#But everyone has to start somewhere right?

[velaenam]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. when the sky took caleb, all you got back was a folded flag and the echoes of everything left unsaid. you thought that the hardest part would be losing caleb– turns out, it’s learning how to keep living without him.  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – ANGST, swearing, mature themes. loss of life, grief. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. couldn't sleep, so i wrote this in one go. please excuse the inconsistencies. i hope you guys enjoy. i may write an epilogue ^^ — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

11.6k

3 years previous.

“let’s give a round of applause for your valedictorian– caleb xia!”

the sun is brutal, but caleb looks unbothered standing at the podium—uniform crisp, cap tilted just right, smile at ease. he scans the crowd, his face unbroken by the intense amount of bodies that showed up for today’s celebration. the applause fades. the wind shifts. and then he starts his speech.

“i thought flying would be the best thing that ever happened to me.  i trained for it. worked for it. sacrificed a lot to get here. i made a lot of friends– a lot of life long connections. but somewhere along the way, something… better happened.”

his voice doesn’t shake. doesn’t rush, cool and calculated. he glances down at his notes like he needs them– but it’s not his notes it’s his bad drawing of a plane. must’ve gotten the wrong paper on his way here. he clears his throat, very well so improvising.

“i’ve written this speech more times than we’ve flown in the simulations. i wanted to write about everyone that helped pave the way for me, but, you see, the best part of my life didn’t come from the sky. it came from someone who kept me grounded. someone who made sure i never forgot who i was when everything else got loud. she sat through my late-night calls, my stress meltdowns, my terrible ramen phase. and she’s the reason i’m still standing here, sane, intact, and apparently valedictorian.”

there’s light laughter, scattered claps. he holds up a hand. but he’s not looking at his classmates. he’s looking straight at you.

“can you come up here for a second?”

you blink. once. twice.  you point at yourself like an idiot. caleb just nods. still smiling and someone behind you shoves your shoulder gently. “go, go!” you stumble forward, heat crawling up your neck. you can feel everyone watching, whispering, wondering. your heels were the only noise that was heard as it clicked across the pavement. his classmates cheer.

caleb reaches his hand out to help you onto the stage like this is a movie and he’s memorized every line. you lean in, voice low. “what are you doing?” and he doesn’t answer. instead, he pulls a small box from his uniform pocket. and just– goes down on one knee. your eyes widen, lungs deplete of air. the air vanishes. the world stops.

“i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you.  i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. you are the love of my life, and i can’t envision my life without you.…..will you marry me?”

gasps. someone in the crowd yells “holy shit!” caleb’s hand doesn’t shake. his eyes are soft. wide open and waiting for your response. your body was stilled, it was just so mesmerized at this moment. you don’t cry right away. you’re too stunned.  but you nod. and laugh. and nod again. and then tears flow.  you cried at how, despite that this was his moment ,he decided to share it with you– decided to share it with the one he loved the most.

“yes,” you say. then again, louder: “yes!”

the crowd erupts. his classmates lose it. someone sets off a confetti popper they definitely weren’t cleared to bring. caleb slips the ring on your finger and pulls you into his arms, spinning you like the cliché he swore he wasn’t. you don’t care. you’re dizzy. you’re full. you’re his. and for one perfect second,  the sky has never felt closer.

the knock is soft, almost hesitant at first—three measured taps that echo in the hallway like a heartbeat. you’re curled up on your couch, the low hum of the tv a distant comfort, when the sound reaches you. for a moment, every instinct tells you it’s caleb; maybe he’s finally returned, his voice promising that he’d surprise you with flowers and that worn-around-the-edges smile. you set aside the book you were pretending to read, rise slowly, and shuffle toward the door with bare feet and trembling anticipation.

when you swing the door open, the sight that meets your eyes makes time momentarily stop. there is no caleb, no familiar face framed by the doorway– just two military officers in crisp uniforms, their expressions a blend of duty and gentle sorrow. one of them, a woman, taller than the other, offers a respectful nod while the shorter man carefully holds out a small, unassuming box. resting on top of the box is a folded flag, pressed down as if to protect it from the chill of the unknown. the flag’s fabric is soft and worn. it looks reverent. of the highest importance. the most precious gift to be given. its creases speaking of countless memories. you feel a sudden, disorienting numbness replace the hope you’d clung to just moments before.

“good morning ma’am. are you mrs. xia? colonel caleb’s wife?” you steel your nerves, as you give a meek nod. 

the three of you stand there, intensity piling over each other nonstop. your eyes start to water, as one of them start to speak, “we.. regret to inform you..” the man says, voice low, smooth, practiced, “colonel caleb xia-” and that’s when it breaks you. you were about to face the music. face the fact that they’re about to announce that your husband, childhood best friend, the man of your life.. “..-was involved in a flight incident three days ago. a systems malfunction. his aircraft lost contact over the water- and there was no distress signal. search and rescue operations have ceased as of this morning.” 

presumed. lost. presumed lost. presumed. presumed. 

the words echo in your skull like your heartbeat as if it wont sync with the rest of you. the officer keeps talking, and you don’t register most of it. words like sacrifice, and service, feel far away. like they’re happening to someone else. not to you. 

your knees buckled, but your legs don’t give up. your throat is stuck. you couldn’t say anything. the pain that was slowly boiling over as the officer set’s the box down on your coffee table. as she walks past you once more, she doesn’t meet your eyes, but leaves you with one final sentiment, “we.. offer our deepest condolences.” she says gently as they leave. your chilled fingers find their way to the doorknob, closing it gently. 

as the officers walk to their vehicle, they hear a blood curdling scream coming from your house. followed by screams of crying. they tense up, as they head into the car, forlorn amongst each other. 

you stare at the box. the box sits there on your coffee table, untouched and solemn, as if it holds the final echoes of his laughter, the soft echo of his whispered promises, and the bittersweet memory of a love that once soared higher than any runway. in that quiet moment, every fiber of your being is caught between the hope of a return and the harsh, unyielding pain of loss—a loss that is carved into each fold of the flag resting there, a silent tribute to the life that was, and the heart that must now learn to continue without him.

the room feels too big now. it stretches wide and hollow, filled with quiet corners that used to hold his voice. your body is folded in on itself on the living room floor, back pressed to the couch, legs drawn tight to your chest, like curling inward might make the ache stop echoing.

the tv still hums softly in the background, forgotten, casting dim light across the walls that shifts every time the screen changes. none of it feels real. it’s like you’re watching yourself from far away—like you’re not really here, not really in this moment, not really alone.

for a while, you try to pretend it’s not real.  you stare at the floor. you pick at the skin around your thumbnail until it bleeds. you blink too fast to see straight. you wait for someone to wake you up.

but no one does.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until your lips part and the first sob slips out—shaky, strangled, helpless. like your body is trying to warn you that this is going to hurt more than anything else ever has.

your face burns with pain. tears stain your face and neck, as if you have cried for years. your hands tremble at the sight of that fucking flag. that fucking flag that doubles down as a reminder that he was fucking dead. you were slowly unraveling. becoming ballistic. 

your face crumples and the sound that follows is raw. ugly. gutted. you press your forehead to your knees and cry like you’ve never cried before– like it’s ripping something from inside you just to let it out. your shoulders shake. your breath stutters. you grip your sleeves so hard your knuckles ache.

you cry for the stupid way he used to tap on your door in threes.  you cry for the voice that used to call you “baby” like it meant something holy. you cry for the way his arms wrapped around you perfectly, like you were the most priceless item in the world. the way he would wake up early just so he could take care of your daughter without you having to do it first. the silly plans he makes for you when you had a hard day. just to see you smile. you cry for the fact that your baby will never see her father ever again. 

you cry because he promised he’d come back. and now there’s a flag sitting on your coffee table instead.

when the sobs finally slow, you’re left in the quiet aftermath—your body trembling, your cheeks sticky with tears, your throat raw. the room is still. the only thing you can hear is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted static from the tv you forgot to turn off.

you lift your head.

your eyes land on the box again. it hasn’t moved. but something in you has. your heart thuds unevenly as you crawl forward on shaking hands and knees, closing the space between you and the thing that holds whatever’s left of him. you hesitate when you reach it. your hand hovers above the lid, fingers twitching. your breath catches.

you don’t want to know what’s inside.  you don’t want to see the things he left behind.  but not knowing hurts worse. because at least if you open it, part of him will still be here. you press your hand to the cardboard. it’s warm from the sunlight filtering through the window, but the weight of it is cold in your chest.

you let your palm slide to the flag. the fabric is soft, neatly folded, impossibly precise. you wonder who folded it. if their hands were gentle. if they cried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the box.  and with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough,

you lift the lid.

and the world goes quiet again.

your fingers grip the edge of the lid and lift slowly, carefully—like opening it too fast might break whatever’s inside.  the cardboard creaks. the air shifts… and then it’s open.

you don’t know what you expected. maybe you thought it would feel colder. heavier? louder? but it’s quiet. inside are his things. small and simple. personal. they sit still, like they’ve been waiting for you.

your hands tremble as you reach in. the first thing you pull out is his flight jacket—brown and worn, creased in all the places you remember him folding it. the left sleeve still has your hair tie around it. the one he stole from your nightstand. the one you never asked him to give back.

you press the jacket to your chest and close your eyes for a second. it still smells like him. like apple soap, his favorite that he stocked up on at the flea market, and jet fuel and something warm you can’t name. you hold it a little longer before laying it gently on the couch behind you.

next, there’s a ziplock bag. inside is a small flash drive, black with a chipped corner.  You recognize the sticker stuck to the front. his messy handwriting. your name. a little heart next to it.  you don’t touch it yet.

you pull out a small notebook. it’s filled. the cover is creased, the spine soft from being carried around too much. you flip it open to a random page that was sticking out and find his handwriting again—neater than you remember. a list of things he wanted to do when he came home.

go to that lake and teach her how to ride a bike learn to make bouquets for wifey fix the chair in the bedroom or she’ll kick my ass again go on a date. super overdue. 

your vision blurs again. you blink hard. your thumb brushes over the last line, like touching it might make it real. beneath the notebook is a small envelope. no postage. no seal. your name is written across the front in ink that’s faded just slightly at the edges. you set it down gently, like it might explode. every touch made you feel hotter. like you were about to erupt yourself.

and then– at the very bottom– is a photo.

creased. softened at the corners. well-loved. it’s one of you.  you’re smiling, barely looking at the camera, sunlight catching in your hair. he must’ve taken it when you weren’t paying attention. on the back, written in pen:

love of my life. my heart. my once-in-a-lifetime

your tears didn’t give you any time. your hiccups come fervently. you crouched down, your forehead hitting the dark floor, not caring if the impact hurt you in the slightest. your hands balled into a fist– as you slammed down on the floor repeatedly. this was a curse. did you piss off a god? did they want to punish you? you wailed, not caring if neighbors or a passerby hears you. 

the first time he took you flying.

the airfield was quiet that afternoon, touched with golden light and the distant hum of activity. caleb had been pacing near the hangar, hands shoved into his flight suit pockets, pretending he was calm. pretending this wasn’t a big deal but it was. you knew it and he knew it too.

he’d talked about this day for weeks. “when the weather’s perfect, and the schedule clears… i’ll take you up. just us.”  and now here it was– sunlight stretching across the tarmac, barely a breeze, and the world wide open.

“you sure you’re ready for this, lieutenant?” you teased as you approached, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses half-slipping down your nose. “don’t call me that,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “you make it sound so formal.” “you’re about to fly a whole ass plane with me in it, caleb,” you said, grinning. “that’s kindaaa formal.”

he didn’t laugh—not at first. he just stared at you for a second, lips pressed together like he was holding something back. his fingers twitched at his side. not nerves about flying. you’d seen him pilot with calm precision under pressure.

no. this was different.  this was you.

you followed him out to the jet, heart racing. it wasn’t big, but it was beautiful– sleek lines, pale blue paint kissed by sun. the cockpit door was already open.  he helped you up the steps like it was second nature. you didn’t need the help. he still offered.

inside, the cockpit was warm. the leather smelled like old vinyl and the faint smell of caleb’s cologne. you settled into the co-pilot seat, buckling in, glancing sideways just in time to catch the way his hands lingered on the controls—steady, but shaking. just barely.

“you okay?” you asked, quieter now. he nodded, adjusting a dial.  “yeah. just… haven’t done this ….with you before.”

you blinked. “you mean flying?” “no,” he said, turning to look at you. 

the plane hummed to life beneath you. the engine low and alive.

he looked at you like the sky had nothing on you.  like this– being here, with you– was the risk and the reward.

“you trust me?” he asked. you didn’t hesitate.  “always.” and god, the way his face softened. the way his eyes held yours for that extra second, like he was memorizing the way you said it.

then the wheels lifted from the ground, and the sky opened for you both. you looked over at him mid-flight—hands sure on the controls now, wind sweeping against the windows—and thought:

he was never more beautiful than when he flew.

the knock doesn’t wake you.

it’s the doorbell that does—bright and insistent, slicing through the heavy quiet like sunlight through curtains. you stir against the couch, body aching from how you must’ve curled up at some point during the night. your throat is dry. your eyes sting. your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. 

it takes a second to remember. then it all hits. the box. the photo. the letter you still haven’t read.

you sit up slowly, blinking against the light. your hand is still clutching the edge of his flight jacket, twisted in your sleep. you press your face into it once– just once– before the doorbell rings again.

you move on autopilot, feet bare, blanket slipping off your shoulders as you make your way to the front door. when you open it, you don’t expect her. you don’t expect them.

his sister stands there with a soft expression, one hand resting on the shoulder of the tiny girl standing beside her—the girl with his eyes.

your daughter.

you freeze in the doorway, one hand still gripping the edge of the frame. you’re not sure if your face is blotchy, if your hair is a mess, if your grief is still showing like blood beneath your skin. but she doesn’t say anything.

she just offers a quiet, “thought i’d bring her back a little early,” and a soft smile, almost apologetic. like she knows.

your daughter doesn’t wait.  she sees you and beams, eyes crinkling, arms lifting like flight.

“mommy!”

you kneel before you can think, before you can stop the tears that spring up all over again– this time, different. she crashes into your arms with the full weight of someone small and unbreakable, her hair smelling like strawberries and sunshine. you wrap her up. hold her so tightly it nearly hurts. she giggles against your shoulder. “you squishing me.”

“i missed you,” you whisper, voice barely there. “i drew you a picture,” she says proudly. “it has a plane in it. like daddy’s.”

your heart twists. your eyes close. you nod against her hair, swallowing hard.

caleb’s sister steps inside without needing to ask, her eyes scanning the living room, the box still open, the flag still folded, the quiet aftermath still lingering like smoke. she says nothing about it. just rests a hand on your back as you sit with your daughter, fingers brushing through her hair.

“do you want juice?” you ask, voice a little steadier now. “yes! and waffles.” you kiss the top of her head. “you got it, captain baby.”

she runs off to the kitchen like it’s the best morning in the world. you stay kneeling there on the floor for a moment, staring after her. the ache is still there. the hole caleb left behind hasn’t shrunk. but right now, in this soft, impossible moment, it doesn’t feel quite so wide.

because part of him is still here. in her laugh. in her joy.  in the way she runs like she’s never known anything but love.

you feel arms envelope you, like a cocoon. your sister in law pulls you in her arms, her voice trembling as her jaw tightens. “i’m sorry..” she musters as her tears land on your shoulder. she was strong in her own way. she was a rock to you when things went wrong. when you needed help she was there. she hadn’t even found out the news– but from her glance at the folded flag.. she knew… she knew..  she couldn’t even beat around the bush. 

the next day felt like death. 

you wake up in his hoodie. not because you meant to sleep in it, but because at some point in the night, you stopped trying to be strong.

your phone is buzzing. again. and again. you don’t want to check it.  you already know what you’ll see. but you do. thumb slow. screen too bright.

and there it is–  his name. everywhere.

not in headlines, not yet.  but in comments. stories. posts from people you barely remember.

“can’t believe it. he was the best of us.” “my heart goes out to his family.” “rest easy, colonel caleb xia.” “you were so loved, man. you didn’t deserve this.” “sending prayers to his girl and daughter.” “we’ll take it from here.”

the words blur..  you scroll until your thumb aches. you like none of them. you reply to no one. you close the app, but the weight of it stays. he’s gone. and now the world knows it. 

you ignore the messages and missed calls from your family and in laws. you even ignored his sister.

you hear footsteps– tiny ones– padding down the hall.

“mommy?”

you look up.  your daughter is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in her apple pajamas. hair wild. eyes puffy from sleep. she hugs her stuffed rabbit tighter to her chest.  the one caleb bought her.  the one she never sleeps without.

“when is daddy coming back? i’m starting to miss him.. he always makes me waffles when i wake up..”

your breath stops.

she says it like it’s happened before. like it’s normal. like she expects a phone call later. a video. a souvenir. you kneel slowly, legs weak beneath you. your hands reach for hers, steadying even though you’re anything but. “baby,” you say softly. “come here.”

she walks over, all sleepy and innocent, and crawls into your lap without hesitation. she rests her head on your shoulder, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you rock her gently. back and forth. back and forth. and then— you try.

“remember how we talked about how daddy flies really high in the sky?” she nods. her voice is small. “with the big plane.” you breathe in. it hurts. like hell. “sometimes,” you whisper, “the people we love go up so high… they don’t come back down.”

she frowns, brows furrow, in that cute way she does when she doesn't understand. “but daddy always comes back.” you press your forehead to hers. your voice shakes. you didn’t plan this. how do you explain death to a child who still thinks love can fix everything? “i know, baby,” you say. “but this time… he couldn’t. something went wrong. and he had to stay up there.”

“he forgot?” the way her lip trembles nearly breaks you. “no, sweet girl. he didn’t forget. he would never forget us.” she’s quiet for a long time.

“is he… in the stars now?” she whispers. you nod, even though your eyes are full again. “yeah. he’s in the stars.” fuckfuckfuck- you rapidly look to your right, away from her eyes, so you can blink the tears away.

“can he see me?” you nod harder.  “always.”

she buries her face in your shoulder and says nothing. and you hold her like she’s the last tether to your heart. like maybe if you stay still enough, quiet enough, caleb might still be listening.

you rock her gently. back and forth.  the morning sunlight spills across the floor.  the phone buzzes again on the counter.  you ignore it. right now, the world can wait. you’re too busy holding what’s left of him.

it was a beautiful day. of course it was.

clear skies. gentle breeze. birdsong carried over the low hills of the memorial field like it didn’t know what today was. like it didn’t matter that the only thing missing from the funeral was the one person it was for.

they called it a ceremony. a tribute–  a celebration of life. as if any of those things made up for the fact that they never found his body. as if a flag folded with precision and placed on velvet could replace the man who used to carry your daughter on his shoulders through grocery stores. as if taps, played too perfectly, could echo louder than the silence he left behind.

you sit in the front row, wearing black you didn’t remember picking. hands clasped tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms. your breathing is slow. measured. because if you breathe too fast,  you might feel it all. and you can't. not here. not now. not for her. 

caleb’s photo sits on an easel beside the podium. he’s smiling in it—smiling like he always did when you were behind the camera, like he was in on the secret that life could be beautiful. you can’t look at it.

the general speaks but you don’t hear him. his mouth moves, his voice low and reverent, but it all feels like it’s underwater. like someone pressed pause on the world and forgot to tell you. your fingers tighten around the small hand holding yours–  your daughter. sitting beside you in a navy blue dress she didn’t want to wear.

she doesn’t understand why there’s no casket. no goodbye.no daddy.

she fidgets in her seat. you glance at her once, eyes glassy, and see that she’s clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

someone begins to read caleb’s accomplishments.  his rank. his record. his honors.  you hear the word “sacrifice.” it lands like lead in your stomach.

your vision blurs, not from tears— but from distance.

you’re floating somewhere behind your own eyes, not really here, not really now. watching your body sit perfectly still while your heart bleeds out across the grass.

and then…

a sob.

not yours.

small. sharp.  your daughter.

“where’s daddy?”

the voice cuts through the speech. the silence after it is instant, jarring. you feel every eye shift.

her bottom lip quivers, hands balled into fists. she stands up, turns to the crowd, and says it again—louder this time, more broken:

“where’s my daddy?!”

your throat seizes. you try to reach for her but your arms feel far away. in a split second– she’s running towards the general.

“why isn’t he coming?!”

your vision breaks.  the disassociation splinters. everything crashes back into you— the sunlight, the wind,  the sound of her crying, the echo of a man they call fallen  but you still want to believe is just late. like he’ll burst out of wherever he’s hiding, and laugh at the sick and stupid joke.

your body doesn’t think, you’re already running towards her as you scoop her into your arms, dragging her back into the chair. her fists beat weakly against your chest, her wailing unmatched. “he said he’d come back!” she sobs. “he promised!”

you hold her so tightly you’re not sure where she ends and you begin.  you press your face into her hair and finally, finally cry. loud. unrestrained. not for the ceremony. not for the image. but because she said what you couldn’t. because she’s five, and she understands the truth you’re still trying not to choke on.

he’s gone.

he’s not coming home.

and you’re still here, letting her cry,  in a world where taps plays for people who never got to say goodbye.

everyone was gone.

they left with soft smiles and casseroles in their arms, careful condolences tucked into envelopes you haven’t opened yet. they whispered, they nodded, they touched your shoulder like grief could be comforted with just enough gentle hands.

but now it’s quiet again. just you, the breeze, the wildflowers at the edge of the memorial field.. and him– or what’s left of him.

your knees are pressed into the grass in front of the stone they gave him. it’s smooth.  too new.. his name carved into it like that makes it official. Permanent.

colonel caleb xia. loving husband, brother, and one hell of a pilot.

“you asshole,” you whisper.

it slips out soft, breathy. your voice cracks around it. you huff a laugh, and then the tears come–again.

“i can’t believe you left me here to raise a mini-you,” you say, rubbing your thumb over the stone . “she’s got your eyes. your smile. your attitude.”

you look up at the stone. at his name.  your chest tightens.

“you should’ve seen her today. she stood up and yelled at a man in uniform because she didn’t understand why you weren’t there.” your voice trembles. “i didn’t know what to tell her. how do you explain to a baby that her father is now a folded piece of cloth and a few medals in a box? a tombstone?” you wipe your face, trying to pull it together, but you’re shaking.

“and i can’t–i can’t do it like you could. i don’t know how to make waffles the way she likes them. i don’t know the airplane sounds you used to do at bedtime. she asked me last night if you still brush the stars with your plane and i–” you stop. you choke on the sentence. then laugh through the tears.

“you’d be so smug right now, wouldn’t you? hearing that. you’d say something like ‘told you she was gonna be a handful just like me.’ and then you'd flash that dumb grin and i’d want to punch you but kiss you at the same time.” you look down at the marble and press your hand over it.

“i miss your voice,” you whisper. “your stupid jokes. the way you used to braid my hair for me.” you look at the stone again, and something crumbles in your chest.. something deep. you couldn’t let go.. you don’t want to. coming to terms with him being gone would be the end of you, and you knew it. this was your soulmate. the soulmate who is now laid down in the ground, never to return, and you had to just.. live on? 

“god, i loved you,” you say.  and now you’re sobbing. “i loved you so fucking much.” you lean forward, forehead resting lightly against the stone. the breeze picks up around you, brushing through your hair, tugging gently at your sleeves. you felt delusional as you think that maybe the tugging was him in the afterlife.. some sort of comfort yields to you.

you close your eyes. you stay like that for a long time. just breathing. just existing in the space where he should still be. “i’ll take care of her,” you whisper finally. “i swear. i’ll make sure she remembers how soft your hands were. how you laughed when she tried to salute you. how you cried when she called you daddy for the first time.”

“but you’re gonna owe me for this,” you add, voice hoarse. “when i see you again, you’re explaining everything.”

you pause. smile, just barely. “and you’re making waffles.”

three days later

the house is quiet. the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something. your daughter’s at school. you packed her lunch this morning with shaking hands and kissed her forehead twice before she ran off with her backpack bouncing behind her. she’s resilient. But she’s tired around the eyes lately. quieter.  you didn’t say anything. she didn’t either. 

you told yourself you’d clean. maybe eat something. instead, you’re here. kneeling in front of the box again. the one that’s been sitting on the floor beside the couch since the funeral. untouched.  you’d meant to leave it closed for a while.  give yourself space. time.  but that never really helps, does it?

you open it slowly, like it’s a wound you’re reopening on purpose. his jacket still smells like him. the notebook still rests inside, half-written. the photo of you is curled slightly at the corners. you press it flat again without thinking.

and then–  the flash drive.

small. black. a little chipped at the edge, but still intact. your name is written on the sticker in his messy handwriting. next to it, a tiny drawn heart.

you hesitate.

then you stand, walk to your laptop, and plug it in. it hums quietly as the screen flickers to life.

two folders appear. one labeled "for you." the other, "for our girl." you click the first one. a single video file. “if something happens.”

your heart starts pounding before you even hit play, tears brimming to life as you read that. you click. and there he is. your breath catches so hard you nearly sob right there. he’s sitting in what looks like the base’s rec room—his hair a little messy, flight suit unzipped just enough at the collar, like he’d rushed to record this. he’s smiling. not nervous. not rehearsed.

just him.“ hey,” he says, and the sound of his voice– god, it hits like thunder. you felt a shock, like the first time you heard him talk all those years ago. “if you’re watching this, something went wrong. and i hate that. i hate that you’re hurting.  but i didn’t want to leave without saying what i needed to. i'm hoping i can delete this video after i come back from my flight.”

you press your hand to your mouth. his eyes are soft. like he’s looking right at you.

“i love you. not just the easy kind of love. not the kind that fades. the kind that roots itself in your bones.  the kind that makes you want to be better, because i get to come home to someone like you.”

you watch him as he pauses, running a hand through his hair. your tears cascading down to your collarbone and beyond. you take deep breaths as you swallow just as hard.

“you made everything make sense. you gave me a life i didn’t think someone like me could have. and our daughter–”

he swallows. his eyes shine just a little.

“she’s the best thing i’ve ever helped create. every time she smiles at me, i think, how the hell did i get this lucky? and i couldn’t wait to give her a brother. or a sister. or both. i wanted more mornings.  more bedtime stories. more bothering mommy while she’s doing her woman stuff.  more late-night snack raids. i wanted it all with you.”

your shoulders shake. tears are spilling down your face, hot and uncontrollable. you don’t try to stop them. his voice keeps going, steady, like it’s holding you.

“if i’m not there– please tell her every single day that i loved her.  that i still do. and that i was trying to come home.”

he smiles, soft and full of everything he never got to say in person. even though he was persistently smiling, you could tell that his eyes glossed. he was trying to hold himself together.

“there’s another file on here. it’s for her. just… in case she ever needs me at night. i love you..”

the video ends. the silence it leaves behind is deafening. you stare at the dark screen, your reflection, then look down at your hand. you sob into your hand for a long time. the kind of grief that splits you apart, the kind that wraps you in warmth and ache at the same time.

eventually, with trembling hands, you open the second folder. “for our girl.” another video. you recognize the cover of the book instantly.

“the airplane that could.”

 her favorite. you hit play. and there he is again.

this time, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the book open in his lap.“ okay, kiddo,” he says, voice soft. “bedtime story, dad edition. you ready? his one’s for brave girls who fly high and land even higher.”

you laugh through your tears, hand pressed to your heart, as his voice fills the house again. reading each word like he’s still here. like he never left. and for a few minutes, he hasn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there.

the laptop screen dims every few minutes and you keep tapping the touchpad to wake it, desperate not to miss a second. your fingers hover near the video file like they’ve made a habit of it already. you watch the story once. twice. three times.

and on the fourth playthrough, you press your palm to the screen. his image is pixelated under your skin. but it’s his voice that gets you.

the way he makes the little airplane’s “zoom!” sounds. the way he laughs when he trips over a sentence and mutters, “she’s gonna call me out for that one.”  the way he pauses after the final line and says, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.”

you rewind that last part. three times. you don’t realize you’ve been crying again until a drop falls onto the keyboard. you wipe it away and sniff, laughing softly—like he’d just caught you.

the sun’s shifted by the time you hear the door open. your daughter’s back from school, jacket half-off, hair windblown from recess. she drops her backpack in the hallway, calls out, “mommy?” you swipe your cheeks with your sleeve. “in here, baby.”

she walks in, still hugging her stuffed rabbit, and climbs up beside you on the couch. her head rests against your shoulder like she’s done it every day of her life.  you close the laptop for a moment.

