unholy. Little do you know, he feels the exact same way.

all for you by @gfcheol

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 4.6k) friends to lovers - fluff, smut, hurt/comfort your boyfriend, wonwoo, just broke up with you to be with someone else. heartbroken and self esteem shattered, you sink into a hole of sadness, but luckily your best friend seungcheol knows the best remedy for you to stop thinking about your ex.

babymaker by @onlyseokmins

Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 7.9k) fwb to lovers, roommates to lovers - fluff, angst(ish), smut

series

Elevator by @wongyuuu

Jihoon x fem!reader, Seungcheol x fem!reader (wc - 10k + 17k) soulmate AU - angst, fluff, hurt/comfort in a world where soulmates exists, jihoon is faced with difficult decisions part 1, part 2

[kbunzzi2oa]

Unleash Me - Enha series

🖤 Synopsis ꒰ঌ໒꒱

After years of dreaming about becoming a policewoman or night guard, you finally land the job you’ve always wanted. But the moment you step into the facility, a strange document lands in your hands… and just like that, your life takes a wild turn. Who would've thought your first week would involve taking care and becoming a therapist for seven dangerously attractive and yet dangerously unhinged men?

🔒 Contains ꒰ঌ໒꒱

Enhypen members x Fem!Reader • smut • fluff • angst • mentions of murder • unprotected sex • blowjobs • oral (f & m receiving) • fingering • escape (?) • make-out sessions • kisses • confusion • emotional chaos • no smut in Niki’s part (just suggestive tension)

📝 Word Count: None yet!

🗒 Nef's Note ꒰ঌ໒꒱

Hi everyone! This concept has been living rent-free in my head for so long and I finally decided to bring it to life, inspired by recent comeback photos and themes. It's my first time creating a series, so I hope you enjoy the ride! Updates will most likely drop every Saturday or Sunday. I'll try to hold on to that promise!

If you want to be tagged in future parts, just drop a comment or message! Thank you! (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)⁠♥

🗂 Open File? ➝ Yes or No?

Yang Jungwon

Open Yang's file...

Yang Jungwon A Korean serial killer, have a streak of 5 years of murder, favorite weapon a chainsaw, always had it with him. Such an innocent face yet so dangerous...

W.C --√ 23.5k

Contains --√ Smut, suggestive scenes, making out, eating pussy, M & F receiving, Oral, fingering, teasing, mentions of touching, sex, table sex, p in v, unprotected sex, emotional feelings, jealousy, mention of killing and blood, San from Ateez mentioned, ect.

VC Tape

Day 1: My first kill

---------------------------♱-----------------------------------

Jake Sim

Jake Sim an Australian - Korean murder, having a streak of 4 years, killing and hiding the body's very well...

W.C -__-> 20.831k

Contains -__-> slow burn, suggestive, mentions of murder, mentions of sex, fingering, masterbation (f.receving), unprotected sex, slow burn, hard tension ect.

VC tape

Day 2: Thread of the beast

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Park Jongseong

Jongseong or jay an American killer, killer streak up to 3 years..His eyes sharp like an eagle just like his butcher knife...

W.C --√...?

Contains --√...?

VC tape

Day 3:....

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Park Sunghoon

Sunghoon, a man colder than the ice he glazed as a child and yet now, his killing streak 5 years, be careful his skates are sharp...

W.C --√...?

Contains --√...?

VC tape

Day 4:....

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Lee Heeseung

Heeseung an innocent yet seductive man, Bambi eyes that could trick you onto his trap with sharp knives..A killing streak of 6 years..

W.C --√...?

Contains --√...?

VC tape

Day 5:...

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Kim Sunoo

Sunoo, sly as a fox...innocent eyes, personality that would make you fall for him, be careful he's really good with grenades!

W.C --√...?

Contains --√...?

VC tape

Day 6:....

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Nishimura Niki

Niki, a dancer...moves that makes you get hypnotized, yet something about his gaze and voice just seem to add more to the mystery

W.C --√...?

Contains --√...?

VC tape

Day 7:....

---------------------------♱-----------------------------------

Tags: @cherry012309

Warning: the photos and backgrounds aren't mine, all to the respectful owner, none of these stories show or tell what the real idol is, it's all fake and fiction...Thank you!

[hoes4lino]

🍓 Fields 🍓 | LMH

WARNING ⊂✦⊃ This story contains nsfw content as well as mentions of alcohol; minors please don’t interact, please beware of what you consume online.

Genre: College au, fluff, angst

Summary: He was madly in love, she just wanted to live in peace. What happens when one of the most popular guys in college falls in love with the dork who no one knows?

Word Count: 23.5k

Reading Time: approx 2hrs

Authors Note: In this fic I’m combining two of my favorite things in this world… soccer and leeknow ^•^ y’all should know that Im a hoe for romantic fics, so this was enjoyable to write even though it took me many sleepless nights to finish this. This is my first time writing such a long story, so hope you enjoy!!! <3

It was 3 am and you were already feeling today wasn’t going to be a good day. It all started when you abruptly woke up from what was supposed to be a 30-minute nap, just to look at the clock and realize it was 1:07 am… you overslept 6hrs since you got home.

All sweaty and thirsty, you brag yourself out of bed and opened the shower, while letting the cold water adjust to a warmer temperature you opened your Macbook to check what assignments you had to do for the day.

You internally cursed yourself as you blankly stared at the assignment, <what if I say my grandma died> you thought, as you tried to find a reasonable excuse to give your professor. You had no problem in speedrunning a few designs, however knowing your teacher you rather do nothing than give him some sloppy drawings <he is going to kill me> you cried <thats it, Im failing, im never graduating> as thoughts filled your head, you heard a notification pop in your phone, startling you.

Hello Cornell University!

Today we love to announce the beginning of autumn sports! Please join us tomorrow at the field for the first soccer game of the year!

Go Bears! 🐻❤️

You scoff at the notification. Since you moved for college, you didn’t take the time to make friends or meet any new people in general, you missed Korea and even though you were now at your dream college, you didn’t feel like you fit in here, the cultures were just too different and it made you feel off place, you didn’t like the people here, none of them seem to have manners or have some sense of respect towards others everyone was self-centered, the thing that made you scared to talk to others. You decided to go unnoticed and just stick to the friendships you had back in Korea. Although pulling up to the game and meeting a few people didn’t sound bad, you were a very passionate soccer fan, and meeting people with the same interest sounded exciting.

— — —

It was now 6 am, you had your first class at 8:45 am, and you finished doing your designs although they weren’t your best you were proud of how decent they looked, you grabbed the pieces of paper and placed them carefully into your folder trying to keep them at neat as possible, you thought of making yourself a cup of coffee, however, you decided to take a nap before your class started.

The way the sun rays gently touched your face and the birds sang beautiful background melodies was a warning that you were late to class. Eyes fully opening in panic when you read on the clock that it was now 8:28 am, you had about 12min to get to your class, quickly putting on a denim skirt, some Adidas forum, and a cute top, you rushed to grab your bag and left the dorm running. While running through the now-empty hallways with a piece of bread in your mouth, you brushed your hair and sprayed some perfume on yourself, trying to get yourself as decent as possible. As you were about to turn a corner you crashed with a firm body on the other side, making you stumble and crash yourself onto the floor.

Ashamed of yourself you just stood up and continued running, giving you the curiosity to know who that was and what they said while you left running. Luckily you made it to your class, maybe 5 or 8 minutes late but your teacher was the type to give you a few minutes to settle before he started his lesson in the morning. The class was going by pretty fast you were already in your 3rd period of the day, you went to your architecture class and your professor was impressed with your designs, you explained to him that you rushed through them, however, he seemed to have taken it in a good way.

"It’s ok y/n, I just graduate from college as well, I'm also a victim of procrastination" he whispered as he left a breathy chuckle, in that moment you realized Mr. Hyunjin and you had an age gap of 4 yrs, you two were pretty much alike, if he was your classmate he would be your best friend. At that moment you wondered how he got his teaching degree that fast "However, please do your drawings in time, although this is amazing I can see some of the lines are a little sloppy" he grinned at you as he handed back your drawings "I will Mr. Hawng" you grabbed your stuff; as you were about to leave when he stopped you once again in your tracks "Y/n, you should go to the soccer game today, its a big event and I have noticed you haven’t adapted yet to the environment" you slowly nodded as you gave him a small grin "I will think about it".

You thought of the proposal as you walked to your engineering class, everyone was talking about the game, was our team that good or was it just full of pretty faces and popular boys? Guess we will have to find out at the game. Your thoughts are abruptly interrupted when someone decided to sit next to you, you usually sit alone in this class so you would lie if you said you didn’t feel nervous "Look its miss hit and run" You blink confused a couple of times as you stare at the brunette boy sitting next to you, his cat-like eyes, sharp nose, and plump lips made your heart skip a beat <Is this man-made by the greek god's wtf> he scoffed as you didn’t say anything back at him "thanks to you I was late to my morning class" he rolled his eyes, you could feel your cheeks turning bright red at the embarrassment "I’m so sorry, I was running late to my class" you mumbled as you tried to hide your face in between your books, he scoffed once again. The rest of the class was spent in uncomfortable silence, both of you were working on whatever assignment the professor assigned, however, you couldn't ignore the glances he would give you from time to time.

The bell rang and you tried to leave as soon as possible, quickly packing up your stuff "Do you have Instagram?" he asked before you could get up, he wants your insta? hell no... no one from here followed you and honestly you didn't want them to find your user either "I don't use social media, sorry" With that you left as fast as you could, to you those words meant nothing, for Minho that was like a dagger stabbing his heart, he knew you used Instagram he saw you on the app during the class, that's why he went for it and asked you, second, you have no idea how much courage it took him to ask for it. Minho is not the type of guy to be nervous around a girl however with you… it felt different.

— — —

Once school was over, you went to the nearest Starbucks and got yourself your favorite refresher, however, you couldn't help to ignore the group of girls in there, they clearly went to Cornell as they proudly wore the red hoodie with the mascot on it, they were probably going to the game, however, they seemed to be talking about you "She is the girl I saw Minho with today at class" a blond girl whispered with a tone of disgust "What are the chances of Minho fucking her?" a brunette girl replied, making one of the girls hysterically laugh "Girls lets be for real, look at her and now look at me" She paused as they examined you "You think Minho would downgrade that bad" she said in a sassy tone "hmm I dunno Vanessa... she is pretty solid, and definitely top of my class" the blond girl was quickly hushed as she saw the glare of her friend "Angie if you don't learn how to shut the fuck up, I will kick your ass" <Lord please get me out of here> you thought, as the girls kept gossiping behind you, you don't know what the deal with Minho is, but you definitely didn't want to do something with him, he just sat next to you for a class and now you got people gossiping about you? worse to say, they thought you two fucking? "Y/N" the Starbucks employee yelled, taking you out of your thoughts, you grabbed your drink and left, noticing how that little friend group looked at you up and down, maybe today was a bad day to wear a denim skirt, people will think you a hooker or something. "y/n... so that's her name," Vanessa said under her breath as she watched you walk away.

On your way home you couldn't forget the interaction at Starbucks and wonder who were these girls and why were they targeting you, knowing that you were a topic of conversation at the moment made you sick to your stomach. As you pass by the campus you can hear all the cheering and music coming from the field, tempting you to take a small peak at the game. When you got closer you hid somewhere in between the bleachers and watched, what felt like 10 minutes turned into watching the whole game, but what can you say both teams were competitive and it felt like watching a world cup final. People started to leave and you decided to wait for all of them to leave, you wanted to wander around the field once everyone left. Minutes pass and it was starting to get dark, the field seemed to be now empty so you left your hiding spot and walked around it while listening to "Good Days" by sza. The music instrumental combined with the beautiful scenery of the field with the vanishing sunset gave you a feeling of euphoria, captured by the scene as you stare at it mesmerized, you didn't acknowledge the presence approaching you.

"Fancy meeting you here" Startled by the sudden voice, your instinct was to throw hands, quickly throwing the refresher you had in your hand with half its content in it. The juice splashed all over the boy's face, leaving him with shock showing in his face. "I- I'm sorry," you stare at him scared "I swear I didn't mean to, you just appeared and..." You were quickly hushed as he opened his eyes, looking at you with pure anger "You just dirtied my shirt" he said in annoyment "I have another game tomorrow" he sighed in frustration "Give it to me, I have a washing machine and a dryer at my dorm, let me wash it for you" your voice stuttering here and there, unlike you Minho was enjoying this, seeing the way your eyes trembled and the way you tried to collect yourself to solve this more professionally "Ok, then..." he paused as he was about to take his shirt right there "WAIT" you stop him, your hands grabbing his forearms as you pulled them down with the shirt "Don't take your shirt here" you flustered "Just follow me to my dorm, it will take 30 minutes max and you can clean yourself" you suggested, you just wanted to be done with the shirt incident and never seen him ever again.

— — —

The walk to your apartment had to be the most awkward moment of your whole life. Once the two of you reached your door, you realized the type of person you were dealing with "Hope your roommate doesn't get the wrong idea when I get in" he said in a rather suggestive tone while he glare at you with a smirk, you sighed "I don't have a roommate, I rather live alone in silence" you said annoyed opening the door, making him chuckle "That's some valuable information right there" he said as he closed the door and quickly took his shirt off "where is your bathroom, so I can take a quick bath" you turn around to give him the directions when you were surprised with his honey-toned chest and flat stomach <Lord almighty> it seemed that after all you were right when you said he was built by the greek gods, however, you knew the game he was playing and you were def not forming part of it, so you shook all those thoughts away and took him to your bathroom, where you also explained to give how the washing machine worked and with that, you left him in there.

Now in your mind, you were recreating every single moment of your day. First, you crash into someone this morning, that someone being Minho, one of the most handsome guys you have ever seen, captain of the soccer team, popular and most likely a fuck boy based on the gossip of those girls at Starbucks, and now he is in your house... taking a bath... things can't get any worse at that moment if you told your friends they would swear you are creating some type of kdrama shit in your little delusional head, however, all this was real... which made you sick.

You stood up from your couch with a sigh, deciding to switch to more comfortable clothes and start your assignments, while you waited for Minho to leave. Going to your room you picked up a pink spaghetti strap tank top and your favorite silk white shorts accompanying it with fluffy socks and your pink slide slipper, then you left the room and made your way to the kitchen, reheating some leftover Gimbap from the previous night.

"Ahhh~" Minho teases "So this is what it would feel like dating you, taking a shower after a rough day, to find you in your little pajamas warming up some food for us" At that moment you couldn't focus on his words, as he was getting closer to you with his wet brunette hair and wearing nothing but a towel... YOUR TOWEL... Once he was a couple of inches apart from you, you looked into his eyes and started laughing, at that moment you didn't know if you were laughing at his words, at the whole situation, or out of nervousness.

"And here I thought I was delusional" you chuckle relaxing "Also what are you doing with MY towel" You emphasize the word as he looks down to stare at it "I gave you another one, you were supposed to use that one... not mine," you say in frustration, now you will have to wash it, the water bill was looking crazy at that moment "I liked the texture of this one better, plus I also liked the scent" you scoff at his words and took your food out of the microwave "Whatever, just dress up and leave my house," you said as you pushed him away of your way and sat on your comfy couch, placing your food on the coffee table and picking up the tv remote "So you are just going to let me go like that?" he said with a dumbfounded face, you look at him confused "ermm... yeah? you are only here cause I spilled my drink on you, don't abuse the invite, I could have hit and run like I did this morning" you said as you blankly passed the channels on the tv.

He scoffed, at that moment he didn't know why he felt disappointed, as if he was hoping for more, for you to invite him and have a bite of your food, an invite to sit there with you and watched whatever shitty show you were watching, he walked to the bathroom and took his cloths out of the dryer, he dressed up and even though he was ready, he didn't want to leave that bathroom cause that meant leaving your house.

The reality was that he had been liking you since freshmen year, the moment he saw you at the welcoming party was like you caught his mind, since then he's been in denial of accepting his crush on you. He knew you were shy and that you were good at drawing, he always paid attention to every little single detail of you, he would often find himself looking for you in crowded places knowing that you hated them, he hated every single thing about being in love with you, yet he always craved being loved by you; in the inside, he wanted to worship you, have you in his arms every morning, cook your favorite meals, go on silly dates with you... he would party and fuck around to see if you would leave his mind someday... yet he was never lucky, the only thing that would clear his mind was soccer, he loved the adrenaline, the intensity, and the beauty of the sport, in his head he would often compare his love for soccer with his love for you, the only difference was that one was more realistic than the other.

When he caught you today mesmerized with the field, he felt like you stole his heart for a second time, the way your eyes shined under the sunset, the way the breeze moved your hair, and the way your smile brought warmth to his heart, he felt like it was the day to do something about it, get closer to you. The moment you offered him to come to your dorm, his heart was beating so fast, he has never been this nervous before, and yes maybe he has been in a bunch of girl's dorms before but for some reason, yours just felt special.

He stepped out of the bathroom with a heavy heart, ready to say his goodbyes and leave your life for once, however, he didn't expect to find you knocked out on the couch, the sight of you sleeping peacefully made his heart skip a beat, making him mad at himself for being this down bad. He slowly walked to your sleepy figure, he grabbed a fluffy blanket you had on the couch and wrapped it around you. The next thing he remembers he was on his knees analyzing your face, he has never been this close, and the temptation to kiss your plump lips was bigger than anything, however, he held himself and instead planted a sweet peck on your cheek, with a smile on his face he made sure to leave quietly.

— — —

The next morning you slowly opened your eyes and sat on the couch, you blink a couple of times trying to remember what happened last night, the tv was off and you had a blanket on top of you... <When did Minho leave?> You ask yourself, due to the tiredness you don't remember a single thing. It was a Friday morning, and you had no plans for the rest of the day as you didn't have any lectures till the afternoon, however, you hated staying at your dorm the whole day so you decided to get ready and go for a refresher and then to the library. Today you decided to go with a simple purple sundress and your white Converse accompanied with a white tote bag.

You would lie if you said you didn't feel self-aware the moment you walked through the campus, a bunch of eyes staring at you, confused you tried asking someone around you what was going on, however, you were too scared to approach someone.

"So are you the girl Lee Minho was lucky to pull or is he just a pass time?" a girl with blond hair and lovely eyes said as she approached you "Excuse me?" you raised an eyebrow "I'm sorry, it's just that rumor is spreading like a wildfire" she chuckled while she gave you a warming smile "I'm rosé" she extended a hand in front of you "I'm y/n" you shook her hand while smiling "ermm do you mind telling me what this rumor is about? I'm really confused" she chuckled "Of course, let's go get something to drink first" she smiled grabbing your hand.

"So there is this girl Vanessa and her group of minions," she said while she proceed to take a sip of her drink "She is Minho's ex, however, she seems to not let him go" She paused "He dated her out of pity, she would always go around bugging him all day until he gave in, they broke up because she got jealous of the female soccer managers and threw a fit that expelled Minho from soccer finals... They still hook up from time to time when Minho loses his mind with the alcohol" She rolled her eyes and laughed "And about your rumor..." She pulled her phone out of her pocket and opened Twitter to show you a thread made by Angie one of Vanessa's minions.

"Angie saw you and Minho together after the game... she also saw how he was about to take off his shirt right there" She cringed as she showed you the video Angie took from a long distance... at that moment you could understand the rumor as in all honesty, it did seem like you two were about to hook up.

"That's a misunderstanding, he scared me so I threw my drink at him..." you mumbled, "Well... it doesn't end like this..." She then pulled a second video of you two walking to your dorm at night <Oh Jesus... People think we fucked> your eyes opened in panic... you went from no one to a hot topic in two days... "Yeah... but don't worry, Minho always handles these types of rumors" She reassured you "He is my brother's best friend, so I know what happened" She caressed your arm to ease your nerves "Thank you rosé" You smile "Don't worry I got you, also you can call me Rosie" She grinned at you, her pearly white teeth showing, she was truly gorgeous.

"Do you mind who is your brother, I have never seen you around... but that might just be cause I don't know anyone here" You took a sip of your refresher "My brother is Lee Felix, we like inseparable" You could tell she admired her brother by the way her eyes light talking about him "We have seen you around, but girl you are unreachable, matter many people have been trying to approach you, but everyone is intimidated by you" She laughed.

"That's why everyone calling Minho a lucky bitch, you have no idea how many people would kill for you" When you heard those words your mind went blank... do people think that about you? at that moment you felt mad at yourself for isolating yourself when you could be out there having fun with new people. "There's gonna be a party tomorrow night, be there or be square," The blond girl said as she stared at you with lovely eyes, after that you two talked until you had to leave for your class, today you could say you made your first friend ever.

— — —

It was around 8 pm that same Friday when you spotted Minho, peacefully walking with his headphones on, you slowly approached him to confront him about the rumor "Hey" you touched his shoulder giving him a warm smile, he froze at your sudden apparition "Miss me already?" he said with a smug face "No, I want to talk about the rumor... I talked with this girl Rosé and she told me you usually deny these rumors so-" You were interrupted when he started laughing "Why would I deny it? it's just an innocent rumor we both know it's not real and that should be enough" You couldn't believe your eyes at that moment, the audacity he had to say he wouldn't do it... that was an innocent rumor, you scoff "I'm sorry... innocent rumor? People out there think we fucked" you scoff once again "Ok and? what's the big deal if you know it's not true" his body stiffed as he stood straight glaring down at you.

"You don't know how it feels walking into a place and having a bunch of people talking behind your back? calling you a whore, a pass time?" you crossed your arms and looked around trying to remain calm.

"Knowing Im the hot topic of the day because of you makes me sick" your tone raising without you noticing "You are making a big deal out of nothing y/n" It was Minho's turn to raise his voice, he was about to say something when he got interrupted. "Y/n everything alright?" you turn to see Mr. Hwang "Oh Mr. Hwang" you nervously laughed "Everything alright, thanks for asking" he gave you a charming smile making Minho want to puke right there "I wanted to talk to you about something, do you have a minute? he asked ignoring Minho, which pissed him off even more "yeah sure" you smiled "Let's go to my classroom then," he said and you obediently followed him completely forgetting about Minho. He stood there, body burning in jealousy.

Minho needed to clear his mind, he didn't want anger to control his feelings, but every time he remembered the way that guy talked to you and even the way he looked at you, made him wanna punch his guts, he knew you weren't his but he wanted you all to himself and that's how he ended up in the soccer field kicking the ball as hard as he could and running as fast as he could until his legs gave up.

The roller coaster of emotions drove him insane as he ran behind the ball, thinking that you might like that guy was his final stroke as his legs gave up and he landed on the soft grass of the field, tears rolling down his eyes as he couldn't understand why he felt this way towards someone he barely knew. After he lay on the grass blankly staring at the stars for like an hour he decided to try and let you go, he grabbed his phone and Tweeted that the rumor was fake and to leave you alone, he threw his phone beside him and closed his eyes.

— — —

The next day you noticed Minho publicly denied the rumor, you felt so grateful to him, a warm smile adorning your face, and you kept it a mental note that you would thank him if you saw him.

The party was today and you doubted if you should go or not but after talking with your best friend Eunchae, she convinced you to go and that's how you find yourself wearing a silk black dress with a slit and your favorite heels, for the jewelry you went with a pearl necklace and long gold earrings and for makeup you went with something natural but cute, once your hair was done you grabbed a small bag and left your dorm.

At the party you meet up with Rosé, who you quickly lost as she joined her brother and a couple of other friends, they all disappeared into the crowded place filled with warm bodies, you weren't ready for all the chaos yet; so you made your way to the bar to get a few drinks and maybe lose up enough to start dancing with people, you were feeling yourself for the first time in years, you never thought you would enjoy this; but at that moment you felt that enjoy was not enough to describe how much you were loving this party.

The taste of the bitter alcoholic drink you were consuming plus the music and neon lights of the club made you feel as if everything was in slow motion, maybe the vodka of your drink had finally begun to hit, and you could also feel the temperature of your body rising, your eyes moving in all directions inspecting the people in the room; that's when you spot him.

Lee Minho, wearing an all-black outfit, his shirt was tight enough to give his body justice, plus it had a zipper he kept half opened exposing a bit of his chest, you could see the way girls drool over him and to think you got to see more than that the day he went to your apartment.

His brunette hair and plump lips, for some reason today you felt tempted by them for the first time, the way his cat-like eyes shined under the neon lights... yeah you acknowledge he was handsome, made by the Greek Gods as you would say, however, you were never captive by his charms like today... was it the alcohol? was it because of your previous interactions? You don't know what possessed you to stand up from your seat and made your way towards him.

Once he spot you the smile he had on his face faded away, at that moment you felt he didn't want you there but the way he looked at you gave you a hint that he wanted you there more than anyone. You smiled before approaching him, a giggle escaping your soft lips "I saw that you denied the rumors..." you trace as you study his face "Thank you" you finally said after a pause. At that moment you could see how Minho's body language changed, he went from relaxed to stiff in a matter of seconds "No problem" he said with no expression at all.

This was the first time you saw him this cold towards you, you couldn't quite decipher what was wrong so to lift the mood you grabbed his hand and brag him with you towards the dancing floor "y/n what are you doing" he said as he quickly walked behind you, At this moment he could feel the warmth of your hand touching his, everything was moving in slow motion for him, he was going to treasure this memory forever.

"I don't want to dance alone... I'm shy but with you, I feel like I can be myself" You grin at him as you glare at his deep brown eyes, if this was some kdrama Minho would have kissed you by now... he didn't know how much he would last this "cold treatment" act he was trying to play on you.

"I thought you didn't like our dating allegations, this will just add fuel to them" he scoffs rolling his eyes "Come on... you are Lee Minho" You emphasize his name "Do you really care about those rumors?" he didn't say anything, the tension was increasing creating an uncomfortable environment between the two of you; but you are y/n and you won't give up easily.

Die for you by the weekend started playing and you decided to screw it and let the music guide your body. Minho just stood there watching the way your hips moved to the rhythm of the song, the way you would throw your head back exposing your cleavage, he felt like you were inducing him, putting a spell under him, the way you smiled as you were having fun... he was falling for your act.

Once the music changed he realized he was hypnotized by you the whole time, but what made his blood boil is that he wasn't the only one as he spot more than a few staring at your body, at that moment out of instinct he placed a hand on your waist and pulled you closer to his body, the contact and the warmth of his chest against yours made your stomach tingle.

A few minutes passed and he had his neck in the crook of your neck as you both danced carefreely, he would constantly pull your dress down as it kept rolling up from all the grinding and movement.

Both of your hearts pounded excitedly there was something about this moment that felt special like it was meant to be, however, you were starting to get tired as you weren't feeling the music with the same energy you started. You gently pushed Minho away thank him for the time and left to sit somewhere in the club.

Minho's heartache as you left him, he wished he could stop time so he could enjoy more of your warmth, but he couldn't do anything and he knew it, you didn't belong to him and that's why he let you go.. he stood there watching your figure disappear between the rest of the bodies "HEY MINNIE" a voice squeaked behind him and he knew exactly who it belonged to as the girl hugged his arm... it was going to be a long night for Minho.

It was around 2 am and the party continued, you were pretty tired your social battery drained hours ago, you sat at one of the chairs at the bar and scrolled through your social media, waiting for Rosé to be done so you both could call for an Uber.

