#A Place To Bury Strangers The Sevens

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

Led by Death by Audio founder and Dedstrange Records co-founder Oliver Ackermann, New York-based JOVM mainstays A Place To Bury Strangers — currently Ackermann (vocals, guitar), John Fedowitz (guitar) and Sandra Fedowitz (drums) — have long been fueled by Ackermann’s restless creativity and propensity to be surprising: Over the past close to two decades, A Place To Bury Strangers have delighted, astonished — and occasionally destroyed the eardrums of — their audience with a sound that combines elements of post-punk, noise rock, shoegaze, psychedelia and avant-garde music in rather unexpected ways. Their live show is often wildly unpredictable and often sees the band creating a  a shamanistic experience that bathes listeners in glorious sound, crazed left turns, transcendent vibrations, real-time experiments, brilliant breakthroughs. And as the founder of Death By Audio, the company behind signal-scrambling stomp boxes and visionary instrument effect pedals, Ackerman has exported that sense of excitement, surprise and invention to other artists, who plug their instruments into his company’s gear and attempt to blow minds with wild, new sounds and approaches.  With A Place To Bury Strangers’ latest lineup, the band may arguably be at their most courageous and accessibly melodic in their lengthy and acclaimed run. The new lineup has two releases under their belt, 2021’s Hologram EP and their sixth full-length album, 2022’s critically applauded See Through You, which they’ve supported with a seemingly indefatigable touring schedule.  Continuing their long-held reputation for restless creativity, the members of APTBS are releasing a four 7-inch vinyl record series, called The Sevens. The Sevens are a treasure trove of previously unreleased tracks from See Through You. The special vinyl collection sees the band inviting listeners to dive deeper into their unique sonic universe to explore uncharted territories and hidden gems. “When looking back at the recordings that were done around the time of See Through You, there were a bunch of great tracks that just captured life back then and really had something incredible going on,” APTBS’ Oliver Ackermann says. “Even though they are a bit raw and a bit personal, I thought it would be a mistake if they didn’t come out. I thought it would be best to go back to my roots and put out a series of 7-inches the way A Place To Bury Strangers started. That strange weird format where the tracks each speak for themselves; no album context to muddy the water. These tracks are such a contrast to the way I am feeling now and the current songs we’ve been working on so slip back into this moment in time.” Earlier this year, APTBS released the first installment of the series “It Is Time”/”Change Your God,” which featured “Change Your God,” a bit classic APTBS — a bombastic, over-the-top punk and shoegaze sonic explosion rooted in fuzz and feedback saturated power chords, pummeling drumming and propulsive bass lines paired with Ackerman’s reverb-drenched, seemingly detached yet yearning delivery within a grunge-like quieter, extremely loud-quieter song structures. “The latest installment of the series “I Can Never Be As Great As You”/”Chasing Colors” pairs a relentless motorik-like groove with Ackerman’s punchy delivery and wailing bursts of explosive feedback. Much like APTBS’ growing catalog, “I Can Never Be As Great As You” pairs a relentless motorik-like groove with Ackerman’s punchy delivery and wailing bursts of explosive feedback. Much like APTBS’ growing catalog, “I Can Never Be As Great As You” is meant to be played eardrum shatteringly loud and enjoyed in a sweaty mosh pit. The longtime JOVM mainstays are currently in touring Europe to support their singles series. They’ll be on a short Stateside tour that includes a May 31, 2024 stop at Music Hall of Williamsburg. Check out the tour dates below.   The Sevens European Union Tour Dates: Tue. Apr. 9 – Milan, IT @ ARCI Bellezza & Wed....

[viddybiblio]

A Place To Bury Strangers - Chasing Colors (Official Video)

[hargreeves-duncan]

Hey! I saw that you’re taking tua requests and after season 4 I’m in desperate need of fluff fanfics. May I request a Five x Y/N where Y/N looks exactly like how Five envisions Delores but they haven’t met yet and right when Five and Lila were about to kiss in the greenhouse, Y/N appears with a gun because this two strangers invaded her greenhouse and Five would be utterly shocked and immediately let go of Lila and went to Y/N calling her Delores and she would say something like “I don’t know who Delores is but the two of you better start explaining what you’re doing in my greenhouse or I’ll bury a bullet in your skulls.” And after that it could be all fluff with a happy ending. Maybe Five takes her to meet his family when he finds a way back?

a/n: thank you for your lovely request! the idea of reader as a dolores variant is so sweet, i just had to write this! i hope you love it!!

summary: five mistakes you for dolores, you turn out to be quite the opposite

warnings: reader has a gun😟

word count: 2.4k

Trying to traverse this damn subway was driving Five insane. If he had been keeping track accurately, he and Lila had been stuck down here for seven years. For someone that had made it through forty years alone at the end of the world, you’d think that he’d be able to hack it, but a couple of key factors had changed since his first time around.

1. This time he wasn’t alone.

When he’d brought Lila down to the station, the thought of getting stuck there hadn’t even crossed his mind. Every other time Five had visited the subway, he’d made it home with no problems whatsoever.

It was typical that when he was accompanied by the one woman he’d never want to be around for a prolonged amount of time, that the universe would screw him over and trap them there.

He did have to admit, the more time that they had spent together, and the less likely getting home seemed, Lila had become tolerable. He might even go as far as to say he liked her now.

She was smarter than he’d given her credit for and painfully determined in working out their way home. Lila had always kept them both going, insisting that if they’d gotten there in the first place that there had to be a way out. Five wasn’t so sure anymore.

2. Dolores wasn’t here.

Whilst Five could pretend that if he stopped looking for a way out and settled down with Lila in a new timeline he would be happy enough, he knew that in reality, he wouldn’t be. There was no way that his friendship with Lila would ever measure up to the company of Dolores and the love he had for her.

She had been his everything for more of his life than not and his connection with her had truly meant something to him. Unlike whatever circunstancial friendship he had built with Lila.

For a long time, Five’s daily routine had revolved entirely around making sure that Dolores was cared for and making sure that they were always one step closer to finding a better way of life. Because he would be damned if his girlfriend had to live a life with anything but the very best.

This time, without the motivation of holding Dolores in his arms at the end of a long day, Five had found little reason to keep searching for a way to get home. He was beginning to lose all hope entirely as he and Lila had got off the subway for the fiftieth time that day.

As they stepped out into the sun, it became clear that of all the timelines they’d been to, this one was, without a doubt, the most peaceful. They were surrounded by woodland that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Somewhere above their heads Five could hear birds twittering. That was a good sign, this timeline was still habitable, many of the last ones hadn’t been.

Five walked out into forest. The trees there shot up almost 70 feet into the sky. It was breathtaking.

Somewhere along his stroll, Lila, had ended up off course, discovering the new world around them, “Wow.” She whispered to herself.

Five chuckled and raised an eyebrow as he walked towards her, “If you’re done here, there’s something much more interesting that we ought to take a look at.”

He pointed to the bottom of the hill that they stood on, where a small cottage sat. It looked as if it came from a fairytale, with its thatched roof and adjacent greenhouse, that housed all sorts of plants and flowers.

A small seed of doubt planted itself in his head the more he looked it over. It looked too nice. What if it was some sort of trap?

Lila clearly didn’t have the same trepidations. She gasped with excitement, then turned back to him, saying, “What’re you waiting for? Let’s go.”

As suspicious as he now was, he wasn’t strong enough to crush Lila’s hopeful expression. He hadn’t seen her look this spritely in weeks and if this didn’t end up being what they wanted he needed her to be okay to keep going. So, he followed her down the hill.

By the time he’d reached the bottom, Lila was already waiting, hands on her hips as she laughed at him, “Come on, old man, what is taking you so long? I want to explore this cottage before someone comes and tells me that I’m imagining it.”

She reached out, pulling on his arm impatiently and he couldn’t help but smile back at her. He supposed he could entertain this fantasy of normality for a while.

Lila grinned as she led them up the steps, peering in through the glass at the throng of shrubbery packed into the building. With a tug on the door, Lila led them into the greenhouse.

Five had to appreciate the organisation of it. One corner of it hosted a mix of plants and herbs, another held flowers, another for vegetables as well and even one for- “Strawberries!” Lila gasped, dropping his arm and rushing over to them.

In that moment, there couldn’t have been a better sight in the world than home-grown fruit. It’d been a painfully long time since they’d last eaten real food and Five suddenly felt starving.

He watched as Lila picked a strawberry, taking a bite. She groaned in pleasure, closing her eyes. Mouth still full, she beckoned him closer, “Five, come here, you have got to try these.”

Five obeyed, walking over to her. Lila took another enthusiastic bite, as she declared, “I think these might be the best things that I’ve ever eaten.”

Tossing the hull of the strawberry behind her, Lila reached for another. She smirked at Five, waving the strawberry in front of his lips tauntingly, “Open up.”

Five rolled his eyes, trying to repress the smile that was creeping onto his lips as he relented, opening his mouth. Lila pressed the strawberry to his lips and as he bit down…

Click.

Five froze, eyes snapping open. Lila spun around and her lips parted in shock as she took you in. There, you stood, shotgun cocked and pointed at the pair of them.

You were a sight for sore eyes, with your tousled hair around your shoulders and polka dot dress that fell effortlessly around your hips. Five was completely mesmerised.

Your soft hair, the polka dots that covered your dress, it was all so familiar to him. Your presence felt like a greeting from an old friend and he smiled lovingly at you as he said, “Dolores.”

Lila’s presence was entirely forgotten as you stood in front of him, just as beautiful as he’d remembered. Lila raised an eyebrow, asking, “You know her?” at the same time as you asked, “Dolores?!”

You looked them both in the eye, stepping closer and aiming the barrel of the gun at their heads, “I don’t know who Dolores is but the two of you better start explaining before I shoot you both.”

You had to admit, you were slightly intrigued by the appearance of the two of them. More specifically, the man in front of you. Even more so when he audibly laughed at your words.

You raised an eyebrow at him, smirking with amusement as you said, “You do realise that you’re trespassing, right? That I’m well within my rights to pull this trigger and put a bullet through both of your skulls?”

Five was still looking at you as if you’d hung the moon and the stars and not just threatened to shoot him.

Lila shoved her elbow into his chest and he groaned, clutching it, “Jesus… Lila!” He said, glaring at her.

“What?” Lila groaned, looking over at him with a huff, “She asked you a question.”

“Yes, thank you.” You said with a small nod as you watched her. She nodded back with a pleased smile, holding her hands behind her back.

You look back at Five, expectantly, gun still raised, “Well?”

He smiled saccharinely at you, being sure to emphasise his words as he said, “Me and my friend here just got a little lost, that’s all.”

“Hm… getting lost is what we’re calling breaking and entering now?” You challenge and your combative demeanour only made Five want to get to know you more.

He grinned, shrugging his shoulders innocently, “It would appear that way.” He said, making it impossible for you to ignore the cockiness in his tone.

You simply laughed at him, lowering your weapon slightly, “And Dolores?”

“She’s…” He paused, thinking it through. He couldn’t exactly say who Dolores really was, you’d think he was crazy and that was the last thing he wanted.

If he ignored the fact that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, he could also tell that you were exactly the kind of woman he wanted to know and he was not going to mess up any chance he might have with you, “…my ex-girlfriend.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue, he thought to himself. Lila’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Slowly, a look of realisation spread across her face and she stifled her laughter as she asked, “Hold on, you don’t mean that manne-“

“Please, excuse my friend.” He hastily cut Lila off with an infuriated glare thrown in her direction.

“She has terrible conversational etiquette.” Five offered, smiling politely at you as if he hadn’t just completely shut Lila down, “I’m Five, and that over there is Lila.”

You nodded in return. Lila smiled but made no more attempts to initiate a conversation as she wandered off deeper into the green house.

Five, happy to have the chance to speak you alone, stepped closer, “It’s a nice place.” He said, putting his hands in his pockets.

You lowered your gun, slinging it over your shoulder and offering him a warmer smile, “Thanks, I think so too.”

You were funny. He felt himself grow more smitten with every word you said. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, raising an eyebrow at you, “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” You answer, brushing off your skirt. His eyes followed your fingers as you did.

You walked by him to pick up a bag of compost and dropped it onto the countertop beside you. Five walked after you, placing a hand on the table in your eyeline, practically begging you to keep the conversation going.

The last time he’d gotten so quickly attached to a girl, he’d been with her for forty years and he was already thinking about what that might look like with you, “Are you going to tell me it?” He pushed, tilting his head to the side as he smiled at you.

You stopped breaking up the soil, laughing softly as you looked over your shoulder at him, “You know, you’re very interested in knowing about me for someone I just caught breaking into my house.”

“I thought we’d agreed that we were just lost? I can confidently say that there was no ill intent on my part.” He replies, smirking at you.

“Maybe not.” You say, smacking your palms against each other to dust them off, “But there is intent of some kind.” You bend down, pulling out an empty plant pot from below the counter.

“True…” Five hummed, tapping his finger on the counter as he watched you place the pot onto the table and begin to fill it with compost.

He looks around the room some more - noticing the lone chair and table in the observatory by the back door, “You live here alone?”

He asked, watching your nimble fingers form a well in the centre of the pot. He looked over his shoulder to where Lila was prodding a venus flytrap and then back to you for your answer.

“I do.” You reply as your fingers continue to press deeper into the soil. Five nodded, rolling his sleeves up and leaning them on the countertop with a sly smile.

You dust off your hands again and go back to kneeling on the floor. Five watches with interest as you sift through pots and packets of different flowers.

“Okay and why is that?” He asks, bending down beside you as you consider which flower to pot.

You look over at him and notice how his eyes lingers on the bright, yellow marigolds tucked away to the left. You take them out.

“Because…” You say, hauling the smaller pot onto the counter again, “I’ve never been much of a people person.”

“Hence why you live in the middle of the woods.” Five nods along, smiling to himself. He was beginning to get an idea of what kind of girl you were and he liked it.

“Exactly.” You nod, gently prying the marigolds from their original pot and settling them into the divet in their new one.

You scooped some compost into your hands, sprinkling the marigold with an extra layer of dirt, “That’s me, but what about you? What makes a guy like you take a wander in the woods?”

A guy like him? Five glanced down at himself, suddenly feeling very self-conscious of his dirtied appearance. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in a while but he couldn’t imagine that seven years without a shower had done him any good.

Then again, your arms were buried elbow deep in dirt right now, so he figured he couldn’t look that awful, “It’s a long story but… simply put, my friend and I are looking for a place to stay.”

“I see.” You hum, touching up the marigolds. You pull open a drawer, taking out some pruners and making tiny adjustments to the flowers.

Five appreciated the precision with which you worked on them, he imagined that you treated all of your plants with the same amount of time and care. He was beginning to feel a little jealous of them.

You tilted your head to the side as you looked back at him, “So, you just thought that you’d crash here?”

Five looked slightly embarrassed as he stood up straighter, searching for the right answer. Lila smiled, yelling from the other side of the room, “Yeah, pretty much. It’s a really nice place.”

You laugh at her bluntness, placing down your pruners and dusting off your hands again, “Good to know.”

Five chuckles and looks back down at the counter. Taking in the sight of the finished marigolds, sitting plump and pretty in their new home, he smiles, “They’re beautiful.”

“Consider them a welcome gift for the two of you.” You say, pushing the pot towards him. Then, you wink, walking past him and back into the house.

Five is rendered speechless.

[homunculus-argument]

Rural Finland gothic

the asphalt road you are driving has been cut through the woods. the sky is clouded and grey, the asphalt is grey, the forest on both sides of you is green. no other colour exists other than green and shades of grey. sometimes blue roadsigns point towards places whose names you've never heard. you don't google them. it's none of your business.

sometimes you drive past a house, a wooden house painted white, yellow or red. the paint is faded and chipping, there is moss growing on the roof tiles. there are lace curtains in the windows and a bench on the yard, but you cannot tell by the quick glance you get whether the house is abandoned or not. the residents don't want you to know. it's none of your business.

you pause at a gas station. it seems to be a part of a chain that you thought went bankrupt in the 90s. a handful of those wooden houses are settled around it, and you wonder if any of the people living there work at the station. not that it matters. it's none of your business.

there are a handful of locals gathered inside the gas station, drinking coffee at the table. They smell like pine soap, resin and mosquito repellent, and you can't tell whether paused their conversation to silently stare at you when you stepped in, or whether they had been sitting in silence to begin with. you don't ask. it's none of your business.

the station cashier doesn't talk to you save for a greeting and a few quick nods. you can't tell whether it's because they assume you don't speak finnish. they don't ask where you came from, or where you're going. it's none of their business.

the road leads you somewhere with more houses and buildings. the locals don't call the town by the name. it's just church town, the church is there. people don't say they're going to the town to buy their groceries, they say they'll be at the church. you're not sure whether the town was built around the church or the church was built into the town. It's none of your business.

people talk of going to the church when they're going to the town, but nobody seems to go in the church. people only go there to be christened, for confirmation, to get married and to be buried. a child has not been officially named before they're christened, and no-one will tell you the name of their baby before the child has been given their name by a priest. most of them don't seem to know why, and you don't ask. it's none of your business.

even the town is strangely quiet. you see seven people altogether, and half of that number is a family of four. besides the sound of a car rumbling by, and the occasional barking of a dog, you hear nothing. you're standing in the parking lot of a grocery store, across the street from a library, in a walking distance from the town square, and it's so quiet you hear the sound of wind whispering in nearby trees.

there is a dog barking somewhere. of course they are barking, they are guard dogs and hunting dogs. they're supposed to do that. they bark to alert their masters of game, of intruders, of strangers and outsiders. sometimes they bark at the woods, when it doesn't look like there's anything there. the locals don't go investigate it. it's none of their business.

you see the same symbol drawn, doodled and carved anywhere that graffiti accumulates to. an oval divided in the middle, with rays like a sun. it's called the "church boat", though everyone knows it's meant to be a cunt. you remember reading somewhere that it's an ancient symbol, from the time of the Old Gods before the christians came, when the inherent power of the woman of the house was considered stronger than even death magic. you don't ask what the people here know about this. it's none of your business.

the locals can tell you're an outsider here because you don't look like anyone they know. if you were someone's visiting grandchild, they could tell by your face which clan you belong to. they don't ask you what other business you could possibly have here. it's none of their business.

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — six

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 35.5k 

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — you and mark aren’t together anymore, but somehow you’ve grown closer than ever. every moment you share feels more intimate, blurring the line between friendship and love. but secrets, old wounds, and buried pain threaten to tear you apart again. campus tension, a difficult practice, and an eventful party only add to the strain. now, you’re left wondering if closeness is enough to mend what’s been shattered.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, phone sex, sexting, explicit themes, lots of pent up frustration and tension, really angsty chapter (get tissues), y/n bit of a girlboss in this i fear, mark and y/n have difficult conversations, he’s very needy and messy in this, mark this chapter will make you realize all guys are the same and only want pussy😭, for once y/n is emotional support queen, emotional outbursts from mark, mark is quite cold and distant this chapter at times, horny mark, mark who tries to use sex as a distraction and escape tut tut, in general mark will give you whiplash this chapter, i delve into a side of him that you haven’t seen before, yn finally not taking people’s shit for once!, karina is hot as always, karina and jeno… yeah, y/n and jeno are shippable in this i fear, don’t take them seriously, they’re just besties who don’t know how to stop flirting!, but in all seriousness, jeno is 🥺 the best fucking brother and friend ever, college party scene ofc, mentions of pills, drug dealing, stay safe !!

authors note — the finale is 80k words. i’ve decided to split it into two parts. it’s all written but i’m uploading this now and part 7 next week. the finale is connected, meaning part 7 takes place exactly where part 6 ends… enjoy, this is gonna be one hell of a ride.  

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

The apartment feels unnaturally still, like it’s holding its breath alongside you. The faint hum of the city outside, usually a comfort, feels distant tonight, muffled by the thick tension hanging in the air. Even the soft glow of the string lights draped over the windows seems dimmer, their warm hue failing to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. You sink into the couch, the plush cushions swallowing your frame as if they could somehow shield you from the weight pressing on your chest. 

The faint scent of vanilla—Karina’s favorite candle—lingers in the air, too soothing for a night like this. Across from you, Karina sits perched in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat settling in for the long haul. She doesn’t say a word, but her watchful eyes, softened by concern, flicker to your face, scanning it like she’s searching for a crack in the silence. Her fingers absently play with the hem of her oversized sweater. Her face is unreadable at first, but her furrowed brows and the way she bites her lip betray her concern. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, just waits in the silence that feels like it could swallow you both whole.

Finally, you let the words fall, heavy and raw. Her eyes widen slightly as she leans forward, sensing the shift before you even finish speaking. When you tell her everything, she’s silent at first. Completely still. You can almost hear her mind racing as she processes it all, her gaze flickering between sympathy and disbelief.

“So… it’s over?” Her voice is tentative, the words breaking the silence like a stone dropped in still water.

You hesitate, your throat tightening as the memories of last night replay in your mind—You tell her everything—how the argument had been the breaking point, how the two of you had finally laid everything bare, resolved what you could, communicated in a way that you hadn’t in weeks. But even with the air cleared, the weight of it all had remained, and you’d come to a mutual understanding that, for now, you had to let go. The words still feel foreign on your tongue, too final and jagged to fully accept but you force yourself. “Yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “We broke up.”

Karina’s face shifts immediately, her lips pressing into a thin line as she takes it in. There’s no hesitation in her reaction. In a heartbeat, she’s up and crossing the small space between you. She sits beside you on the couch, her warmth engulfing you as her arms wrap around you tightly. It’s not a gentle embrace—it’s firm, grounding, as if she’s trying to hold you together while you unravel. “Oh, babe,” she murmurs, her voice thick with empathy. “I’m so sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

Her words hit you like a dagger, and your already wobbly composure crumbles further. Your throat tightens, your chest feels heavy, and Karina’s embrace, meant to ground you, suddenly feels too much—too close. You squirm, shifting uncomfortably in her arms, desperate for a sliver of space to breathe. She notices immediately, her head tilting as if to ask, Really? But instead of loosening her hold, she only pulls you closer, squeezing tighter.

“Oh no,” she says dramatically, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “You’re not getting away from me that easily. I’m your emotional support bestie, and you will accept this hug whether you like it or not.”

“Karina, stop,” you groan, trying and failing to push her away as she holds on for dear life, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“You don’t need to breathe. You need to feel the love,” she says, completely unbothered, patting your back with mock seriousness.

You huff, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips, and Karina seems to sense the crack in your armor. She finally lets go, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with deliberate gentleness. Her teasing melts into something softer as she studies you, but the twitch of her lips hints at trouble.

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with a familiar glint. “You’re doing what’s best for you both right now,” she says carefully, her tone sincere, but her smirk betrays her. “But if I know you—and him—this isn’t over. Not for real.”

You glare at her, though it’s half-hearted. “Don’t,” you warn, but she only raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“What?” she says innocently, leaning back into the armchair, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, you two are like… inevitable. A little break isn’t going to change that.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the armrest, cutting through the tension. Karina’s grin only deepens as she wiggles her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying herself. “And that, my friend, is called perfect timing.”

You grab it instinctively, expecting anything but the name that flashes on the screen.

mark — y/n, are you awake? mark — i need u mark — y/n.  mark — five missed calls.

Your heart stutters as the notifications glare back at you, each one a tug on the fragile strings holding you together. The urgency in his words is unmistakable, a magnet pulling your thoughts entirely to him. Your chest tightens as your thumb hovers over his name, your breath catching in anticipation.

“Karina,” you murmur, your voice almost trembling as you break the silence. “He’s—he’s texting me.”

Karina leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the messages on your screen. Her expression softens, concern flickering in her gaze, but it’s soon overshadowed by something else—a mischievous glint you don’t trust. “What does he mean, ‘I need you’?” she asks, her tone caught somewhere between genuine worry and playful curiosity. Before you can answer, her gaze flicks toward the door, and a sly smile tugs at her lips. “Actually,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement, “I know exactly what he means.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina, now is not the time for this,” you say sharply, though your voice wavers under the growing weight of the moment.

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” she replies breezily, leaning back against the armchair as if she’s already won this round. But before you can fire back, a sharp knock echoes through the apartment.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and your head snaps toward the door. “No way,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. Your eyes dart to Karina, who looks far too smug for your liking.

“Oh, way,” she says, practically bouncing up from her spot on the couch. “And you’re welcome,” she adds, her tone dripping with self-satisfaction as she strides toward the door with all the confidence of someone about to deliver the punchline of a joke they’ve been sitting on for hours.

“Karina, don’t—” But it’s too late. She swings the door open in one fluid motion, stepping aside dramatically as if presenting the answer to all your questions.

Mark stands there, disheveled and strikingly vulnerable, the faint glow from the hallway light catching on his features and casting soft shadows across his face. His hoodie is slightly wrinkled, the fabric clinging to him in places as if it had been tugged and twisted during his anxious movements. His joggers hang low on his hips, the waistband slightly skewed, like he hadn’t bothered to fix them in his rush to get here. His hair is a wild mess, strands sticking up in every direction, as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. And his eyes—those familiar, piercing eyes—are a storm of exhaustion and unspoken desperation. They meet yours instantly, and your chest tightens at the sight of him.

“Mark,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips so softly it’s barely audible, like a prayer you didn’t even realize you were saying. The breath catches in your lungs, and for a moment, you don’t move, the sheer presence of him freezing you in place.

His hand rakes through his hair again, the motion rough and frustrated. “I need you,” he says again, his voice low but steady, the weight of those three words heavy with meaning. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter, his gaze locked onto yours as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

You take a small step back, your hand still resting on Mark’s forearm as the question tumbles out, unbidden. “Did you finally tell—” Your voice cuts off mid-sentence as the weight of his gaze shifts, his eyes flickering briefly to the side. You follow his line of sight and immediately catch Karina, still perched on the bottom step of the staircase, her head tilted with blatant curiosity. Her chin rests on her hand, her eyebrows raised as though she’s watching the climax of a particularly juicy movie.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. It’s enough to make your stomach twist. The memory of his earlier plea echoes in your mind: Don’t tell anyone—not until I’m ready.

Karina notices the shared glance between you and Mark and suddenly seems to realize she’s been caught. She sits up straighter, blinking innocently. “What?” she says, her voice far too casual, but her wide eyes betray her interest. “I’m just… here for moral support.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina,” you murmur, a quiet exasperation lacing your tone. Mark doesn’t say a word, but the sharpness in his eyes speaks volumes.

She groans, throwing her hands up as she rises to her feet. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, clearly unimpressed with being dismissed. She starts toward the stairs with a dramatic sigh. Her door clicks shut, and the apartment falls into a heavy silence once more. Mark’s shoulders relax, but only slightly, his hand brushing against yours again. You feel the weight of his gaze pull you back to the moment, his expression unreadable but filled with something vulnerable, something raw.

You exhale, finally looking back at him. “Mark…” You step forward instinctively, your movements slow, almost tentative. Your bare feet pad softly against the hardwood floor as you close the distance, and the moment you’re close enough, your hand reaches out before you can stop it. Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his hoodie, and the contact feels electric, grounding, like touching something you’ve missed for far too long.

“Come inside,” you murmur, your voice softer now, almost pleading. You tug lightly at his arm, your grip firm but gentle, and he lets you pull him over the threshold, his body following yours as if he’s been waiting for this, for you, all night. The door clicks shut behind him, but you don’t let go of his arm. Instead, you pull him deeper into the apartment, leading him into the warm light of the living room.

Your hands shift, one sliding down to his wrist while the other lingers on his forearm. His skin feels warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and your thumb grazes the edge of it absentmindedly, as if trying to ground yourself in the reality of him standing here, in front of you. You don’t know if you’re holding him or if he’s anchoring you—it feels like both.

When you stop, he’s standing so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with something distinctly him—something familiar and comforting. Your eyes roam over him, taking in every detail: the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he looks at you, the slight redness in his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. You reach up without thinking, your hand brushing against the side of his face, your fingers lingering just below his jaw. His stubble feels rough against your skin, and the contact makes your stomach flip.

“Talk to me,” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a question or a greeting—it’s an acknowledgment. A reminder that he’s here, and so are you. The intimacy of the moment feels overwhelming, as if the weight of everything unsaid hangs in the air between you.

His eyes soften for a fleeting moment, just enough for you to catch the vulnerability behind the storm raging in his expression. Slowly, his hand rises to cover yours, his palm warm and steady against your knuckles. The contact feels grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you, and when he leans into your touch—just slightly—you can feel the tension in his body begin to ease. His exhale is shaky, like he’s finally releasing a breath he’s been holding for hours, and it pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admits, his voice low and raw, the words heavy with meaning. It feels like a confession, like he’s laying a piece of himself bare for you. “I tried, but I just—” His voice falters, cracks under the weight of his emotions, and he looks down, his grip on your hand tightening as if afraid you might pull away. “I need you, Y/N. I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a wave of emotion crashing over you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your throat tightening as his words settle deep in your chest. Slowly, your thumb brushes along his jawline, your touch gentle against his tension. “I’m here,” you whisper softly, and somehow those two words feel like a promise—one you’re both desperately trying to hold onto in the chaos of everything.

But the moment doesn’t last. Reality crashes back in like a cold wave as your thoughts shift. “Did you tell Coach?” you ask abruptly, your tone sharper than intended as your hand falls away.

Mark’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering as he fights to hold back whatever storm is brewing inside him. His gaze drops to the floor, his shoulders stiff with tension, as though the weight of your words has settled squarely on them. The silence between you feels heavy, stretching for a moment too long, and yet the guilt etched across his face tells you everything before he even opens his mouth. It’s in the way his brows knit together, in the way his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides, as if he’s grappling with something he can’t quite articulate. When he finally exhales, the sound is low and strained, carrying with it an apology he hasn’t yet spoken but that you can already feel in your chest.

“Mark,” you press, your voice rising with worry and frustration. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t respond right away, his head bowing further as he takes a hesitant step closer. His eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and pleading, meet yours. “Y/N, I—”

“No,” you cut him off, taking a step back. Your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions, but the edge of frustration sharpens it. “Your health is not a game, Mark. This isn’t something you can keep putting off like it’s not a big deal. Do you know how scared I am for you? How helpless I feel every time I think about what could happen to you?”

His shoulders sag under your words, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. “I know, okay? I know,” he says, his voice strained. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest as you glare at him. “But you still haven’t told Coach, have you?”

“Y/N.” His voice is soft but carries an urgency that demands your attention. He takes a tentative step toward you, his gaze searching yours for an opening, for understanding.

“Mark,” you interrupt, your tone sharp, though your heart clenches at the look on his face. “If you don’t tell Coach, then I will. I mean it.” Your voice wavers slightly, but the resolve in your words is clear. You’re not letting this go, not when his health is on the line.

He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “That’s what my best friend keeps telling me,” he says, almost like he’s admitting defeat.

Your brows furrow, confusion cutting through your frustration. “She knows?”

Mark nods slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. She's known for a while. She found my medication… or, well, the full packets of them. She put two and two together and realized I haven’t told Coach, and that I haven’t been taking any of it. Even though I’m supposed to.” His voice drops, laced with guilt, and you can see the weight of his own choices pressing down on him.

“Mark,” you murmur, the sharpness in your tone softening. You step closer, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “Do you even realize how much this scares me? I can’t—I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you. You mean too much to me.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you press your lips together, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, or how much you want to push through this on your own. You can’t. You need help, and I can’t just sit here and watch you ignore this.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unspoken. His hand brushes over yours, his thumb running across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “That’s why I came here to you,” he says, his voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in it.

Your chest tightens, your voice soft but firm as you respond. “Mark, this isn’t just about me being here for you. It’s about you taking this seriously. You can’t keep putting this off, thinking it’ll just go away.”

His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide and searching your face. “Y/N, don’t,” he pleads, taking another step closer. “I promise I’ll do it. I came here to tell you that I’ve made up my mind. I just… I need you with me. I can’t do it alone.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in your chest. You know how hard this is for him, how deeply he struggles with the idea of vulnerability, but that doesn’t make the fear you feel for him any less intense. “I’ll be there,” you say softly, your tone steady but firm. “Coach needs to know, Mark. And so do your parents, your doctor—people who can help you. This is your health, and it’s too important to keep brushing aside.”

“And I will tell him,” he promises, his voice soft but filled with determination. “I swear to you, Y/N. I’ll do it. Just… be there with me.”

You nod, a sense of relief mixing with the overwhelming love you feel for him. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly. “But I’ll be prouder when you actually do it.”

His hand moves to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. His touch is steady, grounding, but there’s a nervous energy in the way his fingers linger, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering, raw. “You’re the reason I’m doing this,” he murmurs, the words almost trembling on his lips, yet spoken with certainty. “You make me want to be better… to take care of myself.”

Your chest tightens as his words sink in, the weight of his sincerity nearly overwhelming you. You lift your free hand to his face, letting your palm cradle his jaw as your thumb traces the faint stubble along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, leaning into your touch as though he’s been starved for it. The vulnerability etched across his face makes your heart ache in ways you can’t put into words.

“You’ve got to take care of your heart, Mark,” you say softly, your voice trembling as you press your hand just a little firmer against his chest. “Your heart… it’s what makes you, you. It’s why you care so deeply, why you give so much of yourself, why—” Your voice catches, your words faltering under the weight of your emotions. Your eyes lock onto his, and you feel the sharp ache of vulnerability settle deep in your chest. “I can’t stand the thought of it failing you. Not physically, not in any way. I can’t lose that part of you. I just… I can’t.”

Mark’s lips twitch, a faint smirk playing at the corners as he tilts his head, the teasing glint in his eyes softening the heaviness of the moment. “You’re getting awfully poetic on me,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with warmth. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch grounding. “Didn’t know you thought about my heart this much.”

The shift in Mark is so sudden it feels like emotional whiplash, but you don’t flinch. You know him too well for that—know how he clings to humor when reality cuts too deep. The teasing edge in his voice, the way his lips twitch with that familiar smirk—It’s his shield, his way of reclaiming control when everything else spirals beyond his grasp. You’ve seen this before, and you’re ready for it, prepared for him to use you as his distraction. It doesn’t surprise you when his thub brushes over your knuckles with a deliberate slowness, his gaze darkening with something playful, something just shy of dangerous. It’s a dance you’ve learned by heart—the way he turns vulnerability into teasing, the way his sarcasm softens the cracks he won’t let you see fully. And even as his smirk deepens, his thumb still lingers against your skin, grounding himself in you while pretending none of it matters.

Your cheeks grow warmer under his gaze, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside you. “Stop that,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you intended, almost drowned out by the sound of his steady breathing. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, as if betraying your words. “Stop teasing me,” you add, pouting, though the way your voice falters ruins any attempt at firmness.

His gaze softens, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there’s a quiet heat simmering in his eyes. “You make it so easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, the teasing laced with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes against your knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he’s savoring the moment. “You know I can’t help it when you look at me like that,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, warmer, each word drawing you closer.

“Like what?” you whisper, your voice soft but unwavering as you hold his gaze. “Like you mean the absolute world to me? Because you do, Mark.”

His breath hitches, and a quiet groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut for a brief second before locking back on yours, filled with a raw, unguarded softness. “God,” he mutters, almost like he’s cursing himself for the way you undo him.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, not from nerves but from the intensity crackling between you. Your eyes stay locked on his, refusing to waver.

“You’re fucking with me, baby,” he murmurs, the nickname slipping out, his tone rougher now, like he’s grappling with the way you’ve stripped him bare.

“I’m not doing anything,” you reply innocently, though the small tilt of your lips betrays you. 

“Oh yeah? You’re the one who keeps pressing your hand here—” His hand presses a little firmer over yours, trapping it against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat vibrates under your palm, grounding the moment, “—telling me how much my heart matters. Making it sound like it’s the most important thing in the world.” His voice drops into something almost hypnotic, laced with a teasing edge that sends a shiver through you. His eyes flick to yours, dark and intent, but behind the heat lies an unmistakable softness, a tenderness that slips through and holds you there, captivated.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a kiss so soft to the back of your hand that it makes your breath catch. He lingers there, the warmth of his lips sinking into your skin, before lowering your hands and resting them under his chin, cradling them gently as if you’re something fragile he refuses to let go of.

“That’s because it is the most important thing in the world for me,” 

His breath catches, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then, his lips twitch into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something deeper, something only you can give him. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even have to try.”

“You’re the same for me,” you whisper, your voice soft but heavy with meaning as your fingers thread through his hair. He exhales sharply, leaning into your touch, the vulnerability in his gaze unraveling something deep inside you. “Can we get more comfortable?” you murmur against him, your eyes dark and laden with a hidden message that makes his breath hitch.

The question slips out before you can retract it, instinctive and unguarded, because you need him just as much as he needs you. Around Mark, your self-control has always been fragile—something the two of you indulge and dismantle in equal measure. You’ll allow him to use you as his distraction tonight because it’s the only way you know how to meet him in moments like this, when everything feels too raw and too real. 

He nods softly, his hands sliding to your waist with purpose, steady and unhurried. His fingers curve firmly against your sides, and with a gentle but deliberate pull, he guides you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. The press of his hands doesn’t falter, holding you close as though making sure you won’t slip away. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate lines over your hips, grounding you in the warmth of his touch as he shifts you just enough to align your bodies perfectly. The soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the press of his thighs against yours add to the intimacy, his hands lingering at your waist, strong yet tender, as if savoring every inch of closeness he’s claimed.

Your palms slide over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until they cradle his face. His skin is warm under your touch, and you take a moment to just feel him, the closeness erasing the tension that’s been building between you. You don’t care that you’ve just broken up. None of that matters right now. What matters is the way your bodies gravitate toward each other like magnets, the way his eyes soften and darken all at once as he looks at you.

You crave his space, his warmth, the way his presence grounds you even when everything feels unsteady. The heat of him beneath you is intoxicating, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to move, not to grind against him the way you’ve been used to. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as you try to steady yourself, your hands still framing his face.

“I’ve never cared about anyone like you,” you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “Never cared about wanting to keep them safe, to keep them away from harm. I’ve never felt this before.” You pause, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you lean in closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Every time I think about what you’ve been dealing with, it gives me agony.”

“But you don’t have to face any of it alone. Ok?” you continue, your voice breaking slightly as your emotions spill over. “I never want you to get that idea. This isn’t only your burden to carry. When you push yourself too hard, when you refuse to take care of yourself… it ripples outward. It hurts everyone who cares about you, whether you see it or not. You think you’re sparing us, but you’re not. We’re in this with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your words trail off, leaving a charged silence between you. His gaze softens, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a quiet understanding he doesn’t voice. The pad of his thumb brushes over your skin again, slow and deliberate, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm. His breath, warm and steady, ghosts across your lips, and you can feel the unspoken tension thickening the air around you.

“So what is it, hmm?” His voice softens, but the teasing edge remains, a challenge hidden behind his tenderness. “What are you trying not to say?” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again, the moment hanging like a thread between you, waiting to snap.

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you falter, your fingers trembling under his touch. “I’m just trying to get you to take care of yourself,” you say quietly, deflecting, though your voice wavers under the weight of his attention.

Mark’s smirk deepens, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studies your face. “Take care of myself, huh?” he echoes, his voice dipping lower, smoother, like he’s testing the words on his tongue. His thumb continues its slow, deliberate stroke over your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “You sure about that? Because it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

He leans in closer, his forehead almost brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of teasing and tenderness, his gaze flickering down to where your fingers rest against his chest. “And you still can’t stop pressing your hand right there—like you’re trying to feel every beat, like you’re afraid to let go.” His lips hover near your temple, so close you can feel the ghost of his words as he speaks. “So tell me, Y/N… is it just about me taking care of myself, or are you trying to say something else?”

The heat in his gaze makes your chest tighten, a pressure building that feels both overwhelming and irresistible. His voice, soft but insistent, wraps around you, pulling at something buried deep within—a feeling so profound it leaves you breathless, yet fragile enough that naming it feels impossible. It’s in the way his eyes hold yours, unrelenting, as though he’s reaching into the parts of you you’ve kept hidden, the parts you’re not sure anyone is supposed to see. 

You huff, your chest rising and falling as you cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him with mock irritation. “This is so unfair. I just opened my heart to you, being softer than I’ve ever been, and you’re just… sitting there. Like it doesn’t even matter.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. His silence only fuels your frustration, and you shift, trying to push off his lap. “Fine, whatever,” you grumble. “Clearly, I’m wasting my—”

Before you can finish, his hands glide to your hips, his touch warm but deliberate as he steadies you. His fingers press gently into your sides, guiding you back into place with a quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. 

Then his lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and uneven as he leans closer, pressing himself against you. The way he tilts his head, the deliberate slowness of his movements, carries a weight you can’t ignore. The heat of him radiates against your skin as his nose brushes along your jawline. He whispers into your ear, it’s soft, almost reverent, his words slipping into the space between you like a quiet plea. 

He tells you how much he needs you—not just now, but tomorrow morning, and every moment after that, how you’re the only thing keeping him steady when the world feels too heavy. His voice trembles, each word carrying a weight you can’t resist, and in that moment, your resolve shatters, breaking apart under the raw intimacy of his touch and the quiet desperation in his voice.