“can i show you something?” you ask softly. she looks up. her eyes are wide, curious. “is it daddy?” you nod. “he made you something. before… before he left.” her lips press together, and for a second, you think she might say no. but then she nods. “okay.”

you open the file. press play. and you don’t watch the screen this time. you watch her. her eyes light up the second he speaks. “that’s daddy,” she whispers. her hand tightens around yours.

as he reads, she mouths along to her favorite parts. laughs when he makes the airplane noises. leans in when he says, “you can do anything, little flyer. you just have to believe.” you hear her whisper the words with him.  she’s memorized them. and when he finishes, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.” she smiles through tears.

you’re crying again. silent. broken in the most beautiful way. she looks up at you.  “can we watch it again?” you nod.  “as many times as you want.”

and you hit replay. and you both sit there, curled together on the couch,  wrapped in a blanket watching the man you both loved  tuck her into sleep from somewhere beyond the sky.

a few days later

it’s raining. soft and steady, the kind of rain that doesn’t demand anything from you. the kind that just stays. your daughter is asleep—finally. she asked to hear “the airplane that could” twice tonight, and you let her. every word caleb read, every silly sound, every warm pause—it fills her room like he never left. you made tea but, you haven’t touched it.

instead, you sit on the floor of the bedroom in an old hoodie and sweatpants, the box beside you, your fingers resting on the envelope you still haven’t opened.  it’s thinner than you remember. lighter. but it feels like the heaviest thing in the world.

you run your thumb over your name again. the ink is slightly smudged, like he held it for a while before setting it down. and you take a breath– and you open it.

the paper shakes in your hands as you unfold it. it’s his handwriting. no doubt. you’d know it anywhere—slanted, a little messy, confident.

you read:

my girl, my woman, my wife, my life, if you're reading this, something happened. and if something happened, you’re hurting. and god, if i could change that, if i could tear the sky open just to get back to you, i would. i’d do it a thousand times.but this is my backup plan. because you always said i needed one. so here it is. my heart on paper.

your hand flies to your mouth. your eyes burn. you keep reading.

first: i love you. not just the everyday kind of love.  but the kind of love that made me rethink everything.  the kind of love that made base housing feel like a palace, made ramen feel like a meal, made 3am deployment calls feel like they could wait a few more minutes because you were still asleep on my chest. i love the way you laugh. the way you fight. the way you love. i love the way you yell at me from the hallway to get my clothes out of the washer. i want more with you. i wanted more. more babies. yeah, i said it imagine a tiny version of you with my ears–terrifying.  but perfect. i wanted to put another crib in the corner of our room. i wanted to teach our daughter how to ride a bike, and let you laugh at me when i ran beside her like an idiot. i wanted home with you. every version of it. i was gonna ask for the instructor position when i got back.  no more deployments. no more taking off without knowing if i’d come home. i was ready to teach. to stay. because you made staying feel like the only dream worth chasing.

you stop. your vision is too blurry. you blink, wipe your face, your chest heaving. but you keep reading.

but if i don’t come back– promise me something. i know that i told you before that i’m obsessed with you– deeply devoted– and i am. i always will be, and i wanted you to be the same.. but this is different now.. don’t put your heart in a box with my name on it. don’t shrink just to keep loving me. be happy. fall in love again if you want to. raise our daughter to be wild and brave and soft the way you are.and when the house is quiet, and the world feels big and empty, pull out the notebook. it’s all in there. the first day i saw you. the night i almost kissed you but chickened out. the fight we had over burnt toast. it’s messy. real. it’s me.and it’s yours. always yours. —caleb

your hands are shaking. you fold the letter against your chest and sob. not the sharp, sudden kind. this one is slow. broken. like letting go and holding on at the same time.

you reach into the box, pull out the notebook. the leather cover is worn. familiar. you press your lips to it.  you don’t open it. not yet. but you will.

and when you do, you know it’ll be like hearing his voice again. not a goodbye. just a continuation. just love, written in the only language he had left. you stare at your tea that’s been on your table this entire time. it was cold, long forgotten. you look at the window, watching and listening to the rain still hitting against the glass. finally, you look back at the book, tracing the edge of the notebook with your thumb for a long time. just sitting there. the only thing that matters is what’s inside this worn leather cover.

you open it slowly. his handwriting greets you like an old song. the first page is dated 6 years ago. early fall. just two weeks into your first year of college.

september 9 dorms are hell,  someone stole my towel and i think my roommate sleeps with his eyes open.but today i saw her. i don’t know her name. she was in the common room, sitting cross-legged in front of a vending machine like she was trying to make peace with it. said it ate her dollar and she refused to let it win. she had on a nasa sweatshirt that was way too big, and i think she’d forgotten she had a pencil behind her ear. she muttered something about orbital mechanics and kicked the machine. it gave her a snickers. i think i’m in love.

you laugh. it slips out through the tears, a sound you didn’t think you could still make.  a memory rises with it– you, hunched in front of that vending machine, furious and hungry and too broke to lose another dollar and him, standing behind you with a bag of chips and a look on his face like you’d just rewritten the sky.

you turn the page.

september 15 her name is gorgeous. she’s in my aero engineering lecture. i sat two rows behind her and spent half the class trying to think of something cool to say if we bumped into each other outside. i said “hey.” she said “you look like the kind of guy who brags about parallel parking.”i don’t know what that means but i think she’s right.

you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter and ache. god, he remembered every detail. the next few pages are scattered—little notes about campus, sketches of planes, scribbled song lyrics he never finished.  but you keep flipping. page after page of a boy slowly falling in love with a girl he hadn’t even kissed yet.

october 3 she said she wanted to be the kind of woman who builds things that fly. said it with her eyes half-closed, on the roof at 2am, wearing my hoodie like it already belonged to her. i don’t even remember letting her take it, but it looks better on her.  i told her i wanted to fly them. she said, “guess that means we’re stuck with each other.” i wanted to kiss her. i didn’t. i just said “yeah.” i should’ve kissed her.

you’re crying again. you hold the journal to your chest, just for a second. because he wrote these things for himself. but maybe, deep down, he always hoped you’d read them one day.

and now you are. and he’s here again,  word by word, memory by memory– falling in love with you on the page, like he never stopped.

you flip through the journal carefully, the pages worn and full of little smudges from where his hand must’ve lingered. his writing gets a little more rushed as the months go on—like his heart was moving faster than his pen could keep up.

you find it, tucked between two pages. a folded napkin taped inside– faded ink, the logo from that burger place near campus.  and beneath it, a date you’ll never forget.

october 14 – first date i picked her up at 7. i say “picked up,” but we both know i walked across campus in a panic, stopped twice to fix my jacket, and almost tripped on my shoelace outside her dorm. she was already waiting by the door. hair tied back. that stupid nasa sweatshirt again. she smiled at me and i forgot my own name.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the page. you remember it exactly– how he blinked at you for a full five seconds before remembering to speak.

we went to that burger place with the wobbly tables and the jukebox that only plays sad 80s songs. she said she liked the milkshakes there. i said “me too.” i don’t even know how the milkshakes tasted. i just wanted to match her. she talked about stars and i listened like they were falling out of her mouth.

your chest aches. you flip the napkin up to read what’s scribbled underneath.

she drew a rocket on this napkin. i told her it looked like a shoe. she punched my arm. i’ve never felt more in love. after dinner we walked back to campus. slow. like we didn’t want the night to end. she said her favorite part was when i didn’t talk too much. i said my favorite part was when she laughed with her head tilted back. she said that was a dumb favorite. i said i was a dumb guy. and then– she looked at me. really looked. i stopped breathing. in love or terrified? the world may never know.

your heart’s pounding. you turn the page.

she asked me if i was going to kiss her or just stand there looking like a scared intern.i panicked and said “both?” she kissed me. it was fast. messy. perfect. she pulled away smiling.  i didn’t know where to put my hands.  i think i said “wow.” stupidstupidstupid she said, “took you long enough.”

your hands are trembling as you close the journal for a moment, hugging it to your chest.  you can still feel that night. the cool air. the neon lights of the diner behind you. the taste of vanilla shake on his lips. the way he looked at you like you were a miracle he’d never stop believing in.

he wrote it all down.  because even then–  he knew: he knew he’d love you forever.

you flip further into the journal. the entries start to space out a little, scattered between class notes, training schedules, coffee stains. but one page stands out—creased at the corners, the words pressed harder into the page like he couldn’t write them fast enough.

bold letters across the top:

november 17 – I WON.

you smile immediately.

i fucking won. nationals. first place. best time of my life. my lungs are burning. my legs feel like they might fall off.  my hands won’t stop shaking. and all i keep thinking is— she was there. she saw me. her voice was the only one i could hear.

you remember it. you feel it still—your throat sore from screaming, the way your hands ached from clapping, your whole body buzzing with pride.  you were near the front, right by the finish line. you jumped so high when he crossed, you nearly fell over the railing.

she was wearing my jacket. the big one. said it made her feel “official.” i saw her before the race—she blew me a kiss and said “don’t lose. i bet snacks on you.” i think that’s when i knew i had to win. couldn’t let her down. or lose snacks.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the words. he was always like this—charming and ridiculous and so sincere it hurt.

when i crossed the finish line, i didn’t even look at the clock. i looked for her. found her jumping up and down, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling like she wanted the world to know i was hers. i’ve never felt more like i belonged to something.  not the medal. not the track. her. she ran down to meet me after. shoved people out of the way like it was life or death. she threw her arms around me before i could even catch my breath and kissed my stupid, sweaty face. said, “my champion.” i wanted to cry. i wanted to marry her. i will.

you close your eyes. the sound of the crowd still echoes in your ears. his arms around you, shaking from the race, from the weight of it all. how he buried his face in your neck like the win didn’t matter half as much as the fact that you were there. how he whispered, “i did it for you.”

he always did.

december 12 – i said it. i told her i love her. and i meant it so hard i thought my chest might give out.

your breath catches before you even turn the page.

it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. not that night. not like that. we weren’t dressed up. there weren’t candles. it was just us. just the couch.  just a shitty movie playing in the background. she was curled up next to me, stealing all the blankets. hair a mess. feet cold. skin warm. she was ranting about something—some professor she didn’t like, or the terrible sandwich she had for lunch.  and i wasn’t even listening. not really. i was just looking at her. and i thought, god. i love you. and it came out.  just like that. out loud.

your fingers tremble as you turn to the next page.

she stopped talking. just blinked. looked at me like i’d thrown a brick through the window. i panicked.  i froze.  i didn’t even try to take it back. i just said it again. “i love you.”and then, quieter: “i didn’t mean to say it right now. i just—i mean it.”

you laugh—soft, broken, a sound from somewhere deep.  you remember the way he said it.  like it had been sitting behind his teeth for months.

she stared at me for a second. and i swear, my whole life happened in that silence. then she kissed me.  slow. full. like she was trying to memorize me.. sappy... and then she whispered, “took you long enough.”

your chest tightens. your fingers press to the page like touching his words might let you feel him again.

i don’t care how long i live— that moment? that kiss? the way she smiled after? that’s the one i’ll take with me. that’s the one i’ll keep. forever.

you close the journal against your heart.  tears fall in silence. not from pain— not only. but from knowing, absolutely, that you were loved. so fully. so honestly. and that even now, he’s still loving you in every word he ever left behind. your lips tremble as you part your lips, “why’d you have to defend this country you stupid man.. you should’ve just became a fucking scientist or something.” you half laugh half hiccup as you held the journal tighter against you.

after some time you peel from it, readying yourself for the next excerpts.

april 4 – first time. i don’t know how to write this without it sounding like every dumb teenage diary in every coming-of-age movie, but— we slept together. and yeah, it was sex.  but it was more than that. it was her hands in my hair when i couldn't stop shaking.  it was how she made me feel safe even when i felt like i didn’t know what the hell i was doing. i’ve never been looked at like that before.  like i was something worth loving. like i could mess up and still be enough. she kissed my shoulder after and whispered,  “we’re good, yeah?” and i said,  “we’re so good, baby.” and i meant it with every damn cell in my body.

august 28 – the scare. she was late. not by a day. by five. i didn't sleep the whole week. and it’s not that i wasn’t ready—hell, i don’t know if anyone’s ever ready.  but i wasn’t scared of being a dad. i was scared of what it might do to her. of her giving up the sky she wanted for diapers and night feeds and stress.but when she told me it was a false alarm— we just sat in the bathroom, laughing.  half from relief, half from how stupidly close we felt to everything changing. and i think that’s when i knew. if it had been real, i’d have loved that kid so hard they’d never doubt who their father was. because she’d be the mother. and that alone would’ve made them magic.

february 2 – ring shopping, kinda.  okay, okay.  technically i said we were helping james pick out a ring for his girlfriend. technically, that wasn’t a lie. but also, i wanted to see what she’d pick.  what made her eyes light up.  what styles she hated.  what made her whisper, “i could wear something like that forever.” and damn, she did. there was this one—gold, thin band, little oval-shaped diamond tucked in the center. she didn’t even say much about it. just touched the glass in front of it and smiled like she saw a future. our future. i didn’t buy it that day.  but i went back.  and i swear, when the time comes— i’ll put it on her finger like a promise. like everything i am belongs to her.

you didn’t think it would hit this hard.

you thought this one would be sweet. nostalgic. the kind of memory you keep behind glass and smile at when no one’s looking.  but the second your eyes land on the words

your throat tightens. you know this one.

you pull the journal closer, your thumb resting against the page, and you start to read.

may 25 – graduation. i asked her. i was valedictorian.  they called my name last. the applause was loud. i smiled, shook hands, made jokes. i gave a speech. i don’t even remember half of it. because all i saw was her. and i also forgot my speech paper at home.

your eyes sting immediately. you bite down gently on the inside of your cheek—like maybe if you anchor yourself hard enough, you won’t fall apart. you remember where you sat that day. front row.  wearing his jacket even though it was warm out. hands trembling in your lap.

she was front row. wearing my jacket. eyes red from crying. hands clutched in her lap like she was trying not to run up onstage and tackle me.

you let out a shaky breath, tears sliding slowly down your cheek.  it’s like watching a memory through someone else’s eyes—but it’s yours. it always was.

i had the ring in my pocket the whole time. heart racing so hard i thought it would give out. after the speech, i asked her to come up.  she looked confused. nervous. and when she finally walked up there— i dropped to one knee in front of the entire class.

you smile through the tears. god, the way the crowd erupted.  how you covered your mouth and shook your head in disbelief, even though you knew. you always knew.

i said, “i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you.  i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. will you marry me?” and she said yes.

you press your fingers to your lips, like you can still feel the kiss you gave him onstage—fast, breathless, the only answer you could give.  Yes.  a hundred times yes.

i’ve never won anything more important.  not the title. not the speech. her. she’s it.

you close the journal slowly, but your fingers stay pressed to the cover, unmoving.

his handwriting still lingers behind your eyelids. the way he wrote her—not even your name, just her, like it was enough.  like it said everything. and maybe it did. you lean back against the couch, cradling the journal like a heartbeat.  your voice is barely a whisper when you say it out loud.

“you were it for me too.”

you open to the next entry. the page feels heavier.

september 10  – wedding day. i don’t know where to start. maybe with the way her hands shook when she laced them with mine. maybe with how she kept adjusting her veil like it wasn’t already perfect. maybe with the way i saw her walking toward me and forgot how to breathe.

you exhale shakily. your hand lingers on the ink where he pressed a little harder—where he wanted the words to stay loud, like that moment still echoed in his chest.

she looked like sunlight.  like warmth. like she was born to ruin me and rebuild me in the same breath. and god, she did.

you smile through the tears, lips trembling. you remember the way he cried first. you remember laughing at him—softly, not to tease, but because it was so unmistakably caleb to weep like that and pretend he wasn’t.

she made fun of me for crying.  i said, “have you seen yourself?” she rolled her eyes.  and then she promised forever. and i promised it back. with every cell in my body.

your smile was forlorn. you stared at this entry just a bit longer than the others.. eventually you flip to the next entry, dated not long after.

november 14 –she’s pregnant. i’m writing this with both hands shaking. she told me this morning. came into the room holding that little test like it was a secret, like if she said it too loud the moment might disappear. i was brushing my teeth. i almost dropped the toothbrush. and then she said, “you okay?”and i said, “i think i’m in love with you all over again.”

you cover your mouth. you remember the way he dropped to the floor like his legs gave out. how he kissed your stomach before you even had a bump.  how he whispered, “we’re gonna be parents,” like it was something holy.

she kept pacing. said she wasn’t ready. said she was scared.and all i could think was— i get to build a life with her. a home. a child who’s half her, half me.and if this baby has even an ounce of her fire— the world better watch out. …maybe we should name it apple.

your eyes squeeze shut. your hand shakes against the page.

 august 12 –  she’s here. our daughter. i don't even know how to start this. i've rewritten the first line seven times. nothing feels big enough. no words feel like they belong to what just happened. but she's here. our little girl. and she’s perfect. her name sounds different when i say it out loud now.  heavier. real.  it used to be a name we whispered over dinner. a maybe. a dream. now it’s a person. a whole person. and she has my eyes. i swear to god the second they handed her to me— i thought the whole world paused. like even time wanted to watch.

you smile through the tears. your fingers rest over the date on the page, like holding it might take you back to that room—where everything changed.

you flip through more pages, just details of his experiences with your daughter. he was sweet, adoring, and the sweetness may have fooled you if your eyes didn’t land on this page;

february 18 –  i’m leaving in the morning. deployment orders came in. she tried so hard not to cry. held our daughter in one arm, kissed my cheek, told me she’d hold the sky down till i came back. she always says things like that—poetic and steady.  like if she can speak it into the world, it’ll make it true.i wanted to believe her. i do believe her. but i’m scared. not of the mission.  not of flying. i’m scared of missing too much.

march 4 – base is loud. hot. everyone’s tired. i think about them all the time. i have a picture taped to the inside of my locker—one of the three of us on the couch, blankets everywhere, popcorn stuck to our shirts. my daughter’s head is in her mom’s lap.  her mom is laughing. i look like i’ve already won the war. i stare at that photo every morning before briefing. whisper to it,  “i’m coming home. wait for me.”

you flip through more entries, until you get to the last page. you almost didn’t want to read it. head light, breath staggered, the paper felt thinner now. you take a deep breath– or as best as you possibly can, and continue.

may 3 – in case something happens. i need this written down. i don’t know why i feel like writing this now.  maybe it’s just a quiet night.  maybe the wind sounds different. maybe love makes you preemptive. just in case. if i don’t make it home— if you’re reading this—god, i hope you know i loved you with everything i had. from the moment you kicked a vending machine to the day you said “i do.”  from the time you placed our baby girl in my arms to the last voice note you sent before this mission. you’ve been my gravity.  my sky. my reason to fight, and the softness i always returned to. and if i don’t get to hold her again—  tell her i never stopped trying.  tell her she’s brave like her mommy.  and kind. and funny. and too smart for this world. tell her i was hers from the first time i felt her kick. and you. you, baby— live. laugh again. love again. fall asleep in someone’s arms and know that it’s okay. you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky. until you find me again.

his final entry is burned into your mind. the words feel heavier than paper has any right to be.  your hands are shaking. your lips part like you want to say something, maybe to him, maybe to the empty room—  but nothing comes out. just air.  shallow. trembling.

you press the journal to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.  and then it hits. not slowly. not gently. like a punch straight through your ribcage. the kind of grief that doesn’t knock. it takes. your body curls in on itself. your shoulders begin to shake.  and the first sob breaks out of your throat like it’s been waiting days to escape. you try to muffle it— fist pressed against your mouth, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a cry.  but it keeps coming. a second sob. then a third. and then you’re full-on breaking.

you bury your face into the hoodie still stained with his cologne, the one you’ve worn three nights in a row.  your knees draw up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold your heart in place.

you can’t wake her.  your daughter is down the hall. so you cry as quietly as you can. but the pain still slips through.  in your breathing. in the way your body rocks slightly like he used to do when she cried in the middle of the night.  like you’re trying to soothe yourself the way he would’ve done.

you were my forever.  and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky.

your hand presses to your mouth to stifle the next sob, but it still escapes—loud enough to crack through the silence,  not loud enough to wake her.

you whisper his name. once.  twice.  like a prayer that’ll never stop aching.

and then, quieter: “i miss you, caleb. i don’t know how to do this without you.”

you sit there in the dark, with his words against your heart and your tears soaking the only piece of him you still have left to hold. and for the first time in days,  you let yourself fall completely apart. because tonight,  you don’t have to be strong. not for her.  not for anyone.

just for this—  this goodbye you never got to say, and this love that never stopped living inside you.

a few days later

the house is quiet. soft sunlight spills through the kitchen windows, painting the floor in gold. the kind of morning that doesn’t ask much of you, just presence. just breath.

you’re at the sink, mindlessly rinsing dishes that weren’t even that dirty. the journal still lives on the table behind you. closed, but not untouched.  you haven’t opened it again—not yet. you will. just… not yet.

and then— the front door swings open.

“mommy!” your daughter calls, her voice high and full of breathless excitement.

you turn, startled. she’s carrying a basket. no, dragging it, really—too big for her tiny hands, but she’s determined. a woven handle hangs off her wrist, stuffed to the brim with pastel-colored wrapping and little ribboned items peeking through the top.

she marches straight into the kitchen and sets it down with a loud thud.  you blink at it.

“baby… what’s all this?”

she beams, huffing and puffing, “lukey and kiereny’s dad gave it to me at pickup! he said it’s for you!” you freeze. luke and kieren. you know those names. they’re in her class. and their dad— that’s…

you kneel down slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “he gave you this? for me?”she nods hard.  “he said it was to make you feel better. and he said you could call him if you were sad.” you glance at the basket—carefully curated, clearly thoughtful.

bath bombs in calming scents. artisan chocolate. a small jar of lavender honey. a soft-rolled pair of cozy socks.

and nestled between everything, a sealed envelope with your name written across it.

you take it with gentle fingers. your daughter leans against your arm, watching. you unfold the note.

i’m sorry for your loss. i understand how you feel. if you ever need anybody, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.

— sylus

and below was his phone number.

you read it twice. then a third time. short. simple. but it lands softly in your chest like something warm against all the cold. he didn’t overstep. didn’t try to fix it.  he just… offered his hand.

you let out a slow breath, blinking hard. “do you know him?” your daughter asks, looking up at you. you smile—small, tired, but real.  “not really,” you say. 

“but maybe i will.”

[crackedwishes]

"be yourself!" it's an easy phrase to throw around, but they never really come back to how to find yourself in the first place.

"be yourself!" but who is that? what is that? how do societal expectations encounter or encourage or crush under the weight of "no" and "don't do that" and "that's not right at all"?

"be yourself!" it has to start somewhere, what do you like to do? what do you do? where are you from? how did that matter?

like writing a story, you're all characters, and "yourself" is the biggest one, the hardest one to define.

everyone is the main character, but who's going to determine who "you" are, what you do, where you live, what your favorite color is....

It all comes back to "you", really. Who do you want to be, what do you want to do, where do you want to live, why do you want to do this or that or whatever else.

If everyone is the main character.... Well, in your story, you'll have to learn how to write yourself.

A good starting point is a character sheet.

What do you like and dislike?

"just be yourself!" i never figured out who that is, though. i was supposed to know by now, right? like, other people my age do know. but i keep showing up to life and trying to find whatever "me" exists. that person is always disappearing at the last second, turns into wisp. i wish someone would just give me instructions. point to a horizon. a map. some kind of sign that says: go be this.

[thefallenangel2008]

Merlin becoming unhinged and paranoid after being alive for 1500 years. Merlin not eating for 1 week straight before he goes like "oh right" because he fucking forgot. Oh, the elevator in his apartment building is out of order, but he has to go to Lake Avalon. Oh well. He's gonna use the stairs. And by "using the stairs" I mean throwing himself from the staircase. It's faster this way! He's gonna break a few bones and give himself a concussion but hey, he's immortal, so it's ok! Merlin walking outside and glancing behind his back every 3 seconds when someone looks like has been walking behind him for a bit too much of a time. Merlin having a tons of locks on his front door. Because you never know. Merlin talking with people and that voice in his head screaming at him "don't form connections with them, don't you dare become attached to them, because that's how it starts. You make small conversations with people, then you become friends, and the next thing you know they find out about your magic and they try to kill you or they just die because they're mortal." (definitely not from experience, nuh-uh). Merlin having weapons somewhere hidden in his house just in case he's in danger and his magic doesn't work for whatever reason. A minor inconvenience happening and Merlin just going "fuck. Oh well, let me just- *throws himself from the top of a building*. Merlin finding out he's neurodivergent. He doesn't really have to mask anymore, he hasn't been doing that for a while because he's all alone so no one will care and also because nowadays no one gives a shit. Him being neurodivergent explains so much (personally I'm an ADHD Merlin truther lol). Merlin having abandonment issues, which is also another reason why he refuses to connect with people. Because hey, better to be never loved than be loved and lose it, right? Merlin considering himself something more than human. Not in the "haha, I'm more powerful than everyone else, lmao" way, but in the "I have all this power in my hands yet the world is still shit, I'm a failure, why couldn't I be like everyone else?" way. All these stuff don't even have to revolve around Arthur or Camelot, it can be just the brain trying to comprehend 15 centuries worth of trauma.

[lenle-g]

Sometimes, John feels like his life has been made up of a dozen horrible hours he can never forget.

It's been twelve weeks since WASP's new, innovative hydrofoil had skipped, flipped, and gone up in a fireball with Gordon Tracy inside it. John had cut short his NASA rotation on the Worldwide Space Station and raced home the second their Father called, heart in his throat, nauseous with anxiety, but... now everything's calmed down he's starting to feel pretty... redundant.

It was less noticeable when Gordon's life was hanging in the balance - when his hospital room was all tubes and wires and bleeping machines and that thin, thin line between life and death. When John could hold his limp, cold hand (and Gordon's never colder than John, never - the kid vibrates with so much kinetic energy he's practically a furnace), hoping with every atom of his being that he's going to pull through. John sat vigil with his brothers for hours, doped up on post-space drugs of his own following his rushed re-entry. He kept that fact to himself (the Tracy's didn't need more to worry about, after all) but he thinks his Father and maybe Scott had worked it out anyway.

But... Gordon's home now, hobbling about, doing his physio, re-learning how to walk. Now it's just a game of slow healing over anxious waiting, and John's starting to feel, ironically, like he's just another body taking up space.

Gordon's just grateful everyone's on the planet. Not still on a space station. Not near any large, dangerous machines where anything that could go wrong, would go badly wrong. That no one else is going to get flipped by a giant, out-of-control piece of experimental engineering and almost crushed.

Gordon's sick and tired of feeling scared.

To get between the hangar medical suite, their living space, and their bedrooms, Jeff has had a shiny, new elevator installed. The stairs are going to be impossible for a good while yet... but Gordon hasn't worked up the nerve to even look at the sleek, metal coffin box they want him to use instead.

He's terrified that the claustrophobia is gonna last. That the feeling of being trapped, of metal walls crushing in all around him, will pervade. That he's never going to make it into a sub again and it's not gonna be the thirteen metal bolts in his spine that will spell the end of his career, but his fear.

And it's the kind of fear that's straight up embarrassing when everyone else has put their lives on hold for him. John's back from space. Scott's taking a leave of absence from the Air Force. Lord Hugh picked Alan up from boarding school and brought him home, and Virgil's paused his engineering course to take charge of Gordon's daily PT.

Which also means Virgil's getting the worst of his attitude. Gordon grumps and gripes at his poor brother constantly, as Virg tries to help him through his hundredth up, down, left leg, right leg, try a step, take a step, just a step, Gordon, you can do it. He feels like he can’t fall apart on Virgil because he’s already relying on the man for so much. He might be their usual heavy lifter - but Gordon's sure there are limits somewhere, and he can't pile his mental health in on top of the already substantial physical problems the man's shouldering for him.

Gordon's making good progress. He doesn't doubt that. If Virgil says he'll walk, then he's sure he'll walk... but it does nothing for the terror in his chest every time he glimpses a small space; the dark bathroom tiles or a shadowy, open cupboard or the cramped inside of his closet.

Alan's too little: the kid's a ball of sunshine, a bouncy baby arsonist angel. Gordon would hate himself if he showed the teenager even a slip of anything but his forced positivity: his I'm getting better every day, Al, you don't have to worry about little old me, his teeth gritted through the agony.

Scott says he just has to keep smiling, that his smile is the only thing holding their Dad together, keeping him positive, so he can’t let that façade crack either, but...

There's a skinny, ginger figure carding his fingers through a series of holograms over at their Father's new desk. Gordon had been napping where he'd been left, thoroughly worn out from PT, in the sofa circle. The big room is otherwise totally empty.

"John…?" John turns at the raw sound of his name, his face full of a open, honest surprise that quickly morphs into understanding as he takes in his little brother, stumbling toward him on shaky colt legs, his face utterly miserable.

“Ah. Gordon.” Like he can read his mind, John opens both arms in a rare physical gesture of affection, and it takes Gordon less than a split second to realise that, perhaps, falling apart on John would be falling apart with no judgement at all. "Did I wake y-?"

Gordon crumples into the astronaut's arms like he's made of paper. He feels like he's made of paper. He buries his face there and sobs because everything’s awful but John's here and it's like he's been waiting for this so the dam can break.

Because John's kept every secret he's ever been told. He's patient, and quiet and, perhaps, the second best damn listener Gordon's ever met. Their Mom isn't exactly an option right now, but it helps more than he can express that John is practically her knobbly, gingerfied mini-me.

He told John about his first boyfriend. About the dive he shouldn't have taken from the Olympic high board when no one was watching. About just how much he misses Mom.

It's astonishingly easy to talk to John, after all. As natural as breathing. It's easy for strangers to read him as shy or uncertain, but John really isn't either. He's quiet, but he isn't lost for words; he's... observing. He just gets it, and if he doesn't, he'll listen patiently until he does.

But John's in space so often now, and, faced with his wayward big brother in person, Gordon finds himself caught by surprise, fingers curling tight in the other man's shirt, as it hits him like a punch just how much he's missed him.

"I know." John breathes, hot into his hair. He quietly folds his little brother against his side, tucking an arm around his waist to help him limp back over to the sofas. "I was wondering when it was all going to start getting to you." He makes no audible complaint as Gordon presses himself as close as physically possible, and John doesn't even seem to mind the fact his little brother is full-on sobbing into his chest. "I got you."

And Gordon tells him everything, of course. About how scared he was when the 'foil flipped. How hot the fire felt as it went up, skin searing, hair burning. The surgeons telling him about the metal in his spine. How he jolts awake in the middle of the night from the most horribly vivid nightmares he's ever had. Worse than even when they lost Mom in that avalanche. About how small spaces stop up his throat and make his hands shake. About how thinking about Dad's new elevator is almost enough to give him a panic attack.

And John, listening quietly and patiently as ever, will take this moment to his grave - etched onto his heart right next to Scott's: I can't fill Dad's shoes, I'm not good enough, and Virgil's: I can't get strong enough and Alan's: I'm never gonna catch up to you guys.

Gordon knows that maybe there's not much John, or anyone, can actually do to help with any of it, but it's like a great weight off his shoulders just to have someone else know. He cries until he's got no more tears left in him, until he's dehydrated and shaky and John brings him a glass of cold water and helps him take slow sips. He minds it so much less when it's John - the man's help seems so effortless it's like it barely matters.

And Gordon wonders if John has any real idea just how much it helps to not have to be strong for everybody, all the time.

"I don't think I'll ever be the same again." Gordon breathes, so quietly that perhaps John wasn't even meant to hear. Big brother smooths the sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, looks seriously into his puffy, red eyes, then shrugs.

"Maybe not." The spaceman concedes, "But you're building a new you now, and... though it's probably going to be the hardest thing you've ever done, I don't think it's automatically going to be a bad you. And, well, you know..." A pointy shoulder rolls itself against Gordon's cheek, "You don't have to do it alone."

[heyimkana]

So, remember Jinwoo’s baby’s first words? Well her second words are “I love you!” Seriously, she goes running around, saying that to everyone! Jinwoo, S/O, BERU, Igris, Tusk, Kaisel, Tank, etc. it’s all cute and all until everyone starts making some tally score of how many times she’s said it to them per day. (Let’s say Beru has at least 1 more point higher than Jinwoo’s daily count of I love you’s)

LMFAOOOOO whoever started that tally score is EVIL OMFG god i know jinwoo will NEVER allow anyone to have more points than him not even his wife he'll be like "how many times have our daughter said i love you to you today?"

his wife, proud and happy: "15 times!"

Jinwoo, hiding his devilish grin behind an angelic smile: "Oh, honey, it's okay." *kisses her forehead* "Numbers don't count. We all know who she loves the most." (also jinwoo: me, that's who)

and his wife is just like ?????? i'm okay with it tho????? since when is this a competition??

and jinwoo walks around the house, checking everyone's notes and he be like

ALSDFKADSFSD cause he knows he has more points than anyone else and then there's beru jumping around the living room "My liege, my liege! Princess told me she loves me 33 times today!"

Jinwoo, looking down at his own notes. He gets 32. "I think she only told you 31 times, Beru."

"No, my liege! I am very certain that she--"

cue ominous aura flooding the screen "She told you 31 times today. Isn't that right, Beru?"

"Y-yes, my liege."

Igris, somewhere in the background, hides his own notes that says "38"

[leejenowrld]

back to you — eight

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 52k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

synopsis — since the state championships, everything that once burned bright has settled into smoke, memories warped, meanings changed, distance stretched thin across months of silence and separate lives. jeno’s not the same, and neither are you, not in the places that matter most. whatever you were to each other back then has blistered, scarred, grown teeth and now it bares them in silence. everyone’s scattered, tucked into cities like secrets you don’t say out loud: then comes the wedding…

chapter contents/warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), explicit language, first of the time jump chapters, if you haven’t read parts 1-7 please do, this chapter is a lot, a lot is happening, at the start it travels through different countries and plot arcs, i really can’t make this chapter contents and warnings long because everything i say is a spoiler, this chapter is filled with unexpected twists and turns, when i say it’s a lot, a lot happens, it’s filled with smut, angst, drama, i fear i’m gonna have a lot of jeno haters in my inbox before you send me anything please use your brain and do take into account context and the fact this is only the first chapter out of many time jump ones, a lot of sex in this, bye for now, i really can’t say anything else, let’s do a game every time something unexpected happens/is revealed then drop a comment and say woah! and then tell me what was revealed. lol. what i will say though is that there is a lot of scenes of both of them having sex with other people, not as in depth as i’d write y/n and jeno sex scenes but yeah i’m just warning you of that, remember everything will happen for a reason, plus miscommunication is huge this chapter but again remember it’s all for a reason !!! i know what im doing.

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

[fic ml]

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄

The sound hits before anything else—sharp exhales, the rustle of fabric, a muffled gasp that tightens in your throat before dissolving into a low groan. “Faster,” you whisper, heat prickling at the back of your neck, one hand braced against the edge of the lacquered table as your back arches. “God—right there, yes.”

Yangyang grunts behind you. His breath is hot, chest flush to your spine, arms moving fast. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and focused. “I’m almost done.”

You choke on a laugh, blinking sweat from your eyes as the stack of wedding favour bags collapses beside your elbow. “If you crease one more envelope, I swear—”

“Wasn’t me,” he says, biting down on a piece of twine, hands flying across the table to realign the seating cards you just spent two hours alphabetising. “That was the wind.”

“There’s no wind,” you snap, spinning on your heel to grab another tray. “We’re indoors.”

Yangyang groans behind you, swearing under his breath as he wrestles with the tangled satin ribbons, his knees skidding awkwardly on the tatami mat. “Stop moving,” he mutters, sweating as he chases the last of the place cards that slipped off the tray. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I said faster,” you repeat, breathless now—not from anything remotely sexual, but from the heat and sheer fury curling in your chest. You’re elbow-deep in wedding favours, fingers cramping from the hundredth bow, the twine burning grooves into your skin. The room smells like jasmine, incense, and wax—the holy trinity of headaches. Somewhere outside, a bell chimes. Somewhere inside, you’re losing your mind. “The guests will start arriving in twelve hours, Yangyang. We’re fucked.”

“Not in the way everyone thinks,” he says dryly, sliding a box of table numbers closer with his foot. “Do you know how bad this looks? You moaning my name in here like we’re bending each other over the bonsai.” He pauses. “Actually. That would’ve been more fun than this.”

You don’t even flinch. “If you’d just found the lavender pouches like I asked, I wouldn’t be moaning at all.”

“And yet, here we are. Fabric disaster.” He smirks. You glare. Your phone starts ringing—Irene lighting up the screen, her name sharp against the chaos. You pause. Wipe your hands on your shorts and answer like you haven’t been screaming about lavender bags for the past ten minutes.

“Please don’t kill me,” she says without preamble. “I forgot to confirm the shuttle times for the guests from Tokyo.”

You inhale. Deeply. You’ve done breathing exercises for moments like this. “It’s fine,” you say, already scrolling to the spreadsheet. “I’ll handle it.” And you do, you always do. Even as Yangyang knocks over the box of wedding fans. Even as the iced coffee you were saving for later leaks all over the seating chart. Even as the weight of it all—of who’s coming, of who you’ll have to see—sits heavy in your chest, like the thunderclouds rolling in over Kyoto’s hills. You were made for this. Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It started over brunch, of course. The café was still quiet at that hour, sunlight pouring through the skylight in soft, gold streaks that danced against the tabletop and the steam rising off your untouched coffee. Irene had ordered two of everything from the new summer menu — matcha croissants, watermelon burrata, a delicate lavender gelato she’d been developing for weeks — and insisted you try each one. You barely touched any of it. Your MacBook sat open beside your plate, Slack notifications ticking in the corner of the screen, a branding deck half-finished in one tab and three client calendars stacked in another. Your phone buzzed with back-to-back meeting alerts, and you only flipped it screen-down when the vibration made the utensils rattle. You hadn’t gone a day without your laptop in weeks, not since you stopped sleeping properly, not since work became your anchor, your escape. Not since the quiet started swallowing everything else.