"Hey pretty" You look up to see an unfamiliar face, the man was really good looking and you could tell he had more than a couple of drinks by the way he would hiccup from time to time, by his body language you knew he wanted to hit on you and that he was rather desperate, making you uncomfortable.

"Hey" you tried to be friendly either way "You are y/n right, I’m Jake, I think you are really cute" he got closer placing a hand behind your back, at this moment you panicked you had no way of escaping his grip and it was making you feel uncomfortable, also with all the drinks you had you were feeling tired "Thank you so much and nice to meet you, but I gotta go" you nervously chuckled trying to push him away.

"Come on baby… don’t leave without giving me a kiss" With that he leaned dangerously close to your face trying to steal a kiss away from you when he abruptly got pushed away, startle you looked behind to see a rather pissed off Minho "Leave her alone" he hissed at him and grabbed your hand, quickly walking you to the exit "Wait… Minho, I need to wait for Rosé," you said mumbling "Don’t worry, Felix got her" you relax knowing that she was safe with her brother.

— — —

The walk to your apartment was rather comforting than you expected, you thought the walk would be awkward like last time and filled with silence, however, you didn’t expect Minho to be the type of guy that’s easy to talk to… well what did you expect he pretty popular for a reason.

Maybe was the alcohol lingering in the air or the impulsive thought to let him inside and see what would happen, but you never expected that after the first encounter, you would let him into your apartment again.

"It’s pretty late…" you trace looking into his dark eyes "The college staff might give you a warning if they find you" Although you tried to sound as stable as possible your voice started cracking as you finished your sentence.

He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, however, he quickly stopped in his tracks and slightly smirked "Sure" he smiled as he stepped inside the dorm and took his shoes off.

"I’m pretty tired so I’m going to change into something more comfortable," you said as you dropped your bag in the living room "Make yourself home, I will try to see if I can find something comfortable for you to wear" he looked at you as you walked around the dorm, all he could think of is how close he was but so far at the same time.

"Don’t" he quickly regretted saying that when you turned around to look at him confused "You don’t want comfy cloth?" you questioned, his cheeks lightly blushing… gosh is it the alcohol? he was going to make a mental note to never drink near you ever again "No… no… that’s not what I mean…" he traces shyly, you laugh at seeing him in this condition, where was the snarky, confident man you knew?

"Your dress" he spoke again after collecting himself "You look really pretty in it…" he paused walking closer to you with a smirk and dark eyes "Please don’t take it off yet" his hand moved closer to your face to readjust your bangs.

Once again you don’t know if it was the alcohol or the sinful thoughts you been having about him, but the urge to kiss him was unstoppable.

The way he looked at your lips with those dreamy eyes, with a soft hand resting on your cheek… everything at that moment felt perfect but you just met him a couple of days ago, that made you uneasy, but as your faces got closer and closer by the seconds you couldn’t help but let it happen; you closed your eyes in anticipation but then you came to the realization, that you are not about to kiss with the love of your life, this is Lee Minho… one of the biggest fuck boys in your college… is it worth it risking a night with him and then be the topic of conversation the next day?

You quickly moved your head to the side of his neck "Woah that tequila got me messed up" you laugh awkwardly as you backed away "Maybe on another occasion you get to see me with another pretty dress" You winked and went inside your room as quickly as possible.

Minho was left dumbfounded in the middle of your living room, he cursed himself for being too obvious and too desperate… he was scared you knew his true feelings, however, he is not the type of guy to stress over a crush so he shook his thoughts away and decided to wait for you in the living room while he watched something on the tv.

"Fuck" you mumbled as you struggled to zip your dress off, you had no trouble putting it on, but it seemed like the zipper got stuck on the fabric at some point, you walked around the room questioning what to do <C’mon y/n… you live alone if he wasn’t here what would you do…> stress quickly overtook you as you got more and more desperate trying to get rid of the dress <I guess I could cut it> you thought as you spotted a pair of scissors in your table <But its channel… I went on bankrupt to get it> you cried internally <They better make better quality zippers next time> you sigh in defeat.

Shyly you walk over to your door, the faint sound of the tv getting louder as you are slightly open the door "Ermmm Minho" you said quietly in a whisper, surprisingly that was loud enough to get his attention "Yeah" he said his gaze not leaving the screen in front of him "I need your help" this time he turned around with a confused look "The zipper is stuck… can you help me?" you said sounding defeated.

He hummed in agreement scared that if he used his words he would make his excitement obvious, you grabbed his hand and led him into your room, it was the first time he ever saw it, the scent of lavender and vanilla that surround your room smelled just like you, he studied the room spotting a bunch of books all over the floor.

"Don't mind the mess" you say "I have been busy with work" You sigh as your turn your back and moved your hair exposing the zipper of your dress "Don't worry about it, out of all the girl's rooms I have been, yours is the most exciting to be in" he mumbled as he focused on zipping the dress down; you blushed at his comment although you try to not mind it.

"Really? Usually, boys like it when a girl's room is clean," you said as you hold your dress by the chest so you don't flash him, he hummed at your response "A clean room doesn't tell much about you... a messy room feels more intimate," he said looking at the surroundings "by the bunch of books in the floor I can tell you use them often" he paused scanning the room one more time "And..." you could feel the tone in his voice change to a teasing one "by the panties laying on the floor" you look to see where he was pointing at "I can tell you left in a rush that you couldn't pick them up"

Your eyes widen in embarrassment and you could feel your cheeks burn "MINHO" you squealed hitting his chest, Minho chuckled treasuring the moment, everything about this felt intimate, helping you with the zipper, being in your messy room, the way you turned bright red out of embarrassment, he wanted this to turn part of his daily routine and maybe it was because of the alcohol or because of the euphoria of the moment but he wished he could just throw you on the bed and worship you in every single way, however, he shoved his thoughts aside and continued helping you.

He placed a hand on your bare shoulder, and his warm palm sent chills down your spine "Hmmm" he furrowed his eyes and tighten his grip on your shoulder "You weren’t joking when you said it was stuck" he scratched his neck trying to think of a way to get it out "Oh c’mon, you are a man it shouldn’t be hard for you" you spat, desperation getting the best of you.

An airy chuckle left his lips ticking your neck "Now that was a little sexist coming from you princess" you scoff at the pet name his been giving you "Just please take it off, I'm getting hot" you cried "Alright, but don’t blame me if it breaks" he raised his hand before readjusting his position to zip the zipper down.

After what seemed 2 minutes of struggle, he pulled the zipper as hard as he could, not realizing the brute force he used; the zipper snatched in less than a second, your dress falling to your ankles as fast as the light; both of your bodies tensed, you because you realize you wore your black lace undies just in case you brought someone home, on the other hand, Minho tensed as he realizes he messed up and that you were wearing no bra.

"I-" he paused trying to collect himself "I’m sorry" he almost screamed as he threw a pillow at you and turned to look away, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the situation, if this would have happened while you were sober it would’ve been a different story, however, the alcohol roaming around your blood made you feel more carefree "YAHH" you screamed in between laughs "You are the one who ripped my dress off, I should be the one throwing pillows at you" you grabbed the dress from the floor to cover yourself and picked up the pillow he threw at you and started attacking him with it.

The room was filled with giggles and pillow feathers as you randomly started a pillow fight. During one of your attacks, Minho was quick enough to turn you around so you would be under him, the sweat forming on his forehead and the dim lights of your apartment made it a delightful sight.

"What? Already falling for me" he smirked as he got slightly closer to your face testing the waters, you scoff and smiled back hanging your hands behind his neck "You wish" You moved one of your hands to his face and traced his features like if he was some type of sculpture "However…" you quickly stopped yourself from continuing before you made a mistake "However?" he whispered as his eyes looked from your eyes to your lips back to your eyes, one of the hands that was resting besides your face moved to grab the side of your waist and slightly massage it.

You parted your lips contemplating if the words that were about to come out of your mouth would be worth it "fuck it" you mumbled as you closed the gap and gently kissed his lips.

You can’t describe the feeling of his lips on yours… they are soft… really soft and warm, it felt like you were on cloud 9, as your lips parted a faint moan left his lips in complaint "I wanna taste you" you whispered in his ear, his eyes quickly turned dark in lust and the smirk planted on his face could only describe his satisfaction at that moment.

Were you going to regret it tomorrow when you were completely sober with a hangover? yes… definitely but it's Lee Minho when do you get the chance to get laid by such a man? FUCK IT.

Once again you pushed him down your lips, this time the kiss being rough and desperate, moans leaving in between kisses "You don’t know the mistake you are doing" he mumbles in between the kiss, you parted your lips to look into his eyes and smile at him innocently "I know what I'm doing" you took your arms off his neck and move them to reveal a little bit of your cleavage.

You were teasing him and he knew, the bulge on his pants being an indicator he was enjoying it "fuck" with no warning he grabbed your hands and placed them on top of your head, one of his hands grabbing them down while the other stopped him from crushing you, his lips went back to yours, his tongue dancing along with yours, bitting your lips here and there, you spread your legs unconsciously making him smirk as he placed his leg in between your thighs and pressed into your panties, which by the second were getting wetter and wetter.

You swore you could get drunk on the wet kisses he was leaving all around your neck and cleavage, they were so addictive and the way he would force you to make eye contact or else he would stop had you on the edge. He made his way to your ear and bit it while you tried your best to not grind on his leg.

"You are getting too desperate princess" he whispered while gently caressing your wrists his been holding this whole time, he placed a chaste kiss on your lips "It’s time to stop" your eyes widen at his words… stop?! does he really want to stop??? did you do something wrong…

"Why?" You questioned as he was getting up "D-did I do something wrong" The panic in your tone scared him "No princess, of course not" he said while he hugged you and caressed your hair "I don’t get it.." you trace trying to hold back your tears from embarrassment "You are drunk… we are both drunk… I don’t want to take advantage of the situation" you pulled away from the hug and look into his eyes trying to see if he was joking, but to your surprise he wasn’t, he was straight up serious <A fuck boy who doesn’t want to fuck> you thought as he grabbed your hand "You should go to bed, it's pretty late princess" he stood up and guided you to your bed, he planted a kiss on your forehead before leaving "Sweet dreams princess, don’t forget to include me in them" he chuckled as he closed the door and left you with no words in your bed.

— — —

Two months passed and you and Minho became really good friends, both of you seemed to collectively agree to never talked about that night ever again; although there was some tension lingering between the two of you, you decided to ignore it, mostly because Vanessa has been sending you threatening notes from time to time; she believes you have no clue who those notes come from but it couldn’t be more obvious; the situation was more annoying than scary.

Another reason why you and Minho kept things as they are is because of soccer, he is busy with practice you barely see him, and only during your engineering class and parties rosé makes you tag along.

You have also been busy with your self-development or that's what you call it. You have made a bunch of new friends, mostly thanks to Hyunjin, he is supposed to be your professor but you truly appreciate the soft spot he has for you "I have been in your place" he told you once when he invited you for a quick treat, since that day you understood that he is helping you do things he wished he did during his college career.

So far you are loving the new version of yourself and you rather focus on yourself than on anything else.

— — —

"YAH MINHO" you squealed as you land harshly on the soft grass. It’s been a week since Minho begged you to join him at one of his soccer practices.

You scoffed as he screamed at the tv "This players are ass, I could beat them any day" You shoot at him but quickly regretted your words as he gave you a death glare "Don’t you dare insult my idols like that, I bet your ass won’t last a minute in a game or worse a second at a practice" you took that as a challenge, one that you regretted the day after; since then his been bugging you around with it so you finally cave in.

"Told you" he continued to laugh historically "You are too pretty to last a minute in a soccer practice" he smirked while he walked to you to help you.

You roll your eyes at his words and stood up yourself, rejecting his help, you walked towards your backpack "Woahh quitting already" You could feel the quirkiness in his tone as he followed behind you.

"You wish, Im just getting started" You took a ponytail out of your bag and turned around to face him while you do a medium ponytail.

Minho has been trying to hide his feelings for you, but it's the bare minimum you do that gets him flustered, the way your soft hair moves as you tie it and little details in your face like the mole in your bottom lip that makes him wanna kiss every single inch of you.

A loud smack is what snatched him out of his thoughts, he looks at you blankly while caressing his cheek "What the actual fuck y/n" he says in amusement which you only blink innocently in return.

"I asked you something and you never replied so I found out a good smack would kick you back to your senses" You smiled as he looked at you offended.

"I would beat your ass right now but that’s something I’m saving for another occasion" You could sense the double meaning behind his words but you shrugged it off "Other occasions will it be" you chuckled "Anyway back to what I was saying" you roll your eyes knowing he didn’t hear a word of what you were saying.

"Why do women's sports shorts have to be shorter than men’s sports shorts" You looked down at your legs "You are wearing Nike Pros, those are supposed to make you feel comfortable while moving" you scoff "Comfortable?!?!" you paused to look at him in disbelief.

"How am I supposed to feel comfortable when I feel my ass is bare naked" Out of instinct Minho tilted his head to check you out, making you hit his chest "YAH LEE MINHO" You gave him a death glare as he swung his hand in the air in defense.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to my body just moved," he said in panic, his ear turning in a faint shade of red "Whatever let's just start this practice" You pushed him and walked towards the center of the field.

After the hours passed you felt how your body was dragging you down to the grass, the cold and soft grass touching your skin, sweat dripping down your face as you tried to control your heavy breath.

The feeling of the cold breeze touching your body and the sight of a sky covered with stars felt so euphoric, a moment you wished to be trapped in. It was a feeling you haven’t experienced before, you were used to exercising but this felt different; it felt comforting… safe.

"This is a vulnerable moment for a soccer player" Minho whispered next to you, trying not to ruin your moment.

You turn your face to see him, his sharp features being hit by the soft moonlight, breeze moving his hair lightly "Tell me more" you whispered back.

Even though Minho couldn’t see your face he knew you were smiling, he could feel it in your tone "Once your legs give up to the point your body brags you down to the grass" he trails, debating whether he should turn his face to face you "That’s when you know, you did your best, that's the moment you realize you can rest from all your hard work, it’s like a prize you know?" He turns to face you, your eyes were wide looking at him, he could see the shine of the stars in them.

"A prize" you raise an eyebrow "But what if I feel like I didn’t do my best?" he chuckles "It’s a prize because it's a feeling that lets you clear your mind, you may lay down in the grass feeling like a piece of shit but when you get up, you feel like you can rule the world" he chuckles when he sees your face even more confused "Forget it, you won’t get it," he said as he sat down.

"This is going to sound crazy but I think I do" You copy his movements and sat "It’s weird but I feel refreshed…" you mumbled as you stare at the stars.

As you both stay there in awe a shooting star flew across the sky "Woah" you both said in synchronization, turning to face each other and laughing "Make a wish" he said as he went back to stare at the stars "You should make one too" you closed your eyes to make your wish "I already did" he mumbled as he stared at you.

To this day he hates himself for loving you the way he does. After that night at your apartment, he tried to distance himself, he wanted to take things slow, he wanted you to know him for who he is not for the fuck boy image he won over the years. He wanted you to be madly in love the way he was, he wanted you to crave his attention the same way he did with you.

"What did you wish for?" You broke the silence slightly opening your eyes "It’s a secret if I tell you I might jinx it" you scoff in annoyance "Not fair, now Im curious" You closed your eyes again "Just finish your wish and let’s go, It's getting chilly" He stood up to grab your belongings and get ready to leave.

— — —

The days keep flying by, and Minho’s company became something of your daily life; no matter where you were or the time, he would find a way to be there. At first, you thought it was who he was, pretending not to care about others but secretly wanting to be with them; but as you progressively got closer to him, you noticed the special treatment he would give you from time to time.

Your friendship anniversary was getting closer as yellowish colors started to paint the trees. It was a chilly night on the October breeze when he mentioned it to you "Isn’t it crazy, how it has been almost a year since the morning you ran into me"

You never took track of time the same way Minho did, he would remember every single date he considered special or worthy of remembering.

"Can’t believe so much has happened during that period" you said in a nostalgic tone, remembering how you met, the rumors, the day you became known because of a boy's attention.

That day on your way home, you scrolled through your phone, looking at all the silly videos and pictures you took with your friends and Minho. You wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t crashed on Minho that day… would you still be unknown? Would the two of you eventually meet?

All the what if’s started to give you a headache, so you threw yourself in bed and decided to go on a slumber sleep.

— — —

The way his soft lips left wet kisses all over your neck was a delight to your soul and body, the faint whimpers that left his mouth as if he was begging you for more, you opened your eyes, looking at the brunette boy on top of you.

You couldn’t see his face but everything felt a little too familiar, you moved your hand to squeeze his hair, giving light tugs that would gain soft moans from him "Can I" his voice was raspy and soft there was care in his tone.

You just nodded as he slid a hand under your pajama shirt and teased your boobs, drawing circles around your nipples but not touching them, his lips too busy with your lips as his tongue explored yours.

A loud moan escaped your mouth as he suddenly pinched your nipple, a smirk forming on his lips "Please let me fuck you till you scream my name" he whispered in your ears while nibbling it; you just nod at the sensation, you wanted him to do more than teasing, he was making you desperate and he knew it… both of you knew it by the way you crossed your legs in search of some friction "Easy princess, let me worship you" he moved back to your lips, the room being filled with wet noises coming from them, his hands moved from your boobs to your legs, separating them as he left your lips once again.

His body was now kneeling in between your legs, your body temperature rising even though you were wearing shorts and a t-shirt. His soft hands caressed your thighs as he made eye contact with you, the crazy feeling about all this was that you couldn’t see his face clearly, which made you even more desperate. "May I take it off" he signaled at your shirt, there was something about him asking for consent that made you feel a pool of butterflies in your stomach, you slightly nodded, suddenly feeling aware of the situation.

The smirk that adorned his face suddenly softened as he stared at your body topless "Fuck" he mumbled to himself as he dived into his chest, his mouth wrapping automatically on one of your nipples as he played him with the other one with his hand. The way his tongue would move up and down on your nipple would make you squirm in place, There was something delightful about the way he would aggressively suck on your nipple but would leave kisses on them whenever you made a sound of complaint.

As he kept working on your tits with his mouth, one of his hands slid down to tease the band on your shorts, hand sliding even deeper to touch your pussy lips, his middle finger moving up and down your folds dispersing the wetness all over your core. "Please" you begged through moans as your hips unconsciously moved to grind on his finger "Say my name and you have it" he teased biting your lips, you cried in frustration you didn’t know who he was, suddenly he slipped the finger inside you making you moan loud as the sensation "Please" you cried "Say my name" he kept whispering in your ear as he trusted his finger inside you painfully slow.

You squirmed underneath him tears falling down your cheeks as you tried to find his name in the back of your head, a second finger was inserted slowly stretching you out "Please let me fuck your cunt senseless" he begged "Say my name y/n… please" he sounded just as desperate as you, at least you knew he was also being tortured.

The torture continue as you felt his boner on your thigh, his position switching so he could give ghostly kisses on your clit, your hips buckled up at the sensation, his nose hitting that spot you needed him to work on, a moan came out of both of your mouths "Please say my name" he kept repeating, frustration overtaking you as you start to cry "Please just fuck me" you cried grabbing his hair so he would look at you "PLEASE" you cried even harder, your head going blank by the second "MINHO PLEASE FUCK ME"

Suddenly you jumped out of your bed, hitting yourself on your night table "OUCHH" you hissed as you curled yourself up in the bed, then you remembered your dream, the obvious wetness you felt between your legs being the evidence that you did have a wet dream about Minho.

You cringe at yourself as you turn to face the ceiling… what was happening? where you developing feelings for him? <Nah… I don’t think so…> You told yourself <Maybe it’s the hormones… I haven’t been laid in a while> you laugh it off as you get up from your bed to take a shower and clean yourself, however, you still felt unease at the dream you just had.

— — —

After that dream you decided to take a hot shower, and wash away all the sweat and thoughts from your head; however, the shower didn’t quite help you forget about the dream or Minho.

Suddenly your bell rang shrugging you off from your thoughts, quickly you closed your shower and wrapped yourself with your towel, you weren’t expecting any visitors since it was a Sunday night. You looked through the peephole and spotted Minho… looking a little beat up?

"Gosh, Minho what happened" you spat quickly as soon as you opened the door, distress in your tone as he falls in your arms. He was struggling to keep up with weight so you grabbed him and tried to walk him towards your couch.

"I lost my match" he groaned grabbing his head and squeezing his hair "Easy there…" You grabbed his hands stopping him from hurting himself; he gave your hands a light squeeze and sighed.

His pupils were dilated and his eyes looked rather red and watery, was he crying? Was he drunk? maybe both… you were quite confused trying to figure out his state "Were you drinking?" you questioned as you stood to pour him a glass of water.

He was silent for a bit collecting his thoughts "I usually don’t make a big deal when I lose…" he trace as he shifted on the couch, his arms and legs spreading across the couch, head falling back with a sigh. You knew this wasn’t the right moment but the sight of him manspreading in your couch with his soccer uniform was quite a view.

"But" he trailed once again before pausing "Vanessa" he sighed, the tension he was putting on his words was sending you over the edge, couldn’t he get straight to the point "She is making my life impossible" he groaned, you walked back to couch placing the cup of water in the table and sitting next to him "What’s wrong? Is she following you around again? I thought she got a boyfriend…" You were honestly startled at the mention of her name, Vanessa started dating Lucas a couple of months ago, he was the captain of the soccer team and a really handsome and extremely popular guy. "That’s the problem" he placed his hands on his face in frustration "She is only dating Lucas to be "closer" to me" he quoted the word with his hands while rolling his eyes.

"Today Lucas found a letter she was planning to give me… confessing her feelings" The more he talked the more you could sense anger in his tone "He got sooo pissed off and placed me as a sub player for today's match" he sat down and looked into your eyes in disbelief "ME A SUB PLAYER?!" He scoffed "I’m literally the star" he spat quickly grabbing the cup of water and taking a sip.

"Worst part he placed me in the last 10 minutes of the game when we were losing 1-3" he placed the cup back on the table.

"He thought I was gonna pull a hat trick of my ass and save the game, but ofc I didn’t" This time he sounded disappointed rather than mad "At the end of the game the coach scolded me for "poor performance" he quoted his words, then scoffed before leaning back against the couch.

"I felt like shit, useless" he paused "Yah Lee Minho" You grabbed his shoulder which got no reaction from him, seeing him vulnerable like this made your heart shatter in pieces. You knew how much Minho treasured soccer and the sacrifices he does for that sport, seeing him like this because of selfish people made your blood boil.

"I thought a couple shots of alcohol were going to make me feel better" he paused, silence filling the room "but it didn’t" he turned to look at you with a soft gaze, eyes threatening to shed tears as he made eye contact with yours. Soft big eyes that could hold the galaxy in them, Minho treasured them, your eyes were like the door to your soul he could tell what you were thinking by just looking at them, he admired them.

“Then I thought of you” He gave you a warm smile before softly chuckling “It instantly made me smile. So I thought I might gave you a visit” He looked around your apartment before fixing his gaze on you once again.

“It’s…” He paused choosing his words carefully “It’s been a while since I last came here” You chuckle “You are right” Deep down you knew he was trying to switch the conversation, although you wanted to comfort him you figured the best way to do it was by giving the company he needed.

“Although we don’t speak of the last time” You raised your hands in defense, it was his turn to laugh at your actions.

“Now…” You said softly “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go change. You took me by surprise” If you hadn’t pointed out that you weren’t wearing clothes but a towel Minho would’ve never noticed.

His eyes quickly glanced down, taking into his view a couple of water droplets laying down in your cleavage, your wet long hair dripping down on the couch. His eyes darkened and a shade of crimson red sparkled in his ears.

He cleared his tone “I… ummm sorry for interrupting your bath” He touch his neck in embarrassment. He opened his mouth to say something else, probably another apology so you stopped him. You placed a hand in his bicep to comfort him “Don’t worry about it, I’m here for you” You gave him the most sincere smile Minho has ever seen in his life, a shock of excitement rushing down his body to his… you know.

If you could manage to give him a boner with your smile, he can’t imagine with your body. Minho wasn’t a fan of sexualizing you, he adore you too much to not feel guilt. However he is only human after all.

“I’ll be back. Feel yourself at home” you nudge him with your elbow before getting up and disappearing to your room. He just sat there in the middle of your living room contemplating his life choices, he knew he was at a very vulnerable state, not only emotionally but also physically. He could feel the shots of vodka he took before rushing down his body. One thought let to another and that’s when he decided that if he was going to fuck it up, it was going to be tonight.

He prepared a mini speech in the back of his head, ready to blurt it out once you stepped a foot out of your room. The adrenaline sobering him up as the seconds passed by. What fell like an eternity you finally opened the door to your room, coming out in a set of black silk pijamas. He could feel his dick throbbing in his pants as he saw you walking out <Keep yourself together Minho> He mentally cursed himself.

“Sorry for the delay, I couldn’t find my fave pj’s so I had to stick with this one” you walk over to the kitchen looking for something to eat. Minho just looked at you wondering how you could be so nonchalant about it. Like it wasn’t a big deal… well… it wasn’t… but considering he was fucked up and you we wearing a set of silk pijamas the smoothly hugged your curves was making him even more insane.

“Are you craving something” You ask reaching to the top shelf in your kitchen, trying to grab your favorite snacks “I can ask delivery, I only have leftovers and-“ Your breathe hitched as you could feel his warm body behind you.

“Here” He turned you around and gave you the bag of chips you were struggling to get “T-thank you” you grabbed them and placed them in the counter next to you. However he didn’t move, your body being pressed against the counter. Although he wasn’t fully close to you, the way he looked at your lips drawn you closer to him without even noticing.

“Y/n” he placed a hand on your cheek “I… I have something I been wanting to tell you for a while now” His cheeks blushed in embarrassment, he has never confessed to anyone before and he had no idea what the outcomes could be in this situation. “I been crushing on you for a while now. I been trying to swallow my feelings but I can’t. It’s gotten to the point that I can’t look straight into your eyes cause I’m afraid I will make a mistake” He stopped to analyze your face, he looked into your eyes and found an expression he has never seen before… it was unreadable.

A knot started to form in his throat as breathing suddenly became a hard task for his body to do. You notice his body shaking and placed a hand in his chest and moved your other hand to fix his bangs “Minho… I” you laughed softly “I been feeling the same for a while now. Although I never saw you as something more than a friends, recently you been in my mind lately” The smile that adorned his face in that moment was the most stunning thing you have seen in your life. The way his eyes would wrinkle from his big grin. Minho was just to precious for you to ever harm.

Both of your bodies started to unconsciously get closer to each other like magnets, his face centimeters away from yours “Can I…” You could feel his breathe hitting your lips as he spoke, his eyes never breaking contact with yours as he placed one of his hands on your waist and the other in your hair “May I kiss you?” Something you loved about Minho was his gesture of asking for consent. You didn’t have a big dating history but the few guys you dated never asked you for permission to kiss you or anything else.

You nodded afraid that if you used your words it would expose your excitement. His lips were soft on yours, his movements delicate as if he was savoring the moment, studying every single line in your lips. A soft gasp left your lips as his tongue tapped your bottom lip asking for permission to go in.

It’s been a while since you and Minho kissed on that night, but the fact that now you were both sober… well half sober in case of Minho, however, kissing him sober felt like a whole new world. The way the butterflies erupted in your stomach and the warmth of his hand left a huge impact on your body.