Your throat tightens in annoyance. The look in his eyes—steady, raw, and searching—pulls at something deep inside you. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. “Stop trying to make this about me. This is about you, about you taking your health seriously. I need you as much as you need me but I need you safe and healthy.” You whisper, your voice trembling but edged with a quiet, desperate plea. Your thumb brushes over his chest absently, like you’re trying to soothe the ache you know lingers there for both of you. “This isn’t a game to me, Mark. You’re not a game to me.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies you, his gaze softening but never wavering. “And you think you are to me?” he asks, his voice low and intimate, the question so quiet it feels like it’s meant to echo only between the two of you. His fingers tighten subtly on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of his body sinking into yours.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand trembling against his chest. “No,” you admit, your voice barely audible, each word heavy with emotion. “But I can’t—Mark, I need you to stay. I can’t handle losing you. I can’t.”

His lips part like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves closer, his forehead brushing against yours with a tenderness that feels almost unbearable. His hands slide up, his thumbs grazing along the curve of your sides before settling on your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid to lose.

“You’re not losing me,” he whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret meant only for you. His breath brushes against your lips, warm and steady, as his hand moves to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in slow, tender circles. The closeness between you is overwhelming, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the faintest brush of his nose against your skin sending a shiver through you. “You mean everything to me, Y/N,” he breathes, his words trembling with emotion, his lips ghosting over yours without closing the distance. His fingers weave into your hair, his touch deliberate and soothing, like he’s trying to hold you together. “I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice breaking with quiet sincerity as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and reverent.

You hesitate, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words and his touch, by the way his touch lingers on your waist like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. “I don’t… I don’t know how to be okay with how much I care about you,” you confess, your voice cracking under the weight of the vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to hide. 

His hands tighten on your waist, his grip grounding yet gentle, as though he’s keeping you steady while drawing you closer. His forehead remains pressed to yours, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “I’m here because of you,” he says softly, his voice rich with certainty, each word deliberate. “Because no one else sees me the way you do. No one else pushes me to be better, even when I don’t want to be.” His thumb brushes over your hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, the intimacy of the gesture speaking volumes.

You feel the weight of his words settle over you, warm and steady, much like the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. For a moment, your voice fails you, breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering. Finally, your fingers press just a little firmer against his chest, anchoring yourself in his presence. “Mark,” you murmur, the faint tremor in your voice revealing the storm of emotions within. “You make it impossible to stay mad at you, I just—” Your voice falters, but you push on, your chest tightening with the raw truth you’re finally laying bare. “I just can’t stand the thought of you going through this alone. You always carry so much, like you have to handle everything yourself, but you don’t. You don’t have to.”

The quiet between you stretches endlessly, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of his skin anchoring you to the moment, and you let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, steadying yourself. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and familiar, drawing you closer to him even as your chest tightens with the words you’ve been holding back.

“Stay the night,” you murmur, your voice soft and full of hesitation, yet carrying a thread of longing that makes his gaze flicker. The words hang between you, delicate and charged, as his fingers brush along your waist with an almost absentminded tenderness, his touch grounding and impossibly gentle.

His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable flashing across them as he leans in closer, the space between you shrinking until his lips are a breath away from yours. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his touch featherlight but deliberate, sending a shiver racing down your spine. His forehead tilts more firmly against yours, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw with an intimacy that leaves your heart racing.

The tension between you tightens, and you can’t help the way your breath catches, but before he can close the distance, you pull back, your voice a quiet plea. “Not like that,” you whisper, the words trembling as they fall from your lips. The moment breaks, just barely, and the heat rushing to your cheeks betrays your resolve.

He groans softly, low and frustrated, tilting his head as if trying to regain the connection you’ve just disrupted. His hand remains firm at your waist, his thumb still caressing your jaw, as his darkened gaze searches yours. “Y/N,” he mutters, his voice dipped in exasperation, though it softens into something gentler, something tender. “You can’t just say that and then do this to me.”

You bite your lip, caught between the flurry of emotions swirling in his eyes and the teasing edge in his voice. “I mean it,” you murmur, your tone quieter now, though the faint tremor in it betrays your resolve. “Not like that.”

A small, exhausted chuckle escapes him, his breath fanning across your skin. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, his voice dipping low, the teasing laced with a softness that makes your stomach flip. “Not like that.”

You roll your eyes, the action lighthearted despite the heavy air around you, and curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer again. His forehead brushes yours, his nearness calming you even as it sets your nerves alight. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” you say quietly, your voice steadying. “And I’m glad you’ll be here tonight. At least this way, I can make sure you actually tell them.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, his hands still resting on your waist, his grip warm and steady. His gaze roams your face, lingering on every detail—the curve of your lips, the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes meet his without hesitation. His thumb lifts to your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your breath hitch, the weight of it impossible to ignore.

Without a word, he shifts his grip, his hands guiding you with a tenderness that feels deliberate. His touch never falters as he adjusts your position, his strength effortless yet measured as he moves you from his lap. You let him, your body pliant in his hold, until you’re stretched over him, your weight resting gently on top of his.

The shift feels seamless, his arms wrapping securely around you as your chest presses against his. His hand finds the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles there, while his other hand cradles the back of your head. His fingers weave into your hair with a gentleness that makes you shiver, his breath warm against your temple as you settle into him.

His body is firm beneath you, steady and grounding, yet his touch is so careful, as though holding you any other way might break the delicate moment between you. The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath yours lulls you, the quiet strength of his heartbeat anchoring you in his closeness. He tilts his head slightly, brushing his nose along your hairline before murmuring, “You make me feel so strong.” His voice is soft, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud, the vulnerability in it wrapping around you like a quiet confession.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. “You’re stronger than you think,” you whisper, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. “But even if you weren’t, I’d still be here. I’ll always be here.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping to yours once again as his eyes flutter shut. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and the closeness is so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe, yet you wouldn’t trade it for anything. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly, the weight of his emotions pressing into every word.

“I do,” you reply, just as softly, your hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palms. “Because it’s the same for me, Mark. You’re my safe place, too.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stay there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside feels distant, irrelevant, as you lose yourself in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands hold you like you’re something precious, and you can feel the unspoken promise in his touch—that no matter what comes next, you’ll face it together.

Finally, he tilts his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now, like he’s drawn strength from your words. “I’ll stay.”

The corner of your lips tugs into a small, relieved smile as you nuzzle into him, letting his warmth surround you. “Good,” you say softly, your voice laced with quiet affection. “Because I wasn’t going to let you leave anyway.”

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The campus feels unusually quiet, the early morning light filtering through the trees and casting soft golden hues across the pathways. The sound of your footsteps, slow and measured, fills the quiet, the rhythm syncing with the soft rustle of autumn leaves at your feet. Beside you, Mark walks in silence, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his brown jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp air. You glance at him, at the faint tremor in his breath, the way his eyes are fixed ahead but unfocused, as if his thoughts are spinning too fast to land on any one thing.

In all fairness, though, you’re pretty sure he’d be a lot calmer right now if you’d listened to him last night. He tried to coax you into riding his cock last night, multiple times, murmuring soft pleas as his hands wandered over your body. Or, at the very least, just letting him fuck you, claiming it was for no other reason than to relieve his stress before the weight of today. “It’ll help me focus,” he had whispered against your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you close. His tone was low, velvety, but you knew better. You knew it wasn’t just about stress relief, not with him.

Because no matter how casual he tried to play it, you know him. You know how seriously he takes everything with you. He wouldn’t just fuck you and leave it at that. He’d slow down, cup your face, and whisper things that always feel like they’re meant to ruin you—how much he needs you, how much you mean to him, words you can’t let yourself hear right now. It messes with your head in ways you can’t handle.

The two of you walk together now, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm as you head toward Coach Suh’s office. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the kind of anticipation that makes your chest feel too tight. You sneak a glance at him, at the way his jaw is set just a little too tight, his teeth clenched like he’s holding something back. His shoulders look broader somehow, weighed down by an invisible pressure, and it presses against you, too, as if his fear and uncertainty have become your own.

Your heart twists, and the protective instinct surges in you, sharp and unrelenting. He’s always been the strong one, the steady one, the one who makes sure you’re okay. But now, seeing him like this, so vulnerable and so human, all you want to do is take that burden from him, to shield him from whatever’s waiting behind that office door.

But you can’t. This is something he has to face himself, and the thought makes you feel helpless in a way you’re not used to. So you do the only thing you can—you keep holding his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a quiet, steady rhythm, grounding him the way he always does for you.

When you finally reach the office, the air seems to shift, the tension thickening. Mark stops a few feet from the door, his hand still clasped in yours, and his breath hitches, barely audible. His gaze drops to the floor, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, and you can feel the fear radiating off him like a tangible thing.

You step closer, letting go of his hand only to place both of yours gently on his cheeks, tilting his face up so he has no choice but to meet your eyes. “You can do it,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady. “I’ll just be right here, outside, when you come out.”

His eyes search yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, he looks younger somehow, like the weight of everything has stripped him of the confidence he wears so easily. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits, his voice barely above a murmur. “What if he says I can’t play anymore? What if—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You have to go in there. You have to hear what he has to say, even if it’s not what you want. You need to know. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, his hands coming up to cover yours, his grip warm and firm but trembling slightly. “I just… I don’t want to do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” you promise, leaning in closer so your foreheads almost touch. “But this is something you have to do yourself. It’s important, Mark. You need to show him that you care enough to fight for this, that you’re willing to face it head-on. And I’ll be here, waiting for you, the whole time.”

He nods, but his breath is still unsteady, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the nerves threatening to overwhelm him. You don’t know what else to say, don’t know how to make this easier for him.

Without thinking, you lean in, closing the small distance between you, and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, barely a whisper of contact, but it holds everything you’ve been struggling to say, every unspoken reassurance, every ounce of quiet support. His breath catches, his chest rising sharply against yours, and for a moment, time seems to stop. The weight of the tension that’s been pressing down on him melts away as he leans into you, his hands leaving his sides to find your waist. His touch is hesitant at first, almost like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, his fingers tighten, anchoring you to him.

His lips part slightly, a subtle sigh escaping into the kiss, and you feel him relax, the rigid line of his shoulders softening. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s drawing strength from your presence, grounding himself in the warmth of you. The moment stretches, intimate and unhurried, as if the world beyond the two of you has faded into nothing.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and filled with something tender, something raw. His lips are still parted, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners, and his hands remain on your waist, holding you as if letting go isn’t an option.

“I—” he starts, his voice low and breathless, but you cut him off with a faint, almost shy smile.

“It’s for good luck,” you murmur softly, your hands brushing against the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers linger for a moment, fidgeting as you try to steady your own racing heartbeat.

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Good luck, huh?” he repeats, his tone teasing, though there’s a warmth in his voice that makes your chest ache. His forehead stays pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours with a mix of affection and curiosity. “What happened to just friends?”

You roll your eyes, though the gesture is light, playful. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, your voice soft but teasing, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Now go. You’ve got this.”

“I’m feeling nervous again,” he quips, his tone light but threaded with that teasing edge that always gets to you. He tilts his head, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to yours, deliberately slow, and far too confident for someone about to walk into the hardest conversation of his life. “Think I can get another ‘good luck’ kiss?”

You roll your eyes, though the way your lips twitch betrays the affection bubbling under the surface. Your hand moves to his chest, giving him a light shove that does nothing to move him. “Don’t push it, Lee,” you shoot back, your tone sharp but playful, though the warmth in your voice softens the bite.

His smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you, that boyish charm now mixed with something deeper, something unspoken. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, like he’s committing every detail to memory—the curve of your lips, the way your hand stays lightly against his chest, the warmth in your expression that seems to calm the storm inside him.

You take a small step back, giving him space but not letting the connection between you falter. “I’ll be right here when you’re done,” you promise, your voice steady, the conviction in it clear.

He nods, his hand hovering briefly over the door handle before he turns back to you one last time, his eyes soft but filled with something resolute. “I know,” he says quietly, his lips curling into a smile that holds all the gratitude he doesn’t say out loud. Then, with a deep breath, he turns the handle and steps inside, leaving you standing there with your heart still racing and his warmth lingering in the space between you.

Mark hesitates outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally turning the handle and stepping inside. The room feels heavy, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights amplifying the tension in his chest. Jeno and Coach Suh are leaning over the whiteboard, markers in hand, deep in conversation about defensive strategies. Jeno, animated as always, gestures to a play diagram, his voice steady and confident.

Despite Coach Suh’s presence, his role as head coach hasn’t officially resumed yet; he is still recovering from his recent operation, the strain of returning to full-time duties too much for him at the moment. Taeyong and Doyoung continue to stand in to lead the team during his recovery, but Suh remains deeply involved, doing everything he can to support the players from the sidelines. Even now, his sharp focus and unwavering dedication are evident as he listens intently to Jeno’s suggestions, nodding occasionally while holding himself upright with visible effort.

“Look, if we shift the zone this way, we can force the turnover,” Jeno says, tapping the board with the marker. “It’ll work, trust me.”

Coach Suh nods, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not bad, Jeno. That could plug the gap on transition. You’re finally starting to think like a leader.”

Mark clears his throat, his voice tight. “Coach, you got a sec?”

Both men turn to look at him, surprised. Suh glances at Jeno and then back at Mark, setting down the marker. “Oh yeah, sit down,” he says, his tone firm but welcoming. “This about the game?”

Mark shakes his head, his grip tightening on the backrest of the chair in front of him. Jeno, sensing the shift in mood, steps back from the whiteboard, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glances at the door, starting to gather his things. “If this isn’t about plays, I’ll give you guys some space—”

“You need to hear this too, Jen,” Mark says quickly, his voice steady but low, stopping Jeno in his tracks. His words hang in the air, weighted and deliberate. 

Jeno furrows his brow, whiteboard pen faltering. “What’s up? You good?”

Mark takes another breath, his voice low and steady, though the weight of his words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. “I can’t play in the state championships… I have a heart condition.”

The room falls silent, the statement cutting through the easy energy from earlier. Jeno freezes, his jaw tightening, and Coach Suh straightens, his expression unreadable. Mark finally sits, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at them, his eyes glassy but determined.

“I have HCM,” he continues, his voice wavering just slightly. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’ve had it for a while, but… I haven’t been taking my medication because I didn’t want it to slow me down on the court. And if I play—” He pauses, swallowing hard, his voice breaking as he finishes, “I could die.”

Jeno’s marker falls to the table with a soft clatter, and he stares at Mark, wide-eyed. “What the hell, Mark?” he finally says, his voice filled with disbelief.

Coach Suh, who’s rarely ever fazed, blinks and shifts his stance, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus, Mark,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Mark stands suddenly, pacing the room, his hands raking through his hair. “I know how selfish I’ve been,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I just didn’t want to leave the game behind. The game… it changed my life, you know? Just like it changed yours. It gave me something to fight for, something to be proud of. And it’s gonna be hard to let it go.”

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. Jeno steps forward, his face softening as he places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “The game can only change you if you’ve got a lot to change, right?” he says quietly, his voice steady but warm. “And, Mark… you’ve already done that. You’ve already become someone people look up to.”

Mark looks at him, his lips pressed tightly together, fighting the emotion threatening to spill over. He nods, but his jaw clenches, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Coach Suh sighs, stepping closer, his voice steady and firm. “Mark, I know how hard this conversation must be for you. It’s not easy to admit this, not to yourself and especially not to us.” He glances at Jeno, then back at Mark. “But you must know, I can’t use you as much anymore. You can still play, and you will—but you’re gonna have to be an impact sub, with limited minutes. No more pushing your body past its limits.”

Mark closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a part of the burden he’s been carrying. “I get it, Coach. I… I’ve been trying to prepare myself for this. I just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

Suh steps forward, placing a hand on Mark’s other shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve already done the hardest part, son. You told us. That’s what leaders do—they face the hard truths and do what’s best for the team and for themselves. And you’ve got a team behind you, no matter what.”

Mark’s gaze shifts between Suh and Jeno, his chest tightening with both gratitude and grief. “Thanks,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno gives Mark a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a small smile breaking through his initial shock. “We’ve got you, man. Always.”

Mark nods again, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Jen. Thanks, Coach.” He exhales, his hands steadying against the edge of the desk. For the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

The hallway feels stifling as you wait outside, pacing back and forth in a futile attempt to burn off the nervous energy coursing through you. Every second feels like an eternity, your chest tightening with the weight of the unknown. Your mind churns, flipping relentlessly between fear and hope, each thought heavier than the last. What’s happening behind that door? Is Mark okay? Did he find the right words? You can’t stop imagining the worst—his emotions spilling over, his voice cracking under the pressure, the weight of it all becoming too much. You glance at the door every few seconds, your gaze lingering as if you can will it to open, waiting for him to come out so you can hold him, comfort him, and be the anchor you know he’ll need.

The air feels thick, suffocating in its stillness, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, hoping it will steady the relentless pounding of your heart. You rub your palms together absently, as if preparing yourself for whatever is coming, though nothing could really prepare you. The weight of his confession feels like it’s pressing down on you too, and all you can do is hope he’s getting the support he needs inside, even if you’re not there to see it.

As you exhale slowly, the sound of footsteps breaks through the tense silence, pulling you from your thoughts. You turn your head sharply and see Mark’s best friend approaching. Her expression is a mix of curiosity and concern, her brows furrowed slightly as her gaze flicks from you to the closed door. Her presence catches you off guard—she doesn’t usually come around unless there’s a game or practice, and there’s no obvious reason for her to be here now. Maybe she was passing by, or maybe she sensed something was off. Either way, the sight of her stirs a new wave of unease in your chest.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice sharp but not unkind.

“I’m waiting for Mark,” you mumble, the words spilling out before you can think them through. “He’s finally telling Coach about his heart condition.”

She gasps, her eyes widening. “You know?”

You nod, shifting uncomfortably. “You know too,” you say quietly, and her silence confirms it. She does.

Before the conversation can continue, the door opens, and Mark steps out. The sight of him hits you hard, your breath catching as you take in the raw emotion etched into his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy with the weight of everything he’s just gone through, and they lock onto yours almost instantly. The message in his gaze is clear and unwavering: he needs you. The sheer vulnerability in his expression, the silent plea for comfort, sends a jolt straight to your chest. He looks utterly drained, like he’s been holding himself together for far too long, and you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You step forward instinctively, your arms already reaching for him, ready to pull him close and hold him until the world feels steady again. But before you can close the gap, his best friend gasps and rushes past you, throwing her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. Mark stiffens at first, clearly startled, before he relaxes just enough to return the embrace. His movements are mechanical, his focus not fully on her, and though the gesture is friendly and comforting, it’s nothing compared to the connection you’re aching to offer him.

“You finally told Coach?” she asks, her voice soft but brimming with pride. “I know how hard it must’ve been, I know how long it’s taken, but I’m so proud of you now that you’ve done it.”

Mark nods faintly, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He looks overwhelmed, his silence speaking volumes, and you can tell he’s barely holding it together. His best friend continues, her voice turning lighter, trying to ease the tension. “I can’t believe it took you months to listen to me and finally tell Coach, but I’m glad you heard me out—”

She pauses mid-sentence, her eyes catching the way Mark’s gaze hasn’t left you. His focus is entirely on you, his eyes soft but desperate as they follow your every move. He’s barely acknowledging her words, his need for you palpable in every subtle shift of his expression.

“Oh,” she murmurs, realization dawning on her. “You didn’t listen to me, did you?” She turns back to him, her tone teasing but affectionate. “Y/N told you to tell Coach, and that’s when you did.”

Mark finally speaks, his voice quiet but steady. “Just made me realize how serious it was.”

His best friend huffs playfully, rolling her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “You didn’t listen to me for five entire months, but all it takes is your girlfriend to tell you once, and suddenly you’re all ears,” she jokes, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You freeze, your lips parting slightly, but the intensity of Mark’s gaze keeps you rooted in place. Neither of you moves to correct her, you weren't his girlfriend, not anymore. The tension in the moment begins to lift, but it doesn’t fully dissipate—not with the way he’s still looking at you, his eyes full of longing and need. Slowly, he breaks away from his best friend and takes a step toward you, his shoulders weighed down as though he’s been carrying too much for too long.

“Hi,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he falls into your arms, letting the rest of the world fall away.

His hug is intimate, desperate, and consuming. His hands grip your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him, as if the space between you is unbearable. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. His body presses into yours fully, his warmth seeping into your skin as his trembling becomes more pronounced. It’s not just a hug—it’s a surrender. He’s letting himself fall into you, letting you hold him together when he no longer can.

Your arms wind around him instinctively, one wrapping tightly around his shoulders while the other threads through his hair. The soft strands glide between your fingers as you hold him close, your touch tender and deliberate, meant to comfort and ground him. You feel his breath on your neck, shaky and uneven, the warm exhale brushing against your skin in a way that makes your chest ache. He tightens his grip on you, his arms encircling your body completely, holding you as close as physically possible, as if letting go would break him.

His weight shifts slightly, leaning more heavily into you, and you adjust, your arms pulling him even closer, steadying him. Your fingers slide slowly through his hair again, each motion gentle and soothing, and he exhales shakily, his breath hitching as he tries to steady himself. Your free hand moves to cup his face, your palm warm against his cheek as you tilt his head back just slightly. You pull away just enough to see him, your gaze locking with his.

His eyes are red and glassy, the sadness in them so raw it makes your throat tighten. His lips part slightly, but no words come out, just the weight of everything he’s been holding in. The way he looks at you—like you’re his anchor, his solace, his safe place—makes you want to wrap yourself around him even tighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. Your thumb brushes along his cheekbone, wiping away the faint trace of tears. He doesn’t respond, but he presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter closed, his face tilting into your touch as if seeking out more of your warmth, your reassurance.

“Can we go?” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and vulnerability.

You nod softly, your fingers still brushing through his hair as you press a light kiss to his temple. “Wanna get some breakfast?” you ask, your voice soft and inviting, a small attempt to bring a little normalcy back to the moment.

He nods again, and this time his hands loosen their grip on you, though they linger for a moment longer before he lets you guide him. Your hands slide down to rest on his shoulders, steadying him as you both take a step back. You keep your touch light but constant, one hand lingering on his arm as you turn to walk with him. He leans into you slightly as you leave, his warmth a constant presence beside you, the heaviness of the moment slowly easing with each step.

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The café is quiet, the morning rush having faded into a gentle hum of soft chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine. The sunlight filters through the large windows, painting warm, golden streaks across the small table you’ve claimed by the corner. It feels like a pocket of calm amidst everything, a temporary sanctuary away from the weight of the day.

You return to the table, balancing a tray with his usual coffee order and an assortment of pastries, including his favorite—a pistachio one with its flaky, golden crust and a hint of powdered sugar dusted over the top. His eyes flicker up as you approach, but the usual spark in them feels dimmed, like the exhaustion resting on his shoulders has seeped into his gaze. He offers a soft smile—polite, tired, distant—and it makes your chest ache in ways you can’t quite name.

Setting the tray down, you slide his coffee toward him, the familiar aroma filling the air between you. “Your favorite,” you say softly, trying to infuse some lightness into your voice, but his response is slow. His fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto its warmth as if it’s anchoring him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice low, like it takes effort to get the word out. He takes a sip, his shoulders dropping a fraction, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his frame.

The two of you fall into a silence that feels less like comfort and more like a fragile ceasefire. You glance at him over your coffee, catching the way his gaze lingers on the table, avoiding yours. He picks at the sleeve of the cup, his movements slow and deliberate, like his mind is elsewhere. The golden light catches the faint furrow in his brow, and you wonder if he’s even tasting the coffee.

He reaches for the pistachio pastry eventually, taking a bite with an almost mechanical precision. The crisp layers crackle beneath his teeth, and for a fleeting second, his brows lift in approval. “Mmm,” he hums, but there’s a hollowness in his tone, like he’s performing a version of himself you’ve always known but that he can’t quite summon now. Still, he pushes the remaining pastry across the table toward you, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, offering silent encouragement. The gesture feels genuine, but there’s a hesitation in it too, like he’s searching for something in your reaction.

You pick it up, your fingers brushing the crumbs from its edges, and take a bite where his had been. The rich pistachio filling melts on your tongue, the buttery sweetness almost grounding you. You nod back at him, mirroring his earlier gesture. “You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s good.”

His lips tug into another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You hesitate for a moment before reaching across the table to take his hand. His fingers are warm but tense, his grip firm yet hesitant, like he’s holding back even in this simple touch. You trace your thumb over his knuckles in slow, soothing circles, watching the way his eyes follow the movement rather than meeting yours.

“How did it go?” you whisper finally, your voice careful, breaking the silence. The question hangs between you, heavy and expectant. He exhales slowly, his hand tightening briefly around yours as his other one wraps protectively around the coffee cup, as though bracing himself.

“Probably how you’d expect it to go,” he says, his tone blunt, cutting through the quiet. You know he doesn’t mean for it to sting, but it does, the sharpness of his words settling in your chest.

“Mark,” you call his name softly, a quiet plea for him to let you in, to trust you with the weight he’s carrying. But he doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the table, as though the answer lies somewhere in the grain of the wood.

He sighs then, the sound low and heavy, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains from him. “Coach said he’s proud,” he begins, his voice monotone, devoid of its usual warmth, as if he’s reading from a script. “Said I can’t play like I used to. Limited minutes. Impact sub. For my safety.” Each word drops heavily, stripped of emotion, as though detaching himself from them will make them hurt less.

The flatness in his tone is more jarring than the words themselves, and it leaves an ache in the silence that follows. You squeeze his hand gently, wishing you could reach past the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze lingering on your joined hands. The sadness in his eyes is a weight you can feel, pressing down on your chest. Wanting to ease the tension, you reach for the tray and grab an almond pastry, holding it out to him. “Here. Try this,” you say softly, your tone light and encouraging.

Mark glances at the pastry, his lips quirking upward just slightly as he takes it from you. He bites into it thoughtfully, and a small hum of approval escapes him. “Mmm,” he nods, finishing it quickly, and for the briefest moment, the faint shadow of a smile crosses his face. You watch him with soft eyes, charmed by how endearing he is, even with all the sadness he’s carrying.

But the sadness lingers, etched into his expression, heavy in the way his gaze drifts somewhere beyond you, as though caught in a place you can’t reach. It tears you in two. You call his name, leaning forward slightly to catch his attention, and crack a joke—a bad one, deliberately silly in its delivery, your smile faltering as you wait for his reaction. All he offers in return is a tight-lipped smile, barely there, one that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

You sigh, shifting from your seat to sit beside him on the same side of the booth. Without hesitation, you take his hand in yours again, your other hand resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him in the only way you know how. “I hate seeing you like this,” you say softly, your voice tinged with the kind of vulnerability you usually hide. “Mark, let me help.”

Mark exhales sharply, the sound a mix of frustration and defeat, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand. “There’s not much you can do,” he mutters, his voice quiet, clipped, and carrying a finality that settles like a stone in your chest.

You push further, unwilling to let the moment close on his dismissiveness. “Mark, please, let me in. Talk to me,” you say softly, but the persistence in your tone makes his jaw tighten. His hand withdraws slightly, his shoulders tensing as his gaze darts away.

“Just drop it,” he snaps, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it stung, his words holding an edge you hadn’t expected. His eyes flick to yours briefly, regret already pooling in his expression, but the damage was done.

Your breath hitches, and you pull your hand from his instinctively, your fingers trembling as you place them in your lap. You bite your lip and look away, blinking rapidly to steady your breathing. This wasn’t fair. You were trying, and he was shutting you out.

But as quickly as you withdrew, he reached out again, his hand closing over yours firmly. He clasped your fingers tightly, bringing your joined hands to his lips. The gesture was soft, apologetic, and when you turned back to him, his eyes were filled with unspoken regret. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine, the weight of his earlier frustration melting away.

Your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to come. “I’m just trying to be here for you,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steadying with each word. “You don’t need to snap at me.”

He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he glances down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The silence stretches for a beat, heavy with things unsaid, before he finally exhales again—this time softer, less burdened. “I remember my first game,” he begins, his tone quieter now, edged with a melancholy that clings to every syllable. His voice is still flat, monotonous, but there’s a faint spark of emotion breaking through.

“I was four. Doyoung randomly took me to the river court one day. I didn’t even know what basketball was, but he handed me a ball and told me to try shooting.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, but it’s fleeting, more wistful than joyful. “I made every shot—without even trying. I don’t know how, but it just felt right. The way the ball left my hands, the sound of it swishing through the net… it made me feel special, important, like I was finally good at something that mattered.”

His breath steadies, his voice gaining a quiet rhythm as he continues. “When I was eleven, I joined a little league team. It wasn’t anything big—just kids messing around, learning the basics. But those games changed everything for me. Every time I had the ball, it felt like I mattered, like I could be something more than just a kid abandoned by his father and resented by his brother.”

He falters, his voice catching on the edge of his next words. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Basketball… it’s who I am. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on, the one thing I know I’m good at. And now… now it’s slipping away, and I can’t stop it. I can’t play the way I used to. I can’t push myself anymore.”

The weight of his sadness is palpable, threading through every word, every shallow breath. You want to speak, but he shakes his head slightly, cutting off your attempt. “This condition… it’s not just changing how I play,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s changing everything. My future, my identity… it feels like I’m losing all of it, all at once.”

His eyes are distant, unfocused. “I don’t know who I am without the game,” he continues, quieter now, the monotone delivery layered with rawness. “It’s been everything to me—more than just a sport. It was my escape, my outlet, my home. When my dad left, when everything felt too big or too hard, I could go to the court, and for those hours, nothing else mattered. The river court—it’s where I found myself. Every late night I spent there, every game I played, it was the one place where I didn’t feel like a screw-up or a disappointment. It made me feel alive.”

His voice cracks, and when he looks at you, his eyes are glistening, brimming with raw, unfiltered emotion. “And now it feels like it’s being taken from me. The one thing that made me feel like I was good at something, the one thing that gave me purpose—it’s slipping away. And it’s not just the game, it’s everything tied to it. The memories, the moments, the person I thought I was. I don’t know how to imagine a life without it.”

Your heart aches for him, your chest tightening as you take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing softly over his cheekbones. “Mark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steady with conviction. “You’re not losing yourself. I know it feels like the ground is shifting under you, like everything you’ve built is slipping away, but you are so much more than basketball. It’s a part of you, yes, but it’s not all of you. You’re still the person who inspires everyone around you. You’re still the person I believe in with everything I have. That doesn’t change because the game looks different now.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, his breath uneven as the weight of your words settles over him. And for the first time in the entire conversation, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease, just slightly, like a small sliver of light breaking through the heaviness.

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The room is quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the stillness. The bedside lamp casts a warm, muted glow, its light stretching lazily across the walls and pooling on the bed in soft, golden hues. You’re sprawled on the mattress, your knees bent, feet planted, the familiar comfort of the space grounding you. Across from you, Mark stands at the edge of the bed, his movements slow and hesitant as though the weight of his thoughts is pinning him down. There’s a heaviness in his posture—the subtle hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands as they hang at his sides, the way he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.

The sight makes your chest ache. You know he’s holding back, keeping the dam intact even though it’s cracking under the pressure. It’s not like him to hesitate, and that hesitation speaks louder than anything he could say. The air between you feels charged, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Without a word, he steps closer, his presence filling the space between you. His hands brush lightly over your knees, the contact warm and steady, and your heart skips at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. You glance up at him, about to ask what he’s doing, but his expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on you. He presses down on your knees gently, flattening your legs against the mattress, and the quiet determination in his movements keeps you still, anticipation threading through you.

Then, he moves—climbing onto the bed with a slowness that makes your breath hitch. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel a ripple of warmth as his body shifts closer. When his knees settle on either side of your hips, the realization hits you: he’s going on top of you. Your body tenses instinctively, not in resistance but in sheer surprise, your hands pressing lightly into the mattress to steady yourself. The air between you feels charged, intimate, and it sends a rush of something deep and unspoken through your chest.

His weight settles over you, warm and grounding, his body aligning with yours in a way that feels both deliberate and natural. His chest presses lightly against yours as he lowers himself, his head dipping to find its place in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and your arms instinctively rise to meet him, your hands gliding up the curve of his back as though reassuring him that he’s safe here. The softness of his hair brushes against your jaw, and your fingers tighten gently around him, pulling him closer as he nestles into you.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, the sensation of him so close, so heavy against you, making everything else fade away. His arms slide around your waist, locking you against him, and the way he clings to you feels like he’s asking for something wordlessly. His body trembles faintly, and you feel the weight of his vulnerability in the way he holds you, pressing into you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Your fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along his back, silently letting him know that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere.

It’s unusual, this shift in roles. Normally, he’s the one pulling you into his chest, comforting you, shielding you from the world. But tonight, he’s the one unraveling, and the change feels jarring in its unfamiliarity. He looks like he’s carrying too much, his strength fraying at the edges. 

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you feel it—a faint tremble in his shoulders, the way his breaths grow uneven. And just like that, he breaks.

You didn’t expect it—not after the drive to the apartment, when Mark had been so quiet, so unlike himself. He’d barely spoken a word, his blunt responses cutting the air between you, cold and distant. You’d understood, though, and given him space, thinking he just needed time to process. But for him to break this quickly? It catches you off guard, like the world tilting suddenly beneath your feet.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it. The words are raw, unfiltered, and they cut through the stillness like a confession he’s been holding onto for too long.

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you see it—the subtle signs that his composure is slipping. His shoulders tremble faintly, his breaths uneven as he fights to hold himself together. And then, like a dam breaking, it all comes crashing down. His head dips forward, and the first sob tears from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

You stiffen at first, unprepared for the sight. He’s always been the steady one, the one to calm you, to hold you through your tears, to reassure you when you felt like falling apart. Seeing him like this, breaking so openly, sends a jolt through you. You gulp, unsure of how to react, but instinct takes over. You do what he’s always done for you—your fingers thread into his hair, stroking softly, grounding him. You press gentle kisses to his temple, whispering quiet reassurances, promising him over and over, “I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

His sobs wrack his body, his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Tears stream down his face, staining your shirt as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. His breaths come in uneven gasps, his body trembling as he clings to you, letting himself break in a way he’s never allowed before. You feel the hot, damp trails his tears leave against your skin, the shudder of his exhale each time he tries to steady himself but fails.

It takes time, but eventually, his sobs begin to subside, the tension in his shoulders loosening as your hand continues to stroke through his hair. His breathing slows, though it’s still uneven, and his arms remain wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing holding him together.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his tear-streaked face breaking your heart all over again. His eyes are red, swollen, glassy with remnants of his pain. He blinks slowly, trying to form words, but his lips tremble, his voice failing him. You cradle his face gently, your thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks as you wait for him to find his voice.

“I blame myself,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but heavy with anguish. It cracked at the end, shattering the fragile silence between you. “I should’ve taken care of myself. I should’ve listened. The medication… if I had just done what I was supposed to, maybe—maybe I wouldn’t be here now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your heart clenched at the way he was crumbling in front of you. You shook your head immediately, your hands rising to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed against his damp cheeks, and you gently forced him to meet your gaze. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it threatened to drown you too.

“Mark,” you said softly, but there was no mistaking the conviction in your voice. “This isn’t your fault. Do you hear me? This—this was never something you could have controlled. You didn’t ask for this. You couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what you did.”

His lip quivered, his jaw tightening as tears spilled silently down his face. “But I—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice steady, your grip on his face firm but tender. “Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t stupid not to take the medication. It was. But taking it sooner wouldn’t have changed anything about this condition. It’s serious, Mark, no matter when you started managing it. You need to understand that it wouldn’t be less serious if you’d started earlier. What matters now is that you take it seriously now, that you listen to the people trying to help you, that you take care of yourself from here on out.”

His breaths hitched, his shoulders trembling against you. “I just feel like I made it worse,” he muttered, the guilt still thick in his voice.

“You didn’t,” you insisted, your voice softening as you brushed your thumb along his cheek. “This was never something you could have prevented. It’s not about what you didn’t do before—it’s about what you do now. And you’re doing it. You’re making changes, you’re showing up, you’re facing it head-on, even when it scares the hell out of you. That’s what matters, Mark. Not the mistakes you think you made.”

Mark stared at you, his expression unreadable as a single tear traced a slow path down his cheek. His lips parted, trembling slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it made your chest ache. And then, like a dam breaking, his shoulders shook, and the tears came harder. He bowed his head, his hands clutching at your waist as though you were the only thing holding him together

His voice came low and rough, barely audible at first. “I don’t even know who I’m mad at anymore,” he admitted, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s just… so fucking unfair.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak, your heart breaking at the pain etched across his face.

“I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “What did I do to deserve this? I’ve worked so hard, done everything I was supposed to do, and now… now it feels like my body’s betraying me. Like no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I can’t fix this. I can’t stop it.”

His eyes met yours, glistening with tears he didn’t bother wiping away. “I hate it. I hate feeling weak, like I have no control. Like all the things I’ve spent my life building can just be taken away like that.”

His words hit you like a blow, the raw anger and vulnerability in them leaving you breathless. You stepped closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes life is just… cruel. But that doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t take away who you are or what you’ve done.”

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands finally unclenched, rising to grip your waist like he was anchoring himself. “It just feels like I’m losing everything,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve fought so hard, and it’s still not enough.”

“You’re enough,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing against his damp cheeks. “And you’re not losing everything. You’re still here. You’re still you. And you’re not alone in this.”

A shudder runs through him, and he buries his face against your shoulder, his breaths warming your skin. His grip on you is still firm, but now it feels less like desperation and more like trust, like he’s finally allowing himself to let go of the weight he’s been carrying for so long. And as you hold him, you feel it—the unspoken understanding between you both, the promise that no matter how heavy things get, you’ll carry them together.

He presses into you—his head buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist—speaks louder than anything he could say. His grip is desperate but full of trust, as if he’s letting himself fall completely into you, surrendering the weight he’s been carrying. And you welcome it, your touch unwavering, your presence steady, giving him the space to let go in a way he never has before.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. You’re not alone in this, Mark. Not now, not ever.”

For a moment, his body stills, his breathing uneven against your skin. But then his expression shifts, darkening—not in anger, but with something deeper, more raw. The way you’ve been so good to him, the tenderness in your tone, the way you ground him in his darkest moments—it stirs something in him that feels too overwhelming to bear.

“Baby,” he moans, his voice thick with desperation as his hips grind against you, pulling a gasp from your lips. His hand slides down to your stomach, pressing lightly but firmly as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t you wanna feel me here?” he whispers, his tone low, rough, and dripping with need, sending a shiver through you that you can’t suppress.

“Mark.” You give him a quiet warning, but the plea in your voice doesn’t stop him. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s hard, rough, bruising—everything he’s feeling poured into the way his lips crash against yours, the way his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

Your body responds instantly, arching into him as his lips crash against yours, the kiss all teeth and desperation. Your fingers twist roughly into his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low, guttural sound from his throat. His hands grip your waist, almost bruising, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. You know exactly why he’s doing this—why his touch is so rough, so demanding—and you feel the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

For a moment, you give in, letting him drown in you. His hands slide under the hem of your cardigan, the fabric pushed aside hastily as his fingers fumble with the buttons. They pop open one by one, his movements frantic and unrelenting, his touch burning against your skin. He presses against you harder, his hips grinding into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. The sound of his ragged breathing mingles with your own as his mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin until you know it’ll leave marks.

Your breaths hitch as his intensity consumes you, your movements instinctively mirroring his rhythm. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming over you with a desperation that speaks louder than words. But then, under the heat of it all, you feel the crack—the slight tremble in his grip, the unevenness of his breath as it stutters against your skin. It sends a shiver through you, pulling you out of the haze.

You gasp, your hands pressing against his chest as you push him back and break the kiss, your heart pounding in your ears. “Mark,” you say, your voice shaky but steady. His dark eyes meet yours, frustration flashing before confusion settles in their depths.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “We can’t,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “Having sex with me isn’t going to make the sadness go away. It won’t fix anything, Mark.”

His jaw tightens, his breathing still uneven, his hands hovering at your sides like he doesn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter. “Yes, it will,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice breaking with raw desperation.

Your chest tightens at his words, at the raw vulnerability etched into them. You smack his chest lightly, your voice catching as you speak. “No, Mark,” you say, frustration and tenderness mingling. “This isn’t how you fight it. I’m here for you—I always will be—but not like this. You don’t need to lose yourself in me to feel okay.”

You cradle his face, your thumbs grazing his cheekbones as you hold his gaze. “I know you’re hurting,” you murmur, your voice steady yet tender. “I know it feels unbearable, like you need something to make it stop. But this isn’t the way, Mark. Let me be here for you, let me hold you—but don’t use me to numb the pain.”

His shoulders slump, the fight leaving him in a slow, heavy exhale. He doesn’t say anything, he just leans into your touch, his breaths shaky but steadying. Then, without a word, he presses a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as though drawing strength from the closeness. His eyes flutter closed as he rests against you, his body molding into yours like it’s the only place he feels safe. Slowly, you feel the tension ease from him, his breaths evening out as he tries to let sleep take over in your arms, his quiet surrender breaking your heart and mending it all at once.

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The glow of Mark’s laptop screen casts soft shadows across his dimly lit room. His desk is a chaotic mess: scattered papers, highlighters tossed carelessly, notebooks with half-finished thoughts scribbled in the margins, and empty coffee cups piled haphazardly in the corner. He sits hunched over, fingers hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight as he forces himself to focus. The weight of the silence around him presses against his chest, and the words on the screen blur as his thoughts drift.