Irene stirred her lavender honey tea like she was plotting a murder, gaze glassy and wide as she sighed for the third time in under a minute. Her voice was feather-light, deliberately casual. “It’s not that I’m not excited,” she murmured. “It’s just the café is expanding, the new lifestyle brand is still in launch mode, and Doyoung can’t even pick a tux without texting me six different shades of ivory.”

You glanced up from the moodboard open on your screen, chewing the inside of your cheek. You knew that tone. It was the same one she used when she pretended she hadn’t noticed you crying in the bathroom two months ago, mascara running down your face after a work meeting triggered a memory you weren’t ready for. The same tone she used when she handed you a hot water bottle without asking questions, when she told you — quietly, firmly — that love shouldn’t make you feel disposable. She hadn’t brought him up once since. Not even when your phone buzzed with his name and you let it ring out.

Now, she just kept stirring. “I mean, if I had someone — anyone — who understood my aesthetic and could actually handle things… maybe I wouldn’t be losing my mind.”

You reached for your iced matcha, brushing a stray flower petal off your keyboard. “Do you want help with this?” you said it lightly, trying to keep your voice even, like it wasn’t already forming a spreadsheet in your head. “I could step in. Coordinate it all. Take some of the pressure off you.”

Irene sipped her tea and smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just puppeteered the entire conversation to this exact point. “Would you? That would be amazing.” Just like that, you had agreed to plan a wedding for a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

Your day-to-day was chaos dressed in pressed linen and soft neutrals, polished down to the last eyelash. You were Apex’s Seoul golden girl—part performance analyst, part storyteller, part strategist. Your mornings started before the sun, black coffee clutched in one hand, your phone lighting up with messages from the New York and London offices. Performance briefs. Revision notes. Urgent client calls. Then it was pitches, creative boards, data crunching sessions, and the never-ending dance of managing three different teams who couldn’t design a graphic to save their lives. You moved through it all like you were untouchable—heels clicking against marble floors, your laptop always open, always glowing. You didn’t stop. Not when they offered you the Seoul office lead. Not when the sleepless nights bled into weekends. Not even after the one person you thought would stay didn’t.

Due to your intensive workload, the wedding planning started soft, like a breeze you could just about manage. Just a few notes, a few colour swatches tucked beside your spreadsheets but then Irene sent the moodboards, the venue options, the catering inquiries, the guest list. It got harder to juggle—your work calendar filled with international strategy meetings, your personal calendar overtaken by calligraphy samples and seating charts. You told yourself you’d pull the whole group in once things ramped up. You’d divide it all later—make Hyuck handle the audio, make Karina vet the florals, make Mark do something, anything but right now, in the early stages, you needed someone beside you. Someone who’d know how to keep up. Someone who could read your mind before the words even left your mouth. Someone who knew when to shut up, when to hold your bag, when to press an iced drink into your palm without needing to be asked. Someone sharp. Steady. Loyal. Strong hands. Fast reflexes. A little reckless. A littleobsessed. The kind of presence that could anchor you when you were slipping sideways.

Yangyang found you on a Tuesday. He always picked you up on Tuesdays. No matter how busy, no matter how bruised from whatever the week had already thrown at him, he was at your curb by 8:27 a.m, iced americano in the cupholder, and the passenger seat reclined just the way you liked it. It had started months ago, quietly, a simple offer when your car was in the shop, and then it just… never stopped. You never asked him to. He never asked why. Tuesdays just became yours.

You’d spend the whole day together. After the morning rush of client briefings and update calls, he’d drive you across the river to the flower markets, winding through alleys of scent and color so dense it made your eyes blur. You’d take meetings from the passenger seat, heels kicked off, laptop on your thighs, his voice occasionally dipping in over Bluetooth to ask if you wanted lunch from your usual spot. Sometimes you’d stop at the quiet café with the lemon trees, the one no one else seemed to know about, all gold-rimmed plates and vintage jazz, sun pooling against the floor like honey. You liked the quiet there. You could breathe there.

It was during one of those afternoons—table covered in linen swatches, your phone buzzing nonstop, your pulse matching it beat for beat—that you cracked. “I need help,” you murmured, not even looking up from your screen. “You’re my assistant now. You need to be on-call, twenty four seven, no questions asked.” 

“So… your right-hand man?” he tried, smirking. 

You handed him a colour-coded spreadsheet, a clipboard, and a box of ring samples. “More like a glorified delivery boy-slash-courier-slash-emotional support pet.” 

He grinned. “Commander.” You threw a napkin at his head but your mouth twitched, just a little. “This is cool. Do I get a name badge, or…?” You handed him your to-do list instead. He grinned. You didn’t. Not yet.

You tell yourself you’re fine. You tell yourself this is just a favour, just a project for people you love but you treat it like work, like a performance. Like it’s saving your life. Irene and Doyoung are more than friends, more than mentors — they’re family in every sense that matters and this wedding is the only thing that’s keeping your mind busy enough to not think about how quiet your phone’s been, or how many nights your bed feels colder than usual.

The next few months have been intense but intense for all the best reasons. Your dining table has transformed into a command center, completely buried beneath colour swatches, vendor contracts, print samples, open laptops, and paper tabs fanned out like an archive. One laptop is for Apex work, pitch decks, performance briefs, analytics in real time. The other’s solely for the wedding, where your Google Drive is a tangle of shared folders, PDFs, and inspiration decks you revise every other hour. There are sticky notes on every edge of every surface, pastel reminders, sarcastic affirmations, delivery deadlines, and one recurring note that just says ‘don’t forget to breathe.’

You’ve built a digital planner synced perfectly to your phone, laptop, and wall calendar. The hallway whiteboard tracks your master timeline, scrawled over in your handwriting, crossed out with pink markers, wiped and re-written week by week. Yangyang sometimes sneaks in his own notes on post-its — “breathe,” or “you're hot and scary.” It helps more than you’ll admit.

Your shared Google Sheets doc is the gospel of this wedding. Every name, every vendor, every deadline is logged and double-checked. The tabs are meticulous: bridal party assignments, contact lists, delivery estimates, payment schedules, seating chart drafts, colour palettes, outfit changes, honeymoon surprise ideas. There’s even a hidden tab, locked behind a password only you and Ningning know, it’s for her to keep track of the small things she’s planning just for you. The spreadsheet status bars shift colour with every change: yellow means pending, green is confirmed, red means someone’s about to die.

Seoul becomes your HQ. It makes the most sense. The team here is solid — the easiest to pin down, the ones you can meet face to face. Mark and Chenle are already synced to your schedule. Shotaro’s still a regular in your life, his downtown studio circuit. Areum’s is all over the world but she’s flying in for a few weeks. Yangyang’s always nearby, a natural extension of your thoughts. You don’t give him a list. He doesn’t need one. He’s already ten steps ahead of every potential disaster, you trained him well. 

You decide to start with the foundation. Seoul High. You haven’t been back since your high school days and the walk through its corridors feels like threading through a version of yourself you don’t recognise anymore. You flash your guest badge and don’t pause by the staircase where you once broke down after college applications. You don’t check the trophy case, though you feel the weight of every plaque etched with your name. The building smells like polished wood, floor wax, and teenage adrenaline. You walk fast. You stay focused.

The court is still the same — a little shinier, maybe but still echoing with sneakers and shouts. You spot them before they see you. Mark’s in a zip-up hoodie, whistle slung around his neck, guiding a drill set like a conductor in a low-tension symphony. His voice is steady, his gestures sharp, and the way the players respond, all instinct and respect, says everything. You knew he’d be good at this. Everyone did. Coach Suh had recommended him for the job personally after the state championship win. It was clear from the start that Mark was never going to play again. Not with his condition but coaching gave him something else, the same fire, just redirected. He brings order, confidence and patience without condescension. You can see it in the way he corrects a stance, the way his eyes follow a struggling player without judgment.

Chenle is all bite and energy. He heckles from the sidelines, tosses towels at the ones slacking, swears louder than any high school coach should. He makes them laugh, then calls them out before they get too comfortable. The kids love him. Fear him a little, too. Coach Lee, they call him, and it lands somewhere between affection and reverence. He paces with a clipboard but barely uses it. Everything he needs, he keeps in his head. After Mark took the coaching job at Seoul High, it didn’t take long for him to realise he needed backup—someone who could balance his calm with chaos, someone who could read the rhythm of a game and match it beat for beat. Chenle had been hanging around ever since the championship anyway, sometimes helping out unofficially, sometimes just watching. When Coach Suh floated the idea of an assistant, Mark didn’t hesitate. “I already know who I want,” he’d said. Chenle grinned when he heard. “Took you long enough.”

You don’t mean to make a scene but walking across the court feels like slicing through attention. It’s mid-practice, shoes squeaking, the echo of drills, Mark’s voice bouncing off the gym walls and somehow, even with all the noise, heads start turning. Mark sees you first, nodding with that easy calm of his. Chenle follows with a low whistle, already mouthing, “the real boss is here.”

But it’s one of the younger boys who breaks the quiet. He elbows the kid next to him, eyes wide. “Yo,” he whispers, not nearly quiet enough. “That’s her, right? Lee Jeno’s girl?” The name lands heavy—Lee Jeno. The golden boy. The hometown legend. His name still rings through these halls like gospel. His photos are framed near the entrance, jersey locked in a case by the locker room, highlight reels played like sacred tape. Everyone here knows who he is. And now, they know who you are too.

You just keep walking, clipboard tucked to your side, heels clicking with purpose. You’re not here to talk about the past, you’re here to get things done. You hand Mark a stapled packet of documents, cleanly bound with highlighters and tabs. Chenle gets the same. You’ve airdropped them into the shared spreadsheet too, the one tracking every moving part of this operation. Everyone’s name is there. So are the expectations.

Mark skims the title page. Wedding Contribution — Phase Timeline. His tasks are clear. Coordinate the groomsmen who are either based in Seoul or passing through, help Doyoung with vendor confirmations and schedule alignment the week of the wedding, assist with speech prep and support the transport arrangements for the groom’s side. It’s logistical, sensitive work. You trust him with it. Chenle gets the high-touch jobs. He’ll handle the Seoul welcome gift organisation, overseeing final wine and alcohol selections with Irene’s approval, and acting as a secondary review for the food and cake tasting rounds. He grins at the list like it’s a mission brief. “I’m customising the wine list,” he says without even asking. “It’s going to be taste-forward with a disrespectful finish. Can I add handwritten notes?”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to wear sunglasses down the aisle?”

You don’t blink. “You’ll receive a dress code packet by next week. Stick to it.”

The humour fades quickly. They can see it now, the steel in your eyes, the tension around your mouth. You’re not just organising a wedding. You’re holding yourself together with ribbons and planning boards and three-hour calls with Tokyo florists. You remind them that every task needs to be marked complete on the sheet. Delays will be flagged red and forwarded to Yangyang and there will be consequences. Changes must be justified and surprises will not be tolerated. They know what this means to you. They know it’s more than a wedding. It’s purpose. It's a distraction. It’s how you survive.

— 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋

𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈. 𝟐𝟓.𝟕𝟔𝟏𝟕° 𝐍, 𝟖𝟎.𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖° 𝐖

The sun bleeds down like punishment in Miami, thick with salt, sweat, and the sharp scent of ambition. Heat clings to the concrete, seeps into the walls, presses heavy against skin. Jeno’s on his third hour of drills, jersey soaked through, hands raw from the rim, shoulders twitching with tension beneath the glare. Inside, the gym hums like a machine — oxygen thin, music off, the air electric with grit and tempo. Metal clangs, rubber scrapes, bodies move like weapons. Reporters crowd outside the chain-link gates again. 

They aren’t supposed to be there, but they are—every day, pressed against the chain-link like breath on glass. Cameras raised, fingers twitching on shutters, mouths whispering his name like they’ve tasted it before. Jeno. Again. And again. The flash stings like sweat in his eyes. Some of them don’t even pretend to be press. Some of them just watch the way he moves, the way his shirt sticks to his spine. The way his hand wraps around the ball, low and possessive, like he knows they’re imagining it’s something else. It’s all part of the rhythm now—eyes on him, breath catching for him, wanting things from him they’ll never admit out loud. They call him the next LeBron, say he’s too clean, too good, too perfect to be real. 

He’s been moving since dawn, weights before sunrise, sprints until his lungs threaten collapse, then drills so brutal the assistant coach mutters ‘obsessive’ without looking up. Jeno doesn’t flinch, he just pushes harder, faster, like speed might outrun the noise building in his head. Every pivot of his body is clean, sharp, merciless. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, slides down the defined cut of his spine, disappearing beneath the elastic of his shorts. His muscles twitch with leftover adrenaline, glint with heat. He’s bleeding again—palms raw, scraped open from a rim that doesn’t bend but he doesn’t tape it. He simply doesn’t ever stop. The scouts on the balcony haven’t looked away in hours. It’s not until the buzzer sounds—shrill, final, like a gavel—that he pauses. Just for a second. He drags the back of his hand over his jaw, exhales hard through his nose, and steps outside.

The air hits like breath held too long. Miami is thick with salt and asphalt, sun hanging low and mean in the sky. Heat rises in waves off the pavement, wraps around his frame like a dare. The kind of heat that slows the world but never touches him. His shirt clings to every line of him—broad chest, slick waist, thighs taut beneath thin fabric. His lungs expand slowly. The glare cuts across his vision, gulls shrieking somewhere in the distance, the city’s pulse bleeding through basslines and echoing horns. Behind him, the court’s tucked behind a private training facility, hidden by palm trees and a perimeter of security guards who pretend they don’t see the cameras anymore. The sky’s bruised blue, water glinting beyond the skyline, and for the first time all morning, Jeno lets himself stop moving.

His phone buzzes once. Then again. Notifications pile up—Nike’s activation team, HYBE’s sponsorship clause, a sportswear editor asking for exclusive rights to his first post season cover. Then the group chat: someone sent a villa photo, everyone’s arriving. The messages stack like bricks in his chest, he doesn’t open them. Then the air shifts behind him. Warm. Sweet. A sugary presence trickling slow, thick as syrup down his spine, filling the space with the kind of perfume that doesn’t just smell expensive—it insists on being noticed.

Sunlight glints off the gold buckle first—small, expensive, made to be noticed. Her step follows, sharp and practiced, each tap against the concrete like punctuation. The heel that follows is high, sculpted, unmistakable—Gianvito Rossi, limited drop, the kind made for soft power plays and slow exits. Her glossed legs gleam with sunscreen and something showier, a tan meant for camera flashes, for curated story posts and behind-the-scenes tags. She moves like the heat was made for her, all swishy florals and bare midriff, the hem of her skirt teasing the edge of decency. Hair half-up with strands curled just enough to look effortless, even though it took forty-five minutes and a Dyson Airwrap. Her bracelets jingle when she shifts her grip on the coconut water bottle, condensation sliding down her fingers like a curated drip campaign. She doesn’t walk—she performs. Like this sidewalk is a runway and the only thing missing is a filter. Daddy’s credit card might’ve built the aesthetic but the delusion is all her own. When she speaks, her voice lands slow and sweet, syrup-thick over his shoulder.

“You’re getting better,” she says, slow and purring, like the words are something to lick off her tongue. “Even the coaches are watching different now. Though, to be fair…” —her eyes drag down the slick stretch of his torso, pausing at the dip of his waist— “I’ve been watching like that since day one.”

He still doesn’t look at her, just lets the corner of his mouth twitch like he might smile, but doesn’t. “You watch a lot,” he says, voice rough with heat. “Can’t tell if you’re studying my form or just trying to fuck it.”

She laughs—high, bright, too sweet for the weight of the heat—and steps closer, coconut water swinging from her fingers like it’s part of the performance. “Who says I can’t do both?” Her nails trail lightly down his bicep, catching on the sweat-slicked curve of muscle. “Your form’s looking real good this week. Especially from behind.”

His grip tightens at her waist, not with hunger but habit—like the body remembers even when the mind’s already halfway gone. He drags his gaze up, finally meeting her eyes, and there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at her, like he’s searching for a face she doesn’t wear. “You’re always watching,” he says, voice husky, indifferent. “Guess I should give you a show.” His thumb grazes her side, slow, suggestive, but he’s already looking away again—like it didn’t matter, like none of it does.

Her lashes flick once, the silence stretched too tight between them. For a second, something falters—her voice, her smile, the sugary shine of her lip gloss. Like she heard what he didn’t say louder than what he did. It passes quick, smoothed over by instinct, replaced with a bright little hum and the soft click of her bracelets as she moves. She steps closer, one heel sliding between his sneakers like it belongs there. Her crop top shifts higher, the hem teasing rib, and her perfume clings thick to the humid air—vanilla, sunscreen, wealth. “You’re bleeding,” she murmurs, head tilting, gaze falling to the scrapes across his knuckles. Her voice is softer now, almost careful, like she’s performing concern. “You really should let someone take care of that.”

His gaze drops to his hand like he hadn’t noticed, then flicks back to her without much interest. “Doesn’t bother me.” His voice is dry, heat-worn, too slow to be gentle, too fast to be soft. He flexes his fingers once, knuckles red and torn. “Pain’s part of it.”

She blinks. He doesn’t give her more than that—just rolls his wrist, wipes the blood with the hem of his shirt, and keeps his eyes on her like he’s still deciding if she’s even real or just something that showed up with the heat. “You offering?” he adds, finally, but there’s no curiosity in it. Just something dark and slow curling beneath the words, like he already knows she will. Like he’s waiting to see what she’ll do with that knowing.

She nods once, a little too slow, like she’s choosing not to take offense. Her glossed lips curve into a smile anyway, all polished pink and nothing behind it. Then she turns. The sway in her step is exaggerated—calculated—the kind of walk that knows it’s being watched. Skirt too short, hips tilting with every bounce, the Gianvito Rossis clicking like punctuation against the concrete as she heads toward the gated side entrance to the court. Jeno’s eyes follow without moving, jaw tight, knuckles still red. She swipes in with her pass—official, laminated, hanging off a lanyard that matches her manicure. She shouldn’t have it, not technically, not for the kind of access she uses it for but she asked the right people the right way, smiled in the right meetings, and now no one questions it. It swings lightly against her skirt as she pushes through the door, the scanner beeping soft and obedient. She belongs just enough to be let through.

Inside, the court smells like sweat and pine polish, the echo of sneakers still ringing against the high ceilings. She moves fast, like she’s done it before—cuts down the hall past weight racks and towel carts, reaches for a metal cabinet tucked beneath the trainer’s table. Grabs gauze, rubbing alcohol and a cold pack that’s still fogged with freezer burn. Outside, the sun keeps beating down like it’s angry. Jeno stays where he is, the taste of heat in his mouth, sweat drying slow along the sharp lines of his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch when the camera shutters snap from the gates. They’re further away now—hired guards keeping the fence clear but not far enough. A long-lens clicks like a gun cocking. Someone whispers his name like it’s currency. He doesn’t blink. He’s used to being a headline but today—he feels seen. In the wrong way.

She comes back with a quiet kind of triumph in her step, the little white packet swinging from her fingers like it’s an accessory. “Found it,” she chirps, eyes scanning his frame like it’s a checklist. “Sit still.” Her tone tries for sweet, but lands somewhere closer to scripted. She crouches down in front of him and uncaps the bottle with a dramatic little twist of her wrist. The alcohol stings before it touches skin. Sharp and sterile, it clouds the air like antiseptic breath, drowning out the sweat and heat of Miami. She doesn’t warn him, just dabs—too hard, too fast, like she’s racing a clock he doesn’t feel ticking. “This’ll only hurt for a second,” she adds with a smile that’s too white, too practiced, like she’s mimicking a memory that never belonged to her.

The gauze is thin, too thin, catching on the jagged edge of Jeno's knuckle as she dabs too hard. Her nails skim the scrape with the wrong kind of pressure—a stumble masked as care. She crouches in front of him like it’s choreographed, knees together, back too straight, posture too pretty. The bottle of coconut water she left on the bench sweats against the concrete, forgotten.

Jeno watches her fingers move. Not because they soothe him, they don’t. The tape sticks unevenly, one side too loose, the other tugging skin. She doesn’t notice. She presses it down, blows softly over the gauze like a gesture from a script—slow, breathy, off. Her voice follows, sweet and saccharine, all pastel and gloss. “Hold still.” It lands like static. Like the wrong frequency.

His hand flexes out of instinct. Not pain. Just to feel it. Just to know he still can. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, lost in the damp curls at his nape. She touches his jaw next. Fingertips brushing under his chin like it means something. It doesn’t. Her thumb ghosts over his cheekbone. Too careful. Too slow. Like she’s playing at tenderness.

His eyes don’t meet hers. They drift. Past her shoulder. Past the open court gate, to the row of paparazzi huddled behind the fencing, lenses trained on his skin like they have a right to it. The click of a shutter cuts the air. She leans closer like she thinks this looks like love. Jeno exhales, shallow. His gaze drops to the condensation sliding down his Gatorade bottle. One finger taps against it. Once. Twice.

“You’re bleeding more than I thought,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t lean in or shift to help her, doesn’t even tilt his wrist to make the angle easier. Just lets her crouch between his legs, letting her fingers ghost over his skin. His shoulders stay back against the bench, spine straight, muscles slack. One knee bent, the other stretched long like he might stand at any second, like none of this requires his full attention. When her thigh brushes his, he doesn’t react. When her palm settles warm against the inside of his forearm, he stays still, eyes somewhere else entirely. 

Her perfume clings to the air, sweet and cloying, too thick for the heat, like sugar left to rot. He breathes through it like smoke, slow and quiet, like it might choke him if he lets it in too deep. Her voice comes next, soft and saccharine, barely more than a whisper. “Do you want me to stay?” she asks, and he doesn’t answer. He never does. She takes the silence as consent—she always does. When she kneels in front of him again, hands too gentle, too staged, he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch when she says, “Baby,” like it means something. Like it’s ever meant anything. His jaw ticks, sharp and sudden and still, he says nothing.

Eventually, they move without speaking. Not together, not quite apart—just a shift. She rises, dusts off her skirt with delicate, unnecessary flicks of her fingers, and turns toward the side patio where the sun hits harder and the benches are half-shaded beneath a string of fraying parasols. He follows, slower, towel draped over his shoulders, the back of his shirt clinging to skin still damp from drills. There’s a silence between them, familiar now. Performed comfort. Distance masked as ease.

She settles beside him like they do this all the time. Crosses one leg over the other, slides her phone out like she’s been waiting for the right moment. Her drink is sweating in her other hand, pink and sugary, glass clinking against her glossed nails. Then she scrolls. Eyes flicking fast. Brows lifting once before she makes a soft sound in her throat. The screen glows white between them. “Flight confirmation came through,” she says, casually, placing her phone face down between them like it doesn’t matter, like she hadn’t been waiting for the email all morning. “We leave in four days. Crazy, right?” Her voice lilts upward like it’s small talk, like she isn’t talking about the wedding. She rests a hand lightly on his knee, fingers grazing the fabric of his shorts like she’s done it a thousand times. Like it’s muscle memory, like it means anything.

A beat passes. Then, too breezily: “So everyone’s flying out next week, huh? I can’t believe they’re actually pulling it off. It’s giving… delusion, but make it expensive.”

She glances at him sideways but he says nothing. Just reaches for his towel and wipes his jaw. She leans in a little, letting her shoulder brush his and keeps going, voice dipped in sugar. “You know they put her in charge, right?” she asks, studying the condensation on her glass like it’s fascinating. “Like, full-on wedding planner. I mean, of course they did. She always loved… control.” Her smile flashes but doesn’t reach her eyes. “I just think it’s kind of cute. The way everyone’s pretending it’s normal.”

His laugh is quiet, barely there, more breath than sound. He finally turns, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, eyes lazy and unreadable. “You rehearsed that?” he says, towel still hanging off one shoulder, tone all mock curiosity. “Sounded like you practiced in the mirror.” He doesn’t wait for her response—just smirks, slow and condescending, then looks away again like she’s already forgotten. Like the conversation was background noise. Like she is.

Her smile sharpens, but her posture tightens too—legs crossing, nails tapping against her glass. “You really think I care that much?” she adds, but it lands too quick, too defensive. He still doesn’t look at her. That’s what stings the most.

She shifts, letting her knee bump against his, as if to remind him she’s still there. Takes another sip, her lip gloss clinging to the straw in a soft, sticky sheen. Her voice drops into something quieter, trying too hard to sound casual. “I heard they’re doing an ivory theme,” she says, studying the condensation sliding down her cup. Then she laughs, light and edged. “Bold choice. It’s so… forgiving.”

Forgiving, like erasing the mess without cleaning it. Like pretending nothing ever broke to begin with. The word lingers, soft but surgical, and her voice makes it sound like the whole wedding is a facade—something fractured, dressed up in florals and fairy lights, hoping no one notices the cracks. Her hand stays on his knee, thumb beginning to move in slow, practiced circles, like she thinks softness can distract from the incision like sugar can smother something bitter.

She doesn’t let it go. Even when the conversation veers, even when Jeno doesn’t reply, she finds a way to circle back—back to you. Obsessive, like a compulsion she can’t dress up pretty. “I mean… credit where it’s due, right? She’s practically running the whole thing. You’d think she’s the one getting married.”

She laughs like it’s harmless, like it’s funny but the edge is deliberate. She wants him to laugh with her, to turn it into a joke. He doesn’t. “She’s good at what she does,” Jeno says in a measured tone. His grip on the towel adjusts—once, then again—like something crawled under his skin and he’s trying not to show it. His jaw ticks, just barely, and he breathes through his nose, slow and deliberate, like his body’s answering to a name no one said out loud. She doesn’t catch it, or pretends not to but something in him shifts, sharp and sensual, the way memory gets under the ribs when it wants to hurt. The heat settles into his bones as her voice fades out like background noise. The only thing that stays is the ghost of yours, still threaded somewhere in the silence.

She blinks once, lashes sweeping slow, then tilts her head like she’s just now thinking it through. “Right. No, totally. It’s just… isn’t it weird? Helping plan a wedding for your family? Like—there’s moving on, and then there’s this.” The words are wrapped in sugar, but the shape of them cuts. She’s fishing for something sharp, something bitter, something he won’t give her.

He doesn’t react the way she wants. His voice is steady, low. “She’s close with Irene.”

She lifts a brow, sips again like it’s casual. “Sure, but—”

“She’s always been,” Jeno says, cutting her off clean. There’s no edge to his tone, but something presses under it—something quiet and certain. “Since we were kids. I barely saw them growing up. If anything, Irene and Doyoung… they’re her family. Not mine.” It lands heavier than it sounds. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t soften it. Just leaves the truth suspended between them, untouched. 

Still, she leans in closer, holding her hands up in mock offence. Her voice dips, lower, syrupy. “I’m just saying… if someone wanted attention, this would be the perfect way to get it. Front and center. Perfect lighting. Narrative control. “It’s cute though, the effort.” She says, tracing the rim of her drink with a manicured nail, voice coated in feigned warmth. “Everyone thinks she’s so selfless now but she always knew how to make herself unforgettable. Even when she wasn’t invited.” Her words land soft but bruising, silk-wrapped shrapnel. She’s talking about you like a ghost that refuses to stay dead. Like you haunt every room she walks into, like it drives her mad that you still do.

Jeno finally turns. Cool, quiet, controlled. “You don’t have to talk about her.” His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t shift. Just a simple truth laid bare. 

Her shoulder jerks, a twitch more than a flinch, and then she’s tossing her hair like it didn’t happen, all glossy dismissal and glittering deflection. “Oh my god, Jeno,” she huffs, voice pitched high, laugh bursting out too fast, too bright, cracking on the edges. “You always do this. You act like I’m the bad guy just because I say what everyone else is thinking.” Her smile wobbles, tight and trembling, gloss catching in the sun like it’s trying to outshine the moment. Then her voice drops, lips barely moving, a whisper dipped in venom: “Maybe the truth’s just too much when it’s about her.”

His eyes meet hers, flat and unreadable, his expression deadpan in the way that makes silence feel louder than words. “That’s enough,” he says, low and final, not a flicker of hesitation in his tone. His grip on the towel tightens once, a slow flex like he’s anchoring himself, then loosens just as calmly. He doesn’t look at her again. The air around them shifts, colder now, as if she said one thing too many. Then, quieter—but not softer—“Also, you weren’t directly invited, not her.” A pause, loaded and brutal. “You’re just my plus one.”

Her smile doesn’t break, but it calcifies. All teeth, too wide, too still. “Right. Of course.” Her voice is airy, but the grip on her drink tightens, knuckles whitening. Her other hand curls tight around her phone, nails digging in like it’s the only thing tethering her. She looks away, fast, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t hear it or feel it.

She lets out a breathy laugh, one that tries too hard to sound amused but lands sharp, brittle. “Whatever,” she mutters, gaze still fixed somewhere far from him. “She’s probably already rehearsing her little speech for the welcome dinner. You know how she gets—every sentence a performance, every smile rehearsed. Like if she’s perfect enough, people might forget what she’s really like.” Her tone tilts saccharine again, but it’s edged with something colder now, like she’s carving your name into glass just to watch it crack.

Jeno exhales slowly, spine straight, shoulders squared. Sweat still gleams down the slope of his neck. He looks devastating—abs drawn tight beneath the drop of his tank, jaw ticking once like he’s done being generous. Patience thinning to a thread. He turns, eyes locking on her with a cold, razor-sharp kind of calm. His voice lands like a low cut of thunder. Clipped. Controlled. Deadpan.

“Nahyun.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn't need to. The sound alone silences everything else. “Shut up.”

She tries to laugh, lashes fluttering like it’s all a joke, like he’s just being sensitive. Her glossed lips pout, practiced. She shifts her weight, shoulder brushing his, tone airy like it never meant anything but he isn’t looking at her anymore. He already said everything he had to and she doesn’t realise the irony in her words. 

She’s everywhere before you even realize she’s arrived — seeping into the space like mold under fresh paint. Nahyun doesn’t enter the picture. She spreads. Quiet, curated, deliberate, slipping into every frame he leaves behind and feeding on the warmth of what used to be yours. She showed up not long after he did — weeks, maybe less. No announcement. No reason anyone questioned. She doesn’t just appear in the scene—she’s embedded. She’s made herself visible in all the ways that count, carefully angled selfies at preseason stadiums, sunset-filtered lattes tagged with vague PR captions, her name attached to a West Coast branding firm that just so happens to handle the media for his team. Every curated post screams professionalism, hustle, that ‘influencer-turned-industry-girl aesthetic.’ Early call time, she writes, under photos with blurred locker room lighting in the background, grinding behind the scenes. The kind of hustle that makes it easy for people to believe she belongs there.

And technically—she does. It’s a real internship, a rising firm, the kind of placement that makes sense on paper. The kind of story you don’t question unless you know what you’re looking for, unless you know her because the truth isn’t in the headlines or her captions. It’s in the patterns. The timing. How her work hours keep aligning perfectly with his practice blocks. How she’s always there when she shouldn’t be — lingering courtside, laughing with staff, casually bumping into his teammates like she belongs. There are whispers. Jokes in the locker room. “PR girl’s got a type.” “The rookie and the rebrand.” Nothing confirmed, but enough smirks to sting. Because she’s not subtle — not in the way she watches him, or the way she always makes sure she’s seen leaving five minutes after him, never with him, but close enough to imply.

Jeno never denies it but he never takes ownership either. He doesn’t claim her, doesn’t offer an explanation, doesn’t correct the assumption when her name gets paired with his like it’s always been inevitable. He says nothing, and silence, in a world built on optics, is permission. That’s all she needed. He let her orbit, let her thread herself through the edges of his story until her presence stopped being questioned. Familiarity disguised itself as legitimacy. Frame by frame, she sank in. He never reached for her, never asked her to stay but he didn’t push her out either. It was convenient. Quiet. Predictable. Maybe that felt safer than the chaos he’d spent the last year trying to bury. The smile she wore for the cameras never demanded anything real. It asked nothing of his past, touched none of the wounds he hadn’t finished closing. Letting her linger felt manageable. Like proximity without consequence. Like staying untouched. But there she was—still in his city, still in his timeline, her voice just loud enough to press against the silences he never learned how to fill, her laugh brushing the edges of rooms she never earned, her gloss still catching light like it belonged beside him.

But the truth always burns through fabric like that because here she is. West coast. By his side. In every whispered update. In every new clip. In the photo someone sends you late at night — stadium lights blurring behind her, his jersey visible in the corner, and her hand on a railing that’s too close to his. There’s no caption, no tag, no official claim — just a pattern that settles too easily into place, and a silence that makes the implication undeniable. It’s her. She’s the one they see beside him now, the one in the background of photos and the blur of updates, the one whose presence is never explained because it doesn’t need to be. No one questions it. No one asks. He’s given them nothing to doubt and in the absence of truth, assumption takes root. She’s not just nearby anymore. She’s embedded, threaded into the narrative so seamlessly that people have already decided she belongs. Her presence is interpreted as fact, as permanence, as proof of something that was never real and in letting her linger, he’s allowed the world to forget what was. She’s become part of the story and in doing so, you’ve been erased from it.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

‘The city that never sleeps’ doesn’t enter — it erupts. A sharp-boned rhythm cracked into pavement and glass, all reflex and teeth, more heartbeat than skyline. New York doesn’t wait for you, she dares you to keep up. The subway howls beneath her ribcage, a mechanical scream lost in warped speaker static. Steam coils through sidewalk grates like breath from the underworld. Someone’s yelling about rent. Someone’s running late. Someone’s ringtone ricochets off the mirrored walls of Madison Avenue, cutting through the screech of brakes and the splash of rainwater that stains a stranger’s trousers dark. Taxi doors slam. Heels slap. A paper coffee cup topples into the gutter, foam bleeding out like it didn’t survive the commute.