As the kiss started to get more desperate more needy, Minho lifted you up and sat you on the counter, making room for his body in between your thighs. His boner slightly pressing into your pussy, A moan escape your lips in between kisses, the gripped you had in his hair tightening. He groaned as he bit your lip in lust, his eyes opening to look at your face and smile “Do you mind if I mark you” Here we go with the butterflies again, your stomach doing black flips “You can do whatever you want as long as I can do same” He smiled into your neck before biting the soft flesh, you whimper trying to hold back your moan. You were really ticklish and hated when people touched it, however, this felt different a hundred times better.

As he kept leaving wet kisses in every spot he could find. You could feel your stomach rumbling around, you tried to ignore it, however, as it progressively started to get louder you couldn’t anymore. Pushing him off slightly, cheeks burning in embarrassment “I’m hungry” you said with puppy eyes, the room bursting in laughs as his stomach proceeded to groan as well.

“Let me treat you then” He smiled as he helped you down the counter. You didn’t knew he was a great cook, the way his hands cut the vegetables in such a skillful way “You are giving Husband material right now” You joked as you continue to stare at him. He hated the way you could say such words in such a nonchalant way, not knowing the way those words impacted his body, your words going straight to his heart and down to his dick… he couldn’t help it.

He sighed as he placed the knife down looking at you, a smirk forming in his face ready to tease you “Marry me and I will show you how husband material I can be” His dark eyes never left yours, threatening you to stare away, however, you weren’t going to let him win that easily “You wish” you scoffed looking back at your phone, he chuckled “Say’s miss wet panties” You choke on your saliva at his words- how can he be this imprudent?! “Excuse me” you move your gaze back to his, the smug on his face giving you butterflies “I could feel it while we were kissing, your shorts don’t leave much to the imagination” He said as he proceeded to cut the vegetables. Your face turning crimson red as you tried to hide yourself “YAHHH” you threw a piece of potato as him, making him chuchas “Easy there princess, shouldn’t throw food at the possible father of your children” Your eyes widen… this man was really something else. You laugh “Lets not get too ahead of ourselves, you just confessed, are you still drunk?” you tease him, he hummed “I don’t know, want to test it out? See if I make any mistakes” You knew what his words meant and even though it was very tempting all you were craving right now was some good food.

The rest of the night went smoothly, both of you ate and watched shitty shows on your couch, both of your bodies cuddling under your soft blanket. Maybe this was the beginning of you adventures with Minho.

———

It’s been exactly a week since Minho asked you to be his girlfriend. It was a random Friday when you opened your locker to get your math book a letter with little cat drawings falling down to your feet. When you opened it you were greeted with Minho’s hand writing inviting you to go to the field that night.

As you walk anxiously around the field, you look around trying to spot him. Suddenly a hand grabbed yours startling you, in reflex you tried to punch whoever grabbed you but they acted on time and stopped your hand “Easy there Princess” he chuckled. Relief showered down your body as you see him laughing in front of you.

As you scolded him, he grabbed your hand and walked you through a path you have never seen before. You could see lights at the distance, curiosity rising in your head as you kept asking questions; however he never replied he just kept quiet till you reached your destination.

It was a tree house, it wasn’t too far from the field and it was hidden in the tiny forest next to the field, you have never been in one before. He grabbed your hand and told you to trust him. Once there he told you the story about the tree house and how its special to him and his family. Butterflies ran through your stomach at the thought of being the first girl he has ever brought there, it made you feel special. The house was adorned with fairy lights and comfy blankets, a bottle of wine and snacks being placed on a small table. He played your favorite movie, however, out of nowhere it started glitching and the small movie projector turned off. You sighed in disappointment, turning to see Minho. Your eyes widen and your jaw dropped as he was suddenly carrying a ring.

“M-Min… what’s this?” Your brain couldn’t process what was happening at that moment, a million thoughts running through your mind “A-“ you paused “Are you asking me to marry you?!?” Your voice increasing in a high pitch as you talk, you were scared, wasn’t it too soon?! he could see the panic in your face and decided to speak before you decided to hit and run like the first time you met.

You got pulled out of your thoughts as his laugh filled the room “No silly” he grabbed your hand and placed the ring on your finger “It’s a promise ring” He placed his hand on your cheek so your gaze was fixated on his “Every time I think of my future you are in there, and its driving me crazy to the point you won’t leave my mind” The more he spoke the more embarrassed he got, you could see the way his face turned into a light shade of red and the way his voice trembled “I know I’m being too cheesy and I can guarantee you I won’t be able to sleep in peace tonight… but you know” He took a deep breath “I will be able to sleep at peace tonight knowing that you are my girlfriend” He took a second to analyze your face before speaking again “Y/n… would you be my girlfriend?” He tilted his head and smiled, the gesture reminded you of a curious kitten and it made your heart melt. You quickly squealed and wrapped your hands behind his neck stealing a kiss from him “I hope that answer your questions” You say as your lips separate from each, just to reunited a second later. Since then everything has been going smooth, however, its been just one week so you didn’t want to jinx things.

Your doorbell rang and you opened your door to find a big teddy bear behind it.

“Surpriseeee” Minho screamed as he shoved the teddy bear to your arms “Happy one week princess” He tried to kiss you but couldn’t because of the teddy bear in between your bodies “Im gonna do a mental note to buy a smaller one next time” Both of you chuckled as you placed the bear on your living room couch.

“I didn’t knew you were coming today” You softly kiss his lips smiling “My plan was actually to take you out for dinner, but I got assigned a house project” His smile slowly faded away, disappointment taking over his tone “Soo I decided to buy you a small gift” You laugh as you stare at the big ass bear sitting on your couch, you wonder if it would fit in your bed. “I’m still mad Im trapped with the project though… it was last minute too” He cried “Worst part Is that I have to work with Angie and someone else. Working with Vanessa’s minion is definitely hell” He dramatically threw himself into your couch hugging the bear.

“Angie? Damn that’s tough” you sat on his lap and planted your face on the crook of his neck “You got this though” you left a kiss on his cheek and smiled fondly at him. “You sure know how to make my day princess” He sighed “Well I gotta go, I love you so much” He gave you a peck on your lips before exiting your apartment.

— — —

It was around 4pm when your phone started exploding with messages.

Rosie <3 : Y/N

Rosie <3 : Y/NNIE~~~

Rosie <3 : MY PRECIOUS Y/N PLEASE REPLY

Rosie <3 : BITCH IF YOU DONT ANSWER THAT GOD DAMN PHONE

Rosie <3 : WHY DO YOU EVEN HAVE ONE?

What do you want? : Y/N

Rosie <3 : Would you go to Jennie’s party with me tomorrow night?!?! Pleaspkeapelaopslepalplsssss

I don’t know…. : Y/N

I made plans with Minho : Y/N

Rosie <3 : Y/N NOOOO THEY GOT YOU, I KNEW YOU ONCE YOU SHOWED ME THE RING.

Rosie <3 : BUT ITS SATURDAYYY.

Rosie <3 : ITS GIRLIES NIGHT

sigh… I will think about it : Y/N

Rosie <3 : THANK YOU LORDDD

Rosie <3 : let me know latest tomorrow afternoon

Rosie <3 : ttyl~~

Byeeeee <;3 : Y/N

You stared at your phone thinking how Minho would react if you suddenly ditch him, technically both of you planned this outing. Switching plans on him out of nowhere was definitely not looking good.

You could hear a faintly ding from your phone as you started to drift away from your sleep, eyes heavy you started to search for you phone without moving your head. You groaned as soon as you saw the time, it was already 10pm. You had no idea when you had fallen asleep, all you remembered was watching south park and eating some leftovers. As you progressively started to wake up you opened the notification that initially woke you up.

It was an unknown number and an image was attached, you raised an eyebrow in confusion as the picture started to load. Your heart dropping immediately to your stomach as you stare at the picture.

It was Minho kissing a girl. You immediately zoomed into the picture, hoping it was all a joke, however, it was not. He was wearing the same clothes he wore today, one of his hands was on the girls chest while the other grabbed her arm. You tried to figure out who was that girl in the picture, your heart dropping once again as you figure out it was Vanessa, you always thought you didn’t have to worry about her; after all Minho seemed to hate her, however, you couldn’t deny she was gorgeous. She was a straight up barbie, plus she was Minho’s ex… what if after a week of dating you he realize he loved her? that he wanted her?

Tears started falling down your cheeks, a knot forming in your throat as you desperately cried in your bed. Your phone flew away across the room as you looked at the bear he gave you “YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME” you punched the bear before throwing it across the room like your phone. You honestly couldn’t believe it yet… while you were sleeping daydreaming on your next date he was kissing some other chick. You stared at your promise ring. As much as you wanted to you couldn’t take it off, you wanted all this to be a joke a set up… but the evidence was water clear. One final tear rolled down your cheek as you took the ring off your finger, you tried to throw it in your garbage but your heart wasn’t strong enough for that, so you opt out to place it in your night table.

That night you cried yourself to sleep, hoping it was all a bad dream.

———

The next morning you are woken up by the sound of your doorbell, whoever was behind that door was definitely desperate to go in. The ringing sound embedded in your head, making you annoyed.

You look through the peephole a wave of emotions attacking you as you see who was behind that door… a knot formed in your throat and tears threatened to fall. You backed away from the door as quiet as possible, trying to make no sound so he would think you weren’t home. The audacity he had to come to your house after cheating on you last night. Maybe the project thing he mentioned you was a lame excuse to go see Vanessa.

You go back to your room ignoring the continuos ringing from the doorbell. You pick up your phone from the floor to find 100+ notifications from Minho, he probably found out he got caught and tried to explain it to you. You weren’t feeling it today, you wanted to forget everything. So you texted Rosé confirming that you were going to the party, whats the best way to fix a broken heart without alcohol?

Two hours passed and Minho finally gave up trying to contact you, he called, texted, passed letters through the opening of your door. For a moment you thought he was not giving up. You knew he left once you heard Rosé’s voice on the other side of the door, you could hear her scolding Minho; telling him to leave you alone for once. He tried to explain things to Rosé, however, she never replied to anything he said.

You got startled when you heard a knocked on your door “Y/n its me~”By the tone in her voice you knew she was trying to distract you. Her voice was sweet and playful. You opened the door to find her with food in her hand “I grabbed something to eat before coming here” She lifted the bag, a big warming smile adorning her face.

Both of you were having a good time eating the food she bought and gossiping around, it was just some quality girl time, last time you had one was a couple days before you and Minho started dating. You didn’t knew how much you missed it till now.

“I don’t really wanna touch the topic between you and that asshole” She exhaled as she thought of her words carefully “But… I think you should listen to him… I mean… he looks too heartbroken for it to be something he did willingly” She finally lifted her head to look at you “His eyes looked tired, he looked like a mess… I have never seen him like this before… He definitely did not sleep last night” She laughed softly trying to lighten the situation.

“I know… I know… but I don’t know how to feel about all this, I want to hear him out but my ego won’t let me” You sighed picking up the dirty dishes “Now lets start getting ready for tonights party, I’m trying to get white girl wasted and have fun” You laughed making Rosé laugh along with you, however, She felt uneasy… she knew how much you hated parties and every single word that just came out of your mouth, wasn’t something you would say in your daily, but she is your friend and supports you 24/7, so she got up from the couch and ran out to you “WOOOO PARTY IN THE USAAA” She screamed while jumping up and down around you.

You took a long bath, it was comforting and relaxing. The way the warm water wrapped your body, you sometimes wishes you could live in your bathtub, it was just too good to be true. You got out and checked yourself in the mirror, you felt hot. Your boobs, ass, curves, everything was perfect to your eyes. You smirked thinking that this is what Minho lost, maybe and you weren’t perfect like other girls but you loved yourself and that’s what mattered.

You grabbed a purple silk dress, it wasn’t the type of dress you would wear considering how short it was and a v neckline that punctuated your cleavage. Rosé made you bought it the moment you both saw it at a store “Save it for a special night” she teased as she brainwashed you to buy it. You never expected to use it but it was too pretty to not get it.

You wore your favorite pearl dress and some sutil earrings, you wore your favorite pair of high heels and call it a day, you came out of the bathroom Rosé’s jaw dropping as she saw you.

“GIRL” She squealed “YOU ARE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE” She started doing a happy dance “Let me do your makeup and hair and off we go to party land” The excitement in her voice made you forget everything, Rosé was the type of person that could make you feel better in no time, you were really grateful for meeting her.

The moment both of you stepped inside the party everyone’s eyes were on you. You two shared a knowing look and dashed to the bar to get some drinks, giggles and squeaks taking over your conversation as the alcohol ran through your system. Pink Whitney was your weakness, every time you drank it you couldn’t stop, it wasn’t because it was tasty even though it tasted way better than most alcohol, but it was because it made you feel sober making you drink more, but more you drink it, the more fucked up you got.

Two hours passed and you lost track of how many shots you have chugged down, you were currently playing beer pong with Jennie and other friends when you felt the urge to use the restroom. Politely you excused yourself and walked towards the bathroom. What you saw shouldn’t have hurt you the way it did. It was Minho… kissing someone but this time it wasn’t Vanessa, it was some other girl you have never seen before. The way he pinned her against the lonely hallway and placed his knee in between her tights… the sight was enough to sober you up, your heart shattering like a crystal figure that had been slammed against a wall; you were for real done with him.

“You guys lasted more than I imagined” Her voice drew shivers down your spine, you turn to face her, trying to hide your tears “Me and my girls bet that you guys would last 2 days” She laughed looking at you, you felt pathetic “Don’t feel bad though, he is a fuck boy he is meant to play with girls” She faked a pout and caressed your hair “Vanessa, I don’t know whats your deal but leave me alone” You unintentionally raised your voice catching Minho’s and the other girl attention.

“Shit” Minho mumbled under his breath “Y/n wait” he said as you started running away from there, he tried to follow behind you but was stopped by the girl he was kissing, Vanessa turned around to look at your figure disappear between all the bodies, a smirk adorning her face.

You cleaned your tears before telling Rosé that you were calling it a day, you didn’t want to ruin her fun so you didn’t mention the incident. As you walked out of the party you crashed into someone, your eyes widening.

“Mr Hyunjin?” You said in surprise, he chuckled at you “Hey y/n, leaving already?” He looked stunning, his long blond hair and casual attire gave you butterflies, you were used to see him in his typical teacher attire, at some point you thought he had no fashion taste by the way he dressed but now you understood that just his class attire. “Yeah…” You softly exhaled trying to hide your disappointment “May I ask why you are at a student party” You raised an eyebrow in curiosity, the sight making him laugh “Jennie and me went to the same high school, we are really close friends. However due to early degree, I have to keep it professionally” The smile in his face never faded away as he talked “Do you mind telling me how you got your teaching degree that fast?” He laughed again at your curiosity he find it really cute “Sure, but its a long story, why don’t we go somewhere else to talk?” That was an offer you couldn’t deny, specially tonight.

He knew he had no right to be jealous right now, but seeing you walk away with Hyunjin made his blood boil. He carefully followed you guys to a cafe. He sat far enough for you guys not to notice him but close enough to see the way you would laugh at his jokes, how you would often touch him here and there and the glances he would give your chest while you laughed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the jealousy that ran through his body, but the moment you excused yourself to the bathroom he found himself walking towards Hyunjin.

He was sketching something on a napkin when Minho grabbed his shoulder giving it a squeeze “Took you long enough” He said nonchalantly as he kept drawing, not bothering to turn around to see Minho “You and your pretty mouth, you swear you are better than everyone” He groaned gaining a laugh from Hyunjin “I don’t think I’m better than everyone” he paused to look at Minho “I just think Im better than you” His smirk was Minho’s last stroke, he lifted his fist ready to punch him when Hyunjin catch it “I gave you time to not mess it up, but you are Lee Minho” His face didn’t have an expression at all, Minho couldn’t understand how he was so well collected while he threw poison at his face.

“I always knew about your little crush on her. I sacrificed my feelings for you, cause I’m a teacher and I need to keep things professional. However, I’m not gonna let you hurt her. I know how hard it was for her to be the person she is now, I’m not letting you ruin that” He started to squeeze his fist and aggressively moved it out of his face. Minho stood there dumbfounded at Hyunjin’s confession.

Minho and Hyunjin had a complex background story, they both met at summer dancing camp. Although both had so much in similar they never clicked, often turning everything into a competition. When he went to college and found out he was one of the architecture teachers he felt sick to his stomach. Hyunjin and him had a gap of 3 years, how come he already be a teacher when he was just starting a carrier. This only made Minho more jealous.

His thoughts were interrupted when Hyunjin spoke again “She is coming, you have the option to leave or face the reality” He smirked once again as he saw the troublesome look in his face, however what he didn’t expect was a tear to run down his cheek “Please take care of her” He said in defeat, a faint smile painted on his face.

Now this was something Hyunjin never expected from Minho, he knew him as the guy who would fight against him till the last breath, seeing him this vulnerable broke something inside him. “Sorry I took so long” You said as you sat down on your seat.

“Minho you idiot” he cursed to himself, so low you couldn’t hear it, at least you didn’t catch on it. He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration.

You were confused as to why you were walking towards the field with Hyunjin, he said he had something to show you, however, there was nothing to see when you were there. He grabbed your hand and placed it in his chest “I know I’m your teacher and this is wrong even though we both adults” He spat as he stared deeply into your eyes “But please concede me one kiss” He looked at you almost begging.

You look down at his lips, you would lie if you said it wasn’t tempting to steal a kiss from them… however it felt wrong and not because he was your teacher but because of Minho. You couldn’t believe yourself after all he did to you, but something deep inside you still believed in him.

While you seemed to be caught in thoughts, Hyunjin spotted Minho behind you staring at the two of you, no expression in his face, however his eyes were dark and his hands were pressed against each other.

Hyunjin smirked and got closer to you, Minho doing the same, Hyunjin knew what he was doing, his plan was to provoke him. Fight for you.

He wrapped a hand around your waist making you gasp in surprise “Hyunjin” you said softly “Shhh just play along” He whispered against your ear, you couldn’t tell why he was doing this until he spoke again “He is watching” You immediately understood what he was doing, you smiled at him “I will” Hyunjin was left dumbfounded at your words “I will kiss you” You finished, he looked at your eyes in panic “Y/n you don-“ His words were interrupted as you planted a kiss in his lips, they were just as soft as Minho’s but maybe a little bigger, however, the sensation didn’t even compared to Minho’s.

A hand grabbed your arm and snatched you out of his grip. “Minho” You said as you panted. “So you decided to fight” Hyunjin smiled proudly “Go ahead and don’t mess it up” He said nonchalantly as he walked away, leaving you alone in Minho’s arms.

It was a chilly night, the breeze hovering over your bodies. Both of you stood there without saying a single word to each other. His body was tense just as yours was. Should you be the first one to talk, tears starting to form in your eyes. He could hear you sniffing so he turned you around to face him.

He had an angry expression in his face which pissed you off but also made you feel guilty “I know I have no right to be jealous or mad right now” He finally spoke looking into your eyes “But I would be lying if I said im not mad or jealous right now” He got closer to you “Y/n… the picture they sent you last night was a set up…” He began to explain “I was doing the project when she came, she tricked me, I was trying to pull away but Jesus Christ she has a strong grip” You lowly chuckled at the playful tone on his last phrase “However today… I did kiss that girl willingly” Your heart once again dropping to your stomach “I was drunk, which is no excuse I know, but I was trying to forget everything. I was trying to forget the fact that I had lost you because of the plan Vanessa set up” He paused, his heart broking as he saw your eyes full of tears, your head staring down at the grass “I was on my 15th shot of the night, when the girl approached me… her scent reminded me of yours. Levanter and Vanilla” He whispered “One thing led to another… Im sorry” He started to cry “I’m so stupid… Im sorry” He kneeled in front of you crying.

You didn’t knew what to exactly do in that moment, forgive him? Comfort him? Leave him there? Screamed at him? You wanted to do all of those options but you didn’t have the heart to do any of those.

“L-let’s go to my apartment” Although you felt you were going to regret it, it was the only thing that crossed your head “Don’t think anything about it, Im just getting chilly” You extended your hand to grabbed his.

The walk to the apartment was silent from somehow comforting, you opened the door and led him inside. He sat on your couch while you brought a bottle of vodka. “You trying to poison me?” He said playfully trying to lift up the mood, however you weren’t feeling it “If we are going to talk I need to take few shots first”

———

You don’t know how you ended up in this situation “Teasing me with this little dress” He slid a hand up your dress and played with the band of your panties “You knew what you were doing every time you bend and moved sensually whenever I was near” He whispered in your ear, gently nibbling it. “Minho” You called out his name softly, his lips interrupting yours with a kiss. It was hungry and lustful, wet noises from the kiss hovering all over the room. Last thing you remembered was shoving down a shot of vodka before kissing him and now you were here.

He was on top of you in your bed, your hands pinned down as he kissed your body up an down. The faint light of your fairy lights being the only source of light in the room. His knee was firm against your pussy, your dress rolled up with all the movement. “You look so pretty” He almost moaned at the sight. Your messy hair, your legs exposed, your white panty on full display, and the way your dress struggled to cover your tits. Minho was drunk in you, he wanted to drink you dry. “We have made a lot of mistakes tonight…” he said in between kisses “Please lets make one that we won’t regret” moved to kiss your neck, softly biting it leaving faint marks in it “Fuck” you gasped in delight “Minho do whatever you want, any mistake I do with you ends up being the best” You could feel his smirk growing against your neck.

Next thing you felt was his nose pressed against your clothed clit, you moaned gripping his hair, he laughed “Patience princess, I want to take my time with you” He kissed your inner thighs up and down, kissing everywhere around but where you wanted him the most.

You felt shameless as you lifted your hips trying to find some type of friction. He just giggled before taking off your panties painfully slow. The cold breeze blew against your pussy making you whimper “Fuck I love it when you whimper” He placed his face closer to your pussy and blew gently on it, mesmerized by the way he impacted your body.

The feeling was mutual though, you could see the way his pants tighten the more he got aroused. Once his tongue was playing with your clit you lost it. It felt like you were on the clouds, his tongue was soft a warm, the slurping noises making you even more aroused. He grabbed your free hand and intertwined it with yours. His thumb caressing your hand as a gesture of comfort. You loved this man so much he didn’t understand.

With his other hand he slowly started stretching you out, one finger, two fingers, three… you gasped, body lifting up as he added a fourth finger. He kissed your cunt and your inner thighs trying to soothe you. “You got this princess” He slowly started to pump in and out of you, being as careful as he could, not wanting to hurt you in any way.

You threw your head back as you could feel your high approaching, moans getting louder and louder by the second. Minho closed his eyes and hummed in delight, his mouth attaching once again to your clit, listening to your pretty moans like it was his favorite song “Min-Minho” You breath hitched as you couldn’t hold back anymore “Go ahead Princess, show me how well I treat you” You came all over his finger and face, your face crimson red as you rode out of your high, embarrassment showering you over.

You could hear his soft chuckle as he kissed you, his tongue dancing with yours. You could savior yourself through his tongue. He sat you down as he glare at you, eyes dark in lust. A whimpered left your lips as he sucked the same fingers that were inside you, sucking them dry in front of you not breaking eye contact. “Fuck you taste so sweet” He was driving you insane. You moved towards him, taking what was left of you dress, your boobs falling free. You could see him salivate over them as he stared at them shamelessly.

“You have no idea how many times I have pictured you naked” He said groping your boob, his finger flickering your nipple. You couldn’t hold it anymore, your hand traveling to his belt, taking it out in a split of a second. Your hand unzipping his jeans as he helps you get rid of them.

You could see his dick through his boxers, a stain of pre cum visible at the tip, you leaned to his stomach and planted few kisses. His whimpers were a melody to your brain.

Removing his boxers, his dick sprung free, you leaned down to give the tip few kitten licks, teasing his slit while applying pressure to it. He groaned as he tightly tugged your hair. A moan escaping your mouth sending vibrations down his dick.

“Fuck… Princess… I don’t think I can resist if you continue” His voice was unstable as he tried to form words inside his head “Please let me fuck you” You raised your face to look at him, smiling as you kiss him wrapping your hands around his neck “I should be the one begging you” You tease, gaining a scoff from him.

He stood up to pick up his pants in search of a condom “Fuck” he closed his eyes, he gave the one he had to a friend who needed it at the party, he turned around to you disappointed “It will be another night Princess… I don’t have one on me right now” His voice was soft and filled with disappointment.

“Fuck me raw” He turned to face you, looking at your innocent face like you hadn’t just spilled one of the most lustful thing. You bat your lashes at him as you sat down like an obedient puppy in front of him. You tilted your head “If you want ofc, I’m under birth control” The way his cock throbbed at your words drove him crazy.

In a split of a second he was on top of you again, his mouth playing with your nipples as he teased the tip of his dick in your folds, he rub small circles around your clit with his tip, drops of pre cum falling down your folds. “Minho please just fuck me” You cried “I always forget you are impatient Princess” He chuckled, sending vibrations down your stomach. The pool of butterflies you were feeling at that moment. You were willing to forget everything that has happened in the past just to have him next to you every day.

He slowly started stretching your cunt with his tip, you groaned in pain, the fingers definitely did not prepared you well to take him in.

Once he was fully in he waited for your sign to keep going. A soft whimper leaving your mouth as you gave him the green light. He started slowly pumping in and out of you carefully.

As he started to feel pleasure as well he couldn’t help but fasten his pace, your eyes fully cloth as you moaned his name “Bet Hyunjin wouldn’t make you feel like this” You don’t where this is coming from but you like the way he talked dirty “Neither any other bitch could take my cock the way your cunt does” He placed his face in the crook of your neck panting. Shivers rolling down your spine “Fuck. The way your cunt squeezes my cock” He threw his head back in pleasure “Let me fuck you like you’re mine” He reposition himself, a hand next to your head while with the other he applied slight pressure on your neck.

He stopped thrusting you, gaining a moan of complain “Princess if you want me to continue I need you to look at me while I fuck you” You could feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment, although you were desperate. You nodded at his command and he continue with his task. His fast pace, the pressure on your neck and his dark eyes piercing yours, it was all too overwhelmed to handle, tears falling down your eyes as you moan.

Seeing you in this state made Minho crazy, you were like this because of him. His cock starting throbbing inside you as you started to uncontrollably squeeze him “Fuck Princess” He moved his hand from your neck “Min” You gasped for air “Im close” You cried out as you grabbed his hair and pulled him for a kiss. “Lets cum together then” he whispered in your ear, he moved his hand to your clit and started rubbing circles in it, while his pace started to move faster. You moaned in his ear as he felt your cum washing over his cock and spilling down your bed sheets. You knee he was close when his thrust became sloppy and he started to slow down, he was about to pull out to cum im your chest when you stopped him “Please breed me” You begged in his ear, he came almost automatically, his seed spreading in your inside “I hope your birth control doesn’t work” He said as he rode out of his high, his cock softening inside of you.

He wrapped you in a warm hug “I’m going to clean everything and then leave, you need space to think” You were disappointed at his words, although you did needed to think things over, you didn’t want to think now. You grabbed his arm “Please stay tonight…” you say softly afraid to be rejected “You can leave in the morning, but please don’t leave when Im sleeping” You mumbled as you cuddled on his chest. He chuckled softly while he played with your hair “If you say so… If it was up to me, I wouldn’t leave your side eve again” With that both of you closed your eyes and drifted to a peaceful sleep.