Mark’s restlessness feels like a constant ache, gnawing at him from the inside out. Missing basketball practices to prioritize his health wasn’t a choice he wanted to make, but one he had to. It leaves him feeling untethered, the absence of the game creating a void he doesn’t know how to fill. Basketball was his escape, the one thing that grounded him when everything else felt overwhelming. Now, with his condition forcing him to step back, he feels lost, his body buzzing with energy he doesn’t know how to release.

He throws himself into his music compositions, desperate for a distraction, his fingers moving across the keyboard like he’s chasing something he can’t quite catch. The melodies echo faintly through the room, but they don’t bring him the comfort he craves. He tries to focus, tries to drown himself in the rhythm and flow of creating, but no matter how hard he works, his mind keeps circling back to you.

He wants you to be his distraction. He wants the comfort of your presence, the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs without him having to say a word. He wants the touch of your hand against his, the sound of your laugh breaking through his heavy thoughts. But he can’t have that. Not anymore. Not since you broke up. The thought twists in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, making the space around him feel even smaller.

Mark leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as frustration boils over. His eyes flick to his phone resting on the desk, the screen dark and still. He hasn’t heard from you today, and it gnaws at him, the need to reach out clawing at the edges of his resolve. He exhales sharply, dragging his hands over his face, but the ache doesn’t subside. He’s restless, frustrated, and his thoughts of you shift into something deeper, something primal.

His mind starts to wander, the memory of your voice, your touch, the way you’d look at him when it was just the two of you. He remembers the way you’d cling to him, your body trembling beneath his, the soft moans that would spill from your lips as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. The memories make his breath hitch, his body responding instantly. He clenches his jaw, trying to focus back on the screen, but it’s useless. He needs an outlet. He needs you.

The room feels too empty. Too quiet. Too wrong without you.

He picks up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through your old messages, re-reading the little things: the way you’d remind him to take breaks, the jokes that made him laugh even on the worst days, and the texts you’d send just to check in on him. The space you’ve left in his life feels massive, and no matter how much he tries to fill it with work, it doesn’t stop the ache. He misses you—not just your presence but everything about you.

He misses your laugh, the way your hands felt on his skin, the way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed without him having to say a word. And deeper still, he misses the intimacy you shared—the way you made him feel whole, grounded, alive. The memory of being with you, being inside you, flickers in his mind, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a heat rising in his chest that he tries to suppress.

But the frustration grows. The longing twists into something sharper, more unbearable. His fingers tighten around his phone as he scrolls to your contact, his thumb hovering over your name for a moment before he gives in, typing out a message with unsteady hands.

He presses send before he can overthink it, his breath catching in his throat. The seconds stretch into an eternity, and he wonders if he’s pushed too far, if you’ll ignore him entirely, but then your reply comes through, and his pulse quickens.

His screen lights up with the video, and the world around him ceases to exist. The glow illuminates your body—every curve, every movement, framed so perfectly it feels deliberate, like you knew exactly how to wreck him. The lighting is soft, intimate, and he instantly recognizes the lace thong hugging your hips: his favorite, the one he always begged you to keep on, the one he’d pull to the side just enough to sink into you. His breath falters, his pulse pounding in his ears as his eyes drink you in.

Your hand moves slowly, teasing yourself, your fingers gliding beneath the delicate fabric, and the wet sound of it is enough to send a jolt straight to his groin. Then you moan his name—his full name, breathless and needy—and it unravels him completely. A low, involuntary groan escapes his lips, and his entire body reacts. His chest tightens, his thighs clench, and he feels himself throb painfully against the confines of his sweats. Every detail—the arch of your back, the way your head tilts back in pleasure—burns into his mind, leaving him dizzy with need.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him. His hand moves almost instinctively, trailing down to his waistband as he groans softly, “Baby…” The word slips out in a husky, desperate tone, his fingers brushing over the hardness straining against his sweats.

His resolve shatters completely as your moan echoes through his headphones—a breathy, broken call of his name that feels like a physical pull. He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the slick tip as he takes a moment to steady himself. But the video keeps playing, your movements hypnotic, the sight of your fingers disappearing beneath the lace leaving him throbbing in his hand. He starts slow, stroking himself deliberately, his grip firm, never taking his eyes off the screen. The need to feel closer to you becomes overwhelming, and his free hand fumbles for his phone.

Without breaking his rhythm, he flips the camera to record. The angle captures his hand wrapping firmly around himself, the way his skin glistens, and his chest heaving as he moans your name, raw and unrestrained. His voice is shaky but thick with desire as he speaks into the mic, desperate to pull you into the moment with him.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with need. “You’ve got me so fucking hard, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you—about how tight you’d feel around me, how perfect you’d look under me, falling apart.”

He adjusts the angle slightly, showing the full view of himself, stroking harder now as his hips rock into his hand. The slick sound fills the quiet room, mingling with his heavy breaths. “I’d give anything to be inside you right now,” he groans, his tone breaking with desperation. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Fuck, I’d ruin you. Make you scream my name until you couldn’t think straight.”

He leans his head back against the chair, his grip tightening as his strokes grow faster, his voice dropping even lower. “I miss the way you’d beg for me,” he mutters, his words punctuated by sharp exhales. “The way you’d pull me closer, tell me not to stop. God, baby, I need you so bad.”

The video loops again, and his eyes snap back to the screen—your fingers moving faster, your lips parting in a moan that sends him careening toward the edge. He stutters, his entire body tensing as a guttural groan tears from his throat. His release spills over his hand, hot and messy, his body trembling violently as he moans your name, raw and unfiltered.

As the aftershocks ripple through him, he lets his hand slow, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. His camera is still recording, capturing the remnants of his desperation: his glistening skin, his trembling thighs, the way his hand runs lazily over himself, already half-hard again. He finally angles the phone back toward his face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted as he speaks into the mic.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, his tone rough and drenched with lust. “You’ve got me so desperate for you. I want to feel you, taste you, ruin you all over again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad.”

He ends the recording, his fingers still unsteady, and hits send without hesitation. As the message disappears, he collapses back into the chair, the longing for you still thrumming through his veins, even stronger than before.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him.

He records a quick video, his chest heaving as he grips himself tightly. He angles the camera down, showing every movement of his hand, the glistening tip, the way he’s losing control. “This is what you do to me,” he murmurs into the mic, his voice heavy with need. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Baby,” he groans, the word tumbling out in a husky, desperate tone. His free hand trails down to his waistband, fingers brushing over the growing hardness straining against his sweats. His touch is hesitant at first, teasing himself, as if trying to hold back, but the sound of your voice breaks him entirely. The way you moan his name—soft, breathy, full of need—pulls a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and he can’t resist anymore.

He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the tip, already slick with his arousal. His movements are slow at first, his grip firm as he strokes himself deliberately, never taking his eyes off the screen. He replays the video, memorizing every detail: the way your hand disappears beneath the lace, the way your back arches slightly when you moan, and the way your lips part as if calling out for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice breaking as his hips lift into his hand. His mind is a mess of thoughts, all of them consumed by you. The way you’d feel beneath him. The way you’d gasp when he’d push deeper. The way your nails would scrape along his back as you begged him for more.

“Y/N,” he groans, the sound rough and desperate. His hand moves faster, each stroke slicker as he imagines it’s you, your body wrapped around him, holding him the way only you can. His head falls back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as he lets the fantasy consume him. He sees you clearly in his mind—your thighs trembling as he grips them, your lips parting in a scream as he thrusts harder, deeper, hitting the spot that makes you fall apart for him.

“You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?” he mutters under his breath, his voice dark and thick with lust. “Fuck, I’d stretch you out so good. You’d feel so tight around me, baby. Just like always.” His free hand grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he fights to steady himself, his hips bucking into his hand with increasing desperation.

The memory of your body, the way you’d tremble beneath him, the sounds you’d make—it’s too much. His breathing grows heavier, his strokes faster and more erratic as his body chases the release that only thoughts of you can bring. “I miss the way you’d scream my name,” he growls, his voice breaking. “The way you’d pull me closer, telling me not to stop. God, I’d give anything to hear you beg for me right now.”

His hand moves relentlessly, his hips rocking into his fist as his moans grow louder, rougher. The tension in his body builds, coiling tighter and tighter as he teeters on the edge. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and unsteady. “You’d take everything I give you. Fuck, I miss the way you’d cry for me, baby.”

The final push comes as he watches your face in the video again, the way your lips part as you moan his name. His head tips back, a shuddering groan ripping from his throat as he spills over his hand, his release hot and messy, leaving him trembling. “Y/N,” he moans, your name breaking from him like a prayer, his body jerking as the aftershocks ripple through him.

He sits there for a moment, panting, his body still thrumming with the intensity of it all. Then, with shaky hands, he grabs his phone, flips the camera to record himself. He doesn’t bother cleaning up, the sight of his slick hand stroking himself slowly as he recovers still raw and unapologetic. His voice is low, rough, dripping with desire as he speaks into the mic.

“Look what you do to me, baby,” he says, his hand running lazily along his length, already half-hard again. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad. I want to feel you, taste you, fuck you until you’re screaming my name. You’ve got me so fucking desperate for you.”

As he finishes, his body shudders, his release spilling over his hand as he moans your name one last time, his voice raw and unfiltered. He sends the video to you without hesitation, his heart racing as he collapses back into the chair, desperately waiting for your response, the tension momentarily gone but the longing for you only growing stronger.

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The morning light filters through your curtains, soft and golden, as you shuffle toward the front door. Your heart pounds with a rhythm you can’t quite control, anticipation and nerves tangling in your chest. The handle feels cool under your fingers as you pull it open, revealing Mark standing just beyond. He leans casually against the frame, his posture easy, but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes lock onto yours immediately, sharp and unwavering.

He looks good—too good. The warmth of the sun highlights the lines of his jaw and the subtle curve of his smirk. It’s subtle but deliberate, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips as his gaze drifts over you, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, rich, and teasing, like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. There’s a weight to his tone, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

You try—really try—to meet his gaze, but your confidence falters almost instantly. Instead, your eyes dart downward, catching on the worn fabric of his sneakers, the edge of his jeans, anywhere but him. Your body betrays you, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater as if the soft material could anchor you against the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. Your shoulders feel tense, your breathing uneven as you shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but he notices. He always notices. The way you hesitate, the way your lips part as if to speak but nothing comes out. The way your lashes flutter against your cheeks when you glance up at him briefly, only to look away just as quickly, like his gaze is too much to hold.

His eyes stay on you, unrelenting, and you can feel them moving over every detail: the flush creeping up your neck, the way your fingers fidget nervously, the way you can’t seem to stand still under the weight of his presence. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t need to; the space between you feels impossibly small, charged with something electric.

There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something softer, though it’s fleeting. His gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the way you bite your lip when you finally manage a soft, “Hi.” It’s barely audible, but he hears it, the faintest flicker of satisfaction passing through his features before he schools them back into something unreadable.

He knows why. He knows why you’re flustered, still reeling from yesterday.

After exchanging those videos last night, things escalated quickly. The call that followed left you completely at his mercy. Just his voice—low, commanding, and utterly filthy—had you coming undone three more times, each climax leaving you more breathless and trembling than the last. He knew exactly what to say to have you at his mercy, completely undone and helpless to resist him.

The first time, it was his instructions. Precise, deliberate, and spoken with the kind of authority that left no room for hesitation. “Slower,” he’d murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I want to hear every little sound you make.” And you gave him everything, your breath hitching as you followed his commands, your body arching as his words wrapped around you like a tether, pulling you closer to the edge.

The second time, it was his praise. Dark and intoxicating, his voice softened just enough to send shivers down your spine. “That’s it,” he’d growled, the sound thick with approval. “You’re so fucking good for me, baby. Don’t stop now.” And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was the only thing anchoring you, pushing you higher and higher until the wave crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling.

The third time, it was pure desperation—both his and yours. His breathing had grown heavier, rougher, and the way he spoke was almost a plea, laced with need so raw it made your chest tighten. “One more,” he’d rasped, his voice cracking with hunger. “You’ve got one more for me, don’t you? Give it to me.” And you had, your body writhing as you chased the release his words pulled from you, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

Even after the call ended, the sound of his voice lingered, echoing in your mind as you lay there, completely spent. The weight of his control, the way he’d taken you apart and pieced you back together with nothing but his words, stayed with you long into the night, leaving your body humming with the memory.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless. You’re too aware of how your words tremble slightly, the question spilling out before you can stop it.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he tilts his head slightly. “Did you forget?” he asks, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “You asked me to take you to campus. Said you wanted to come in with me today.”

Your brows furrow as you try to remember, the haze of last night still clouding your mind. Then it clicks, and your lips part slightly as the memory surfaces. “Oh,” you say softly, feeling the heat in your cheeks deepen. You lower your gaze again, unable to meet his eyes as the realization settles over you.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of satisfaction in his expression is impossible to miss. He steps aside, gesturing toward the car parked at the curb, his movements deliberate and smooth. You nod silently, stepping out and closing the door behind you, your heart pounding in your chest as you follow him to the car.

Even as you slide into the passenger seat, you can feel his gaze lingering, heavy and deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but the curve of his lips and the subtle clench of his jaw tell you he’s thinking about last night too. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s alive, buzzing with the tension that neither of you can ignore. You can feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on the wheel, in the way your thighs press together, the ache from last night still fresh and impossible to forget.

Mark starts the car, his movements calm, but the tension in the small space between you simmers, unspoken and undeniable. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not when the memory of his voice, his commands, and the way he pushed you to your limits still lingers, heavy and electric, in the charged air around you.

The drive to college is too quiet. The hum of the engine fills the silence, but it feels suffocating. You keep your gaze fixed out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap as Jeno drives, his grip firm on the wheel. He doesn’t seem bothered by the quiet—not at first. He’s calm, composed, but there’s an intensity in the air, in the way his eyes flick toward you at every red light, sharp and unrelenting.

Time stretched painfully, the weight of your unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest, until finally, he breaks the silence. “You okay? Thighs not aching?” he asks, his words deliberate, laced with something dark and teasing.

Your head snaps toward him, your expression caught between shock and indignation. “Why would they?” you quip, your tone defensive, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

He doesn’t respond right away, just smirks faintly, his fingers tapping lazily against the steering wheel as his gaze stays fixed on the road ahead. But there’s something dangerous in the curve of his lips, something dark and deliberate that makes your stomach flip and your skin burn under its weight. It’s not just a smirk—it’s a challenge, a reminder of the hold he has over you, and it’s infuriating how easily he can make your body betray you.

“You don’t remember?” he drawls finally, his voice smooth, slow, and dripping with amusement. The sound alone is enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “Last night. The way you couldn’t stop shaking after the second time. Or was it the third? I lost count.”

Your jaw tightens, heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks as his words sink in. You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds, but his smirk only widens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in a vain attempt to shield yourself from the weight of his teasing.

“And you,” he says, casting you a brief, pointed glance before looking back at the road, his tone dipping lower, smoother, “are still so shy. It’s adorable.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intimate, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your silence only seems to fuel him, his low chuckle breaking the tension, the sound vibrating through the confined space of the car and settling deep in your chest.

Then his hand shifts on the gearstick, a small, casual movement that becomes anything but when his fingers brush against your knee. The touch is fleeting, light enough to be innocent, but the heat it leaves behind is anything but. You stiffen at the contact, your breath catching as your eyes dart to his hand. He doesn’t pull away—of course he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers for just a moment, long enough for you to feel the deliberate weight of his presence before he lets his hand return to the gearstick, his smirk softening but no less smug.

You want to say something, to snap at him, to remind him that you’re trying very hard to keep your composure, but the words die in your throat when he speaks again.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something softer, though the teasing edge lingers just beneath the surface. His gaze flicks toward you again, his eyes scanning your face briefly, and the subtle way his lips curl tells you he can see right through you. “Literally just trying to drive my car.” 

The air between you feels heavier now, every subtle movement amplified—the way his fingers drum against the wheel, the way your thighs press together in an attempt to quell the warmth pooling low in your stomach, the way your breathing has quickened just slightly. You can’t help but think he notices it all. Of course, he notices.

And when his eyes flick back to the road, you catch the faintest shake of his head, as though your flustered reaction amuses him more than it should. The tension simmers, unrelenting, the memory of last night lingering in every unspoken glance, every subtle shift in the confined space between you.

“You need to stop using all your energy trying to fuck me,” you tease, your tone light but edged with something warmer, something heavier, “and instead save it for today. You’re gonna need it.”

He hums softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his expression. “Hmm?”

“You’re going into practice today, right?” you ask softly, your voice careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet. “When you tell them what’s been happening…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’m sure the team’s gonna have a lot to say when you show up.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods once, curtly, his eyes focused on the road. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the single word heavy with something unspoken.

The reminder of practice shifts the mood instantly, a quiet tension settling into the car as you glance at him again. His teasing demeanor falters, just for a moment, and you notice the subtle changes in his posture—the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening against the leather, and the slight furrow in his brow as your words settle in. His fingers, which had been drumming lightly against the wheel, fall still, as though the weight of what he’s about to face has rooted them in place.

You study him closely, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that you’ve come to recognize as a tell for when he’s deep in thought, when the world around him feels too heavy. He’s grappling with more than just today; you know that. Basketball has been his constant, his escape, the one thing he’s been able to rely on through every upheaval in his life. The idea of stepping back onto the court, even with restrictions, has been weighing on him in ways he hasn’t fully admitted.

Mark exhales slowly, the breath deliberate but not quite reaching his shoulders, and you notice how his posture feels too composed, too intentional—like he’s bracing himself against the storm he’s been carrying inside.

The silence stretches again, heavier now, and your chest tightens at the sight of him holding so much inside. You’ve known Mark long enough to see through the mask he’s trying to keep intact. The teasing earlier, the flirting, the smugness, the light banter—it was all a distraction, a way to steady himself against the weight he’s been carrying. Now, his shoulders look too still, his relaxed posture almost forced, like he’s trying to avoid thinking about what’s coming next.

You can’t let him carry it alone. Not today.

“Mark,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet, your tone filled with all the care you know he needs. “I know how much this means to you. And I know how hard it’s been. But I promise you…” You pause, your words trembling. “I’ll be there. If you need help telling everyone, if you need me to steady you, or just… if you need me to hold you after—it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there.”

His breath catches as his hand slides onto your thigh, his palm warm against your bare skin. The contrast between the cool morning air in the car and the heat radiating from his touch is startling, sending a shiver up your spine. His thumb begins to move, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy circles just beneath the hem of your skirt. The motion is subtle, almost teasing, but the weight of his hand feels grounding and possessive, like he’s silently claiming the space he’s touching.

Your heart pounds harder, each gentle press of his thumb making it impossible to focus on anything else. His fingers flex slightly, gripping your thigh as though he’s drawing reassurance from the softness of your skin, the strength in his touch betraying how tightly he’s holding himself together. The heat from his hand spreads through you like a slow-burning flame, pooling low in your stomach and tightening your chest. Every motion feels intentional, the pads of his fingers brushing against you with just enough pressure to make your breathing hitch.

You glance down, watching the way his hand rests against your skin, the way his knuckles disappear beneath the edge of your skirt. The sight alone sends a flush of warmth through you, and you can feel the tension growing thicker in the confined space of the car. His grip tightens briefly, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself, as if he needs this contact to steady the storm brewing inside him.

For a moment, your own hand hovers uncertainly, the urge to touch him back overwhelming. Then, with a deliberate movement, you slide your fingers over his, pressing lightly against his skin. His breath hitches audibly at the contact, and his hand freezes for a heartbeat. You know what he’s thinking—that you’re about to move his hand away. The hesitation in his touch makes that clear. But instead, you push his hand higher, your palm guiding him firmly up the length of your thigh.

His knuckles brush against the fabric of your skirt, the motion slow and deliberate as the material shifts slightly with the movement. His fingers curl instinctively, gripping the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with more urgency, and a soft exhale escapes him, low and shaky. The air between you feels charged now, electric with something unspoken but undeniable, and you press his hand even higher, until the warmth of his palm is nearly unbearable.

The way his fingers spread against your skin, exploring just beneath your skirt, sends a shiver racing through you. His touch feels like fire and restraint all at once—like he’s holding back but not entirely. The tension builds with every shift of his hand, the sensation of his rough fingertips brushing against you igniting something deep within.

You hold your hand over his, not to stop him, but to keep him there, pressing your fingers down as if to say, don’t move. The weight of your touch is grounding, deliberate, and when his thumb drags a slow, agonizing line along the sensitive skin of your thigh, you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t speak, but the way his hand lingers, the way his grip tightens, tells you everything you need to know. His need, his restraint, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as if he’s fighting himself—it all speaks volumes. And as the tension grows, the heat between you feels like it might consume you both, leaving no room for anything else.

──────────────────────────────

The gym hums with life, a constant thrum of activity. Players’ voices echo against the high ceilings, mingling with the dull thud of basketballs hitting the floor and the sharp clap of sneakers gripping the court. The air is thick with energy, an almost electric charge that clings to everything, amplified by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Walking in alongside Mark, you immediately notice how everyone seems to move with purpose—the players warming up, coaches already shouting instructions, and clusters of students loitering on the bleachers, whispering and watching.

Coach Taeyong stands at the far end of the court, clipboard in hand, his brow furrowed as he watches a few of the guys run drills. His stance, stiff and authoritative, screams frustration, though he doesn’t yell like you’d expect. Instead, his gaze flickers over the team like he’s measuring their every move. Nearby, Coach Doyoung leans against the wall, arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His presence is calmer, but there’s a sharpness in the way he observes the players, a readiness to step in the moment something goes wrong. His role feels more protective than demanding, like he’s watching over them, ensuring they stay safe while still giving Taeyong the reins.

Karina spots you the moment you enter, her ponytail bouncing as she waves you over enthusiastically from her spot near the bleachers. You return the gesture with a small wave of your own, but before you can move, your gaze catches on a group of familiar faces. Aisha, Mia, Yeji, and Lia are huddled together near the benches, their heads tilted toward one another as they whisper animatedly. Their eyes dart to you and Mark, lingering for a moment too long, before they turn back to their conversation. You catch snippets of giggles and quiet murmurs, the kind that crawl under your skin and make you hyper-aware of yourself.

Mark seems oblivious to their stares, his focus fixed ahead as his steps slow just slightly. You notice the way his hand brushes against his side, a subtle tell that he’s nervous. You place a hand on his arm, stopping him for just a moment, and his eyes flick to yours.

“If you need me,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach, “I’m right across the court.”

He nods once, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his gaze holds yours for a beat longer than usual. There’s something unspoken in his expression, something almost vulnerable, but before you can linger on it, he pulls away, heading toward the guys gathering near the center of the court.

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening at the way his shoulders seem a little more rigid than usual, before finally turning toward Karina. She’s still waiting for you, tapping her foot impatiently as she gestures for you to hurry.

As you make your way over, you catch another round of giggles from Aisha and her group. They’re still watching, their whispers cutting off abruptly when you glance in their direction. This time, you don’t look away. Your gaze hardens, and their smiles falter slightly, though the smugness doesn’t disappear entirely. By the time you reach Karina, your nerves are buzzing, the weight of their scrutiny settling heavily on your shoulders.

Karina raises an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “What was that about?” she asks, nodding subtly toward the group as you drop into the seat beside her.

You shake your head, letting out a sharp breath. “Nothing worth worrying about,” you mutter, though the tension in your voice betrays you.

Karina doesn’t push, but her eyes narrow slightly, the wheels in her head clearly turning as she takes in your expression. “Did Mark spend the night?” she asks instead, changing the subject with a teasing grin. “Because, babe, you were moaning like a bitch in heat yesterday.”

The comment pulls an unexpected laugh from your chest, but your cheeks burn instantly. “He didn’t,” you admit, the memory of last night flooding your mind. “But we—”

The words die on your tongue when you notice Aisha and her friends again. They’re still watching, their eyes sharp with curiosity and something more—something that makes your stomach twist. Whispering resumes as you turn away, their laughter soft but pointed, and you feel your fingers curl into fists against your sides.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight of their stares. Their giggles cut through the ambient noise of the gym, each one like a needle pricking at your skin. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to. The glances they throw your way, the smug little smiles—they’re enough to make your blood simmer.

Karina notices the shift in your demeanor instantly, her teasing smirk fading as she follows your gaze. “What’s their problem?” she mutters, leaning closer to you. Her tone is sharp now, protective.

“I don’t know,” you reply quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “But I’m done with it.”

Something hardens in Karina’s expression, her jaw tightening as she watches the group. “You should say something. Seriously. Don’t let them get away with this crap.”

Your instinct is to brush it off like you always do, to let it slide and avoid the confrontation. But this time feels different. This time, you can’t push down the irritation bubbling in your chest, the heat rising in your cheeks as their laughter grows louder. You’ve been dealing with their snide remarks and side-eyes for weeks now, and you’re tired—tired of shrinking yourself, tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you.

You stand abruptly, Karina raising an eyebrow as she steps aside to let you pass. The scrape of your sneakers against the gym floor draws attention, but you don’t care. Your focus is locked on them, your chest tight with a mix of anger and determination as you cross the court.

Aisha is the first to notice you approaching, her head tilting slightly, a sly smile curving on her lips. The others follow her lead, their expressions ranging from amused to smug. They don’t speak, waiting for you to make the first move, their silence as pointed as their earlier whispers.

“Do you have something to say to me?” you ask, your voice sharp and steady as you come to a stop in front of them. You cross your arms over your chest, your stance firm.

Aisha shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” you counter, your tone laced with sarcasm. “Because you’ve been whispering and laughing since I walked in.”

Yeji leans forward slightly, her grin widening. “We were just curious,” she says lightly, the edge in her voice impossible to miss. “Did you and Mark break up?”

You nod, your expression carefully neutral. “Yes.”

Yeji claps her hands together, her voice lilting with fake surprise. “I knew it. Told you, didn’t I?” she says, turning to Mia. “He’s fair game now.”

Your jaw clenches, a sharp flare of anger igniting in your chest as her words cut through you. “No, he isn’t,” you snap, your voice low and laced with steel. Your eyes narrow, locking onto hers with a glare so sharp it could pierce through her. The weight of your possessiveness hangs heavy in the air, daring her—or anyone—to challenge it.

Aisha scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you they’d only last a month,” she says, addressing the group as if you’re not standing right there. “Didn’t I say he’d get bored and move on? The fact that I gave them a month but it hasn’t even been a month yet.”

Something inside you snaps, a surge of confidence bubbling to the surface as you step closer, your voice cold and sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. “Funny,” you begin, your tone laced with a biting edge, “you’re so obsessed with Mark, but he wouldn’t even look at you twice, no matter how hard you tried. You could throw yourself at him, beg for his attention, and he still wouldn’t give you a second of his time.”

Aisha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please,” she snaps, her voice dripping with condescension. “You sound so confident for someone who can’t even keep him. Or did you forget you two broke up?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t back down, your gaze narrowing as you take another step forward. “You’re right, we did,” you fire back, your tone steady and unyielding. “But here’s the difference: even when we weren’t together, you still couldn’t catch his attention. And you never will.”

Aisha laughs, short and mocking, glancing back at her friends for validation. “Oh, come on. You act like you’re the only girl he’s ever cared about. Mark’s got a type, and let’s be real—it’s not commitment.” She leans in slightly, her eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “You think you’re special, huh? Like you’re different from the rest of us? Newsflash: you’re not.”

Your gaze flicks over Aisha and her little entourage, each of them faltering under the weight of your words. You step even closer, letting the tension build, letting the heat of your anger—and your unwavering confidence—radiate from you. “Do you know how many girls Mark fucked before me?” you continue, changing the subject, your tone softer now but dripping with menace, making them lean in to catch every word. “A lot. And you know what’s even funnier? You weren’t one of them. Not you, not any of your little minions.”

You smile, slow and deliberate, watching their faces pale as your words sink in. “Do you want to know why?” you ask, your voice low and mocking. “Because you’ve never even been on his radar. Not even once. You’re not his type. Hell, you couldn’t even get his attention if you tried—and trust me, I know you’ve tried.”

You cross your arms, your stance confident and unyielding, your glare slicing through the false bravado in their smirks. “So maybe instead of spending all your time whispering and giggling like middle schoolers, you should focus on yourselves. Because whatever you think you’re going to get from Mark? It’s never going to happen. Not now, not ever.”

Aisha’s smirk slips for a fraction of a second before she recovers, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a casual shrug. “Maybe he just likes a challenge,” she says, her voice light but biting. “If you’re so sure he’s yours, why are you even wasting your breath? Sounds like someone’s a little insecure.”

You step closer still, the space between you practically crackling with tension. “Insecure?” you repeat, your voice like ice. “And for the record,” you continue, stepping closer, “Mark didn’t move on. He didn’t get bored. We broke up because we both have a lot going on, something I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand since all you seem to care about is gossiping like middle schoolers.”

Her expression freezes, her lips parting slightly as if to retort, but nothing comes out. The other girls glance between you, their whispers and giggles suddenly silent as the weight of your words sinks in. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and you feel the tension radiating off them, but you hold your ground. For once, you don’t look away, don’t shrink under their scrutiny.

You don’t consciously decide to cross the court, but something in the way Aisha and her friends are still staring—watching, waiting for you to falter—pushes you forward. It’s not about flaunting anything; it’s about reminding yourself, and them, that Mark has never been theirs to wonder about. He’s yours in a way that’s undeniable, unshakable, and entirely effortless. He doesn’t see them, never has. His attention, his focus, his everything—it’s always been you. And you know, with a confidence that feels rare but earned, that you can have him whenever you want, however you want, because it’s you he chooses every time. So you let your steps carry you to him, your head held high, the weight of their stares dissolving as the distance between you and Mark closes, like the rest of the world no longer matters.

The moment your eyes find Mark, something inside you settles. He’s standing with the team near the far side of the court, his posture deceptively relaxed, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other grips a basketball. He’s mid-conversation with Jeno, his expression neutral, but you know him too well. The slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers across the court every so often—it’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s checking on you, watching without being obvious about it, sensing something’s off even from a distance.

Your chest tightens as you take him in. It’s not just the way he grounds you, the way his presence alone feels like a steadying force—it’s the fact that you know he’d cross the entire gym if he thought you needed him. And right now, you do. Not because you’re upset, not because of the whispers still buzzing faintly around you, but because you’ve had enough. Enough of their giggles, their pointed stares, their pathetic attempts to rattle you. You don’t owe anyone silence or the space to tear you down. You want Mark—not out of weakness, not because you need him to save you, but because you know he’s yours in a way that’s undeniable. 

Being with him isn’t about seeking refuge; it’s about showing them, and reminding yourself, that you don’t have to explain, defend, or prove anything. You’re tired of playing small, tired of pretending you don’t care when every look they shoot your way only fuels the fire. Mark centers you, but more than that, he amplifies you, and right now, you want them to see it—you want them to see him—and know that none of their whispers will ever come close to touching what you have.

As you approach, his head turns, his eyes locking onto yours instantly. You can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, the way his brows knit together slightly even as he straightens, adjusting his stance as if readying himself for whatever it is you’re about to say. Jeno glances at you too, his curiosity evident, but he steps back without a word, giving you the space you don’t even have to ask for.

Mark’s hand drops from the basketball, hanging loosely at his side as he watches you close the distance between you. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. You come to a stop right in front of him, your heart hammering in your chest as the world seems to shrink to just the two of you.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you let your hand slip into his, the motion natural, almost automatic. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and grounding, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly. His touch steadies you, the earlier tension in your body melting away as you feel the weight of his presence settle beside you.

His eyes search yours, his brow furrowing slightly, the faintest trace of worry flickering across his face. “Everything okay?” he asks softly, his voice pitched low, just for you.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward as he lets out a quiet laugh. “Thought you were about to slap her then,” he teases, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

You smile faintly, shaking your head as you let the tension in your shoulders ease. “Everything’s fine,” you reply, your voice steady, though the warmth of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, grounding you, and you let yourself exhale, letting go of the last remnants of irritation. “It is now.”

When you turn back toward the girls, their wide-eyed stares meet you immediately. Aisha and her minions are frozen, their earlier smugness wiped clean, replaced with disbelief and a flicker of something else—something almost uncomfortable. They don’t say a word as you let them see it, the way Mark’s hand fits so easily in yours, the way he holds onto you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. You smile, letting your confidence radiate through the simple gesture, the subtle shift in your posture as you stand taller now.

Let them whisper. Let them watch. You’re done shrinking under their gaze, done letting their shallow judgments chip away at you. This time, you’re the one holding the power, and it feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been giving away. Mark’s hand in yours, his quiet, unwavering presence at your side—it’s all the reminder you need that their words don’t define you. They never did.

“Y/N,” Jeno says, his tone firm but tinged with concern. You glance over your shoulder, and he’s already walking toward you, his gaze flicking between you and the girls. “You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, but there’s no missing the protective edge in his words. “You need me to do anything?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, it’s okay, Jen,” you reply softly, your voice steady despite the earlier tension. “Really.”

Jeno stops just a step away, his sharp eyes moving back to the girls briefly. His expression darkens, a silent warning flashing in his gaze that’s enough to make them look away. But when he turns back to you and Mark, his entire demeanor shifts. His grin spreads wide, warm and easy, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen from him in a while. It’s genuine, approving, and there’s something almost teasing in the way his eyes linger on Mark’s hand wrapped around yours.

“Wow,” he says quietly, his voice softer now as his glance shifts between the two of you. There’s no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of quiet acceptance, like he’s starting to realize how much this makes sense, how natural it feels.

Mark nods at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Jeno just shakes his head lightly, his grin widening as he takes a step back, giving you both space but keeping his presence nearby, protective as always. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer before he turns toward the team, his body language calm but still watchful.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but enough to make him turn his head toward you. His eyes find yours immediately, and without hesitation, he leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and steady against your skin, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. His hand, still wrapped tightly around yours, flexes slightly, like he’s grounding himself in your touch.

The closeness feels almost suffocating in the best way, the air between you heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet. You tilt your head toward him instinctively, your voice soft and intimate as you ask, “You gonna tell the team now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicker downward, his thumb tracing slow circles against the back of your hand. When he finally nods, it’s slight, almost hesitant, but there’s a weight behind it that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to steady himself through the words.

Your grip on his hand tightens, your fingers intertwining with his, holding him there for a moment longer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper, your lips brushing close to his jaw as you speak. The words are quiet, meant just for him, but you can feel the way his body responds—the slight shift of his shoulders, the deep inhale as if he’s taking your reassurance and letting it settle in his chest.

Mark turns slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he lets out a slow, steadying breath. His hand lingers in yours, his thumb still moving in that comforting rhythm, before he finally steps forward. The absence of his touch feels immediate, but the warmth of it lingers on your skin as you watch him straighten his back, his shoulders squaring as he faces the team.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out, his voice louder now, steady despite the weight behind it. You can see the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver in his fingers as he flexes them at his sides, but he stands tall, the air around him shifting as the team begins to gather. You can’t help but follow him with your eyes, your heart tight with both pride and an ache you can’t quite put into words. Even now, as vulnerable as he is, there’s a strength in the way he carries himself, and it’s magnetic.

But you stay rooted in place, your fingers still tingling from where they’d been intertwined with his, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ll be there. Always.

The boys gradually gather around, their movements slowing as they notice the serious set of Mark’s expression. Jeno hangs back slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, already attuned to what’s coming. He doesn’t ask any questions—he doesn’t need to—but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his stance as he braces himself for Mark’s words. Always one step ahead, always ready to offer quiet support, Jeno’s presence feels like a steadying force even before Mark speaks.

Mark glances at you briefly, the silent connection between you giving him the courage he needs as he begins to speak. “I need to tell you guys something,” he starts, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “It’s about why I haven’t been playing as much lately.”

The group falls silent, all eyes fixed on him. Chenle and Jaemin exchange quick glances, their expressions curious but concerned. Doyoung steps forward slightly, his face already lined with worry, while Jeno stays close, his presence steady and grounding.

Mark takes another breath, his free hand brushing through his hair before he continues. “I have a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” he says, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “It’s something I’ve known about for a while, but I… I didn’t take it seriously at first. I thought I could push through it, play like I always have. But I can’t anymore.” His voice wavers slightly, and you feel the faint tremble in his hand as he grips yours tighter.

The gym is completely silent as Mark’s words hang in the air. The team’s faces reflect a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. Jaemin’s brows furrow deeply, his usually calm expression giving way to worry. Renjun’s lips part slightly, his eyes wide, flicking between Mark and Jeno, searching for confirmation that what he’s hearing is real. Chenle’s hand comes up to his mouth, his eyes already glistening, and you see him blink rapidly as though trying to keep the tears from falling.

Mark’s voice shakes as he continues, his vulnerability cracking through the usual strength in his tone. “I thought if I ignored it, I could keep going. Keep playing. Basketball’s been everything to me for as long as I can remember—it’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on. But I can’t anymore. If I push myself, it could…” He swallows hard, the word catching in his throat before he forces it out. “It could kill me.”

The room remains silent, the weight of his confession settling over everyone. Doyoung’s face crumples almost instantly, his emotions clear as his lips part in disbelief. “Son,” he whispers, his voice thick with sadness.

At the same time, Taeyong takes a step forward, his usual stern demeanor replaced by something softer, something almost unfamiliar. “Son,” he says, an unusual fondness in his tone, but he halts when Mark’s gaze snaps to him, cold and deadpan. Taeyong freezes, his mouth closing as if he knows he’s already lost the right to step closer.

Doyoung takes a sharp breath, the sound cutting through the room as his face contorts with distress. “Son,” he whispers again, his voice trembling. He takes a step forward, his hands reaching out slightly, but he hesitates, stopping just short of touching Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his grip on your hand the only thing grounding him. “Because I didn’t want to let anyone down,” he admits. “I didn’t want to let you down. Or the team. Or myself.”

The weight of those words sinks in, and you see Jeno shift beside him. He doesn’t speak, but his hand comes to rest on Mark’s shoulder, the small gesture carrying a silent reassurance that only a brother can give. Mark glances at him briefly, and for a second, you see the tension in his frame ease just slightly.

Jaemin, ever the optimist, steps forward, his voice quiet but firm. “Mark… none of us would ever think that. You know that, right? We’d never think you’re letting us down.”

Chenle sniffs quietly, and when he finally speaks, his voice wavers. “You’re one of the best players we’ve ever had. And not just because you’re good at basketball. It’s you, Mark. You’re… you’re just…” His voice breaks, and he rubs furiously at his eyes, unable to finish.

Renjun places a hand on Chenle’s shoulder, his own expression somber but composed. “We’re a team,” Renjun says firmly, his gaze locking on Mark’s. “And teams stick together. We’ve got you.”

Doyoung’s lips press into a thin line, his emotions barely contained as he steps forward again. “Mark,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I’ve always been proud of you—on and off the court. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

The silence stretches for a moment, until Jeno, ever the steady presence, squeezes Mark’s shoulder again. His voice is calm but firm as he says, “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got them. We’ve got you.”

Mark swallows hard, his eyes flickering around the circle of his teammates. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, and after a moment, you let go, stepping back to let them close in around him. The team moves as one, their voices quiet but filled with reassurance as they offer words of encouragement and solidarity.

You see Chenle’s tears fall freely now, his shoulders shaking as Jaemin pats his back lightly. Renjun murmurs something soft to Mark, his voice too low for you to hear, but the small nod Mark gives in response speaks volumes. Jeno doesn’t leave Mark’s side, his protective stance solid, grounding Mark in a way only he can.

Your gaze drifts to the edge of the court, where Taeyong stands alone, watching the scene unfold with an expression that’s difficult to read. For a fleeting moment, there’s a flash of regret in his eyes, but he doesn��t step forward again. He stays where he is, his figure framed by the shadows of the gym, a silent

You couldn’t help the sting of tears pricking at your own eyes as you watched the scene unfold. The vulnerability in Mark’s confession, the way his teammates rally around him, the unspoken love and respect in every movement—it’s overwhelming. 

The gym echoes with the distant creak of the heavy double doors as the last of the team filters out, their chatter fading into the hallway. The once-bustling court is eerily quiet now, the air heavy with everything left unsaid. Mark stands near the edge of the court, his shoulders slightly slumped, the tension of the day etched into his frame. Beside him, Jeno adjusts his bag strap, his focus on the exit as he steps toward it.

Just as they both reach the door to leave, Doyoung’s voice cuts through the silence, firm but gentle. “Mark. Wait.”

Mark pauses mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he looks over his shoulder. His brows furrow faintly, his exhaustion evident in the way his stance wavers for a moment before he turns fully to face his uncle.

Jeno, sensing the shift in tone, glances back briefly but doesn’t stop moving. His hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the cool metal. Behind him, Doyoung hesitates, his gaze flickering between his two nephews. There’s a visible pause, the air around him thick with indecision as his lips part, then press together again. His expression softens slightly, a mix of something unreadable—maybe uncertainty, maybe regret—before his voice cuts through the quiet, sharper this time.

“Jeno. You too.”

Jeno turns slowly, his brows furrowing as he processes the unusual request. He’s not used to this—being included, being needed in a moment like this. His gaze flickers to Mark, who offers the faintest nod, before he makes his way back toward them, his steps deliberate, his shoulders tense.

Doyoung steps closer, his arms crossed, but his expression is open, softer than usual. “I just wanted to talk to you both. This isn’t something I can say to the team—it’s for you two.” His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of emotion that gives his words weight.