Behind glass, a boutique window glows pale gold. Your name sits inked in looping script on a clipboard, fogged by the breath of someone pausing too long outside. Somewhere, a playlist skips. Somewhere else, a florist spirals over a last-minute correction: Ivory roses — not white, not off-white, not blush — Ivory. The whole city buzzes — not welcoming, daring. Neon bleeds under fire escapes. Reflections layer over reflections. No one’s looking at each other, but everyone’s seen. New York doesn’t hold space. She throws elbows. And still, somehow, she asks: who’s showing up next? She swings the door wide and waits to see who has the nerve to walk through.

Across the river, the hospital’s lights don’t flicker, not once. Not even when the power grid coughs or the subway below snarls through its steel throat. The trauma wing breathes in static and antiseptic and Jaemin moves through it like it owes him something. He hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. His badge is flipped backward, his pager’s been screeching since 4 a.m., and he’s been running on vending machine espresso shots and whatever adrenaline comes from watching yet another intern drop a chart. There’s a bloodstain drying at the hem of his left sleeve, not his, not fatal but close. The kind that makes your breath hold for just a second too long before you start moving again. His scrubs are light blue, wrinkled from hours curled in the corner of the on-call room, collar tugged slightly askew where his stethoscope’s rubbed a red line across his neck.

He doesn’t say anything about the earlier flight he booked. Doesn’t mention that he paid extra to bump his seat, just in case. Just in case you need someone to deal with logistics, to spot whatever last-minute breakdown Karina’s too tightly wound to acknowledge, to carry whatever needs carrying without asking for details. The wedding isn’t his problem but somehow he’s in it, already running damage control from the nurses’ station, his phone buzzing with the group chat every ten minutes.

When Karina FaceTimes him, he’s crouched in the corner of the staff lounge, coat draped over one knee, bowtie half-crushed in the pocket of his jacket like he forgot he shoved it there after last week’s wedding consult. “Still alive,” he mutters when the screen lights up. His voice is hoarse, eyes low. He’s handsome in that devastating, end-of-rope way, jaw tight, hair curled slightly at the edges from dried sweat, knuckles red where he’s pressed them into too many sharp corners tonight. “Barely. What’s on fire now?”

Bright light slices across a glass wall. Somewhere, a drip monitor beeps. Elsewhere, steam curls from the mouth of a kettle, lilac-infused — the kind of quiet detail that lands soft, like silk against bare skin, like the clink of ice in crystal, like the hush that falls when velvet curtains pull back and everything finally holds its breath. From the fluorescent hum of Jaemin’s trauma wing, it cuts to SoHo: pale morning light spilling across polished concrete, the hum of a steamer exhaling into air perfumed with jasmine, starch, and money. Karina doesn’t walk so much as glide, her heels like punctuation, each step crisp, precise, rehearsed. She’s draped in espresso-brown tailoring and attitude, one AirPod in, phone balanced between shoulder and jaw as she barks into a call, her other hand finessing the fall of a train stitched from seven layers of raw silk and attitude. A seamstress flinches as she mutters, “No, no, that’s not draped. That’s depression.”

She doesn’t have time to be active on the group chat, she sends PDFs, moodboards and reference videos with subject lines like ‘Fix the neckline or I’ll fix you.’ She’s not just handling the aisle, she’s commanding it. Florals, dresses, visual flow—Karina’s running point on the entire aesthetic, and she’s treating it like a full-scale campaign. Two florists are already gone, a third on thin ice. “Ivory garden roses,” she snaps into the phone, “not cream. not blush. not fucking pastel. If it looks like a Pinterest board, I’m setting the truck on fire.”

Karina moves like she owns the building, heels slicing clean across polished concrete, the scent of steamed silk and fresh florals thick in the air. Racks curve around her like soldiers, each one hung with gowns in various states of becoming—draped, pinned, ghostlike. A model in the corner lifts her arms to be fitted, ribs too sharp beneath the muslin, and Karina’s eyes cut straight through the stitch count. She stops, takes one look. “Absolutely not,” she says, voice sharp enough to snap the thread. “There’s no way she gets on the aisle unless she gains ten pounds minimum. She looks unhealthy.” Someone tries to argue—mentions the brand image, the silhouette—and Karina doesn’t blink. “Brainstorm better,” she snaps, walking again, tossing a tablet into her assistant’s hands without breaking stride. “Anorexia is a disease. It is not a fashion statement.” The words echo down the hall behind her, clean and brutal and right.

The buzz of Karina’s studio fades with the slam of a service elevator, silk replaced by static. Below street level, in the undercurrent hum of the West Village, the sound changes — tighter, colder, sharper. The studio is always cold. Air-conditioned even in winter. Red light blinking over the door, mic cables coiled like snakes across the floor, the air sharp with metal and neon and leftover espresso. Donghyuck has his sneakers kicked under the desk and a soundboard covered in stickers he refuses to peel off. The West Village radio station hums underground, a hybrid space for sports coverage, live broadcasts, and the kind of voice that makes people listen.

His voice is velvet on-air — smooth, smug, a little dangerous. He specializes in basketball but covers everything, his commentary clean and just a little too intimate. He reports on Jeno’s games often. Too often. His co-hosts tease him for it but he always shrugs, saying it’s just a story worth following. He’s got a deep-dive series in the works: State Champs: Where Are They Now. Everyone knows who the girl was. He never says your name. He doesn’t have to.

For the wedding, he’s soundtracking everything. Mics, transitions, audio cues, the whole sound design. It started as a joke in the group chat, someone asking who’d handle the playlist, and Donghyuck just replied with a Spotify link and “grow up, it’s already done.” But he meant it. He’s treating it like a live broadcast, timing the walk-ins, syncing the toast transitions, even building custom fades between the speeches and the music. The audio is his domain and no one questioned it. Not when his transitions sound better than most DJs’ entire sets. Not when he’s the only one who knows how to make silence feel like tension.

The city doesn’t slow but somehow their paths keep narrowing. Everything pulses back to you. It’s not something they name out loud—not on the hospital calls or the group chat threads, not when they run into each other outside studios or across subway platforms but it’s there. Woven between errands, sitting on speakerphones, scrawled on a dry-erase board. Your name. A note. A list. A label tucked into the lining of a dress bag. The wedding is the thread that pulls them together. The one constant between who they were and who they’re becoming. Even now, scattered across cities, exhausted and late and carrying more than they’ll admit, they orbit you. They always have and maybe they never stopped.

Jaemin’s already on his second espresso when the installation gets pushed again, a quiet “emergency” from the perfumier’s assistant that comes with a new address and an invite-only pass. The exhibit’s final run-through—his custom memory-triggered scent piece for Irene and Doyoung’s ceremony—had been delayed three times already and now it’s being shown at a gallery just blocks from SoHo, the same night Karina’s studio stays open late for fittings, the same fabric sculptor, the same scent dispersal system mapped through both the dress and the air. He doesn’t need directions. He knows where to find her, it can’t be coincidence. 

She’s above the gallery, same street, top floor, tucked behind a narrow iron staircase and a buzzer that never works on the first try. The atelier hums with quiet insistence, lit from within like a dream someone refused to wake from. Long bolts of fabric hang like smoke from ceiling hooks, ivory tulle layered over translucent mesh, stitched with thread so fine it catches light but not shadow. Mannequins line the far wall, each one mid-transformation, one torso draped in unfinished pleats, another half-skirted, pinned tight at the hip, the train cascading in slow ripples toward the polished floor. A single gown stands in the center, raised on a platform and cordoned off with chalk marks—Irene’s dress. It gleams like a secret: structured bodice, sweetheart neckline, sleeves sheer with microbead embroidery that catches the light like snowfall. The pressure-reactive silk is already mapped into the hem, designed to bloom in motion, the fabric shifting faintly as Karina moves past it, breathless and barefoot, her heels kicked into the corner hours ago.

This is where she’s been living. Not just working—living. The studio smells like steam, jasmine and stress. Notes scrawled in eyeliner pencil line the mirrors. Pins litter the floor. A folder labelled‘Final Edits: Bridesmaid Dresses’ lies open on the cutting table, a swatch of palest green pressed between its pages. She hasn’t slept properly in days, but her winged eyeliner is still pristine. Her hair’s up with a pencil through it. She’s muttering about waist-to-hip ratio to no one, tugging a seam taut with her teeth gritted, when she hears the door open behind her.

At first, she doesn’t notice. She’s mid-call with the florist again, threatening bloodshed over ivory roses, one hand holding a tablet, the other smoothing the bodice of Irene’s gown. It’s not until he says her name—“Rina.”—that she freezes, shoulders tightening, breath catching not with surprise but something sharper, something threaded with memory. She turns. Slowly. Like she already knows. And when she sees him she screams, a sharp, giddy sound that escapes before she can catch it. The tablet clatters onto the table as she launches across the room, bare feet sliding over satin scraps, arms thrown around his neck in a single, reckless motion. He catches her—of course he does—laughing under his breath as she wraps around him like she’s missed every version of him she didn’t get to see. The late nights, the New York air, the fucking glow.

“God, you look—” she starts, then stops, biting back the rest of the sentence as her eyes drag over the sharp collar of his shirt, the chain peeking just beneath the top button, the sleeves cuffed at his forearms like he knew exactly what he was doing. He smells like city air and aftershave, like he’s been walking too fast through Manhattan in the rain. Her gaze dips. “You’re ridiculous. You show up looking like that and expect me to work?”

He laughs under his breath, stepping in closer, tilting his head. “Didn’t realise there was a dress code for surprising you.”

“There is,” she says, fingers curling in his shirt. “It’s called uglier than me. You’re in violation.”

“Then arrest me.”

“I might,” she says, a slow grin curling. “After I’m done staring.”

He nods toward the gown behind her. “That for Irene?”

She nods, slow and a little smug, eyes flicking back toward the gown like it’s something sacred. “You like it?” she asks, voice lower now, softer—giddy without meaning to be.

He takes a step closer, gaze steady on the gown, then back to her. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing in this room,” he says, voice low, then adds without missing a beat, “and the dress isn’t bad either.”

She laughs, soft and stunned, the kind that slips out before she can stop it. Her fingers tug at the edge of her sleeve like she needs somewhere to place the blush rising to her cheeks. “Don’t do that,” she says, voice breathless, eyes flicking to his with something sharp and fond behind them. “You’re gonna make me ruin the hem.”

“Wow,” Donghyuck says flatly—voice slicing through the silk and candlelight like a shoe squeaking on polished floors. They both turn. He’s been there the whole time, half-obstructed by a clothing rack draped in veils, earbuds in, eyebrows raised like he’s just walked in on something sacred. One hand holding a mic pack. The other? A half-eaten macaron he clearly regrets biting into. “Should I leave?” he asks, expression unreadable. “Or do you want me to grab a ring light so the proposal hits with better lighting?”

“Were you—how long—”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he waves vaguely toward the back wall, where his mic bag and half-charged laptop are slumped on a couch. “I’ve just been sitting here for three hours, recording ambient audio. Got a full thirty minutes of you whispering ‘no, tighter, right there’ while pinning a hemline. You’re welcome.”

Karina groans, covering her face. Jaemin just laughs, strides over and pulls him into a firm, back-thumping hug. “You’re still annoying as shit.”

Donghyuck grins, one arm still holding the mic bag like it’s precious cargo. “And you still smell like hospital soap and heartbreak. God, I missed you.” He barely finishes the sentence before he pulls Jaemin in tight, knocking their heads together with the kind of affection that always arrives dressed as an insult. Then he turns to Karina, arms already open, smirking like he’s waited all day to be insufferable. “C’mere, you couture dictator.” She rolls her eyes but lets herself be hugged, softening for half a second as his hand swats dramatically at her lower back. “Damn, did he finally wear you down?” he says, glancing between them. “You two were eye-fucking so loud I thought I’d walked into an 18+ installation.”

They don’t answer him. Just groan in tandem like they’ve done this before—like Donghyuck always shows up exactly when tension starts to tilt toward undressing. Karina snorts, pinning the final silk rosette to a sleeve cuff with a motion that says she’s heard worse, stayed up later, and once threatened a groomsman for calling ivory “off-white.” They work late into the night, tension folding into routine. Karina crouches barefoot on the floor with pearl pins between her teeth, threading in the last of the scent-reactive filament across Irene’s veil. She’s meticulous, wrist aching, eye twitching but it’s almost done. The bridesmaid dresses are already steamed and sleeved, pressed against mannequins like ghosts in waiting. The gown stands in the middle like a monument. Jaemin moves between tables, checking the alignment of the scent diffusers he’s helped install at each step point of the aisle—a final calibration of triggers synced to memory-coded dispersion. When the bride walks, the scent will bloom in stages: gardenia first, then wild jasmine, and last, a faint trace of hinoki wood—Doyoung’s cologne, from the first night he met Irene. Jaemin calls it science. Karina calls it witchcraft. You call it magic. 

Donghyuck’s in the corner with headphones on, fine-tuning the sound transitions between the ceremony and reception. He loops in the intro track—soft strings giving way to a voiceover. Irene’s. Then Doyoung’s. Then a moment of silence, cued by a heartbeat. Then laughter—yours, threaded faintly under the first beat drop. It’s audio alchemy, and he’s splicing it like a love confession nobody knows they’re hearing. “I’m trying to make people cry before the fucking vows,” he mutters, dragging a slider forward, “because if they don’t cry then, it’s too late.” 

After a few more hours of finishing touches—Karina adjusting the final hemline on Irene’s dress with a threaded needle clenched between her teeth, Jaemin running calibration tests on the scent release timing for the memory installation, and Donghyuck wiring the ceremony mic transitions to sync perfectly with his playlist cues—the night starts to bleed at the edges. Their limbs are aching, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy with the kind of exhaustion that clings to your bones. Then, without speaking, they head upstairs.

The rooftop is always open. Karina calls it the best place in the studio—somewhere between an escape hatch and a sanctuary. No gowns, no fittings, no tech glitches or audio loops. Just open air and skyline. A place to exhale. To forget the lists and check-ins and tight deadlines for one breathless second. So they go up, one by one, paper cups in hand, stolen wine sloshing gently at their sides. The city waits for them at the edge of the railings, neon and beautiful and far too alive for how fucking tired they are.

The rooftop hums with late-night static — the kind that coats your skin after too long under fluorescents, after too many hours pretending to be fine. Cold wind slips between the vents, catching on loose fabric and flyaway hair, dragging the scent of asphalt and leftover wine through the air. Neon from the deli across the street flashes ‘OPEN’ in a low, erratic blink. It’s the first time all day they’ve stopped moving. The last train’s already passed. They’re up here like it’s instinct.

Jaemin’s sitting on a folding chair that wobbles every time he shifts his weight, jacket open, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, cigarette balanced between two fingers. His eyes are heavy, rimmed with exhaustion, smoke curling from his mouth like he’s holding something back. Beside him, Donghyuck’s stretched out across the bench, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his curls, mic bag tucked under one arm like a pillow, another cigarette pinched loosely between his lips. He’s scrolling aimlessly through something on his phone, not really reading, just needing the movement.

Karina paces a few steps away, heels dangling from one hand, phone clutched to her ear in the other. Her tone is clipped, sharp in that way that only happens when she’s trying not to scream. “No, I’m not asking her that,” she snaps. “If you want to know, you can grow a pair and do it yourself—oh wait. You can’t.” Her back is turned but they can still see her mouth twist. The call goes quiet for a second. A long enough pause that Hyuck raises a brow. Jaemin exhales through his nose.

Then his voice crackles over the line, low and tense. “It’s a yes or no question, Karina. You don’t need to turn it into a monologue.”

“Yeah, well maybe if you didn’t change the sizing notes three times, I wouldn’t have to call you at midnight.” She shifts her weight, pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, Jeno. You don’t know what she wants. You think you do but you don’t. That’s the whole problem.” Her voice drops lower, but it doesn’t soften. “You always think you’re right.”

And this time, he snaps back: “You think I don’t know her?” Her hand tightens around the phone. The muscles in her shoulder twitch. She doesn’t answer him, just stares out at the skyline with something sharp in her chest and the sound of his breathing still pressing against her ear. When she finally hangs up, she doesn’t say a word. She just walks back toward Jaemin and Hyuck and drops beside them, the phone landing screen-down between the wine cups like a cracked nerve.

She’s the one who offered to take it. You never asked her to be the go-between, not exactly but she knew you wouldn’t reach out. Not after everything, not for something like this. It started innocently, a quick text typed half-asleep: “Can you ask Jeno if he’s free to sketch a mock-up?” Just an idea for Irene’s last-minute addition. Something sweet, something sentimental. A custom ring design for each bridesmaid— you, Areum, her two nieces. A matching piece to bind you all together in a way that was quieter than the dresses, less obvious than the ceremony, but still hers. It was Irene’s idea, her attempt to make everyone feel tethered, chosen but designing them would take skill. Detail. Precision. And who better than Lee Jeno? Engineering major, mechanical genius and steady hands. He’d built drones in college, sculpted metals for senior projects, once fixed your kitchen tap in under twenty minutes with a hairpin and a keyring. You knew how good he was with his hands. Intimately. Repeatedly. Filthily. And Karina knew that too. He was the perfect candidate. Except for the part where he hadn’t spoken to you in months. No contact. No closure. Just cold space where something used to burn.

So Karina stepped in and took the role, taking the weight. She became the buffer between two people who used to share everything, now reduced to fragmented messages and voice notes delivered secondhand. What began as a one-time ask spiraled fast. Timezone delays. Sketch approvals. Metal sourcing. Size adjustments. Back and forths over band width and finish. Now it’s late-night calls, mid-meeting updates, and clipped conversations that always end with Karina rubbing her temples and tossing her phone face-down. She hates being in the middle. She hates him for putting her there. And most of all, she hates that a part of her still understands why you can’t do it yourself.

It’s not that she hates Jeno. That would be too easy. It’s messier than that. A slow erosion of trust built from silence. She defended him, once, she took his side, believing in the version of him you clung to with both hands but after the fall-out, after the late nights she held you shaking and the days you didn’t speak at all, something in her cracked. He didn’t fight for you, not properly. He let the silence eat everything. So now every phone call is laced with venom she tries not to taste. Every request feels like a betrayal. And tonight? Tonight, he’s being difficult. Pushing back on sizing changes. Asking things he knows he shouldn’t and she’s not in the mood to coddle him. Not anymore.

She leans her head against Donghyuck’s shoulder with a sigh that isn’t quite tired, not quite calm either. There’s still adrenaline pulsing under her skin, the kind that hasn’t worn off since she started the day with a pair of shears in one hand and a model sobbing over a split zipper. Her fingers are curled around the stem of a paper cup, half-drunk wine swirling lazy at the bottom, too warm now to be anything worth sipping but she doesn’t let go. They all stare out at the skyline, not saying much. The lights bleed into the clouds, smearing gold into black. Somewhere down below, a siren wails past. The hum of the city never stops — it just lowers its voice.

Jaemin’s the one who breaks it. “What did he say?” His voice is too casual. Purposefully offhand, like the question slipped out before he could catch it but his jaw’s a little too tight for it to be accidental. Karina doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t shift. Just blinks, slow.

“Does it matter?” Her voice is quieter now. Not clipped. Not cruel. Just dulled at the edges like a blade that’s been used too many times.

He tries again. “I’m just asking.”

“No,” she says, straighter this time. “You’re not. You’re gonna try to defend him again.”

Donghyuck lets out a low whistle, not moving his shoulder. “Here we go.”

Karina finally shifts then, pulling back just enough to face Jaemin fully. “You really want to do this? Up here? Now?”

Jaemin shrugs but it’s sharp. “I think it’s unfair. The way you talk about him, the way you talk to him. Like he’s the only one who broke something. You act like he fucked it all up on his own but you weren’t there the night she stopped calling back. You didn’t see what that did to him.”

Karina’s eyes narrow, but there’s hesitation in it, like she’s already bracing for the rest. “And what—are you saying she shouldn’t have walked? That staying would’ve fixed it?”

“I think—” He stops and looks at the skyline like the words might be hiding out there. Then: “I think if we’re going to rewrite what happened, we better start with the parts nobody wants to say out loud.”

Her mouth opens. Shuts. Her grip tightens around the paper cup. “He didn’t walk away,” Jaemin says, softer now. “She did.”

“And what, you think she wanted to?” Her tone cracks — not volume, not pitch, just something in the centre of it, some old scar ripping. “You think any of this is what anyone wanted?” Donghyuck lifts a hand, palm out, but no one’s really listening anymore. “He stopped showing up,” Karina says, not loud but loud enough. “He let her carry it alone.”

Jaemin’s voice doesn’t rise. That’s what makes it worse. “You didn’t see how lost he was. You didn’t see the way he kept waiting—like every time the door opened, it might be her. Like he hadn’t already memorised the silence she left behind.” He leans back against the ledge, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. “You weren’t there when she said she couldn’t do this anymore, like it was a schedule conflict, not a relationship. Like it didn’t mean anything and then she disappeared. Blocked him out of a life he was still trying to fight for.” His jaw tightens. “But yeah. Keep acting like he’s the only one who walked away.”

Karina doesn’t flinch but her shoulders go rigid, eyes flashing under the rooftop haze. She laughs once, low and flat, the kind that tastes like something bitter left too long on the tongue. “Disappeared?” she echoes, voice clipped. “You make it sound so clean. Like she just vanished into thin air because she felt like it.” Her hand tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pale. “You think she didn’t try? You think she wasn’t clawing her way through that final month, begging for something to hold onto while he kept looking the other way?”

She looks at him then, sharp and level. “You weren’t there for all of it either, Jaemin. Don’t act like you were.” Her voice softens, not gentle, just quieter. “She didn’t leave because she stopped loving him. She left because staying was making her forget who she was.”

Jaemin laughs, low and joyless, the kind that scrapes at the edges of something he’s been holding in for too long. He leans back against the rooftop railing, exhales smoke through his nose like he’s burning off the weight of the conversation. “Karina,” he says, almost amused, “I was there. I lived in that apartment, remember? I saw it all—every slam of the door, every time she’d shut herself in the bedroom and he’d stare at the hallway like it might swallow him whole. Don’t tell me I didn’t see it.”

He gestures with the half-finished cigarette, then flicks the ash off the edge. “Listen, I love her. I love Jeno too but I’m so fucking tired of this narrative where he’s the only one who wrecked something. Like she didn’t push him away just as much. Like she didn’t look him in the eye and say shit that broke him open.”

His voice doesn’t rise, but it tightens, gains weight. “Yeah, he made bad calls. He shut down when she needed him. He let silence do the damage. But she—she left like it meant nothing. Like they didn’t build their whole college life around each other and maybe that was her way of surviving it, fine, maybe she had her reason but don’t stand here and act like one of them walked out unscathed.” He glances at Karina then, steady. “They both fucked it. Until they stop being so fucking stubborn and start owning that? This ends exactly where it is right now. Stuck.”

Jaemin scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair like the whole topic exhausts him. “They both fucked it,” he says again, voice flat. “So now he’s stuck playing house with Nahyun. Acting like he’s into her, like that whole influencer-preppy-sunshine-and-Sunday-brunch lifestyle actually makes sense for him. Like she doesn’t curate everything from the way she talks to the way she breathes. You think I don’t see through that? He looks like a guest in his own life.”

Jaemin flicks the cigarette out and glances back toward the stairwell, where the city hums below. “I can’t even have a conversation with her without wanting to claw my ears off. Everything’s ‘content’ and ‘collaboration’ and ‘let’s do a soft launch.’ God forbid she ever does anything real.”

Karina’s gaze drops to the gravel, lashes low, lips pressed into a line that looks too tired to argue, like she knows there’s truth in what he’s saying. Her thumb brushes over the rim of the paper cup. “I’m done talking about this.” Then she turns toward Hyuck, voice lightening just enough to pivot the energy. “Did you seriously eat all the macarons without offering me one, or are you just morally bankrupt?”

Jaemin doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives her is loaded—measured, a little sad, a little knowing. Karina sees it, feels it, and shakes her head before he can say what she knows he’s thinking. “I don’t hate him,” she says quietly, almost like it’s a confession. “I never have. I never will.” She breathes out a bitter laugh, one hand curling tighter around her cup. “God, I love that idiot. I do. That’s the problem. I love him and I was still there after, still saw what she looked like when she couldn’t even look at herself. You know how strong she is, Jaem. You know what it takes to break someone like her? And I watched it happen. Up close. It’s the most scared and worried I’ve ever been in my life.” Her phone’s already in her hand before she finishes speaking. She types something slowly—pauses, edits it once, twice—then finally hits send. 

karina — sorry for yelling earlier, i’m just stressed, you don’t deserve all of it. 

He likes the message in less than a minute. No reply. He never really replies to those kinds of texts. He’s used to it by now. She rolls her eyes, mutters ‘insufferable’ and immediately starts sending him twenty-seven photos of nearly identical ring designs with only the band thickness changed by millimetres. Every four minutes, a new message pings: this one? or this one? or maybe this?

By the time the fourth one goes through, he blocks her number. She shows Jaemin the screen with a deadpan expression. “Good. Coward.” Then she opens Instagram and messages him from her finsta.

Karina’s apartment sits five floors up in a building lined with limestone and ivy, where the brass intercom glints like old money and the elevator hums slowly, like it knows the kind of people who live here never rush. Just a few minutes from her studio, it’s tucked on a tree-lined street in SoHo, where the windows are taller than most people and the streetlamps glow honey at night. The entrance always smells faintly of bergamot and worn leather, and the keycode panel always needs to be pressed twice—once for frustration, once for luck.

Inside, it’s everything you’d imagine from her but softer. The ceilings rise high, moulded with delicate trim, and the walls are painted a muted ivory, not cold but clean, the kind of backdrop that lets everything else breathe. Her furniture’s all curved lines and velvet upholstery—blush and olive and slate, nothing loud but everything intentional. A glass coffee table reflects the light from the oversized arched window. Sketches are framed in soft gold along one wall, her early design drafts hung like memories she hasn’t let go of yet. The dining table is cluttered with fabric swatches, Pantone cards, a silver tray of espresso cups no one’s bothered to put away.

It smells like something warm—amber, neroli, the faintest trace of rose. There’s always music, usually instrumental, something Parisian or old-school R&B. The sound moves like it belongs here. The place is curated, no question but it doesn’t feel staged. Her heels are kicked off by the door. A robe hangs uneven on the bedroom handle. The lights are low and golden, spilling softly through the apartment like candlewax. It’s luxurious, yes. Glamorous but it’s lived-in, too—intimate in the way only true comfort can be.

There are only two bedrooms: Karina’s, and yours. Yes, yours. It’s never up for debate. Whenever you’re in New York for work, which is often now, this is where you stay. She keeps your favourite shampoo stocked in the en-suite, your preferred wine in the fridge. She bought new linen last time you extended your stay—“you deserve better than the old sheets,” she’d said, like it was nothing, like you were just coming home. There’s space in her wardrobe for your coats, your perfumes, your bad day sweaters. The doorman greets you by name. You don’t knock anymore. You don’t have to.

Donghyuck crashes in your room, the one that still smells like your perfume and has your old sweatshirt hanging off the bedpost like a relic. Jaemin takes the couch, half-heartedly, like he’s doing someone a favour by pretending. It’s always like this—until it isn’t because at 1:27 a.m., the hallway creaks and he’s there, bare-chested, knocking once on Karina’s door before letting himself in. She doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t explain. The moment it clicks shut, they’re already on each other, her back hitting the mattress as his hands find her thighs like he’s starved. The sheets twist beneath them, the room warming with every drag of breath and clench of muscle. It’s the kind of sex that makes guilt taste like sugar on the tongue. The kind that leaves her gasping his name into the crook of his neck, teeth scraping skin, trying to remember why she ever said this wouldn’t happen again.

Every time she finds herself like this—his cock thick inside her, hips snapping in that filthy, perfect way—she remembers that night. The night you walked in on them, hair wet from the shower, phone still in your hand, and looked at her like she was something you had to scrape off your shoe. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just told her, sharp and final. “You can’t be with him, Karina,” you’d said, voice low but firm, standing at the doorway with your towel-damp hair and disbelief written all over your face. “Jaemin is like Yangyang two years ago when he was with that girl from his psych class. Emotionally unstable. Sexually manipulative. You know what that means.” Your eyes didn’t flinch. “He’ll make you feel like he needs you. Then disappear the second you think it means something.”

And Karina had nodded—slow, guilty, like a kid being scolded, chin tilted down, shame flooding her chest. She never listened. Now, every time he’s inside her, she swears she can still hear it. Your voice. That warning. That truth. But she can’t stop. He’s too good. Too deep. Too much. His breath catches as she arches under him, nails clawing his back, lips parting in a whimper that turns into a plea. There’s nothing soft about this. Nothing gentle. It’s a high they chase with their eyes squeezed shut and mouths full of sin, the kind of sex that rips the air in half and stitches it back with sweat. The city’s pulsing outside her window, alive and filthy, but it’s the way he fucks her that makes her feel dirty. The way he groans when she clenches, the way he fucks her like she’s punishment for something neither of them can name.

They're late the next morning. So late. Karina’s dragging a garment bag down the sidewalk, Jaemin’s still tucking in his shirt, Donghyuck’s swearing at the Uber app. They end up sprinting through the subway, elbowing past early commuters, screaming at each other over missed stops and wrong exits. Karina throws her scarf at Jaemin when he makes a joke about how she moans louder than the train brakes. Donghyuck nearly leaves his suitcase on the platform. By some miracle—or sheer chaos—they make it to the airport just as final boarding is called.

The plane is too cold. Karina takes the window seat, Jaemin folds into the middle with a blanket already tucked around his legs, and Donghyuck throws himself into the aisle with a dramatic sigh. Karina leans her head on Jaemin’s shoulder, lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s just about to drift off when it happens. A scream. High-pitched. Girlish. Sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine and make the flight attendant spin around. "No. No, no, no—"

Donghyuck is scrambling through his bag, tossing cables and socks and snacks. "Fuck. Fuck. It’s not here. It’s not fucking here."

Jaemin jolts upright. Karina lifts her head. Passengers are turning. "What’s not here?" she asks.

"The flash drive," Donghyuck breathes, already pale. "The wedding audio. The whole fucking tracklist. The cues. The fades. The custom vocal overlays. Gone. It’s gone."

He’s shaking. "You don’t get it. I can’t make it again. That took me weeks. I built motifs into that thing—motifs! You think that shit just happens? I layered audio frequencies with sound samples from the state championship video. I embedded her laugh between transitions. I engineered that playlist like it was a symphony and it’s fucking gone." The flight attendant approaches cautiously. Karina rubs her temple. Jaemin holds out the airline blanket like that might help and Donghyuck sits there, spiralling midair, whispering "motifs" like a prayer to the gods of lost data and wedding disasters.

At Charles de Gaulle, the departure gate to Tokyo feels like a pre-wedding reunion disguised as a boarding queue. The layover city is clinging to them—Paris perfume in their scarves, the buttery scent of croissants lingering in their hair, wine-happy smiles stretched soft by morning light. The layover wasn’t necessary, it could’ve been a direct flight but no one wanted that. The plan was always Paris—four hours on the ground, an excuse to breathe the same air again. An excuse for an early reunion because they missed each other more than they could admit over FaceTime. Jaemin, Karina, and Donghyuck step off the plane still shaking sleep and turbulence off their shoulders, hair messy, voices hoarse from the dry cabin air. Karina looks like she could fall asleep standing up. Jaemin’s hoodie is backwards. Donghyuck’s carrying three chargers and no phone.

They spot Chenle and Ningning in the lounge almost instantly—him with two cappuccinos in hand, her propped against a velvet armchair like she’s about to judge a red carpet. There are hugs—real ones, slow and grounding, the kind that press cheek to shoulder and stay there a second too long. The kind that smells like someone you used to nap next to in a dorm lounge, like familiar detergent and too much cologne dabbed on at duty-free. They hold on like they’ve needed this, like one year and a continent didn’t pass between the last time and now. It’s soft, easy, and a little breathless. No one says they missed each other. They don’t have to.

Donghyuck buries his face in Chenle’s shoulder like it’s the first inhale of oxygen after a dive. Because Chenle? Chenle is his last hope. He doesn’t even have to say it. Just pulls out his laptop, opens the scrambled mess of wedding audio scraps he’s been dreading, and tilts the screen toward him like a white flag. Chenle grins, cracks his knuckles, and mutters, “Let’s resurrect the dead.” Within seconds, they’re hunched over side-by-side in the corner of the lounge, headphones on, frowns matching. Rebuilding. Restitching. Remixing. Donghyuck’s wedding masterpiece might just survive after all.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒. 𝟒𝟖.𝟖𝟖𝟕𝟕° 𝐍, 𝟐.𝟑𝟑𝟐𝟎° 𝐄

Paris breathes in silk and exhales smoke. The city wakes slowly—cigarette ash on window ledges, espresso clinking in chipped porcelain, lace curtains stirring in the breeze off Rue Saint-Honoré. Somewhere a violin scrapes to life. Somewhere else, heels tap against cobblestone like punctuation. The sun doesn’t rise here, it slips—golden and suggestive, kissing rooftops before sliding down the Seine. In the 6th arrondissement, behind a wrought-iron balcony drenched in ivy, Chenle tosses his phone onto a velvet armchair and announces that the seating chart is “giving provincial peasant wedding” and must be redone immediately.