———

A month passed and you and Minho were keeping things as friends. After all the drama that happened both of you agreed to be friends again before trying things out again. Although it was hard to keep things friendly when you had a bunch of friends who would constantly tease you. At parties they would put both of you in situations were you had to kiss each other for a dare or go in a small closet for 7 minutes. Childish games that you never thought you would be playing in college. Everything seemed to be good, Minho got a restraining order for Vanessa, she had no other choice but to transfer colleges. The pissed off face she had the day you said bye to her was definitely the highlight of the year. Although her friends apologized to you, you didn’t want to know anything about them so you agree with them to forget about each others existence.

As to Hyunjin, he started dating Rosé, it was the biggest plot twist of you life “The moment I saw him at the party I was on my knees” She squealed as she hugged a pillow “And he is a teacher…” You widen your eyes <It can’t be…> You thought as you waited for her to spill the name “Mr Hwang Hyunjin” She moaned taking you by surprise “SO HOT” She pretended to faint dramatically in your bed, making you die of laughter. Gosh you loved that woman so much.

Life was good although it felt incomplete, yeah Minho was your friend but you wanted him to be more than that, however, you didn’t want to rush things so you decided to give it time. Wait for the perfect timing to come.

———

“Nice game Lee Minho” You tease as you hug him “Thank you thank you miss y/n” He chuckled “I scored all my goals in your name, so we can say this was a two person job” You laugh at his words “How considerate of you” You faked an awe face and laughed. It was the end of the autumn sports season, Minho and his team won states and everyone was celebrating “Shouldn’t you be there celebrating? you were the mvp” You raised an eyebrow looking at him “Nah… I rather stay here and watch the sunset with you” You looked at him in admiration, even though he was all sweaty and messy you couldn’t help but find him hot “I love this field” You say out of nowhere. He turned to face you, intrigued by your words.

“Most of our adventures occurred here” You laugh at your cheesy words cringing at yourself, however, to Minho your words got to him, his eyes fixated on your smile as you stare vaguely at the sunset.

His lips soft against yours, his hand on your waist while the other is in your hair “Min-” you said surprised as you broke the kiss “Is it too soon if I ask you if I can be your boyfriend” Butterflies rushed to your stomach at his words, your cheeks matching the pink tone on his.

You kissed him and smiled through the kiss, breaking the kiss once again to stare into his brown eyes “I hope that answers your question” You both smile and stay there in silence appreciating each others company while the sun slowly disappeared through the landscape of the field.

——————————————————————

Authors Note: Let me know if you guys find any typos, I didn’t spell check most of the fic and I wrote most of it at 2am, Also suggestions are appreciated 🙏

Hope you guys enjoyed~

[whatevertheweather]

Thank you all for the tags @run-for-chamo-miles @monbons @forabeatofadrum @rimeswithpurple @ileadacharmedlife @artsyunderstudy @noblecorgi @you-remind-me-of-the-babe! You're all making me very emotional about fandom, and my TBR has gotten out of control.

So. It's 2024 for a little bit more. I'm not sure what's going to happen as I write this post, but I know it's not going to be succinct, so we're just going to start below the cut and see what happens.

I'm waffling over where to start, but I've decided on what we're here for, which is the fic recap. I did actually make fic goals in 2024, and I did actually meet some of them, which I'm trying to focus on instead of the parts I didn't meet. Here's a nice lil screenshot to sum that up.

I did give Bait and Switch a checkmark after some hesitation, because it says ongoing, and I did keep it going. I just didn't finish. (The new goal is before CORB 2025 I guess.)

So I completed 2 fics. Continued 1. Posted 60,917 words, AO3 says, even though that's including the chapters of the WIPs I started last year, and by my clumsy calculations with that in mind, it's actually 32,990. Did not meet my goals, struggled to write most of the time, but when I was looking for these stats, I found AO3 doesn't even give me a 2023 tab (rip first chaps of Bait and Switch and Musical Chairs, I guess), so it's an improvement over last year.

It just doesn't feel like it, because so much of what I did is unposted. So those are the stats I'm gonna give.

Words that didn't get posted: 23.5k

Fics this close to done that I just couldn't get any farther on: 4

Fics started: 3

Fics lovingly revisited after being abandoned for a long while: 2

Number of projects I got really excited about writing: 3

Number of times I wrote AHAHAHA in brainstorming documents because I figured out what I need to do to fix the problems I was having: 5

How long it will take me to turn those ahas into action: I cannot possibly say

Number of times I should have reached out for brainstorming help: 50, probably

Number of times I actually reached out: 3, I think

It's these last two points I actually care about. Well, no, I care about all of it, but it's these last two I've been thinking about. I had writing goals for 2024, I'm going to have writing goals for 2025, but I also had a more nebulous goal to participate in fandom more, and that's the one I'm actually bothered about not meeting.

I have a bad habit of thinking the only way I can participate is by getting fic done. Sharing it. Posting snippets if it's not done. Like I can only rejoice in other people's WIPsday posts if I have my own, instead of just being inspired by other people's writing and art. Or I can only share excitement or progress if I'm sure it's going to go somewhere, instead of just posting what I have and letting the community of it all be its own excitement. Or I can only comment if I have the headspace to put together a stunning review that perfectly encapsulates what I liked about a fic/art/anything, instead of just saying what I can or messaging someone to tell them I loved the thing they made, as if I don't know how wonderful it feels when that happens.

I'm getting sappy and maudlin on main, but I appreciate this fandom so much, even when I revert to lurking, and I want so much to get back to participating and talking to people and sharing in all the amazing wonderful things this fandom does. Y'all are some of the most talented and creative and kind people and I adore you all. So that's my main (fandom-related) goal for 2025, and any fic completed will just be bonus points.

But! Since we're here for fic at the end of the year, I will round out this rambling post by saying there are at least 3 ideas I'm hopeful I'll be able to maintain my current level of enthusiasm for, and beyond that there are about 5 that are a few sentences away from done, so there's hope for seeing at least some fic from me in the new year. Related, here's a peek at the first three documents on my drive.

Two of these fall in the "a few sentences away from done good lord why can't you just finish this" category. The other one falls in the category of things I'm actually very excited about, and hope to at least have a WIPsday post for it before too long. Because I'm thinking keeping things secret for fear of never finishing them is actually kind of silly, and I don't need to keep trying to create things in a vacuum.

Finally, a mess of tags that is me waving hello with both hands: @fatalfangirl @moodandmist @martsonmars @facewithoutheart @whogaveyoupermission

@mostlymaudlin @sillyunicorn @aristocratic-otter @bookish-bogwitch @alexalexinii

@ivelovedhimthroughworse @iamamythologicalcreature @ionlydrinkhotwater @thewholelemon @bluedahlia912

@youarenevertooold @cutestkilla @raenestee @confused-bi-queer @basiltonbutliketheherb

[christinesficrecs]

do you have any fics where stiles and derek are hiding to have sex? specifically hiding from the sheriff or maybe scott lol

Well, there are quite a few secret relationship ones. And these ones, that kinda jumped out at me. 😉

I Just Wanna Be With You Every Day by Brego_Mellon_Nin | 33.9K

When his best friend’s son barrels into the kitchen only dressed in a pair of skintight jeans, lean but defined torso on display, Derek knows he’s truly and utterly fucked. Not only is the kid barely eighteen, but he also happens to be the Sheriff’s only son.

Derek makes a vow to himself that he will not seek Stiles out and he’ll get this thing under control.

I’m at one, and I’ve been quiet for too long by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 11.4K | Explicit

The one where the pack insists Derek can’t date anybody for a year but he ends up finding romance much closer to home anyway.

With Just the Door Ajar by mirrorkill | 61.6K

So there’s a bunch of reasons why Stiles has been away from Beacon Hills: most noticeably being the time he accused his English teacher Jennifer Blake of being the evil Darach who spent two years sacrificing twelve of Beacon Hill’s best.

But Stiles can’t stay away forever from the town that killed both his parents. When he gets a job offer he can’t refuse, it’s time for him to grow up and apologize for his mistakes. Which just lands him an invitation to Beacon Hills’ wedding of the century. Jennifer’s wedding. To the werewolf Stiles had a thing with in senior year. To the werewolf Stiles might not exactly be 100% over.

Still, he’s a grown up now and he can handle this thing without causing any trouble. Having sex with the groom repeatedly doesn’t count as trouble… does it?

Hallmark should really make cards for this shit by  Jessicatty | 2.8K

When the pack finds a unicorn in the woods they call Stiles to come help since he should be the only virgin left in the pack. Should being the key word here.

Over the Threshold by  alisvolatpropiis | 5.8K

This is the last time,” Stiles declares, just before he attacks Derek’s mouth with his, the kiss fevered and desperate, his long fingers jabbing roughly into Derek’s abs as he tangles them in his shirt. He pulls him close and walks them away from the front door, and in his hurried clumsiness, Stiles’ nose smashes Derek’s glasses into his face, hard enough that they smudge against his eyelids. It should be annoying, but like everything else about Stiles that should be infuriating, Derek can only find it hopelessly endearing.

That’s the thing about love, he supposes, even a love he won’t fully admit to himself, let alone to Stiles.

You Look Like Bad News (i gotta have you) by  standinginanicedress | 38.9K |

Option A : violently tell Derek that they are under no circumstances ever to hook up again because it was stupid and dumb.

Option B : tell Scott the truth, stand back and watch as Scott kills Derek with his bare hands so Stiles doesn’t even have to face the music. Not an option at all, actually. Expunge this from the record.

The real Option B : calmly explain to Derek that the situation is too fucked up and hey, maybe if Derek and Scott ever shake hands and make up, he and Stiles can hook up again because, man…it was great.

Option C : forget everything, charge headfirst into danger like fuckin’ Bravehart and have sex with Derek all over again.

Option D : bury himself alive and wait for the worms to eat him.

Paper Airplanes by  RemainNameless | 23.5K

The road to unfortunate, accidental, and possibly career-destroying relationships is littered with good intentions, snark, bad timing, and not a few paper airplanes.

[itsjuststardust]

Heaven in Hiding - Chapter 25: Don't Look Back

Heaven in Hiding Masterlist

Word Count: 23,820

Author's Note/Chapter Warnings: Oh, dear readers... We have reached the conclusion of 'Act II' of Heaven in Hiding. I will save most of my thoughts and feelings for the end of the chapter, but I have a couple of things to warn you about. First, I hope you like long chapters because this one officially takes the crown for the longest chapter (thus far) at 23.5k words (sorry, not sorry). So, make yourself comfortable, put your feet up, and play your favorite sad girl music. Second, this chapter follows the last half of Ch. 7: The Reckoning and Ch. 8: Redemption. I borrowed some of the dialogue from the show for this chapter, but I have changed some to fit with my story. Lastly, there is some sciencey stuff in here that I have taken creative liberties with. Just go with it. That's all I have without spoiling the chapter, but if you need to read chapter warnings, please jump to the A/N at the end of the chapter so you can prepare yourself. MINORS - DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY 🎵Chapter Soundtrack🎵 “Francesca” - Hozier Without further ado... may I present the 🐍🐍 Act II 🐍🐍 finale of Heaven in Hiding - "Don't Look Back"

Chapter 25: Don't Look Back

“Alaina!” he called after the blur of green velvet that stomped past him.

“Trouble in paradise?” Karga asked, keeping his watchful gaze on Alaina as she headed toward the lava river.

Din growled and stormed after her, knocking Karga’s shoulder a little more forcefully than he intended as he passed by his former guild leader. When he made it to that beautiful pain in his ass, he was going to remind her about her promise not to do anything rash, like stomping off away from the safety of the campsite. Especially when they knew the odds were stacked against them.

A shock of white came up over the hill, standing in sharp contrast to the surrounding black and lava-cracked landscape. Din froze at the sight of the weasel-eyed doctor as he walked towards Alaina, who was so lost in thought she didn’t even realize her former friend was approaching her.

“Oof,” Alaina grumbled when she smacked straight into Pershing. “I’m sorry—” she cut her apology off when she realized who it was she just ran into.

“Hello, Lainey.”

Din stood a short distance away, watching Alaina closely as she stared in shock at the man before her. He was still close enough to intervene if needed, but he decided that it was best that the two had their emotional reintroductions in private.

A guttural cry he’d never heard from another living being before left Alaina’s mouth, startling both men. Pershing’s face turned to one of shock as his former friend launched herself at him, tackling him to the ground.

So much for introductions. "Kriff,” Din muttered as he ran to the two scuffling on the ground.

“I hate you!” Alaina screeched and wound her arm back before clocking the doctor smack in the middle of his face.

A small swell of pride formed in his chest. At least her form was improving, Din noted with a cringe as she went in for another punch.

“Alright, alright,” Din grumbled, grabbing Alaina around her waist to pull her off the doctor. Alaina thrashed in arms, clawing and kicking to get back to Pershing, who was now holding his bloodied nose as he attempted to crawl away from his petite attacker.

“Tranyc,” he murmured, holding her tightly against his chest until he felt her relax. “You can’t kill him. Yet,” he added when she growled.

“Fine,” she huffed, and he set her down on the ground once he was convinced Alaina wouldn’t immediately charge at Pershing again.

Din returned his attention to the doctor who was examining the blood on his hand left over from his bloodied nose.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Pershing muttered, looking up from his hand to stare at Alaina, who let out a low growl. Din held his arm out, preventing her from attacking the doctor again. “I see you were still traveling with the Mandalorian,” he commented with a tight smile before turning his attention to the Mandalorian. “Thank you for returning her. Again.”

Din cocked his helmet at the doctor’s words. Returning her? He crossed the distance between them in three strides, taking special pleasure in the terror in the man’s eyes. When he reached the white coat, Din’s elbow reared back before delivering a quick snap to the man’s face. Pershing fell to the ground, groaning as he held his face in his hands. If his nose wasn’t broken before, it was broken now.

Din turned back to Alaina, who was giving him a bright smile. “One quick jab to the face, right?” he asked, grinning when Alaina giggled. “Although your form is getting better,” he complimented with a nod.

Alaina’s eyes sparkled, refracting the light from the lava river as she said, “Thank you!”

When he returned to Alaina, he grabbed her right hand to inspect it for damage. Her knuckle only had one minor cut, but it wasn’t too bad overall. “You let your elbow drop,” he said, balling her fist back up and using his other hand. He lifted her elbow to put her in the correct form. “Just because you continue to punch someone doesn’t mean you get sloppy.”

“Well, I was just surprised when I hit him, and my hand didn’t immediately shatter,” she said, grinning at his helmet. “It’s easier to punch someone in the face when they don’t have a beskar helmet.”

He hummed and nodded, letting go of Alaina’s hand to return his attention to why they were there.

Pershing had managed to make it back to his feet and had dried blood caked under his nose and some splattered across his uniform, but it was the way he was looking between the two of them as if they were some puzzle he had yet to solve. Some deeply buried feeling of protector surged through him, and Din had to restrain himself from putting an arm around Alaina’s waist to draw her to him so that he could rub it in the other man’s face that Alaina was his.

“Now that the two of you have been reacquainted, you said you had a solution?” Din asked, prompting the doctor.

Pershing jumped at his words and shook his head, returning to the problem at hand. “Um, yes,” he nodded and reached behind him to dig through a canvas backpack until he retrieved a datapad. The man’s face faltered when he turned to look back at Alaina. “Lainey, I just want you to know I never intended it to be like this.” Alaina scoffed. “I didn’t! If I would have known—”

“Penn, you sent a bounty hunter after me! You used me as a science experiment for five years!” Alaina’s reprimand slowly crescendoed to a scream. “You tortured me! You locked me away until I went crazy! Even when I started having seizures, you still didn’t stop! So don’t give me the if I would have known bullshit!”

“I’m sorry! He was breathing down my neck for results! I thought I was close!” Pershing pleaded. “Lainey, you know I would never—”

“I don’t! I don’t know you!” Alaina seethed. “I thought I did, but obviously, I was wrong about you!”

Din gripped Alaina’s arm to stop her from continuing and to give her a small show of support before turning his attention back to Pershing. “Arguing about the past is going to get us nowhere,” he started, letting go of Alaina’s arm. “You agreed to meet because you wanted to make it right. How do you plan on fixing her?”

Pershing’s eyes looked between him and Alaina. “I’m sorry. I know you brought her back here, but why do you care?” he asked, trying to work out the puzzle before him.

His blaster was in his hand instantly, directed at the doctor’s head. Pershing’s hands shot up, with his datapad still in his right hand.

Alaina’s hand came to rest on his forearm, encouraging him to lower his blaster. “Just answer the question, Penn,” she said, sounding exhausted from arguing already.

As Din lowered his blaster, Pershing’s hands dropped. “Maybe we should go talk. In private,” he suggested.

At his comment, his blaster rose, forcing a sigh from Alaina. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Mando,” she told Pershing as she gripped his forearm again until he lowered the blaster again.

“But—”

“No buts,” Alaina stopped him. “If you can’t say what you came here to say in front of an audience, then we’re leaving,” she announced, making Din bristle. “And if you think that Mando here is going to let you out of his sight, you are mistaken,” she informed him with a shake of her head. “We don’t trust you,” she ground out bitterly.

“Okay,” Pershing agreed quickly. “Okay. Maybe we could go closer to the fire,” he suggested, nodding to where the others had set up camp nearby. “It’s not safe out here at night.”

Din nodded and motioned toward the campsite. Pershing nodded and walked with them the short distance to the fire. “How long do you have before they notice you’re missing?” he asked the doctor.

“My supervisor at the compound in the city thinks I headed out to the main lab in the lava flats early, but the lab doesn’t think I’m coming until the morning. They won’t come looking for me until late in the morning,” Pershing told them. “It’s not a lot of time, but it’s enough to do a couple of tests on Lainey—”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Alaina snapped.

A flash of pain came over the doctor’s face, but he recovered quickly. “As I was saying, it’s not a lot of time, but it’s enough to do a couple of tests on Alaina and compare it to the previous data I have.”

“And then?” Alaina prodded with a glare.

“I need to start with the tests first. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions without all the data,” Pershing answered, keeping his head directed down at the lava-cracked ground, avoiding eye contact with his former friend.

Alaina scoffed, “Like you jumped to the conclusion that I’m dying?”

Pershing sighed. "Lai—Alaina, I didn’t lie to get you here." When they reached the fire, he stopped to return his attention to Alaina. “Please believe me. Let me proceed with the scans. Then we can talk more once I have more data.”

Alaina nibbled nervously on her bottom lip before turning to look up at his helmet. Din cocked his head, wanting her to come to the same conclusion that he had—they’d come all this way for answers; they weren’t going to leave now without some. It would be easier for her to reach that conclusion independently than for Din to force her to participate. Alaina could be stubborn when she wanted to be, and it wouldn’t do them any good to waste what precious time they had arguing.

“Okay,” she nodded, and Din placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back when she gave him a tight, nervous smile.

“O-Okay,” Penn stuttered as he watched Din’s simple contact with a concerned face. “Let’s—Uh—Let’s find a spot where we can get comfortable,” he suggested, nodding to the large lava rock Karga was already propped up against.

Din gave her a gentle push to get her moving. One eye was on Alaina and the doctor, but he kept an alert eye on the others—Karga was giving orders to the other two he’d come with to go hunt something for dinner. Dune was walking the perimeter with her borrowed rifle like the soldier she was. Kuiil was with Grogu, pulling the kid’s new floating pram around their blurrg while he listened to the kid babble.

“The Child is still with you,” Pershing commented as they reached the lava rock.

Alaina picked the opposite end of the rock from Karga to sit down. “Why wouldn’t he be?” she asked as she made herself comfortable with her back propped up against the wall.

“I—I don’t know,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Of course, I would have thought you’d have parted ways with the Mandalorian, but that doesn’t appear to be the case,” Pershing answered, unable to tear away from the kid. “You were never one for, what did you call them? Meatheads?”

Din looked to Alaina with a cock of his helmet at the comment, earning him a snicker from the blonde.

“Yeah, well, this meathead isn’t so bad,” she admitted to the weasel, giving Din a playful kick to his boot.

When the doctor looked at Din with watchful eyes, Din glowered back at the man, refusing to back down. “Don’t you need to get started?” Din prompted with a growl.

“Right,” Pershing nodded and moved to sit opposite of Alaina. 

With one last look around the campsite to ensure that everything was okay for now, Din sat next to Alaina while Pershing dug through the pack of supplies he had brought.

If the doctor was surprised that the Mandalorian was sitting beside his friend, he didn’t show it. Pershing placed four monitoring devices along Alaina’s forehead, each with tiny wires attached to white stickers that all returned to the doctor’s datapad. 

When the doctor pulled out two more monitoring stickers, Alaina took them from him so she could reach through the top of her shirt to stick one on either side of her chest. “I’ve done this before,” she reminded the weasel. 

“Right,” Pershing replied softly. “Then we will go in the normal order,” he said, making Alaina scoff. “I need to be able to compare results as accurately as possible—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alaina grumbled. “Meditation first?” she asked, to which the doctor nodded. Alaina turned her green eyes to his helmet and gave him a soft smile. “There are three tests in total. He’s going to monitor me for thirty minutes at a time while I do different things. Meditating is first,” she explained.

Din nodded, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Alaina reached for his hand and gripped his glove tightly. “Just be here,” she whispered.

Din gripped her hand back, and the two shared their look for one last brief moment before Alaina gave him a subtle nod. He kept his helmet directed at her, waiting for the first inclination for something to go wrong. Alaina’s eyes closed as she rested her head against the lava rock as she… meditated, he supposed.

As the minutes ticked on, Din’s eyes slid to Pershing but caught that he wasn’t studying the datapad like he would have thought. Instead, the doctor’s eyes were locked on Alaina and Din’s intertwined hands. 

Din cocked his helmet at the doctor, making him flinch when he realized that he’d been caught. Pershing’s cheeks tinged red, and he returned to focusing on the datapad to analyze whatever information he was getting.

Din’s teeth ground together at the weasel, but Mando refused to take his eyes off the other man. They hadn’t come all this way for the man to get distracted by his feelings. His alleged best friend’s life was literally in his hands. If there was a time to focus—it was now.

The countdown inside his helmet ticked off, and Din felt the minutes drag by. Alaina was meditating while Pershing was focused on whatever data he was receiving on his end. It wasn’t until almost twenty minutes later that Din noticed Pershing’s lips frown slightly and his brows knit together at whatever he saw on the screen.

“What?” Mando asked, startling the doctor.

“Vermilion fingertips.”

Din’s helmet snapped back to Alaina at her whispered words. Her eyes were open now, but the unsettling, vacant eyes of a vision replaced her normally expressive emerald ones. More alarming was the slow stream of blood coming from each nostril.

“Alaina!” Din called, squeezing the limp hand in his glove.

“Wait!” Pershing whispered, holding a hand out to stop him. “This is good,” he told him excitedly. “This is good. Don’t try to interfere.”

“He’s coming,” Alaina whispered, and then her words dissolved into a fit of unnerving laughter. “He’s coming to take the sunlight away and rip it apart limb by limb,” the ramblings continued.

Din looked at Pershing, but he looked just as confused as he did. He remembered that vision. It was the first vision she’d had in front of him in the woods of Sorgan. He hadn’t thought much of it until her next vision on their last day in the village and then had assumed she was warning them about the hunter lurking in the woods.

“Don’t trust the moon. She’s always changing,” she giggled, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Pershing…” he growled, but the man waved his hand to silence him.

“Vermilion fingertips walk the end of the road,” she continued, and then her head slowly turned to stare down his helmet, somehow still able to find his eyes under his helmet. Her hand moved, and Din released it from his grip, allowing her to move it freely. Alaina’s now free hand rose until it found the transparisteel ‘T’ of his visor and let her index finger trace along the glass. “Remember, the foundation survived,” she whispered.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as Alaina’s finger slid off his helmet, and he waited for the vacant look to leave.

The few times he’d witnessed one of her visions, they had ended one of two ways: disorientation or unconsciousness.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

Din watched helplessly as her green eyes rolled back into her head, and her petite body went rigid.

“Hold her down!” Pershing ordered moments before Alaina’s entire body collapsed, and she began convulsing. “Hold her down! On her side!”

His heart pounded against the beskar plating outside of it. His surroundings faded away to the point where the only thing he could see or feel was Alaina. His gloves fumbled as he tried to contain her body as it thrashed under him. He felt utterly helpless as foam began leaking from her mouth, turning red as it came into contact with the blood from her nose.

“What’s happening?!” he barked at the doctor, who was drawing something up in a syringe.

“Seizure,” he supplied as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Pershing took the syringe and instructed Mando how to hold her arm so he could find a vein. 

The two worked in tandem, and by the end of the injection, the convulsions slowly came to a stop until the body he had pinned to the ground went limp in his hands.

“What did you do to her?!” Din demanded as he attempted to make Alaina comfortable.

“I didn’t do anything!” Pershing defended. “She had a premonition—Wait,” he paused, and his expression changed to one of curiosity, “has she not had any seizures since she’s been with you?”

Din shook his head. He would have remembered something as terrifying as that.

“Interesting,” was all Pershing commented before he buried his nose in his datapad.

“What happens now?” Din asked, stroking Alaina’s hair back off her forehead, and took the corner of his cloak to try and clean Alaina’s face up the best he could.

“I gave her an anticonvulsant. She’ll be unconscious for a while,” Pershing mumbled.

“What about your tests? Alaina said there were three.”

“I’ll continue to monitor her scans while she is unconscious,” Pershing told him while he rummaged through his pack to pull out another datapad. “Catching a premonition is better than I could have hoped for. It will give me a better understanding of her neuropathways now compared to her last scans. There used to be four tests, but since she lost her telekinetic abilities, it’s harder to prompt a premonition out of her.”

Din frowned, “Telekinetic?”

“She used to be able to move objects,” Pershing explained, pausing his studies of the datapad to glance at Alaina.

“Until you went meddling in her mind,” Din accused, fixing the doctor with a knowing tilt of his helmet.

Pershing’s eyes slid from Alaina to his helmet, “It wasn’t intentional.”

Din scooted closer to Alaina, shifting her to rest between his legs and her head on his lap. “She was able to move something a few weeks ago,” he told the doctor as he stroked Alaina’s hair.

Pershing’s eyes went wide, “She did?” Din nodded, and the doctor excitedly scrambled a little closer to them. “Wh-what happened? Was it intentional or accidental? You said a few weeks ago, has she tried again since?”

“She was working with the kid,” Din started, trying to remember the last afternoon on their moon. “She was giving him lessons to work on his powers, and I think trying to see what she was still capable of,” he continued, looking down at the unconscious blonde in his lap. “They were meditating, and she was trying to get the kid to float a rock. I was sitting with them, and the rock suddenly began to lift off the ground. I looked, and the kid was smiling at Alaina, but Alaina was doing it.”

“So the ability wasn’t lost forever,” Pershing muttered, smiling at Alaina. “What happened next?”