Mark lifts his head, meeting Doyoung’s gaze. “What is it?”

The gym feels cavernous now, the silence amplifying every breath, every subtle movement. Doyoung stands in front of his nephews, his arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to shield himself from the weight of the moment. His eyes flicker between Mark and Jeno, lingering longer than usual, as if searching for the right words.

“This isn’t just about basketball,” he begins, his voice quieter than usual but steady. He takes a step closer, his stance softening as his gaze lands on Mark first. “What you’ve been carrying, Mark—it’s more than anyone your age should have to deal with. Between the expectations, the pressure, and everything with… your dad…” Doyoung pauses, exhaling deeply. “It’s a lot. I know you’ve felt like you had to take it all on alone, but you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Mark swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop slightly, like a part of him is finally allowing himself to believe the words.

Doyoung turns his attention to Jeno, his expression shifting into something softer, almost hesitant. “And you, Jeno. You’ve been carrying your own weight, haven’t you? I see the way you look out for Mark, the way you protect him—whether it’s from himself, from others, or from all the crap life throws at him. You don’t just step up when someone asks you to. You do it because you care. Because you’re loyal. And it’s not just about Mark. You’ve been trying to hold this family together in your own way, even if you don’t realize it.”

Jeno’s brow furrows slightly, his posture stiffening. “I don’t know about all that,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just do what I can.”

Doyoung shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s more than that. It’s the way you show up. For Mark. For everyone around you. And I want you to know, Jeno—I’m proud of you.”

The words land heavily, and Jeno’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly as if he didn’t hear right the first time. He blinks, looking away quickly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… thanks, I guess,” he mumbles, his voice quieter than usual. He glances at Mark, who gives him a small, knowing smile.

“You don’t hear it enough,” Doyoung says, his tone firm. “And that’s on me. But I see you, Jeno. I see the man you’re becoming. And you need to hear that I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

Mark looks up at that, his eyes meeting Jeno’s briefly before flickering back to Doyoung. There’s a weight to his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid.

“You both grew up missing pieces you should’ve had. One of you had your dad, and the other didn’t, but somehow his absence—and all the toxic ways he left his mark—still linger in both your lives. It’s all tangled up in ways neither of you can really escape.” Doyoung continues, his voice trembling slightly. “And I know… I know I can’t change the past. I can’t erase your Dad, the gaps he’s left in your lives. But you’ve built something for yourselves despite all of that. You’ve stayed close, stayed strong—and that’s because of the two of you, not him.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to keep his emotions in check. He swallows hard before looking up, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t feel like strength most of the time,” he admits, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It feels like we’re just… surviving. Like we’ve spent our whole lives cleaning up his mess.”

Jeno shifts beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression hardens for a moment, but the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. “Surviving is strength,” he says, his tone sharper than he intends. “He didn’t give us much of a choice, did he? We had to figure it out on our own.”

But then Jeno’s gaze softens as it lands on Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He exhales slowly, his voice quieter now. “…But you’ve had it worse,” he says, almost as if admitting it to himself. “You grew up with all of his bullshit right in your face, having to deal with his absence and his neglect. I didn’t, well, not in the same way that you did.” His arms drop to his sides, and he shakes his head, glancing away briefly before looking back at Mark.

Mark lifts his eyes to meet Jeno’s, his expression unreadable at first. The words sink in, settling somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. He feels the weight of Jeno’s gaze, the honesty in his voice, and it stirs something raw in his chest.

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as his lips press into a tight line. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low and measured. “Maybe I had it worse in some ways. But it’s not like you came out of this unscathed, Jeno. He screwed both of us over, just… differently.”

The moment feels lighter for a second, but Doyoung’s next words pull them back into the gravity of the conversation. “You’ve both turned out better than anyone had the right to expect, considering what you’ve been through. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of you.”

The air between them shifts, a subtle but significant softening. Mark and Jeno exchange a look, one of mutual understanding, before their attention returns to Doyoung.

As the three of them stand there, unaware of the figure lingering outside the gym doors, Taeyong leans against the frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but the shadows cast over his face betray the regret etched into his features. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches, the distance between him and his sons feeling more like a chasm than ever before.

──────────────────────────────

The mirror reflects two flawless versions of yourselves—both of you radiating confidence and allure in a way that makes the room feel electric. You smooth down the fabric of your dress, a satin black slip that clings perfectly to your figure, its midnight black hue shimmering faintly under the soft lighting. Karina stands beside you, her dress equally stunning—a deep emerald green that compliments her skin tone, the neckline daring and framed by her loose, effortless waves. You both look undeniably good, your makeup sharp and glowing, as if the night was already yours before even stepping out the door.

“God, we’re so hot,” Karina laughs, tilting her head slightly as she adjusts her pose, her phone capturing endless selfies. You laugh softly, your fingers grazing your neck as you glance at your reflection again, momentarily distracted by your thoughts. You fiddle with your phone in your hand, biting your lip in contemplation. Mark’s been on your mind all evening, especially after everything that happened. The idea of sending him a picture flutters into your thoughts—one part wanting to show him how good you look tonight, the other part… well, maybe to remind him of what he still lingers on.

Finally, you give in, leaning subtly toward the mirror to snap a single shot. You tilt your head, letting the delicate strap of your dress slide slightly off your shoulder in a way that feels artfully careless. After a moment of hesitation, you attach the image to the message and hit send, your heart skipping a beat as you wait for his reaction. It doesn’t take long for your phone to buzz.

“Wait, so Mark has a heart condition?” Karina asks, her voice slicing through the soft hum of the playlist you’d put on earlier. Her words pull your gaze from your phone, where Mark’s latest text had left a smile tugging at your lips. She’s standing by the mirror, adjusting her hair with practiced ease. Her eyes meet yours through the reflection, eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity.

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing back down at your phone. “He does. And… it’s been hard on him. He’s upset about it, and I can tell it’s eating at him, even when he tries to act like it’s not.”

Karina turns, leaning a hip against the counter as her full attention shifts to you. Her lips curve into a small smile—gentle but knowing. “Of course he’s upset. It’s a lot to deal with. But you’ll be there for him, won’t you?” Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying seriousness in her question, like she already knows the answer.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation, your fingers idly brushing against the strap of your dress to adjust it. “I’ll always be there for him.”

Karina hums, studying you with a look that feels just a little too perceptive. “I have to say… you two have been spending a lot of time together lately. Are we just going to ignore the fact that you seem very close again?”” She pauses, her grin widening as she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But I don’t hear a single sound from your room when he’s over, so either he’s fucking you so hard you can’t even make a noise…”

You gasp, your cheeks heating instantly. “We haven’t been having sex!” you protest, but Karina only raises an eyebrow, her skepticism loud and clear. You throw your hands up in defense. “Okay, fine! I gave him one blowjob, but that’s it!” Her smirk widens, and you sigh. “It only happened because, when we were still together, I lost a game, and my punishment was to, well… you know.” You hesitate, glancing at her pointed look before blurting out, “And we broke up the next day, but I couldn’t break the damn promise!”

Karina bursts into laughter, her hand flying to her stomach as she doubles over dramatically. “You ‘couldn’t break the promise’?” she repeats, her voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, my god, you’re unbelievable. That’s the dumbest—and most you—thing I’ve ever heard. You broke up, but you still felt obligated to… follow through?”

She wipes a fake tear from her eye, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re telling me you were single, yet you still gave him a goodbye blowjob out of sportsmanship? I can’t—this is too much.”

You glare at her, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “It wasn’t like that,” you mutter defensively, though you can feel your face burning.

Karina grins, stepping closer to throw her arm around your shoulders. “Oh, babe, it was exactly like that. You’re too loyal for your own good. But hey, at least you kept your word, right?” She winks, her teasing relentless. “Mark must’ve been devastated losing you and the perks.”

“Shut up,” you snap playfully, rolling your eyes. “It’s different this time with us.”

Karina smirks, tilting her head to the side as she eyes you. “Different how? Like ‘we’re taking things slow and mature’ different? Or ‘we’re seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off but pretending it’s about feelings’ different?”

You groan, shoving her shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to gauge the vibe here,” she teases, raising her hands in mock surrender. 

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you lean against the counter beside her, your shoulders brushing. The teasing gives way to a more vulnerable quiet between you as you exhale slowly. “It feels more emotional between us now,” you admit, your voice softer, more contemplative. “It’s like… we’re actually talking. Like, really talking. He’s opening up to me about things he’s never talked about before, and I’m doing the same. And, believe it or not…” You pause, your lips curving into a small, almost disbelieving smile. “We haven’t even had sex since the breakup.”

Karina freezes mid-pose, her mouth falling open slightly. She turns to you with an expression that’s part disbelief, part amusement. “You haven’t had sex? Not even once?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “No, not even once. Sure, I can count four different occasions where it nearly happened but it didn’t! That’s so unlike us. And honestly? That shocks me. I thought I’d be the one to break first, but… I haven’t.”

Karina narrows her eyes at you, her teasing grin making a comeback. “What happened to the girl who swore she couldn’t resist going without his cock for more than a day? Who is this new woman standing in front of me?”

You snort, giving her shoulder a playful shove. “I’m evolving, okay? Growth.”

Karina raises a skeptical brow, her lips twitching in amusement as she grabs her bag from the bed. “We’ll see about that. I bet the second you see Mark, you’ll forget all about this so-called growth and be all over him.”

You roll your eyes, following her to the door, grabbing your keys and clutch on the way. “Let’s just get to Jeno’s before you start placing bets on my life choices.”

The two of you head down the hall of your apartment building, your laughter echoing softly in the quiet. Karina adjusts her dress as you step outside, the night air cool against your skin. “You call the ride?” she asks, glancing over at you.

“Already on the way,” you reply, the distant hum of city sounds filling the space between you. Moments later, a sleek car pulls up to the curb, and you both slide in, the buzz of anticipation swirling in the air.

The drive to Jeno’s feels light, Karina scrolling through her phone while you stare out the window, your thoughts drifting. The air smells faintly of bonfires and fresh grass as you step out of the car, the distant thrum of music seeping through the cracks of Jeno’s grand house. The last time you were here, everything changed—shifts in relationships, realizations, breaking points. But tonight feels different. As you approach the house, illuminated by soft golden lights strung across the patio, you feel something lighter, something that settles into you like peace.

Inside, the warmth and noise hit you all at once. People are sprawled across the expansive living room, some leaning lazily against counters, others clutching red Solo cups as they sway to the low hum of music. A chandelier above glimmers like a starburst, casting flickering patterns across polished floors and sleek furniture. The smell of spilled beer and faint vanilla candles mixes with laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

Jeno is leaning against the kitchen island when you see him, his black shirt unbuttoned slightly, the casual chaos of his hair making him look effortlessly cool. His eyes lock onto you the moment you walk in, but instead of looking at your face, they travel downward, tracing every curve and detail of your outfit. His brows raise slightly, and he lets out a soft, appreciative whistle.

“Woah,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you approach him. “Like it?”

“If you and Mark don’t sort out whatever the fuck is going on between you,” he drawls, his grin widening, “then I’m allowed to bend you over the table and finish what he clearly hasn’t started.”

You roll your eyes, though your lips tug into a smirk. “You can still do that,” you counter, your tone light but daring. “Doesn’t have to have anything to do with Mark.”

Karina doesn’t even blink at the exchange; she just arches a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression amused but knowing. “You two,” she mutters, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Always the same.” Her words carry a hint of exasperation, but it’s obvious she isn’t taking it seriously. No one ever did. You and Jeno had this unspoken, flirtatious rapport, one that people had stopped questioning long ago. It was a game you both played—a harmless, teasing dance that never meant anything deeper. 

Her heels click softly against the polished floor as she makes her way toward you both. Every movement of hers is deliberate—hips swaying just enough, her emerald-green dress clinging to her figure like a second skin. Her confidence radiates as her sharp eyes land on Jeno, who doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a smirk that’s half invitation, half dare, his hand casually adjusting the chain at his neck as his gaze sweeps over her like he’s taking in every detail.

“Don’t be jealous, Rina,” Jeno murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans in closer, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it’s meant to unravel her. His eyes flicker briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes, dark and full of intent. The way he moves is subtle but purposeful—like a predator closing in on its prey, confident in the effect he’s having.

Karina raises a brow, her red-painted lips curving into a slow smirk. Her hand finds her hip, the smooth fabric of her dress gliding beneath her palm as she tilts her head. “Jealous?” she echoes, her tone clipped but dripping with amusement. “Please.”

Jeno’s laugh is low, a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest. His arm tightens around her shoulder, his fingers brushing bare skin just beneath the strap of her dress. The casual way he holds her contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes as he tilts his head down, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath is warm, the scent of his cologne sharp and lingering in the space between them. “Come on,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, yet rough enough to scrape against her defenses. “Admit it—you only want my eyes on you.”

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. The air feels heavy now, charged with a tension that’s both magnetic and suffocating. The teasing line between them blurs, and you feel your chest tighten at the intimacy in their exchange. Jeno had changed, right? He doesn’t play with people anymore—you know that. He doesn’t cross lines, doesn’t toy with emotions. But the way he’s looking at Karina right now, like she’s the only person in the room, sends a ripple of confusion and something sharper—something closer to unease—through you.

Wasn’t Jeno seeing Mark’s best friend? You think about the way they were always together, the quiet smiles exchanged in corners of rooms, the way she seemed to be a constant presence in his life. What is he doing? You’re not sure what unsettles you more—the possibility that he’s stepping into murky waters or the fact that you don’t want to stop him.

Because, god, it’s undeniably hot. There’s something electric about watching them—two hot and attractive people. Jeno’s fingers flex against Karina’s shoulder, grounding and deliberate, as if testing the waters. His smirk deepens, his gaze flicking between Karina’s eyes and lips, his head tilting slightly as if daring her to rise to his challenge. “You talk a big game,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing, edged with a quiet confidence. “But I don’t think you’re ready for me.”

Karina’s brow arches sharply, her lips curling into a sly, knowing grin. She steps closer, her movement fluid and commanding, closing the distance between them until there’s barely a breath of space left. Her hand slides up slowly, fingers grazing the cool chain around his neck before curling around it. She tugs lightly, her eyes never leaving his, the challenge in her gaze unmistakable. “Ready for you?” she says softly, her voice low and edged with playful disdain. “Jeno, if I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

The smirk on Jeno’s face deepens, his expression darkening with something primal. His free hand slides from her shoulder to her waist, his fingers splaying against the curve of her back, holding her firmly against him. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her dress, the small motion deliberate, sending shivers down your spine even from where you’re standing. His voice drops to a near growl, the sound rough and full of heat. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his lips just a breath away from hers. “Prove it.”

Before you can intervene with a sarcastic comment of your own, Karina tilts her head and leans in, her lips brushing against his. It’s brief at first, teasing, like she’s testing the waters, but when Jeno doesn’t pull back—in fact, he leans in—Karina presses her lips fully to his, her hand tightening on the chain she’s been playing with.

When Karina pulls away, her lips curve into a victorious smile, her thumb brushing the corner of Jeno’s mouth with a playful delicacy, as if wiping away an invisible smudge. “Told you,” she says smoothly, her gaze holding his, daring him to counter her confidence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t interrupt, crossing your arms as you watch the moment unfold with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. Karina’s fingers stay curled around the chain at Jeno’s neck as their lips clash again, harder this time—hungry and unapologetic, the air between them charged with rough desperation. There’s no hesitation in their movements, no softness, just raw energy that draws your eyes like a magnet.

Jeno doesn’t pull back. His hand grips her waist firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as he tugs her closer, their bodies pressing together in a way that makes the air in the room feel heavier. His other hand moves to cup the back of her neck, his hold firm, possessive. The angle of his jaw shifts as his lips press harder against hers, the kiss growing almost frantic, a battle for control that neither seems willing to lose.

Almost simultaneously, their gazes shift to you. It’s not subtle— Karina’s lips quirk into a knowing smile, her head still tilted as though she’s daring you to react. Jeno just smirks, the sharpness in his expression softening slightly. He doesn’t make the comment you expect—a sly invitation to join in, the usual quip he’d toss your way without hesitation.

Instead, the silence stretches for a beat too long, and you let out a quiet gasp, breaking it. “I thought you were with Mark’s best friend?” you ask, your voice light but laced with genuine curiosity. 

Jeno shrugs, his hand finally dropping from Karina’s waist as he steps back slightly. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before—a flicker of something unspoken. Sadness? Dismissal? It’s hard to place, but it’s enough to make you hesitate. “Well, I’m not,” he says simply, his tone clipped, the kind that warns you not to push further.

Karina, ever perceptive, tilts her head, watching him closely. “That’s new,” she murmurs, though her voice isn’t teasing this time.

Jeno’s shoulders relax slightly, and he forces a grin back onto his face, the sharpness returning as if to push the moment away. “Anyway,” he says, turning to you both. “Who’s ready to get completely fucked up?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, but Karina’s grin returns almost instantly. “Always,” she says, her confidence unwavering as she adjusts her dress.

Jeno pulls a small bag from his pocket, the faint sheen of its contents catching the low, golden party lights. “You two are in for a treat,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with a quiet confidence that sends a shiver through you. His fingers curl around the edge of the bag, tipping it just enough to let a few muted-colored pills spill into his palm. The smirk on his lips is teasing, daring, as his gaze flicks between you and Karina.

Karina doesn’t even blink. She snatches one between two manicured fingers, rolling it thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. “Easy,” she says with a grin, chasing it down with a generous sip of her drink. Her eyes flash to yours, the corner of her lips curling mischievously. “Come on, we’re not driving tonight. No excuses.”

Jeno watches your hesitation, the pill resting between your fingers as you turn it over, biting your lip in quiet contemplation. His smirk sharpens, something teasing and confident flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he steps closer, closing the small distance between you. His presence feels overwhelming, his cologne mixing with the electric hum in the air.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he plucks the pill from your fingers with a deft motion, holding it delicately between his own. He tilts his head, his lips quirking into that ever-present smirk, and you watch, entranced, as he lifts the pill to your lips.

“Open,” he says simply, his tone equal parts playful and commanding.

You hesitate for half a second, your breath catching as you look up at him. But the anticipation, the weight of his gaze, and the steady buzz of the party around you make it impossible to resist. Slowly, you part your lips, your eyes never leaving his.

Jeno slips the pill onto your tongue with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips brushing your bottom lip in a way that feels entirely too intentional. The contact is brief but electrifying, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallow quickly, the pill going down easily, but the heat of his touch lingers far longer.

“There we go,” Jeno says, his voice quieter now, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. His hand lingers for a moment, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if to check if the pill’s really gone—or maybe just to leave you breathless.

Karina snorts beside you, breaking the spell. “Jesus, Jeno. Are you seducing her into taking it?”

“Maybe,” he replies smoothly, leaning back with a laugh, his fingers running through his hair as he follows suit, popping one himself and chasing it with a lazy swig of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

The effect creeps in slowly, like a warm tide pulling you under. The party around you begins to shift, the music deeper, richer, vibrating through your chest like a heartbeat. The lights seem softer yet more vivid, every flicker and hue painting the room in golden tones that feel almost unreal. Laughter and voices blur together into a soothing, rhythmic hum, the buzz settling into your body like a familiar warmth.

Karina’s laugh cuts through the haze, drawing your attention. She leans closer to you, her arm brushing yours, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Feeling it yet?” she asks, her voice soft but full of mischief.

“Just starting,” you admit, the edges of your thoughts beginning to soften, your body sinking deeper into the moment. You glance over at Jeno, whose gaze lingers on you with a quiet intensity, his smirk turning sharper as if he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Good,” Jeno murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the charged air between the three of you. He steps closer, his presence magnetic and undeniable, the heat of his proximity making your breath hitch. Karina tilts her head, her lips parting slightly as she watches him, her expression unreadable but filled with a confidence that makes the moment feel even more intense. The tension between them crackles, thick and palpable, drawing you in even as your chest tightens.

Jeno leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as always. “You know I love when you’re around,” he starts, his voice teasing but edged with something firmer. His dark eyes flick over you, lingering just long enough to make you feel self-conscious. “But how can you come to the party looking like that and you’re not even trying to find Mark? Why are you here with me and Karina?”

You laugh, trying to deflect the tension curling in the air. “I like being around you both?” you say lightly, but even you can hear the waver in your tone.

Jeno isn’t buying it. His grin sharpens, his gaze unwavering as he straightens slightly, his tone turning more authoritative. “Go and find Mark,” he says firmly, like it’s not a suggestion but an order.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding harder as his words settle over you. The weight of them presses down, and you find yourself nodding despite the unease twisting in your chest. “Fine, I’m going,” you mutter, stepping back slightly. Your voice is softer than you mean for it to be, and you glance between the two of them, your pulse racing. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Jeno doesn’t move, his gaze still fixed on you. His dark eyes flicker briefly, something unreadable flashing in them before his grin returns—sharp, knowing. His hand brushes against Karina’s waist casually, the motion almost imperceptible, yet it carries a weight that makes your stomach churn. “Good,” he says simply, his voice low and steady, dripping with something unspoken.

Karina’s gaze softens as she looks at you, her lips curving into a knowing smile that sends a pang through your chest. “Go get him,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with amusement but not unkind. There’s something in her tone, an unspoken understanding that leaves you both comforted and slightly unsettled.

You nod faintly, turning away and slipping through the crowd. The distant thrum of the music fills your ears as you make your way toward the back of the house, the weight of their gazes lingering on your back. You try to shake it off, focus on Mark, but the moment feels etched into your skin, lingering like an unfinished sentence.

The music grows louder as you weave through the thrumming party, every bass drop vibrating in your chest and blending with the growing buzz in your head. The pill Jeno had given you earlier is starting to work its way through your system, softening the edges of the world around you. Colors feel more vivid, the laughter and voices blending into a surreal hum that makes everything feel weightless. Your body feels lighter, like you’re gliding rather than walking, but your focus is sharp��trained on finding Mark.

You follow the location he sent you, his message still fresh in your mind, until you reach the back of the house. The room you enter is quieter than the main party, dimly lit with soft yellow light that pools around the corners. Your steps falter as you spot him, his broad shoulders framed against the glow of the room. He hasn’t seen you yet; his back is to you, and he’s leaning against a high table with a drink in hand. Chenle and Donghyuck are flanking him, their easy laughter filling the space.

Mark looks relaxed, or at least he’s trying to. His stance is casual, his head tilted slightly as he listens to Donghyuck animatedly recount something you can’t quite hear over the music. But you can tell—it’s all a mask. The tension in his shoulders is evident even from here, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. You start to move toward him, your heart pounding faster now—not from the drugs, but from the magnetic pull you always feel when he’s near.

Then you hear your name.

You freeze mid-step, your breath hitching as your ears hone in on Chenle’s voice.

“I don’t get it,” Chenle says, his tone low but not malicious. He glances at Mark, his expression both concerned and confused. “Why are you so hung up on her, man? I mean, she broke up with you, didn’t she? And… I don’t know. It just seems like she’s not fully in it. Like she’s not committed.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting you harder than they should. The high in your veins does nothing to soften the sting, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

Mark doesn’t respond right away, taking a slow sip from his drink before setting it down on the table with a deliberate clink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly, his voice low but firm. “Y/N’s been there for me through everything. She’s committed, more than anyone else ever has been.”

“Then why’d she leave?” Donghyuck interjects, his tone sharper but not unkind. “I’m just saying, Mark, maybe Chenle has a point. You’re putting a lot on her. Are you sure she can handle it?”

Your chest tightens, the weight of their words pressing into you like a stone sinking in water. For a fleeting second, you consider stepping forward, announcing your presence, and shutting down the conversation. But your feet stay rooted to the spot, your body buzzing with a tangled mix of anger, hurt, and the sharp edge of the drug coursing through you. Instead, you slowly step back, slipping further into the shadows as the ache in your chest grows heavier.

You take a moment to breathe, but it feels futile. The high makes everything sharper—every word you overheard echoing in your head, louder, crueler, twisting and cutting deeper with each replay. Your back presses against the wall as your trembling hands rise to cover your face, trying to block out the noise in your mind. For a moment, you want to run, to slip out the back door and vanish into the night, leaving the whispers and unbearable weight behind. But there’s that part of you—that stubborn, unrelenting part—that refuses to walk away from Mark. Not yet. Not again. 

You stay where you are, rooted in place, the ache in your chest steady but not unbearable. And you’re glad you do, because the next thing you hear changes everything.

“Enough,” Mark’s voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation like a blade. There’s a tension in his tone you rarely hear, sharp and commanding. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you talk about her like that.”

A pause follows, heavy and uncertain, before Chenle’s hesitant voice breaks through. “Mark, I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” Mark interrupts, his voice firm now. “You meant it exactly how it sounded. And I get it—you’re trying to look out for me, and I appreciate that, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s trying, Chenle. She’s been through more than you could imagine, and she doesn’t deserve to be talked about like she’s not enough. She is. More than enough.”

His words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. Your heart swells, the heaviness in your chest momentarily lifting as his voice softens, turning raw. “She’s everything to me,” he adds quietly. “And if you can’t understand that, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

You press your palm against your mouth, trying to hold in the sob that threatens to escape. Tears prick at your eyes, this time not from hurt but from the sheer weight of his words. He’s defending you—fiercely, unapologetically—and it feels like a balm on a wound you didn’t realize had cut so deep.

But as much as his words warm your heart, the reality of the situation still stings. You know how awkward it would be if they realized you’d overheard the entire conversation, and a part of you can’t shake the lingering shame of Chenle’s comment. The words, sharp and careless, had burrowed into your mind before Mark could pull them out.

So, despite the comfort Mark’s defense brings, you decide to leave. You step back further into the shadows, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your tears at bay as you slip toward the exit. The sound of laughter and music grows fainter behind you, muted by the ache in your chest.

As you make your way toward the door, the tears you tried so hard to suppress spill free, tracing hot trails down your face. You swipe at them quickly, not wanting anyone to notice, but the sadness feels relentless, bubbling up faster than you can control.

Why is it always like this with Mark? you wonder bitterly. Whenever things feel good—when the rhythm between you feels steady—something always comes along to break it. Chenle’s words replay in your mind, cruel and undeniable: Mark deserves someone who can meet him halfway.

The sting of it runs deeper than it should, and you hate that it feels so true. Not because you don’t care, but because you’ve always been scared you’d never be enough for him, not really. You press your hand against your chest, willing yourself to breathe, to push the hurt down long enough to remind yourself of why you’re here.

You came to see Mark tonight. To be there for him. But right now, the ache in your chest is too raw, the weight of it too much. You need space to steady yourself, to gather your courage before you can face him again. You know you’ll be okay—you always are, eventually—but tonight, you need a moment to yourself.

The party hums around you, the distant thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor, blending with the sound of laughter and muffled conversation. The air feels thick and hazy, amplified by the lingering ache in your chest and the sharp edge of everything you’ve overheard tonight. Your steps are slow, almost reluctant, as you weave through the crowd, your vision still slightly blurred by the tears you’ve yet to fully wipe away.

And then you spot him—Jeno, one of the few people who always makes you feel grounded, no matter how chaotic things get. He’s tucked into a quieter corner of the party, lounging on a couch with one arm draped lazily along the backrest and a joint held loosely between his fingers. The faint glow of a nearby lamp casts a warm light over his sharp jawline and tousled hair, accentuating the effortless confidence in his posture. A faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls upward, blending with the muted haze of the room. His gaze flickers idly across the party before it lands on you, softening slightly as it meets yours.

For a moment, his smirk falters, his eyes narrowing slightly as they meet yours. You know he notices the redness around your eyes, the faint shimmer of tears threatening to fall. But he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he shifts slightly, patting the space beside him in silent invitation.

You sink onto the couch without hesitation, your body pressing into the cushions as you try to steady your breath. Jeno leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes another drag from the joint. The smell of smoke and faint cologne clings to him, comforting in its familiarity.

Jeno notices the tears spilling out in an uncontrollable manner. His body tenses briefly, and then he moves, the gesture slow and deliberate. His free hand reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising gentleness. His touch lingers for a moment, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way that words couldn’t.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. “None of that, okay?”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours. The way he looks at you—steady, unwavering, and far softer than you expected—makes your chest ache in a different way. His thumb grazes your cheekbone, catching another tear before it can fall.

“Here,” he says quietly, lifting the plastic cup back to your lips. “Drink. It’ll help.”

You hesitate for a moment but eventually part your lips, letting him tilt the cup just enough for the cool liquid to touch your tongue. The alcohol burns slightly as it slides down, but it’s a welcome distraction, a way to dull the sharp edges of your emotions.

You let yourself lean closer, your head resting lightly on Jeno’s shoulder. He glances down at you, his movements slowing, his smirk softening as his gaze flickers over your face. His thumb brushes against your shoulder—a small, grounding gesture that feels more comforting than anything else. “Comfortable?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm, the teasing edge in his tone softened by something gentler.

“Very,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A faint smile curves your lips, but it falters almost immediately as another tear escapes, trailing down your cheek. His eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and without hesitation, Jeno’s free hand moves. His knuckles brush lightly against your skin, wiping it away with a touch so delicate it makes your breath hitch. His gaze lingers on yours, steady and warm, before his lips curve into a soft, wide smile that feels grounding in a way words couldn’t.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words settle over you like a balm. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye, catching another tear before it can fall, the tenderness in his movements catching you off guard.

You huff out a shaky laugh, your cheeks warming slightly as you glance away. “You can’t just say things like that,” you murmur, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite the weight in your chest.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich as his arm tightens around your back. “I can and I just did,” he murmurs, his tone playful but steady. “It’s part of the job.”

“What job?” you ask, glancing up at him, your brow arching slightly.

“Making you smile,” he says simply, his gaze dropping to meet yours. His voice softens, a warmth threading through it as he adds, “You’ve got a pretty smile. You should show it off more.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not from sadness. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the small grin threatening to form, but his words have already done their work. For the first time tonight, the ache in your chest loosens, replaced by a flicker of something softer.

Jeno’s hand moves again, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as if daring another tear to fall. “There it is,” he murmurs, his lips tugging into a faint smile of his own. “Told you. Prettiest smile in the room.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, the sound shaky but genuine as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint smoke clinging to his clothes, grounds you in the moment. The party hums in the background, distant and insignificant compared to the calm he anchors you in.

Jeno lets the quiet hang for a moment, his gaze steady on you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your shoulder. “I’m not complaining,” he starts, his voice light, though there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. “I love having you here. But…” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you here? I was expecting Mark to be balls deep inside of you right about now.” 

“I…” Your voice cracks, breaking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I just needed a minute, okay?” The words come out shakier than you intend, trembling with the emotions you can’t seem to control. “I couldn’t face him like this.”

Jeno shifts slightly, turning toward you, his body language open but attentive. “A minute from what?” he asks, though there’s no judgment in his tone—just curiosity laced with concern. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

You exhale shakily, your chest tightening at the memory. “No. Not exactly,” you murmur. “I overheard Chenle talking about me… about us. It wasn’t great.”

Jeno’s expression sharpens, his jaw tightening slightly. “What did he say?” His voice is calm, but you can feel the subtle tension in it, the way his posture shifts as if readying himself for action.

“It’s not important,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “Mark defended me. But still…” You trail off, your voice faltering as you search for the right words. “It just hit harder than I expected. Like… maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Jeno interrupts firmly, his tone cutting but not unkind. His hand slides to your upper back, grounding you with a steady touch. “You’re not just anything. Don’t let Chenle or anyone else make you doubt that.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I didn’t want to ruin the night,” you admit softly. “I thought maybe giving myself some space would help.”

Jeno leans back slightly, studying you with a look that’s both exasperated and fond. “You think running off is gonna fix things?” he asks, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Mark’s over there probably wondering where the hell you went.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I’m not running off,” you reply quickly, your voice quiet but firm. “I just… I needed to get away for a second. To breathe. It’s a lot sometimes, you know? I’ll find him. I will. I just couldn’t face all of them right after hearing that.”

Jeno studies you for a moment, his expression softening as he takes in the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and nods. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes it’s too much. People say things, and it gets in your head. You just need a second to clear it out.”

You glance at him, your chest loosening a little at the understanding in his tone. “Exactly,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But I’ll go back to him. I came here to see him, and I’m not going to let this… whatever this is, stop me. I just needed a minute to remind myself why I’m doing this.”

Jeno leans back again, letting out a soft, thoughtful hum. His gaze lingers on you, sharp but not unkind, and his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smirk. “Good. That’s good,” he says, nodding slowly. “But maybe don’t make him wait too long, yeah? He’s probably over there thinking he did something wrong. You know how he is.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you glance toward the crowded room. “You’re right,” you admit, though the thought makes your chest tighten all over again. “He doesn’t deserve to feel like that.”

But Jeno’s expression shifts, his tone suddenly sharper. “I think you’re stupid, though,” he says bluntly.

“Jen?” you pout, tilting your head to look at him, your voice laced with half-hearted protest.

He doesn’t hold back. “I just think breaking up with him wasn’t a good idea. You’re making excuses and running away when it gets too much. You and Mark? You’re destined to be together, and you know it. So you need to sort yourself the fuck out.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you huff softly in defeat, unable to find anything to say in response. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it made you sink deeper into his side. You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as a wave of frustration and guilt washed over you. Jeno didn’t sugarcoat things—he never had—and though his bluntness stung, there was an odd comfort in how direct he was. Still, it didn’t make his words any easier to swallow.

“You’re a dumbass,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Disrespecting my brother like that.”

You shook your head, biting back a small smile as you turned your face away. Jeno’s honesty was brutal, but there was something endearing about it, something that reminded you why you’d always appreciated him, even when he pushed too hard. You ignored the sharp edges of his words, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Mark and Jeno were finally embracing their bond.

Their relationship hadn’t always been this strong, but now? There was no denying the love and connection between them. It suited them—the way they teased each other, supported each other, and finally stood side by side as brothers. They’d come such a long way, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride watching them grow into this version of themselves.

“You’re smiling,” Jeno said suddenly, his tone suspicious as he glanced down at you.

You didn’t bother denying it. “I’m just thinking about you and Mark,” you said softly, still leaning into him. “You two are good together. You’ve both come so far.”

Jeno’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he scoffed lightly. “Yeah, well, he’s my brother.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jeno’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t respond, his hand giving your hand a brief squeeze before letting go. The silence between you felt different now—not heavy, but steady, grounding. It was his way of showing you that he believed in you, that despite all his sharp words, he knew you could make things right.

The moment you push yourself off the couch, ready to head to Mark, you catch sight of Karina weaving her way through the crowd toward you and Jeno. Her steps are slightly uneven, her face glowing from the haze of alcohol and drugs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that cuts through the dim light of the party. Your tears must’ve dried up completely because she doesn’t say anything about your face or your mood, her grin wide and unbothered as her eyes flick between the two of you.

“You two look cozy,” she remarks, her tone light but edged with something that feels strangely playful—and something else you can’t quite name. Was it jealousy?

Jeno doesn’t miss a beat. His smirk deepens, his head tilting slightly as his gaze locks onto hers, a teasing glint sparking in his eyes. “You jealous?” he asks, his voice dipping into that familiar lilt, low and smooth, with just enough bite to make it clear he’s not joking.

Karina stops in front of him, her hands sliding to her hips as she leans forward, closing the distance between them. “Maybe,” she whispers, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous, her lips hovering just a breath away from his ear.

Jeno’s grin sharpens, his body shifting slightly toward her, his arm stretching out lazily along the back of the couch as if to invite her closer. “Guess you’ll have to do something about it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, charged with heat that makes your pulse quicken.

You watch them with a heated gaze, frozen for a moment as their exchange unfolds. The tension between them is palpable, electric in a way that’s impossible to look away from. Karina straightens slightly, her hand brushing down his arm before she moves to sit on the other side of him.

The moment she settles beside him, it’s like they slip into an unspoken rhythm, their bodies relaxing into each other in a way that feels both charged and strangely comfortable. Karina angles herself toward him, her fingers brushing casually against his thigh as she starts to talk animatedly, her voice lilting and full of energy. You can’t quite focus on what she’s saying; her words blur into the background as your gaze shifts between the two of them.

Jeno sits back, his posture lazy and inviting, his arm draped along the backrest of the couch. In one hand, he holds a joint loosely between his fingers, and he brings it to his lips occasionally, taking slow, deliberate drags. His gaze stays on Karina as she talks, his lips curling into a faint smirk like he’s humoring her, though you doubt he’s actually listening.

The difference between how Jeno interacts with her versus how he was with you is stark. With you, his touches were light, deliberate, and grounding—friendly and steady. But now, his hand brushes against Karina’s thigh, the contact lingering and deliberate in a way that feels undeniably more intimate. His fingers flex lightly against her skin, the movement subtle but full of intention. His gaze, too, has shifted. Where it was warm and protective with you, it’s darker now, more commanding, his attention locked fully on her like she’s the only person in the room.

Karina leans closer, her laughter soft and warm as her fingers toy with the chain resting against Jeno’s collarbone. He chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand slides further along her thigh, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that feels almost possessive. The air between them thickens, and before you can fully process it, Karina tilts her head, her hair falling over one shoulder as her lips meet his.

Their mouths collide with a hunger that makes the air feel heavy, their movements rough and unapologetic. Jeno’s hand moves to her waist, gripping her firmly as he deepens the kiss, his other hand threading into her hair. Karina responds eagerly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer. Their bodies press together, the tension spilling over into raw, physical connection.

They look like something out of a movie—two impossibly attractive people lost in each other, their chemistry palpable. Jeno’s jaw tightens as he angles his head, his lips parting against hers, and Karina’s hands roam over his chest, clutching at him like she can’t get close enough. The way they move together is fluid, unrestrained, and utterly captivating.

The soft sound of their muffled moans pulls you out of your daze, heat creeping up your neck as you feel flustered by the scene unfolding in front of you. When Karina shifts onto Jeno’s lap, the intimacy of the moment becomes undeniable. Respecting their privacy, you quietly push yourself up from the couch, your resolve strengthening with every step. This isn’t your moment, your place. It’s time to find Mark—time to face him and figure out where the two of you truly stand.

They don’t react to you leaving, their focus entirely on each other, their moaning and gasps fade into the hum of the party as you weave through the crowd, your thoughts already shifting toward Mark and the resolve you’ve finally found to face him. But then, as you glance back one last time, something catches your eye.

Across the room, Mark’s best friend stands frozen, her gaze locked on Jeno and Karina. Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her expression a mix of disbelief and hurt. How long has she been standing there? You don’t know, but the realization makes your stomach twist.

Her gaze flickers to you briefly, and the moment your eyes meet, her composure cracks. She looks away almost immediately, her head bowing as she turns on her heel and walks off, her movements hurried and deliberate. The sight leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the weight of her hurt pressing against your chest. You swallow hard, guilt mingling with confusion.

Turning back to Jeno and Karina, you find them still tangled together on the couch, oblivious to the scene that just unfolded. Jeno’s lips move against Karina’s with an intensity that feels almost detached, like he’s pouring himself into the moment for the sake of the moment alone. His hand grips her waist firmly, pulling her closer as her fingers curl into his hair. The way they move together is electric, charged with pure lust and chemistry, but there’s nothing personal about it—no depth, no connection beyond the physical. It’s borderline, shallow, all heat and no substance.

You sigh quietly, the sound lost in the hum of the party. Why was Jeno like this? You’d seen him care, seen him protect, seen him hold so much more in his hands. But now, he was throwing himself into something fleeting, momentary. Was it just a distraction? And what about his thing with Mark’s best friend? They’d seemed good for each other once, balanced in a way that made sense. But was it truly over? Or was this just another way for him to avoid whatever that was?

The questions swirl in your mind as you tear your gaze away from the scene, your heart heavy but your resolve sharper now. You move forward, your focus shifting fully to Mark. Whatever this is with Jeno, it’s not your battle. You’ve got your own to face.

You moved through the dimly lit hallways, the stark overhead lights casting long shadows that stretched across the polished floors. The ambiance was harsh, almost sterile, with the faint hum of the building’s old heating system underscoring every step you took. The air felt heavier with each turn, the tension inside you mirroring the unwelcoming edges of the space, a mix of unease and determination propelling you forward.

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you frowned. Your heart sank as you saw the notifications: five missed calls from Mark, along with a string of unread messages, all from half an hour ago. The realization hit you like a punch—you’d forgotten to take your phone off Do Not Disturb.

A pang of guilt tightened in your chest. Mark didn’t send messages like these often—he wasn’t one to chase, to beg. But here he was, trying to reach you, and you’d been too caught up elsewhere. Without hesitation, you turned on your heel, determined to find him now.

The living room was the most packed room in the entire party, people crowding the space so tightly that it felt like the walls were shrinking inward. The usual clutter of an apartment gathering filled every surface—half-empty drinks, scattered snack bowls, and someone’s discarded jacket draped over a chair. Groups leaned against the walls, sprawled on the furniture, or chatted in animated circles. A few familiar faces stood out among the crowd, boys from the basketball team. You spotted Soobin near the kitchen, his easygoing smile lighting up a conversation, while Jaemin leaned against the far wall, casually sipping a drink and laughing at something Chenle had just said.