Ningning hums from the bed, one leg draped lazily over the edge of silk sheets, makeup half-finished, a half-full glass of Veuve balanced in hand like it’s been there for hours. The curtains are still drawn, streaks of morning light slipping through the gaps. They’ve spent the last four days drifting—hand in hand through cobbled alleys, tucked into café corners, skipping gallery showings on purpose just to stay in bed longer. This was their own pre-honeymoon: soft, indulgent, shamelessly tender. They took Paris slow. They kissed in bookstores. They danced in their hotel room with half-zipped dresses and shoes kicked off. No itinerary. No alarms. Just each other.

They still live in Seoul, nestled into a life they’ve built with quiet steadiness. Ningning teaches kindergarten now, and she carries the sweetness of it in everything—voice gentle, laughter full. Chenle juggles a few gigs, mostly in sports: part-time broadcast consulting, brand work, and lately, assistant coaching alongside Mark for the new generation of the Seoul Hill Ravens—high school level, though his feedback still sounds like post-game commentary. They’re always busy, always tired, but they’ve never let go of each other. Every time they link hands, it feels like starting again. Every night in Paris, it felt like proof. They’re going from strength to strength, still the loudest laugh at the dinner table, still finding new ways to love like it’s the first time.

Ningning boards first, sunglasses oversized, lips glossed, walking like the aisle is her runway. Chenle trails after her, a scarf thrown carelessly around his neck, already waving at the flight attendant like they’re old friends. Their fingers are laced. The getaway glow hasn’t worn off yet. Paris is still on them—in their hair, their perfume, the way they move. When the plane door seals shut, Chenle raises his glass to no one in particular and mutters, “To Seoul. Try to keep up.”

They still live in Seoul, but this trip wasn’t about home. It was indulgence, timing, desire—Paris for the hell of it, for the silk sheets and sunset rooftops, and now straight to Tokyo for the chaos. The moment Chenle spots Donghyuck near the cabin entrance, crouched and still rifling through his bag with the kind of desperation usually reserved for missing limbs, he sighs so loud the passengers behind him flinch.

“Oh God,” Chenle says, setting his luggage down with a thump. “He’s spiralling already.”

“I had it,” Donghyuck mutters, his voice muffled by fabric and failure. “I packed it. I swear I packed it.”

“The flash drive?” Chenle quirks a brow, stepping forward with theatrical calm. “The one with all the audio?”

Hyuck glances up, eyes wide. “Yes. My baby. My art. The whole fucking wedding depends on it.”

Chenle’s mouth twitches. “Then step aside, drama queen. I’m here now.”

Because of course he is. Chenle may have been sipping Châteauneuf-du-Pape in a Parisian hotel suite twelve hours ago, but he’s also the one who’s been quietly pulling strings the entire time. He’s the taste consultant, the palette snob, the one who called Irene personally to veto that “uncultured” lavender prosecco option. He FaceTimed daily from the 6th arrondissement to roast moodboards and rewrite seating charts. He’s personally curated the welcome gifts, chosen the wine list, and announced that the wedding cake must be “tasteful but with a ‘fuck-you’ twist.”

Now, as Hyuck looks like he’s about to combust, Chenle drops his bag onto the seat and rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll help you reconstruct it,” he says with the slow, terrifying calm of someone who’s better than you at everything. “We’ll work on it during the flight but if this ends up sounding like a K-drama intro, I will sue.”

Ningning, already seated with her legs tucked under her and a glass of orange juice in hand, turns her head and says, “He means it.” The plane fills with chatter and movement. Jaemin and Karina are laughing across the aisle. Hyuck is still panicking, but less now. Chenle is pulling out his laptop. The flight crew is shutting the overhead bins. They’re nearly all together now, scattered in rows and clusters, tucked into cabins with tangled history and crossed signals and long-running jokes. There’s a hum building in the cabin, a rising pressure, like something’s about to begin.

Tokyo is waiting.

𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎. 𝟑𝟓.𝟔𝟔° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟑𝟗.𝟔𝟗° 𝐄

—𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

The villa sits like a whispered secret high in the quiet hills above Kyoto, wrapped in the kind of stillness that feels sacred—not religious but something deeper, something in the bones. Ancient cherry trees circle the stone perimeter like gentle guards, their spring petals drifting across cobbled paths and koi ponds in soft cascades, like ash or blessings, or both. The ponds themselves twist through the tiled courtyards in slow, serpentine ribbons—gold and orange flickers breaking the glassy surface every few seconds as if the water is alive. The rooftops are tiled in weathered slate, kissed each morning with fine threads of mist that curl through the air like incense in an old temple. It smells of cedar, sandalwood, and rain-polished stone, with something older threaded through it—like memory. 

This place was once the home of a reclusive artist couple, one known for never speaking in public and the other for sculpting from silence itself. Now, it stands reborn as the most exclusive wedding retreat in Japan, a restored ryokan infused with avant-garde luxury, modern only where it dares to be. The staff move like clockwork ghosts, barefoot in some corridors out of quiet reverence, tying silk ribbons around champagne flutes and steaming robes you didn’t request but already adore. Everything about this estate waits—for vows, for guests, for the exact moment it will become a memory. They say if you sit still long enough, you’ll hear the old floors exhale. You feel it already, before you’ve even walked in. The villa doesn’t hum—it holds its breath.

The estate is a labyrinth of polished wood, shadowed corners, and sunlit open spaces. The entrance opens to sweeping double doors draped in linen curtains that catch the wind like breath. Columns are wrapped in fairy lights, soft and golden, flickering even in daylight. A tray of chilled oshibori towels awaits each arrival, followed by champagne poured into tall flutes, condensation sliding down the glass like prayer. The central courtyard hums quietly with fountains and rustling petals, string lights criss-crossed above like constellations. Music plays from somewhere—an instrumental version of a love song you can’t place—and it never quite stops.

The main villa is the heart of it all, tucked between two koi-fed fountains and lined with ivy-draped pillars. It sprawls upward and sideways like something grown, not built—three split levels, all carved from warm cedar and framed with glass walls that bleed sunlight into every corridor. Rooms don’t line up cleanly here. They wind, loop, step up and duck low. There’s no elevator—just curved staircases, some wider than others, some so narrow they feel like secrets. It’s your job to organise them, to place each guest in their pocket of the villa like puzzle pieces. Your task list is longer than your limbs and yet somehow, you’ve taken on more. Some are easy. Irene and Doyoung in the master bridal suite, top floor, sea view. Mark and Areum, natural as breathing, tucked in the candlelit honeymoon suite they tried to protest until Irene shut them down with one look. Chenle and Ningning, of course, overlooking the pool in a suite that already smells like vanilla and mischief but others weren’t easy. You stared at the sheet for a long time when you saw Jeno’s RSVP marked “+1.” Nahyun. A soft, perfect tick. The name curled like ash on the screen. 

Yangyang made a joke then. Said after everything he’s done for you—everything he’s carried—he should get the honour of sleeping beside you. You laughed it off. Then said yes. Not because you meant to, not because you thought it would matter, but because the idea of sleeping alone while Jeno didn’t? You’ve had enough of cold beds and unanswered questions. The central courtyard room is yours now. Yangyang’s too. Practical, bright, and far from Jeno’s garden-view room across the other end of the villa. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

The layout is deliberate, even where it hurts. Irene and Doyoung in the suite at the top, a wraparound balcony staring directly into the sea. Seulgi and Taeyong tucked into a sleek guest room at the edge of the west wing. You and Yangyang in the central courtyard room—chosen for practicality, for light, for the fact that it was as far from Jeno’s garden-view room as the architecture would allow. Mark and Areum in the honeymoon suite, all candles and cotton-smooth linens. Chenle and Ningning’s room sits above the pool, twin sun loungers on a private terrace, string lights woven through the wooden rail. Shotaro and Ryujin share a tucked-away space above the old dance studio, barely big enough for their luggage but blessed with balcony access. Jaemin and Karina are posted right next to the bridal suite—though they’ve already swapped rooms three times for reasons no one dares ask. Hyuck? Basement level, just above the tech booth, a room no one else wanted. He loves it. Chenle did that on purpose.

The villa’s outdoor spaces are where everything breathes. The sakura-view pool bar is open all night, cocktails mixed by hand, each one named after something romantic and doomed. The onsen steams with cedar warmth, flanked by smooth rock and bamboo fencing, privacy folding in like a whisper. The rooftop terrace stretches long above it all—glass railings catching the sunset, low purple lighting giving everyone the kind of glow that turns memories cinematic. The staff refills glasses before they’re empty. The night hums. Always.

The ceremony spot wasn’t meant to be used. You found it yourself—an overgrown stone chapel ruin at the far edge of the estate, moss-drenched and half-forgotten, its altar cracked but still holy. There’s no roof, just sky, just rows of white chairs placed with reverence, each one facing the ocean where the horizon bleeds into the ceremony’s future. You stood there once, alone, and decided this was where the vows would happen. Irene never argued, she loved it immediately. No one visits the space now unless they’re led by you. The place they’ll end up, the place they’ll begin.

There’s a dance studio where Shotaro drills everyone in the group choreography. The mirrored walls sweat with effort. The floor creaks with determination, you’ve already stepped on someone’s toe, twice. There’s a reading room, too. Mark retreats there often, notebook open, pen in hand. He says it’s quiet, you think it’s his peace and then there’s the staff kitchen, where you and Yangyang meet at midnight over double shots of espresso, planning timelines, adjusting menus, arguing softly about ribbon lengths. There’s always something to fix.

The villa is alive with movement. People arriving, slipping into silk robes, changing shoes in the hallway, laughing from the garden path. The staff learn your name. They salute you when you pass. One of the waitresses already said you looked too stressed and offered you tea. You didn’t take it. You couldn’t because you had something to do. You always do because this place is perfect. This week will be perfect. You’ll make sure of it. Even if it breaks you. Especially if it breaks you.

The villa begins to bloom in phases—arrival by arrival, suitcase by suitcase, breath by breath. It begins with the lovestruck: Areum and Mark, sun-kissed and travel-worn, rolling up the gravel path like they own the place. Areum’s complaining about her sunburn, Mark’s pretending to listen but his hand won’t leave her waist. They move as one, effortless, that kind of intimacy built on years of rhythm and shared earphones. They move like a unit, comfortable in the way only people who’ve memorised each other’s body language can be. She chats with the waitstaff like old friends. He’s already halfway into checking the master vendor list Irene left on the welcome table. They came early under the guise of helping coordinate logistics, photography prep, and on-site walkthroughs—but really, they just wanted to be alone for a bit. To settle. To be here before everyone else.

A few days later, your team lands. The Seoul crew. The ones who feel like limbs of the same body, stretched across responsibility and history. You step out first—sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, earpiece chirping with updates. The humidity hits hard, bags thudding across gravel, Yangyang dropping his passport mid-check-in and blaming you for the chaos. “You made me carry your tote,” he hisses. 

“There were seventeen documents in there.” You don’t flinch. You’re already scanning the entrance, zeroing in on the cracked edge of the welcome fountain, the flower arch two inches too far to the left, the orientation signage slightly crooked. “Fix that,” you snap, pointing. “And get the linen swaps approved by tonight.” Shotaro jogs after a cart of guest name tags. Ryujin is already calling the head of security. Irene and Doyoung walk hand-in-hand like royalty. 

When Areum spots you, she pulls you into a hug like nothing’s changed but the moment your arms brush hers, the tension sinks in—old, sharp, unspoken. “We’ve barely slept,” she murmurs against your ear with a wink. “In a good way.” You pretend to laugh. Mark reaches for your bag before you can, always the helper, and you thank him with a quiet nod. 

Then, chaos. The New York trio and Paris duo touch down together in a flurry of gloss and exhaustion. The second they land, luggage wheels screech against marble and voices bounce off the glass like champagne flutes clinking too early. Hyuck is already yelling—something about never flying economy again, something about how Chenle slept through turbulence while he was clutching the armrest and writing his will. Jaemin’s trying to sort out their ride, holding Ningning’s duty-free bag in one hand and swatting Hyuck’s complaints away with the other. Chenle’s arguing with a very patient-looking shuttle driver, insisting that the temperature setting inside the van is “an insult to Parisian skincare standards.” Ningning strolls past them all, sunglasses massive, lip gloss perfect, dragging two wheelie bags like she’s on a runway. She doesn’t look tired. She looks expensive.

But none of that matters because then you see her. Karina. You don’t hear her at first—just the familiar click of heels across the polished floor, just the beat of silence before the chaos sharpens into something personal. And then she screams your name.“Y/N!”

Your bag drops before you even register your hands moving. She barrels into you at full speed, arms flung around your shoulders, perfume and exhaustion wrapping around you like a second skin. You stumble back from the force of it, laugh breaking out of your chest as she squeezes you tighter than anyone has in months.

“You bitch,” she’s saying, breathless and still hugging you. “You didn’t text me that you landed this early. You didn’t send outfit pics. You didn’t even warn me you were gonna look this hot—” She pulls back just enough to give you a once-over, eyes dragging from your glossed mouth to the slope of your waist, then whistles, low and sharp. “No, seriously. What the hell. You look like a Vogue cover and I look like a heatstroke victim in Balenciaga.”

“You look fine,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I look exhausted,” she corrects, dramatic as ever. “You look like a heartbreaker dressed in linen. If this is your wedding week fit energy, I’m already terrified of what you’ll wear to the welcome dinner.”

“You should be,” you say, smirking.

She fake fans herself. “God. Don’t let any of the boys see you before I get a good pic first.” You’re still laughing when her arm links through yours, steps falling in sync like always. She tosses her bag toward Hyuck without even looking—he catches it with a dramatic groan—and leans into you like she’s been waiting to do this all year. “I’ve had three iced coffees and no real food since yesterday,” she whispers conspiratorially, her voice all grin and glitter. “Please tell me there’s wine at the villa.”

“There’s wine, there’s a stocked minibar, and there’s a team of butlers who keep bowing every time I sneeze.”

Karina clutches her chest like she’s about to cry. “Finally. A place that understands us.”

You both dissolve into another hug, swaying slightly like you’re dancing to a song only you can hear. It’s all giddy warmth, soft hands brushing at frizzy hair, whispered updates in half-sentences. She smells like rose oil and tiredness. You smell like sunscreen and wedding stress. It doesn’t matter. You fit. Like always.

“You didn’t tell me your hair was doing this.” She touches a curl, inspecting it like it’s a luxury garment. “Is this humidity or sorcery?”

“It’s both,” you say. “Mostly stress.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I haven’t eaten in sixteen hours.”

“Glowing,” she insists. “I stand by it.”

Behind her, Hyuck groans loud enough for the whole terminal to hear. “Jesus Christ, are you two gonna kiss or can we go?”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “Let them have their reunion. God forbid women experience joy.”

Chenle waves a hand, still mid-argument. “Someone tell the driver to stop breathing hot air into the van. I’m serious.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just rolls his eyes, adjusts his sunglasses, and pivots like the whole conversation bored him. By the time you turn your head, he’s already halfway across the gravel, storming toward the villa kitchens with the speed of someone on a mission. “No,” he barks into his phone, then at the poor chef who steps out to greet him. “No, I said second-course, not final flourish. You can’t spring lavender ganache on people who think vanilla is spicy. Korean palates aren’t ready for that.” He gestures wildly at the dessert menus he printed in three fonts, stacked under one arm like war plans. “We’re trying to make memories, not start a riot.”

Karina doesn’t look away from you. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”

You grin. “Not enough.” She presses her cheek to your shoulder, and says, softly but seriously, “You’re not allowed to plan this wedding alone anymore.”

“Too late.”

“Well then,” she murmurs, eyes already scanning the exit. “Let’s cause problems on purpose.”

You glance up just as Jaemin steps away from the van, duffel slung low over one shoulder, his hair windswept from the descent and his sunglasses hooked lazily into the collar of his shirt. There’s a flicker in your expression that you don’t catch in time, a tremor beneath the practiced curve of your mouth. The smile you offer him isn’t cold, not quite but it’s distant—tempered by something brittle. A part of you still softens on instinct, still remembers the way he used to lean over your couch just to pass you your phone, still recalls the offhanded jokes he’d mumble when he could feel the tension building in the room between you and Jeno like a bruise.

Because he was there. For all of it. Not just the mess, but the aftermath. He saw the way you tried, that second time around—the way you stayed later, fought quieter, hoped harder. He saw you pacing the balcony with your voice breaking around words you didn’t mean. He saw Jeno, too. The way his hands shook sometimes, the way he stopped knowing how to reach for you and he never said it outright, never threw it in your face, but you know he carries the weight of those weeks like second skin. He remembers.

Still, what hurts more is that Jaemin never once stopped trying. Even when you flinched from him. Even when your replies came late and dry. He kept texting, he sent memes like nothing had changed. He forwarded you playlists you never opened. He made you promise: don’t punish me for it. Don’t leave me behind just because you don’t talk to him anymore. Please don’t see me as the damage. Please don’t let the way it ended mean we have to stop being friends. You’ve tried. You really have and he’s never pushed but being around him is like walking past a doorway to a room you locked yourself out of. You hug him anyway. His arms are familiar, warm, the squeeze a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to remind you that he’s still here. That he never picked a side even if Jeno is his best friend, that he still wants to mean something to you, even if he’s part of a chapter you refuse to reread.

Then he pulls away and takes Karina from your side with the ease of someone who’s already halfway gone, they’re already laughing, already moving toward their room, hands brushing, eyes low and hungry. That’s when Donghyuck sidles up to your side like he’s been waiting for your attention, water bottle clutched in one hand, his expression caught between disgust and secondhand trauma. “Next time,” he says flatly, “I’m booking separately. I’m serious.”

You arch a brow without turning. “Why?”

He gives you a look like you should know. “They keep fucking. Too much flirting. Too much moaning. I couldn’t sleep the night before because all I heard was ‘harder.’”

You groan. “I warned her.”

Donghyuck scoffs. “She warned me, said if I heard anything, I better shut the fuck up and pray.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t pray hard enough.”

As the sky dims and the scent of the mountains thickens with evening dew, other guests start to arrive. Familiar faces. Doyoung’s childhood friends. Irene’s mother, dressed in periwinkle and pearls. Mark’s aunts with Tupperware full of dried fruit and unsolicited opinions. You even see a few college professors from the Neo Tech campus—Coach Suh among them. He greets you with a nod that says everything and nothing. You haven’t seen him since the night of the state championships. Since the night that cracked like a fault line, one truth split open, and the whole world fell through. The night that changed everything. 

Yangyang ticks off names beside you, chewing the end of your pen. “Only three left,” he murmurs, then hesitates. His eyes flick to yours. “Jeno, Nahyun, and Taeyong.” The names don’t echo. They sink. Behind you, Mark tenses, his jaw flexing once, twice. He doesn’t mask it. He’s furious. You can see it in the line of his shoulders, the way his hand curls slightly like he’s holding something back. Seulgi asked Irene to extend the invite, promising it would be the last time. You didn’t say anything, neither did he but you both know that Taeyong is coming. It felt like striking a match in a room you’d sealed shut, watching old demons blink awake in the smoke, stretching their limbs as if they’d only been napping, not buried.

There’s a reason. There’s always a reason. Seulgi’s divorce papers sit folded in the side pocket of her purse like a blade she’s been waiting to unsheath, months untouched but never forgotten. Her smile, practiced and polite, hasn’t reached her eyes since winter fell, the cold behind them permanent, a season she never left. She wants closure, yes, but more than that, she wants control; wants to stand at the edge of her old life and watch it crumble with grace. She wants him to see it—all of it—what it looks like when the world keeps turning without him, when the family he bruised learns to thrive in spite of the silence he left behind. Taeyong didn’t hesitate, he accepted the invitation like a man who’s never had anything to lose. He’s on the manifest, a ghost wrapped in skin, calm and composed, already haunting the villa before his shadow even reaches the gate.

Just like that, the villa is almost full—rooms humming with laughter and old stories, glasses clinking on terraces, luggage half-unzipped in hallways scented with cedar and champagne. Everyone arrived with sun on their skin and sleep in their eyes, ready to play their part, ready to pretend nothing’s fractured beneath the surface. The lists are printed, the vendors confirmed, the chapel waits. But some arrivals carry more weight than others. Some ghosts don’t need footsteps to be heard.

You feel it in the way conversation dips when the guest list nears its end, how even Yangyang’s voice falters for a second before he reads out the final three names. Nobody looks at you. Mark shifts his weight like something’s unsettled in his chest, Areum busies herself with the stem of her glass, twisting it slowly. The names aren’t said with surprise, but with caution. Like invoking them out loud might change the air. Taeyong. Jeno. Nahyun. The last shadows are still en route.

Their room is ready. The garden-view one at the far end of the west wing. The one farthest from yours. You made sure of it. You say it’s because of layout, because of logistics, because of light but deep down you know it’s because no matter how much you plan, no matter how many ribbons you tie or menus you finalise, there’s no spreadsheet for what it feels like when someone who used to know your skin better than you do walks back into the same air as you. It feels like pressing your palm to a mirror only to find it ice-cold—like the ghost of your own touch recoiling. Like standing in a house that used to be yours, only now the doors lock from the outside. Someone who once mapped your body like scripture, who kissed the bruises before they formed, is now just another stranger wearing your past like a tailored suit. They breathe your air like they earned it, like they didn’t leave claw marks on the walls when they went.

The villa is almost full, only ghosts remain. 

The rooftop is golden with the last light of day, the sky bleeding lavender and rose as the string lights above you sway with the wind. Karina’s crouched with her phone in hand, telling you both to stop laughing and stay still while Yangyang’s arm cinches tighter around your waist, chin nearly brushing your temple. You’re leaning into him, sun catching in your hair, the hem of your dress riding just a little too high on your thigh. You don’t care. You want this shot. You want this moment. Karina shouts something obscene about angles and lighting and how your collarbones look like they’re carved out of marble, and you throw your head back laughing, catching Yangyang’s grin when he looks down at you. You press closer. You know the villa’s full by now. You know he’ll arrive eventually. You just don’t expect that moment to be now. 

The shift isn’t visible—it’s felt. A change in the way the wind moves, in the way the lights overhead flicker once, twice, then settle. The laughter from below dulls, like someone pressed a mute button. The jazz near the koi pond stutters, almost like it loses tempo for a beat. You feel it like a current in your spine. Your laughter fades. Yangyang turns his head. You don’t have to look. You already know. The villa stills when the car pulls in. Sleek. Black. Engine humming like it knows it’s about to break something. The tires kiss the gravel like silk on skin, too smooth to be anything but a performance. Then the door opens. First: him.

Jeno steps out slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world—measured, unbothered, steady in that way only someone who knows they’ll be noticed can move. There's a quiet, assured rhythm of someone used to gravity bending a little when he walks. The NBA has treated him well—too well. His arms are thick with muscle, tan skin stretched tight over bone and tendon and effort. His loose slacks fall just right over his thighs, soft fabric brushing sculpted lines that have only sharpened since college. He wears a sleeveless knit, collar open, top button undone like an invitation he doesn’t plan to follow through on. His sunglasses sit low, eyes unreadable, jaw set, face quiet. His body doesn’t ask to be noticed. It just is.

Nahyun exits behind him, just as polished. A vision in pale silk, the back of her dress dipped low, spine bare, glimmering with perfume and purpose. Her heels tap the stones like punctuation, each step intentional. Her hair’s twisted up in a knot so perfect it doesn’t look real. She glances up from her phone only once, offering a gracious smile to the waiting staff, elegant and effortless. Their hands are joined, fingers laced. It’s too intimate, too neat. He doesn’t lean into it but doesn’t resist either. They walk like actors on cue—beautiful, bitter, and rehearsed.

You’re still on the rooftop when it happens. Karina’s mid-laugh, her finger pressed halfway to the shutter button, and then she stills like the wind’s been cut. The atmosphere tightens. You lower your glass without realising, the stem sweating in your grip, your breath caught halfway up your throat. Yangyang shifts beside you but doesn’t say anything, his hand brushing your hip like a tether and below, Jeno steps out into the courtyard—and tilts his head. Just slightly. Just enough. There’s no logical reason he should know where you are. No line of sight, no sound, no signal but his chin lifts like he’s tracking heat, like his body senses you the way it senses pressure, the way your name still lives in his spine. It’s not a glance, it’s a pull. It’s a force stronger than gravity, it’s instinct, like the muscle memory of being inside you and knowing exactly where your pulse thrums the loudest.

He doesn’t look around, not at the guests, not at the staff or even at the girl still clutching his hand but his eyes drag once—slow, deliberate—up the left side of the villa, over the eaves, and past the lanterns. To the roof. To you. It’s a fraction of a second, a flicker so fast you could pretend it didn’t happen but you feel it. In your chest. Between your thighs. In the sharp catch of your breath that tastes like wine and regret. He looks for you like it’s a habit he never unlearned. Like if he just scans the horizon long enough, he’ll find the one thing that ever made sense. He hasn’t seen you in months but he lifts his head like if he listens hard enough, he’ll hear the last time you begged for him in the dark and it does something to you. Something you don’t let show, but it drips down your spine like sweat. It fills your mouth with heat. Your thighs press tighter together, your breath unsteady because even now — especially now — his body still knows what it craves. 

That pull across space, it locks in your gut like your name just got whispered by something with teeth. You’ve felt his gaze a thousand times before—bare, holy, sinful—but this? This feels like exposure. Like violation. Like his eyes crawl under your dress and drag old versions of you to the surface. His stare is sharp and black and unearned, and still it finds you. You hate the way it feels, like a dare, like an invitation to burn. Like all the worst parts of you want to be seen by him and only him. His eyes don’t plead, they possess. They scrape down your spine like memory turned feral. You want to turn away, you want to hold it. You want to bite down on it and taste blood. Because fuck, even now—when you’re supposed to be over him, past him, better than him—his gaze still makes you feel like you’d ruin everything just to have him between your legs one last time.

He keeps walking. Yangyang sees it all in your jaw, the way you bite down on your tongue, the tremor in your wrist. He shifts a little closer, doesn’t touch you but grounds you. Karina doesn’t speak either. She just lowers her phone, mouth pressed tight, hand hovering near your elbow in case you fall because this is what falling looks like. This is what memory does when it walks back into your life holding someone else’s hand.

And Jeno? He keeps walking even when the sky darkens behind him. 

He doesn’t move like someone searching for attention, but he’s always noticed now. It starts quiet — staff bowing a little deeper when they realize who he is, their eyes catching on him for just a second longer than they should. A few younger guests murmur his name like a secret, glancing between him and each other as if confirming he’s real but outside the estate, it’s sharper. Taxi drivers double-take. Locals stop walking just to watch him pass. At a corner café the day before, a teenage girl asked for a photo with trembling hands, telling him through a stammer how much she loves the Typhoons. How that game — his game — changed everything because it did. His name still means something, his face even more. He doesn’t play like anyone else. He doesn’t move like anyone else. There’s more weight to him now. He’s not just the boy who wore the Raven jersey like a second skin, he’s Seoul’s breakthrough. The one rising through the NBA like he was built for it. Every analyst watches him now. Every article speculates what he’ll do next. He feels that pressure even here, even now — especially here, because here is where he remembers who he used to be. Who he was when you loved him.

They walk side by side, fingers laced, her smile leading and his silence trailing close behind. Mark sees him first and it only takes a second before he moves forward. His hug is firm, a back-pat, a chin-tuck, a breathless murmur that sounds almost like relief. “You look good,” Mark says. 

Jeno nods once. “You too.” It’s simple yet heavy. It’s enough. 

Jaemin appears next, all lazy grins and wide arms and pulls Jeno into a hug that ends with ruffled hair and Jeno batting him off with a half-smile. “You owe me a drink,” Jaemin teases. 

“I’ll buy the whole bar,” Jeno answers.

Chenle doesn’t even finish his sentence before calling out, “Look who finally showed up!” He bounds over, wraps Jeno into a dramatic spin, and ends with him in a headlock. “My favorite Lee.” 

Jeno tries to protest, laughing into the hold. “You say that to Mark too.” 

“And I mean it less every time,” Chenle deadpans.

Doyoung’s hug is quieter. Older. There’s a pause in it, a kind of forgiveness Jeno doesn’t know how to accept, but doesn’t want to refuse either. “We missed you, son,” he says, with that same gentleness he’s always reserved for the boys who grew up too fast. 

Irene kisses his cheek, her perfume floral and faintly familiar, and smiles like she’s been holding a worry too long. It’s polished, practiced, the way she touches his arm and tucks her silence into a kind word. “Don’t you dare disappear again,” she murmurs. 

Jeno nods. “I won’t.” But the words feel like they belong to someone else. Because her hand drops too quickly. Because she turns away before he’s ready because something in her warmth doesn’t quite reach where it always does with her. 

Later that evening, the night air wraps around the villa like silk pulled too tight, warm and taut and humming with the remains of the day. Lanterns flicker low over carved wood beams, casting soft orange light over the terrace walls, and the koi pond murmurs below like it’s trying to distract you. There’s music playing through the villa’s speakers, something jazzy and slow and indulgent. Karina’s slouched across a beanbag near the fire pit, bare legs stretched out, her champagne bottle resting between her knees, breath sticky with laughter from some story she half-finished telling. Yangyang leans on the terrace railing, one foot braced against the wood, scrolling through the schedule on his phone, wedding lanyard still looped loose around his neck. You sit on the cushioned bench by the edge, drink in hand, legs curled underneath you, the hem of your linen dress tucked around your ankles. It should feel like a pause. A break. A soft place to land before the next rehearsal begins. But your fingers keep curling around the stem of your glass too tightly. Your laughter doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

He doesn’t come with sound at first, he comes with silence, a kind that folds in on itself, sharper than any noise. The music doesn’t stop but it dulls in your ears. Karina falters mid sentence. Yangyang lowers his phone. Your pulse climbs to your throat and stays there, caught. The door behind you groans open, slow and deliberate, like wood dragged across memory and then he walks in.

There’s no one else with Jeno, not this time, no Nahyun on his arm. No excuse. No shield. Just him, freshly showered, the collar of his white shirt slightly damp where it clings to his chest, sleeves rolled high on his forearms, droplets still gleaming along the line of his neck. His hair is wet, pushed back with fingers, still drying in soft waves that catch the lantern light. He moves like he doesn’t need permission, like the air parts for him without asking. He doesn’t look around much, not at first but the second he sees you, his body shifts, like muscle memory clicking into place. He pauses. Hand in his pocket. Jaw tight. The lines of his arms drawn like tension wound into skin. 

You forget to breathe. Your chest pulls too tightly, like there’s not enough space between your ribs, and everything you’ve been holding down claws its way to the surface. There’s no logic to the way your body moves — only instinct. You’re standing now. You don’t remember getting up, you don’t say his name and he doesn’t say yours. The distance between you and him stretches like a rubber band seconds from snapping.

Karina moves first, always the buffer. She moves toward him with that loose, affectionate sway she always had, grinning as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. “Well, finally,” she says, soft and teasing, like the air hasn’t dropped ten degrees since he walked in. Jeno hugs her back. It’s quick, but there’s something real in it. His hand lingers on her back for a beat too long. 

Yangyang doesn’t move at first, he just studies Jeno from across the terrace with a gaze so flat it could pass for indifference but it isn’t. It’s distance measured in nights spent helping you pick yourself off the floor, in the silence he sat through when you couldn’t speak, in the things he saw and didn’t say. He was there when it all collapsed, when the foundation cracked and you fell through it. He held you through it, cleaned up the mess. He never needed an explanation. He just stayed. And now, as Jeno stands there like a shadow resurrected, Yangyang tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to decide if it’s even worth moving.

Eventually, he does step forward, slow and stiff, and the hug that follows is brief, one arm, one tap on the back, no weight behind it. When they pull apart, Yangyang’s mouth is set in a tight line, his voice clipped. “You’re here,” he says, without inflection. It lands heavy. Like a fact more than a greeting. 

Jeno’s reply is quiet, almost reluctant. “Yeah.” 

Then it’s you and the world stops beating.

You don’t move closer but your eyes find each other in the dark like magnets pulled by something old and buried. His mouth opens slightly, not to smile but to say something, anything. He hesitates. You see it in the way his shoulders roll back, like he’s trying to anchor himself. You hate that you can still read that. You hate that it still hurts. You hate that you’re still watching him like you never stopped. The light catches in his lashes. His eyes are darker than you remember and deeper. Like if you fall in now, you’ll drown properly this time.

Karina glances between you both, mouth twisted with second hand tension. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath, reaching for the nearest bottle. “I need another drink.”

Jeno leans forward slightly, jaw twitching. “Can we—”

“No,” you whisper.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t let yourself sound angry. You’re just exhausted, hollowed out and he hears it.

He nods once. Sharp. Hurt flashes behind his eyes but he tucks it away quickly, turning without another word then he leaves.

Just like that. Like it’s too late to fix anything. Like he knows he ruined it. Like he knows he lost it.