Din sighed. “The whole thing lasted a minute tops. And then… it was like something snapped inside of her. She started screaming and clutching her head. Her nose was bleeding. She said it felt like it was burning her, and whatever happened, it was. She ran a fever and went in and out of consciousness for hours. Once her fever broke, she was able to get some real rest, but…” he tapered off as his chest clenched remembering back on the event. How could he have missed her slipping away in his arms?

“But?” Pershing prompted him eagerly.

“But I don’t think she ever fully recovered,” he finished. “She complained about headaches off and on, and she’s looked drained since. I thought it was getting better. I wanted to believe it was getting better… and then we got your message,” he finished, directing his helmet at the doctor.

Din watched the doctor’s face change from open excitement to a more closed-off, disappointed look. 

“You weren’t lying in that message, were you?” Din asked, keeping his helmet on Pershing. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”

Pershing’s eyes looked up from Alaina’s prone form to his helmet, and the pained look the doctor gave him was the only confirmation Din needed.

“Why?” Din asked, clutching Alaina tighter.

Pershing’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I’m not sure the exact reason why,” he admitted. The doctor’s lips flattened, and he shifted to pass Din the datapad that wasn’t connected to Alaina. “Those are her brain scans when we first began our trials. Before she lost her original powers,” he explained.

Din took the datapad from Alaina in one hand while keeping the other on Alaina. He frowned at the intricate web of yellow lines staring back at him. “What am I looking at?”

“Her neuropathways,” Pershing informed him. “Her neuropathways before she lost her original powers. It’s only one of at least ten other tests I performed regularly. My original hypothesis was that her powers were located in a specific area of her brain, and I thought if I could track down their location, I could figure out how to activate other powers.”

“Original hypothesis? So, you were wrong?”

Pershing nodded. “But I continued to monitor them because you never know what information will make or break an experiment.”

Din looked down at the web of yellow neuropathways that made Alaina—Alaina. They were bright and golden like the sunlight.

“After you kidnapped Alaina and the Child,” Pershing continued with a glare over the top of his glasses, “the Moff insisted that we jump straight to trials. I had five years of data on Alaina, and we had the Child’s blood,” he told him. “I had three different test groups, each with three volunteers,” Pershing stopped, and Din looked up from the datapad when he didn’t continue. The man’s face morphed into a haunted, far-off look. “They all died,” he whispered. “Everyone of them. I—I don’t know what I did wrong. I’ve been developing those methods for years, and not a single one of them worked.”

Din didn’t know whether or not to be relieved that the doctor’s trials had so far been unsuccessful or angry for the nine volunteers who lost their lives to a mad scientist.

“So, I went back to the beginning to try and find another avenue to try,” Pershing said, looking at Alaina. “I don’t know how I missed it, but neuropathways are difficult. There are millions upon billions of them. Every time you learn something new, a new one forms. On the opposite, others fade away. That,” he paused to point at the datapad Din was holding, “is the very first scan of her brain that I took.” The doctor reached to flick through several images to show Din, but he couldn’t see anything different about them. “They all look similar, correct?”

“Yes. How can you tell she’s dying if they all look the same?” he asked, looking up from the pad in his hand.

“Well, a skilled eye would tell you they are not the same,” Pershing told him. “In her first few months, she developed many new neuropathways… because she was exposed to certain new… experiences.”

“Like torture?” Din ground out.

Pershing’s lips flattened, and the weasel adjusted his glasses on his nose before nodding. He took the datapad back from Din and fiddled with it to bring up new scans to show him. “These are after she had her first premonition and lost her original powers,” he explained, flicking through several new images.

Din frowned as he looked over the scans. Maybe Alaina was right, and maybe this was too advanced for them to understand because Din couldn’t find any noticeable difference in what Pershing was showing him.

“When you’re looking at the scans chronologically, even to the trained eye, it’s hard to find the subtle differences,” Pershing continued, and Din could already tell by the look on the man’s face he wasn’t going to like what was coming next. “It’s when you compare the data from the beginning,” he stopped to bring the scans back to the first one, “to the last scan I took side by side. Can you see them?” Pershing’s face drew painfully, and he brought up a new scan for him to see. Then, he split the screen so that Din could compare the two. “The one on the left is the first scan I took of her, and the one on the right is the last one I took,” he explained quietly. “The last one was actually the day you came for the job. Lainey had complained that her bones were vibrating, and I performed my scans a little early that day but couldn’t find anything abnormal. She snapped and tried to run and ended up running into you.”

He remembered that moment vividly. The frail-looking girl in the flimsy white hospital gown came sprinting out of one of the back rooms and was too busy looking behind her and crashed into him. He remembered everything. How her emerald eyes filled with hope. How her hair was dull and reminded him of straw. How gaunt she had become… He remembered it all.

“Tin Man?” Alaina’s doe-eyes were emerald pools, looking up at him for help. “Save me. Please.”

After five years, Din Djarin had been given a second chance.

Now, Din Djarin stared at the two images, noting the millions of golden webs of neuropathways on the left side. However, compared to the image on the right… there were maybe a little over half the number of neuropathways. He took in the cold, hard facts before him and felt that second chance slipping away.

“And now?” he rasped, forcing himself to look away from the datapad in his hands to look at the doctor.

Pershing’s face remained a blank, emotionless canvas as he turned the datapad connected to Alaina around for him to see for himself. Din’s heart sank. The differences weren’t quite as dramatic as the images on his pad, but they were still there. She had maybe lost another quarter of what she had compared to Pershing’s last scan. Not only were her neuropathways diminished, but two new colors weren’t a part of the original scans.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing to the small red and blue patches mixed with gold pathways.

Pershing shrugged, “That, I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.” Pershing took his finger to the datapad, and Din watched as the images rewound. “This is when she started meditating,” he explained. “They are there before the premonition. And then, she has her premonition,” he paused to fast forward through the scans, and Din watched as the golden web of pathways exploded to life, looking more like the original scans Pershing took. “And this is after the premonition,” he continued, forwarding again to the picture he showed Din. “Neuropathways are unique to the individual, like a fingerprint. The datapad is highlighting those two patches because they are different from hers,” he explained.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t have an answer to that now,” Pershing admitted. “With the theory that a neuropathway is like a fingerprint… my first inclination is to say that those do not belong to Alaina,” he said slowly and then shook his head. “But that has to be impossible. That would mean that somehow there is not one, but two, other people sharing brain space with her.”

Din’s chest clenched at his words, and he turned to look at the kid, still tucked away in his floating pram. As if feeling Din’s gaze, Grogu turned to look back at him, and he was immediately transported back to the night that everything changed—the night on their moon when they became trapped by Alaina’s mind.

“You’re not meant to understand the innermost thoughts of another,” Alaina had told him.

“Innermost thoughts? Are you trying to tell me we’re trapped inside your mind?”

He remembered the decaying room that represented Alaina’s mind. Her haunting eyes were black, bottomless pools. How the three of them experienced memories of their past…

“I can’t keep you two out of my head. It’s taking all of my power to keep our memories separate, but you guys are so loud it’s making it hard.”

Din turned to look back at Pershing. Should he tell him? Tell him that perhaps the man’s theory wasn’t as preposterous as he thought. Tell him that those two patches very likely represented him and the kid and their bond with Alaina.

“Without further research, I can’t answer that question,” Pershing began, turning the datapad back around to study it. “But whatever they are, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if they weren’t there.” Din didn’t have to ask him to explain. The doctor pressed a button on the pad and then turned it around for Din to see. “Because without those two patches…” he tapered off.

Din clutched Alaina tighter at the image of her remaining neuropathways. Without the two patches, it was alarming to see the difference between her current scan and the last one Pershing took.

“It looks like they’ve acted like a bandaid of sorts,” Pershing said with a shrug, taking the datapad back.

“How long?” Din asked, knowing that Pershing knew precisely what he was asking. How much longer did Alaina have?

“I don’t think I could give you an exact date,” Pershing answered, studying the datapad. “Without those two patches filling in some gaps, I would have said weeks, but I think months if we do nothing.”

“Months?” he asked, unable to believe the doctor’s answer.

Pershing nodded and returned his attention to his unconscious friend. “Three to six months based on the current rate of deterioration,” he elaborated. “Her mind will go before her body. Even if those two mystery patches are the only thing she has left, I don’t think it would be enough to save her. You mentioned headaches and nose bleeds when she was able to move a rock?” Din nodded. “Have those continued?” Din nodded again. “Briefly, I was hopeful when you said she hadn’t had any seizures with you. She was having them with an increasing frequency before you kidnapped her. But that doesn’t appear to be the case,” he sighed. “I believe her symptoms will continue to progress until her mind is gone, and her body will fail at some point after her mind goes.”

Din looked down at the unconscious blonde in his lap and tried to imagine what his life would look like without her. He tried to imagine waking up in the morning without a sea of honey-blonde curls obstructing his helmet. He tried to imagine taking care of the kid on his own without Alaina there to help. He tried to imagine coming down to the hold and not finding Alaina subconsciously going through what was likely old choreography when she would move around out of boredom. He tried to imagine what it would be like not to hear her laugh or her quick-witted sarcasm. He tried to imagine never seeing those emerald green doe eyes ever again.

The images of that future were bleak and dull. Traveling with Alaina and Grogu these past months had made him almost forget what it was like to travel alone. 

The what-ifs flooded his mind. What if he succeeded five years ago in preventing Alaina from walking into the hands of Penn Pershing? What if he paid closer attention to Alaina’s symptoms and forced her to get help sooner? What if he had stopped to take some of the research and information that were undoubtedly stored on the computers back at the compound in hopes that they could find another doctor to help them?

But now wasn’t the time to think about the what-ifs or the worst-case scenarios. Now was the time to get answers.

“Was it worth it?” Din asked lowly. Pershing’s surprised eyes flashed to his helmet at his question, making his fists clench and teeth grind. “She was your best friend,” he continued, rage filling him. “She’s only been a part of my life for a handful of months, and I can’t imagine her not in my life. But you… she was a part of your life for twenty years! The two of you grew up together. She loved you!” he snapped. Vaguely, he realized that his voice carried the angrier he became, and they now had the attention of everyone at the campsite. “Was it worth it?” he rasped, ready to punch the man again.

Pershing’s mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air on land. “You have to understand—”

“I understand enough,” Din cut the doctor off with a growl. “How do you plan on fixing her?”

Pershing nervously tinkered with his glasses while he got his thoughts together. “I have a theory,” he began slowly, still keeping his gaze diverted from him. “I would need to take her back to the main lab with me to perform some more tests—”

“Not happening,” Din ground out.

“You asked how I plan on fixing her, and I’m telling you what I need to do to do that,” Pershing snapped back with a glare. “The scans of her neuropathways are just the beginning. I need more information.”

“And what once you get that information… what is your theory?” Din asked, running through a million different scenarios in his mind. What if they took over the lab while Pershing performed his tests, and once Alaina was better, they fled? Was there somewhere else they could take Pershing to, somewhere away from Nevarro and the Empire, where he could still do his tests? Could they find another place before it was too late?

“I believe the Child holds the answers,” Pershing announced, and the two men turned to look at the kid, who was oblivious to the attention directed at him as he ate some of the roasted meat that had been cooked after the hunt. “I know my first trials with the Child’s blood weren’t successful, but I know the answer is in there. I have a small sample of the Child’s blood left. It’s not enough to repeat my previous experiments…” When Pershing’s voice tapered off, Din turned to look at the doctor, only to find him already looking at him with nervous eyes. “To thoroughly test my theory… I would need them both to come back to the lab with me.

“Not happening.”

Din jumped at the sound of Alaina’s slurred words. He looked down and saw Alaina’s eyes open, staring at Penn.

“Lainey—”

“I said it’s not happening,” Alaina cut him off, voice scratchy and groggy from unconsciousness. She struggled to get up, and Din immediately moved to help her sit up. Once she managed to sit up, she collapsed back against his chest, exhausted by the effort, and rested the back of her head against his right shoulder. She ripped the monitors from her forehead and chest and tossed them back at the doctor. “You’re not touching the kid.”

Din brought his gloved hands to her upper arms. “How do you feel?” he murmured in her ear as he stroked her arms.

“Like I got trampled by a herd of blurrg,” she grumbled, eyeing the beasts they’d used to ride out here. “But not bad enough to let him experiment on the kid.”

“Lainey, this is just the beginning,” Pershing warned her. “But I truly believe that the Child’s biology holds the key to fixing you. Without him… this,” he paused to point at her, “is just the beginning. I wasn’t lying in my message, Lainey. You will die without my help.”

“Then I’ll die,” Alaina responded flatly.

“Lainey,” Pershing pleaded.

Din gripped her arms tightly. “Alaina…” he murmured but didn’t know what to say. What was there left to say?

Alaina patted the top of his thigh. “Tell me, Penn,” she began as she wormed her hands between the armor on his thigh. “You already have a sample of the Child’s blood and began your little experiments, right?” Pershing nodded. “You said you’d had disastrous success in your message,” she reminded him. “Just how many experiments lost their lives in your hands?”

“Nine,” came Pershing’s whispered reply.

“Nine,” Alaina huffed out a sad laugh. “I guess that makes me experiment number ten, huh? I heard you tell Mando you had some of his blood left?” 

Pershing nodded, “Maybe enough for one more,” he said and then shook his head. “But that’s not enough! I need that sample to test my modifications before I proceed with you!”

“Penn, you’re not touching the kid. If you have enough for one more person, you’ll have to make that work.” Alaina and Penn glared at each other. “You’ve got enough of a sample left for one person, and you’re telling me that big brain of yours doesn’t have any ideas?”

Din focused all his attention on the nervous-looking doctor across from them and could tell the doctor was struggling to answer that question. After another moment, Pershing finally nodded, confirming Alaina’s suspicions.

“Now, I want you to look at Mando and promise him that if I go back with you, and I just mean me, because the kid is off limits,” she told him. “Look Mando in the helmet and promise him that if I go back with you, your body count won’t go from nine to ten.”

Pershing’s eyes slid from Alaina to his helmet, and Din could tell by the gutted look on the man’s face that he couldn’t make that promise. “Which is why the Child needs to come—”

“Not. Happening,” Alaina reminded him, hardening her eyes at her former friend. “Look Mando in the helmet and promise him that if you are successful and save my life, you’ll let me go when you’re done with me.”

Din continued his silent stare-down with Pershing, feeling every promise he made to Alaina slip away.

“Alaina—” Penn began nervously but was cut off by his former friend.

“Will you not let me go because you’ll need me to continue your experiments? Or will you not let me go because there won’t be anything left of what makes me… me?” Alaina asked. “If you’re successful, look me in the eye and tell me the odds that my brain won’t be a scrambled, worthless mess.”

Pershing looked between them, and Din thought his heart breaking was terrible enough, but through their bond, he could also feel Alaina’s break.

This couldn’t be it. There had to be something else. Some other alternatives were his only options, which weren’t losing Alaina or losing Alaina and the kid.

“Lainey,” Pershing began with a pleading expression, but whatever the man was about to say was cut off by the sound of a creature screeching in the night above them.

A blur of shadow and a wing swooped in front of them, and Din acted on instinct. He flipped Alaina to the ground with his larger body, shielding her from the beast.

Chaos erupted around them. There was shouting, and Dune was firing rounds blindly at their winged attacker. One of the blurrg let out a pained roar, and Din lifted his helmet just in time to catch a pair of talons sinking into the animal and carrying it away.

“Drop her!” Kuiil ordered, firing his weapon at the beast, carting off his precious blurrg while the other had the kid tucked away between him and the lava rock.

Another beast dropped from the shadows of the night, and Karga cried out when its talon scraped his bicep. The second winged beast changed course, went for one of the other blurrg, and took off with a second mount before flying away, leaving their party a frazzled, panicked mess.

He looked down at Alaina, inspecting her for any evidence of injury. “I’m okay,” she whispered, nodding at him. He turned his attention to Pershing, who had huddled up into a ball next to him and found that the doctor had survived without incident.

“He’s hurt badly,” Kuiil’s voice grabbed their attention, and Mando scrambled to get him and Alaina up off the ground.

“Hey, we could use a doctor over here,” Dune called from Karga’s side. The ex-trooper grabbed a band to tourniquet the guild leader’s upper arm.

“How bad is it?” Din asked as he and Alaina came to the injured man’s side.

“Bad,” Dune answered, nodding to Karga’s arm.

Din frowned at the gashes on the man’s arm and watched as the skin and veins under his skin quickly turned colors and spread as the poison raced through his system.

“So,” Karga started, gritting his teeth against the pain. “This is how it happens?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Dune glowered and glanced back behind her. “Come on, I need a medpac!” she yelled at Pershing.

Pershing hovered nervously next to Alaina and fiddled with his glasses as he watched Karga groan through another wave of pain.

“Penn,” Alaina whispered. “Help him,” she pleaded.

“I—I—I’m not that kind of doctor!” Pershing stuttered.

“So glad we came all this way for you,” Dune grumbled sarcastically. “Give me your medpac,” she ordered.

“I don’t have one,” he admitted. “I only came prepared with supplies I thought I would need for Alaina!” he defended when the ex-soldier glared at him.

Dune huffed and looked around at the rest of the group, “Come on, someone has to have a medpac on them!”

The other two hunters shared a look before turning their blank expressions back to their boss.

“Get this thing outta here,” Karga ground out through the pain, and Din had to do a double take when he realized that somehow Grogu had wormed his tiny body up to the injured man’s side.

Alaina’s hand gripped his forearm, and the two held a collective breath when the toddler placed one of his tiny, three-fingered clawed hands on the man’s injury.

“Wait,” Kuiil whispered as Grogu closed his eyes.

It was like watching Alaina’s shattered hand and wrist be repaired all over again. Grogu closed his eyes and focused on the wound, and Din watched in disbelief as the venom slowly receded until the infected veins and skin disappeared. The gashes on his arm healed until you couldn’t even tell the man had been moments away from death.

And just like he had with Alaina, the kid’s eyes fluttered closed, and he collapsed from the effort.

Din shot forward, grabbing the unconscious toddler to inspect him. The kid gave him a couple of sleepy blinks before he drifted off into unconsciousness, but his breathing and heart rate remained steady, allowing Din to relax. He clutched the kid close to his chest while the toddler slept. He had enough of his clan getting injured against their will for one day.

He turned back to tell Alaina that Grogu was okay but frowned when he watched Alaina dragging a stunned Pershing away from the group.

“How’s the womp rat?” Dune asked, pulling his attention to the rest of the group.

“He’s fine,” he replied. “He’s done this once before. He needs to sleep it off.”

Dune nodded and then jerked her head toward where Alaina had wandered. “Go. I can watch him," she said, pointing at Karga, "and let you know if something changes.”

Din nodded his thanks and followed after the former friends with Grogu nestled in his arms. As he reached the end of the lava rock where they had been sitting, he paused at the sound of Alaina arguing with Pershing on the other side. 

“No,” Alaina growled.

“But Lainey, he healed—”

“Penn Pershing, no!” Alaina yelled.

Din peaked around the rock to find the two in an intense stare-down, but he remained where he was, curious to hear what Alaina was so upset about.

Pershing ended the tense silence with an exasperated sigh, “But—”

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Alaina cut him off and crossed her arms over her chest. “If you touch one hair on that child’s head, I will kill you.”

Din looked down at the sleeping child in his arms, feeling an equal wave of protectiveness crash over him.

“Lainey, he healed Greef! I’m telling you that the Child is the answer to fixing you!” Penn argued.

With his helmet still directed at Grogu, Din clutched the child in question closer to his breastplate. The doctor seemed so confident that was the case... but at what cost would that come for Grogu?

“You mean he’s the answer to Project Vermilion!” she snarled. “I can tell when you’re lying, Penn. Saving me is just a side effect of what you really want,” she continued with disappointment dripping from her voice. “You’re not getting your hands on Grogu.”

“Grogu?” Pershing asked, confusion evident in his question.

“It’s his name,” Alaina informed him. “And I’m not going to let you use Grogu; I’m not going to let you use someone so innocent and pure to fulfill your dreams of creating a legion of super soldiers.”

“That’s not my dream, and you know it!” Pershing snapped back angrily. “I told you what my dream was, Lainey! A way to help people. A way to clone organs so no one has to lose their mother to heart failure, or a way to cure cancer so that no one has to lose their mother to cancer—”

“Don’t!” Alaina ground out, and Din peaked around the rock just in time to catch her weakly shove Pershing in the chest. “Don’t use them against me!” she seethed, making Din realize that the doctor was possibly talking about Alaina’s mother. “Maker! They would be ashamed of you! Using their memories to justify your actions! Shame on you!” she finished with another shove.

“Alaina—”

“No! You realize that you’ve been played, right? Do you realize that Gideon won’t let you work on what you want to do until he gets what he wants?” Alaina continued her beratement of the doctor. “And when he finally gets what he wants, what then?” she asked, but Pershing had no follow-up to that question. “Gideon is going to chain you to Project Vermilion for the rest of your life, and he will come up with reason after reason why he won’t let you work on what you want.”

“You’re wrong, Lainey. It may take time, but Gideon promised me. And I’m sorry you don’t like his dream, but he only wants to bring order to the galaxy!”

“Order?” came Alaina’s harsh, disbelieving bark. “He wants to own the galaxy, and you’re helping him achieve his dreams. If Grogu is the key to fixing me, that means he is the key to Project Vermilion, and I will use whatever time I have left protecting him to make sure that never happens.”

“Lainey—”

“I’m not kidding, Penn,” Alaina said, voice low in warning. “The Mandalorian and Grogu… they are my family now. And I will do anything to protect the two people I love most in this whole stupid galaxy.”

Din swore his heart stopped at her admission. Love.

“Tell me after,”  Alaina told him, stopping him before he could make his declaration. After they had endured this and returned to their moon…

“Love?” Pershing scoffed, interrupting his thoughts. “You love the Mandalorian? The same one who brought you in?”

Silence hung in the air, but Din dared not move from his hiding spot.

“This is your only warning,” Alaina said quietly.

“But… but you’re dying,” Pershing pleaded, and Din’s chest clenched at the despair coming from the man’s voice.

She nodded, “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”

“Let me help you. Please,” he whispered, and Din’s fists clenched when the doctor put his hands on Alaina’s shoulders. “Come back to the base with me, and I will call off the hunt on the Child.”

Alaina scoffed, “Like you have that kind of power.”

“I have the Moff’s ear! I can convince him to drop the hunt, but I need one of you to continue.”

“Then I guess you’re not continuing.”

“Lainey,” Penn whispered, putting a hand on Alaina’s forearm to stop her. Alaina snarled and snatched her arm out of his grasp, and the doctor put his hands up, likely hoping to calm her. “Lainey, please just consider it. If you come with me, yes, the trials would continue—”

“And you think Gideon will let you continue with someone dying when the real key to unlocking his twisted experiment is out in the galaxy?” Alaina countered.

“He doesn't have to know," Pershing whispered, and Alaina rolled her eyes at his suggestion. "I’ve spent years cultivating that relationship. I won’t tell Gideon you’re dying; he’ll just be happy one of you is back!” Pershing said, desperate for Alaina to change her mind. “Come back with me, and I’ll convince him to call off the hunt on the Child and the Mandalorian,” he offered, and Din went cold when Alaina’s face appeared to entertain the offer. “Come with me and the two people you… love most in the galaxy are free.”

Din held his breath while he waited for Alaina’s answer. Part of him knew that Alaina would never, but another part of him knew the rash, protective woman and knew that if she were given the opportunity to ensure Grogu and his safety, she would take it.

“And when you kill me in your trials,” Alaina whispered, “can you promise me that they will continue to remain free?”

Pershing’s mouth opened, but the man appeared to struggle with an answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Alaina replied sadly. “You can stay with the group tonight, but you have to go at sunrise. Alone. I’m not coming with you. I want whatever time I have left to be spent with them.”

“Lainey—”

“No,” she whispered. “We’re not friends, we’re not family. You’re just some person who was in my life once. You don’t get to call me Lainey. And I don’t have to go with you,” she finished, and Din watched as she turned away from the doctor and trudged back to the campsite.

Din looked at Grogu while he processed the conversation he eavesdropped on.

“How much of that did you hear?” she asked around the corner of the lava rock, making him jump. “Come on, you’re not with the rest of the group. It’s not a hard guess that you’re lurking.”

Din stepped out from his hiding spot, and when Alaina gave him a knowing look, all he could do was shrug.

“How much of that did you hear?” she asked again with a raised eyebrow. 

Din looked down at Grogu, still sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the fight over him, and then looked back at Alaina. “Enough,” he answered quietly.

Alaina smirked, “So, basically everything?”

Din shrugged as Pershing walked past them, refusing to look at the three of them as he went to join the others near the fire.

Alaina walked over to him and smiled at Grogu cradled against his chest. She raised her hand to stroke the kid’s forehead, using her fingertips to smooth his wrinkles. “I can’t risk it,” she whispered as her hand went to rub Grogu’s ear. “Even if Penn isn’t lying, and Grogu is the answer to fixing me…” she tapered off and shook her head dejectedly. When her hand fell away, Alaina looked up at his helmet, and Din hated the glassy green eyes full of unshed tears looking back at him. “If Penn figures out how to fix me, that puts them one step closer to figuring out how to give our powers to others… and…” a choked sob prevented her from continuing, and she had to take a step back to wipe her eyes.

Din looked down at the sleeping toddler in his arms. Their sleeping toddler… 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Alaina pleaded, wrapping her green cloak tighter around her body. “Tell me I’m wrong because it’s not enough time,” she sobbed, and when she stepped forward, Din took the arm that wasn’t holding the kid to clutch Alaina tightly to him.

Din’s eyes pricked with tears. “We can still go with the original plan,” he whispered. “I just have to help Karga take out the Imps, and then we’re home free.”

Alaina sighed and pulled away from him, “Din—”

“If Penn can do his research here, he can do it anywhere,” he argued, cutting off any arguments she had. “You saw the med bay on Dietes. We can take him there! Rhoam wouldn’t care!”

“And then what? Are you going to let him poke and prod and experiment on Grogu?”

Din reached to grab her hand with his free one, keeping her near while he wracked his brain, trying to find a solution that would work in their favor.

“It’s over, Din,” she whispered, resting a hand on his chest. “Let’s go back to the Crest—”

He shook his helmet, not ready to admit defeat, “Alaina, no—”

“And we can take everyone home,” she continued, smiling back at him with tear-filled eyes. “And then we can go to our moon and just stay there and enjoy the time we have left. Together. As a family.”

Din gripped her hand tightly as a stray tear fell down his cheek. There had to be another option. Something they hadn’t considered yet, or even just their original plan. They hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

“No,” came his response before he could stop himself.

Emerald eyes blinked back at him. “No?” she asked, surprised to hear his answer.

“No,” he repeated, standing up a little straighter. “We follow through with the plan. We’ll break into the lab and steal the last sample of Grogu’s blood if we have to—”

“Stop! Listen to yourself! I’m standing right here in front of you telling you what I want—”

“You’re asking me to watch you die!”

“Yes. I am,” she whispered. Alaina gripped his glove tightly in her hand and looked up at him with those damned doe eyes. “I am asking you to be with me in my last moments. I want to go back to our moon, and I want to run through the lavender grass and swim in the lake. I want to go hiking with you and Grogu. I want to end every night talking by the campfire. And I want to fall asleep in your arms every night. And when it comes time—”

“Laina,” he rasped, but Alaina shook her head and leaned forward to kiss his chest.