And then, there was Chenle. You hadn’t expected to make eye contact with him, but the moment your gaze locked, your chest tightened. His sharp eyes scanned your face, as though he could see right through the carefully constructed mask you were putting on for tonight. You gulped, forcing yourself to look away quickly, your heart thundering in your chest. There was no way you were dealing with that conversation tonight—not here, not now. You pushed the guilt and uncertainty down, burying it beneath the buzz of the room. This would be a conversation to have later. Tonight was about masking it all, letting yourself get lost in something else—someone else.

As you stepped through the threshold, your breath caught in your chest. There Mark was, seated on the edge of a low couch in the center of the chaos. The dim overhead lights, tinged golden, seemed to spotlight him, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp cut of his jawline and the confident set of his shoulders. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips made your stomach flip. The fitted black tee he wore clung perfectly to his frame, the loose shorts brushing his knees somehow making him look even more appealing.

A basketball rested casually against his knee, his long fingers drumming idly on its surface, while his guitar leaned beside him, its polished body catching the light like a quiet reminder of his many talents. The room seemed to orbit around him, his presence anchoring the space as if he belonged there in a way no one else did.

But he wasn’t alone.

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

taglist — @bigjugz03 @hyuckkklee @hegdus @sungchannel @kidult0325 @hcluvie @second-floors @xjxnox @keelbeel @hyuckkklee @ahgasezennie @lovetaroandtaemin @steadyparkjisungbookishspy @carelessshootanonymous @remgeolli @toroufriteh @sinsgaybutthatsokay @fancypeacepersona @cathamada @gomdoleemyson @ppeachyttae @strcwberi @yunjinsart @millyswife

[thebearer]

Can we get something with Carmy his wife and his girls trick or treating?

yes!! omg this is so cute.

i feel like their neighborhood really goes all in for halloween (much to carmen's slight dismay, because he has to decorate. "we're not going to be the only house without decorations, carm!" "we have decorations. look, we got pumpkins.")

but it's also the perfect place to trick-or-treat. pete and sugar always bring their kids and they all go trick-or-treating together.

picturing that willow is maybe four, teddy's seven. teddy is a trick-or-treating pro, she loves it. loves halloween, really- carmen tells you she gets that from you. she's had her costume picked out for weeks, and is soooo excited to go bounding up door to door to get candy.

willow on the other hand, is not as much.

she likes the decor, she liked picking out her costume, and she likes candy, but... she's not a big fan of the trick-or-treating aspect. usually hiding behind your or carmen's leg, eyes wide and blinking in fear, too scared to speak to the stranger at the door with the candy.

and that's how carmen ends up living his worst nightmare, which is going door to door with willow, having to also speak to strangers.

"trick or treat!" teddy chirps, grinning widely, a charming smile that she inherited straight from mikey- a pure berzatto trait.

"oh, look at you. aren't you just precious." the elderly woman coos, grinning back at teddy, dropping pieces of candy in her bag.

"what do you say, hm?" carmen mutters, running a hand over teddy's head.

"thank you." teddy sing-songs, turning and running back to you, babbling about the candy she got.

the woman turns to willow, still half hidden behind carmen's leg. "oh, and who's back here, hm?"

willow only clings to his leg tighter, barely peeking around to look. "aw, is someone a little shy?"

carmen fights back a cringe. "yeah, she, uh, she's still gettin' the hang of it." he tries to coax willow out. "c'mon wills, what do you say? can you say trick-or-treat?"

"twick-or-tweat." willow says quickly, before burying her face in carmen's side.

the woman takes mercy, passing carmen a gentle smile and two pieces of candy for her bag.

willow runs back to you, the candy wrapped tight in her fist, her scared expression now traded in for excitement. "i got two mama!"

"what? no fair." teddy huffs. "i only got one. why did she get two?"

"go up to the next house and get another piece. we'll call it even." carmen nods towards the other house, lips curling in a smile at how teddy grins, darting off down the sidewalk.

willow is too excited to notice, situated on your hip, babbling with excitement about how she got the candy. "i-i said twick-or-tweat and she gave it to me." willow was in awe, looking at the candy in her hand.

your heart swelled at her little lisp, peppering her cold cheeks in kisses. "that's amazing, sweet girl. you did so good." you cooed, voice lilting high and sweet. "do you want to go to another house?"

willow hesitated, looking at the houses then back at you and carmen. "d-do i have to go alone?"

"no, baby." you said before carmen could, shaking your head. "daddy or i will go with you, i promise. we'll help you got all the candy, won't we?" you grinned at carmen, who nodded, his hand settling on the small of your back.

[stevie-petey]

we thought love was something (we weren't meant to find)

﹂ season two of "come home"

as you approach a year since will's disappearance, things seem to be back to how they were. you still have jonathan and the boys, hawkins is boring again, and you and steve harrington aren't really friends. you convince yourself that it's fine, but time can't heal all wounds, and you sure as hell have your fair share of them. when will starts having episodes and your brother hides a literal monster from you, junior year becomes a lot more painful than it already was. (and because you can never win, steve gets dragged into it). (more complicated feelings arise). (as usual).

episode one: MADMAX - what does steve fear more ? you or the plague ? currently it's you, some guy with an awful mullet stares you down in the parking lot (gross), nancy invites you to a party from your nightmares, and you become an official unlicensed therapist for will. yay for junior year !

episode two: trick or treat, freak - you and nancy have a bonding session in the library (kinda hot tbh), billy gives jonathan and steve a common cause to unite on: Protect Y/N, you're a chauffeur to a very sad steve harrington, and dustin uses will's trauma to his advantage.

episode three: the pollywog - you lecture jonathan about daddy issues and then have an intellectual debate about healthy relationships, you play Mr. Love Dr with Steve, nancy and jonathan go on a sick side quest (and actually inform you this time !), meanwhile: you're about to put a leash on your damn brother.

episode four: will the wise - jonathan is gone for one day and suddenly all hell breaks loose, your hesitant friendship with steve is already rocky (thanks billy) but steve is hot when he's angry tbh, you become a couple's counselor to lucas and max (sorry dustin), and you're now officially the world's worst cat owner ever. and babysitter. but what else is new ?

episode five: dig dug - you and dustin bury a body and con your mother into fleeing town, great sibling bonding time ! you play hockey with a monster, dustin gets ghosted by his friends, and now it's your turn to kidnap steve (technically dustin does, but you don't stop him) who later gives you some terrifying realizations.

episode six: the spy - dustin and steve haggle a butcher, you throw some meat at steve and then have a weird conversation about love, you stop dustin from becoming an incel, and then you wrestle some demodogs like any real woman would. side note: steve is hot protecting the kids.

episode seven: the mind flayer - jonathan is back and has a lot of questions and you have even more for him, the gang gets back together and ties will to a chair, you tell the kid a story to distract him from his demons, steve is a confused mess but at least youre with him, and someone makes a surprise appearance (her name rhymes with shell).

episode eight: the gate - you encourage nancy to take your place (everyone is shocked), you and steve are the newest babysitters in town, billy ruins things as always, tunnels are weird when youre concussed, you remind jonathan of an old promise, and when the snowball comes you make your own promise with steve that you know you can keep.

⌑ set between seasons 2 and 3

﹂ episode nine: the fall - surprise ! life still carries on even with minor brain damage from constant concussions :( on the bright side, you and the gang all become homies. meanwhile, steve grapples with the warm fuzzies and parental issues before his worst nightmare happens: you meet robin. the horrors !

⌑ status: FINISHED

⌑ season two title based on this song x

⌑ blurbs set within "come home" can be found here x

⌑ “come home” season masterlist

*note: this is a part of my stranger things rewrite, “come home”, and other seasons can be found linked above :)

[chelseeebe]

everything has changed

you and steve were once the bestest of friends, cruelly torn apart when you’re forced to leave hawkins suddenly. fifteen years on, everything has changed and yet, nothing has changed.

i had this idea a while ago and then have recently become re-obsessed with the song so decided to give it a rewrite! it’s kinda giving seven x everything has changed and i love that. i have a sitcom level idea of a part two for this but i’m not sure it’ll ever come to fruition

18+. no smut but my blog is 18+ :) mostly just fluffy friends to lovers stuff hehe

‎♡‧₊˚

“you promise we’ll be friends forever?” steve asks, quirking his little eyebrows up. still so innocent, so unaware that the world was a cruel place.

“i promise!” you’d shrieked, toothy grin beaming over at him as you sat poised on the climbing frame. “we’ll write letters every week and in the summer you can come and visit!”

steve whooped with glee, the metal frame shaking from the force of his body, “okay! my mom has your mom’s number so i can call you,” grubby hands clinging onto yours.

you throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug, wobbling atop of your tower. full of hope and your shared joy. oblivious to how the next 15 years would play out.

-

life hadn’t been so kind as to keep the two of you in contact. steve’s mom had tried to explain it to him, but his poor seven year old brain couldn’t quite grasp it.

it was only when he was older that he had realised what had happened.

you had been whisked away to california, your mother’s home state, far away from your dad. for your safety of course. his mother had warned him not to mention where you had gone to anyone, and he’d stuck by that.

and really, life had gotten in the way of thinking about you too much. basketball tryouts and getting girls into the back of his bmw had taken precedence over fading thoughts of freckly girls he once knew.

steve was at college now, admittedly tagging along with robin, but he was enjoying it. he played basketball, studied children’s education and had even scored himself a kinda stable girlfriend.

he’s sat in the library, book open and unread in front of him on the table as robin attempts to convince him to go out tonight.

“it’ll be fun! besides, i promised my roommate that i’d go.. y’know she’s having a hard time,” turning on the puppy dog eyes that more often than not, worked on him.

he groans, “i don’t know rob.. finals are coming up soon and i really need to get this down if i wanna graduate with you,” though he makes no effort to actually pick up the book, more interested in the coffee robin had used as a bargaining chip.

“steve,” almost warningly, “come for an hour,” nodding at him, as if to subliminally make him agree, “and then i’ll help you study all day tomorrow, okay?” tilting her head, bright green* eyes glistening at him.

“fine,” succumbing to her pleas, “but you owe me,” sending a glare across the table as he finally turns the page.

robin grins, happy she’d gotten her own way. again.

-

they walk arm in arm into the bar, squeezing through the crowd as they attempt to locate robin’s mysterious roommate.

steve sighs, whispering into robin’s ear, “why do i have to be here? just because your roommate is a lonely weirdo, doesn’t mean you have to drag me out too,” pouting like a petulant child.

she pinches his arm, causing him to yelp into her ear, “this is why i used to pray for the ceiling light to fall on your head in mrs click’s class,” pulling away from him as she spots whoever she’s looking for.

“wait.. what?” he calls out after her, weaving through the crowd to find her again.

she has her face buried into someone’s shoulder, blabbering about the busy bar and how good it was to get out.

robin pulls away, gesturing over to steve as this lucrative stranger meets his eye.

it’s you.

the little girl who had promised to be his best friend forever now stood before him, all grown up. he almost doesn’t believe it. in fact, he can’t. not until you speak, his name echoes around meaninglessly.

“what the fuck?” he gasps, still in utter shock.

“it’s really you? you’re.. oh my god, you’re steve of course you are,” wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a hug, the exact way you had fifteen years ago.

you even smell the same, a distinct sort of vanilla smell that takes his mind hurtling fifteen years into the past. he almost wants to throw up from the turbulence of it all.

“i can’t believe you’re here,” you gasp, still nuzzled into his shoulder, “this is so surreal,” now holding him at arms length, dissecting his face in the same way he was yours.

you looked the same and yet completely different. no more gappy smiles or sun bleached hair, very pretty. his seven year old self had thought so too, but your friendship had meant more.

“you two know each other?” robin perplexes, watching the scene unfold with zero context.

“we.. uh- yeah,” unsure of how much he can divulge, still under strict orders from his mom to never tell a soul where you’d gone.

“we were friends, i was born in hawkins so.. god, this is so weird,” you exasperate, letting go of his frame to talk to a bewildered robin.

“you’re from hawkins? you told me you were from california?” robins face twists in confusion.

“it’s a.. complicated story,” you look back at him, still trying to decipher if he was even real, “i moved away when i was young but we were like, best friends,” baring your teeth with your smile.

“well shit, i’ve got time,” robin laughs, sliding into the booth, she looks up at steve, “drinks on you.. you know, to celebrate,” wiggling her brows in that irritating way she did when she wanted something.

he dutifully obliges as you begin your story, he supposes that now you probably can.

your dad had moved out of hawkins a while ago, it wasn’t exactly a secret as to why you guys had just up and left so abruptly. steve had always hated him, made sure to glare daggers into his back when he and his mother would pass him in the street or in melvalds. he felt he owed you that.

plus steve was angry, angry that you’d had to leave him behind because of your dad. his tiny mind couldn’t comprehend that it was for the better, only understanding that it was your dad’s fault his best friend had been taken from him.

steve’s curious about california, how your life differed from hawkins. you play it off as nothing special but you smile differently when you speak of afternoons after school spent on the beach and learning to surf.

he makes some off-hand comment about making it out which causes your brows to furrow, “so did you,” tapping the table in front of him, “remember we would talk about college? living in a big house together?”

he chortles, almost choking on his beer, “yeah, with ten dogs and three cats,” shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.

“wow..” robin butts in, “so you did this with other girls before me?” faux-offence written all over her face.

you beam, looking between the two of them, “so are you guys dating?”

steve does choke this time, sputtering as the bitter liquid slides down the back of his throat.

“no!” they chime in unison.

“jesus christ, you think i’d date him?” robin falls into a fit of giggles, it didn’t hurt his ego anymore. robin had very particular tastes and that very much didn’t include men.

“thanks rob..” he snarls jokingly, “i uh, i have a girlfriend.. just not robin,” he’s not sure why he’s apprehensive to tell you. christ, he’d only re-known you for five fucking minutes.

“sorry, i just assumed..” shrinking into your seat, desperate to change the subject.

he’s modestly pleased that you don’t ask any more about his girlfriend, which in turn makes him feel a rotten sense of guilt.

“yeah well, to assume makes an ass out of you and me,” robin adds, giving you a poke to your ribs for good measure, “and he’s definitely not my type,” her nose shrivelling up in disgust.

you snigger, poking robin right back as she explodes into her myriad of reasons why she would never date steve. she kept a list.

there’s a sickening feeling of affinity, like all the years you hadn’t been together just ceased to exist, they no longer mattered.

especially when your eyes meet as robin prattles on, like you’re sharing an old joke.

he doesn’t like this, doesn’t fancy his odds of coming out of this unscathed but that doesn’t stop him from shifting his chair closer as the night goes on. nor does it stop him from walking you home, supporting a tipsy robin on his arm.

and it most certainly doesn’t effect him when you hug him goodnight, nestling your chin into his shoulder the way you used to.

fuck.

-

steve climbs down the steps into the strange smelling studio, he hadn’t even known this ever existed. there’s art littering the walls, the shelves, just about any surface that was available.

you’re at the back of the empty room, dabbing a paintbrush onto a canvas, completely unaware of his presence.

“hey.. robin said you’d be down here,” he speaks softly, so as to not startle you.

you still jump, clutching your chest as you spin on your heel, “jesus christ,” panting rather dramatically, “you scared the shit outta me,” shock turning into a wide smile.

“sorry,” he chuckles, weaving through the easels, trying his damn hardest not to touch or knock anything over, “what ya’ working on?” peering at the canvas.

it’s a beautiful scene, a lone swing set lies in the middle, surrounded by a peachy-pink sunset. it’s reminiscent of something he can’t quite place.

“oh just..” shrugging him off, “some stuff for my exhibition.. i dunno if i like it yet,” downplaying the glorious work of art in front of him. as if there were any need.

“what are you talking about? it’s so good,” still clinging onto his backpack strap.

you shake your head, taking the apron off of your body, tossing it onto the hook full of other dirtied aprons. “i can do better.. anyway, did you trek all the way down here for a reason or..?”

he lingers by the painting for a second longer before turning to face you, remembering his actual aim, “yes! are you joining us for dinner tonight? robin wants you to meet all of our friends,” he offers, though he’s aware it’s not much of a deal for you.

“uh.. who’s gonna be there?” you ask, quirking a brow. he’s aware that you’re not exactly a social butterfly.

“well, nancy, jonathan, vickie.. argyle, if jonathan can convince him to come out,” they were all nice enough, if he and robin liked you, they definitely would too.

“i dunno..” wrinkling your nose.

“come on,” he pleads, “it’ll be fun.. they’ll love you. nance’s been begging me to get you out.. please?”

you shake your head, as if weighing up your options, “okay.. fine, but dinner’s on you,” as you drop the pallet into the sink for someone else to deal with.

“great,” he beams, there’s something to be said about the fact he still hadn’t introduced katie to the rest of his friends yet.. but he doesn’t wanna think about that.

his hand comes to rest on what he thinks is a dry desk, waiting for you to finish up, only to find his hand now covered in goopy white paint, “oh shit,” he fusses, pulling your attention from the sink.

“oh fuck, i should’ve told you that was wet..” looking between his outstretched hand and his eyes, a giggle bubbling on your lips as he stomps over to the sink.

“oh is this funny to you, huh?” joining you at the basin.

you run the hot water for him, grabbing the bottle of soap ready to clean his hand, “well it’s a little funny,” lips twitching while he stands like a lemon.

as steve normally does, he acts before he thinks, pressing his paint-covered palm to your cheek, only registering what he had done when you shriek in response, splashing water everywhere.

“you asshole!” you gasp, brows furrowed as you conjure up something for revenge.

that’s when you grab the still paint-covered brush and smear it over his cheek and nose, staining his features a daring bright orange.

“oh it’s like that is it?” he grins, grabbing your wrist with his clean hand, threatening to mark you again. “you don’t wanna mess with me, i’ve got the upper hand,” sticking his tongue out slightly, unable to shake the way your eyes still glistened the same.

“if you want me to come to dinner, you’ll put your hand down.. call a truce,” bargaining with him.

he obliges, holding his hands up in surrender, “okay.. okay, you win,” unable to contain his laughter as he washes the paint from his palm.

you shoulder barge him as you come back to the sink, pulling your clean brushes from the water and leaving them to dry on the metal board.

“we’re gonna have to swing by my room,” you smile begrudgingly, shoving your stuff into your bag, watching as he dries his hand.

“okay,” his grin still lingering, “personally, i think you should just come to dinner like that.. it looks great,” enjoying the ribbing that came with being your friend.

you scoff, practically pushing him out of the studio, ensuring he couldn’t wreck havoc on anything else.

the pair of you glide down the hall, steve filling you in on the guests that would joining you for dinner when a voice calls his name from in front.

katie bounds up to him, smile fading the second she sees the new colour of his face, “why are you orange?” face screwed up as she rescinds her offer of a kiss. he’s slyly thankful that your adorned his face now.

“oh we.. i- i tripped, got paint everywhere,” he chuckles, feeling like a scolded child.

katie hums, “right.. that’s kinda weird,” her eyes flit over to you and the paint on your face, “you trip too?” a judgemental look flashing across her features.

“no,” shrinking into yourself, “steve.. tripped,” doubting your own words, like your measly paint fight needed to be kept secret. but maybe that’s just how he felt, is that wrong?

he can’t decide.

“hmph,” katie frowns, her attention turning back to steve, “go and clean up.. you look like a clown,” before speeding off down the hall, ponytail flouncing around as she goes.

he just rolls his eyes continuing out of the building as you scurry along behind, “she seems nice,” sarcasm dripping off your tongue.

“ignore her,” brushing the whole encounter off, “she’s just.. pissy because i’m busy tonight, don’t take it personally,” offering a short smile. he glances at his watch, grimacing at the time, “oh shit, we’re late,” grabbing your hand as he starts sprinting ahead.

“i can’t meet your friends like this!” you holler, bounding behind him.

“they won’t mind!” he screams into the wind, dodging other students with a skill only possessed by someone who chronically sleeps through their alarm.

they really don’t.

in fact, robin bursts into laughter as you walk into the diner, “i’m not even gonna ask,” tapping the plush cushion for you to slide in next to her, steve follows closely behind.

the two of you share a look, an inside joke that was just yours. he liked that, it made him feel strangely important. like he was worthy of sharing things with just you.

everyone is lovely, obviously. he had no doubt that they would be. argyle corners you about california, discovering that it is a rather large state and no, you won’t have bumped into each other.

steve doesn’t want the night to end, he’s selfish like that. so he does the sane thing to ensure you spend as much time together as possible, walking you and robin back through campus, still adorned with paint.

“thank you.. for making me go,” you smile coyly once you reach your door, robin had already disappeared off inside, leaving just the two of you.

“no worries.. i told you they’d love you,” shoving his hands into his pockets, mostly so he doesn’t do anything stupid.

you chuckle, reaching for the door handle, “i’ve really missed you, you know? it’s like it’s all hit me at once,” shrugging your shoulders as if that were just some nonchalant comment he would ever be able to forget.

“i missed you too,” he adds, truly meaning it.

sure, he’d found friendship again but nothing had ever felt quite like you. it was different, and even now after years and years of being in separate states, with no idea that the other was even still alive, it all felt normal.

like you could walk back into that park tomorrow, sit on the swings and just natter away about everything and nothing like you used to.

“goodnight, see you tomorrow?” you smile, sliding through the door, waiting just long enough for his reply.

“of course,” returning the smile.

he hums all the way home, a child-like joy overrunning his senses. he thinks about you when he dreams, of sharing crayons and candy. high-pitched giggles and an unfaltering feeling of love.

-

it had been weeks of hanging out now, sharing tales from your childhood, robin was still struggling to understand that you were also from hawkins. “you’re just.. it’s crazy, you’re nothing like the usual hawkins dwellers and the fact that you were friends with him? wow..” she had muttered with a swift jab to steve’s arm.

she had had the bright idea of a sleepover, they hadn’t really been able to since moving to chicago, out of respect for their roommates but now her roommate was you, what was stopping them?

“why don’t we push the beds together?” robin blurts out, like a lightbulb had just gone ding on the top of her head.

you nod excitably, going to heave your bed across the room. steve pushes the end of the bed frame, connecting it to robin’s as she stands there doing absolutely nothing to help.

“phew thanks robin, couldn’t have done that without all your help!” steve quips, throwing his best friend a snide smile.

“shut up dingus, my nails are still wet,” as if that made it okay.

you smile at the two of them, stood in your pyjamas that steve had definitely not been gawping at. he doesn’t mean to, he knows it’s not like that. he has a girlfriend for christ’s sake.

that’s what he’s been telling himself anyway.

“you’re in the middle,” robin declares, looking at you, rather than him, “put your cold feet on somebody else for once,” before climbing into her side of the bed.

you slide in next, cuddling up to robin as you do. steve’s next, fashioned in his excuse for pyjamas, namely a chicago university shirt and his boxers. it probably wouldn’t go down well if katie were to find out but he didn’t particularly care.

there’s a joke there, something about sharing a bed with a lesbian and his childhood best friend but he can’t be bothered to think about it.

not when you turn over to face him, all smiles and warm cheeks, he has to remind himself that robin is on the other side of you, mumbling something about not waking her up early.

“goodnight,” you grin, relaxing into the pillow you shared as the light flickers off.

“night,” he replies, pulling his eyes away from your shadowy features, deciding that staring at the fuzzy ceiling was better than being a freak.

you roll over slightly, head falling onto his shoulder making his breathing falter, sworn to this position until you up and moved. it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

he shouldn’t be thinking like this, you’re friends, old friends to be exact. and he has a girlfriend.

-

except, he awakens in the morning, stiff shoulder and a cricked neck, taking a peek at the other side of the bed to find robin had forced you into him with her sprawling limbs.

you rouse not long after he does, blinking at the light and hurriedly moving your head from his dead arm.

“oh my god,” you remark, “i’m sorry.. was i on you all night?” wriggling around the small space you held.

steve exhales, lifting his arm in the air in an attempt to get some blood flowing back into the extremity, “yup.. it’s okay though,” quickly rolling over to face you, “sleep well?”

“well, apart from robin’s foot in my back.. yeah, pretty well,” chuckling into the pillow as you shy away. he wishes you wouldn’t.

“then it was worth the dead arm,” returning your abnormally bright smile, you were far too chipper for this time in the morning but he didn’t mind. made a difference from the usual grump robin was in, for sure.

“you should sleep over more often,” you smile.

he heart soars, god he’d love to. “oh yeah? like we used to?”

the crinkle by your eye returns, remembering times gone by, “yeah, just like that,” speaking softly, as if it wouldn’t take an industrial alarm to wake robin.

“you wanna go get breakfast?” he asks, before this devolves any further.

“absolutely.”

-

there’s a knock at the door, tommy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even make a half assed effort to pretend to care so steve huffs and gets up to answer.

you’re stood on the other side, already smiling as you wait. it’s a welcome sight, without robin he’s been a little stir-crazy, not yet brave enough to venture to your room without her there.

maybe he’s afraid that something would happen, maybe he’s not. he’s not entirely convinced that he’d have the power to stop himself.

“i just came to give you a ticket.. for my exhibition, it’s on saturday so.. if you’re busy i totally get it,” you fret, offering out the ticket to him.

there’s an undetermined feeling in his stomach, looking down at the paper ticket in his pal, warmth rushing to his chest at the fact you’d even considered him.

steve steps out of the room, closing the door behind him, away from tommy and listening ears. tommy and katie were friends somewhat, mostly by association through his girlfriend carol. anyhow, he wasn’t keen on him telling some misconstrued story to carol and then reaping the punishment from that.

“wow..” still starstruck that you had asked him. “i’ll be there.. wouldn’t miss it,” sliding the ticket into his pocket, mostly so he would stop looking like a weirdo for staring at it.

“okay,” you nod, smile up to your ears, “it’s only small..” here you go again, downplaying your talent as if steve would ever care.

“stop it,” he warns, jokingly rolling his eyes, “hey, i’ll walk you back.. i needa get out of that fucking room,” gesturing for you to take the lead.

you chatter all the way across campus, talking about everything and nothing, he wants to ask if that painting of the swingset will be there but doesn’t. letting you blabber on about composition and the asshole gallery manager that wants you to set up at 6am.

its only when you reach your hall that you stop, turning to face him with a genuine smile that makes his heart thud.

“it’d really mean a lot if you came..”

he nods, stepping closer only just, “i will, i’ll be there,” assuring you as much as he could. he meant it, too. there’s really nothing he could think of that would make him not go.

he allows his gaze to slip to your lips, he lets himself do that even though he shouldn’t.

studying the curve, the slight gap between your bottom and top lip, the way they twitch with what he hopes is anticipation.

you’re both inching closer, neither of you acknowledging what’s about to happen. the air is thick, silent even. a knowing sense that you’re either about to ruin everything or become something more.

two doors down, a door swings open, a voice bellowing out, “i’ll catch up!” before a boy speeds out, glancing at the two of you briefly before disappearing.

you clear your throat, averting your gaze, studying the dirtied floor, “okay.. i’ll see you saturday,” coy smile as you unlock the door and potter off inside.

steve stands there, blinking at the wooden frame as if you’d somehow materialise from the other side.

he hightails it back to his room, in some sort of daze as he attempts to reconfigure himself. his relationship and his friendship with you. nothing made sense.

he’s not sure it ever will again.

fuck he wishes robin were here. of course she’s at some stupid family reunion when he needs her most. his next port of call would be you and well.. that didn’t seem particularly helpful.

he errs on calling robin, floating around his room with no purpose. at least tommy was no where to be seen, unsure if he could’ve handled his beady little eyes and snooping questions.

katie would be waiting on him, he always stayed over on thursdays, at least he used to. before you were back i. the picture. before you had completely consumed his mind with your stupid smile and stupid face. both a distant memory and an important part of his current life. it’s fucking dizzying.

it’s not really stupid, he thinks he’s stupid actually.

steve does what he does best and decides to ignore his brain, grabs his keys and storms out of his dorm. he’s grateful that katie’s house is on the opposite side of campus from your building. that way he couldn’t accidentally wind up there instead of where he’s supposed to be.

she welcomes him in, a pink, frilly house that steve had always detested a little bit. it smelt too strongly of vanilla and the other girls always side-eyed him, bitter and judgemental over something he couldn’t figure out.

it’s now that they’re sat on katie’s satin bedsheets that he realises that he really, really doesn’t want to be here.

nevertheless, he swallows it down. putting on false pretences as they fake-watch the shitty rom-com she’d turned on to fill the silence.

“so.. have you got your suit for saturday?” katie asks, playing with his limp hand.

“yeah,” resisting the urge to move his hand away, “sorry- saturday? i thought it was tomorrow?”

katie had asked- or more precisely begged him to escort her to this senior send off ceremony. some bullshit sorority ritual that made zero sense to him.

“uh.. no, always been saturday,” she’s still smiling, still trying, “steve, i told you weeks ago,” her frustrations seeping out of her pores, spilling over onto her features.

“you said friday,” so sure of himself, so sure that she was wrong. how would he forget that?

unless something, or perhaps someone was shrouding his mind.

“well, what plans are more important than your girlfriend’s senior send off?” she asks, all defensive.

he struggles to answer, there’s no way he can really spin it to make it sound less bad, strangled noises drift from his throat as the words fail to form.

“exactly,” katie pouts, crossing her arms over her chest, “you’ll just have to rearrange.”

steve doesn’t stay over, makes up some shoddy excuse about needing to study to get out of it. she’s not happy, obviously, but when is she?

he’s grateful that the campus is quiet as he stalks back to his dorm, thoughts swirling through his brain. everything is so confusing, his cushy little college life had been majorly disrupted and now all of the plans he had made had come crashing down.

there had been conversations about finding a house after graduation, moving in together randomly starting their life and yet, that couldn’t be further than what he wanted.

at least now.

-

steve finally gives up, turning to the only person he thinks will rationalise his thoughts, robin buckley. who has pulled her grandmother’s phone into the private dining room just for this conversation.

“we nearly kissed,” he spits out, eyeing the group of drunk students passing in the hallway. wouldn’t it be great if it somehow got back to katie through some nosy busybody.

“what? when? why didn’t you call me sooner?” she demands, “why didn’t you kiss? oh my god steve harrington, you’re so useless.”

“uh.. what do you mean why didn’t we kiss? remember my girlfriend? who’d chop my balls off if i ever cheated on her?”

“who cares? nobody likes her anyway,” robin roars right into his ear.

“i’m not gonna even acknowledge that.”

“okay, well, did you want to kiss her?”

steve pauses, perplexing the situation. he doesn’t need to really, of course he wanted to.

“..yeah.”

“well there you go!” she shrieks.

“it felt.. weird, i dunno, i think she wanted to too,” he curls the cord around his finger, “and now katie wants me to go to this senior send-off thing but there’s the exhibition.. i don’t know what to do,” his shoulders slumping.

“wait wait wait, what do you mean it felt weird?” dismissing his dilemma. you know, the thing he had actually called her about.

“well it felt right.”

the line goes silent but he can still hear her faint breathing down the line. she’s thinking, probably attempting to sweeten up her words. but eventually she sighs, “i think you know what to do.”

“but i don’t! rob i really don’t! why do you think i’m calling you at fucking one am?”

she clicks her tongue and steve can picture what smug look she has on her face, it was a signature feature of hers, especially when she’d been able to prove him wrong. “you do. i think you called me because you wanted me to tell you what you want to hear.. but i don’t even need to do that.”

he wails into the receiver, all he’d wanted was a clear cut answer from his best friend. a little advice and maybe some confirmation bias, was that too much to ask for?

“you’re no help,” he scowls, patting his now empty pockets in search of more coins, “i haven’t got any more change.. i’m gonna have to go,” sighing as he’s left on his own with his head once more.

“you’ll do the right thing, steve. i know you and i trust you,” before the line cuts out, the dial tone screams out.

he slams the piece of useless plastic back onto the holder. that wasn’t helpful, rather just some weird, reverse psychology lesson. he feels cheated, his first option of just flipping a coin would’ve been more helpful.

his feet drag along the carpet back to his room, swallowing the guilt and all of the other confusing emotions he seemed to have accumulated.

it’s funny that even though robin hadn’t exactly said anything specific, he’d known what she was talking about. it’s even funnier that as he climbs into bed, all he can think about is you.

-

steve hangs back, stood at the back while the speech finishes. he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, what he’s supposed to be looking at or talking to, incredibly out of place.

no one pays him any mind, too interested in whatever this balding man has to say.

you don’t spot him either, keeping your eyes trained to the art director. he can tell you’re nervous, picking indiscreetly at your hangnail, chewing on your cheek. you’d never liked, or been particularly good at public speaking, steve was your voice for many years. not that he minded.

there’s lots of chatter, people walking around the small space with their hands behind their back, putting on this facade that they were art snobs and not just weird middle-aged people looking for something to do on a saturday afternoon.

they all sort of disperse, ogling the paintings and such. leaving him stood in the middle of the room like a lemon, wondering if he should just go over to you or wait until this had all finished.

but you meet his eye momentarily, head snapping in his direction when you realise who it is. your lips slowly curve into a smile, ditching the conversation to weave through everyone to him.

“you came,” you state, like there was ever a chance of him not coming.

“i told you i would,” he’s not one to break a promise. ever.

“no i know but, robin mentioned something about your girlfriend, she didn’t know if you were.. forget it,” throwing your hands about, ridding the air of your words.

he’s not exactly surprised that you’d have doubts, not after your almost-kiss the other night. he hadn’t seen you since, too busy with the exhibit to sit and dwell on it, he bets.

steve shakes his head, “nah, i had something more important to do,” full of unbridled exhilaration, it’s like his body knew he had made the right choice.

you flush, avoiding his eyes as you usually do when you’re nervous or embarrassed. “well.. thank you,” shrugging him off. he so wish you wouldn’t.

he decides to just lay it all bare, tired of skirting around the truth and minimising his obviously very real feelings. “this isn’t the right time but,” smoothing down his wrinkled shirt, “i just wanted you to know that i’ve wanted to do this for weeks and.. shit,” he sighs, cupping your cheek and moving in before you can protest.

your lips connect, sending flames through his veins, you’re not expecting it judging by the lack of movement on your part, stood frozen even as he pulls away.

“sorry,” the first thing he says, watching your face as you stand shocked.

he was so sure that his feelings would be reciprocated, had pretty much convinced himself that you were destined to grow grey together but maybe he’d got it all wrong.

his cheeks burn as you just blink, time slows and he wishes that the floorboards would just collapse under him so he could disappear forever.

in lieu of a reply, you smash your faces together again, this time steve’s not quite expecting it, your noses bang against each others. but he doesn’t move, his smile growing against your lips.

there are a collection of muttered oohs from the crowd. it was rather a lot for a saturday morning.

“sorry,” you echo, biting down into your bottom lip, “not the wrong time at all,” your eyes shining through your spindly lashes.

steve bursts into laughter, drawing an even bigger crowd of eyes as he does so. his eyes dart around the vaguely stunned audience, “hey look, find me after.. i’ll be here,” gently pushing you off to go and do whatever the hell it is that artists do at these things.

you nod, all dazed and smiley, immediately falling into conversation about a painting.

-

he’s only dozing when the door creaks open, too encapsulated by sleep to bother to open his eyes. you’re dead to the world, snoring softly curled into his chest.

a quiet gasp rings out from the door and then just as expected, robin bounds over to your bed, poking his arm that was both underneath your shoulders and hanging off of the bed.

he peeks a look at his slightly deranged best friend, the lamp was just bright enough to showcase her enthusiastic grin, “you did it!” whispering far too loudly, “i knew you’d make the right choice,” buzzing around the room.

she damn near jumps in the air, clicking her heels together like some freak.

steve just closes his eyes again, falling back into sleep with a grin on his face and you between his arms.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: News from an old friend had you wondering if Eddie's sour mood had turned downright destructive. (4.9k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, coming out, vandalism, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter seven: offense and defense

Your version of a truce came in the form of wallpaper panels and a bucket of glue. 

You’d placed it on top of the canvas sheets that would protect the floor from any spills, though it wasn’t as if that was presentable, either. Still, you would be grateful for the splash of color rather than the stripped down walls that only highlighted the motel’s defeated aesthetic. 

Like lipstick on a pig, your cynicism taunted, but one that you’ve stuck on a spit to roast. 

Your fingernail picked at a small groove in the desk’s wood as if digging a hole to bury your anxiety. Despite the police sirens blaring in the distance, all you could hear was the sound of the mailbox clanging shut, trapping your acceptance letter and effectively sealing your fate. 

Your breathing sped up and sent your heartbeat into your ears, inching you towards a point of no return where the world became hazy. Suddenly, Eddie’s mood was irrelevant; you just needed a distraction, even if that meant contending with his strangely defensive attitude. 

But when eleven o’clock rolled around, a full hour into your shift. there was still no sign of him. You’d give him another thirty minutes before you knocked on his door; he had a job to finish, after all. 

That was all it was: ensuring he earned his keep, preventing him from becoming the deeply feared charity case.

In the end, there was no need to intrude on him. Eddie shuffled through the lobby not even fifteen minutes later, seemingly without the intention of stopping to greet you. He looked straight ahead as though any eye contact would burn his retinas from the inside out. His tattooed arms were on full display in a black tank top, the holes cut down nearly to the waist. A chain hung off the side of his jeans, gleaming even in the harsh lighting. The whole outfit was a far cry from the sweatpants he’d donned during the wallpaper removal.

“Eddie?”

He stopped but still refused to glance in your direction. There was no use ignoring the confusion in your voice; he didn’t even bother waiting for the formality of a question. “Y-Yeah, I, um…I gotta run some errands.” His teeth dug into the inside of his cheek at his pitiful excuse. 

Errands just before midnight? He certainly wasn’t dressed to make a last-minute dash to the corner bodega, nor would that take all night.

He was lying; that much was obvious. What evaded you was why. Was he embarrassed about his outburst at Eisen’s? Angry at you for freezing him out during the ride home?

“What about the wallpaper?”

“Oh. Right.” He softly chuckled, the kind that someone gives when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

He didn’t stick around for further questioning, letting in a cool evening breeze when he barreled out the front door. 

Aggravation clenched your fists. His lackadaisical approach to work was infuriating enough, but the way he’d attempted to sneak past you had you seething. Did he truly believe he could camouflage himself and walk out unnoticed?

The untouched wallpapering materials mocked you, taunted your optimism. Or perhaps it was naivety. You’d all but told him to piss off last night, yet you expected him to flounce into the lobby, eager to work alongside you–and only you–for the next few hours? The thought alone was so pathetic that you were glad no one else had been around to witness it.

You hoisted the panels and glue back to the supply closet, gripping them with palms slick from embarrassment and frustration. Tonight could have been an opportunity to clear the air about the Ben fiasco and resume your usual lighthearted conversations. His brusque laughter didn’t showcase the subtle dimples that pressed from the corners of his mouth into his cheeks, so unlike the genuine smiles that reached his eyes. Those warm eyes like chocolate chips on a summer day, except they melted you with each foray into his past, each glimpse into what made him, him.

Without them, the night was stagnant.

Amy’s Cafe was a favorite among the student population, especially during finals week. The coffee was usually burnt or weak, but it was cheap and conveniently located near campus, so it stayed afloat. Overworked baristas slid filled-to-the-brim mugs and to-go styrofoam cups to the edge of the counter, hissing espresso machines punctuating the pop music that was piped through the sound system. Exactly the kind of music Eddie would hate.

Eddie. He must have had an extensive errand list, because he still hadn’t returned when your shift ended. Your chest ached with a sadness that burned hotter than your curiosity. You no longer cared what he was up to, just that he preferred it to spending time with you.

Ben already sat at a small table when you arrived, the steam from his cup rising up and fogging his wire-rimmed glasses. He offered you a weary smile, one wrought with fatigue and a nervousness you couldn’t quite place. 

It wasn’t until you plopped into the seat across from him, careful not to spill your own coffee, that you noticed the gray crescents below his eyes that weren’t there on Sunday. Stubble coated his cheeks and chin, more five o’clock shadow than beard, and you were hard-pressed to remember a time he’d seemed this disheveled. 

“You look like shit.”

He raised his brows as he blew on his tea, sending tiny ripples through the citrusy-mint blend. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

Between the usual end-of-semester stress and whatever issues were simmering between you and Eddie, you lacked the patience to beat around the bush. “Seriously,” you insisted, “what’s wrong?”

Ben’s sigh held immeasurable weight, and you quickly understood why. “Eisen’s was vandalized last night,” he said quietly. 

“What?!” Your blood ran cold. The mental image of the always-pristine shop abruptly destroyed marred your psyche. 

He nodded. “Yeah. We empty the register at night and put the cash in a safe, so they didn’t get any of that,” he explained, a small consolation. “But they smashed the windows and graffitied the place. All of the shelves, our whole inventory…covered in it.” 

“Is everyone…is your family okay?” If the alarm had sounded and Uncle Mo or Aunt Tam came running in…if the intruder was carrying a weapon…

“We’re fine,” Ben assured you. “I mean, we’re all pretty shook up, but no one’s hurt.” His bottom teeth scraped along his upper lip. “I swept up most of the broken glass after the cops left, but it’s gonna take a while to scrub off the spray paint.”

“I can help,” you volunteered without hesitation. “I can swing by on Thursday afternoon.” There were no formal classes this week; you just had to drop off your paper and then you could go to the shop. 

“Thanks.” Ben kept his attention focused on his mug, dunking the bag aimlessly through the hot liquid. “Um, was your, uh, boyfriend with you last night?” When you wrinkled your nose, he elaborated. “That Eddie guy. He’s your boyfriend, right?”