Karina wraps her arm around your waist as your body stills, breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. Yangyang moves to the side, grabs the strongest bottle in reach, and wordlessly places it in your hand. No one says anything. The silence he leaves behind is louder than any apology.

The garden terrace is dressed like a dream you don’t trust. Lanterns hang low from strings woven through cherry trees, casting golden light across the stone floor and dappled tablecloths. It’s the lantern grove tonight—a secluded, overgrown alcove nestled behind the oldest part of the villa, where wild ivy crawls up obsidian stone and the koi pond flickers with reflections of flame. The space feels half-sacred, half-forgotten, like a secret inherited rather than built. Branches arch overhead in a delicate canopy, hung with paper lanterns that sway gently in the breeze, their golden light dancing across polished tableware and whispered glances. Cherry blossoms fall intermittently, catching in wine glasses and silk sleeves, drifting like confessions no one dares speak aloud. The long dining table stretches beneath it all, clothed in soft linen, place cards etched in gold ink, menus hand-folded beside engraved name tags. Everything looks perfect, feels rehearsed but there’s tension in the way people sit—who they face, who they don’t. The air is too quiet in places, the smiles are too bright. It’s a dinner made for toasts and celebration, but something in the atmosphere says otherwise. Something says watch carefully, someone here is lying.

The path to your seat feels longer than it should. Your heels click too loud against the tile. Someone’s laughing, Chenle, probably, but the sound doesn’t reach you right. Karina’s already seated when you arrive, draped across her chair like silk, drink in hand, flashing a grin that feels like armour. Yangyang slides a chair back for you, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary, and you let yourself exhale as you sit.

The atmosphere is warm. Toasted. A little too golden, like a picture waiting to be ruined. The laughter hums under the clink of porcelain, wine spills smoothly into glasses, and your place at the center-right of the table becomes your fortress. You take in the glow, the shadows, the lull of music over breath because somewhere in your ribs, you already know this night won’t stay soft for long. The tension hasn’t arrived yet, but it’s dressed and on its way. You feel it. Like weather. Like prophecy. Like breath caught in the throat of spring.

The dinner table stretches long and uninterrupted, ivory linen clinging to the edges, crystal glassware lined like expectation. There’s laughter, clinking, the smell of jasmine and grilled lemon and something sweet still cooling behind the folding screens. Someone says the menu was curated by a Michelin chef, you haven’t tasted anything yet. 

You feel him before you see him, the shift in the air like a storm choosing its target, heat coiling low in your stomach, too sudden to name. Your spine locks, your breath shortens, and your hand stills mid-air above your plate, the fork glinting untouched. Your pulse betrays you first, thrumming too fast against your collarbone, beneath the delicate chain you haven’t taken off since winter and then, before your brain can catch up, your fingers move, like instinct, muscle memory, panic disguised as poise, smoothing your already-perfect hair like you’re shielding yourself from something you don’t want to admit you’ve been waiting for. Yangyang catches it. His eyes flick toward the entrance, sharp, scanning, while yours lag behind in a hesitation that’s not hesitation at all—it’s dread, recognition, inevitability dressed up in pearls and silk.

Jeno walks in with Nahyun, her hand looped through his, delicate and purposeful. He wears a cream shirt, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled like someone who doesn’t have to try to look like that. His pants hang off his hips with the kind of effortless precision stylists spend hours crafting. His skin is golden, burnished under the lamplight, his collarbones catching shadows just right. Sunglasses tucked into his shirt, hair slightly damp, a glint of silver at his wrist. He doesn’t look at you but his presence rolls through the room like thunder on velvet. He’s not smiling, he doesn’t need to. The staff bow a little lower. A couple of younger guests glance at him, elbow each other, whisper his name like they’re not sure if it’s really him.

Nahyun’s in a pale, backless slip dress, the silk moving like water across her spine. Her heels click with every step, mouth curved into a pleasant smile as she thanks the waiter leading them toward their seats. She doesn’t cling but she doesn’t let go either. Jeno’s hand doesn’t just hold Nahyun’s—it moves. Slides down her spine as they walk, slow and deliberate, his palm skimming the edge of her exposed back like he’s tracing something only he can see. The silk shifts under his fingers, nearly slipping off her shoulder, but he catches it before it falls, thumb grazing skin. She leans in to murmur something, soft and playful, and he nods without answering, eyes still scanning the table, still searching but his hand doesn't leave her. It drops to her waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric like he’s staking a claim. There’s something possessive in the way he guides her to the seat beside him—low, practiced, not rough but not gentle either. Like a signal. Like he knows eyes are on them and he wants them to see. When she sits, he bends to whisper in her ear, something that makes her laugh too sweetly, tilting her head just enough to expose her throat. His lips don’t touch her skin but they hover. Close enough to sting. Close enough to burn.

You’re in black tonight—midnight silk that pools at your feet like smoke, sleeveless with a high neckline that kisses your collarbones and leaves your back bare in a whisper of defiance. The fabric is cut to precision, soft enough to move with you, structured enough to remind people you built this whole damn wedding. Under the golden flicker of lanterns, the dress catches a faint sapphire hue when you shift, like bruised light, like something sacred and dangerous. Your hair’s swept up, twisted and pinned with sharp elegance, a few soft strands left loose to frame your face the way you like. Your earrings glint when you tilt your head. Your lipstick is barely there—just the right stain to make someone wonder how it got smudged.

Yangyang sits beside you, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled just high enough to show the veins in his forearms when he reaches for his drink. His tan is deeper than usual, and there’s a calm to him tonight, the kind of calm that doesn’t beg for attention but commands it. He doesn’t hover, doesn’t speak unless he has to, but his eyes track every shift around the table like he’s reading a room full of wires, knowing exactly which one might spark next. When you tense—when your breath slows, eyes narrowing slightly across the table—his hand finds yours under the cloth without needing to ask. His fingers are warm, palm grounding, thumb brushing just once over your knuckle before going still. You don’t pull away. You let him. Your grip tightens once, the smallest tremor, a silent thank you or a plea. 

Neither of you says a word. You just sit together but alone, perfectly poised in your silence—while across the table, the man you bled for, defended, protected, almost destroyed yourself to save, sits beside another woman and watches you like he doesn’t remember any of it. Like he wasn’t the one whose knees you’ve buckled, whose moans you memorised, whose name once shook loose from your throat like a promise. Like he didn’t make you a sinner first, kissing you like confession, leaving like punishment, and now dares to track every motion of your body like he still has the right to know how it moves without him.

Dinner starts slow, tension simmering beneath the silverware. The menu is elegance embodied—grilled sea bass laid delicately over yuzu risotto, the edges seared just enough to flake, the scent tangy and soft. Blistered tomatoes burst on the side, sweet against cracked black pepper and greens crisped in sesame oil. There’s a drizzle of honeyed soy running through everything, catching on pear slices that gleam like glass under the lantern light. Every bite tastes like restraint. Like no one at the table is really eating for hunger. Plates clink gently. Glasses catch condensation. You raise your fork and keep your spine straight, eyes trained on your food, mouth full of silence. You don’t speak—but he watches. And it’s not the food that’s making you warm.

The wine makes its way down the table like a slow, deliberate secret—hands passing it with practiced ease, laughter bubbling on either side, but your focus narrows the moment it nears. You reach without hesitation, fingers brushing the dark green bottle just as he does. Skin meets skin. Not soft, not by accident. It’s friction laced with everything unsaid. Heat coils where his knuckles graze yours, the kind that shoots up your arm and locks behind your ribs, unmistakable and immediate. He doesn’t flinch, just holds your stare for the briefest, blistering second, and it’s like everything else fades—the conversation, the clink of cutlery, the hum of cicadas layered into the jazz. Jeno’s hand is warm. Familiar. Too familiar. Like your name still lives there. Yangyang notices, of course he does—his hand pauses mid-reach, his eyes flick between you and the point of contact before flicking away, jaw tightening as he pretends it means nothing. You break first. Your fingers slip back around your glass like a shield, the bottle passed on with a careful smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Jeno doesn’t pour himself a drink, he just leaves his hand resting on the table, palm down, like he’s still feeling the imprint of yours.

Nahyun leans into him, shoulder brushing his as she murmurs something just low enough to make you strain to hear. You don’t catch the words, not clearly—just the low murmur of her voice, thick with something soft and intimate, the kind of tone that doesn’t belong at a public table. She leans in closer, smiling like she’s whispering a secret, and Jeno doesn’t move away. His head dips slightly, just enough to meet her gaze, and that’s when she reaches out. Fingers slow, deliberate, she brushes the edge of his lip with her thumb, swiping something away—her lipstick, probably, a faint smudge she left behind when she got too close. It’s the kind of gesture that shouldn’t mean anything, not really, but it slices anyway. Not because of what she does, but because of what you remember. Because you’ve done it before. In darker light, in private moments when it was only your hand against his skin, only your touch he let linger. You don’t look away, but you feel the weight of it settle behind your ribs. Your jaw sets, your fingers curl tighter around the stem of your wine glass, and Karina glances at you like she’s waiting for a reaction you refuse to give. Yangyang doesn’t speak, but his hand grazes yours under the table, grounding you—or trying to. You don’t respond. Jeno doesn’t even flinch. He lets Nahyun clean his mouth like it’s nothing, like it’s natural, like your mouth was never there first.

There’s a chair further down the table. Empty, but loud in its stillness. The name card beside the charger plate reads Taeyong Lee, handwritten in calligraphy so delicate it looks like it might bleed off the page. The wine glass beside it is full. Untouched. You noticed it the moment you sat down. So did Mark—he hasn’t looked at it again since. Seulgi keeps glancing toward it between bites she never takes. Her plate remains full, her knife and fork untouched, laid perfectly parallel. Conversation tapers slightly every time someone’s eyes drift toward that spot, the one seat no one’s willing to ask about. Finally, Seulgi offers it herself—softly, like she’s trying to smooth something over. “He’ll be joining us later,” she says, voice calm and carefully blank.

But no one really believes it because it’s not just a seat—it’s history. It’s everything that was broken and never fixed. The way her voice doesn’t lift at the end gives it away. The way Doyoung doesn’t echo the sentiment. The way Irene stares too long at her plate, and Mark swirls his wine instead of sipping it. Everyone knows Taeyong isn’t coming—not because he can’t, but because he shouldn’t. Not after the fallout, not after what he did. The wine doesn’t sweat. The candle doesn’t flicker. It’s as if even the air knew not to expect him.

The pause stretches too long. Conversation thins, laughter dims, and somewhere in the middle of the table, a fork settles too gently against a plate, the sound too careful to be natural. No one speaks, not even Chenle. You can feel it—something waiting to happen, something shifting behind the candlelight. Then Irene shifts in her seat. It’s the smallest motion, a turn of the wrist, a glance toward the valley view behind her but it feels choreographed. Like she’s been waiting for the perfect cue. Her glass rises slowly, deliberate, fingers poised like she’s holding a string between everyone at the table. Her smile is soft, glowing, a little too polished to be real. Like a mask worn so long it’s started to fit.

“Well,” Irene says, her voice smooth and lilting, glass raised just high enough to command attention, “we’ve enjoyed the view, the food, the company but before we all head off to bed, I think it’s only right we acknowledge the one person who’s made this entire week possible.” Her eyes find yours across the table, unwavering, affectionate, but with an edge of finality—like she’s already decided. “The girl who’s been working nonstop behind the scenes. Every schedule, every detail, every little moment we’ve enjoyed, she’s the one we owe it to.” A gentle hum of agreement ripples down the table. “She’s barely slept. She’s handled it all and this wedding wouldn’t be what it is without her.” Irene smiles, soft but certain, and tips her glass a little higher. “Come on, sweetheart. Say a few words.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s practiced, too smooth, the kind of expression that stretches over nerves without hiding them. Your fingers curl slightly around your napkin, knuckles whitening just enough to betray the spike in your pulse. You hadn’t planned this. You’ve planned everything else—down to the second seating arrangements, the floral timings, the wine deliveries. But this? This moment, this sudden spotlight? You hadn’t accounted for it. Not with him sitting three chairs down, not with Nahyun’s hand still resting on his thigh like she belongs there. Your stomach twists. You nod once, slow, and stand with the grace that’s always saved you, even now, even when your heart’s stumbling over its next beat. There’s a buzz behind your ears. You can feel every pair of eyes on you. Especially his.

You raise your glass slowly, but your voice doesn’t follow right away. There’s a flicker behind your ribs, something sharp and unwelcome, like memory biting down. You smooth your expression before the pause becomes noticeable. “It’s not easy,” you start, voice clear, controlled, though your pulse is anything but, “to bring this many hearts from this many histories into one place. Into one week. Into one room but when it’s right—when it matters—love has a strange way of making the world smaller. It pulls us closer. Makes the impossible feel manageable.”

You glance toward Irene and Doyoung, your tone softening. “To our couple: may the life you build be louder than any doubt, kinder than any past, and longer than whatever tried to keep you apart. You remind us that something lasting doesn’t have to start easy—it just has to start real.” There’s warmth in the room. For a moment, it feels safe.

“And to the rest of us,” you continue, and here, your voice wavers—not audibly, but in its bones. In its breath. “To what we carry. To the kind of love that doesn’t get the ceremony, the rings, the timeline. The kind that shifts. That changes form but not meaning. To old friends, to unfinished conversations. To the people who show up—years later, or not at all—but who never quite leave.”

Your eyes sweep the table, you don’t look at him. Not deliberately but your gaze catches. On a glass gripped too tightly, a jaw too still, a face you used to love in the dark. Your voice finds its edge again. “To love,” you say, “in all its shapes. The kind that stays. The kind that burns. The kind that leaves without warning, but never without trace and to the parts of ourselves we gave away hoping they’d be safe in someone else’s hands.”

The silence after the toast isn’t kind. It doesn’t soften the edges or offer relief. It lingers, sharp and sour, like the moment before a glass hits the floor. You sit before the applause can start, before your body betrays you further. Your legs ache from how long you stood, your palms still damp with tension. You can’t hear anything but your own pulse. The stem of your wine glass trembles when you touch it.

Jeno hasn’t moved since you started speaking. His fingers curl loosely around the base of his glass, but it stays on the table. Untouched. No toast. No gesture. No performance. Just stillness. His eyes are low, shadowed, unreadable but his jaw is set, and his chest rises once, sharply, like something inside him cracked. The clinking around him doesn’t register. The voices blur. It’s as if he’s listening to something only he can hear, something you didn’t say out loud, something you both still remember. He doesn’t drink or blink, he just watches the rim of his glass like it might shatter.

You’re reaching for your glass again when Doyoung shifts at the head of the table, his grin light but his eyes glinting with intent. “Well,” he says, raising his own wine, “we’ve got an NBA star in the house. Come on, Jeno, give us a few words.”

Jeno doesn’t refuse or blink. He stands like it costs him nothing, like attention isn’t something he fears but something he’s already familiar with, something that’s been following him since he was twelve and first learned how to make a crowd hold its breath. The chair legs barely scrape the floor—low, smooth, like they know better than to disrupt him. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, a quiet kind of power that doesn’t need volume to be felt. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t adjust his collar, doesn’t clear his throat like the others have. He just lets the silence settle around him and then lifts his gaze. It travels slowly down the length of the table—not to search, not to measure, but to make sure everyone feels it. His confidence isn’t in the way he holds himself. It’s in the way he doesn’t need to. When he speaks, it’s soft. Not uncertain, not shy. Just precise. Measured like breath held underwater. Smooth enough to feel like a lie. Controlled enough to make your stomach twist.

“I wasn’t planning on saying anything,” he starts, voice low but steady. “Never been good with speeches. Or… words, in general.” A dry chuckle flickers from Donghyuck. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about loyalty lately, about what a team means, about growth. About what it means to lose, what it means to keep going anyway.”

“Sometimes you lose games,” Jeno says, barely more than a murmur now. “Sometimes… you lose people. Either way, you learn how to keep playing.” He glances once toward doyoung. “I don’t have the right words. Maybe I never did. But this—” he lifts a hand slightly, gesturing toward the table, the lights, the collective breath of the evening— “this feels like something worth remembering. So… thanks. For letting me be part of it.”

Soft. Too soft. Reflective in a way that feels rehearsed, like he’s walked this tightrope before—just enough heart to stir the table, just enough restraint to twist the knife where it counts. It’s designed to win them back, and it does. But not you. Not with the way his voice lingers in your chest like a bruise blooming backwards. You raise your glass with trembling grace, press it to your lips like it’ll steady you, and let the wine slice down your throat while your silence tastes too much like his name to swallow clean.

As soon as Jeno sits down, it’s evident that Nahyun is trying way too hard. You see it in the way her hand flutters like clockwork, napkin rising to blot the corner of mouth even when there’s nothing there. In how she keeps reaching to top up his glass before it’s even half-empty, wrist brushing his arm like she wants it to mean something. Her hand slips under the table once, slow and searching, but he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t shift closer. Just nods politely at something she says and keeps his eyes moving—scanning the room, the table, until they land where they always do. On you. Not for long. Just enough to hollow you out.

When she leans in mid-toast, mouth tilted toward his cheek, he turns his head slightly and the kiss lands closer to his jaw. It doesn’t look accidental. Her smile thins. By dessert, she snaps beneath her breath—sharp, desperate. “At least pretend you want me here.” But he doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just presses his lips together and reaches for his fork, like silence will protect them both.

Further down the table, Seulgi still hasn’t touched her food but she watches. She doesn’t acknowledge Nahyun outright—never would. Still, when the girl laughs too loudly or touches Jeno’s shoulder with fingers a little too possessive, Seulgi’s wine glass rises slowly, her lips taut around its edge, her eyes cool as moonlight. Later, when Nahyun lifts the wine bottle again, offering it down the line, her voice a little too high, a little too chirped—Seulgi doesn’t blink. “Careful, sweetheart,” she murmurs, syrup-thick, watching the red tip into Nahyun’s glass. “Some things spill easily when they’re too full.” Nahyun’s hand stills mid-pour. The bottle hovers for a second. Then she sets it back down without meeting her eyes.

A beat passes. Seulgi folds her napkin over her lap. “You might want to pace yourself,” she adds, light as air, like it’s a suggestion but her smile shines too hard, teeth like a warning behind satin gloves. “It’s a long week.”

You try not to look at him, you really do but he’s everywhere, in the way his glass clicks softly against the table, in the low tenor of his laugh when someone else earns it, in the quiet burn of his stare every time you almost find peace. So you anchor yourself in what you can.

Karina and Jaemin are the first distraction. They sit to your left, too close to be casual, too much tension crackling between them to ignore. Her dress is slit high up her thigh, silk clinging with every movement; his shirt is unbuttoned low, collar askew, skin damp where the lantern light hits it. They pretend not to notice the way their knees press under the table, the way their shoulders brush when she leans in. He feeds her something off his plate, a piece of grilled peach glazed in balsamic and you see Jeno watch it happen. See his brow lift, unreadable. Karina reaches behind your back, grabs a napkin she doesn’t need, and murmurs in your ear, “I swear to God, if he stares at you one more time…” Later, when Jaemin stands to walk her back inside, your eyes trail after them without thinking and that’s when it happens again. Jeno’s gaze. Quiet. Sharpened. Watching you watch someone else. You could frame it however you like, possessiveness, pettiness, something shallow and selfish but the truth is, you’ve been stealing glances all night too. You’re no better. You’ve measured the slope of his shoulders beneath that shirt like it matters, like you don’t still know how they feel caged under your palms. You’ve traced the line of his throat when he swallows. Watched his lips curve, twitch, still. You’ve counted how many times he shifts in his seat, you could pretend it’s nothing. and that it's a memory, muscle and instinct but you keep looking. Not because you want him to see but because for some awful reason, part of you still needs to.

Then there’s Mark and Areum. Softer, sweeter. The kind of love that steadies you if you let it. Areum keeps leaning into Mark, tucking her hand over his as he drinks, smiling like she’s memorised him but you see what others don’t. The way Mark keeps glancing across the table. How his shoulders stiffen whenever you shift in your seat. He's always been protective. When you finally push your chair back because you can’t take the wine, the silk, the sweat down your spine for one more second, it’s his eyes that meet yours first. Concern, soft and unsaid. He moves like he might stand too but stops when you silently tell him that you’re fine. 

You’re already standing. Your skin is too hot. Your hands tremble when they reach for your napkin. Yangyang doesn’t ask. He follows a beat later, steps a little too quick. You don’t look back. You can’t. You already know — Jeno’s still watching. And this time, you don’t want to know what’s in his eyes.

“I need some air,” you murmur, reaching for your napkin and folding it with precision. “Good night everyone.”

Irene’s head tilts slightly, concern tucked behind her smile. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

You nod, too quickly. “Just warm. It’s the wine.”

Yangyang shifts beside you, already half-rising. “Do you want me to—?”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “No. Stay.”

You don’t say goodbye when you leave, you just scrape your chair back from the dinner table and stand, slow and sharp, like you’re daring someone to ask. You walk through the glass doors, across the marble-floored corridor, up the curved staircase that still smells like fresh varnish and roses from the welcome bouquet. You slip into your room like you’re ducking under water, shoulders stiff, pulse loud in your ears. The door clicks behind you, and the silence hits all at once.

Your room’s too white. The kind of white that hums like bleach in your teeth, that glares under the skin, that makes every thought you don’t want to think stand out sharper. It’s a curated kind of cleanliness—like the villa staff wanted to sterilise emotion out of the space, scrub the memories off the walls. The sheets are tight, pristine, unwrinkled. The curtains don’t move even when the wind pushes in through the cracked window. Everything smells like lemon and money.

You blink, slow. Your lashes feel heavy, the migraine is pressing harder behind your eyes now, a dull, pulsing throb that tugs your temples in time with your heartbeat. You should’ve taken something hours ago but you didn't. You’d been too busy trying not to snap at Karina, at Jaemin, at your own reflection. Too busy trying not to look at the far wing of the villa, where he is. You tug the necklace off your throat the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It snags once against your collarbone, then breaks free. You toss it onto the dresser with a metallic clatter and kick off your heels hard enough that one bounces off the leg of the vanity. You don’t care. You’re already unzipping the side of your dress when you hear it—the knock.

Three soft taps. A pause. Then one more. You don’t have to ask. “Yangyang,” you mutter, voice rough from holding back too much all night. “I told you I was fine.”

The door opens anyway and he’s already halfway inside, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “You always say that right before you do something like threaten the string quartet.”

“I didn’t threaten them.”

“You said you’d have them replaced with a Spotify playlist if they didn’t stop playing that acoustic shit during dinner.”

You sigh, turning away, shimmying the silk off your hips. He just walks further in and shuts the door behind him. The soft click sounds too loud in a room this quiet. You don’t look at him, not until you feel the zip of cool air down your spine and realise your dress is stuck halfway down. “Can you—?”

He’s already there. His fingers gentle against the zipper, dragging it the rest of the way down. The dress falls to the floor in a whisper, he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. “Sit,” he says quietly. You do. The vanity chair is low and soft. Your bones ache when they hit the cushion.

Yangyang moves behind you, gathering your hair. He brushes it out with his fingers first, careful not to tug, then finds the soft-bristled paddle brush from your travel kit like he’s done it a hundred times because he has. You stare at yourself in the mirror as he works. Your eyes are glassy. Liner smudged. Mouth too red. The ghost of Jeno’s name still lingers behind your teeth. You hate how visible it all is.

Yangyang doesn’t say anything. He takes a makeup wipe and gently begins to clean your face—starting with your cheek, then your temple, then your mouth. His touch is slow, tender. You lean into it because tonight broke you in ways you can’t say out loud, you want to be touched, not questioned. When he finishes, he crouches in front of you. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

You blink. “Yangyang. We’ve stayed together every night.”

“Still thought I should ask.”

You push a weak breath through your nose and tip your head to the side. “Get in bed before I make you sleep on the floor.”

His smirk is small, but there. “Yes, ma’am.”

You climb over him without saying a word. You don’t ask nor hesitate. He’s already there—laid back against your pillows like he belongs there, flushed pink down his chest, cock hard and twitching, waiting for you. His shirt’s gone, his briefs tossed somewhere on the floor, and he’s bare under you now, skin warm and soft, thighs tense, breath caught high in his throat the second your knees slide up beside his hips.

You straddle him in nothing but your bra and panties, your hair messy and lips swollen from biting them too much. His eyes trail up your body like he’s never seen you before, like he’ll never get tired of it—even when you’re like this, sharp-edged and moody and using him to forget someone else. He still looks at you like you’re everything. 

You grind against him once, slow. The tip of his cock slides against the soaked fabric of your underwear and he gasps, hips jerking up before he catches himself, fingers curling into the sheets. “Fuck,” he whimpers, voice high, needy. “You feel so good—” You smirk, lean down to kiss him, hot and open-mouthed. His lips part immediately, tongue brushing yours like he’s trying to chase the taste of you. You roll your hips harder, make sure he feels it—how wet you are, how ready.

You pull back just enough to speak, nose brushing his. “You ready for me?”

He nods fast, messy. “Yeah. Of course. Please—”

“Good boy.” His hips twitch at that. You smile against his jaw, then reach down and pull your panties to the side. He’s already soaked from the mess of your grinding, and when you sink down onto him, slowly but with purpose, the sound it makes is obscene.

He moans—head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, fingers flying up to your waist like he needs something to hold onto before he unravels completely. “Fuck, baby, please—” You start to move before he finishes. You bounce, slow at first, dragging your cunt up his cock and dropping back down with a rhythm that makes him tremble underneath you. His hands grip tighter, his moans get louder, and he watches you through hooded eyes like he’s drowning in it, desperate to be good, to be what you need—even if it’s just for tonight.

Your thighs flex as you rise, then slam back down, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room as you ride him with a sharp, punishing rhythm. He moans into your ear, cock dragging against every inch inside you as you grind down, bounce rougher, sharper, until your thighs burn. He’s gasping under you, flushed deep to the tips of his ears, lips wet and parted as he stares up at you like he’ll die if you stop.

“Please—fuck, baby, please, please, I need it—”

You grip his jaw, tilt his face up so he has no choice but to look at you while you use him. “Need what?” you ask, voice steady even though your heart’s racing. “Say it.”

“I need to come,” he chokes, whining as you slam down on him again. “I wanna come, I wanna feel you—please, let me—”

You hum like you’re thinking about it but you keep fucking him, hard and deep, rolling your hips until he’s a mess beneath you, thighs trembling, cock throbbing inside you like he’s right on the edge. He’s begging now. Over and over. Every breath a whimper, every sound a desperate plea, his hands clinging to your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, baby, please, please—”

And the worst part—the reason you keep moving, keep clenching around him, keep ignoring how your own orgasm’s building too—is because every time you close your eyes, you still see his face. Every thrust, every cry, every gasp you rip out of Yangyang is just a louder distraction, a sharper weapon. If you fuck him hard enough, long enough, maybe Jeno’s name won’t keep pulsing through your chest like a bruise you can’t press down. Maybe this will drown him out. Maybe you can come hard enough to forget.

“Beg louder,” you whisper. “I want to hear you fucking mean it.”

Yangyang nods, voice cracking, tears stinging his lashes. “Please, please let me come, I need it, I need you, I can’t—I can’t take it anymore—”

You fuck him harder. You don’t stop.

You fuck him like he’s yours, like he’s a stand-in for the boy who isn’t here. Like this is survival, not pleasure and the worst part? It works. You moan and come with your head tipped back, his name nowhere on your lips and he follows seconds later, spilling inside you with a broken groan—like he knows, like he feels it, like every thrust is soaked in someone else’s ghost but he still doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t ask you to say his name, he doesn’t care if your nails sink in too deep or your eyes never meet his because sex with you is enough. Being inside you, even if you’re only doing it to forget someone else, is better than never having you at all. There’s something dark in it, twisted—this desperate kind of devotion where he’d rather be used than unloved, where he lets you fuck the memory of Jeno out of your system and into him, again and again, just to feel like he matters.

The villa sleeps like a beast with one eye open. Soft wind teases the curtains through the open balcony doors, crickets hum like warning bells in the dark, and Jeno steps barefoot into the corridor as if the floor might bite. His palm is wet around the glass of water, condensation bleeding between his fingers. It’s too warm in his room. Nahyun’s perfume clings to the sheets, cloying, sweet enough to make his throat itch. Her body is curled around his like something soft and practiced, like a habit he didn’t choose. Her hand had rested low on his stomach, fingers twitching every now and then. He hadn’t been able to stay still.

He tells himself he needs air. That he’s only walking to ease the pressure in his skull. That he doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t stop to admire the sea view, veer toward the garden, or the stairs, or any of the other twenty places this villa offers for relief. His steps carve a single, certain path. Each one is slower than the last. The hallway turns gold and quiet ahead of him. Sconces flicker low against the plaster, shadows bending and stretching along the polished stone, soft and curved like the shape of your throat when you swallow your anger.

He sees your door before he’s ready. It appears like a secret already spoken, the grain of the wood catching light, the sliver of warmth glowing beneath it like it might spill open if he reached for the handle. His grip tightens around the glass. His fingers twitch, he tells himself he’s only going to check. That he’ll walk past, that it’s fine. That this doesn’t mean anything but his hand lifts before the thought even forms.

He almost knocks.

He’s going to say something, really say something. No more distance, no more sharp-edged glances across crowded rooms, no more pretending he’s fine with the way things unravelled. He hadn’t practiced it—not because it didn’t matter, but because it mattered too much. The words feel too alive in his chest, too raw to rehearse without them burning through his ribs. His mouth is already parted, breath shallow, tongue caught behind his teeth. He’s not holding anything back anymore, he wants to say he’s sorry, that he’s been sorry for longer than he wants to admit. That he can’t take the quiet between you, can’t stomach the way the air changes when you leave a room, can’t keep acting like you don’t still live in him, in every look, in every fucking heartbeat. That out of every door in this goddamn villa, it’s yours he’s standing in front of. Like a man dying of thirst. Like someone who’s finally ready—not to chase you, not to drag you back, but to stay. Just stay. If you’ll let him.

He stands there with his knuckles hovering just shy of the wood, breath caught in the hollow of his throat, and it’s not hesitation—it’s everything else. All the nights he didn’t come, all the moments he’d told himself no, all the fucking pride that kept him from this exact doorstep, even when he knew it was the only one that ever felt like home. His jaw clenches. He can taste the stubbornness on his tongue, bitter and old. Yours more than his, if he’s honest. You were always the one who twisted the knife deeper, always the one who left the room first, always the one who—no, no, it’s not about that now. The balance sheet’s been burned. The things you said, the things you did—none of it can be taken back, and maybe you shattered something bigger than what he ever did, but he’s past the point of measuring damage. Past all of the what-ifs. The ache doesn’t care who lit the match first when you’re both standing in the ashes. All he knows is that he’s here now. That he came anyway, that after everything, he still wants to knock.

Then he hears it, like a bruise blooming under skin, slow and delayed and deep. It starts quiet, the soft knock of wood, too soft to count, too sharp to ignore. A moment passes, then a moan, it isn’t loud or obscene but it cuts through him like a blade slipping in under the ribs, slow at first, then twisting. The air in the hallway tilts, his lungs stop. It comes again, clearer now, a breathless sound that catches at the end, high and rough and broken open in all the places he knows. He’s memorised the rise of it, the edge, the slope into surrender. He’s tasted the way you sound. Felt it tremble against his jaw, into the crook of his neck, raw and open and his.

But now—it’s someone else pulling it from you. Another moan follows, longer this time, wrecked in a way that doesn’t belong in his memory. The rhythm begins to build. Mattress creaking under movement. Skin slapping against skin, sharp then slower, then again, until it sounds like breathing through fire. And you—he hears you again. A stuttering gasp, your voice cracking apart mid-plea, like it’s too much, like it’s not enough, like you’re unravelling around a cock that isn’t his.

He doesn’t move. Not when your whimper threads out into the corridor. Not when you pant someone else’s name in that voice, that voice, the one that used to fold only for him. Not when the bed shifts and groans and all of it starts again, faster now, desperate now, like this is the only way you know how to exist anymore. He knows what that sounds like. He knows what it means when you chase it like that. You’re not just fucking.

You’re letting go. You’re being touched like you asked for it, fucked like you need it, given something he never gave you and Jeno stays pressed to the doorframe, still as the stone under his feet, and he listens. He listens long enough to know the exact second your head tips back. Long enough to hear the wet slap when you fuck yourself down harder. Long enough to know that Yangyang knows how to hold you together while pulling you apart and he realises, in that frozen, sick, motionless moment, that it’s not just that he lost you.

It’s that you’re free.

The worst part carves itself into him with sound alone—wet, rhythmic, unmistakable. The kind of moan that leaves nothing behind, dragged from deep in your chest like you’ve forgotten how to hold back. It starts slow, uneven, like a rhythm trying to find its pace, and then it locks in—skin slapping, mattress creaking, the guttural drag of your breath breaking apart mid-thrust. You don’t whisper. You whimper. A high, cracked gasp torn loose, shattered around someone else’s name. It hits like a collision, unannounced and merciless, filling the hallway, thick in the air, soaked in need you used to choke down for him. And still—he stays. Stands frozen, hand slick around the glass, fingers slipping just enough to feel the weight shift like the floor beneath him might give. His face doesn’t move. His jaw stays clenched. His eyes burn wide as the door glows gold with every movement from inside. Every thrust lands like a knife in the dark. Every moan punches deeper. There’s no reclaiming this. No version of you on the other side of that door who hesitates, who falters, who still thinks of him. Just the sharp, brutal reality of your body taking someone else in, holding him close, falling apart like no one’s watching. And Jeno, jaw locked, chest split open, turns before his knees betray him, each step down the hall a quiet sentence, a confession he’ll never say aloud.