“And when the time comes, just let me go. Let me have this. Please.”

Din shook his helmet as more tears came.

“Come on,” she whispered, tugging his glove. “Let’s try and get some rest. We can figure out how we’ll all get back to the Crest with just one blurrg in the morning.”

In a daze, he let her direct him back closer to the fire, and she picked a spot on the outskirts so they would still have some privacy. As if on autopilot, Din went down to the ground and tugged Alaina’s body back against his chest so he could hold both of them. The rest of the group was huddled around the fire. Kuiil was with the last remaining blurrg, and Pershing had his nose buried in a datapad. Everyone was quiet in the wake of the attack, but he caught Karga looking his way out of his periphery. With a sigh, he ignored the guild leader’s curious gaze and held onto his clan tightly.

Alaina turned her head and placed a discrete kiss on his bicep.

“It’s not fair,” Din murmured, staring vacantly at the fire.

“I know,” was all Alaina said.

What else was there left to say?

“Well?” Dune’s question startled him out of his somber thoughts the next morning. “Are we still proceeding, or…”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes off Alaina.

She was standing with Kuiil on the perimeter, with Grogu clutched tightly against her chest, rocking him. The kid woke up with them at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed and back to his usual self. Alaina took the kid in her arms and listened as the kid babbled excitedly at her, smiling and nodding along with him. How she could act like everything was fine…

“Didn’t get good news, I take it,” Dune asked, looking back at Alaina, who was now trying to extract a lock of her hair out of the kid’s grasp.

Din shook his head and forced himself to look away from Alaina to bring his attention back to Dune. Karga was standing a few paces in front of them, and Din caught the guild leader snapping his head away as if he were listening to their conversation.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, gripping her rifle tighter.

“I want to take that weasel and make him make it right,” he ground out.

Dune nodded, “And what about Spunky over there?” she asked, nodding to Alaina. “What does she want?”

Din turned to look back at Alaina, and his heart clenched when he watched her laugh at Grogu when the blurrg they were next to sneezed and startled the toddler. “She wants to go and just let… nature take its course,” he revealed, but Dune didn’t look surprised. “And I understand. To save her—if he can even save her, he needs the kid, too.”

“And then you risk losing both of them,” Dune pieced together.

“I risk losing both of them and risk Pershing figuring out how to make super soldiers for the Empire,” he seethed, clenching his fists.

“So, we’re leaving?” Dune asked.

Din took one last look at the campsite. One of Karga’s hunters was lurking nearby, and the other was hovering near Kuiil and Alaina. Pershing was repacking his bag and giving glimpses to Alaina as he procrastinated, leaving to head to the lab. Alaina caught his gaze and gave him a sad smile. She kissed the top of Grogu’s wrinkly head, making the kid giggle, and then returned her attention to Kuiil.

Could he do it? Just let it all go and give in to Alaina’s requests. And then, in three months, watch her begin to slowly waste away?

“Listen to you,” Karga grumbled, keeping his attention locked on the horizon in the distance. “When did you become so soft and indecisive?” his former boss asked and turned around to level a look at Din.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Din bit back. Dune snarled at the man and came to stand beside him in a show of silent solidarity.

Karga shrugged, “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But it sounds like you’re letting your feelings get in the way of what you know you need to do to save your girl.”

The man’s comment was another punch to his already sore gut. “Drop it, Karga,” he growled. “I respect her decision.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed him with a disappointed look. “Decision?” Karga scoffed. “She’s giving up!”

Din shook his helmet, “That just goes to show you don’t understand. The Empire experimented on her and had plans to do the same with the kid. What if saving her means unleashing Imperial super soldiers on the galaxy?” Din asked, eager to hear someone else’s input.

“The galaxy has dealt with the Empire before,” Karga countered weakly. “Look, I don’t know what all they did to her, but I know what you’ve done for her,” he paused, but Din couldn’t take his eyes off the man. “I know you, Mando, and you wouldn’t have risked everything if you didn’t believe in them,” he said lowly, subtly nodding to Alaina and the kid. “And I’ll admit, I maybe overheard some of what went on last night,” he admitted and then gave him a knowing look. “Hard not to without all that yelling. But I’ll tell you what I see.” Karga paused again and turned his attention to Alaina, smiling at Grogu and showing him how to pet the blurrg gently. “The little green guy may be the key, or whatever Doctor Pershing was blathering on about, but if that was the case, why not just take the kid and run? Why are they so concerned with getting the girl back?” he asked, looking back to Din.

“Because she’s one of their experiments?” Din asked, feeling like he was missing the question. And the weasel of a doctor had unrequited feelings for Alaina, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Think it through, Mando,” Karga nodded at him. “They want both of them, but why? Why do all of this for a dying girl?”

Mando froze and cocked his helmet, “What do you mean they want both of them? What aren’t you telling me?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Karga told him, giving him an unsettling wink. “Now, answer the question: Why do they want both of them?” Din shared a look with Dune, but the former drop trooper looked just as clueless as he did. “It’s because they’re scared. Of her. Of what she could be,” he whispered, pointing at Alaina. “We’ve dealt with the Empire before and will again, but what if we had her? What if you go with your gut and take the doctor—”

“Boss,” the hunter nearby interrupted, staring at Karga as if the man was saying something he wasn’t supposed to.

Karga held up a finger for his hunter to wait before he continued. “But what if you take the doctor, and he fixes her? They couldn’t replicate their success immediately, but we would have her on our side and be ready for them when the time came.”

Din felt his heart rate slowly increase at the man’s words, and for the first time since landing on Nevarro, hope came to him in the form of an unlikely ally.

And then that hope was dashed. “She wouldn’t want to be used as a weapon,” he said, shaking his helmet.

“Then that’s her choice,” Karga shrugged. “After everything she's been through, if he can fix her, she should get to choose what she wants. Besides, what if he fixes her, but she loses her powers? Even if she’s just alive as a regular person with no powers to make her special, or he ends up turning her into a god, she’ll still be alive. And that—That. Will. Terrify them because she’ll be out in the galaxy. Maybe she’ll be in hiding. Maybe she’ll go to the New Republic and offer her services to them. Maybe she’ll turn into a god and go after them herself. They’re scared of the unknown. They’re scared of what they can’t control. But if they have her… then they have all the pieces. So, what’ll it be?”

Din’s fist clenched, “What if he can’t save her and she dies?” he asked, looking between Karga and Dune.

“From where I’m standing, it looks to me like she’ll die if you do nothing. At least this way, you tried,” Karga offered.

Everything seemed like it came closing in around him, and he felt torn in his decision. Go against her wishes and maybe save her life? Or… He knew what he wanted to do, but he looked to Dune for support.

“Don’t look at me,” she smirked. “You promised me saving that spunky scrap of sunshine and taking out some Imps while we’re at it.” Din smiled at his friend’s blessing. “But it’s your call. You’re the one who is gonna have to handle her because I have a feeling she’s not gonna take this well.”

Din’s helmet swiveled back to Karga, and his old boss was already smiling at him like he knew his answer. “We’re in.”

Karga acted immediately, his face going into battle mode. Then, his hand went to his blaster, and he took out the two hunters he had come with. “The jig is up, Doctor Pershing,” Karga announced in his booming voice, surprising the rest of Din’s party, and Pershing’s eyes widened in surprise. “He had an entire squadron waiting back at the lab to take the girl and the kid,” Karga informed them, aiming his weapon at the doctor.

Din’s helmet snapped to the doctor, who looked like prey caught in a snare. Fire filled his veins as the weasel’s mouth gaped like a fish. He’d been sent to lure them into a trap, and now the tables had been turned on him.

“Cara,” Din said darkly.

Dune smiled, “With pleasure,” she replied, already knowing what he wanted. The former soldier marched straight to Pershing, knocking him unconscious with the butt of her rifle.

“What are you doing?!” Alaina yelled, mouth agape as her former friend dropped to the ground. 

Din took a deep breath at Dune’s knowing eyebrow lifted at him at Alaina’s angry question.

“Kuiil,” he called for the Ugnaught, and the short man came to join them. “Can the blurrg handle you, Alaina, the kid, and that weasel?” he asked, nodding to the unconscious doctor Dune just threw over her shoulder.

Kuiil looked at the doctor and then looked back to him to nod. “The extra weight may weigh her down, but she will make the journey back to your ship,” he replied.

Dune went to toss the unconscious Pershing over the blurrg’s back just as Alaina stomped over with Grogu clutched tightly against her chest.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked, searching his helmet for her answers.

“Change of plans,” was all Din had to say.

Her emerald eyes hardened at his words. “We talked about this!”

“We did,” Din nodded. “Alaina, you were right. This whole thing was a trap. I’m sending you and the kid back to the Crest with Kuiil, and then Dune and I will head into the city with Karga and make them hurt.”

“But—”

“This isn’t up for debate,” he stopped her. “When we get back to the Crest, we’re taking Pershing, and he’s going to fix you.”

Alaina looked around at the group for some backup and found none.

“Wait,” Karga stopped them. “It might help to bring them with us. Use them as bait. The Imp will let us in straight to his lair without red tape.”

Din shook his head. “We’re not taking any risks. Kuiil, take them back, and have the droid tie Pershing up—”

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Karga, and he asked, “You’re traveling with a droid?!” but Din carried on, ignoring the man’s jibe.

“Initiate ground protocols once you’re all in. Nothing will get through those doors once you’ve engaged that,” he instructed Kuiil.

Kuiil nodded at his instructions, passed him a commlink, and then turned to Alaina to lead her back to the blurrg.

“No,” Alaina argued, pulling her arm from the man’s hand. 

Din tapped a button on his vambrace, and Grogu’s empty, floating pram came to his side. “Alaina, this isn’t up for debate—”

“I’m coming with you,” Alaina snapped.

“Alaina—”

“No! If you’re not gonna listen to me, then I’m not gonna listen to you!” she yelled. “I’m going with you.”

Emerald eyes locked on silver beskar, but neither of them backed down. He knew that look. He knew that those sharp green eyes meant that she was going to do something rash and ignore him anyway. As reluctant as he was to admit it, Alaina knew the city, the Imp compound, and the Imp in question, and if she were to come with him, he could at least keep closer tabs on her…

Din sighed, “I assume if I tie you to the blurrg, you’ll find a way to cause more problems?” he asked, and Alaina nodded. 

“It’s the right call,” Karga tossed in his opinion. “One glimpse of that blonde hair, and we’ll walk in like we were invited. Even if you send the Child back, and we take the empty pram, that will buy us more time than you know.”

Din Djarin hoped he wouldn’t live to regret this. “Fine, but remember what I said about being rash—”

“Really?” Alaina deadpanned. “You really wanna lecture me about being rash right now?”

Din ignored her question and nodded back at Kuiil. With a kiss and whispered words to the kid, she reluctantly passed him to Kuiil.

“I will guard him with my life,” Kuiil told Alaina, bringing tears to her eyes. “I have spoken,” he finished and turned back toward the blurrg.

Din placed a reassuring hand on Alaina’s shoulder as they watched him ride away with Grogu and Pershing.

Alaina returned the gesture with a squeeze to his glove before she turned her fury toward Karga. “How do we know we can trust you?” Alaina asked Karga, squaring up with the larger man.

Karga looked taken aback by the question, but when he and Dune stared back, waiting for his answer, the man rolled his eyes. “Aside from the fact that I just shot two of my own people and warned you about a plot to take you and the Child back?” Alaina nodded at the man’s question, forcing a sigh out of Karga. “The plan was to take both of you if you were both still with the Mandalorian,” he started. “Doctor Pershing thought he would be able to convince you to go out to the main lab. From there, we were hired to take the Child and kill Mando,” he told her. “And if that didn’t work, then it would be up to me and my hunters to take out Mando, grab you and the Child, and take you to the lab ourselves.”

Alaina seethed, turning her anger on him now, and Din could tell she was doing her best not to yell I told you so at him.

“But I couldn’t go through with it after what happened last night!” Karga countered, showing the group the lone remaining scar on his arm, which was all that was left after Grogu saved him with his powers. The man looked pleadingly between him, Alaina, and Dune. “Go on. You can gun me down here and now, and it wouldn’t violate the code,” Karga offered, opening his arms. “But if you do… the Child and the girl will never be safe,” he warned.

“Then why suggest bringing us along?” Alaina asked, and Din could tell by the expression on her face as she watched Karga that she was attempting to get a read on him. “What’s to say there isn’t a trap waiting in the city for us?”

“I suggested it because it’s the right call,” Karga answered, not stepping down from the argument. “Because if I just show up with Mando, it will look suspicious. But if I show up with you and an imaginary baby,” he paused to point to the floating pram, “they have to let us in. They think you'll be at the lab, so when we change the plan, it will buy us time to have you as a distraction while we set up our new trap," Karga said, and Din caught Dune giving him a subtle nod that she reluctantly agreed with the man's plan. "You have no idea the monstrous reward for you and that little green bogwing’s heads.”

Alaina pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and turned to give him a nod. So, Karga was finally telling the truth.

“Why even bother heading into the city?” Dune asked with a shrug. “We got what we came for. Let’s just take the doctor and leave.”

Karga shook his head, “Mando, listen to me. Even though that reward would let me live in luxury for the rest of my life, the Imps are choking the city. The guild can’t even operate out of it anymore. People are scared to walk the streets. Nevarro City deserves more than that. But even if saving the city wasn’t the right thing to do, and you just left… The Imperial client is obsessed with getting his hands back on those two. And now you’re taking their doctor? Something tells me that will trigger a worse reaction from them. You’ll never know a moment’s peace. You’ll continue to be on the run. As long as the Imp lives… you’ll never be safe.”

Din didn’t need Alaina to tell him Karga was telling them the truth.

“That’s just one high-level Imp,” Alaina argued. “Moff Gideon would still be out there, so even if we do this, we’re just buying time.”

“Yeah, but the Empire took over Nevarro City for you, right?” Dune asked Alaina and shrugged. “More or less. The compound, the main lab further out, this was all for their experiments, wasn’t it?”

Alaina frowned, “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I guess.”

“So, we take out the Nevarro City boss, we take the doctor, and we have you and the kid… Sounds to me like Gideon will have to start from scratch. Even if we have to lay low for a while, how much time do you think Gideon’s puppet master will give him to use what little resources the Empire has left to look for you?” Alaina and Din shared a bittersweet, hopeful look. “I won’t say it will be easy, but I think we just need to wait him out.”

Din’s mind raced with possibilities. They had at least three months before Alaina began declining. Hopefully, that would be enough time for Pershing to refine his research and devise a plan to save Alaina. They could planet-hop and reach out to Rhoam when it was time to proceed and make use of the castle’s advanced medbay.

“What’s in it for you if we go with you?” Din questioned his old guild leader. He knew how the man worked. He wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if there wasn’t something in it for him. “You wouldn’t be risking your life and giving up a reward like that if you didn’t have some kind of payout.”

Karga tipped his head and gave him a knowing smile. “I get the city back, just like I told you yesterday when we met at your ship. And it will be my city.”

“By saying you get the city back… just how many Imps are we talking about?” Dune asked, narrowing her gaze.

The guild leader brushed her question off with a wave of his hand. “As soon as we cut off the head of the snake, the rest will scatter.”

“And what if they don’t?” Din countered.

“They will.”

“Not good enough,” Din answered. 

“You never answered my question,” Dune commented, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Karga.

“The mudscuffer in question has a personal detail of three to four troopers at any given time. When I stayed at the compound, there could be five to ten troopers at a time,” Alaina offered, turning to Dune. “That doesn’t include the troopers on the main base. I don’t know if I could give you an accurate number of how many are out at the lab in the lava flats. The numbers seemed to change. If Moff Gideon came, there were more.”

“So,” Dune drawled, “at least ten?”

Alaina nodded, “At least.”

Karga huffed, “Ten! Ten Troopers is an afternoon snack for a battle-hardened Shock Trooper such as yourself.”

Mando shared a look with Alaina and Dune. The ex-soldier shrugged her shoulders as if to say she was in, but Alaina didn’t seem as convinced.

“What do you think?” he asked the women, whose reactions were as polar opposites as their appearances.

“That this is obviously a trap and that stealing an Imperial Doctor was a kriffing stupid thing to do?” Alaina snarked.

Dune wrapped a friendly arm around Alaina’s shoulders, earning her a glare from the petite blonde. “Now, now, cutie," she tisked, "you can’t go into a fight with that kind of attitude,” she told Alaina, giving her a little wink.

“What kind of attitude are you supposed to have when you’re walking into impending doom?” Alaina asked, wholly disenchanted with Dune’s appeal.

“You go into it thinking about what you’re gonna do to the jerk who did this to you once it’s all over,” she answered. “That little tiny-eyed man was already terrified of you, and you’re dying. He’s going to piss himself when you come at him at full strength.”

Alaina seemed to mull that over, and then her emerald eyes went to his helmet. “Do you really think I could be terrifying?” she asked him with a teasing smirk.

Din chuffed. “Tranyc, I can honestly say I have never been more terrified in these last few months than I have been my entire life,” he answered, grinning when she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Ass,” she mumbled, making him chuckle. “Fine, we go in, do the job, and go straight back to the Crest. He can sort out the aftermath,” she grumbled, hooking a thumb back at Karga.

“Spoken like a true hunter,” Karga said, smiling at Alaina.

Din turned to Alaina to give her one last out. “Are you sure? Because once we get there—”

“I’m sure,” she whispered, placing a hand on the center of his chest. “Worst case scenario, they kill the dying girl—”

“Alaina…” he growled and covered her hand with his.

Silence settled over the group, and Din gave Alaina one last look, letting her emerald eyes fill him with determination.

“A Mandalorian and a ballerina?” Alaina asked him quietly, giving him a soft smile.

“They’ll never see it coming,” he whispered back, and the two smiled. With a sigh, Din reached behind his back and pulled out his cuffs. Ready to be used as bait?”

The Mandalorian followed behind Karga as they approached the city entrance. Alaina stumbled slightly, and he held onto her cuffs to brace her, but her eyes were fixed on the troopers guarding the entrance to Nevarro City. Din shared a brief look with Dune, who was walking on the other side of Alaina, and the former Drop Trooper tugged the band covering the tattoo on her arm up a little higher.

“Why are they guarding the entrance?” Alaina whispered behind Karga, but the man ignored her as they approached the checkpoint.

One of the Troopers stepped forward and held a hand to stop them. “Chaincode,” he ordered.

“I have a gift for the boss,” Karga told him, puffing his chest out proudly. Then, the man stepped aside to reveal Alaina and the floating pram behind him.

The Trooper glanced at Alaina, then returned to Karga and repeated, “Chaincode.”

Karga sighed, pulled his chaincode from his front pocket, and passed it to the Trooper.

“Something’s wrong,” Alaina whispered, garnishing her attention from the Trooper. 

Din tugged on her restraints. “Quiet,” he barked, shaking his head, and said a silent prayer that Alaina wouldn’t flay him alive once this was over.

The Trooper’s helmet lingered on Alaina before turning to look at Mando.

“Don’t worry about Mando,” Karga brushed off. “As you can see, he’s cleared his name with the guild,” he announced, nodding at Alaina.

The Trooper returned Karga's chaincode and said, “I'm surprised it took him this long. That one’s got a mouth on her. You can proceed. He’s at the cantina.”

Alaina rolled her eyes and made a disgusted face at the man’s comment, leading Din to believe that this particular Trooper had been stationed at the compound with her.

Thankfully, the Trooper didn’t say anything else and waved them through the gates. Alaina kept her glare directed at the white armored soldier as they walked by and then, at that last minute, lunged and hissed at the man, taking him by surprise. Dune pushed her back between them as the Trooper tripped over his boots, trying to get away from the tiny woman, and fell to the ground.

“Cool it, Spunky,” Dune murmured but couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

Din gently tugged on the metal bindings around Alaina’s wrist as the trio followed Karga down the city’s main street, and one thing was very obvious—

“I thought you said the squadron was back at the main lab?” Alaina huffed under her breath, but loud enough for Karga walking in front of her to hear.

Din’s hand gripped Alaina’s binders tighter as he eyed the Stormtroopers lining the street.

“This is more than ten,” Dune seethed under her breath.

“Yeah, well, this was a direct result of Mando’s last visit to Nevarro City,” Karga grumbled as the cantina grew closer. “Things got heated after he crashed their little compound.”

Mando could feel Alaina’s worried eyes on him but could only discreetly rub his thumb along the underside of her wrist as they approached the cantina’s entrance.

The three took a collective breath as Karga opened the door and motioned for them to enter. “See, four, just like the girl said,” he whispered behind Mando as he followed them in.

The old man looked up from his table and didn’t seem surprised to see them.

“Look who had a change of heart,” Karga announced, walking around the trio to join the Client at his table.

The Client’s eyes looked between Mando and Dune before settling on Alaina. “A change of heart and a change of plans,” the man commented, keeping his eyes fixed on Alaina.

“Doctor Pershing thought you’d like to see them for yourself,” Karga brushed the Client off as he slid into the booth opposite the older man. “I had my men escort him back to the lab so there wouldn’t be any surprises. And I promised Mando here his spot back in the guild and one for his associate in exchange for the girl and the baby.” The Client’s eyes finally left Alaina to the closed pram. “I knew he’d come back around,” Karga laughed and patted the booth next to him for Mando to join him.

The Client’s eyes drifted from the pram to the Mandalorian, eying his new armor. “What exquisite craftsmanship,” he commented. “It is amazing how beautiful beskar can be when forged by its ancestral artisans,” he said with a tight smile. “Can I offer you a libation to celebrate the closing of our shared narrative?”

Karga nodded and smiled, “I would be obliged.”

The Client nodded to the droid at the bar, and the mechanical bartender began preparing drinks for their table. “Please,” the man said, returning his attention to the trio left standing. “Sit.” Dune gave him a displeased look before she slid into the booth next to Karga. Din tugged Alaina to follow, but the Client put up a hand to stop him. “She doesn’t get a seat at the table,” he informed them, with the slightest quirk of an evil smile as he stared at Alaina.

Mando looked at Alaina, but the blonde just rolled her eyes.

“Actually,” the man continued, reaching for something in the booth beside him. “I thought that since you were the one who took her, I would let you do the honors of chaining her again,” he finished darkly as he produced Alaina’s old collar.

Din bristled at the site of the metal slave collar as a lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

“I seem to remember you had an aversion to the collar, but I assume that since you’re returning her, you won’t care,” he continued, sliding the collar across the table for Din to take.

This was a test, and judging by the blank, neutral face that masked Alaina’s regular expressive face, she knew it too. She gave him a subtle flick of her eyes, and Din had to take a deep, calming breath as he grabbed the collar from the table. Alaina refused to look at him as he moved to stand behind her, brought it over her head, and lowered it into place around her neck.

He paused when he saw the leather cord of his mythosaur necklace resting on her neck. Alaina must have the charm tucked under her shirt because he hadn’t noticed she was still wearing it until now. He looked to his wrist, where the bracelet made of the lavender grass and black lake stones of their moon intertwined with a lock of her golden honey hair rested under his leather glove. He felt as if he were breaking some kind of promise. With his gut churning, he closed the collar around her neck and pretended to lock it, hoping her braided hair and hood would hide the fact that it was left unlocked, which meant that if the Client attempted to shock her, he would be unsuccessful. It was a risk, but a risk he was willing to take.

When he stepped back from Alaina, he had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and punching the smug look off the Imp’s face.

“I always knew I’d see you wearing this again,” the Imp said with his crooked smile. Then he motioned for Mando to take his seat and for the droid to bring their drinks to the table. Alaina remained frozen with a blank face, and her chin held high. When the Client snapped, Din’s fists clenched under the table as he watched her instinctively move to stand by his side.

“It is good to see order being restored,” the Imp continued, either oblivious or ignoring the disgust radiating from the three sitting across from him. “The girl will help restore order and allow the Empire to bring peace to the galaxy. The Empire improves every system it touches. Judge by any metric,” he preached. “Safety, prosperity, trade, opportunity, peace. Compare Imperial rule to what is happening now,” he suggested with a snarl. “Look outside. Is the world more peaceful since the revolution? I see nothing but death and chaos.”

Din’s teeth clenched at the man’s monologue. He had forgotten how much the Imp could talk. When the old man’s eyes fell on the pram floating next to the table, Din’s hand hovered beside his blaster.

“I would like to see the baby,” he said, keeping his eye on the empty chamber.

Alaina’s eyes snapped to his helmet at the man’s words, and Din’s hand gripped his blaster.

“Uh—It’s asleep!” Karga tried to cover.

“We all will be quiet,” the Imp whispered. “Open the pram,” he ordered.

The communications radio flared to life from the bar, and one of the Troopers in the room motioned for their boss to come to the bar to take the incoming communication.

The Imp sighed. “Don’t think me to be rude. I must take this call,” he said before excusing himself from the table.

Din took the opportunity to check on Alaina but found her wide-eyed and pallid as she stared vacantly forward. “Alaina?” he whispered, but Karga motioned for him to be quiet.

“Focus, you are only gonna get one shot,” the guild leader told him, nodding toward the old Imp.

Din’s hand was on his blaster, but he was locked in on Alaina. He knew that vacant expression…

“This is bad,” Dune seethed, nodding to the Troopers gathering out the window. “You said four.”

“Hey, I never gave you any numbers. The girl gave you numbers,” Karga countered back.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly correct her, did you?” Dune shot back.

“Well, there are more. What can I tell you?” Karga whispered.

“Yes, Moff Gideon?” the Imp could be heard greeting in the distance.

Alaina’s head snapped to the old man at the sound of Gideon’s name, and she began nervously wringing her cuffed hands together, a nervous tick he hadn’t seen from her in months. When she turned back to look at the table, Din couldn’t say if it was because of how close they had become or their connection, but he felt his insides bottom out at the look of despair in her Emerald eyes.

“Have they returned our property?” the voice on the other side of the radio asked.

“Yes,” the old man confirmed.

“The girl and the Child?”

“Duck!” Alaina whispered, dropping to the floor.

Karga and Dune turned to give him similar baffled expressions at Alaina’s actions.

“What is she doing?!” Karga asked, voice becoming panicked as he eyed the Troopers, watching the woman on the floor go into a ball.

Their Imp host continued with his conversation, oblivious to Alaina’s actions behind him. “Yes. We have them both. The girl is cuffed and is in an acceptable condition, and the Child is sleeping,” he informed the man on the other line.

Mando turned to look at the two sitting next to him in the booth. “I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s better not to ask questions,” he said before dropping to the floor.

“You may want to check again,” the other man said as Dune and Karga joined him on the floor.

Din crawled to Alaina just as blaster fire opened from the other side of the window. Doing his best to protect Alaina’s head, he pulled her back to the table. Once they were huddled with their companions, Dune flipped the table on its side so they could use it as a shelter against the ravaging spray of blaster fire decimating the cantina.

Alaina flinched when he pulled her closer. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured as he removed the collar and binders from her wrists. “I’m sorry.”

Alaina nodded into his chest, clutching him as the blaster fire dwindled to nothing, leaving the cantina covered in eerie silence.

“I guess I understand what the big deal is,” Karga quipped, staring in awe at Alaina. “That’s quite a handy gift you have.”