You shook your head and tried to ignore the internal fluttering spurred on by the thought of Eddie being your boyfriend. “No. He just works for us.” Thirty-six hours ago, you would have referred to him as a friend, but you didn’t know if that was still true. 

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “You sure? Because he seemed pretty…” He searched for the right word, “...territorial over you.”

Territorial. As if you belonged to him. The notion was almost humorous, considering his desperation to avoid you at all costs. If you were his property, he must be a very hands-off landlord. 

“It’s not like that. He just gets competitive.” You filled Ben in on the wasp nest saga, even managing to pull a few chuckles out of him. 

“Okay, fine.” Something in Ben’s tone informed you that he didn’t quite believe you, but he pressed on, both of you well-aware that your love life wasn’t the most urgent issue. “But was he around last night? Hanging the wallpaper or something?”

He wasn’t. You wished more than anything that you could offer an alibi, but you didn’t have a clue where he was. 

It’s a big city; there were millions of places he could go besides Eisen’s. And yet you couldn’t name a single one, your throat bone-dry despite just taking a sip of coffee. 

“N-No, but he wouldn’t—”

“I’m not saying he did,” Ben interjected, firmly but not unkindly. “It’s just, I dunno, a little suspicious that this guy comes to our shop for the first time, hates my guts for some reason, and then the place gets destroyed the next day.” 

There was no denying how strange it was, especially coupled with his poorly explained absence. Something inside you insisted that it wasn’t Eddie, and you clung onto that hope. 

“I’ll talk to him tonight.” Bitterness churned in your stomach and crept up your throat, and you knew it wasn’t from the coffee. Was there anything about the way he’d been dressed that provided insight into his whereabouts? Anything he’d mentioned in passing?

Despite scouring the depths of your brain, you came up empty.

Ben exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut like he was actively trying to forget the memory of the break-in. “Everything was completely smashed. Like someone took a baseball bat to it or something.”

You flashed back to last week when Eddie went after the wasp’s nest with Phyllis’s bat. Did he ask her to borrow it again?

Stop it, you silently scolded yourself. It couldn’t have been Eddie. He might be hotheaded, but that didn’t mean he would destroy Eisen’s. 

Except he had trashed that hotel room because the manager issued a noise complaint. He’d seemed proud of it, laughing as he retold the story, like he’d carried out some meticulously crafted revenge plot. 

Shit. 

“You’re sure there’s nothing going on between you two?” Ben asked again, ripping open another sugar packet and dumping it into his drink. 

“Positive.” Certainly not now when you were barely on speaking terms.You didn’t have time for a relationship; school and work kept you sufficiently busy. 

Not that you wanted anything going on with Eddie. What would you even do together–go on dates at six AM after your shift? Hold hands across the lobby desk? Steal kisses in the supply closet? The two of you making out amongst piles of linens and a rusty toolbox? Your fingers tangled in his hair and your lips pressed to his; his hands gripping your waist and tugging you impossibly close? You couldn’t allow yourself to even consider it a possibility, to allow yourself to want it.

You noticed Ben giving you a wry smile, like he knew something you didn’t, and you snapped back into reality to volley a question back to him. “What about you? Meet any cute girls in dental school?” 

His unexpected cloudiness didn’t match your breezy, teasing tone. “No cute girls.” He paused, mulling over his words for a while before talking again, so softly you could barely hear him over the muzak playing over the café’s sound system. “There were some cute guys, though.”

The admission hung in the air for a moment while you slowly absorbed it. Cute guys, not girls. So Ben was—

A soft throat clearing grabbed your attention; he was anxiously awaiting your response. 

Reaching your hand across the Formica table, you draped your fingers over his and left them there. “How did you…know?” You winced at your own awkwardness. “Sorry, I meant, like, is this something you figured out recently? Or did you know back when we were kids?”

Ben laughed lightly, his shoulders sagging with relief. The worry of rejection left his eyes as he spoke. “Part of me always knew, I think. I just didn’t have a word for it.” He sighed, his breath trembling with residual nerves. “It’s not like we grew up talking about these things.”

He was right; you couldn’t recall a single time that his parents or yours discussed non-heterosexual romantic relationships. A man and a woman get married and have babies. The end. No mention of when two men or two women love one another. 

“Have you told your parents?”

“No.” His voice caught, throat blocked with emotion, and he cleared it again. “I wanted to wait until I finished school and got my own place. Y’know…just in case.”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence. 

“Would they really do that?”

He shrugged, his shoulders once again bearing the weight of the unknown. “I don’t think they’d kick me out,” he admitted, “but they’d definitely be disappointed. Like they did something wrong.”

“You know you can always stay with me if you need,” you said. “I’ll set aside a room for you.” Far away from Eddie’s, you added silently.

Ben’s smile was tight but genuine. “After all of these years, nothing’s changed.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “Does it get exhausting, being the best person ever?”

He was joking, trying his best to shift to a lighter tone, but the accuracy of his question had you temporarily reeling. You weren’t the best person ever, but it was exhausting constantly trying to be. He must have sensed that he grazed a nerve, his eyes softening as he leaned in. “You okay?”

You nodded, your head suddenly acquiring the heft of a boulder. The sound of the mailbox clanging shut and sealing your fate reverberated in your ears. And then Eddie had seen, had cleaned your smudged mascara so warmly that your skin simmered at his touch. Those same fingers might have grasped a can of spray paint or and wielded a bat with the intention of ravaging an innocent business. 

“You always were a terrible liar.” Ben said. He knew you too well, a blessing and a curse. “C’mon—a secret for a secret.”

His permission had your own confession slipping from where it had been tucked away and spilling into the conversation. “I’m majoring in psychology and I’m going to study social work at NYU.” When Ben offered you a confused look, you humbly elaborated. “And, I mean, I know it’s not the same thing as your situation, but I haven’t told my parents about it either.”

The shame burned you, flames nipping at your neck. 

Ben drummed his fingers against the mug’s handle, his nails making a soft cling. “The motel…” he trailed off, mutual understanding replacing the rest of his words. 

Neither of you said anything else for a while, only taking small sips of coffee until you mustered up the energy to speak again. 

“I don’t think they’d kick me out either,” you said, “but that might not matter. Without me to take over, they’d have to sell the place anyway.”

Ben thought for a moment. A teardrop of coffee trickled down the lip to the base, staining the white porcelain with a hazel streak. “Whatever happens, I’m here for you.” It was his turn to hold your hand, enveloping it in the comfort that can only come from a lifelong friend. “And if worse comes to worst, you can always bunk with me. As long as Eddie won’t mind,” he added with a mischievous edge. 

You rolled your eyes as the heaviness evaporated. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He raised his brows. “You didn’t see the look on his face when I hugged you. I thought he was gonna knock me into tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” you said evenly, swiftly pivoting the subject to his own romantic endeavors. But the image of Eddie getting upset when Ben hugged you tugged at your mind for the rest of the conversation. You’d initially thought he was irritated about Ben encroaching on his job, but the hug came well before the offer to help. 

Trying to figure out Eddie Munson, you realized, was like jamming a puzzle piece where it didn’t belong. He would remain an enigma until you found the right spot. 

Afternoon bled into night, the overcast skies resulting in a noticeable absence of stars. Rain had been threatening to fall all day, but the humidity still bogged down the clouds when Eddie walked into the lobby at ten-thirty.

“Hey,” he said, raising one hand in an enthusiastic half-wave. His eyes met yours for only a second before pulling away. “I’ll just grab the paper from the supply closet.”

You tossed him the key and he caught it, clenching it in his palm. He smiled, victoriously but fleetingly once he realized it wasn’t being returned. Defeated, he trudged over to the closet. You normally would have followed and helped, but you were held down by what you knew–what you might know, you reminded yourself.

“You, uh, didn’t set up,” he said, shaking out the drop cloth and positioning it against the molding.

“Didn’t know if you had another secret errand to run.” The retort left your lips before you could stop it, and you pinched them together in a belated attempt to quell your anger. 

Eddie bristled, his brush halfway in the vat of glue, but he quickly composed himself and got back to work. You focused your attention on your essay, scanning it for the millionth time in search of misplaced commas or missing words. 

Perfect. It needed to be perfect. 

Silence once again overtook the motel lobby, broken only by the sounds of Eddie slicing the wallpaper at the edges, not bothering to measure before adhering it to the exposed plaster, and the outside traffic. 

You were comfortable with the prolonged quiet, though admittedly less so than before Eddie arrived a few weeks ago, but it must have gnawed at him. He started humming after only fifteen minutes, an unfamiliar tune, smooth in some places and staccato in others. 

“Are you still mad at me or something?”

You loathed the way his voice startled you, your mind too deeply buried in your paper. It caused you to look up and lock eyes with him. His question was wrought with frustration, though you couldn’t tell if it was directed at you or at his own inability to decipher the situation. 

“No.” Yes. 

Eddie sighed and continued working. “Well, if you change your mind, just know that I’m sorry.”

His apology brought back memories of his previous attempt—though ‘attempt’ might be overstating it, and you didn’t want to bite back your response. “It isn’t me you need to apologize to.”

He didn’t bother turning to you when he spoke. “You’re talking about that Bill guy?”

“Ben,” you corrected him, willing yourself to unclench your jaw, “and yes. You were rude to him for no reason.” You pushed aside Ben’s explanation, an improbability in itself. 

“I had a reason.” Venom dripped from each word. “Trust me, I could’ve done worse things than hurt his feelings.” 

And as his grip tightened around the brush, one bluish vein bulging in his forearm, you remembered how gleeful he’d admitted to trashing the hotel. How Ben had said that Eisen’s looked as though someone took a baseball bat to it.

“The store was vandalized last night.” 

All of the oxygen in the room evaporated. Eddie’s unamused chuckle, low in his throat, fissured the silent tension and made it palpable. Real. “And you think I did it.”

“I never said that.” 

But you and he both knew that you didn’t have to; the slight tremor in your voice giving away your true intentions. Even if you weren’t outright accusing him, your tone had too much bite to be conversational.

He threw the brush to the ground and it landed against the cloth with an audible thud. “Whatever.” Another grim laugh, each step towards the desk had your heart sinking further into your chest. “Y’know, I’ve already had a pretty shitty week, and I thought talking to you could turn it around. Should’ve known better.” He wiped his palms on his blue jeans and procured a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, lighting one and taking a long drag. 

You could only imagine the restraint it took for him not to exhale a cloud of smoke directly in your face.

It was a replay of the situation with Izzy’s mother, the assumptions that steeled you against her before you’d ever met and had you painting her as a neglectful parent. Her palpable worry was a slap across your face, and you felt that same sting now with Eddie.

Ruined it. With one stupid comment, you’d obliterated all of the trust built between you. 

“Excuse me, but I have a very busy evening ahead of me,” he said, pointing the cigarette in your direction like an accusation of his own. “I’m supposed to commit arson in fifteen minutes, and if I have time, I might just murder someone.”

No doubt you were at the top of his list.

The realization of your mistake released an anchor of guilt down your stomach. You should have trusted your instincts, should have immediately eschewed any notion that he was the culprit.

You hated yourself for even considering it a possibility, let alone a probability.

“For a sophisticated city girl, you sure remind me of the small-town pricks I grew up with,” Eddie continued, spittle gathering at the corner of his lips. Rage burned in his eyes. “Guess none of those textbooks taught you how to ask questions, huh? Like, ‘Eddie, where were you last night?’ That might’ve been a good start.”

His words were submerged in a poisonous vitriol, purposefully launched with the intent to maim. And yet they weren't inherently aimed at you. Not all of them, anyway. 

In that moment, you were everyone who had ever accused him of a crime he hadn’t committed. You were the security guards who ‘kept an eye’ on him when he went shopping, the middle-aged women who scowled and clutched their pearls at his tattoos, the people in his hometown who wrote him off as a devil-worshiping freak. 

Guilty until proven innocent. 

The fingers on your left hand slotted between the gaps on your right and pressed into your palm, a distraction from the lump forming in your throat. Crying was not an option, it exposed your vulnerability and opened you up to further ridicule. The only thing worse than Eddie using your tears against you was if he took pity on you; there was no way you could handle that level of humiliation. 

“Eddie, I—” 

You’d finally found your footing in the conversation, and it was promptly clipped. “Just assumed that I was off breaking and entering. A little blue collar crime is nothing new for trailer trash like me, right?” He shook his head in faux disbelief. “Is this how you’re gonna treat your clients?”

That final comment was a lit match that ignited a powderkeg within you, and since you refused to shed a single tear, it exploded in the only other way possible.

“You,” you jabbed your finger into his chest, no longer caring about whatever professional boundaries you might be crossing. Those had flown out the window once he’d purposely dredged up your insecurities. “You are the one who bailed on your job with the lamest excuse I’d ever heard and expected me not to get suspicious.” Your heart beat double-time, pumping raw anger in lieu of blood. “And you are the one who bragged about trashing a hotel room when the manager had the audacity to enforce a rule.” 

Eddie took a small step back, your biting reply an arrow to the gut. Perhaps even he felt it, too; the way he’d taken his tirade over the line. Gray flakes fell from his cigarette and onto the desk, the ashy clump having grown too heavy for gravity. 

You weren’t done, despite his apparent surrender. “You’re not my client. And I’m not Nancy Drew, so don’t act like I’m responsible for solving your bullshit mysteries.”

His nostrils flared as he regained his composure. “Asking a question isn’t—” a door creaking open and subsequent irritated footsteps halted his retort. Both of you broke eye contact to watch as Phyllis padded up the hallway and into the lobby. Irritation accentuated her smeared-lipstick frown, and she pulled her robe across her body, tugging on the belt in frustration. 

“I don’t know what this little lovers’ quarrel is about,” she hissed through clenched teeth, dragging an arthritic finger between you and Eddie, “but it’s killing the mood. So if you could wrap it up, we’d greatly appreciate it.”

You nearly choked on your tongue, and pink splotches decorated Eddie’s stubbled cheeks. 

“We’re not—”

“It isn’t—”

But Phyllis had already stalked back to her room, never one to keep a gentleman caller waiting. 

Neither you nor Eddie said a word for a few seconds, the heat of embarrassment still nipping at your bodies. A lovers’ quarrel? Phyllis clearly had a convoluted sense of romance if she thought you and Eddie were lovers. 

Eddie shattered the silence first, mumbling something nearly unintelligible about needing an ashtray. The dam that restrained your snarkiness had apparently buckled and burst, because when he turned to leave, his back to you, you called out, “see how easy it is to tell me where you’re going?”

He stopped, the cigarette between his fingers now ash down to the filter, but he didn’t turn around. His voice was low in his throat, a slight tremor as he spoke. “That’s real rich, coming from the person whose parents think she’s going to school for hospitality.”

That was low, but unlike his comment about accusing your future clients, this one was true. There was nothing you could say in response, no rebuttal would suffice. You hated the way words stilled in your chest, wishing you could fling insult after insult about his failed music career, but you were simply too tired.

You managed to stave off your tears until he had fully rounded the corner, burying your head in your hands to muffle your sobs. Pathetic. That’s what you were: a pathetic mess, bold enough to start an argument but too cowardly to finish it. And so there you stood, elbows digging into the wooden desktop until splinters pierced your skin, the distance between you and Eddie growing with each passing second.

Holding your own with other guests was usually second-nature for you, but other guests weren’t Eddie. They weren’t hanging around the lobby and asking you about your hopes and dreams. They weren’t willingly offering up their most vulnerable selves just to reassure you. They weren’t tagging along on errands and turning ordinary subway rides into small adventures.

They also weren’t sneaking around and making watered-down excuses, then painting you as the bad guy for doubting their intentions.

Half of you ached to apologize; the other half wanted to toss him and his trash bag luggage to the curb and not look back.

Warm tears slid down the slope of your nose until you tasted their salt on your lips. Stopping them seemed an impossible task, your mind hovering above your body like a separate entity altogether. Your breaths were jagged and uneven, an irregular pattern of shallow inhales and strained exhales. 

There was no sense in throwing yourself a pity party, not when you got yourself into this mess. If you were going to wallow in your own misery, you could at least be productive while you cried. 

Eddie had barely started the re-wallpapering, so cleaning up was not a daunting task. You rolled the paper back around the tube, keeping it tightly wound for easier transport. It was clunky; you had to adjust it twice in the short distance to the closet, but you managed to get it there with it unraveling. 

A gentle scrape across the desk made you peek out from behind the closet door, your red-stained, swollen eyes landing on Eddie once again. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip, his fingers clenched around the jet-black lighter you hadn’t noticed he’d left behind.

He saw you, too, his lips forming a tense smile. 

“Forgot this,” he said, holding up the lighter with a little shake. The jaded lines of his face softened when he clocked your tear-streaked cheeks, and that minor show of sympathy had you eager to crawl beneath a rock. 

You waited for him to say something, anything, but he just let his gaze fall to where you were twisting the lid back onto the glue. Tucking the cigarette behind his ear and covering it with a curtain of curls, he hoisted the bucket and brought it back to the supply closet.

“Thanks.” It was safe yet genuine, not an invitation for a conversation nor a dismissal. 

Eddie shrugged. “S’fine,” he lisped, the cigarette placed back between his lips as he lit it. “Needed to clean up anyway.”

Optimism—whatever you could muster up of it—rattled against your ribcage like a prisoner yearning for freedom. If he cared about cleaning up, maybe that meant he was going to finish the job another time. You didn’t dare ask him, only nodding your head in acknowledgment. 

Friends fight, right? Your nagging need for reassurance poised the question on the tip of your tongue, but your fear of looking desperate anchored it there. I didn’t ruin everything, did I?

The flick of the lighter sparked a flame, Eddie’s hand protectively cupped around it. “Well, um, g’night,” he said, giving an awkward half-wave. 

“Good night.” Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. But you didn’t manage that addendum, and Eddie retreated to his room. 

When you slept that morning, you dreamt that he turned back around. 

--

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[silkscream]

CHAPTER 4: EYES WITHOUT A FACE

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant.

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content, angst, dub/noncon, underage alcohol usage

ੈ✩ wc: 4.3k

ੈ✩ a/n: chuckles nervously... the plot thickens

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

November, 2008

You are downing your third gin and juice when you start to feel your bones loosen. Anxiously, you had already downed a glass of wine before you arrived at Satoru’s house, and that wasn’t enough to settle your nerves. You’d only been here for about an hour and a half and had mingled with a few classmates you recognized from school, otherwise keeping to yourself amidst the chaos.

That is, until a wired Shoko slings her arm around your shoulder, nearly tripping over herself.

“You came!” she beams. You’d only met her a few times, mostly in passing, each time at Satoru’s house while you were with your mother working and not as a guest. 

She’s deer-like, with a dazed, sleepy expression on her face and a joint hanging out of her mouth as opposed to her usual Seven Star. She leans on you close enough for you to smell the smoky scent of her hair, which is currently adorned with small black devil ears.

“Happy birthday, Ieiri-san,” you smile, fishing a small box out of your coat.

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything! Those idiots only got me like two cases of beer as a present, anyway,” she laughs. She unwraps the gift to reveal a zippo lighter with a scorpion design on it.

“I thought cigarettes would’ve been too on the nose,” you shrug.

“I love it,” she smiles, hugging you. “Suguru always steals my lighters. He’s definitely not getting a hold of this one.”

“Do you know where he is? Or Gojo-kun?”

She looks at you, then, with an unreadable expression. Something of simultaneous confusion and amusement.

“Probably doing something illegal. I’d guess upstairs or outside, maybe? I just saw them.”

You snort. There wouldn’t be one without the other. You blame your eagerness to drink on why you hadn’t caught them earlier, though when you check your phone again for the fifth time tonight, there are no messages. Satoru is inconsistent in his texting anyway – either silent for a few days, then blowing up your phone in the middle of the night with his random thoughts.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, let me know if you need anything, okay?” She squeezes your hand like a friend would. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Ieiri-san,” you nod. 

You explore the kitchen, frowning at the clear spills on the countertop and the nearly empty cabinets that used to be full of glasses and mugs. You roll your eyes at your immediate thoughts of cleaning up. Always your mother’s child, never a real guest in a place like this.

You don’t think you can handle another gin and juice, though the drunken devil on your shoulder still goads you to drink more. You were a lightweight, less so than Satoru, but enough to feel blurry at the moment. You settle on a forgotten bottle of plum wine, justifying it with its lesser alcohol content.

The taste is sweet, sickeningly so. Something that Satoru would like. It tastes like he would.

You ignore the slight ache in your head. The music is too loud, blasting in your ears, and the number of people who have arrived at the party since you’d spoken to Shoko has multiplied tenfold. 

You stare at your phone again. Nothing.

You’re too warm in your coat now, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. There’s probably a safe chance that the boys were upstairs, and even if they weren’t, you could take a breather in Satoru’s room and leave your coat there.

It’s humid once you get to the top of the staircase. Your hair sticks to your back a little as you carry your coat in your arms. The black slip dress you decided on feels too thin, suddenly, but you think it suits your body. Shows just the right amount of skin because of how short it is. Satoru would like it.

The door to Satoru’s bedroom is slightly ajar. You hear more than one voice – a round of them, boisterous. There are several bottles of alcohol on the floor that you can see, a full ashtray, and a small group of strangers that you assume to be Satoru’s friends, though you realize they’re all women. When you tilt your head, you can see him.

He’s sitting on Suguru’s lap, laughing. You notice the way Suguru’s hand rests on Satoru’s stomach, while Satoru absentmindedly taps his fingers along Suguru’s thigh. He’s sprawled out on the boy, taking up space the way he always does, and it looks… intimate. Like they belong to each other.

Satoru whines when Suguru bites at the exposed skin of his collarbone playfully, swatting him away. It’s a similar gesture you do to him when he sneaks up behind you at school. When he gets you alone. When he gets you to follow him home until you end up in his bed.

You know that Satoru is a touchy drunk, but you’ve never seen such adoration in his eyes before. It makes you feel sick. 

But you can’t find it in yourself to be angry or shocked. Rather, you feel a bit pathetic. Looking from the outside in, in a place you practically grew up in, feeling more alone than ever.

You want to watch them for longer. Like a voyeur. 

There’s an itch in your body that wants to see if the boys will kiss. Satoru has never been this touchy with you in the presence of others. With Suguru, it looks like muscle memory.

Your knuckles pale as you grip the bottle of plum wine in your hand. You chug the rest, not caring about the taste making your insides swirl. After discarding your coat in one of the hallway closets, you take a deep breath and retreat downstairs.

Shoko bumps into you in the middle of the dancefloor. The way her face lights up almost dissipates the pit in your stomach. Almost.

“Hey, baby! Come dance.” 

“I need a smoke, actually, but I will after.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she says, handing you one of her Seven Stars cigarettes and her zippo.

“I can get matches from the kitchen, don’t worry.”

Once you’re outside, the music is a dull ache in the back of your head. The November air is colder than you expect considering the recent days of decent weather, but the alcohol keeps you numb. You inhale smoke, eyes fluttering at the memory of intimacy. 

“If you guys drank all my birthday sake, I’m seriously going to castrate you both.”

Shoko pulls the bottle out of Satoru’s hands while he’s in the middle of sipping. He nearly chokes from the force of her, liquid dripping onto his chin. Suguru wipes it off and laughs.

“This isn’t your birthday sake, dumbass!”

“Gross,” Shoko says, wrinkling her nose at the off-brand label. It’s cheap and sweet, just the way Satoru likes it.

Fiending for more alcohol, Satoru frowns when he examines the other liquor bottles scattered around the circle of them, only to find that there’s only hard liquor. He drinks from a bottle of Sprite instead to satiate his craving, in addition to stealing a maraschino cherry out of Yuki’s cocktail. 

“You finished every bottle of sake, Satoru,” Suguru frowns.

“Great! Let’s play spin the bottle.”

“No,” Utahime interjects. She throws an empty beer can at Satoru’s head.

“Yeah, I’m downvoting that, too,” Shoko adds. She takes the joint that Suguru finishes rolling and lights it. “It’s my birthday and I’m not letting this idiot try to fuck everyone like he does at every party.”

“That’s because his type is everyone. He’s a whore,” Yuki chuckles.

“I don’t try to fuck everyone–”

“Go find your girlfriend if you want to get your dick wet so bad,” she interrupts, mumbling with the joint in her mouth. “We should find her and get her to play poker with us. She looked a little sad when I saw her.”

“Huh?” Satoru blinks.

“Oh, and why does she call you by your last name? Is it because she technically works for you?”

“No fucking way Gojo found a poor soul to be his girlfriend,” Utahime mutters. She settles her head on Shoko’s lap in the bed, stealing the joint out of her mouth. “Do you pay her?”

“No, she’s like a servant or something, right?” Yuki says.

“Gojo! That’s sick. The poor girl.”

“Stop, you’re making her out to seem like she’s my fucking concubine,” Satoru asserts, a bit too fiercely than he means to. His lips twitch at the mention of you.

Suguru raises his brows at Satoru, knowing the boy is too drunk and too befuddled to know what to say. The girls stare.

“She’s not my girlfriend, either.”

“You should fuck her, then,” Shoko slurs. “She’s so cute.”

“She’s our friend,” Suguru drawls, tipping back vodka like it’s water. “You haven’t seen her yet, Satoru?”

Satoru shakes his head. His heart pounds quicker now that you’re the topic of conversation. That feeling comes back – the one that makes him panic, as if he’s discovering that something he owns is lost. It twists in his stomach, knowing how selfish it is. He wants to keep you in a way that’s separate from the rest of his life because you were his.

He gets up and mumbles something about going to the bathroom. In the hallway, he opens his phone and stares at your contact. Your photo hasn’t changed in years – a goofy close-up that he took when he was thirteen. 

When he calls you, his heartbeat quickens the longer the phone rings, only to realize that he hears the sound of your ringtone from behind the closet. He finds your phone and your coat, but there’s no trace of you.

It sobers him up considerably. The lights in the house flicker.

The temperature drops as the night drags on, which is why you have the firepit to yourself. The fire is still glowing, warming your bare legs. 

Fuck. You want another cigarette.

You jump at the sound of another’s presence. When you turn, you see your classmate, Haru, nursing a half-empty bottle of wine in his right hand.

“Getting up to trouble, I see,” he grins.

You laugh. It’s more of a scoff, but you smile at him.

“Yeah, some crazy delinquent activity. Some might even call it mischief.”

The joke makes him laugh, which makes you laugh, genuinely. Haru had the demeanor of a puppy, always excitable and easy to please. It used to be a little annoying when you were first years but he’d mellowed out since then, it seems.

Under the glow of the fire, he looks handsome in a boyish way. His hair has gotten longer over the year, like Suguru’s, but he lets it fall to his shoulders. You scoot over on the patio couch, welcoming him to sit.

“You look very pretty, by the way. I like your dress.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, surprised. “Thank you.”

He offers you the bottle of wine in his hand and you accept, taking a swig of pinot grigio. Future you is going to kill you for mixing so many different alcohols in your stomach. Current you is basking in the warmth of your surroundings.

“Sorry if this is awkward, but uh—” He fiddles with his fingers, but the eye contact he makes with you feels oddly intense. “Are you, like, seeing Gojo?”

His name makes your face burn. You almost choke on the wine.

“Uh, no. Just—um, what made you think that?” 

“He just seems possessive over you,” Haru shrugs. 

“Yeah, right. He never talks to me in school.”

“But he does, sometimes, and I notice it. He looks at you in a certain way. S’why I was kind of scared to approach you, actually.”

You furrow your brows at the idea of Satoru scaring other boys away. Other boys didn’t talk to you, never have. You didn’t think you were exceptionally attractive in a way that made other people pine over you. You were always focused on academics anyway. But has Satoru always driven other boys away?

“He’s not my bodyguard or whatever,” you try to joke. “And I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.”

Haru widens his eyes. You curse yourself in your head. It’s the wine talking. It has to be.

“I think I might be.”

When did he get so close to you? You notice you’re both thigh to thigh. Your stomach drops when Haru caresses your jaw. His touch doesn’t feel right. It’s not what you’re used to, not what you want.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, face inches from yours. You freeze when you realize what’s happening, closing your eyes to accept it. A drunken kiss won’t hurt anyone. Maybe it’s what you need.

He’s soft at first until his tongue pries your mouth open. From there, there’s spit and teeth, his hand squeezing your throat the tiniest bit in a way that makes you whimper. The sound of it encourages him. He has his other hand on your thigh, underneath the hem of your dress.

You’re brainless. A used toy. Your head is swimming rapidly, too messy to register all of it. The panic subsides into blankness as your body surrenders. Everything feels so heavy.

“H-Haru–”

“I’ve always liked you,” he mumbles in between kisses. How is his grip on you so tight?

“Haru, I don’t–”

You can’t get a word in with his tongue down your throat.

You’re barely kissing him back now, but he takes from you anyway. Licks your teeth and inches his hand higher and higher up your thigh. When he finally releases your mouth, he has his tongue on your neck instead, and it feels sordid. You are numb and he is molding you in his hands.

Satoru’s voice is in your head calling you weak.

You recoil when you feel calloused fingers grazing your core. You make a weak attempt to push him away, small fists to his broad chest. When your gaze drifts, you see a pair of burning blue eyes.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing—”

Haru’s hair is yanked, and his body is pulled backward and thrown onto the ground. It’s all too fast—a whiplash of crushed bone and bloody knuckles. White hair and burning blue eyes.

“What the fuck, man–”

You watch in horror as Satoru kicks the boy on his side. You don’t even notice that Suguru is pulling you away with a hand on your waist.

You’ve never seen Satoru so angry. Never seen him be violent outside of playfighting Suguru in the grass. He’s a whole other being in front of you now, and it scares you, and it’s somehow… beautiful.

“Touch her again and I fucking kill you,” he seethes, spitting on Haru’s cheek. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

He’s breathing heavily and glances at you. There’s a look of betrayal and disbelief that you see briefly before Suguru sweeps you away. When you’re back inside, you let go of his hand to run to the bathroom and vomit.

Your eyes fucking ache.

It’s the dried tears and strained pupils underneath the disgusting overhead light of the downstairs bathroom. Your head pounds. You don’t remember when you came to, but you find comfort from the arm around you. Shoko sits next to you and runs a reassuring hand through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. “I ruined your birthday.”

“Are you kidding?” Shoko chuckles. “That was entertaining as hell. Even if I only saw half of it. Leave it to Satoru to steal all the attention on my birthday.”

You frown, staring at her. How can she be so nonchalant that someone left her party with a broken nose? 

The ghost of Haru’s touch makes your skin crawl, making you reflexively shut your thighs together. The bathroom floor is cold underneath your skin.

“I’ve never seen him so mad before,” you lament quietly.

“Neither have I,” she exhales. “It takes a lot to work him up. He had no room to be jealous, though. He said you weren’t his girlfriend.”

Her words prick you like the blade of a dagger. Slowly. Drawing blood. 

“I– I wasn’t trying to hook up with that guy,” you say. “I was so drunk. I didn’t want it.”

Shoko looks at you with pity. “Oh, fuck.”

When she wraps your arms around you, you’re too numb to cry. The door opens and the boys enter. Your eyes stay on the floor. Your gut twists inside out.

“How is she?” you hear Suguru ask.

That again. Talking about you instead of to you.

Shoko mouths something, you think. A soundless gesture as she rubs your back soothingly like a sister would. 

“You want a ride home, princess?” Suguru asks.

“She can sleep here. There’s a room for her.”

You look up at the sound of Satoru’s voice. His face is cold, unreadable. You don’t expect him to lift you and carry you to his room, but he does. There’s a pang in his heart when you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Take this.” He tips your head back for you and parts your lips with his hands so he can get the painkillers on your tongue. Water down your throat. 

“Good girl.”

“I can take care of myself,” you grumble, curling into yourself on the edge of his bed. 

“Clearly you can’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have fucking blacked out.”

“I’m sorry, Satoru,” you say with dejection. “Just—please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Not with you.”

But he is, just a little. The mere idea of someone else touching you makes him see red, and having it be real and at his fucking house made him livid beyond repair. How dare that piece of trash touch you. Like you aren’t Satoru’s and his alone. 

He’s also upset at himself because he knew it wouldn’t have happened if he’d found you sooner.

He lays on his side behind you and pulls you close. 

“I don’t understand you,” you say, weakly. Your nose feels fuzzy again the way it does before you cry.

“I don’t, either,” Satoru sighs.

You turn to face him, then, and the look on your face devastates him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. I didn’t know what was happening. I mean, I did, but I didn’t—I didn’t want all of that,” you sniffle. “Didn’t want him to touch me.”

You say it like you’re confessing. Pleading. Guilt swallows him whole.

What you want to ask: Why am I only something to you when someone else touches me?

“I’m so sorry,” Satoru whispers. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to stop it and that you had to see me like that. I’ll never let anyone hurt you like that again. Okay?”

Touch her again and I kill you.

You nod weakly, smiling. He holds you and lets you cry until you fall asleep. It feels like he’s committing a crime to be able to hold you like this.

Satoru closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant. 

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either. 

He didn’t think they would come back. Ideally, you both would’ve finished school and he would go to Jujutsu Tech and forget about you. Maybe you see you on the off-occasion he’s home, but he doesn’t plan on being home that often. But he’s young and stupid and hungry, and when you were there for him on a platter, he wanted to take you. Consume you.

He feels powerful when he knows that you want to consume him, too. He can’t live with himself knowing that that power will only hurt you in the end. 

He almost wishes you were angry at him. You could scream at him if you wanted and it would be justified, but you’re here in his arms again instead. Apologizing.

Something ugly twists inside of him. He remembers what you said in bed the other day. 

You could do anything you wanted to me and I think I’d let you.

It made him sick with desire then, but it makes him sick with remorse now.

November, 2008 (Three days later)

“Is she okay? She hasn’t responded to my text,” Suguru asks.

“You text her?” 

Satoru tries not to look annoyed. Instead, he looks away and kicks away a discarded Ramune bottle across the pavement. On Mondays, he liked to skip his last class and force Suguru to accompany him for a late lunch that usually consisted of konbini sweets.

“Not really. She has my number, though,” Suguru says, taking a puff of a cigarette. Shoko’s influence. “Why, you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are.” Suguru gives him a sly grin. “That’s why you knocked the lights out of that guy.”

“He was assaulting her.”

Satoru sighs, sprawling his legs on the bench (which is too short to fit the length of his body) and puts his head in Suguru’s lap. He flinches when Suguru pokes his nose.

“She’s okay, though?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.”

Satoru thinks of your dejected gaze and the limpness of your body when he touched you the next morning. He was softer than usual given the situation, and you bound yourself to him like you always do. Clung to him, almost. He blushes at the memory of your face after he made you cum from his mouth. 

You seemed fine at breakfast Saturday morning when Satoru treated you to pancakes. But even with your sarcastic remarks and usual banter, the light in your eyes seemed dimmer.

It had barely been 36 hours since then, but he missed you.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing as you,” Suguru says.

Satoru sighs crankily, throwing an arm over his face to block the sunlight.

“I probably would’ve killed him if you guys weren’t there,” he grumbles. “Sometimes I want to kidnap her, I swear. Never leave her out of my sight. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking drunk.”

Suguru looks down at him, raising his brows. One of his usual looks – astute and slightly shaming. 

Satoru is grateful for the darkness of his lenses, though he knows that regardless, Suguru can easily tell what expression he’s giving him. He’s looking away, anyway, examining a stray cat on top of the roof of the konbini.

Satoru takes a moment to trace his eyes along the sharp lines of Suguru’s jawline. Clenched at the thought of you being hurt, a similar sentiment that Satoru’s had for the past few days. His fists burn with the ghost of that bastard’s blood. He wishes he could do it all again—punch his fucking teeth out harder than his nose.

While he thinks of you and the fragility of your far-away stare, he also thinks of your skin. At the moment, the thought is subtly replaced with Suguru’s hands absentmindedly scratching his head. It’s funny — you and Suguru had the same habit when it came to giving Satoru affection.

Prodigies, the two of them. Their abilities would rank them as Grade 1 by their first year of Jujutsu Tech, special grade by the time they complete their first few missions. Satoru really did see Suguru as his other half. It was why your inclusion made him uneasy despite how much he cared for you. 

It wasn’t anything personal. He was simply wrapped around Suguru’s finger first. They had drunkenly kissed two years prior, fresh-faced and seventeen, and would continue to on random occasions that weren’t dictated by anything other than hormones and energy shifts in the air.

Maybe Satoru would consider Suguru as his first love, if he knew anything about it. He didn’t know what you were, yet. He couldn’t describe his feelings for you. It was something beyond words, which scared him.

“Do you think you’re going to take her to the New Year’s Party?” Suguru’s voice shakes Satoru out of his thoughts.

“What? I think I’m taking Mei Mei or something. Mother’s orders.”

“Mother’s orders?”

“Dude, I don’t know. She was like, assigned to me months ago. I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal for the clan, but Mei Mei and her family are close to the family or whatever.”

“I just thought you would bring Y/N, s’all.”

“Why?” Satoru asks.

Suguru smiles, giving him a knowing look before he rolls his eyes.

“You like her.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to lie to me, dude. I figured you were fucking her since she started hanging out with us.”

“She’s… my friend,” Satoru defends. His brain feels fucking scrambled. “My oldest friend.”

“Okay,” Suguru chuckles. “I was kind of thinking of asking her, then.”

“To– to what? The party?”

“Yeah.”

Satoru sits up from Suguru’s lap.

“It’s not really her scene.”

“She hangs out with you, I’m sure she can handle a little party thrown by your family.”

“It’s not little. It’s—fucking annoying and extravagant. I literally only go because I have to and there’s always an open bar,” Satoru prattles. “I thought you’d take Shoko.”

“Jesus, then I’d have to take care of her drunk ass. She’d probably want to get wasted with Utahime anyway. You know how much she wants to fuck her.”

Satoru is screaming in his head. If his worlds collide more than they already have, he might just break open completely. He straightens his posture in an attempt to not appear particularly haughty, though he knows Suguru can probably see right through him. 

He makes a non-committal noise, stone-faced when he looks at his friend. He hides his face as he rolls his eyes. 

His tone is bored, lips quirking in a bitter smile.

“Right, okay,” Satoru yawns. “Do whatever you want.”

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: A Place To Bury Strangers Share an Explosive Ripper

New Video: A Place To Bury Strangers Share an Explosive Ripper @APTBS @dedstrange @pitchperfectpr

Led by Death by Audio founder and Dedstrange Records co-founder Oliver Ackermann, New York-based JOVM mainstays A Place To Bury Strangers — currently Ackermann (vocals, guitar), John Fedowitz (guitar) and Sandra Fedowitz (drums) — have long been fueled by Ackermann’s restless creativity and propensity to be surprising: Over the past close to two decades, A Place To Bury Strangers have delighted,…

[smoooothoperator]

Die With A Smile

01: Can't Catch Me Now

Bucky Barnes x mutant!OC (Astrid Rowan)

HYDRA victims, found family, strangers to lovers, emotional scars, first love

Masterlist

prologue | next part

a/n: Hello!!!! Welcome to the first episode!!!!

If you want to be tagged message me!

I woke up with a loud gasp, feeling how my heart pounded against my chest like a drum. I looked down at my body and sighed in relief when I didn't find a single needle in my arms.

Blinking slowly against the white light around me, I looked around me. The place looked familiar: white walls, beeping machines, too bright lights washing everything in a clinical glow. For a second, panic flared, and I braced for the murmurs in Russian and the suffocating mask pressing down on my face.

 But… Nothing. 

Just an empty room, and the air felt less thick, less threatening. Different. But I didn’t trust it.

I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy, like I was buried under layers of a heavy blanket. There weren't handcuffs keeping me in the bed, and my clothes were different from what I used to wear. Now, instead of those black clothes they made me wear to not make the blood too visible, I was wearing a white long shirt.

“What is this place?” I whisper, looking around.

As my senses started to come to me, I heard a beep next to me, that was in sync with my heartbeat. 

“Oh, you are awake”

I gasped, fighting against the sheets as a voice broke the silence. A woman with dark skin and a calm gaze stepped into the light. She moved slowly, deliberately, grabbing a chair like she’d done this a hundred times. The room felt smaller, the beeping louder. A trick? No, she wasn’t dressed like them… but that didn’t mean anything.

“Who are you?” I groaned, feeling how dry my throat felt.

“Shuri. And you?” she smiled calmly, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning in the back of the chair. “You’re safe here”

Her words hung in the air, impossible to believe. I clenched my jaw, the word 'safe' felt like a cruel joke. Safe? As if she knew what I’d been through. Still, her gaze didn’t leave me, steady and expectant, like she was waiting for something. I swallowed hard, holding onto the one word I could find.

“I…” I frowned, swallowing thickly. “Aetheris”

“Is that what they told you?” she chuckled. “What's your name?”

“I don't have a name”

She looked into my eyes for a few seconds, making me feel somehow intimidated.

“Astrid Rowan” she said, tapping something on her wrist and then making a holographic show up, making me flinch and gasp. “Twenty seven years old. You were captured by HYDRA when you were only four years”

“My name is Aetheris” I frowned. 

“No, it's not” she sighed.

I looked at her, taking a deep breath and trying to calm myself. She's nothing compared to the men that control me. 

“Where am I?”

“Wakanda” she smiled. “Do you know how you came here?”