He slips back into bed like it means nothing. Like your moans aren’t still echoing in his skull, like he hadn’t just stood outside your door and listened to someone else fuck the soul out of you. The sheets are still warm. Nahyun is still curled up, face soft with sleep, one thigh already thrown over his like her body had been waiting. His chest is tight, blood loud in his ears. 

He turns to her and kisses her. She stirs with a faint sound, lips parting under his, surprised but not startled, her fingers instinctively catching at his waist. He kisses her harder, hands sliding up her ribs, over the swell of her breast. She breathes in like she’s trying to match his rhythm, like she’s trying to follow a script she doesn’t know he’s rewriting in real time. Her skin’s soft and her mouth is sweet but none of it fucking matters.

“Jeno?” she whispers, voice hushed and unsure.

He doesn’t answer. Just nudges her onto her back, pushes her nightdress up, and slides between her legs like he has a point to prove. Her breath stutters when he enters her, slow and deep, his cock stretching her open with a sharp gasp. She clutches at his shoulders, legs falling apart for him like she always does, and still—his eyes stay open. Fixed on nothing. Seeing everything.

He fucks her slow at first, measured, like maybe it’ll ground him, like maybe this will be the moment that fades the taste of your name and the sound of your voice breaking on another man’s cock. He grips Nahyun’s hips tighter, thrusts deeper, rougher, like punishment, like erasure. She moans, soft and pretty, head tipping back, eyes fluttering. Her hands rake up his spine. She tells him it feels good, she says his name, she says please.

And still—your name burns in his throat. So he kisses her harder. Drives into her faster. Hears the slap of skin and the wet drag of her pussy and lets his head fall to her shoulder like it might block it out. Like maybe if he comes inside her hard enough, he can undo what he heard outside your door. He fucks her like you fucked him. Not for closeness or love. Just to forget.

Even when Nahyun’s moaning beneath him, legs shaking, voice cracking around his name like it means something, he sees you. Not her face, not the arch of her back or the way her nails dig into his skin—just you. Head tipped back, lips parted, that shattered sound you made when you gave yourself to someone else. It floods his vision, claws into his chest, poisons the pace of his thrusts until every movement feels like a lie. He pushes deeper, harder, hoping the force will drive it out, that maybe if he fucks her like he means it, he’ll stop feeling you, stop hearing you, stop seeing the way you came for another man behind a locked door he couldn’t open. He finishes with a groan caught low in his throat, a sound that doesn’t taste like release, just failure dressed in sweat. Breathless, spent, hollowed out, he pulls away from her body without a word, doesn’t kiss her again, doesn’t bother with tenderness. He lies back against the sheets, chest still heaving, eyes wide and locked on the ceiling as Nahyun curls quietly beside him, her breathing steady, unaware and he thinks—fucking her should’ve been enough to gut the memory, to tear your voice from his head, to burn the echo out of his skin, to scrape the last pieces of you from the parts of him that still flinch at your name. Instead, it spreads—like the warmth left behind after sex, low in the gut and impossible to shake, threading through his nerves with every breath, every blink, settling into him quiet and slow, like the echo of a touch that never really leaves.

The second night is supposed to be lighter. Shotaro had promised as much when the itinerary went out last week — casual choreography, he’d said, low pressure, just a chance to move together again before the wedding. Most of the guests had assumed it’d be fun. A warm-u and a nod to the past, a few even showed up early, stretching and chatting with rolled sleeves and nostalgia in their voices because it wasn’t just dance practice, it was a memory. A time machine that took everyone back to college, it had been ‘Studio Eclipse’ then, the mirrored basement room tucked behind the Neo Tech gym. You all used to pile in after hours, sweaty and loud, Shotaro dragging speakers in like it was a concert venue, teaching his best choreo with a laser focus and a twisted grin. It was where Chenle first tried to moonwalk, where Mark twisted his ankle trying to land a windmill, where Jeno—quiet, intense—had started watching you more than the mirrors. Even then, the music had a way of pulling truths out of people. Movement always did.

And now? Shotaro’s made it official: a wedding-themed session, something to “prep the crowd” for the dance floor and teach the couples a few slow moves. “Trust me,” he’d said, eyes gleaming, “you’ll thank me when you’re tipsy and trying not to step on a veil.” It’s meant to be a sweet and soft bonding activity.

Karina’s hair is up, earrings off, already barefoot with a water bottle tucked into her armpit. Jaemin’s cracking jokes in the corner, flashing grins like currency. Mark’s stretching on the floor near Areum, murmuring something low enough to make her blush. Even Irene’s here, heels abandoned, blouse rolled at the sleeves, watching from a velvet chair with a flute of champagne in her hand like this is theatre. And maybe it is. Shotaro’s pacing at the front, trying to wrangle the chaos into something cleaner, tighter, more elegant but it’s warm. The music is too loud. Everyone’s bodies are tired and heavy from the travel and sun and you’re already standing off to the side, clipboard ditched, bare arms crossed loosely as you count beats in your head like it’ll keep you steady.

The mirrors line every wall. The heat of the lights pools at the base of your neck and you’re doing your best not to glance toward the far side of the room where you know he is — black shirt loose against his chest, sweat already gathering at the collar, hair pushed back in damp, uneven strands. Jeno hasn’t looked at you all evening. Not really but he’s moved like he always does, efficient, composed and controlled but the sharpness of his focus has weight. Every shift of his posture feels rehearsed. Every laugh, selective. He’s paired with someone else at first. Nahyun. Of course. Her hands are too graceful, her skirt too short, her smiles too practiced. She brushes his shoulder every time they turn. She tries to feed him water between songs. He takes the bottle but doesn’t drink. You watch it all through your lashes, your spine iron-straight. You haven’t spoken. Haven’t been near each other. Not since dinner. Not since you left without a word and he didn’t follow and you were determined to keep it that way, to keep your place, to stay above it, hold the thread of control between your teeth and not let it snap.

But Shotaro’s voice cuts through the music like a needle against vinyl. “Partners, switch!”

Bodies shift. Pairs split. Karina’s swept up by Jaemin again, fingers laced with a teasing grin. Mark steps into rhythm with Ningning. The room rearranges. You step back instinctively, shaking your head when someone reaches for you but it’s too late. Shotaro scans the room, hand still clapping. “Y/N and Jeno. You two. Go.”

You don’t move—can’t. Something inside you folds in on itself, fragile and trembling, as if your bones remember what your brain hasn’t yet caught up to. And still, he walks toward you, slow and certain, like this isn’t the moment everything tilts. Like the air between you doesn’t hum with old collisions. His steps don’t falter. Yours never start. It’s as if time looped without your permission, dragging the past into the room by its throat and stitching it to now, and you—caught in the middle—can only stand there, breath locked tight in your lungs, heart thudding out a rhythm you haven’t heard since you loved him. He stops in front of you, eyes unreadable, and for one cruel second, you think he might offer you an out. A glance to Shotaro. A shake of his head. Something but he doesn’t. He just extends his hands, palm open, waiting, and when you place yours in it, your skin burns.

The music starts again.

Your hands fall into place like a spell you forgot you knew—his palm pressing into your waist with a familiarity that makes your skin tense, yours resting against the slope of his shoulder where it fits too well, too easily. It’s obscene, how instinctive the hold still feels, how your bodies align like a secret that was never really buried. He moves you with precision, each step a reminder, each subtle drag of his fingers across your spine a ghost slipping beneath your skin. The pressure at your waist sharpens—not harsh, but claiming. Measured. Like he’s daring you to flinch, to acknowledge how wrong this should be. You shift, barely a breath of space between you—and he closes it again, a quiet insistence threaded into the grip of his hand. It’s not violence. It’s worse. It's a memory that devoures you whole.

“You’re off,” he says under his breath, voice low and even, eyes not on your face but somewhere just past it.

“You’re holding too tight,” you bite back, your voice just as soft, just as steady.

The spin catches you before you’re ready, and he’s already there—hand curling around your elbow, guiding, anchoring, commanding in a way that makes your breath hitch. You don’t stumble, but you don’t lead either. His other hand lands against your ribs, fingers splaying wide, pressing in as if to remind you who’s holding you up. The mirror doesn’t lie. It shows the twitch in your jaw, the tremble in your frame, the way your body betrays you. You flinch—not violently, not enough to draw attention, but just enough for him to feel it, to register it in the subtle jerk of his grip. You catch your reflection at the worst moment: mouth parted, eyes blown, every inch of you stretched too tight with restraint. You don’t look composed, you don’t look untouched, you look like something that remembers how to fall apart and he sees it. His gaze shifts to the mirror too, slow and deliberate, like he’s studying evidence. Like your reflection is proof that you still burn. That he still knows the map of you. That no matter how far you’ve run, your body remembers the rhythm it once answered to.

And maybe you do. Maybe you never forgot.

Behind you, Karina’s laugh falters mid-note, catching somewhere between surprise and discomfort. Jaemin says something low that you don’t catch, but the sharp edge of it cuts through the air like the crack of a match. The music thumps again, harder this time, bassline crawling up your spine like sweat. Shotaro’s voice slices clean through it: “Closer. Sell it.” There’s heat behind it now, insistence. Like even he can feel what’s leaking between you.

Jeno doesn’t wait, he never does. One smooth motion — his arm loops around your back, palm splaying over your spine like he owns the axis of you, and then he twists you in, tight, too tight. Your bodies crash with precision and pressure, chests brushing, legs aligning like they remember what it was to ache. Your breath stumbles but his stays steady. For one suspended beat — not even a full second, but longer than any count Shotaro’s shouting — your noses are inches apart. Your eyes find each other like magnets, and neither of you looks away because there’s too much buried in the inches that separate your lips. Too many nights spent learning the curve of each other’s bodies, too many silences, too many fucks that didn’t fix it and still — still — his mouth parts like a secret begging to be let out, like the apology you never got, like the question he never had the nerve to ask. You know what it is. You know what he wants to say. You turn your head before he does but you feel the air shift, the clench of his jaw, the tension that snaps like a cable pulled taut. You don’t have to hear it to know it was never going to be enough.

After a few rotations, Shotaro switches partners again. You don’t protest when Yangyang steps in, his hands are steady, his lead gentle, and there’s nothing to prove between you. He knows your rhythms by now, when you tense, when your breath hitches, how to slow the pace until you find your footing again. With him, it’s not complicated. It’s quiet safety, the kind that lets you loosen the corners of your mouth just enough to look like you’re having fun. Enough to laugh, once, really laugh, at something ridiculous he says under his breath, right as he twirls you in too wide a circle and nearly knocks you both over. You laugh so hard you have to lean into him, shoulder against his chest, one hand pressed to your ribs. You don’t see Jeno watching but he does.

He sees all of it. The laugh that used to be his. The way your body curves into someone else’s arms, how Yangyang steadies you with one hand at your waist like it’s effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Jeno doesn’t blink, but the line of his jaw tenses like something’s cracking under the surface. Later that night, when the villa is too quiet and the moon’s dragged too low across the sky, Nahyun moans into the pillow with his name muffled on her tongue. Jeno’s behind her, hands hard on her hips, the bed creaking in short bursts and she keeps glancing over her shoulder, waiting for something soft. Some proof but he doesn’t give her anything. No kisses or eye contact, just motion and muscle. Just the ache he’s trying to fuck out of himself and into her.

She tries to reach for him, twist to kiss him, but he ducks the moment her lips get close. “Baby,” he mutters once, low and almost cruel in how distant it sounds. She smiles like it’s a win, holds onto the word like it means more than it does, like she doesn’t feel how far away he is. He closes his eyes, thrusts harder. Faster. Bites down on her shoulder like she’s someone else. He doesn’t call her anything again.

The third night settles over the villa like steam, familiar now—the rhythm of bodies moving around each other, the same laughter echoing off stone, the same wine passed between hands that still haven’t said everything they should. Under the low sprawl of fairy lights and the scent of rosemary trailing from the open-air kitchen, the rehearsal dinner blooms warm and slow. Chenle oversees every plate like a hawk, arms folded, linen sleeves rolled to the elbow as he directs waitstaff with surgical precision. Hyuck is off in the corner with a ladder, cursing under his breath as he adjusts the dimmers on the fairy bulbs hanging from the olive trees, muttering something about ambience, golden hour and how constantly Jaemina and Karina are fucking. The courtyard hums with gentle laughter, small clinks of cutlery against wine-stained porcelain, the faint hum of a soft jazz playlist curated by Ningning playing through vintage brass speakers. It’s intimate and curated. Too fucking perfect.

You’re everywhere.

You’ve been on your feet all day, like always, clipboard still in one hand, drink in the other, the back of your phone tucked into your thigh-high slit. You move like you own the air. The silk of your backless dress spills behind you like melted light, gold-toned and sun-warmed from the late afternoon. Your skin glows, collarbones dusted, cheeks high-lit, lips just glossy enough to catch a breath. You’re radiant, and worse, you don’t seem to notice it. Your laugh is unbothered, easy, when you pass by Karina and Jaemin’s on the table. Your fingers tap Yangyang’s shoulder lightly when you whisper something into his ear that makes him grin. You collect empty glasses as you pass and gesture to a server about the spacing between the chairs, your hands graceful even in command. You’re too competent, too stunning and too in control. Jeno can’t stop watching you fall apart perfectly.

He’s seated at the furthest corner of the garden, pretending to listen to something Nahyun’s saying about the napkin rings — silver or sage? — but the words blur before they reach him. He sees only the curve of your spine when you lean forward to adjust a plate. The way your dress slips along your shoulder blades like it’s breathing with you. The shadow between your thighs when you cross your legs. The sound of your voice calling someone’s name. The arch of your neck when you throw your head back in laughter. 

It’s agony wrapped in allure, a private punishment carved out in candlelight. Every time you move, the fabric of your dress slips like water against your skin, catching on the curves he used to kiss like scripture. Bare back on full display, spine like a line he once traced with his tongue. The gold chain draped across your shoulders glints like a dare. You aren’t looking at him. You haven’t since he walked in but everything about you is intentional — the effortless arch of your neck as you laugh, the press of your thigh against the edge of the table, the way you lean into Yangyang’s whisper with a soft, slow smile.

He’s hard already.

Jeno is unraveling by the minute. Every breath feels too shallow, too full of you. His cock’s been hard since you reached for a champagne bottle ten minutes ago and didn’t even glance his way. He shifts in his chair, jaw tight, wrist flexing around his wine glass like it’s the only thing tethering him. There’s a tension in his hips he can’t fix. He’s not touching you, not hearing you, not near you — but somehow, he feels you. He sees the ghost of your body in every move you make. You’re not doing anything but he wants you so badly it hurts. Not just to touch. To be seen. To be remembered. To be the reason you lose control first. But you won’t look at him. Not even once. And that’s what kills him most.

He tries not to show it, he shifts in his seat, clears his throat, downs his wine like it might numb the pain. Nahyun is next to him, all effort — hand on his thigh, nails grazing his wrist, her laugh turned up just a bit too loud when she leans in to murmur something about dessert. He nods, says something soft back, lips brushing her ear, and her smile doubles but it’s all scripted. Performed. Hollow. She’s the decoy. You’re the storm.

You call out something across the courtyard, a gentle reminder about the cake tasting schedule, and your voice carries like a spell. His cock twitches. His jaw clenches. You glance his way — only once, and only by accident, as you’re turning back toward the entrance. But it’s enough. You catch him mid-stare, wine glass hovering just short of his mouth, lips parted, legs spread too wide for someone so composed. Your expression doesn’t change, but your eyes hold steady. Just long enough for his spine to go rigid. Just long enough to make him feel it.

He isn’t going to survive the night—not like this, not with you laughing a few seats down the table like the sound isn’t stitched into every fucked-up place inside him. Not with your spine arched so casually as you lean forward to speak to a waiter, the silk of your dress dipping along your back like it remembers his hands, his mouth, the way he used to press kisses there just to feel you shiver. The fabric clings to your hips like memory, drapes between your legs with the kind of weight that makes him ache, and when you move—God, when you move—it isn’t just grace, it’s punishment. You don’t look at him, haven’t spared him a second glance all night, but the curve of your lips around your wine glass, the way you cross your legs slow under the candlelight, the tilt of your chin when Yangyang leans close to whisper something into your ear—it all feels too sharp, too precise to be coincidence. You glow like you’re born to ruin him. Like forgetting him is the most natural thing your body knows how to do.

He forces dessert down like it might anchor him, chewing past the tension burning behind his teeth, his fork scraping porcelain while Nahyun runs her fingers along his wrist and says something soft and sweet that he barely registers. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes stay fixed on the way your fingers brush the edge of the cake table, on the slight slip of your strap when you reach for a second flute of champagne. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You’ve already taken the air with you.

The moment doesn’t announce itself. It slips in quiet, unnoticed by the room, disguised as nothing. A soft rustle, a flicker of paper against porcelain—the edge of a handwritten card fluttering off the dessert table, caught by the wind or maybe fate. It lands by his chair, near his ankle. No one sees. No one moves. Except you. You step back into the courtyard without warning, eyes scanning the tables, hands still full—clipboard in one, champagne in the other—and you spot it. You don’t pause, don’t break pace. Just approach in that same sharp glide that makes the air bend around you, dress catching light like honey poured over glass. And then you’re there, beside him, lowering to retrieve the card in a single, fluid motion that steals the breath right out of his chest.

You bend at the waist—not crouching, not kneeling—just low enough that your body folds over his line of sight, silk gaping at the neckline, your breasts pushed together in a soft swell that spills just slightly forward. He stares at the slope of skin revealed, the gold chain between your collarbones swaying like a pendulum, catching candlelight as your chest rises with each slow, steady breath. You reach for the card, and your hand brushes his. Not just a graze. Contact. Intentional in its timing, even if you’ll pretend it wasn’t. The back of your fingers trace the top of his hand, slow, feather-light, dragging heat up the veins in his wrist and straight to the base of his cock. Your arm presses into his as you lean closer, your side brushing his shoulder, and the soft curve of your breast grazes his upper arm, warm and real and familiar in a way that unravels everything he’s been trying to forget.

The table softens into a lull—wine half-drunk, plates pushed back, cutlery idle as people begin to lean in closer, voices dipping into that late-evening intimacy that always follows candlelight and full stomachs. Nahyun presses her leg against his under the table, her fingers grazing the fabric just above his knee like she’s reminding him she’s there, reminding him to play his part. Her laugh is gentle, polished, practiced. It spills low against his ear when she makes some offhand comment about the flowers or the way Jaemin had folded the napkins wrong again, and he hums, nods, says something vague in return. He’s not listening at all.

His jaw tightens when her hand slides higher. The muscles in his thigh flex involuntarily. He shifts slightly in his seat, not to move away but to ground himself, to stop the way his cock stirs again, not from her touch, not from her voice, but from the memory still imprinted across the skin of his arm. The memory of you. The heat of your breast grazing his shoulder. The scent of your perfume still clinging to his collar, the weight of it heavy and humid in the space behind his ears. You hadn’t looked at him once when you walked away, hadn’t acknowledged what you did, but his body is still thrumming with it, tense, hard, aching like you reached into his chest and left something there, glowing and raw.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been staring at the water jug across the table until Nahyun moves to pour it, graceful, easy, performing softness like it’s second nature. Her hand brushes over the edge of the tablecloth. “Want me to pass you a glass?”

His mouth is dry. His voice comes out before his brain catches up, low, automatic, drawn straight from the centre of his need. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Can you pass me the glass, Y/N?”

The air doesn’t shift right away but something in her hand pauses. Her smile doesn’t falter, not fully—just tightens around the edges, lips drawn a little thinner, the corners not lifting quite as high. The jug stays suspended between them. “What did you call me?” she asks, light, playful, but the note in her voice doesn’t match the question.

He blinks slowly. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t meet her eyes. The moment sticks, glues itself in place like wax cooling mid-drip. His pulse ticks once at the base of his throat. Then again. He swallows it down. “Sorry,” he says finally, barely louder than the clink of a spoon. “Meant you.”

She sets the jug down a little too carefully. Passes the glass. Her hand lingers a second too long on the stem when he takes it, like she’s deciding whether or not to pull away. Eventually, she does. She shifts beside him, just enough that her thigh still touches his, but the pressure changes. Softer now. Less sure. Her gaze drifts forward, outward, anywhere but back at him. And Jeno? He drinks. Slow. Measured. Staring through the rim of the glass at the place where your body moves between tables again, sunlit silk dragging along your hips, the glow of your skin catching every flicker of light like it was built to hold it. You lean into Yangyang’s side and laugh like you haven’t heard a single thing, like your name doesn’t still hang in the space between him and the woman beside him like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Later that night, Jeno follows Nahyun upstairs with tension coiled deep in his stomach, cock already stiff in his pants, the mistake still burning in his mouth. She doesn’t speak when he reaches for her wrist in the hallway, just lets him pull her toward the bedroom, heels clicking too loud on the marble, her breath quickening when the door shuts behind them. Her back hits it hard. His hands are already on her hips. He kisses her like he owes her something—like this is damage control, like maybe if he kisses her deep enough she’ll forget the way he looked when he said your name but he’s not soft with it. His mouth is hungry, open, wet against hers, tongue slipping past her lips before she can breathe, before she can ask him what the fuck that was at dinner. She doesn’t. She doesn’t need to. He’s already reaching under her dress, palming between her thighs, dragging her panties down in one hard yank. She gasps. He exhales against her neck. His cock is aching, straining against the zipper of his pants, and he’s already undone, already pushing her dress up around her hips as he turns her around and presses her chest flat to the wall.

“Let me fix it,” he mutters against her shoulder, voice low, ragged, one hand on her waist, the other already jerking his cock free from his briefs. He strokes it once, twice, rough, desperate, smearing precome across the tip before lining himself up behind her. “Let me fucking fix it.”

She nods, whimpers, arches back for him—and he drives in without warning, hips snapping forward in one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from both of them. She cries out, nails clawing at the door, and he bites down on her shoulder hard enough to mark. His thrusts are deep, fast, unforgiving, the sound of skin against skin loud and slick, her pussy already soaked, already gripping him tight as he uses her body like it’s something to drown in.

But he’s not really fucking her. He’s fucking the moment he said your name. The sound of your heels on the tile. The way your back looked when you turned away. He grabs her hips harder, pulls her back onto him rougher, and mutters through his teeth, “Take it, Y/N.”

She freezes. Only for a second. Then she moans—louder this time—like she doesn’t care, like she knows exactly what this is and chooses to stay anyway. His hand slides up her back, catches in her hair, pulls her head back so her neck arches, and he fucks her harder, deeper, jaw clenched, eyes shut like he can reshape her into someone else if he just slams into her enough times. His name falls from her lips but it sounds wrong. His orgasm hits sudden, violent, cock twitching as he spills inside her with a guttural sound that isn’t relief—it’s need. It’s failure. It’s your name dragging across his tongue like a wound. He finishes panting, forehead pressed to the nape of her neck, cum leaking down her thighs, and still he doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried in a body that isn’t yours, whispering your name again, quieter this time—like it might sound different if he says it with his eyes closed.

“Let me ride,” she breathes, eyes glittering, something darker behind them. “I want you to feel how good it is when I do it.” He lets her flip him, hands falling to her hips as she swings her leg over, lowering herself down onto his cock with a hiss. She sinks inch by inch, slow and tight, her eyes never leaving his. His mouth parts. His fingers dig into her thighs.

“You like this?” she murmurs, starting to move, hips rolling as she rides him with slow, dragging circles that make his head fall back. “You didn’t fuck her like this, did you?” He freezes. She leans in close, one hand on his chest, the other braced on his thigh, her rhythm building now, faster, harder, breath catching as her pussy tightens around him. Her voice is lower now, whispering against his cheek, warm and cruel. “She never bounced on your cock like this, right?” she pants, slamming down on him again, wet and messy and loud, the sound obscene in the silence of the room. “Never fucked you this good. Never let you watch like this.”

She rides him like it’s a challenge, like every bounce is supposed to replace something he never asked her to erase. Her hands press to his chest for leverage, tits swaying with each thrust, mouth parted like she’s waiting for him to say it again—your name. She moves fast, then slower, then fast again, hips grinding down, pussy squeezing around him in wet, deliberate pulses, like she thinks she’s learning him. Like she thinks she’s winning. And Jeno—he lets her. He grips her hips hard, hard enough to bruise, guiding her pace, helping her fuck herself on his cock because it’s easier than pulling her off because this is what she wants. To be seen. To be better. To be you but she’s trying too hard.

Every gasp is just a little too sharp. Every moan a little too polished, shaped into the kind of sound meant to impress, not unravel. Her rhythm falters every time she tries to draw a reaction from him, her breath catching like she’s waiting for praise. He stares up at her—at the curve of her breasts, the way they bounce, the shine of sweat on her collarbones—and all he can think is wrong. The way her thighs flex, the angle of her hips, the pitch of her voice—it’s all close, close enough to be cruel, but never close enough to be you.

He lets his eyes fall shut. Hears her panting. Feels the squeeze of her cunt around him but none of it reaches where it’s supposed to. He thrusts up once, hard, forcing her to cry out, and she takes it like it means something. Like it’s for her. “You like that?” she moans, grinding down harder, chasing friction. “She never fucked you like this, did she?”

His jaw tightens. His hands fall to her waist, locking her in place. Her pussy clenches around him as she moans again, louder now, like she wants the walls to hear it. Like she wants you to but even when she starts to tremble, even when her voice breaks and her body jerks forward, whimpering, coming hard on top of him, her thighs shaking around his hips—he feels nothing. Just sweat and noise. Just a body that doesn’t know how to fall apart the way you did.

She collapses against his chest, breaths shallow, smile curling where he can’t see it. She thinks she’s undone him, thinks she proved that she’s better than you.  He flips her without a word. Hands to her hips. Face in her shoulder. His cock still hard, buried deep, leaking. He fucks her slow at first—then rougher, brutal, a pace that says nothing soft, nothing sweet. His jaw locks and breath catches. He closes his eyes tighter, pictures your face instead. The way you used to whimper when he bottomed out. The way your hands used to grip him like prayer. He groans low, curses under his breath, and comes with your name in his mouth, bitten between his teeth so hard it tastes like blood.

Across the villa, beyond candlelight and polished glass and the careful illusion of peace, you’re moaning into Yangyang’s neck with your nails dug deep into his shoulders, bouncing on his cock with a kind of raw, frantic hunger that makes the headboard creak behind you, thighs burning, sweat slick between your breasts as you grind down harder, rougher, desperate to come again before the heat fades. Your dress is half-off, straps slipping down your arms, tits out and jiggling with every thrust, mouth open as you pant through clenched teeth, chasing friction like you’re trying to fuck the ghost of someone else out of your skin. Yangyang holds you steady with his hands bruising your waist, breath ragged in your ear, voice a low stream of curse words and praise as he watches the way your cunt drags over him—tight, soaked, filthy. You ride him like you don’t care if it hurts, like you don’t care if he breaks, your hips slamming down with purpose, head thrown back, lips swollen and slick with spit, every bounce harder than the last. His cock twitches deep inside you, and you fuck through it—relentless, mean, gorgeous—moaning louder when he whimpers your name, when he begs to come, when he tells you no one’s ever fucked him like this. 

Under the hush of a midnight so thick it feels conjured, you step into water like you’re stepping out of time. The farthest pool on the estate—half-forgotten, stone-wrapped, tucked beyond the hedgerows and creeping jasmine—is yours tonight. It always has been. Too far from the courtyard to catch stray voices. Too hidden to be found without wanting to be. The villa is asleep. Rooms dark, doors shut. Laughter long since faded. Nothing stirs but the soft flutter of palm fronds overhead and the slow lap of water against tile. It’s quiet in the way that feels enchanted, like the night itself has folded in to give you space to come undone without witness. 

The water feels like sin disguised as serenity. Silken and slow, curling around your waist like a secret you forgot to keep. Every inch of it kisses higher, warmer than it should be, as though it remembers what your skin used to beg for. As though it was poured here just for you. There’s a softness to it, a hush that moves like prayer, but underneath, something coils darker. It lulls you. Makes you feel safe. Makes you forget how easily you fall back into habits you swore you’d outgrown. The night clings to your shoulders like hands you almost remember. The moon slips against your breasts like it wants to watch and as you drift, hips swaying with the current, thighs brushing beneath the surface, it doesn’t feel like swimming—it feels like surrender. Like the water has teeth, and it’s smiling.

You peel your dress off alone in the dark, silk pooling at your feet, and wade in naked. Not to be seen. Not to provoke. Just to escape. To feel water instead of air, to dull your body into silence. You glide the length of the pool in slow strokes, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as your body floats, bare and weightless, your breasts barely brushing the surface. Your skin glows beneath the pale blue water, knees brushing tile, hair slicked back, mouth parted softly like you might speak if anyone was listening. But no one is. Or so you think.

When he appears, it doesn’t feel sudden. It feels inevitable. The shift in temperature, the air pulled taut, that feeling you get when someone walks into a room you haven’t turned to yet but your blood starts running faster anyway. You sense him, you always do. You tilt your head just slightly, not enough to break the illusion of calm. “Enjoying the view?” you murmur, voice soft, almost teasing but there’s an edge tucked into it. Like a blade beneath silk. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands at the edge, half in shadow, shirt unbuttoned and clinging to the cut of his chest, swim shorts slung low on his hips. 

His gaze is heavy. Not polite or tentative. Just hot, and familiar, and painfully still. When he finally speaks, it’s hoarse. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

You smile without turning. “Doing what?” you murmur, voice all silk and edge. Your hand trails slowly through the water, rippling the surface with purpose. As you shift, your chest rises just enough for one breast to crest the surface—bare, gleaming, kissed by moonlight. You let it. Tilt your shoulders back ever so slightly, offering the peak to the night air, to him, to his silence. The cool air stiffens your nipple instantly, a bead of water slipping down your skin like punctuation. The moon catches it all, the arch of your collarbones, the slope of your chest, the soft swell he used to hold in his mouth like something holy. You don’t cover yourself. You just let him look. Let him burn.

“Tempting me.” His voice cracks at the edge, low and hoarse, like the words scrape his throat on the way out. When you finally glance back over your shoulder, the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your chest. He’s already unbuttoned, shirt hanging open like it’s been clawed apart, clinging wet to the muscle of his shoulders, the line of his chest cut hard and gleaming in the low light. His swim shorts hang low, too low, water already licking at his thighs. He’s not hiding how hard he is. Not anymore. “You know what you’re doing,” he says, voice darker now, eyes fixed on the curve of your breast like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing control. 

“You walked here. I didn’t make you.” The words leave your mouth slow, smooth, not loud enough to echo, but they land like a dare all the same. You let him stand there in the dark like a man unravelled by a single choice he keeps pretending wasn’t his to make. Behind you, the air doesn’t move but you feel the tension stretch—pulled tight like a thread wrapped around both your throats. The water hugs your waist, your breasts rising just enough with each breath to shimmer beneath the moonlight. 

A few months ago, you would’ve told him to fuck off. Would’ve thrown water in his face without blinking, maybe even tried to drown him just for the satisfaction of watching him struggle—dragged him under, held him there, let the bubbles rise like a countdown to every apology he never gave. You were angrier then. Sharper. Still burning from the fallout, still righteous enough to believe he deserved your fury more than your silence but now you don’t say a word. Maybe you don’t care anymore. Maybe you care too much and you’re too drunk to sort through it. You just float, bare and unbothered, letting the water carry you into the heat of him, into the hardness pressed flush against your ass, because it’s easier to let him touch you than ask him why he’s here. Easier to let this become what it always does, heavy and hungry, than peel back the layers of what’s still broken. Somewhere inside you, beneath the ache, beneath the weight of everything he turned into memory, something still whispers, let him remember. let him ruin himself on you.

“I’m a man of honour,” he says, but it barely sounds like belief. More like something he’s repeating to himself—again, and again, and again—like if he says it enough, it’ll stick but it doesn’t, not with you naked in front of him, the water painting your body in blue light, the curve of your spine arched just enough to break him. He breathes harder, chest rising behind you, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything else. Just stays there, trembling on the edge of his own restraint, cock pressed thick against your ass like it’s got its own pulse.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters finally, voice low, ruined. “Since the moment you walked into that villa, I haven’t had a single fucking second of peace. You move like you’re not even aware of it. Like you don’t know what you do to me. Every look, every word, every time you brush past me and don’t stop.” He exhales sharp through his nose, the sound catching in his throat. “And you’re everywhere—laughing too loud, smiling at Yangyang like that, flipping your hair, sitting on his lap like it’s nothing.” His voice thins, clenched around the edges. “I see you. I see you in every room, every shadow. I fuck her, and I still taste you. I go to bed and I wake up harder than I’ve ever been in my life, and it’s always, always you.” His hips shift forward, slow, dangerous, the press of him dragging against the curve of you like punishment. “You didn’t have to tempt me. You just had to exist.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you?” you murmur, voice smooth but laced with steel. “Because you can’t fuck the guilt out of your sheets?” You arch into him—not much, just a shift of your hips, a slight push of your ass against the thick strain of his cock, enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. The tension tightens like a noose. “I didn’t ask to be remembered,” you whisper. “You’re the one who can’t let go. You’re the one who watches me like every other body you’ve touched since is a poor fucking imitation.”