Alaina frowned at the man and then turned to look back at him. “He’s here,” she whispered.

“Who?” Din asked, gripping her hands tightly in his.

“Moff Gideon,” she said as tears filled her eyes. “We need to warn Kuiil.”

Din’s eyebrows furrowed, but he did as Alaina asked. “Kuiil? Are you back to the ship yet?” he asked into the comm Kuiil had given him. Silence answered back over the comm. “Are you there? Do you copy?” he tried again when he saw tears leaking from Alaina’s eyes.

The comm crackled to life. “Yes!” Kuiil responded, and Alaina immediately sagged against him in relief.

“Are you back to the ship yet?”

“Not yet,” Kuiil replied.

Din rubbed Alaina’s back, and she looked up at him with her glassy, emerald doe-eyes. “Din,” she whispered quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. “Gideon can’t get Grogu,” she pleaded.

“Okay,” he nodded and brought the comm back to his helmet. “Get back to the ship and bail. Get the kid outta here!” he ordered. “We’re pinned down!”

Dune got up from their hiding position and slinked along the back wall to find a better position to visualize their situation. “They’ve got us completely surrounded,” she told them.

“How many?” he asked.

“More than ten,” came her sarcastic answer. “And more arriving.”

“The squadron from the main lab,” Alaina pieced together. In the blink of an eye, her worried, terrified eyes hardened and found a new target—him. “Why didn’t you just listen to me?” she hissed, gripping his hands tightly. "I warned you this would turn into a trap, you stubborn man." She paused to shove the middle of his chest weakly. "Stubborn man!”

“Hey, Spunky,” Dune called, and Alaina’s head snapped to glare at the other woman. “Save some of that anger for the fight because a TIE fighter just landed.”

“Gideon,” Alaina said flatly. “He’s here.”

Din shoved down his feelings and grabbed Alaina, pulling her up with him. Karga followed their lead, and they went to take shelter behind a corner where they could see out the window and be in Dune’s line of vision as well. He grabbed Alaina when she tripped over one of the deceased Troopers shot down by his own team and forced her to look away from the dead Imp who had wanted her back in a collar.

“You have something I want,” a new voice said in the eye of the storm.

“No,” Alaina whispered, flattening her back against the wall behind him and clenched her eyes shut at the sound of his voice.

“Who’s this guy?” Karga asked, looking between him and Alaina.

“You may think you have some idea of what you are in possession of, but you do not,” Gideon continued.

“Kuiil,” he barked into the comm. “Are you back to the ship yet? They’re onto us!” He attempted to keep the swell of panic at bay when he didn’t get an immediate response. “Kuiil, come in!”

“In a few moments, they will be mine,” the Moff continued, his deep, smooth voice unphased by their tense situation.

Alaina’s hand reached for his, and Din gripped it back tightly.

“Kuiil!”

“They mean more to me than you will ever know,” the man continued.

At his words, Alaina sobbed, and Din tugged her hand in his to pull her into his side with his arm over her shoulder.

“Kuiil! Are you there? Come in, Kuiil!” Din tried again, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Please, please, please,” he could hear Alaina’s whispered prayers as she clung to his side.

Din wanted to throw the comm against the wall. How had everything gone so terribly wrong?

“Is there another way out?” Dune asked, looking away from her observations to look at Karga.

Karga shook his head, “No, that’s it.”

No. This couldn’t be it.

“What about the sewers?” he asked, looking to Karga for confirmation.

“Sewers?”

Din nodded as a plan began to formulate in his mind. “The Mandalorians have a covert down in the sewers,” he explained. “If we can get down there, they can help us escape.”

“Yeah,” Karga nodded, “Sewers are good.”

“Checking for access points,” he announced, changing the settings on his visor to help him locate an opening.

“We can’t just leave!” Alaina said, distressed. “We can’t just leave Grogu with them!”

“We’re not, Tranyc,” he reassured her, gripping her hand again. “But we need help if we’re gonna get him back. We won’t be any help to the kid if we’re dead.”

“Yeah, about that,” came Dune’s flat words. “They’re setting up an E-Web,” she announced morbidly.

Karga sighed. “It’s over,” he grumbled and reached for the bottle of spotchka behind the counter, took a deep swig, and then offered the bottle to Alaina.

“Wh-what’s an E-Web?” she asked, looking between him and Karga as she peeked around the corner to see what they were looking at. “It’s just a gun?”

“Just a gun?” Karga scoffed, taking another swig from the bottle. “You’re gonna have to brush up on your weapons if you plan on being with a Mandalorian. Try cannon,” he explained.

“I found the sewer vent,” Din announced, pointing to the metal grate in the back wall.

Karga sighed in relief, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Din marched with Karga to the crate, and the two began attempting to open it, but they had little success.

Mando attempted to block out the high-pitched sound of the cannon charging, but from the way Alaina gaped at the weapon, she wasn’t as lucky. “Try to focus on something else,” he offered.

Karga scoffed and turned from the grate to speak to Alaina. “Don’t listen to him; you’re right to be terrified of that thing,” he told her, making Din want to strangle the man. “The power it takes to charge that thing is enough to level a large enough to level three-block radius, and that’s just the battery. That doesn’t even account for the weapon itself.”

“Alaina,” Mando snapped, and he waited until her wide, petrified eyes locked on his helmet. “Battle lesson number one, survive,” he told her. “We can’t do anything about what’s happening out there; we can only focus on getting out of here.”

“O-Okay,” Alaina mumbled and came to kneel beside him. “How can I help?”

Din smiled and patted her knee.

“It’s assembled!” Dune announced. “How long until that thing’s cleared?”

“Blow it,” Karga ordered him, nodding at the Amban phase-pulse rifle strapped to his back.

Din shook his head. “I’m out of charges,” he explained, showing the man his empty bandolier. "All I have left are my blaster and magnetic bombs,” he finished, pointing to the two tiny bombs left on it.

“Yeah, and you’ll blow us up while you’re at it,” Dune grumbled. “Get out of the way!” she barked and aimed the grate with her rifle.

Din grabbed Alaina and pulled her out of the way, holding her against his chest while Dune attempted to shoot through the grate. After a solid minute of rounds, Dune stopped and slammed her boot against the grate to try to get it to collapse, with no success.

“Your astute panic suggests that you understand your situation,” Gideon told them in the quiet after Dune’s attempt at shooting through the grate failed. “I would prefer to avoid any further violence and encourage a moment of consideration.” 

The group paused and waited for the shoe to drop. 

“Alaina Corra,” Gideon began, and Din tightened his arms around her. “You could end this whole pointless, unnecessary display of violence. We already have the Child in our custody,” he announced, and if it weren’t for Din holding her, Alaina would have collapsed to the ground. “Turn yourself over,” he ordered. “Turn yourself over, and I’ll ensure the little friends you made on your field trip remain unharmed,” he offered.

Alaina turned her tear-filled eyes to him, and Din shook his head. “It’s not happening,” Din told her quietly. “There’s another way.”

“I’m sure a ballerina isn’t aware of the firepower currently aimed at you. Maybe your new Mandalorian friend can explain just how powerful this weapon is if you need an extra incentive.” Gideon continued. “Or, perhaps he could explain to you what it means to be a Mandalorian,” he suggested, making Din frown. “After all, he knows you don’t have to be born on Mandalore to be a Mandalorian.”

“You weren’t born on Mandalore,” Karga whispered. When Din shook his head, the other man’s look of surprise grew. “But you’re a Mandalorian?”

“Mandalorian isn’t a race,” Dune cut in.

Din nodded, “It’s a Creed.”

Alaina smiled and caressed his forearm, “I like that,” she murmured.

Sadly, their brief, tender moment was interrupted by the Moff. “But the two of you have had months to catch up, so I suppose you know that you both have that in common,” Gideon said with a chuckle.

“What is he talking about?” Alaina asked, pulling herself out of his arms to look at him.

“I have no idea,” Din muttered. “Why is he stalling?” he asked, looking at Karga and Dune. “The E-Webb is charged. They have at least fifty, if not more, officers out there. Why are they stalling?”

“You heard him,” Karga said and pointed to Alaina. “He wants the girl.”

Mando shook his head. Something wasn’t adding up.

“I’ll go,” Alaina said quietly. “If it means the rest of you live—”

“No,” Din snapped, gripping her shoulders. “You’re not handing yourself over to him. Something is… off.”

Alaina’s brow furrowed at him for a second, and then the wrinkles smoothed out, and she said, “Happy.”

Din nodded. That was it—something warm and… happy. Not an emotion he expected to feel in their current scenario.

“Okay, you two have officially lost it,” Dune said, eyeing them warily.

“No,” Alaina whispered and smiled up at him. “You feel it, don’t you?” she asked, smiling brighter when Din nodded back, and she turned her excitement toward Dune and Karga. “It’s Grogu,” she told them. “He’s happy.”

Their two counterparts stared skeptically back at them.

“I know it sounds a little weird,” Alaina began, but she was interrupted by a scoff from Karga. "If we had time, I would explain it… Well,” she paused and scrunched her face. We’d do our best to explain it, but we don’t have time, so just listen. Grogu is happy!”

Dune and Karga shared a skeptical look and then looked back at them, still unconvinced.

“Okay, he’s happy, so what?” Dune asked, annoyance creeping into her voice.

“It means Gideon is lying,” Mando filled them in as quickly as he could without going into the specifics. “Grogu wouldn’t be that happy if he was in their custody. He’d be scared. But he’s not scared. They don’t have him,” Din finished and shared a hug with Alaina.

“Great, they don’t have the womp rat,” Dune deadpanned. “How does that help us?”

“Ha!” Karga cheered, his joy becoming a full-on belly laugh. “It means they don’t have the kid, and they want both of them!” he exclaimed, yanking Alaina out of Din’s arms to plant a celebratory kiss on her cheek. “They’re stalling because they can’t fire that thing without killing her!”

Din nodded. “Maybe Kuiil’s comm got damaged, and they made it back to the Crest,” he hoped. He tugged Alaina out of Karga’s grasp, shooting the man an annoyed look.

“So, we’re fine as long as Spunky and the womp rat aren’t in the same place at the same time?” Dune asked, still full of reservations about their temporary stay of execution.

“Hey, I’m not arguing,” Karga announced, playfully punching Dune in the shoulder.

A speeder could be heard growing closer, and the four paused their celebrations to see who was coming.

The speeder slowed to a stop. Mando watched in disbelief as a Stormtrooper dismounted and helped a familiar weasel-eyed doctor in a dirtied white uniform and broken glasses get down after him.

“No,” Alaina whispered as she watched her former friend with a black eye limp to Gideon.

“Well, at least the kid is happy,” Dune snarked, walking back toward the grate.

“I don’t understand,” Alaina whispered, reaching for his hand. “If they got Pershing, where are Grogu and Kuiil?”

Gideon’s voice kicked up a couple of amps, pulling their attention back to the window.

“I thought you said you had the Child?” Gideon asked Pershing, and Mando heard the slightest irritation creep into the Moff’s voice for the first time since this began.

“There was… a complication,” Pershing finally settled on.

“A complication?” Gideon growled.

He could see Alaina let out a breath of relief, but he wouldn’t be able to relax until this was behind them. The blaster fire heard from the distance only cemented that this wasn’t over.

“What now?” Karga grumbled, and everyone glanced out the window to see what all the commotion was about.

A second speeder came tearing around the corner, forcing the Troopers filling the courtyard to jump out of the way, and those that didn’t jump were shot… by the IG droid.

The sound of Grogu squealing in delight when the droid held him as he jumped off the speeder, taking out three Troopers in his twists and turns.

Alaina’s arm came and smacked him across the gut, surprising him. “I told you we needed him!” she said with a grin. “Kuiil promised that he would protect Grogu!”

Din’s helmet tilted as he watched the IG-11 unit’s body spin and twist, narrowly keeping his kid out of harm’s way. When he looked down at Alaina, she cringed. “You were saying?” he snarked. Din sighed, “Cover me,” he asked Dune, who nodded. “Stay. Here,” he ordered, pointing at Alaina.

“Be careful,” she whispered, touching his forearm.

He paused and cupped her cheek, rubbing a gloved thumb against her cheekbone as the two shared a glance for only a second before he spun away with his blaster raised out into the fray.

As much as he hated that particular IG-11 droid, he was reluctant to admit he was handy in a shootout. The droid was holding his own, but with every twist and near miss the kid had felt like another year had been taken off Din’s life.

Another platoon of soldiers came around the corner, and he shared a look with Dune.

“Go!” he yelled at the droid, pointing at the cantina to direct him out of harm's way before the kid got hurt or worse.

Mando ran for the E-Web without looking back, spinning it to take out as many of the attackers as he could while Dune and Karga protected the cantina entrance. After several rounds, he took a hit to the back of his head, not enough to take him out, but enough to annoyingly knock him off his balance. Forced to jump off the cannon, he turned around to confront his attacker once he had stable footing and found Moff Gideon on the other side of the courtyard, staring him down with his blaster.

The man lowered his blaster and fired. Unable to escape the blast, Din was thrown, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, looking up at the sky. The Nevarro sun was high in the sky, attempting to chase away the darkness of unconsciousness creeping in around the edges. The tinnitus ringing in his ears was loud enough to block out the sounds of the battle around him, and the pain radiating from the back of his head was enough to drown out every other bodily function. He attempted to move, but nothing cooperated with him, and the harder he tried, the darker the edges started to bleed.

In summary, this was not good.

More than not good.

The scenery changed, and he was only vaguely aware that someone was dragging him out of the danger zone. The abrupt change in position and the speed of travel made his stomach roll and made him aware of the blood dripping from his head wound down his neck.

A flash of yellow entered his peripheral vision, and two bright, emerald-green orbs swam before him.

Alaina.

He couldn’t even feel her anymore. He must be in bad shape if he couldn't even feel that warm, golden, invisible string was just gone.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” her sweet voice filtered through the ringing in his head as she helped Dune situate him up against the wall in the cantina.

He tried to move his hand to grab her but was barely able to lift his hand off the ground.

“It’s okay,” she told him, grabbing his gloved hands and bringing them to her chest. “IG is cutting through the grate, and then we’ll all be out of here.”

“I’m not gonna make it—”

“Stop, of course you’re gonna make it,” Alaina brushed him off with watery eyes.

“Alaina—”

“No, you just bumped your head,” she interrupted, dropping his hands to cradle the back of his head. She frowned, and when she pulled her hands out from under his helm, her eyes filled with tears.

His eyes dropped to her hands, and he was unsurprised to see that there was blood covering her fingers.

“Vermilion fingertips,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off her hands.

“Alaina—”

“S-st-stop,” she rasped, still staring at her bloodied hand. “IG is cutting through the grate, and then he can drag you through—”

“Tranyc,” he stopped her, resting a hand on her thigh. “I’m not gonna make it.”

Alaina’s green eyes left her blood-covered hand and snapped to his helmet. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, we can help you. You just need to remove your…” she faded as she realized what she was about to say. “Please,” she begged. “This is to save your life!”

He gripped her thigh and felt tears well in his eyes, matching the same tears in Alaina’s.

There was a commotion from the other side of the cantina door, and they turned their heads just in time to see the Troopers breakthrough in a blaze of flames. As the ball of fire rushed toward them, his view was blocked by a curtain of honey-golden hair as Alaina threw herself over him like an idiotic human shield. He wrapped his arms around her waist but was too weak to flip them around. Instead, he clutched her like a lifeline. Like this was the last time he would be able to hold her.

Slowly, the curtain of hair shifted, and the two of them watched in surprise and then in awe as Grogu stood in front of the group with his eyes closed, using his powers to protect them from the Trooper’s flamethrower. Din gripped Alaina’s waist tighter as they watched him concentrate with his eyes closed as he waved his tiny three-fingered, clawed hands and used his powers to push the flames back, engulfing their attackers and sending them flying out of the cantina.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Grogu wobbled, dropped to his bottom, and then collapsed onto his back.

“Grogu!” Alaina called and left him to grab Grogu.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cara Dune standing nearby, staring at him, and he motioned for her to come over.

“I’m not gonna make it,” he told her.

Dune’s lips flattened, and she shook her head, “Shut up. You just rung your bell—”

“Cara,” he said, stopping her. “I need you to get them out of here. Find the Mandalorians. Alaina has my necklace; she won’t want to, but she knows what to do. They’ll help you get to safety. You know where to take them from there.”

Alaina returned and kneeled on both knees before him with an unconscious Grogu tucked away in her arms. Din weakly rubbed the kid’s head with his gloved hand, but he didn’t stir.

“Go with Cara,” he murmured, giving the kid one last caress before his hand dropped to his side. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel the exhaustion and the darkness creeping back in.

Alaina sobbed as she shook her head, “No! H-he could save you—”

“Alaina,” he whispered, bringing a hand to cup her cheek. “The kid just saved us all, and now, Grogu is going to need you. Go with Cara.” Alaina kept shaking her head, and Dune pried Grogu out of her arms and stepped back to give them some privacy. “We talked about this. It’s on you to protect the kid now. I can fend them off and give you time, but you need to go with Cara and find the Mandalorians.”

“Din—”

“It’s okay. Let me have a warrior’s death,” he asked as his hand collapsed by his side.

He stared back at those bright emerald green eyes, made brighter by the tears in her eyes as he lay slumped against the wall. The head wound would do him in, and he wouldn’t be responsible for the Empire getting their hands on Alaina or the kid because he slowed them down. The least he could do was take out as many Imps as possible to give them time to get through the sewers and get to safety. The kid would be well protected between Alaina, Dune, and the IG droid.

“Go,” he ordered Dune, jerking his gun toward the open sewer grate the IG-11 droid had just melted open.

Dune fixed him with a look before she turned to look at the droid. “Don't let her wait too long,” she ordered IG-11. She gave a lingering look to Alaina, who refused to leave his side. When it was obvious that Alaina would have to be carted off by the droid, Dune moved to follow Karga, who had already entered the sewers, undoubtedly eager to get out of the line of fire.

Alaina’s emerald eyes locked onto his from behind his helmet, and she brought a hand up to rest on the side of his helm, rubbing her thumb along the side of the silver beskar piece.

Din brought his hand up to squeeze her thigh, “Alaina—”

“It’s just a head wound… please,” she begged with a sniffle, cutting him off. “I’ve seen every other part of you…”

He sighed, “Alaina...”

“You’re a stubborn man, Din Djarin,” she told him, unable to hold back a sob that escaped her. “Let me help you.”

“You need to go. The kid needs you,” Din told her, bringing up his own gloved hand to hold the side of Alaina’s face, mirroring her actions.

Alaina grabbed his gloved hand and pulled the leather glove off before kissing the middle of his palm and rubbing her thumb over the bracelet she made for him. “We could get married!” she said with a watery laugh. “Right now. Then it would be okay, right?” she asked as her voice cracked at the end.

Din huffed out a weak laugh, “Alaina…”

“I already considered us the boring old married couple,” she tried. “We might as well make it official.”

“You deserve more than a marriage to a dying man—”

“Yeah, but we’re both dying,” she tried again with a shrug. “That makes it more romantic.”

He wanted to shake his head, but his body struggled to communicate. Alaina was wasting valuable time. Din wanted to say something, but the droid was there, ready to take Alaina, and there were too many words and not enough time left.

She inched closer to his helmet, cautiously bringing a hand up either side of Din’s helmet. He was frozen as he felt her fingers search for the release.

“Alaina—” he tried to stop her but gave up when he felt his helmet stop rising at his lips.

Her lips touched his, and he closed his eyes as he savored their last kiss. He could feel her tears fall and land on his face, mixing with the dirt, blood, and tears of his own. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her as close to him as he could, ignoring the pain to deepen the kiss. He hoped to show Alaina everything he couldn’t tell her in their last few minutes.

Eventually, Alaina let his helmet fall back down, and she opened her eyes only once it was secured over his head.

“Alaina, I—” he whispered, tightening his grasp around her.

“Wait,” she stopped him, placing her hand up to his helmet, like she was covering his mouth, and gave him a small smile. “Tell me after, okay?”

There wouldn’t be an after. Not for him. But if it gave Alaina the hope she needed to survive… “After,” he whispered, holding her tightly to him.

Alaina finally pulled herself away from him but grabbed his hand between hers. Her smile was worth it—Was worth everything. She leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to the center of the beskar helm, and Din let his eyes drift closed.

"The Child requires protection," the flat, uncaring voice of the droid said, interrupting their moment.

He could feel her freeze, and when she pulled away, she stared at his helmet as if she found the final piece to a puzzle. “Another living being…” she murmured. Alaina’s face hardened, and then she looked up at the droid, keeping his hand tight in her grasp. “The Child’s welfare is your only priority, right?” she asked the IG-11 unit.

“Affirmative,” came the droid’s instant answer.

“And do you agree that the Mandalorian is imperative for the Child’s continued survival?”

“Affirmative,” IG-11 confirmed.

“Alaina—” Din tried to stop her, but she spoke over him as she continued firing questions at the droid.

“And you’ll help the Mandalorian get back to the Child, no matter what the Mandalorian tells you—”

They didn’t have time for this, “Tranyc—” he slurred.

“—because it doesn’t matter what the Mandalorian wants. It only matters about the Child, right?”

“Affirmative,” IG agreed.

Alaina turned back to focus her attention on Din. Her eyes were filled with determination instead of fear, which put Din on edge. However, he couldn’t complain. If the last thing he saw were Alaina’s emerald eyes, he would have at least something beautiful to see before moving on to whatever awaited him in death.

“My mom told me something once…” she started and then tapered off, her eyes locked on his. “She told me that nothing in the galaxy was stronger than love.” He remembered. He remembered them trapped inside Alaina’s mind after seeing all three of their pasts, and she had told him while they stood in the snow-covered decaying room of her mind. “I thought I understood what she said, but I didn’t until now,” she revealed, giving him a sad smile as she covered his hand with his glove.

Din threaded his fingers through her hair, trying to look into her eyes to figure out what she wasn’t saying. “Alaina?”

“I need you to remember to stay a stubborn man,” she whispered, giving another kiss to his helmet before pulling away from him to give him a watery smile. “You’re a good man, Din Djarin, and I forgive you… Din, I... I love you.”

Din smiled. Now, he could die knowing he did everything he could for the woman and child he loved.

Alaina leaned forward to kiss the center of his helmet and rested her hands on his chestpiece. "If someone asked me if I would go through it all again, I would ask them to put me back in," she whispered into the beskar helm, her lips brushing the 'T' of his visor as she spoke. "You made me a better person. You were worth everything, Din Djarin. Don't ever forget that," she said, finishing with another kiss to his helm. "A Mandalorian and a ballerina?" she asked, and then her voice cracked, leaving her unable to finish with, "They'll never see it coming." With a watery smile, she rubbed his chest and said, "Don't look back."

Without another word, Alaina ripped two of his magnetic bombs from his bandolier and shot up, leaving her mother’s dagger tucked under the strap across his chest.

Din was frozen from a mix of confusion and shock from his brain injuries but still attempted to scramble up, but his body was uncooperative due to his head wound. After several failed attempts to stand, his back fell against the wall. Alaina was already out of his reach. She turned back to give him a sad smile.

“Alaina…” he whispered, shaking his head.

Alaina just stared at him with a pained expression before turning to look up at the IG-11 droid. “You save him, do you understand me? You save him and get him to the kid, got it? I can get you time. You get him to the kid, and you don’t let him come back. Take care of them. Please.”

“Alaina, no!” Din yelled, but it was too late. IG-11 already had him pinned against the wall, forcing him to stay down. “Alaina!” he screamed after her.

She didn’t look back, and Din watched her blonde hair disappear into the street.

“Hold your fire!” he could hear Pershing scream as his former test subject walked out of the cantina.

“Well, well, well,” he could hear Gideon’s voice speaking from somewhere, and his heart clenched. “The prodigal ballerina returns.”

It didn’t even register to him that the droid had his helmet off until the destroyed cantina came into full color. Still, Din tried to search over the droid to get a glimpse of Alaina. He had to stop her from doing something stupid before it was too late. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“You can’t have the Child,” Alaina spoke, and Din swore his heart stopped in his chest at the determination in her voice. “You can’t have the Child, but you can have me.”

“No,” Din whispered, but the IG-11 unit kept him pinned against the wall as he treated his head wound with bacta spray.

“What’s to stop me from having both of you?” Gideon asked her.

The sound of weapons being drawn could be heard, and Din struggled to look around the droid. He needed to see what idiotic plan Alaina was trying to pull. She had two of his magnetic bombs, and he could clearly picture her holding them out in his head for everyone to see.

“You’re going to let the Child go. You’ll stop searching for him and the Mandalorian; in return, you get me. I know you still have some of the Child’s blood. And I am your control subject. I was experiment number one, and I’ll be experiment number ten. You don’t need both of us. You just need me.”

Silence filled the air, and his heart clenched, knowing that Gideon was actually considering her offer. 

“And if I don’t accept your terms?” Gideon questioned.

“Then I set these off and take you all out with me," her nonchalant answer came. "I’m dead either way, so it makes no difference to me.”

The IG-11 unit placed his helmet over his head, and Din scrambled to try and stand, but his head still swam, and he relied too heavily on the droid to get up.

“And how do I know this isn’t a trap? That the Mandalorian and his little band of friends won’t come back to rescue you?” Gideon asked.

The droid's arms were tightly wrapped around him, preventing him from moving toward Alaina. Mando struggled weakly against the droid as it began to pull him to the sewer grate.

Alaina turned back, and his helmet locked onto her emerald eyes.

“Alaina,” he rasped as she gave him one last sad smile before she turned to face down the Empire. Alone.

“Because he knows there won’t be anything left of me to come back for.”

“I’ll kill myself before I go back to the Empire,” she had told him on Sorgan and had implied again on their trek between Dietes and Sorgan to enlist Dune.

“It won’t come to that,” he had told her so confidently a week ago.

“No!” he yelled as he was pulled to the ground.

He yelled at Alaina, the Empire, the droid, for not letting him run to save her and the galaxy.

“How maudlin,” Gideon sneered as IG pulled him through the open vent.

“Between Alaina and the small sample of the Child’s blood we have, we have enough to continue our experiments,” Pershing cut in. The man may be a weasel, but at least he could count on the scientist and his unrequited feelings to ensure Alaina stayed alive.

Silence stretched, and Din struggled pointlessly against the droid as he pulled through the sewer grate.

“Do we have a deal?” was the last thing he heard Alaina ask as the droid held him by his chest and drug him against his will. Eventually, the surface noise faded away completely when they stopped in the open sewers.

“Let me go! We have to go back!” he ordered, struggling against the droid's grip.

IG-11 continued to march him through the sewers. “Our directive is the Child. Returning to the imminent danger zone is counterintuitive,” he informed him in that standard droid—there was no room for shades of grey—argument.

Images from the last few months with Alaina and Grogu flashed through his mind. Of her dancing on the ship. Of her emerald eyes beginning to trust him. Of her trusting him enough to fall asleep in his arms. In vivid clarity, his mind played their night together on Arvala-7: holding Alaina against his chest with his helmet off, looking at the sunset with Alaina. Their first kiss in the middle of a storm on their moon. Their first night together on Sorgan, and then their last time together… Their afternoon swimming in the green waters of the lake. Swaying with her while she danced with him surrounded by candlelight... She honestly didn’t expect him to leave her. Not after everything they’ve been through… He kicked himself for leaving the ship all those years ago and allowing her to get captured. Her green eyes haunted his dreams until he saw her again five years later and felt like the galaxy had given him a second chance.