“No” I frowned. “I only know that… That I escaped the quarters in Siberia and just a second later I was here”

“Mhm” she nodded again, placing her fingers on her chin. “Teleportation, too… From what I found out, HYDRA has been experimenting with your body since you were a kid. They injected in you the DNA of a mutant and somehow it made you have those powers you have”

“You are not telling me something I don't know” I sighed, clenching my jaw. 

“But… What I found curious is that they didn't install the program” she frowned.

“Program? What they did to me is not enough?” I scoffed.

She stood up slowly, moving towards the wall and touching it, and the hologram that was on her wrist was now in the white wall.

“Do you know him?” she said, pointing to a picture.

I frowned looking at the man in the picture, trying to recognize him, comparing him to the men that were always around me.

“Why should I know him?” I sighed, sitting slowly in the bed.

“Interesting…”

I frowned looking at her, then at the picture. I tried to read the text next to it, but it was in a language I couldn't understand, so I looked back at the picture.

“Who is he?” I frowned.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes” she said. “Also, The Winter Soldier”

The Winter Soldier. Him? It can't be…

“You do know him” the woman said. 

“I heard about The Winter Soldier” I nodded. “But I never saw him”

Shuri looked at the hologram in her wrist and hummed softly, tapping on it with her finger and moving what I looked like a file.

“You know what's curious?” she sighed, walking towards me and sitting again on the chair. “You weren't controlled… At least not like him. While I was doing the medical check I found out that you had something in your nape. Probably because they found out that it's easier to literally control their assets rather than implanting some mind control like they did with the Sergeant…”

“What?” I laughed, shaking my head. 

“Yeah, makes sense” she nodded, talking to herself, moving around the room. “Like… Now you are talking to me. You are reasonable, not a threat to me because I took it off”

“You don't know what you are talking about” I frowned, looking down at my hands.

“I might look young but I'm not stupid. I'm the smartest woman in this country” she said, grabbing a little plastic bag and showing it to me. “This was on your nape”

Shuri held up a small plastic bag, and inside was a thin, metal fragment, stamped with a familiar logo: the twisted, skeletal head of HYDRA. I stared at it, a surge of nausea rising in my throat. 

“A chip?” I whispered.

 All the times I’d obeyed without question, the sudden blackouts, the blood on my hands... because of a chip? It was impossible, yet the evidence gleamed in her hand, mocking me.

“What did you do to me?!” I gasped, panicking, looking down at my own hands, feeling an overwhelming feeling of loss.

“Nothing” she sighed. “I just took the chip, I told you!”

I frowned looking at her, clenching my jaw. So it was only that? A chip? The only thing that kept me linked to them was a chip?

“This is a trap” I frowned. “No. You are one of them. Get out! Get out!”

“Woah, woah, calm down” she frowned. “I'm not one of them. I just helped you”

“Get out!” I screamed. 

I felt the heat sear through me, the wave of ice and fire clawing for release, more feral than before. I clamped my fists, trying to rein it in, but it was useless. My body was slipping from my control. Panic clawed at my mind as the edges of my vision blurred.

Then, darkness swallowed me whole, a cold silence replacing the chaos.

I woke up gasping, my heart pounding like a frantic drum in my chest. The air around me was thick with a suffocating cold that seemed to seep into my bones. I blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but I was still trapped in that familiar nightmare.

The room shifted and warped, transforming into the sterile confines of my cell in Siberia. The walls loomed closer, pressing in on me, and the oppressive weight of dread settled like a heavy blanket over my chest. The familiar scent of antiseptic and metal clawed at my senses, pulling me back into that dark reality I thought I had escaped

I turned my head, watching the white light flickering above casting long shadows that danced menacingly across the floor. I could hear it, the low hum of machines, the faint beeping that synced with the frantic rhythm of my heart. I shivered, feeling the ghost of cold needles piercing my skin, the aftereffects of injections still coursing through my veins.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside my cell, and my breath caught in my throat. A voice drifted in, guttural and commanding, words spoken in Russian that I could barely comprehend. 

Panic surged within me, making my heart race faster, pounding against the confines of my chest. I moved against invisible restraints, feeling the familiar straps trapping me to the bed, tightening with each desperate movement.

“Stop!” I screamed, but no sound came out. 

The silence swallowed my voice.. I looked around searching for a way out, but the darkness waited like a predator, ready to hunt me.

Suddenly, I was no longer in the cell. 

The world around me shifted, and I found myself in a sterile lab with bright lights shining down, illuminating rows of instruments and machines.

 They were here, the men in masks, their faces hidden behind cold, emotionless eyes. I felt their gaze in me, filled with a twisted sense of purpose.           

“Subject Aetheris” a voice echoed from the shadows, cold and clinical. “Prepare for extraction”         

“No!” I cried, feeling a surge of power bubbling within me, but it was like trying to hold back a storm.

My body moved on its own, like a puppet on strings obeying commands I couldn’t comprehend. Flames sparked at my fingertips, but they danced without my direction, a manifestation of my rage and fear.

“Use them!” the voice barked, and I felt myself compelled to obey. 

My body obeyed with frightening precision, conjuring fire that erupted in a blinding flash. I looked down, horrified, as the flames curled and twisted around my hands as an extension of my rage.

But then the scene warped again, and I was back in my cell.

My breath quickened as I scrambled for a way out, the familiar weight of the cold mask pressing against my face, suffocating me

 I couldn’t breathe.

The faces of my captors appeared before me, their eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction.

“Good little weapon” they purred, their voices echoing around me, as a sinister chorus that threatened to drown me.

“No!” I screamed, my voice finally breaking free from the confines of silence. “I am not a weapon!”

But the walls didn’t listen. They closed in, suffocating me, and I felt myself slipping away, the fire inside me flickering weakly. I closed my eyes, trying to summon the strength to fight back, but the coldness returned, and I was swept into darkness.

Then, just as quickly, the darkness exploded around me. I felt the flow of my powers erupting like an uncontrollable force that shattered the illusion of my cell. 

The walls crumbled, disintegrating into ash and smoke, and I was consumed by the chaos. My flames roared, ice shards cutting through the air, a whirlwind of elements responding to my desperation.

But in the eye of that hurricane, I felt a hand reach out, pulling me from the abyss.

“Wake up, Astrid” a deep and raspy voice whispered, and the world turned black, again.

But this time, the only thing I could sense was a sweet perfume, something that helped to keep all those nightmares and illusions away.

I woke slowly, as if I was surfacing from beneath deep water, the familiar tension in my body easing away and leaving only a faint ache in my muscles. My eyes adjusted to soft, warm light, not the sterile glare I was used to, and I took a slow breath, catching a scent I didn’t recognize, something floral and fresh, with an edge of earth. It felt safe, though the notion of safety was as foreign to me as the room I was in.

The room was painted in warm, earthy tones, nothing like the clinical white walls I grew accustomed to. No beeping machines, no men in white coats or metal restraints. Only soft colors and shapes, and the gentle lines of the fabrics hanging loosely in front of me, in shades of red, blue and purple.

Blinking again, I spotted a small lavender flower lying beside the pillow. I reached for it cautiously, running my fingers over the delicate petals, and brought it close, letting the scent ease through me. 

Lavender. 

I closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of it. And in that moment I remembered how familiar the scent was, something that came into my dream not long ago.

I shifted, sitting up slowly. My body, for the first time in years, wasn’t confined or heavy with injections, and though I was dizzy, I felt an unexpected lightness.

I touched the clothes that laid on my feet, curious. They were soft, loose, nothing like the dark, tight uniforms they kept me in, the ones that hide blood so well. Here, everything was colorful, from the purples to the vibrant reds, colors that whispered of something more than survival.

Preparing myself, I moved off the bed, half expecting alarms or footsteps to thunder outside the door.

But nothing happened. The silence of the room settled around me like a strange kind of freedom. 

I made my way to the balcony door, lavender flower still in hand, and opened it carefully, stepping outside and leaning on the railing.

And then, everything changed.

I was no longer surrounded by walls, no longer held in the cold confines of steel and glass. Instead, the world opened up before me: a world unlike any I could’ve imagined. My breath caught as I looked around, seeing buildings towering high, their sleek, metallic designs softened by lush greenery that seemed to grow straight from the structures themselves. Paths curved gracefully around trees, and flowers bloomed in explosions of color beneath suspended walkways and holographic displays.

People moved through this place with ease, some smiling, some caught in conversation, all dressed in bright colors that echoed the world around them. No one hurried, no one hid. It was as if this place, with all its beauty and advanced technology, was alive in a way I didn’t know was possible. 

I took a step forward, then another, unable to stop staring. The ground was warm beneath my feet, a gentle reminder that this wasn’t some dream I would wake from.

I walked cautiously, half expecting to feel a jolt of warning or a sudden rush of control in my blood that would send me back to the cages. Instead, all I felt was a strange calm, a sense of presence that unnerved me as much as it intrigued me.

I lowered my hand, watching it shake slightly as I tried to process what this meant. How could a place like this exist, so… alive and beautiful? And what was I, trapped in HYDRA’s brutal mold, supposed to be here?

The question filled me with an unfamiliar crave, a hunger to know, to understand what this place was and how it worked, to find pieces of myself in the stories that seemed etched into every corner. 

For the first time, a question cut through the fear: Who was I, really? Was there more than what they had made me?

A voice called my name, soft but certain, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned to see Shuri approaching, her expression warm but watchful, like she knew exactly how overwhelmed I felt. She didn’t move closer, just watched, letting me feel this moment on my own terms.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she smiled, nodding toward the world before us. Her voice held a confidence I’d never heard before, something I could almost trust. “Take your time, Astrid. You’re safe here”

Safe. 

I repeated the word in my head, trying to make sense of it. For now, it was enough just to breathe, to feel the lavender flower in my hand, to look at this world around me.

“Safe” I nodded, bringing the lavender close to my nose. “I am safe”

taglist

@alltoomaples @jadeofspadesxp @leptitlu @mendes-bae

[sourpatchys]

•Secrets•

Two lines is all it took.

You were sure— for better or for worse— your life was over.

Every single prevention was put into place, even complete abstinence at one point or another. And yet there you were, sick to your stomach, tears in your eyes as you looked at two solid pink lines.

Life had a funny way of ruining things. Or maybe life had a funny way of fixing things— you couldn’t quite decide.

You and Daryl had never talked about kids. How could you? It was bad enough when walkers were your only concern, it was bad enough before he ran away with his brother, it was bad enough before Lori died.

You had only just gotten him back— and now— you were sure you’d lose him forever.

Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you we’re celebrating. I’m pregnant. You thought. We’re going to have a family.

Those thoughts stayed buried. You weren’t going to be the one deciding if this was good news.

That night was a cold one. Weather it be from Daryl’s absence that night or the creeping terror in your mind, it didn’t matter. You hardly slept as it was— you didn’t deserve to sleep.

All you could see when you closed your eyes was Daryl’s face. Your baby. A world where it was safe.

You were becoming delusional.

As silly as it may have been, you kept the issue at hand to yourself. Maybe you were waiting for someone to notice. Maybe Daryl already had. Maybe you were fooling yourself into believing it wasn’t true.

As a few weeks passed, as life as you knew it slowly became bearable again— as the prison filled up with happy strangers ready to move on. It was hard work, readying the prison for all the newcomers. Clearing out old cell blocks, revamping the kitchen, planting crops. You were okay with the work, it kept you busy.

You didn’t want to think. You didn’t want to rest. Daryl wasn’t resting. No one else was resting either.

And then you threw up. Over, and over, and over again. It was like the universe itself was laughing in your face.

“What the fuck is up with you?!” Daryl yelled, pacing around your cell, as you laid down. There was a paleness to your face— one he’d never seen before, even after seven months on the road.

He was afraid.

“It’s nothing. I probably just ate something I shouldn’t have. I’m fine.”

You couldn’t muster up the strength to yell back. Maybe you pushed yourself too hard.

He stopped, rubbing his face with his hand before crouching down. He was eye level with you, and you could see how dissatisfied he was with your answer.

“Ate something’ bad huh? You think I’m an idiot or somethin’?”

Of course you didn’t.

Turning your head away, you faced the wall. The look in his eyes was too much for you— not now.

“It’s nothing.”

It was quiet for awhile. Neither of you moved.

You wanted to tell him. You wanted so badly for him to know, for him to be there for you. But you were afraid.

“Jus’ tell me.” He held his hand out, moving your face back to his. “I won’t be mad.”

There were tears in his eyes.

For all he knew— you could’ve been bitten— maybe you had cancer— maybe someone did something to you.

“I’m pregnant.”

It came out of your mouth like a curse. The words burned in your throat like a poison. You’d never said it out loud before. You couldn’t stay in denial any longer— you couldn’t hide in your delusions.

This was reality.

He looked at you, and unreadable expression on his face. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear.

It was completely new. Something you hadn��t seen in the year you’d known him.

Suddenly he was kissing you, and you could feel a tremble on his lips.

“You shoulda’ told me earlier.”

Now you knew what that look meant.

He was finally— for the first time in his life— excited for the future.

[spicyclover]

Unplanned | Part eight

Summary:  You are pregnant with Mick. It’s not going as planned; it’s not planned. Everything happened so fast, and everything was chaotic. Mick has a hard time accepting it. You have difficulty realizing that two of you may not be raising this child.

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight

Hope you’ll enjoy this part. Let me know in the comments section! 

I'm open to requests.

Thank you, and Enjoy! :)

Lots of love, xxx Spicy Clover

The following day, he jumps on the next plane available for Canada, which is a three-connection, but he doesn't care at this point. He waits hours for his next connection at the Charles de Gaulle airport. Trying to think about what to say or do.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are forced to land at the Ottawa International Airport due to a snowstorm at the destination point. We apologize for the inconvenience. We sincerely apologize, and our stewardesses on the ground can assist you to redirect you to the next available flights. Thank you for your understanding.”

Mick looks through the window and sees the white expanse covering the airport's ground. The runway was covered with heavy snow, but he could see the plows clearing the runways quickly to allow the aircraft to land safely. Dressed in a little sweater and a T-shirt. He regrets not thinking about Canada’s complicated weather, especially at this time of year. Of course, it’s cold in January, and there’s snow. It’s not Australia, after all. He also regrets not putting a hoodie in his bag. He knows full well that he will catch his death once he gets out of the heat of the airport.

All the passengers on the plane complained about the change of direction, and several disgruntled people were already praising the company’s complaint. Mick looks up and knows full well that it’s not their fault. All of eastern Canada is blocked because of this storm.

However, he is thinking about what he will be able to do next. How will he get to Quebec City? He thought about the various options as the aircraft suddenly landed on the runway. He clings to his seat, taking a deep breath. He never liked to fly, let alone in a storm. The bell that says the seat belt is no longer necessary rings, and everyone rushes into the aisles to pick up their luggage as quickly as possible. Something else Mick doesn’t like. Being glued to strangers, he sits quietly in his place and waits for people to come out to get up and take his bag. He crosses the hallway and follows the arrows that lead him to security. He goes through customs quickly and ends up at the airport gates. He sees people pulling out their winter jackets and big boots. "I really should have dressed." He mumbles to himself, crossing his arms around his body to keep his body warm.

He went to the reception desk to be put on the next flight to Montreal, but it would not leave for three days. “It’s too long.” A little stress invades him, and he wonders how he will reach his destination if no plane lands in Montreal for the next few days. So he sits on a bench and thinks. “I have to get to her.”

He finally finds the best solution to his problem. “If I can’t fly to her. I’ll do what I know best. I’ll drive to her." He got up to determine and went to the car rental service.

Renting is the best option right now.

After five hours of difficult driving through the snowstorm, he finally arrived at his destination. The city is completely buried under the ton of snow that fell during the night, the streets are deserted, and it makes the landscape breathtaking. The snow covers the entire St. Lawrence River. He even sees people on snowmobiles, making tracks on the fresh snow to cross the river. Mick knows snow, but snow like this never happens. He never thought that when he came to Quebec, he would be blown away by his landscapes. The sun is rising, setting in the sky.

They spoke about her home. She described the island where she lives. Ancestral houses, fields as far as the eye can see and the different villages of the island. The bridge that connects the island to the city is old but beautiful. Everything seems asleep under its snow mountains, yet several people are already beginning to unfold their entrance, and children are waiting for the school bus. Fortunately, the road is perfectly cleared of snow, allowing Mick to admire the landscape without danger.

He easily finds the house. He remembers as if it were yesterday the description she gave him of her parents' house. She described the landscape and the atmosphere of the place, and he felt it strongly. He exits his vehicle and is surprised that the snow reaches his calves. He tightens his sweater against his body and approaches the house's porch. The lights inside his lit, and he still sees Christmas decorations. The tree shines with a thousand lights. He rings the bell.

A chime agitates and produces a magnificent symphony that mixes with wind and snow. He stands there for a few seconds without a sound and hops on the spot to warm up. Then, he hears through the door a person approaching.

"Yes?" asks the lady, opening the door.

She's staring at Mick from top to bottom, probably wondering what he's doing in a weather like this, dressed like this. Mick looks up at the woman in front of him, and she doesn't look like Y/n, and he feels embarrassed to disturb her. He blushes when he stutters.

"Um... I don't think I have the correct address. I'm sorry to bother you." He quickly steps back and is ready to go down the stair when suddenly.

"Mick," he hears a voice in the distance.

She approaches the entrance door and lets her face be seen in the door frame. A smile from on his face. It's her, and it's really her. He can't believe it. It seems like ages since he last saw her. Her hair is brighter, and her skin is radiant. She seems to radiate for miles. She has a worried look on her face. He's shaking like a leaf, and his face seems frozen from the cold.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, taking him by the arm and drawing him into the hall. "Come, come in. You will catch death."

She closes the door behind him, and the other woman leaves at the end of the long corridor in a room unknown to him, leaving them alone. The young woman helps him take his shoes off, grumbling about not dressing enough for the temperature. She guides him into the living room, sitting him in front of the fire to warm him up. Mick doesn't say much, but he thanks her. He's thankful she didn't throw him like an old sock in his car so he could get out of the country. She leaves in another room, and Mick takes the time to look around at the pictures in front of him sitting on the mantel. He rubs his hands close to the fire, hoping to warm up. She comes back a few minutes later.

"Thank you," he said, taking the hot chocolate in his icy hands.

He shudders and shivers from the cold. She watches him for a few moments before returning to the corridor. She returns with warm clothes and a vast warming blanket. He puts on the clothes, and she tenderly wraps him up like a child in the blanket and caresses his hair. Despite all the anger, she may feel. At this very moment, all she wants is his good. He puts his head between the palm of her hand, taking the time to feel her warmth, keeping her contact a few moments before it is interrupted.

“What are you doing here, Mick?" She asks tenderly as she sits on the couch next to him.

He doesn't know what to say at first. So, he lets his eyes look at the room. He notices the house is small but extremely warm and cozy. The mix of wood and cream makes the home very welcoming and not intimidating. Nothing like his house. He feels good here, and he hopes she is too.

“I... He’s searching for the words he spent hours practicing on the plane and in the car to her house. “I came to see you.” He admits locking his ocean-blue eyes in hers.

“Mick, what did you really come to do? Are you not with Nina?” She wonders with a touch of bitterness in her voice.

He feels the bitterness in her voice, and he feels terrible. Bad because he wants her to know so many things all at once, but she doesn't seem able to listen.

She didn’t want to show him that he hurt her, but she couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the other. "Why is he here? Did the other girl leave him? Is that why he came here?" All those questions invade her mind immediately, and she feels her tear coming up. Her throat tightens.

“No. No. I...” Words struggle to get out, and Mick feels increasingly uncomfortable. His cheeks turn red, and he mumbles an apology again. “I broke up with Nina.” He finally confesses, looking at her in the eye once more.

“Oh, sorry about you.” She isn't sorry for a bit but doesn't feel better either. Strangely, she feels weird about all this.

He takes a sip of his hot chocolate. All the sentences he prepared, all the words and promises he made up on the plane, are gone. He wants to tell her the world and even more. "How can he describe how she makes him feel if he doesn't even have the words?" He wants to kiss her, to prove to her that he'll be hers, and only hers by now. But he knows for sure that a kiss isn't the right idea. She needs explication, and quickly. All this situation makes him anxious and stressed.

“No. No. No. She's not important to me.” He puts his coffee cup on the table and turns his body towards the young woman. “I want you.” He mumbles, taking her hands gently in his own.

“Mick...”

“No, listen to me! I screwed up, I know. I shouldn’t have left you alone all this time, and I’ll have. I want to be there for you, with you. I want you to be close to me. The few days we spent together have opened my eyes, and I know what I want now. I...”

"Don’t say it," she implores with eyes full of water.

“I need you to know that. The few weeks without you were the worst weeks of my life.” He approaches her hand and rubs her cheek tenderly. “I don’t just want to be involved in your life because of the baby, our baby. I want to be involved because I...”

“No, stop, Mick.” She says, pushing him away. “You can’t say that when it’s only been a few weeks since you walked out on me, kissing your girlfriend in my face. I can’t... I don’t want those words coming out of your mouth. You’re being unfair to me.” She cries out as she leaves the room in tears.

She hates hormones. She hates the control it has on her. She can't have a proper conversation that doesn't involve tears and screams since the start of her pregnancy. She feels so frustrated with herself and doesn't want to say more things to Mick. She storms out of the room, slamming the bathroom door. Her hormones make this situation somewhat upsetting, a real drama. She locks herself in the bathroom and lets herself slide to the ground.

He has no right to come back like a flower and ask him to forgive him for the weeks of pure sadness that he made her live. He has no right. She bursts into tears and brings her knees back to her chest. She did her best with her growing belly, a little more rounded by her 15 weeks of pregnancy.

On his side, Mick’s remorse seizes him, and he feels at his worst. How she feels and expresses it is worse than he could have imagined, and he never wanted that to happen. He sees the woman who welcomed him, and she approaches him with a compassionate smile.

"Don’t worry. It’s hormones. She’s just upset about the situation, but once she’s calm, she’ll talk to you.” She said as she sat beside him, offering him a comforting pat on the back. "Don’t worry about it. I know that you have good intentions."

"How do you know?" He questions down.

"Well, I talked with your mother a few hours ago. She's a very persuasive woman.” She giggles slightly to relax the atmosphere and reassure him. "She cares about you very much."

“You are her mother?”

“Yes." She nods. "You should go see her."

"I don't think it's the right idea. She hates me." He mumbles, wiping a few tears down his cheek.

"She doesn't hate you. She's upset and pregnant, which are two things that don't go together. Knowing my daughter, she’s probably doing a thousand scenarios in her head, so I think you can go and reassure her." She taps his shoulder gently before getting up again. "You have to lift the handle a little to unlock the door. And a little tip, don’t talk too much. Let her open to you.” She winks at him before heading outside.

Mick nods and gets up from the couch. He listens to her choking sobs with his ear glued to the bathroom door. A pinch in the heart invades him, and he unlocks the door without difficulty. She barely has time to look up as he’s already hugged her. Letting her go through her emotions. She wants to struggle and get away from him, but deep down, she doesn’t want to. She allows her tears to stain his sweater. Mick gently cradles her. She feels good in his arms, reminding her of the day he took her in his coat to keep her warm.

Her sobs subside, and her breathing resumes a normal rhythm. She feels her body relax more and more and closes her eyes, happy to have him back by her side. She gently detaches herself from him to take a handkerchief and blow her nose. She laughs and implores him not to watch her blow her nose. He laughs but does what she says, and he looks away.

They remain for a moment in silence, sitting in the bathroom, enjoying the presence of the other. When Mick’s stomach starts to gurgle strongly, she finally decides to get up. He helps her get back on her feet, and she giggles when she hears his belly gurgling. He blushes heavily when he mumbles an apology. She leads him to the kitchen and orders him to sit down. She takes out a pan and removes the pancake preparation that she made a few hours ago from the fridge.

He takes the time to admire her. Her cream hoodie, which he recognizes from the RIC store, suits her perfectly. She seems cozy and warm while the sun sets on the kitchen windows. As always, the light from the mighty sun reflects on her magnificent strawberry blonde. Mick wants to put his hand in her hair and smell that sweet smell of honey again. Her perfume intoxicates him. He's lost in her beauty that he doesn't even realize she talked to him.

"What?" He mumbles, a bit embarrassed to have been cough daydreaming.

"Do you want maple syrup on your pancake?"

He nods, and they eat in silence. Mick thanks her multiple time for her kindness, and she laughs. She finds him sweet. He is sweet. All those things he says and how he tells them makes her heart go. Butterflies in her stomach. She rests a hand on her belly, rubbing it distractedly, listening to Mick mumbling about his recent discovery about their baby.

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes she hasn't been fair to him either, especially about the baby. She knows they have to talk about it eventually, but right now wants this peace and quiet moment, without drama, to continue forever. She's lost in her thought and hasn't realized he is asking her a question.

"Hum?"

"How is he?" He asks again, pointing at her baby bump.

"Oh, everything is fine. The baby is perfectly healthy and strong and has a strong heartbeat."

"Really?" Mick’s eyes light up, and she smiles affectionately.

"Yeah! Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure." The spark in his eyes makes her smile even more.

She gets her phone and headphone and comes back quickly. She sets the devices on his head and searches her playlist for the baby songs. She hasn't stopped listening to it since the doctor gave her a record.

For a few seconds, he can't hear a thing. But, little by little, the beats are listened to. Regular and strong. Tears of joy appear in his eyes. This is Mick's first time hearing his baby’s heart beating. Even if it’s not live, he is filled with joy. He smiles fully and gently puts his hand against the young woman’s belly. He caresses tenderly and can no longer hold back his tears. The emotion is strong. He never thought he would be so moved by a very small being not yet born. Seeing him move makes her move, and she wipes her tears. She is more than happy to be able to share her moment with him finally. She ties her fingers to his and puts her head against his shoulder.

"Come with me at ROC this weekend." He mumbles once the recording of the heartbeat is finished. "We have much to discuss, but I want you close, and I don't want this to end."

Mick’s heart beats a thousand a second, and his nervousness makes him blush. To reassure himself after this proposal, he caresses his stomach. God, he can’t wait for the baby to move, for him to feel it too.

She hesitates to accept his request and doesn’t want to find herself in a situation she doesn’t like again. And even more, this is a public event, and many people will be there. It’s one thing to meet his family at home and stay in a private setting, but it’s another to make this story public. He feels his hesitation, and he cannot help but add.

"My friend Sebastian is going to be there. I really want you to meet him. It’s like a second father, a mentor to me. And I want him to see the person who’s going to... I hope... share her life with me." He whispers at the end of his sentence, barely inaudible.

Her heart goes wild, and the butterflies in her belly fly away. She feels light and happy. Happy that he offers her. Glad he chose her. Glad she could finally tell “us” after these weeks of loneliness.

"Okay." She says. "I'll go with you."  

Tag list:

@tyna-19 @ironcowboycopnickel @dreamerrosie @gagaga167 @primadonnasdream @sachaa-ff @majx00 @lissimountf1 @mloyer @playboygeniusphilanthropist​ @sugarbabygirlofdaddy​ @pleasedontfollowimlost​ @blueleonor​ basicallyherondale mariar31

[sideroachblog]

Kinktober Day 11: Aphrodisiacs! I'm a little behind 😅

Thank you @nonsenseafterdark for the prompt list!

Trans!Roach/König

Words: 961

NSFW under the cut. No TWs.

Anatomy Words Used: Pussy, Clit, T-dick, Hole, Entrance, Lips

~~~

Roach ducked as the hulking enemy in front of him threw a punch. Motherfucker was nearing seven feet tall and wide to match, wearing some creepy t-shirt over his head with eye holes cut out. With nearly a foot height difference Roach had to kite the man’s attacks perfectly or get grabbed and thrown to the ground. He strafed right as the guy tried to tackle him, then to the left to avoid his follow-up attempt and create some space between them in the tight warehouse.

Unfortunately, the enemy grabbed Roach’s wrist and yanked him back. Being so much stronger he whipped Roach around into a stack of crates as if the Sergeant weigh nothing. There was a crack! as wood splintered around Roach as he stumbled right through them onto the floor. The contents vaporized in a fine pink powder.

Roach recollected his bearings. Remembering where he was, he braced for impact—one that never came.

His assailant sneezed.

The Sergeant reached for his holstered gun before realizing the powder had a funny smell that tickled his nose and spread warmth across his cheeks. Considering his luck it was probably Agent Orange: The Squeakuel.

Something felt odd. Distracting. The other man must’ve felt it too, since the violence stopped dead in its tracks. That warmth filled his lungs, made his heart skip a beat and accelerate, parted his lips with a needy sigh. But what did he need?

His hands began to shake. A shiver ran down his spine. The feeling of clothes on his skin was suddenly too much; fabric dragging over sensitive flesh drew a moan from his throat. He pressed his legs together only to feel wetness squish between his thighs.

What the fuck?

He looked up at the enemy towering over him like a draft horse and couldn’t help but wonder if he had a cock to match. It seems the feeling was mutual, as the man fell to his knees and crawled on top of him. Suddenly his mouth was stuffed with a stranger’s tongue, a gloved hand at his throat pinning him in place.

“Jesus Christ,” Roach whispered. Fingers slipped under the chain to his ID discs, ripping them off before he could stop it. “Hey!”

“Sergeant Sanderson, huh?” The man asked with some unplaceable accent.

Roach yelped in surprise as a knee rammed between his legs, expecting a penis based on its angle of approach. Finding different machinery, the man pulled back, narrowed his eyes in what might’ve been a devilish smile under his mask, then ducked down to rip off Roach’s fatigues.

He groaned at the sight of Roach’s boxers, only the slightest bulge created by his mound, growling, “I don’t know what the hell is going on but I’m glad you have a cunt.”

It was an Austrian accent.

Roach gasped. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Why the fuck aren’t you stopping me?” He rubbed Roach’s slit through soaked boxers. “Why are you so wet, Gary?”

All Roach could manage was to whimper and tense his thighs, although he couldn’t bring himself to shove his enemy off or even close his legs.

“Mhm. Figures. My call sign is König, if you need something to scream. Or Colonel," he said, promptly burying his face in Roach's pussy.

Apparently, König was a freak. He inhaled deeply through his mouth and nose, one hand pinning Roach’s hip while the other lifted his homemade mask. As he licked, his nose rubbed Roach’s sensitive t-dick, wide tongue pressing against Roach’s hole.

Roach grabbed the back of his helmet and humped up into the sensation. Lifting his ass gave König the opportunity to pull his boxers down.

“Scheiße, look at that! Your clit’s huge,” he marveled, then wrapped his lips around it.

Roach yelled, earning a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t believe König was large enough to reach. Next thing he knew, two huge fingers pressed against his entrance. Under any other circumstances he’d beg the man to wait, to start with one, but he was too horny. He pushed back and they slid inside.

He cried, “Fuck, you’re stretching me out.”

“You can take it, slut,” König said, finding his G-spot and earning more delicious sounds. “Yeah, moan for me.”

When König’s fingers curled and his pace increased, Roach suddenly reached a shuddering orgasm and squirted up his wrist. The hand retreated, a fly unzipped, and König lined the tip of his dick up with Roach’s hole.

The sheer size of it made Roach’s eyes widen. “It’s like a fucking water bottle,” he sobbed.

“You can take it.”

His cheeks burned hot while König held his legs together in the air. It spread his pussy lips, stretching his hole as he gripped König’s arms. A rubber band tightened in his abdomen as the cock entered, impossibly deep until the man’s body pressed into his t-dick, who moaned at the feeling of Roach’s insides.

Roach’s eyes rolled back. He rolled his hips so it rubbed his G-spot.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

König groaned and pulled out before slamming himself back inside, dick long enough to just barely kiss Roach’s cervix. Roach gasped—König gave one more exploratory thrust before jackhammering down inside. Using him like a fleshlight. Completely uncaring about the obscenely sloppy sounds emanating from Roach’s mouth and hole.

Roach saw stars. He came again, bearing down on König's length, which began to throb as the man filled him with cum, spreading his legs to make out sloppily as their bodies rocked together.

Suddenly, Roach was empty. Cum poured from his pussy.

König stood on shaking legs and yanked him up. “Pull up your pants. You’ve got twenty seconds to run before I put a bullet in your head.”

[branches-of-time]

The House That Built Me

“Figured you’d either still be at the tavern, or were already home wondering where I was.”

He smiles at you, soft, before looking away. “I was at the tavern most of the day, like I planned this morning. But… something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t really… giving it my all, and I think the patrons could tell.”

You frown. “What didn’t feel right? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Windblume. I’m just fine.”

You aren’t convinced. “Then, uh… do you feel like sharing what isn’t fine?”

His gaze drops to the dark sea below. “I think you know what it is, actually.”

Cryptic as ever, you take a moment to ponder what he might mean. He takes the silence as an opportunity to elaborate. “I never really wonder where you are, you know?"

~~~~~~~

Inazuma, all raging storms and war-torn, is calling your name. Shamefully, you find yourself running north instead, searching for something, anything to fill this home-shaped void in your heart.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll come to find that home is a person, more than a place.

Pairing: Venti x Reader - Established Relationship, GN!Reader

Word Count: 11,033

Contains: [angst (with a happy ending)] [crying] [cuddling] [emotional hurt/comfort] [lack of communication] [loneliness] [memories] [not canon compliant] [pet death] [Reader & Venti are both adults] [Reader is not Traveler but they essentially take their place in the game's plot] [self-deprecating reader] [separation anxiety] [set prior to Version 2.0] [songfic]

A/Ns: This is a songfic! Title and verses written throughout the fic are from the song- "The House That Built Me" by Miranda Lambert.

Lastly, some context- Reader is a Riftwolf-Human hybrid, can manipulate all seven elements but has an affinity for Geo.

I know they say you can't go home again.

Sand, warmed by the afternoon sun, swells between your spread fingers as you press your hands down into the ground at your sides. Summoning a modicum of Geo elemental energy, your hands meet no resistance as they sink into the compacted grains like a hot knife through butter. You drop your raised shoulders and let your hands bury several inches into the beach until the sand surrounding them is cool, untouched by the heat of the day.

Dismissing the energy you’d been using to repel it, you allow the ground to resist you again. You note the weight of the sand as it presses down on the backs of your hands, and the firm bed of grains packed beneath your palms. You shut your eyes and flex your fingers slightly, focusing on the soft grit of Falcon Coast as it surrounds your hands in its weighted embrace.

Breathing a heavy sigh, you reopen your eyes, dropping your head and cursing the earth beneath you. This attempt at grounding yourself is doing little to ease the knot in your stomach, nor the tightness in your chest. Looking up and out across the expanse of ocean before you, the sight of Musk Reef looming in the distance doesn’t help either. You refuse to allow your gaze to drift any further south.

You begin to ask yourself what you’re even doing here, and why you thought this was a good idea. You’re no stranger to fleeing to Mondstadt whenever the world overwhelms you, but this specific beach perhaps wasn’t the wisest choice. Certainly not when the very thing you’re running from is the sea.

You hadn’t put much thought into where to go, you just knew you wanted to go home. Materializing at the waypoint east of Windrise was simply instinctual. Though, when you arrived, you didn’t turn and head north like you had so many times before. No, you took a running jump off the cliff below, gliding south and landing on the coast.

Sitting here now though, hands buried in the same sand you first washed up on after clawing your way out of the abyss… it’s not as comforting of a spot as you thought it might be. You don’t feel grounded at all, caught up between memories of the past and fears of the future.

Tugging your hands out of the sand with a frustrated huff, you turn your head to glance behind you at the cliff to the north.

…Maybe you should’ve gone that way instead. Maybe you should go home.

 I just had to come back one last time.

Materializing at the earlier waypoint once again, you pause to collect yourself for a moment. Making frequent use of the waypoints, especially in your current state, isn’t very wise. Then again, you aren’t in a very wise state. Taking a deep breath to dispel the dizziness, you let the warm breeze caress your cheeks. Looking around from your current vantage point, you find yourself grateful for the lack of people in the area. Even Chloris is currently nowhere to be found.

Well, at least you can think in peace. Jumping down from the crumbling ruin, you steady yourself against an archway, narrowly avoiding crushing a small patch of lamp grass. …Perhaps you should’ve taken another moment to collect yourself. Perhaps you shouldn’t be wandering through the wilds all on your own, in such a state.

You scoff at the latter thought. This is Mondstadt, and you’re… you. What’s the worst that could happen?

Pushing aside the thought that more alone time may not be what you need right now, you think yourself through your predicament once again as you set off on a walk.

-

You’d been reluctant to leave Mondstadt and set out for Liyue, despite knowing that you’d get no further answers to your myriad of questions here. Not to mention the nagging, relentless tug of fate, pulling you away from the nation you’d come to call home. You knew full and well that you’d have to leave. You’d find no peace in an attempt to ignore the call, and settle here indefinitely.

Still, that didn’t stop you from milking your time here as much as possible. You’d gotten to a first name basis with nearly every soul in the city by the time you ran out of tasks to busy yourself with. Gained quite the notable reputation for yourself in the process too, although that hadn’t been your goal. You truly just didn’t want to leave.

You’d trekked over every hill, passed through every valley, climbed to every peak and turned over every stone and leaf along your way. You explored the nation’s ruins, deciphered inscriptions half faded into their stone, and felled every field till- …ruin guard that stood in your way. You’d braved the frozen peaks of Dragonspine, and gained a newfound appreciation for the Pyro element in the process.

You stood atop the celestial nail, looking out through the blizzard and over the expanse of land to the southwest.

The vast, foreign land that laid before you scared you more than the journey to the top of the nail had.

After all, you didn’t fear falling. The wind at your back would surely catch you, you had no doubt.

Flecks of Cryo stung, colliding with the flushed, exposed skin of your face. You closed your eyes, balance wavering slightly as a result. A small arm was quick to wrap itself around your waist.

No, you didn’t fear falling. You feared leaving.

You leaned into the safety of your Archon’s hold, their concerned voice perfectly audible in spite of the blizzard winds surrounding you. “Are you alright? Do you need to get down?”

You feared leaving him.

-

Leaves from the end of a tree branch brush against your perked ears, pulling you back into the present. Shaking your head and drawing your ears down on instinct, you look around and realize your muscle memory has carried you the rest of the way home. Tucked away against a small cliff south of the Thousand Winds Temple, stands an even smaller cottage, forgotten to time. An Anemo Samachurl paces in circles in the yard, and its Geo counterpart sits on the old stone stairs leading into the home.

Ma'am, I know you don't know me from Adam.

The Geo Samachurl turns to look at you, and you give it a small wave in acknowledgement. Its attention lingers on you for only a moment longer, before turning back to continue watching its Anemo companion instead. A smile plays on your lips, tight and bittersweet.

You make no move to continue approaching, instead opting to back up a few paces and lean against a nearby tree, observing.

They can sense enough of your shared origins, or- maybe it’s the lingering abyssal energy on you… regardless, they can sense something on you that they recognize. Nothing specific, but something familiar enough that they feel no need to take up arms upon the mere sight of you. In all honesty, you feel the same. Their presence here doesn’t pose any genuine threat, so you’re content to leave them be.

In the many months that have passed since Venti and you moved out of this place, it’s become a haven for others. Whether it be traveling adventurers seeking shelter for a night, wildlife seeking refuge from a passing storm beneath the awning, or even your old Khaenri’ahn kin seeking a place to camp, the cottage has served many.

The both of you have kept a distant eye on the place since your departure. Though, Venti has found himself remaining more distant than you since these Samachurls have set up camp. While your presence doesn’t ring any alarm bells for them, the same cannot be said for Venti. While he holds no ill intent toward them either, something about the aura he emits sets them instinctively on edge.

You can hardly blame them. You’d raised your hackles and bared your teeth at the bard, defensive upon your first encounter as well. Looking back, he was hardly posing any threat then either, but at the time, you viewed everyone and everything as a potential enemy. After all, you’d just escaped the abyss and been tossed to the shore of Falcon Coast by the waves, your weaker control over Cryo failing you halfway across your attempt at an ice bridge. Waking up on hot sand to find a humanoid being with an unsettling gaze emanating a suspiciously divine aura above you was more than enough to kick your fight or flight into gear.

You attempted both, in that order. You immediately dug your hands into the sand and threw fistfuls of it at the stranger, successfully disorienting them and giving you an opening to flee. With nothing but ocean to the east, you bolted west, and then north, headed for higher ground intent on gaining an advantage.

Looking back now, you know nothing could’ve stopped Venti if he’d truly wanted to catch you. At the time, though, you felt pretty confident in having outrun him. By the time you felt like you’d lost him, you found yourself also lost amidst trees, the uneven terrain obscuring your sense of direction. So- tired, thirsty, hungry, scared, and confused- you dropped from a run to a walk. Pressing forward in the direction you’d run in, you kept your ears at attention to catch any threat before it could catch you.

-

The Anemo Samachurl breaks from its quiet chanting and pacing, its sudden cry pulling your focus from the past. From the way it points and takes off in a run, and the way its Geo counterpart rises to follow behind, you assume it must have seen something in the woods that caught its attention. You see nor sense nothing of note, and dismiss the likely false alarm. Probably just wildlife, or perhaps a Dendro slime looking to play. As the two little shamans run off into the trees, you take advantage of the vacancy they leave behind.

But these handprints on the front steps are mine.

You figure you’ve got enough time for a quick visit before they return. Besides, the worst that’ll happen if they do catch you in their “camp” will be a few disgruntled spells cast toward you as you hightail it out of there. It’ll be fine.

Approaching the trio of old stone steps that lead to the front door, your gaze catches on two handprints engraved into the highest stair. Memories begin to surface.

-

Sitting on the stairs with your back pressed to the door, you found yourself growing frustrated with the green-clad individual in your yard. Well, perched in one of the trees in your yard, to be precise.

You’d taken up residence in this old run-down cottage once it seemed that no one else had been occupying it. The first few days had been blessedly peaceful, it seemed the area was rather devoid of other life. Well, threatening life, at least. There were plenty of plants and animals, plus a little pond close by, providing far more sustenance than you’d grown used to surviving on. You figured it was as good of a place as any to try and sort out your next move. You hadn’t put much thought into what you’d do once you escaped, after all. You found yourself feeling… lost. After charging ahead with your focus locked on a single goal for so damn long… you didn’t know what to do with yourself now that you’d achieved it.

You weren’t lost for long though. The nosy stranger that found you on the beach proved to be the next target of your focus. Your peaceful existence in this cottage overlooking the sea didn’t last long before you found yourself in their unwanted company once again. They might’ve thought they were subtle, hiding amongst the treetops and watching you quietly.

They weren't. You could sense them. Hell, even if it weren’t for the strange aura they emanated, you could smell them. They carried a strong scent of fermentation with them, and you could easily pick up on the pungent smell in the wind.

On the third day of your silent standoff, you grew fed up with this stranger’s odd behavior. You only knew one way of settling things, and that was face-to-face, not through some weird game of observation. You cleared your throat, preparing your underused voice and searching for your words. Tilting your head back to look at the trespasser, you snarl at their relaxed stance, laid back across a branch like they’re asleep.

“Come down.” You bark the command up into the trees.

The stranger doesn’t comply, but they do acknowledge you, opening their eyes and turning their head to look down at you. “So you can speak!”

You’re in no mood to entertain their conversation, certainly not before making sense of their intentions. “Come. Down.” You repeat, voice flat and serious.

“Are you gonna throw sand in my eyes again?” Light and playful, they question you.

You huff. “No.” Not without good reason, at least, you think to yourself but fail to vocalize.

They hum in thought for a moment before going quiet again. You let the seconds pass, growing more irritable with each one. Just as you’re about to call them down once again, they roll to the side, willingly falling from the branch they’d been laying on. Your muscles twitch and lock for a moment as you stop yourself from… from… from what? What were you going to do, run and try to catch them? Why would you do that? They’ve done nothing for you.

Your lack of action proves itself inconsequential as the stranger falls at a remarkably slow speed. It’s less of a fall and more of a… decent, you suppose, seeming to effortlessly defy gravity. Righting themself midair to land on their feet, they pull their cape forward on their shoulders, beginning to approach you.

You plant your hands firmly on the stone at your sides, readying yourself for anything.

“While that wasn’t the most convincing answer, I suppose I can extend a bit of trust to you. I sure hope you don’t make me regret it though!” They come far closer to you than anyone with a sense of self-preservation ought to. They hold a hand out between you, and you stare at it, waiting for something to happen. “I’m Venti, a bard from the city.”

Finally getting your first proper look at them up close, you’re struck with the strangest sense of recognition. You couldn’t pinpoint it to save your life, but… something about this person feels… familiar. Distant, hazy, and inexplicable, but it’s there nonetheless.

You don’t like it.

When you make no move to do… whatever they seem to want you to do with their hand, they drop it, and you flinch at the sudden motion. Frowning, they question you. “Might I ask for your name in exchange, my dear trespasser? We can hardly get to know one another without exchanging some basic information.”

Your brows pinch in frustration at the stranger's many words. They say a lot, and they say it fast. It’s been… you can’t recall how long it’s been since you last held such conversation. One word stands out to you, though. “Trespasser? Me?”

He nods. “Well, technically, yes! I don’t know much about you yet but I do know that this isn’t your house.”

“How?” You question, eyes narrowing, watching as they stupidly step even closer.

“How do I know that this isn’t yours?” They question you in return.

You nod, claws sharpening, palms itching with pent-up Geo energy crackling beneath your skin.

“Because it’s mine, silly!” They laugh, reaching out toward you.

Your instincts take over as the stranger moves to grab you, and you force your hands into the stone beneath you. Releasing the Geo energy you’d been holding onto, you use the repelling force to launch yourself up off the stairs and at the fool standing before you.

You don’t make contact with them though, stumbling forward into what suddenly becomes thin air and tripping over nothing, sending yourself straight to the ground. Righting yourself before you can even register the impact, your claws tear through the dirt and grass as you turn back to face your opponent on all fours.

You freeze at the sight of them, casually propped against the railing of the stairs, clearly not poised to fight. With no weapon in their hands, and refusing to take on any sort of combative stance, you find yourself locked in a one-sided stand-off.

Not taking their eyes off you, the stranger pats the banister they’re leaning against. “I wasn’t reaching out for you, friend.” As you process their words and the seconds turn into a minute, they make no move to attack you, so you slowly let your guard down. Just slightly. Bending at the knees, you settle in a deep squat on the ground.

When the stranger seems confident enough that you aren’t about to throw yourself at them again, they allow their attention to leave you and fall to the step where you’d just sat. Following their gaze, you notice two handprints now carved into the stone, the very edge of the stair chipped away in places where your claws had caught on it.

You ready yourself for an attack, as this stranger surely won’t take kindly to destruction of, apparently, their property. But they make no move to do any such thing. They simply look back up at you with a knowing smile.

“You take after Morax, I see.”

Up those stairs in that little back bedroom, is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar.

Smiling and shaking your head at the memory, you make your way into the small home. It’s rather bare, even more so than it had been when you first found the place. The two of you had taken all of your personal possessions with you into the teapot, leaving nothing but the basic furniture behind. After all, you had far better options awaiting you through Tubby’s sub-space creation.

Seeing the cottage in its original state, it once again becomes clear to you just how little Venti had customized the place prior to you moving in. He didn’t, and still doesn’t have much to his name, truly living the life of the wandering bard he identifies as. Most of what he does have he keeps on his person, whether that be in the physical sense, or dematerialized and stored away.

The cottage turned into a bit less of a shelter and more of a home over the many months you spent there with him. You stocked the little kitchen with far more than just his assortment of fruits, and an array of objects you collected from your outings lined the shelves. Looking back now, with a bit more insight on your own mental and emotional states, you venture a guess as to your behavior. You were likely hoarding whatever you found as a means of making up for how long you spent having nothing.

Venti never shamed you for it, even though he likely understood the behavior from the beginning. He was incredibly empathetic, and kinder than you felt you deserved, even once parts of your past became known to him. It took some time, given your struggle to keep up with his words, and the bigger struggle of finding your own. You managed to get it across to him eventually though, and he’d been benevolent enough to take you in.

-

You come to a stop in the bedroom doorway, surveying the place through the lens of the past.

You remember countless hours spent at the small desk in the corner, hunched over paper with text on it that you couldn’t decipher. Venti stood beside you, one hand on your shoulder, patiently teaching you how to make sense of the symbols you saw.

You remember less stressful hours spent sitting on the floor, curiously plucking at the strings of the bard’s various instruments with your claws. He’d sit on the bed watching you, naming the notes and teaching you how to turn your discordant noise into beautiful music. You were never as good as he was though, and you really didn’t mind. You preferred to listen to him playing, anyway. The bard possessed a beautiful voice, and the soft songs he’d sing to you in the dark of night never failed to put your tormented mind at ease.

Staring at your designated spot on the floor, you laugh at the memory of countless nights spent refusing his invitations. He’d offered his bed to you from the beginning, insisting that you deserved it more than he did. Besides, he said, he was used to sleeping in trees and fields, on barstools and street corners. He claimed he wouldn’t miss the bed at all.

You wouldn’t hear of it. Vehemently denying any offers, you stubbornly slept- atop as many blankets and pillows as you’d allow him to give you- on the floor by his bed like the dog you were. He wasn’t the only one used to sleeping in uncomfortable places, and you weren’t about to lose your edge by getting too comfortable too soon.

You think of the way you woke up this morning, wrapped in soft, warm blankets on a wide, plush mattress, face nuzzled into his neck, arms around his waist.

You’ve both come a long way.

You hear the familiar sound of distant hilichurlian chanting, and make your move to leave, bidding your old bedroom a quiet farewell once again.

Slipping out of the cottage and rounding the side of the building in a few long strides, you narrowly manage to evade their notice. Peeking around the corner, you watch them return to their prior posts. The Anemo Samachurl diligently paces between the trees, its Geo companion keeping watch from the stairs.

You smile, and turn to make your silent departure.

-

Checking in on your old home had been a successful distraction from the thoughts you’re trying to avoid, but you couldn’t linger there forever. Still, feeling unprepared to return to the teapot and try to put on a brave face for Venti, you find yourself wandering. With no particular destination in mind, you let your feet take you where they may.

You try to think of nothing at all for a while, failing over and over again as your mind searches for something to latch onto. Apparently counting your steps wasn’t entertaining enough for it.

After a while of failing to meditate on your walk, you find yourself leaving grass and stepping onto a dirt path. Looking up and around, you realize you’ve made your way to the road leading to the Thousand Winds Temple.

Turning and looking south, you can see the massive tree at Windrise, off in the distance. Far, far, beyond that, bringing your eyes to the horizon, you can see the snowy peaks of Dragonspine beyond the tall cliff of Galesong Hill. You sigh.

And I bet you didn't know, under that live oak, my favorite dog is buried in the yard.

A few months after arriving in Mondstadt and settling in with Venti, you found yourself exploring the icy riverbank that borders Dragonspine. The stubborn bard, wrapped in the thickest cloak he owned, trudged along behind you.

You’d told him he didn’t have to join you that day, but the thought of you exploring unfamiliar territory without him apparently just didn’t sit right. So, in spite of his occasional grumbles over the increasing cold, he never left your side.

The area was predictably desolate, save for a few Cryo Hilichurl archers lounging on the icy banks like they were on summer vacation. You weren’t looking for a fight that day though, just to explore, so you avoided drawing their attention given the divine company you were in.

Later on, as you were focusing hard on what Pyro energy you could summon in an attempt to melt the ice encasing a chest, you found something far more valuable. Venti saw it first, having been eyeing the surroundings while you were focused on the task at hand. Calling your name, he summoned your attention with ease.

Turning to look at him, your gaze followed his pointed finger and landed on a dog, slowly making its way toward you.

The animal was fairly large, but certainly far from threatening given the state it was in. As it drew closer, Venti lowered himself to his knees in the cold wet grass, suddenly forgoing his prior reluctance to endure the elements. You smiled. It seemed like he’d learned a thing or two from you about dealing with fearful dogs.

You followed suit, crouching down beside him and getting on the dog's level. The shivering animal hesitated, coming to a stop about fifteen feet away. Materializing some fresh meat you’d caught on the journey there, you quietly held it out toward the dog.

It sniffed the air, but refused to move.

Tearing a chunk off, you gently tossed it in the dog’s direction, and it landed a few feet in front of it. Sniffing harder, the animal carefully approached the offering, sticking its head out as far as it could to reach the food and avoid coming closer.

The two of you spent the better part of an hour luring the dog toward you, slowly but surely winning it over with continued offerings of fresh meat.

Upon closer inspection, you were honestly shocked that it was still standing. Skin stretched tight across its ribcage, hip bones two sharp peaks, spine a long mountain range down its back… the thing was clearly starving. You weren’t sure if it was the stress of a difficult life, a sign of old age, or both, but what you assumed had once been black fur was almost white from graying, particularly in its face. It trembled incessantly, and as soon as it came close enough and didn’t seem apt to bolt, Venti untied his cape and wrapped it around the dog, who shockingly didn’t fight it.

Maybe Venti had been serious when he claimed he could talk to animals.

You fed it more bites of meat as the two of you quietly discussed the best way to get it home. Blessedly, once the dog realized that neither of you held malicious intentions, it switched gears surprisingly fast. More than just tolerating your presence, the dog actually began to cling to you, frantically whining when you both stood up, fearful that you’d be leaving it behind.

Abandoning your half-melted treasure, you knew it was time to leave. You were quite a ways from home and you weren’t about to try teleporting the dog in its current state. So instead, you carefully picked her up, frowning at how little she weighed. Venti took the remaining meat and distracted the nervous dog with more offerings of food as you began your long, slow journey home.

“Don’t- don’t feed her too fast. I know she’s hungry but I don’t want to make her sick.”

Venti nodded, tearing off smaller bites. “I remember.” He cryptically confirmed.

You adjusted the dog in your hold, pulling Venti’s cape up around her neck. “…Remember what?”

He suppressed a shiver, but you still noticed. “You ate yourself sick on fruit and raw meat the first night you spent here.”

Your head turned quickly, staring down at him. “You were watching? Even then?”

He nodded, expression solemn. “I followed you home, you know? It just took a few days for you to notice that I was there.”

You walked in thoughtful silence for a while after that, wondering if your scattered senses had failed you, or if he was actually better at hiding his aura than you thought.

-

The dog lived with the both of you in your little cottage for a few good months. She gradually put on weight, and some life returned to her alongside it. She still moved slowly, though, and you feared she was in pain.

By that point, you’d befriended a timid alchemist with mint-green hair, and sought her assistance. She’d kindly offered you a medicine of her own creation, advising that the dog seemed rather old, and likely suffered from joint pain. You offered her payment in Mora, which she politely refused. You eventually got her to accept a small assortment of bones you’d gathered in exchange, correctly surmising that the offer would be too tempting for her to refuse.

Sucrose’s medicine seemed to help, because the dog moved with noticeably more ease once you began giving it to her. She was far from spry, but she seemed comfortable, so you were content. She was also content, in the precious, innocent way that only a dog can be. Just happy to be alive, happy to be fed, happy to be safe. Happy to be near someone that loves them, and happy to be near someone they love.

“Adagio.” Venti had once said, gently raking his nails through her fur on a warm, sleepy afternoon.

“What’s that?’ It was far from the first time he’d said a word you didn’t know.

“In musical terms, it means played slowly… I think it would be a nice name for her.”

You considered it for a moment, and found it rather fitting, nodding in agreement with a smile. “I like that.”

Adagio spent her days laying in the shade near the cliff’s edge, watching the waves lap at the small shore below. Looking back, you can thank her for teaching Venti that you can survive a half a day on your own. She could hardly chase you all over Mondstadt, or weave her way after Venti through the busy city streets, so when one of you needed to go out for something, the other would stay home with her. One of the two of you were always there, and she never knew the pain of being alone again.

She spent her nights curled between the two of you. She couldn’t make the jump up onto the bed, and you were still stubbornly sleeping on the floor, so Venti made the executive decision to heave the mattress onto the floor as well. As silly of a sight as it may have been to an outsider, the three of you were comfortable, curled together amidst blankets and pillows on the too-small mattress, bed frame abandoned on the other side of the room.

Nothing lasts forever though, and it seemed to you that the best of things were always the quickest to go.

As months passed, her movements went from slow to slower, and she started struggling with more things. She could no longer steady herself to make it up and down the three stairs to your home, so one of you carried her every time. She slept more and moved less, and her love of food began to wane.

This wasn’t your first experience with something like this. Though it had been an awfully long time since you lived through it last, you still knew what was coming.

That didn’t make it hurt any less, though. Not at all.

Both of you sat awake with her through the final night, keeping her comfortable and telling her how much you loved her. You’d never hoped harder that Venti’s communicative abilities held true.

You kept it together until she released her final breath, and when you knew she was gone, you allowed yourself to fall apart.

Up until then, your walls had been an impenetrable fortress. No emotion escaped unless you allowed it. Venti had never seen you cry.

So when your pain escaped you this time, falling in heavy golden tears and landing in her gray fur, he could only stare. He knew this wasn’t his moment to intrude on, so he didn’t. He didn’t rush to wrap you in an embrace, nor did he try to offer any hollow words of comfort. This was pain. This was loss. He was intimately familiar with it, and he knew it had to be felt.

There isn’t a single detail of that night that you don’t recall, and the teal tears that fell next to your golden ones are no exception.

That was the first time you saw him cry, too.

-

The evening breeze cools the hot golden tracks running down your cheeks. You watch tears fall onto the dirt path beneath you, and then you close your eyes.

-

You both sat there with what remained of her until the morning sun slipped in through the window. You were surprised when Venti broke the silence, offering to bury Adagio beneath the Windrise tree.

You spoke through a voice thick and strained from your cries. “That’s… that’s a really special place.”

He nodded. “She was a really special dog.”

You wiped the fresh tears from your eyes before they could fall, turning to face him.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He put his hand out, laying it next to Adagio on the mattress. “Unless you’d prefer elsewhere?”

You knew what to do this time. Reaching out and laying your hand in his, you shook your head slowly. “No. I think Windrise would be perfect.”

-

Opening your eyes, you raise your head to glance once more at the massive tree across the sprawling field. Bidding Adagio another quiet goodbye, you pull in a shaky breath, and turn, heading north.

Walking in silence for a while, you try to let your emotions settle. The tears you just shed seemed to help a little, but the knot in your stomach won’t leave you.

You follow the road a little while longer, but when you find yourself nearing the temple, you take a detour and head west, off the beaten path. You aren’t keen on running into whatever random explorers might be camping there this evening. Besides, the scent of cecilias is on the breeze, and you’d rather follow that instead.

Making your way up the uneven terrain that comprises the base of Starsnatch Cliff, your mind returns to its ruminations over what brought you here today in the first place.

You leave home, you move on, and you do the best you can.

The reason for your reluctance to leave Mondstadt became abundantly clear on the day you finally set out for the neighboring nation. As you left Dawn Winery behind and crossed the border, headed for Stone Gate, it sank in quickly.

Venti wasn’t beside you.

Up until that point, he’d been the literal wind at your back every step of the way. Every commission you completed, every request you fulfilled, every inch of land you explored, he was right behind you. Or beside you, or above you, or in front of you…

Regardless, he was there. Answering your questions, telling you stories, helping you make sense of the unfamiliar. Whether it be words you couldn’t yet read, customs you didn’t yet understand, or emotions you couldn’t yet identify, he was your guide through it all. The Stormterror crisis came and went, as did the… incident with Signora, and the two of you grew ever closer as a result of it all. You could fill a book with the stories of what you two went through in the mere year you spent in this nation. But, as you sat together beneath the Windrise tree one evening discussing it all, it slowly grew clear that it was coming time to move on. As if the notion alone wasn’t stressful enough already, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that it was a journey you must undertake alone.

So, you did. You’d packed your things, said your temporary goodbyes, and set off on your own without so much as once giving in to the urge to ask him to come along. The goodbyes were, after all, only temporary. You hoped. If you made it through whatever awaited you in Liyue alive, you always planned on returning home.

And you did. Many times.

You, scared as you’d been, made it through the lively adventure that was your initial trip to Liyue, and you’d come out much stronger for it. You found a confidence that you’d forgotten you possessed, forced to show itself once there was no travel companion for you to rely on.

Quite early in your journey, you gathered that you weren’t completely alone anyhow. Sure, in your day-to-day there was no talkative bard trailing behind you, and the nights proved themselves awfully lonely indeed. But Venti’s parting words, “may the wind protect you”, proved themselves surprisingly literal as you took note of one particular Yaksha. After a few nights at Wangshu Inn, and a few bowls of almond tofu shared in relative silence, the man had made himself into your shadow shockingly fast. He never seemed to be around when your gaze searched for him in a crowd, but was always conveniently there the moment you ran into trouble.

Still, in spite of his protection, not to mention your growing, innate connection with the God of your favored element, you longed for home. You longed for your home. You longed for your God.

I got lost in this whole world, and forgot who I am.

So, once the dust, or, well, waves had settled and Rex Lapis had been “officially” laid to rest, you found yourself headed northeast.

In spite of how proud you’d been for making it on your own, all of that crumbled the evening you first crossed back into Mondstadt. You could've used any of the waypoints you’d resonated with, could’ve gone right back home to the cliff overlooking Falcon Coast. But something about that just didn’t feel right. Not for your first return.

Walking the path back toward Dawn Winery, you tried to keep your composure. You tried to not get irrationally emotional over the familiar sight of Anemo crystalflies fluttering over the grape vines. You ignored the warmth in your chest at the sight of soft yellow candlelight illuminating the cottage windows along your path.

Your weakening grip on your emotions completely failed though when you caught sight of a small, green-clad bard, legs dangling from the edge of a rooftop, plucking at his lyre.

You burst into tears on the spot, folding in on yourself and crumpling to the dirt beneath you.

He dropped the nonchalant act instantly, dematerializing from his perch on the rooftop and reappearing beside you in a small, warm burst of Anemo energy that you didn’t see through your tears, but definitely felt. He’d questioned you frantically, worried you were hurt, not understanding what was wrong. Eventually, largely thanks to his embrace, the sobs wracking your form eased enough to assure him that you were fine.

You’d just missed him, was all.

The array of conflicting emotions that flashed in his eyes at the admission would've intrigued you, had you not been so absorbed in your own at the time.

In spite of how badly you craved his company, you’d already proved to yourself that you could travel on your own. So, you continued to. After an extended stay in Mondstadt to recover from your first eventful excursion, you began traveling between the two nations more regularly. Having resonated with most of the waypoints and Statues of the Seven in Liyue as well, it was easy to hop over for the day and still come home to Venti at night.

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing.

Such was your routine until Madam Ping had introduced you to her Teapots. Adeptal magic was quite the wonder, capable of impressive feats, and the new home offered to you was no exception. When you learned that not only could you live in it, but you could invite others in as well, you were over the moon. You were, of course, reluctant to bid a more permanent farewell to the little house overlooking the sea that you’d grown so familiar with. But when faced with something as convenient and extravagant as the teapot, you could hardly turn it down.

Venti had been more than interested in your offer when you brought the thing home and showed it to him. After bestowing a permanent invitation upon him, he took a liking to the space quite quickly, happy to help make yourselves a new home. Having already been informed of your penchant for Mondstadt, Tubby had crafted a world for you that resembled the land of freedom’s sprawling hills, cliffs, and beaches to an impressive degree. Your new home was far grander than your old one, but with a little time and personalization with what you both brought from the cottage, it really did start to feel like home.

It was… nice, having a safe place to return to every night, regardless of where you were or what you may be caught up in. It was even nicer that Venti seemed to quite enjoy spending time there as well. There’d scarcely been an evening where both of you hadn’t wound up in the teapot together, sharing stories of your respective days over dinner.

Things carried on like that for the remainder of your time in Liyue. You spent more and more time in the land of contracts, and less and less in Mondstadt as a result. Sometimes you’d have reason to return, and somehow you’d almost always run into Venti while you were there. Time spent with him in the teapot was no less real, but it always felt… special, when the two of you were together in Mondstadt again.

Out here, it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself.

Still, just as it had been with Mondstadt, you couldn’t linger in Liyue forever. You’d built a reputation for yourself there to match your standing in Mondstadt, making a slew of new connections, exploring, finding answers and more questions alike. It was time to move on. Inazuma loomed far, far off on the southern horizon, and it was up to you to make the first step to reach it.

You didn’t want to.

You stood on the docks, looking out at Guyun Stone Forest, and at Beidou’s ship anchored nearby.

You found yourself feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long while. You felt the same as you had when standing atop the celestial nail, only this time it was somehow worse. It scared you. Yes, the prospect of setting off effectively alone to yet another unfamiliar nation, but more than that. It scared you because you thought you’d grown past this. You thought you could handle this. You thought… you thought you’d outgrown this immature sense of homesickness.

You were wrong.

If I could walk around, I swear I'll leave.

That’s how you found yourself here, ambling through the wilds of Mondstadt. You really, really don’t want to leave. But you know that you have to.

You think of the stories you’ve heard in Liyue, of the terrible war raging in the island nation to the south.

You release a shaky breath into the cooling air.

You pray that you’ll make it back alive.

Won't take nothin' but a memory, from the house that built me.

Following the cecilias as their trail grows thicker, you weave your way up to the peak of the massive cliff.

You’re only slightly surprised to see a small figure, dressed in a very familiar shade of green, sitting with their back to you at the very edge.

Tension you didn’t notice you were holding melts from your shoulders at the sight of him.

You do your best to push aside the emotional storm you’ve been caught up in, and you call out to him, playful. “Fancy seeing you here!”

He twists at the waist to face you, following your movement as you approach. “I could say the same, love. What brings you here?”

You laugh softly as you come to a halt beside him. “Well, I could ask the same of you.” You carefully lower yourself to the ground, letting your legs dangle off the cliff beside his. “Figured you’d either still be at the tavern, or were already home wondering where I was.”

He smiles at you, soft, before looking away. “I was at the tavern most of the day, like I planned this morning. But… something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t really… giving it my all, and I think the patrons could tell.”

You frown. “What didn’t feel right? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Windblume. I’m just fine.”

You aren’t convinced. “Then, uh… do you feel like sharing what isn’t fine?”

His gaze drops to the dark sea below. “I think you know what it is, actually.”

Cryptic as ever, you take a moment to ponder what he might mean. He takes the silence as an opportunity to elaborate. “I never really wonder where you are, you know?”

You glance at him, bemused for a moment before growing serious. “Oh, what, were you- like- watching me today? How… Wait, how long have you been up here, actually?”

He doesn’t look at you, but he shakes his head. “I don’t have to be watching you to know where you are, dear.” The wind tousles your hair. “I’m already everywhere. All the time. If the wind can reach you, I’m there.”

“...Oh. Right.” You let your own gaze fall to the sea. “Maybe I let myself forget sometimes, just how… literal that is.”

You remember the warm sea breeze from this afternoon, the brief gust that cooled your tear-stained cheeks early this evening, and the wind that brought the scent of cecilias down toward you.

“...So you could tell that I was here today.”

“Yeah.” He confirms quietly. “There was something… discordant, blowing in from Falcon Coast this afternoon. It didn’t take long for me to identify you.”

Guilt blooms within you. “Is that when you left the tavern?”

“No, I didn’t head out immediately. I mean- I can hardly turn off my omniscience, but I do still try to give you privacy in spite of it. I figured if you needed me, or… wanted me, you would call out.”

The way he says “wanted” makes your frown deepen.

“But, when the tone of the air only continued to sour as time passed, I did eventually give in to my concern.”

You pluck at the grass beneath you to busy your hands. “I’m sorry for distracting you. I really didn’t mean to, I just…”

He turns to you, cutting you off. “Please don’t say that. I couldn’t care less about losing out on a few mora at the tavern. I care about the fact that you’re out here, crying to yourself, all alone.”

A familiar tension makes itself at home again in your throat. “I…”

You trail off, lost for words. Venti makes up for it though, seeming to suddenly have quite a bit to get off of his own chest. “I can sense the difference between someone who wants to cry on their own, and someone who’s crying because they’re on their own.” His pained voice nearly cracks. “I never thought I���d feel the latter coming from you. But I’ve felt it more than once now, and… I don’t know what to do.”

At his confession, honesty slips out of you, and you can’t hold back the tears that come with it. “I miss you.” You turn to face him, and then look past, gesturing weakly out to the sprawling land of freedom behind you. “I miss this! I miss home! I miss you!” Voice breaking, you choke on your tears and lean into him, crumpling pathetically down onto his lap and curling yourself around him like the needy animal that you are.

His hands settle on you, one on your back and another reaching for your legs, pulling you against him so you don’t slip off the edge. His winds would cradle you if you fell, but he’d rather prevent the problem before it can happen. His own voice is tight with emotion when he speaks. “You have me, love. You- you hold me every night, I bid you goodbye every morning, you can visit Mondstadt whenever you please!”

You shake your head vehemently in his lap, crying harder.

“I’m sorry, love- I- I really don’t understand. In what way do you not have me?”

You practically shout your answer into the fabric of your sleeves, turning your head just enough to pointlessly attempt to wipe your face. “When I leave! I have to leave! I have to leave, and leave you behind, and you aren’t with me, and I’m alone again every time I go!”

One of his hands comes up to carefully comb the damp hair from your face, the black tips now wet with shimmering gold. “When you leave Mondstadt? Like… like when you go to Liyue?”

You nod, almost hyperventilating as your fears spill from you. “I should've never gone there alone! I wanted to ask you, I wanted you to come with me so badly but something told me that I shouldn't ask, that I should go alone, and so I went and I was so fucking scared but- but- but I was fine- I was fine- I made it back alive and so what if I cried every night because I missed you? I had a fucking nation to save it’s not like I could come home crying to you about it! And- and I mean Xiao was there but I- I- I can fight I can hold my own I don’t need protection I need a friend! I need company! I need you! I- I knew I’d be fine but fuck I felt so alone and I missed you, I missed you, I missed Venti, I missed Barbatos, I missed you SO MUCH-” You suddenly heave for air in the middle of your spiel, breathing in too hard and choking on your own spit. Feeling about as vulnerable and pathetic as you’ve ever been, you give in to the misery, grasping for purchase at any part of him you can reach. Your claws dig into the thin fabric of his tights in a way you know you’ll be frantically apologizing for later, but in this moment you can’t bring yourself to stop. You can't bring yourself to do anything but cry, and cry, and cry.

He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, the only sound he makes instead being a quiet, gentle hush, over and over, focused on calming you down. The cool hand that finds its way beneath your hair and settles on the back of your hot neck feels like heaven, and for a moment you cry harder at the relief. His other hand pets across the broad expanse of your back in slow, rhythmic, sweeping motions.

When your cries have quieted enough for you to focus on his words, he says something that surprises you.

“I’d have gone, if you’d have asked me.”

You hiccup a question. “Wh-what?”

“To Liyue. I would have been more than happy to go with you, if you’d have only asked.” His lithe fingers gently massage at the tension in your neck.

You twist in his hold just enough to look up at him. “Seriously?”

He gives you a weak smile, but it’s more sad than anything. “Of course. The only reason I didn’t invite myself along was because I wanted you to have the freedom to choose. I figured… if I offered to go with you, you might feel obligated to bring me with you.”

You laugh, but there's no humor in it. “This whole time… this whole time I really thought that you didn’t want to go.”

He’s visibly pained by the thought. “Why in the world wouldn’t I?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know… I just figured you had your reasons. It is another nation after all, and I’m still… not too sure how Archons feel about crossing into one another’s territory.” You clear your throat and scrub at your eyes and cheeks with a fist. “Figured maybe you didn’t want to run into Morax or something…”

He laughs, and there’s a bit of life in it this time. “Even the prospect of running into that old block-head wouldn’t be enough to stop me from accompanying you.” He takes your hand in his, stopping your aggressive assault on your messy face. “And while certain Archons might be… less than enthralled to see me again, just because I’m with you doesn’t mean I have to be recognized.”

Your brow furrows. “Venti and Barbatos don’t look all that different…”

He smiles down at you good-naturedly. “True. But I could take another form if it came down to it. Something unrecognizable to even them. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s how to hide in plain sight and not be found.”

In spite of the tears still staining your cheeks, you give a small smile to your absentee God. “You’d really go to such lengths? For me?”

He gives you a confident nod. “For you and you only, love.”

His hand continues its gentle ministrations across your back, and your muscles gradually relax. You run a hand along the fabric of his tights, waiting for your breaths to come steady. As your senses slowly return to you, your fingertips brush across a few small tears in the material, and you cringe. Venti notices as much, and reassures you. “Hey- It’s alright. Don’t worry about that.”

His words are too late to stop you from raising your head enough to observe the damage, your hand gently cupping his thigh. “I didn’t scratch you… did I?”

“Nope! Just caught the fabric is all.” You aren’t inclined to believe him, given that with his abilities he could’ve healed any minor wounds before you even knew they were there.

You huff, dropping your head to his lap once more. “I’m still very sorry. I’ll buy you-”

“That won’t be necessary-” He tries to cut you off, but your insistence overpowers his own.

“I am buying you a new pair.”

He sighs in reluctant acceptance, knowing better than to challenge you. “Alright, alright. If you insist.”

You lay there for a moment, idly kneading at his thigh and letting the soft sounds of the evening wildlife fill the silence. Still, you struggle to wrap your head around the recent revelation. “You’d really be willing to leave this place?”

He laughs beneath his breath at your disbelief. “I mean, not permanently. If you’ve hatched some plan to move to Snezhnaya that I don’t know about, then I might have to disappoint you…”

You relax further at the familiar, playful edge that returns to his voice. “Nah, nah, nothing like that… just- on my journey away and back. Not- not even every time! Just… sometimes. It… really would’ve been nice to have you by my side the first time, actually, but I know it’s too late for that now. I just… wouldn't have felt so lost.”

His smile fades a bit at the confirmation of a long-held suspicion. You had been missing him as badly as he’d missed you.

You catch the shift in his demeanor, no matter how slight. “...I’m making you sad…”

One of his hands finds yours. “Only at the realization of how oblivious I’ve been.” He laughs, humorless. “All those nights I couldn’t sense you in the wind, all the time I spent wondering if you were okay… you weren’t. You were holed up somewhere, crying, alone, afraid…”

His eyes pinch closed and you squeeze his hand. “It’s not on you. I should’ve been more honest with you before I left.”

He huffs, and then he’s quiet for a moment, thinking. It’s times like these in which you wish you could read him as well as he can read you. “...I could say the same.”

You stare up at him for a moment in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He holds your gaze for a moment and opens his mouth to speak, but seems to think better of whatever he had to say. His focus shifts from you and out to the sea. “...Like I said, I would’ve been happy to follow you. I never should’ve let you grow to believe otherwise.”

You pout just slightly at the less-than-complete sounding answer, but another question overrides your focus. “Is Liyue… the limit?”

The hesitation in your voice gives him pause. “What do you mean?”

“Is Liyue, like, as far as you’re willing to go.”

His eyes brighten in understanding, and you’d collapse from relief at the shake of his head if you weren’t already on the ground.

“Oh! No, not at all. I really meant it when I said I’d risk running into the other Archons for you.”

You release his hand and reach up to pinch the fat of your cheeks between your claws. He pouts, reaching down to stop you. “What’s that for?”

“I’m afraid I’m dreaming or something…”

He laughs properly, a beautiful sound. You crane your neck up to glance southward. The wall of storms barricading Inazuma are still there, an awful sight. You drop your head back to his lap with a heavy sigh.

He pats you gently on the cheek. “You’re wide awake, I assure you.”

Reaching up, you gently bat at the braids that hang at the sides of his face, chewing on your lower lip. He reads you like a book. “I think we’ve learned something this evening, dear.”

“What’s that?”

He catches your hand mid-air, splaying his fingers out and lacing them between yours. “It’s that when we have something to ask of one another, we should do it.”

The corner of your mouth turns up, and you meet his gaze. “Is that your fancy way of telling me to spit it out?”

He giggles. “Maybe.”

You sigh, letting your gaze drift away from him and up to the stars far, far above. “Would you be so kind… as to accompany this scared old dog all the way to Inazuma?”

You close your eyes, waiting for a “no.”

It never comes. Instead, he squeezes your hand in his, and you’re shocked to hear relief in his tone when he answers you. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Your eyes flicker open, unsure. “Is… is that a yes?”

He nods vehemently. “It is.”

The tears that spring to your eyes catch you by surprise. He wipes them away with his thumb as they fall. Sniffling, you question him again. “There’s- There’s a whole war going on over there right now, you know?”

The blue in his braids brightens, and in the dark of the early night, you notice the same turquoise light begin to shine from his chest, beneath the thin fabric of his white shirt. “I’m no stranger to war.”

You reach up, tracing a gentle finger across where you know one of his Archon marks to be. “...That you aren’t.”

His thumb swipes across the black star at the base of your neck, half hidden by your collar. “...Guess that makes two of us, huh.”

It’s a rhetorical question, but you hum in confirmation nonetheless. Rising from your spot on his lap, you wiggle your way around until you’re seated beside him properly again. Reaching an arm out, you wrap it around his shoulders, and he leans into you. Both of you stare out across the sea, watching the lightning flash in the storm to the south.

“I don’t even know what I’m gonna be able to do to help.” You sigh. “But I know I have to go.”

One of his hands finds yours again. “Whatever may come, I consider it an honor to fight alongside you.”

You bark a laugh, shaking your head at the notion. “Hey now, I just asked you to come with me, I never said anything about putting you in the line of fire.”

He smiles. “I know, I know, but still… if it comes down to it-”

“If it comes down to that, I’m hauling you over my shoulder and taking us both home.” You cut him off in a no-nonsense tone.

Your seriousness doesn’t cause his mirth to falter. “I fear I’m gonna be the one dragging you home if we run into Signora while we’re there.”

A low growl reverberates from your chest at the mere mention of her. “We’ve still got a score to settle.”

He pats you on the thigh placatingly, humor in his words. “Darling, how many times must I reassure you? I let her take it from me.”

“Still, she didn’t have to be so fucking rough about it. I’m not after the gnosis. She made this personal.” You snarl.

His soft laughter subsides as he shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.

The two of you watch the lightning show for a short while, before you grow tired of the dreadful sight and opt to focus on something better. Unwrapping your arm from the God at your side, you stifle a laugh as he voices his sudden startled displeasure. You apologize as you reposition yourselves, moving away from the edge a bit and turning the both of you around. “Sorry about that, didn’t realize you’d almost fallen asleep on me.”

He pouts. “Can you blame me? You’re warm, and it’s been a stressful day… and speaking of-”

You nod. “I know. We should be getting home soon. But- look.” You point at the beautiful sight of Mondstadt City, lit up for the night, a beacon of hope and freedom standing strong in the distance. “Isn’t that a sight worth sticking around a little longer for?”

He sighs in content as you pull him against you once more. You can’t feel the swell of pride in his chest at the sight, but you can hear it in his voice. “It sure is.”

Lifting his hat from his head and placing it in his lap, you comb your fingers through his hair, finding your own satisfaction in the way he melts against you. The two of you admire the city for a long few minutes, and a thought occurs. “As much as I want you beside me… I feel bad taking you from your people.”

He shakes his head and the motion tickles as his hair brushes against your chin. “They don’t need me, love. At least, not in the day-to-day sense.” He huffs. “Honestly, I think the most prominent place that my presence will be missed is the tavern, and that’s of little consequence in the grand scheme.”

You know he’s right, but the guilt still nags at you. “I guess…”

He leans away just enough to turn and look you in the eye. “You are one of my people too, you know?”

You hold his gaze, considering it. Have you really been here long enough, or made a big enough impact on the region to be bestowed with such an honorary title? “...I suppose I do.”

He reaches up and cups your cheek, eyes pleading. “Then let me be there for you.”

You breathe a sigh of acceptance. “...Okay.” You turn your head and plant a quick kiss against his palm before he can pull away.

He lets his hand drop, but doesn’t turn away. “I’m really sorry that you’ve been carrying all of this pain with you for so long. I should have questioned you on it sooner.”

You pick his hand up from his lap, taking it in yours. “It’s not your fault. At least, certainly not anymore than it is mine. I should've just asked you to come, the worst thing you could’ve said was no.”

“I still hate that you even thought I might’ve said no. I… should have made my willingness clearer.”

“Nah, I mean, after a year of following me around Mondstadt I think you were quite clear. I’m just… dense.” You summon a few tiny Geo shards in your palm before allowing them to crumble into a shimmering pile of dust. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

Venti scoffs. “Well if you’re dense, then I’m diffuse.” A tiny gust of Anemo swoops in and lifts the dust from your outstretched palm, scattering it to the wind.

You watch your two energies mix and dissolve into the night air. “I guess they do say that opposites attract.”

He hums. “That they do, love.”

You expect him to turn back toward the city, and he almost does, but then he hesitates, and calls you by name. “I want you to remember something.”

Your interest piques, brows raising above tired, lidded eyes. “And what’s that?”

His tone is serious. “You are not alone. Ever. Not if you don’t want to be. I don’t want you hesitating to call on me ever again. If you need me, if you want me, I’m there. No exceptions.” Maybe it’s the day’s exhaustion catching up with you, but the light in his eyes feels like a beacon, guiding you home. “You don’t ever have to be alone again. Remember this, please.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, and it’s in this moment that you realize the knot in your stomach has loosened. It isn’t gone, but it’s hardly noticeable anymore, and you finally breathe easy. You hold his gaze for a moment before nodding, serious. “I will.”

He brings his hand up, holding his pinky out toward you. “Promise?”

You smile, reaching out and wrapping yours around his. “Promise.”

He exhales, satisfied. “You wanna stay out here a bit longer?”

You open your arms in invitation. “I’d love to.”

Shuffling around once more, you help situate him between your legs, pulling him back against your chest.

“Alright, but don’t hold it against me if I fall asleep out here. You make for quite the comfortable bed, you know.”

You smile, nuzzling into his hair and breathing him in. The heavy scent of fermentation he once carried is now nothing but a faint whisper. “I won’t mind.” Lifting your gaze from the distant city lights, you quietly admire the stars above. “Not at all.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! You can find my commentary on this fic in the notes right here on Ao3. For more info on my OC Saoirse (aka this fic's "Reader"), along with links to various relevant playlists and moodboards, you can find it all here, in the notes of my fic series "This Is Unconditional." This is fic 4 of 16 that I'm doing based on combining prompts from this list! [Day 6 (Singing) & Day 21 (Memory)] Header Image Source: Me, for once! It's an in-game screenshot that I took myself.