He struggled fruitlessly against the infinite strength of the IG-11 unit as he marched them past their first corner of the sewers, out of sight of the main drag and Alaina… his Tranyc. He couldn’t let her—

The sound of explosions could be heard from the ground above. Whatever had blown up was massive and even rattled the sewers, making the ceiling quake and rain dirt and debris down on top of them. Din dug his heels in the dirt in a futile attempt to stop the doid.

“No!” he pointlessly yelled, the droid not giving in an inch.

“You are required to ensure the Child's safety,” IG-11 told him, voice flat and emotionless. 

Din refused to give up, feeling stronger with every minute that passed.

“Mandalorian,” the droid stopped him, holding his shoulders tightly so he would not escape. “Do not let her sacrifice be in vain.”

Din sagged against him.

“Her sacrifice.”

“I forgive you.”

“Her sacrifice.”

“I love you.”

She couldn’t just be gone. That should have been him. Din had been fully prepared to be the one to make that sacrifice. He was one foot in the grave as it was until Alaina… until she…

“Hey! There you are!” Dune greeted them in relief as the IG-11 droid helped him around the corner. Dune rushed up to greet Mando, passing the kid off to the droid and taking the Mandalorian off his hands. “I got him,” she told the droid. She then looked around the vacant underground corridor, confused. “Where’s Alaina?”

Pain stabbed at Mando’s chest, and he turned his helmet to look at the kid, who was still in the satchel, safely carried by the IG-11 unit’s protective steel arms. The kid looked up at him with large, sad, tear-filled eyes, and his large ears fell as if he knew. As if he could feel it. Part of Din had hoped that since the kid was stronger with his powers, he could sense something from Alaina. That he could somehow tell that Alaina was still with them… But by the mournful look he got from the kid, Din could tell that his hopes were unfounded.

IG began to fill Dune in for him, “She terminated herself and statistically a large percentage of the Empire so that we had the necessary time to escape.”

Dune stopped, looking up to Mando with a shocked look of disbelief. “Mando, I’m—I—”

“We need to go,” Mando gruffed, yanking himself from Dune’s shoulder. He stumbled but righted himself quickly and continued through the corridor. They didn’t have time for reflection or platitudes of sympathy.

“Mando, hey,” Dune tried again, jogging up to his side. “I liked Alaina. I can’t imagine how hard you and the kid are going to—”

“We need to keep moving,” he cut Dune off again. “We need to get more distance between us and… whoever is left. Alaina gave us time. I’m not letting it go to waste,” he told her, trying to shove everything deep inside him. Because if he let himself think about it… about her… he would collapse, and there wasn’t time for that. Later. Later, he would break when he was back on the ship with the kid, but they needed to get to the ship first.

Din ignored the worried glances that Dune and Karga exchanged with one another and kept moving forward. He switched his helm to tracking mode to look for signs of his covert to lead them in the right direction. When they turned the corner, he froze at the sight that greeted them.

Piles upon piles of armor lined the corridor of the sewer. While the droid’s bacta treatment was working, and he could feel himself slowly getting stronger, he found it harder and harder to keep the grief at bay, and this discovery was the straw that broke the Mandalorian’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Dune murmured. “We should go.”

Din shook his helmet. “You go,” he murmured. “Take the kid and the ship. I can’t leave it like this.” He couldn’t leave Nevarro like this. Leaving without his partner was hard enough to wrap his mind around, but leaving without his partner and learning that his tribe had been wiped out as well…

He rounded on Karga. “Did you do this?” he seethed, pointing at what remained of his tribe. “Is this the work of your hunters?!”

Karga shook his head rapidly. “No!” he defended. “When you left with the prize, the fighting ended, and the hunters just melted away. You know how it is. They’re mercenaries. They’re not zealots.”

Din lunged for the guild leader and shook him, ready to take his anger out on the nearest person, and unfortunately for Karga, that was him. “Did you do this?! Did you?!” he shouted again, ready to throw a punch until another familiar voice stopped him.

“No. It was not his fault. We revealed ourselves,” the Armorer’s voice echoed down the corridor, and Din let Karga go and watched as the gold helmet-wearing Mandalorian sorted through what remained of their covert to add them to her cart. “We knew what could happen if we left the covert. The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter. This is what resulted.”

So, this was his fault. “Did any survive?” he asked quietly.

“I hope so,” the Armorer nodded as she passed him. “Some may have escaped off-world.”

“Come with us,” he offered.

The Armorer shook her head, “No. I will not abandon this place until I have salvaged what remains.”

Din helped carry a few pieces as he followed her to the forge, with IG-11 carrying Grogu closely behind him.

When the Armorer turned around, she paused to examine the kid in his satchel. “This is the one responsible for all of this destruction?” she asked, pointing to the kid, who was hunched over with ears down, refusing to look at anyone.

Oh, kid, he thought brokenly. He walked to the droid and pulled Grogu from his satchel to present him to the Armorer.

“One of them,” Din confirmed as Grogu squirmed until he was huddled as close to his chest as possible so the kid could bury his face in his cowl. When the kid’s foot struck out one last time, it kicked Alaina’s dagger, and Din reacted quickly to prevent it from dropping to the ground.

He stared at the emerald gems of the serpent’s eyes and felt his chest begin to split open.

“You found the one the beskar dagger belonged to?” the Armorer asked, now staring at the silver weapon in his hand.

Din nodded and slowly breathed through his nose before explaining, “And she sacrificed herself so that the Child and I would live.”

“A noble death,” she replied with a deep nod. “What are your plans for the Child?” she asked, tilting her helmet to look back at him.

The crack inside his chest grew, and he looked down to share a look with Grogu. “If something happens to me, I want you to keep Grogu,” Alaina had told him on Arvala-7 after they watched the sunset. “I know you were a loner before, but I kinda think you’ve liked having us around. I want you two to travel, and explore, and take jobs, and… and whenever you come across a beautiful sunset, I want you to stop and enjoy it.”

“I am taking the Child as my foundling,” he declared.

“This is the way,” the Armorer proclaimed. “You have earned your signet.”

“Thank you,” Din nodded and clutched Grogu to him for a moment before passing him off to the droid to tuck back in his satchel. He couldn’t hear anyone approaching, but if they needed to make a quick escape, the IG droid would be faster than he would.

“Here,” Dune murmured. “Why don’t you have a seat? You need to rest.”

He said nothing but didn’t argue when Dune brought in something to use as a bench and helped him sit down. After she had him seated, she patted his shoulder before turning to leave him alone with the Armorer.

Din pulled Alaina’s dagger back out to look at the emerald gems that formed the serpent’s eyes. His gloved thumb absently rubbed at one of the gems.

“The serpent hilt is a Fanned Rawl, no?” the Armorer asked, making Din aware that she had been eyeing him from the other side of the forge.

Din nodded. “She said that the dagger had belonged to her mother. Alaina had no idea it was made of beskar when I asked her about it,” he told her, rubbing at one of the emerald gems. “She didn't even know what beskar was. She said that the dagger was a gift to her mother, and the hilt was constructed in the image of the Fanned Rawl native to her mother’s homeworld of Naboo.” 

The Armorer paused her work to stare at him. He was used to the Armorer’s mysterious ways, but something about how her gold helmet froze made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “The Fanned Rawl is native to Naboo,” the Armorer confirmed. “It is also native to one other planet.” 

Din frowned and looked down at the dagger, but his mind went blank. He then looked back at the Armorer, waiting for her to finish. 

The Armorer’s golden horns tilted slightly before she said, “The Fanned Rawl is found native on two planets in the galaxy, Naboo… and Mandalore.” 

Din’s helmet fell back to the dagger in his hands. A swell of emotions crashed over him—grief, anger, confusion, and sadness all battled for the lead, but for the moment, confusion won out. How her mother, a former Jedi, or almost Jedi, had even ended up with a beskar dagger in the first place… but it was hers, and then it was Alaina’s, and now it was his…

The Armorer walked around with his signet in hand. Din eyed the metal symbol, trying to see what it was as she welded it to his pauldron. When the Armorer stepped away, Din’s heart swelled, and he nodded his thanks to her for the thoughtfulness that went into her craft.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “I will wear this with honor.”

“You are now a clan of two.” The Armorer nodded, “This is the way.”

She hadn’t meant it as something to hurt him. She didn’t know that until an hour ago, they were a clan of three… but he had made a promise to Alaina. “This is the way,” he repeated, unable to keep the waver from his voice.

The Armorer fitted him with a rising Phoenix and restocked his munitions, but Din couldn’t help but look at his new signet.

When he left the Armorer after trying to get her to come with them one final time, he walked down the hall to where the rest of the group was waiting idly.

“Has anyone come down after us?” he asked, and Dune and Karga shook their heads. Din nodded and pointed down the corridor. “The lava river is this way,” he told the group. “We can follow it out to the other side of the city and then see what we have left to deal with.”

Karga nodded and followed Din's suggestion. IG-11 followed Grogu, leaving him alone with Dune.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asked, stepping closer to him.

“I—I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he rasped.

Dune nodded. “I know,” she whispered. “Are you ready?”

Din looked to his new signet—The symbol of a mudhorn, a representation of him and the kid's first encounter. The mudhorn alone would have been an appropriate signet, but the Armorer had used her skill to add one more element—the beast’s horn had an intricately crafted Fanned Rawl wound around it. The serpent came up over the horn, its head turned back toward the mudhorn with its mouth open and one fang visible.

With a deep breath, he gave Dune a solemn nod.

Din’s feet subconsciously carried him back to the city. He could hear the footsteps of the others behind him. No one said anything. No one tried to stop him.

Once they exited the lava river, Din found himself disappointed not to be greeted by Troopers on the other side. Part of him wished that there was more, something else to distract him from the pain that was threatening to overtake him. The group kept their guns raised, still prepared, just in case, as they walked across the eerily silent lava flats toward the city. Karga easily disposed of the one wayward trooper they came across, who looked just as surprised to see them as they were to stumble into him.

"I love you."

Din swallowed down the flashback. He just needed to know—to confirm what the empty hole inside his chest was already telling him. He needed to see her one more time. He needed to tell her... because it was after now, and he was supposed to tell her after.

He blinked the tears from his eyes as he marched toward the city gates.

He would find her and take her with them. Alaina deserved to be buried. She deserved someplace beautiful. Not Nevarro, this planet that brought her so much misery. She’d liked their moon. Loved running through the lavender plains and swimming in the lake's emerald waters. Din decided he would take her body there. Find a spot in the lavender plains close to the lake where you can still hear the water lap against the black shore. She deserved to be laid to rest somewhere beautiful.

Just as beautiful as she was.

Mesh’la.

When Din reached the city entrance, Dune stopped him with a soft hand on his arm.

“Hey, I’m all for closure, but don’t you think the kid has seen enough?” she asked, nodding to the green toddler, still carried by the IG droid.

Din looked back to the kid, who was staring at him with wide eyes, and let out a despondent cooing noise when he realized he had Mando’s attention.

He sighed and walked to Grogu. Din reached out and rested his gloved hand on his wrinkled head, giving him a gentle stroke like he’d watched Alaina do many times.

“Cara’s right,” he told the kid as if he understood him. After all, Alaina always told him Grogu understood more than Din thought. “I just need to… Alaina… Alaina, she wouldn’t want to stay here, kid," he tried to explain but stopped when his voice cracked.

Grogu closed his eyes and sunk further into the satchel, making the chasm in Din’s chest expand even wider than it already was.

“You’ll watch him?” he asked the droid without looking away from Grogu.

“That is what I am programmed to do,” it answered.

Din nodded and stroked the kid’s ear. “I’ll be right back, kid,” he whispered, turning to follow Dune and Karga into the city.

He took in the damage as he followed Dune and Karga. The buildings were in varying degrees of shambles, getting incrementally worse the closer they got to the center and the cantina. Some of the surviving residents seemed to have come out of hiding to explore the aftermath. Some look scared. Some looked injured. They weren’t his concern. They could be left to Karga to figure out later.

Din stopped to inspect the destruction when the trio reached the cantina in the town center. Buildings were decimated. The front of the cantina was obliterated and looked utterly unrecognizable. The small radius of other buildings looked to be in a similar shape. Din walked to what he guessed to be the center of the destruction and crouched down to inspect it closer.

Black chunks littered the area, and Din picked his helmet up to look around. Dune and Karga filtered through the debris, and judging by the looks on their faces, they’d come to the same conclusion he had.

Dank farrik—Alaina had blown up the kriffing E-Web.

“That Moff’s tie-fighter is gone,” Karga commented with a shrug. “There would be way more debris out here if it had been exploded. Maybe he grabbed Alaina,” he suggested hopefully.

Dune looked away from a Stormtrooper who had melted into part of the cantina wall and looked back at him with a skeptical look on her face.

He knew. The kid knew.

There will be nothing left of me to come back for.

Something silver grabbed his attention from the rubble, and he shifted some of the chunks of debris around until he freed the object—his blaster—the one he’d all but given to Alaina.

The blaster was dented and damaged, likely beyond repair, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he had a chance to dismantle it. He stared at the blaster in his gloved hands. He knew he should feel upset that his mentor’s blaster was damaged beyond repair, but he couldn't feel anything. Everything inside was numb.

Whispered, panicked words filtered through the numbness, and he looked up to see Dune and Karga having a heated argument. Dune’s eyes flicked to check on him, and she shoved Karga’s shoulder to nod in his direction, silently telling the man that Mando was watching them.

His former guild leader frowned when he saw his hunter staring back at him. "I'm sorry, Mando," Karga whispered.

Din watched in slow motion as the man knelt to move a couple of larger pieces away, revealing a glimpse of pale skin. When Karga’s hand came back up, he was holding Alaina’s anklet in his hand.

Finally, the numbness broke as the cord frayed and snapped in his chest.

🐍🐍 End Act II 🐍🐍

Chapter Warnings: Angst (duh), mentions of previous medical experiments/torture, a brief description of a seizure, canon typical violence… and… character death...

Author's Note #2: I can’t believe we finally made it here. When the idea for this story came to me, the last part(s) of this chapter was the first thing I wrote. Once this was written and the ideas started coming, I started plotting backward, and almost a year later, here we are. I also wanted to say thank you. Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for your kudos and comments. Thank you to the new internet friends I’ve met along the way. Heaven In Hiding would not have continued without y’all’s support. I won't beg for reviews, but I am *dying* to see what y'all think. Remember, dear readers, this isn’t the end of the road. It’s just the beginning. You know how I hate to leave you on a cliffhanger 😈 but I am taking a little break to go on vacation and take some time to hit the reset button. I hope to see you for 🐍🐍🐍Act III🐍🐍🐍

Tag List: @racheldon @zenrobbins0021 @locked-ness @smoochispoof @hipcheckchick

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Heaven in Hiding Masterlist

Next chapter in series - Chapter 26: You Are Eternal

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

03/28/2025 Progress Update:

She’s done fellas!!!! 6K words edited in a day, that’s pretty good I’d say lmao. Handed it off to the beta and now we wait YES!!!! We’re at about 23.5K words. After discussing this second section, may be more or less, we’ll see.

SO EXCITED!!!! I cannot wait to move on from this chapter lmao. I like it very much but FUCK it’s been a month and a half and I wanna move on to the next one 🤣

[slowd1ving]

THAT'S LIFE MASTERLIST・゜゜FRANCIS MOSSES EVENTUAL NSFW

"Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. “Yes, please.” He maintains eye contact this time. Perhaps it’s the fatigue that’s trained his gaze on you. Perhaps he’s slightly delirious. Perhaps it’s neither. Regardless, you can feel a slight shift in attitude, and you don’t like it. There's a reason you stuck with this shitty diner job: routine. So, why the hell does that keep changing for you? this is the best thing I've ever written and it's all for someone with all the personality of a cardboard box (if you read anything from my blog read this!!! I beg!!!) warnings + general: amab!reader, nsfw, depression, smoking + unhealthy habits, diner au, trauma, military background (made up unit for doppelgangers) so canon divergence, obsession lowkey total wc: 23.5k

MISC. MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

I. THAT'S WHAT ALL THE PEOPLE SAY ･ﾟ → Tinny, crackling music permeates the small diner. Sound waves echo against the chequered tiles bathed azure in the blue hour, and return to the record player in an endless cycle. Rinse and repeat. Devour yourself and be devoured in exchange. Ouroboros.  

II. RIDING HIGH IN APRIL ･ﾟ → You’re a soldier, so you’re not allowed to wax poetic about him – any letters you write, any flowery prose will be obscured by the heavy darkness you drag within you.  But for once, you’d like to try your hand at words. And if your hand is still too stained with that bleeding arterial red, you’ll write it with your body. 

III. SHOT DOWN IN MAY ･ﾟ NSFW → Who are you? The questions run unfiltered through his mind. Perhaps in this harsh weather, when the skies are so dispassionately blue and his lungs burn desirously for air, the barrier erring on the side of caution erases itself. He wants to know. He wants to hear it from you, personally.  What’s going on?

bro forget chemistry this was just weaving together physics knowledge

had me yapping about astrophysics fr

[fitzrove]

Passing this on :p

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love! 💞

Ahhhhh thank you so much!!!!!! This is so nice of you to send >:] tysm <3

I'm going to recommend both Elisabeth and Endeavour fics because I've spent a lot of time writing for both!! So let's get to it, in no order of preference:

Feel The Night - Endeavour (TV) - rated T, Morse x Jakes, vampire AU, Victorian setting, mystery/romance, ballroom dancing, neck biting, strangers to lovers, 5 chapters / 23.5k

This is secretly a TdV / Endeavour fusion (from before my full-blown euromusical era hehehehehe). I think it's some of the best work on setting and mood that I've done - like I did a bunch of research and actually put that to the page ajdjjjg. Really proud of it even 3 years down the line!!

Flights of Angels - Elisabeth - rated M (references sex), Rudolf x Tod, post-canon, angst with a happy ending, character growth, historical references and commentary, 12 chapters / 20k

My todolf divorce fanfic xD Exploring the deep implications of the common trope of human-to-Todesengel; Tod backstory and worldbuilding, esp referencing the human-metaphor dichotomy inherent in Máté's portrayal; character growth and character development for Rudolf. Yeah I wax poetic but this is actually mostly an exploration of how Máté!Tod and Lukas!Rudolf (because they are very specific portrayals!!!!) could make a long-term relationship work. There are Implications to it. Also, Mizzi Kaspar appears!!!

Vögelein - Elisabeth - rated M (but one chapter might as well be E), Rudolf x Tod, lesbian todolf, 5+1, historical commentary and references, 6 chapters / 7.2k

Lesbian todolf!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's literally just "what if Rudolf was born a girl" (and Stéphanie a boy) and goes from there - ie. we end up in the Belgian court which comes with extremely unfortunate implications in the late 19th century. Also Tod is a woman (hehe lyrics reference) because I don't stand for heterosexuality sorry AHSHFHGH. Rudolf also keeps all his (= her) unsavoury historical womanizing because it's so integral to the character, in my opinion. I'm really proud of this >:]

Soft Like Summer Rain - Endeavour - rated M (but one chapter might as well be E), Morse x Jakes / Jakes x Hope / Morse x Jakes x Hope, mutual pining, 21 chapters / 51.6k

My longest fic to date!! I wrote it when I was 18 fun fact: largely in class too xD so some parts I can't bear to reread because I'm afraid I'll find lots of melodrama ahdjg, but it's one of a kind and I'm so proud of what it represents!! Plot: what if Morse visited Jakes over the summer after S3 and things kinda went from there. I can't believe Jakes asking him to come to the US with him actually became canon in S9, 4 years after this fic was published,, half-convinced Russ Lewis reads my fanfic...

Midnight Man - Elisabeth - rated E, Rudolf x Tod, modern AU, yeah um it's a one-shot that's rated E and only 2k words long you can do the math about what happens in it...

My first todolf fanfic xD Lawyer Rudolf. There's an entire unpublished modern AU universe based on this but it's more fun to think about than it necessarily is to write out, especially since the fun parts are just Tod forcibly inserting himself into Rudolf's life as common-law boyfriend/roommate (depression metaphor!!1) and getting up to shenanigans. I don't really have interesting things to say re: it being a modern AU, which makes it harder to write. I've worked on a ballet AU behind the scenes for like 2 years adjhfjjg which is a modern AU that takes the metaphors a lot further... but I haven't managed to write it because I'm not entirely sure how I'll approach it, especially the Tod characterisation in that. But I've done so much research that hopefully I will write something in that universe eventually...

Thank you again for sending this, it was so much fun to look back on what I've written!! >:]

[raitrolling]

anyway, 23.5k words later, it is time for my Thoughts on D2S

D2S was a big passion project, and while I went into it with little planning, I knew that I wanted to show all the different ways that racing can be exciting. I admittedly haven't watched a lot of racing-related media outside of the odd movie here and there, but it feels like there's a big focus on 'protag just needs to drive the fastest and probs go through some form of arc where they discover what racing means to them and then they win' and that's kinda like. It lmao, when there's so many variables that occur in a real race that can cause unlikely victories or heartbreaking defeats

Not Just Skill is about how it doesn't matter how good you are behind the wheel, anything can happen in a race that can completely ruin your chances of a win. Lap of the Gods is about being a Ferrari fan in 2022 the rise and the fall of a race weekend, how sometimes you just need to put in one killer lap to be victorious, but also how one small mistake can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. and then Home Stretch is how those factors can also work completely in someone's favour, and a well-timed disruption to the race can become the most legendary moment in someone's career. And of course all the strategy talks that occur through every drabble and how it's a full team effort to help a driver achieve victory. I just think that's all neat!

I said in the beginning that D2S was a story with Sharle, but wasn't necessarily about Sharle. He's the main POV character, but every piece of media about racing loves an underdog story and Tira is the real underdog. That arc came into it's own as the series developed, as I wrote Lightbulb purely because I wanted to introduce a rookie driver into the mix while also showing how competitive keeping one's place on the grid can be. I knew from the beginning I wanted to write Sharle and Zraike racing against each other and for that I needed to temporarily write Tira out for that to occur, and the background plot of Tira going through a slump that was affecting his performance just kinda happened naturally until I decided to really focus on it for the second half. The Wall was a late addition to the series, but it really helped to make a connecting thread for each drabble instead of just being a bunch of disconnected ideas.

Other spur of the moment additions include the entire Lap of the Gods part (as I wanted to cover all different aspects of a race weekend, and Revoire/Monaco was the most obvious race to focus on a qualifying session), the second part of Stop and Go (A Penalty Served, because I realised that Sharle avoiding his professional responsibilities twice should have some consequences but also wanting to show how Mansel is as a team principal), and most of the mixed media segments

Had I planned this series out a lot more thoroughly, I definitely would have dedicated more time to the mixed media pieces and made more art in general. I had a lot of ideas! But not a lot of time, and unfortunately towards the end I had some real-life stresses pop up that affected my mental health and motivation so I was unable to finish the series with a bang like I wanted to. I'm happy with the drabbles, but it's hard to not think about what could have been in terms of me having time to make more screenshots of fans reacting to the race, or artwork of everyone on the podium and Tira celebrating his first win.

But here's a small selection of photos that were going to be the inspiration for the final artwork-that-did-not-happen, so you can probably get an idea for the mood I wanted to convey:

(also I would have had to have drawn so many hats. I hate drawing hats)

and just check out Reddit or Tumblr liveposting tags whenever a race is on to get an idea of what sort of fan reactions I would have made lMAO

and uhhhh okay this is getting really long, but I guess I could go into things like my inspirations (both media and real-life races) and research if people want in another post? idk

[some-october-in-the-future]

Geraskier Fic Rec May 2023

Hello lovely people! I've decided to start my fic rec lists with some Witcher fic focusing on Geralt/Jaskier (Geraskier). I started reading Geraskier fic about three years ago and I'll probably never get tired of this pairing. The below list are some of my favorite fics I've stumbled upon throughout my time in the fandom - I hope you enjoy them! If there are any you think should be added (or you just have good recs) please feel free to send them my way, I'm always looking for new fic! And if you decide to read any of these, please heed the tags on ao3; some deal with topics not everyone wants to read about.

(The first two are probably my favorite Geraskier fics ever)

(if you like any of these let me know let's geek out together)

A Blessing, A Curse by aileenrose, E, 12.6k

"For a while, Jaskier doesn’t know he’s cursed. It feels like free will, going back down that mountain, just as dangerous down as the way up, and alone this time, too. The descent is fast, maybe even reckless, but Jaskier’s feeling numb and out-of-sorts anyways, Geralt’s words simmering in his mind, and at the time it doesn’t feel like he’s being pulled on by anything but his own desire to get away."

Based off a post that Geralt's words on the mountain are granted by the djinn.

one foot in sea by theundiagnosable, E, 23.5k

“Well, that’s a separate issue entirely, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, clearly enthused by being taken on. “I’m opposed to marriage on principle. Would you like to know why?”

“No,” says Geralt.

“I’ll tell you why,” says Jaskier.

to render it transparent by theundiagnosable, E, 24k

Geralt wakes up warm, peaceful, and utterly content, which is how he knows that something is severely wrong.

another dawn by alittlebitmaybe, T, 8k

“Well, we’ll have all the time in the world to make it official, right after we check out this—what was it?”

Geralt side eyes him. “Abandoned cottage. Disappearances. Strange sightings.”

“Right, yes, after we deal with this mysterious hut deep in the woods. No problem. Days and weeks and years aplenty after that."

all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) by xdandelionxbloomx, M, 7.5k

Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.

Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.

Shadowplay by sospes, M, 26.5k

Geralt returns to Oxenfurt on a bright May morning to find flowers laid outside Jaskier's rooms and a fresh grave in the cemetery.

Except, as Geralt is about to learn, in Jaskier's world things are never quite what they seem.

Bad Moon Rising by sharkhette, Not Rated, 9k

Jaskier had never expected it would be Geralt trying to kill him. Sure, the witcher liked to threaten as much, but they both knew he'd never make good on it. They were friends, whatever Geralt said.

But friends didn't try to rip each other's throats out with their teeth.

Or, Geralt returns from a hunt acting strange.

Valley of Plenty by aileenrose, E, 40.6k

Geralt's brother has died, and now he is raising a child on his own. The last thing he needs is an annoying sous-chef who won't leave him alone.

Or, a variously loose and faithful adaptation of the classic rom-com No Reservations.

The god of scraped knees. by spqr, M, 8k

Jaskier’s been pretending to be human for so long now that he hardly remembers what it feels like to be a sorcerer. He doesn’t want to remember what it feels like to be a sorcerer. But people still murmur his name with reverence in certain dim halls; Dandelion, Dandelion, destroyer of worlds. 

Lessons in Losing by didoandis, E, 11k

“We met five years ago or thereabouts,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. “You came up to me in a tavern near Posada, decided I would be good song material, and we’ve travelled together, off and on, ever since.”

“Huh,” Jaskier says.

“You remember?” Geralt tries to keep the note of hope out of his voice, and doubts he’s been successful.

“Not in the slightest,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “But I must admit it sounds like something I’d do.”

When Jaskier forgets their life together, Geralt learns an unexpected lesson.