He shifts behind you, slow and deep, the water parting around him like it knows to make space for something dangerous. His cock drags thick beneath the surface, the weight of it brushing your ass again, then firmer—intentional—grinding in lazy circles that make your breath falter and your thighs twitch beneath the ripples. His voice comes hot at your neck, teeth gritted, barely able to speak through the restraint. “I used to have control,” he mutters, grinding forward again, the head of his cock pressing right where it makes you clench without meaning to. “I used to choose who I wanted. Now I can’t even jerk off without tasting your name in my mouth. Every time I come, it’s you. Your mouth. Your moan. That fucking face you make when I hit the spot and your whole body breaks open for me.”

His hips rock in again, harder this time, cock pulsing through wet fabric as he drags against your bare skin like he’s marking you with pressure alone. His hands still haven’t touched you, but his breath is all over you, fucked and furious. “You’ve infected me. I want to bend you over the edge of this pool and fuck you until you forget what kindness feels like. I want to own every noise you make. Every goddamn breath. I want you gasping my name with that bratty mouth of yours too full to speak.”

Then softer—ruined—his voice collapses, low and trembling, close enough that his lips ghost the edge of your jaw. “I don’t want you,” he lies, breathless. “I need you. And I fucking hate it. I hate that I’d fuck you in this pool with her perfume still on my collar, your name still dripping down the inside of my ribs. I hate that I’d split you open slow, deep, raw—and still need more. Still come inside you and feel empty after.”

His cock pulses against you again, hard and aching. His breath stutters once, his whole body trembling behind you like he’s at the edge of something. “Tell me to leave,” he whispers. “Tell me you hate me. Or let me fuck you like a man who lost every part of himself the moment you stopped saying please.”

He inches forward, cock thick and swollen, dragging across your skin with no apology. “Look at me. Following you out here like a fucking animal. Hard in the water, grinding against you with nothing between us but a pair of wet shorts and the memory of how tight you were the last time I was inside you.” His voice cracks around the edges, but he doesn’t stop. “You undid all of it. Every rule. Every version of myself I used to have control of.”

He leans closer, breath hot against your neck. “So no,” he says, rough now, dirty with want. “I’m not a man of honour. Not anymore. I’m the man who showed up to this villa swearing I wouldn’t touch you and now I’m one breath away from begging you to let me fuck you in the same pool we used to fuck in silence.”

His voice breaks through the steam like a breath he’s held too long. “They always said I had discipline,” he says, low, wrecked. “That I knew how to keep my head. Be steady. Responsible. The kind of man who doesn’t make messes.” He laughs once under his breath, bitter and breathless. “I believed it too.”

You pause. Just for a beat. Then a short, sharp laugh escapes you—wet and mean and too amused to be gentle. You turn just enough to catch his eye, mouth twisted in something that isn’t quite a smirk. “Who the fuck said that?” you ask, incredulous, mock-serious, like you’re questioning the entire premise of a story you never agreed to be part of. “Because they clearly don’t know you. You? Disciplined?” You scoff, swimming backward just a little, flashing teeth. “God, that’s rich. You’ve been two seconds from self-combusting since the welcome dinner.”

“Disciplined,” you echo mockingly, scoffing, your eyes glinting. “Did Nahyun tell you that?” His jaw ticks, but you’re not done. You pitch your voice higher, soft and syrupy, fluttering your lashes in a mimic so cruel it’s almost art. “‘Jeno, you’re so good, baby. So steady. You always think with your head—’” you pause, tilting your head like you’re considering it, then let the grin curl sharper. “Just not the one that matters, huh?” Then you lunge forward, hand slicing through the water, fast and deliberate, and splash him right in the face.

He sputters, blinks through it, jaw dropping, and for a second you think he might actually be stunned. But then his eyes narrow, gleam catching in the dark, and without a word, he lifts his arm and sends a wave crashing right back at you. You shriek, laughing harder now, water slapping against your chest as you paddle backward, pretending to dodge. “Oh, you wanna play?” you gasp, brushing wet hair off your face. “You’re really gonna assault a naked woman in her own damn pool?”

He grins, finally, slow and dangerous. “You started it.”

“Because you lied!” You shoot him another splash—harder this time, straight to his smug face. “Get out of my pool.”

He freezes mid-step, blinking water from his eyes. “Your pool?” he repeats, mock-offended.

You arch a brow. “Yes. Mine.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “This isn’t your pool. You don’t even own a pool, you don’t even live in this country. You just found the one no one uses and got naked in it.”

Your smile vanishes. You turn slow, eyes sharp now, voice cold and razor-clean when it cuts through the water. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’m sure Nahyun’s lying there waiting,” you murmur, biting every word like it offends you to say her name. “Sweet little thing. Probably still smells like rosewater and caution.” You tilt your head, mouth grazing the line of his jaw now, your lips a hair from his ear. Your ass rolls deliberately against the length of him beneath the water, slow and unrelenting. “Can’t imagine she’d be thrilled,” you whisper, “to know how hard you are for someone who doesn’t say please.”

“Oh, right,” he mutters, voice low and rough now, bitter curling beneath every word, “because Yangyang would be thrilled seeing you like this.” His cock grinds up against your ass again, slow and thick, dragging through the water like he wants to mark you with the shape of it. His breath catches—sharp, filthy—then spills hot across your neck as he leans in closer, chest pressed to your back now, voice rasping just behind your ear. “Bent into me, bare, tits floating, nipples hard, ass grinding on my cock like you need it,” he breathes. “You think he’d be proud of how wet you are for someone who isn’t him?”

You turn in his arms with a tenderness that feels dangerous, too soft for what’s come before, too slow for how fast your pulse is hammering beneath your skin. His chest is pressed to yours, bare and burning, and your thighs hook around his waist with ease, like muscle memory, like you were made to fit there. The water laps gently around you both, warm and quiet, muffling the world. His hands stay loose at your hips, not gripping, not steadying—just there, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly, like touching you wrong might shatter the illusion of whatever this is.

Your hand comes up to his face. You don’t rush it. Your fingers glide along his jaw, then his cheekbone, brushing a damp curl away from his temple. His lashes are stuck together, dark and wet. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something—like he wants to tell you this moment is undoing him. You trace his bottom lip with your thumb and feel the tremble in his breath, the stammer in his chest. The beat of his heart hits hard against your sternum. He’s never looked more open than he does right now.

You lean in closer, forehead to his, your lips hovering just above his, and the stillness wraps around you both like a hush meant for cathedrals. The water doesn’t move. The air doesn’t shift. His eyes are on yours, wide and waiting, and your breath warms the space between his mouth and yours until even silence feels like temptation. The moment swells, suspended, haloed in soft heat and shimmer, like time has slowed out of reverence. Like the world is holding its breath for the fall.

You whisper his name. No ache, no venom—just breath and memory, as if it’s been resting on your tongue all this time. A name said like a blessing. Like something holy you once believed in. He shudders, lashes lowering, lips parting—not for words, but to receive something he doesn’t realise you’re already stealing back. The moonlight clings to your skin like it’s trying to worship you, slicking your shoulders, catching in the strands of wet hair that cling to your neck like a halo fractured by salt. He looks at you like he’s looking at salvation. Like he’s spent months convincing himself you were a curse, only to find grace pressed against his mouth again.

His body jerks once beneath you, his cock twitching where it presses against your thigh. It’s instinct. It’s hope. He thinks you’re going to kiss him. He thinks you’re choosing him again. He doesn’t know it yet—but this is the moment right before the fall. That’s when you shove him. Your palms hit his shoulders with a force he doesn’t expect. The water splits with a violent splash as he goes under, legs flailing, breath knocked from his chest. You don’t flinch. You watch him disappear like you planned it, like you’ve been waiting to do it since the moment he touched you. He surfaces seconds later, sputtering, coughing, blinking water out of his lashes, staring at you with disbelief etched across every line of his face.

You’re already grinning, wild and cold and vicious, the water dripping from your lashes like war paint, your chest heaving not from effort but exhilaration. It spills out of you in waves—laughter edged with something sharp, something cruel, something that’s been festering since the first moment you saw him in someone else’s orbit. You wipe your hand across your cheek with the same casual ease you used to cup his jaw, tilt your head like you’re teasing, like this is nothing more than a game, but your eyes burn with something deeper. He’s still gasping, still stunned, hair plastered to his forehead, and you smile like it’s funny—like it’s easy. Then your voice slices through the steam between you, soft and venom-laced. “And that’s for pretending you didn’t want me.” You let it sit for a second, let the weight of it drag through the silence. “For looking me dead in the face and choosing everyone else like it cost you nothing.” Your tone doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t have to. It’s lethal exactly where it is—low, intimate, final. “For looking me dead in the eye and saying I was the biggest mistake you ever made.” 

His laugh cracks out of him like it hurts. Not bitter. Not defensive. Just broken—like he’s choking on the memory. “I only said that,” he growls, stepping closer, “because you told me admitting you loved me would be like admitting you’d failed.” The words splinter between you, sharper than the splash you threw, sharper than your smile.

His voice shudders but doesn’t soften. “You compared me to every mistake your mother warned you not to make. Said I was only good for fucking, not for keeping. So yeah—yeah, I told you that you were the biggest mistake I ever made.”

You don’t answer him. You don’t even look at him. Whatever flickered in your expression a moment ago—whatever softness lingered—is gone now, pulled under with the tide. You blink once, slowly, then duck beneath the water without a word, slipping past him like he isn’t worth the oxygen. He lunges, hand out, fingers brushing your wrist but you’re already gone. A flick of your ankle, a twist of your body, and you’re swimming away from him, fast and fluid, like muscle memory. Like escape. The sound of his breath chasing yours ripples behind you until you feel it—his hand closing around your ankle, rough but not cruel, yanking you backward with a sudden, unapologetic pull that breaks the surface tension in one violent stroke.

You squeal, kick, scream through your teeth, but he’s dragging you back into his arms like you belong there. Like you never left. His chest crashes against your back, arms banded around your middle, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You twist, and he lets you. You shove your palms flat into his shoulders—just hard enough to break the moment, not bruise it. He’s stronger. He could stop you, could hold you still but he doesn’t. Maybe that’s what ruins him most, that he lets you push, that he lets it all happen. He must secretly believe he deserves this. 

It’s not forceful. It’s precise. A sharp edge carved from control, not chaos. A reminder, not a punishment. Your hands cut through water like blades, and still, he goes under like you’ve struck something deeper than skin. Like your hands reached somewhere he didn’t think you could still touch.

He could’ve caught your wrists, held you steady, ducked or dodged but he doesn’t, he lets the fall happen. He watches your face flicker into something cold and distant and cruel before the surface closes over him again. He resurfaces with a gasp, water streaking down his cheeks like confession. He’s halfway to breathless when your next words hit him.

“And that’s for lying to your friends about how it ended!” you shout, voice cracking slightly as the water splashes between you, the sting of it catching in your throat. “For pretending it was mutual. For standing there smiling while they called me the storm.” Your eyes gleam, feral and wild and wet. “You stood in that room and let them think I broke everything. That I just left. Like I wasn’t drowning. Like you didn’t help me dig the fucking grave.”

He tries to get a word in—something stupid, probably—but you throw water in his face, both palms slapping the surface with all the anger you’ve kept locked in your chest. “And that’s for kissing her in public three days after I left. You couldn’t wait, right?” you say, softer now, more bitter than angry. “Not even a week. Not even a fucking week before you needed a new audience to watch you move on.”

His expression flickers—barely—but you see it. It makes something shake loose in you. Your throat closes. The water clings to your skin, but your hands don’t stop. You splash him again. Again. The laugh bubbling out of you is cracked now, bitter, warped by something sour. “And that’s for calling me difficult when I begged you to listen.”

The words cut the air like glass. You see him flinch. You’re shaking. The water fights back now, splashing into your face as your arms move harder, more desperate, the laughter gone, breath coming in wet stutters. “And that’s for never calling me back. For saying you loved me and then vanishing again like I was nothing.” Your voice breaks, and the echo of it sounds like a lie you’re still trying to believe. “You chased me halfway across the world. Stood outside my building in the snow like you meant it. Said it was different this time.” Your hands hit the surface again, more splash than aim. “You should’ve left me alone the first time, Jeno. You shouldn’t have come back unless you were going to fucking stay.”

“You always tell the story like I left,” he says, voice flat. “Like I just disappeared. Like I got scared. But do you remember what you said to me that night?” A pause, short, sharp. “No. Of course you don’t. You never remember the things you say when you want me gone.”

His mouth curves—not into a smile, but something bitter, something brittle. “You locked the door behind me before I’d even made it to the elevator. Like it was rehearsed. Like you were waiting for an excuse to throw me out, just so you wouldn’t have to ask me to go.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his voice gets tighter, lower. “So yeah. I didn’t call. I didn’t come back. Because you slammed the door and told me to leave and then made it everyone else’s job to wonder why I did.”

Then quieter, colder, just above the surface: “You didn’t want me to stay. You just wanted to say you tried.”

Your laugh comes out cracked, almost silent, like it escaped before it could turn into a sob. You shake your head once, water flinging from your hair, your hands hovering like you don’t know whether to hold him. “God,” you breathe, voice trembling, “you really think that was easy for me? You think I wanted to be that person? That girl who locks doors and bites her tongue and walks away from someone she still—” You stop. Blink hard. Swallow it back like you’ve swallowed everything else since New York.

“I wasn’t trying to make you the villain,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I was trying to survive you.” And then softer, breaking: “You left me bleeding and called it mercy.”

Your breath shudders. You wipe your face, not from the water, but from everything else—the heat behind your eyes, the sting of everything he’s just said. You laugh once, low and hoarse, but there’s no humor in it. Just exhaustion. “Right,” you murmur, voice barely holding together. “That’s why we’re here again, isn’t it? Because no matter how far I run, how many people I fuck, how many times I try to forget—you always find a way to remind me I’m the problem. I’m the reason it fell apart. I’m the one who locked the door. I’m the one who said too much.” You shake your head, throat closing. “So congratulations.” You say it like it tastes bad. “You win. I’m the problem. I always was.” It’s not even an accusation anymore. It’s not even about blame. It’s a confession. It’s the only thing left to say when you’re tired of begging to be understood by someone who only sees your wreckage.

His face shifts immediately, the fight bleeding out of his eyes, replaced by something softer—something closer to grief. He doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t deflect or retreat. He moves toward you, slow, careful, like you’re an open wound he doesn’t want to press too hard. “I’m not saying that,” he says, gently. “I never said that,” he continues, eyes locked on yours, voice trembling at the edges but unwavering. “And if I ever made you feel like that, if I made you believe that carrying all of this alone was what you deserved—I’m sorry. I swear to God, I never wanted to make you think you were the reason we didn’t work. That was never what this was. Not for me. Not even when it ended. Especially not then.” His throat moves. He swallows. “You were the one thing I never stopped wanting to fight for. Even when I didn’t know how.”

His voice is quiet, thick, but steady. He looks at you like he’s trying to see past the words you’ve thrown, past the version of himself you’ve painted in your head, to the place where the hurt actually lives. His hand rises again, this time just barely grazing your forearm under the water, a soft, grounding touch that asks for nothing but presence. “We weren’t on the same page,” he says, not as an excuse but as a truth. “That’s why we didn’t work. Not because we didn’t care. Not because we didn’t try. Just—because we were loving each other in different languages and calling it the same thing.”

He lets it hang there, heavy and real, then steps in closer, like his presence might speak clearer than his mouth ever could. The air between you charges thick and he doesn’t break your gaze once. “You needed things I didn’t know how to give,” he says, slow, deliberate. “Not because I didn’t want to. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.” His voice lowers, tightens. “But I was already drowning in the fear that I was failing you every time I tried and I couldn’t admit it. Not to you. Not to myself.”

He shifts, just slightly—like something inside him caves under its own weight. “So I told myself leaving would make it cleaner. That walking away would spare you the resentment of watching me fall short over and over.” A pause. His jaw tenses. “But it didn’t spare either of us, did it?” His eyes burn into yours now, voice rough. “I didn’t leave because you weren’t enough. I left because deep down I was terrified you’d figure out I never was.”

Your breath hitches so violently it feels like something inside you snaps. Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first—just a sharp inhale, shaky, wet, like your lungs forgot how to hold anything but grief. Your hands tremble, curling into fists against your thighs beneath the water, nails pressing so hard into your skin it hurts, but not enough to stop the storm building in your chest.

“Don’t—” you choke, shaking your head, water slipping from your lashes like rain. “Don’t stand there and say that like it makes it better. Like it means anything now.”

Your voice cracks mid-sentence, like the weight of it all finally lands. “Do you know what it felt like?” you breathe, louder now, words tumbling faster, breath shorter. “To wake up and not know if I was crazy or just forgettable? To convince myself over and over that it had to be me because the alternative was too—” you cut off, swallow hard, your whole body curling forward like it might collapse into itself. “You left, Jeno. You left. You let me sit in that silence for months and every single day I hated myself a little more for not being someone worth staying for.” Your voice is hoarse, broken, the edges of your words fraying into sobs.

Water surges violently as your knees give, your body folding forward like the current itself has taken hold of your spine, like the grief was always a tide waiting to pull you under. Your limbs tremble, motion slowing to a crawl, fingers dragging uselessly through the surface as if they might find something to hold but there’s nothing, just the cold press of silence and the heavy cradle of water wrapping around your ribs like a closing fist. It feels like the end of something unnamed, like the gasp before a final breath, like the world narrowing to the shape of your own collapse. Your mouth opens, but there’s no sound—only the shudder of a sob caught too deep to escape, your lungs tightening like the water wants in. Then you’re caught. Jeno’s arms wrap around you like instinct, like ritual, one pressing firm between your shoulder blades, the other buried in your hair as if he can keep you tethered by sheer will alone. Your chest crushes against his, your tears lost in the wet heat between you, but he doesn’t flinch. He holds you like he’s afraid the water will claim you if he loosens his grip even once. His hands map the curve of your back like a vow, slow and certain, grounding you in the shape of now. He exhales into your hair as if lending you breath, as if your lungs forgot how on their own.

“Hey—hey. Shhh.” His voice strains, still gentle but fraying, laced with panic he can’t hide anymore. “I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you.” His hands don’t stop moving—stroking your back, curling at your waist, cradling the base of your skull like he’s terrified you might unravel in his arms. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Baby, please. You have to breathe.”

You don’t mean to fall apart in his arms. It just happens—like a thread pulled loose all at once, your body collapsing into his without warning. Your shoulders cave in before you can stop them, your forehead tucking into the warm hollow of his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you from shattering completely. The sobs come hard, shaking, ripped from a place deeper than breath, your whole frame trembling with the weight of everything you never let yourself feel until now. You’re wet with more than water, your chest hitching, fists curled weakly in the fabric at his sides. And he just holds you—tighter, closer. His palm moves slow and steady along your spine, up and down, again and again, like he’s memorising the rhythm of your breaking and trying to soothe it with his own. The other hand fists into the back of your dress, knuckles pressing in like an anchor. His breath is warm against your temple, and when he kisses your hairline, it’s soft, reverent, a promise without words. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, again and again, voice thick with emotion he won’t name. “I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay, baby, you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

You shake your head once, hard, like that’ll make it untrue. Like he doesn’t get to say those words anymore. But still, you stay. Still, your knees give, and still he’s the one keeping you upright. You want to speak—to explain the guilt, the ache, the way you can’t look in mirrors anymore without seeing every version of yourself you failed to save—but it all knots in your throat. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing just under your eye. “I’d stay like this all night if it’s what you need. If this is how you breathe, I’ll keep you breathing.”

But you’re sobbing too hard to answer. You cling to his shoulders like you’re falling. You dig your nails in like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. He kisses your temple, again and again, voice cracking at the edges. “It wasn’t just you. It wasn’t just you. I swear to you, you didn’t do this alone.” His forehead presses to yours, his breath shaking against your lips. “You’re not broken. You’re not wrong. I should’ve said it back then. I should’ve fought harder. I’m here now. I’ve got you.” You’re already gone in the grief, in the panic, in the months of silence that all collapse into this one night. If he can just keep your body above water then maybe your heart will float too.

It’s him—him—holding you now, the same hands that once let go of you without looking back, the same mouth that kissed silence into your ribs when all you wanted was to be heard. His arms are the ones wrapped around you while you shake like a fever breaking, while the water folds over your body like a shroud made of every goodbye you never got to survive. It’s a cruel kind of symmetry, the poetry of drowning in the presence of the person who taught you what air could feel like, and yet he’s the only one who can hold you steady through the storm he helped carve into your chest. There’s salt on your lips—grief or chlorine or maybe the aftertaste of every night you bit back the urge to call him—and when he pulls you closer, chest to chest, skin to skin, it doesn’t feel like rescue. It feels like confession. Like all the parts of you that splintered when he left are pressing into him now, waiting to see if he still remembers how to fit them back together. Your pulse stutters like it’s forgotten its rhythm, like it’s scared he’ll vanish again if you breathe too loud, but his hands stay where they are, grounded and unflinching, whispering promises into your spine without needing to speak them—I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—and for the first time in months, you let your weight fall fully into him, and it doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like proof that even when he was the one who broke you, he still knows exactly where you come undone.

The sun glares too bright through the villa’s wide-open shutters, glinting off crystal pitchers of juice, sweat-slicked champagne bottles half-empty on the buffet table, glancing over silver lids of warmers lined like soldiers. Most of the boys are already up, still dripping from the morning swim, some lazily spearing fruit with plastic forks, others crouched in flip-flops by the omelette bar. The chef behind it cracks egg after egg like clockwork, barely glancing up. The air smells of citrus, butter, fresh heat.

You come in late, sunglasses on despite being indoors, linen button-up cinched high on your thighs, lips glossed, smile mechanical.

“Excuse me?” you snap, already waving down a sous chef in white. “I said the tag says dairy-free, but this—” you jab a spoon into a bowl of pale sauce— “smells like goddamn butter.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You think sorry helps an allergic reaction? Who made this?” you demand. “Because if someone ends up in the hospital, that’s your name they’ll ask for, right? That’s how that works?”

Your voice cuts above the soft jazz playing. The sous chef’s face turns red. You don’t care. You’re already halfway down the buffet line, adjusting tongs, setting things straight. Karina mouths bitch mode activated to Jaemin across the mimosa station. No one stops you. No one dares.

Jeno’s at the waffle station. He’s been standing there, watching, one hand wrapped around a plate he hasn’t filled. He’d carried you to your room last night, arms strong but unsure, your body limp from how long you'd cried. You wouldn’t let him stay. Said you were fine. Said it too fast, too rough, like a shield. Yangyang showed up just after, worried, stammering, confused. You didn’t want him either, barely looked at him, but Jeno couldn’t leave you alone. So he left you with the only person who could stand in his place, even if it made his stomach churn. Even if he knew Yangyang would end up inside you. That discomfort hadn’t left his body. It’s still lodged somewhere in his chest now, standing there with his hands cold around porcelain, watching you pretend like none of it happened.

When you step beside him to reach for the berries, your hands brush. He doesn’t flinch. “Are you okay?” he asks, quietly, like it might break something if said too loud.

You don’t meet his eyes. “Fine,” you say, monotone, popping a blueberry into your mouth like last night didn’t end with your mascara streaked across his chest.

He nods once, lets the silence sit. The waffle iron beeps. He doesn’t move. “You know I’ve seen you cry before,” he says eventually, turning slightly toward you. “I don’t know why you’re acting like I haven’t.”

You stiffen, hand tightening around the tong. “Not like this,” you mutter.

His voice softens, low but sharp. “You’ve cried to me like that before. I know you, okay? Even the parts you try to hide from me.”

Your grip slips. One of the tongs clatters. You still don’t look at him. He lets out a dry, short laugh, bitter on the edges. “You can’t look into my eyes because you broke down to me? You know I’ve literally been inside of you. I’ve seen everything. You don’t have to be so nervous.”

Your jaw clenches. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch, just shove your plate forward, stabbing a waffle on top. Then you turn, sharp enough to slice the air. “Shut up, Jeno,” you snap. “God.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Doesn’t chase the fight you’re baiting him into, doesn’t roll his eyes or smirk like he used to when things got tense just to disarm you. He just stands there, quiet, steady, hands loose at his sides. Then he shifts—barely a step—but it’s enough. He’s in your space now, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the way his voice sinks low without needing to whisper. “Are you okay,” he says, “after what happened yesterday?” It’s not a question dressed in pity or sarcasm or self-interest. It’s not defensive. It’s not sharp. It’s softer than you can handle, said with the kind of warmth that makes your chest twist, the kind that lives behind someone’s ribs when they’ve seen you unravel and still want to hold the pieces. His eyes stay on you, soft brown and unreadable and there, really there, and it makes you feel so seen it almost hurts.

He doesn’t reach for you—he never does when you’re like this—but his voice does. “We don’t have to do it now. I’m not trying to push you.” A beat. “But when you’re ready… we need to talk. Really talk.” His breath catches, just slightly. “You broke down in my arms last night,” he adds, gentler still, “and I meant it when I said I wasn’t leaving you alone.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking to the floor, the plate, anywhere but his face. “I know you don’t want me to see you like that,” he murmurs, “but I already have and I’m still here.” His voice warms again, barely a whisper. “I’ll always be here. Just… when you’re ready, come find me. Okay?”

It’s terrifying—fucking terrifying—when someone knows you that well, when they can reach past the version you spend every day perfecting and still pull the real you into the light, when they speak to the part of you you’ve buried so deep under command and control that even you forget it’s still in there, raw and aching and waiting for someone to touch it gently enough that it doesn’t flinch, and he says it so softly, so simply, like it’s easy, like staying was always the obvious choice, like watching you crumble into him, mascara on your chin, fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt as if drowning—that didn’t scare him, when it should have, when it did scare you, when you couldn’t look him in the eye because you were certain that moment had wrecked something sacred and irreparable, but now he’s just standing there, open, calm, hands loose at his sides like he’s ready to catch you again if you so much as sway, and it makes you ache in a place so old it doesn’t have language, because it’s not the way he looks at you like he’s in love, it’s the way he sees you with all your shit and still decides to stay.

And there’s more—so much more, things you didn’t even realize had happened until hours later when your body wasn’t vibrating anymore and your brain slowed down just enough to notice them in fragments, like how the fan was on low even though you don’t remember touching it, how the bathroom door had been nudged shut and the tequila bottle—that bottle—was nowhere in sight, how the hoodie you never gave back to him was folded perfectly at the end of your bed like a quiet offering, how your water bottle was full again when you’d left it empty, and Yangyang had his phone out at one point and you caught a glimpse of the texts—two of them—from Jeno asking if you were okay, if you were sleeping, if you’d eaten, he didn’t send more after that, like he didn’t want to overstep, like he already felt guilty for leaving in the first place and needed to know you were safe even if he wasn’t the one holding you anymore, and it makes your chest clench because he was holding you, in every single way that mattered, in the quiet and invisible spaces you didn’t see or feel until now, and he never mentioned any of it this morning, never pointed to himself and asked for credit or validation or gratitude, because that’s not why he did it—he did it because he knows you, and knowing you has always meant protecting you, even from yourself.

You’re already moving before he can talk more and shatter your heart, back in motion, back in command. You bark at the staff to rotate the trays, tell them the egg white frittata’s been sitting too long. You rearrange the fruit station because someone thought it made sense to put the watermelon before the kiwis. You ask three separate servers if they’ve double-checked the seating chart for brunch, if the twins got the vegan option, if the itinerary’s been printed and left in the guest rooms like you fucking asked. You tell Mark to go put a shirt on if he’s going to lounge near the canapés. Scold Shotaro for tracking water across the marble again. Snatch someone’s phone off the charger and say, “whoever’s this is, I’m confiscating it till you stop acting like an unpaid intern.”

You’re a storm in sunglasses, a drill sergeant in heels, and no one can keep up. Eventually, you disappear—no fanfare, no warning. Just gone. Slipped out through the side path that curls behind the gardens, beneath bougainvillea vines and between stone arches where the koi pond lives in dappled light and silence. You crouch there, beneath the soft swaying leaves, pretending to read the ripples on the water like they can give you answers. Your hands tremble. You wrap them around your knees and squeeze tight.

Seulgi finds you there. You hear her before you see her—the gentle shuffle of flats against gravel, the clink of porcelain. She crouches too, settling beside you with a thermos and a look that doesn’t ask anything. “Deep breaths,” she says, holding out the cup. “Don’t let him make this harder.”

You take the tea, hold it between your palms like it might anchor you. “I just want it perfect,” you whisper.

Seulgi brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and cool. “I know,” she says. “But perfect doesn’t mean killing yourself over it.”

Your laugh is thin, glassy. “You say that like you didn’t raise him.”

Seulgi sighs, long and knowing. “I did raise him. That’s how I know how stubborn he is. How he holds onto pain like it’s proof of something. How he shuts down when he’s scared.” Her tone shifts—warmer, but edged with that steel she reserves only for you. “But you didn’t see how he looked at you last night.”

You still can’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. “He left me with Yangyang.”

“Because you told him to go,” she says gently. “And he knew you didn’t want to be alone, no matter what came out of your mouth. You think that didn’t kill him? Watching someone else stay because he wasn’t allowed to?”

“But he didn’t fight to stay.” You stare into the sea like it holds something heavier than water, knuckles tight around the ceramic as the steam curls up and vanishes. “I told him to leave,” you say finally, voice hollow, too even to trust. “I told him to go, that I was fine, that I didn’t need him. And I know—I know how fucked that sounds, because how can I question it now, how can I sit here wondering where the fuck he was when I was the one who made him leave? But Seulgi—” your voice cracks before you steady it again, “—he didn’t fight. He didn’t push back. He didn’t look at me and say, ‘no, I’m not going, not like this.’ He just nodded, like he was relieved to be let off the hook, like walking away from me when I was choking on everything I couldn’t say was easier and maybe that’s what kills me the most. Not that he left but that he didn’t try. That I was breaking right in front of him, and he let the door close anyway.”

Seulgi doesn’t react right away. She just watches you, like she’s weighing every word you said against everything she’s ever known about her son. Then her brows pull together—subtle, deliberate—and she exhales through her nose, slow and careful, like she’s holding herself back from something sharper. “He learned that from Taeyong,” she says quietly, almost like she hates having to say it out loud. “That silence counts as safety. That walking away is how you protect yourself. You think I haven’t seen that before? I lived with it. Every time things got too loud, too raw, too close—your eyes too wet, your voice too soft—he shuts down. Not because he doesn’t car but because he cares so much he thinks the only way to survive it is to retreat. To not make it worse. To not say the wrong thing. And I know that doesn’t make it better, honey. I know it doesn’t fix what he did but he wasn’t relieved to leave. He was scared. Scared that staying would break you worse. Scared he wouldn’t know how to hold you right. That you wouldn’t let him.”

Her fingers wrap around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You wanted him to fight for you, and he wanted to not hurt you. And somewhere in the middle of all that miscommunication, you both lost the fucking plot.” She tilts her head, thumb brushing lightly across your pulse point. “You’re right to be angry. He should’ve stayed. He should’ve known you didn’t mean it but if you think that boy walked out of your room and didn’t look back—you don’t know him like I do.” Then her voice lowers, achingly soft. “He looked back. I promise you, sweetheart—he looked back the whole way down that hall.”

She tucks your hair behind your ear again. “I’ve seen a lot of girls love him. From far away. For the spotlight. For the wins. You’re the only one who loved him close. Loved the him that breaks things. And I think that terrifies both of you.”

You shake your head, lip wobbling. “I didn’t mean to hurt us.”

“You didn’t,” she says firmly. “He was cracked long before you touched him. You just made him feel it. That’s different.”

You stare into the pond. The koi drift lazily, unaffected by any of this. You speak quietly. “I hate when he acts like I’m a stranger. Like everything we had was nothing.”

Seulgi sighs again, hands folding in her lap. “He doesn’t think it was nothing. He thinks it was everything. And when you lose everything, sometimes all you can do is pretend you never had it.”

Your throat burns. “You’re hard on yourself,” she adds. “You always have been. Like if you just plan enough, control enough, maybe the pain won’t catch up. But love doesn’t care about plans. It’s messy. It’s inconvenient. Sometimes it leaves scars. Sometimes it comes back.”

You finally look at her. Your eyes sting. “I don’t know what to do.”

Seulgi cups your cheek. “Start by forgiving yourself. Then, maybe—when you’re ready—let him see you. Really see you. Not the version that runs this villa like a general. The one that’s still hurting. The one that stayed up all night trying not to text him.”

You nod slowly, eyes wet. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She smiles. “Sweetheart,” she whispers, brushing away a tear with her thumb. “I’ve seen you worse. You think I don’t remember the rush hour shift at the caffe when you had a panic attack trying to book a group dinner for six people?”

From the second-floor veranda, above the carved wood railing and thick drapes fluttering in the wind, Jeno sees. He was walking past, maybe looking for you, maybe not. But he sees. Sees how small you sit next to her. How carefully she touches you. How you lean in, let her hold you like that and the guilt splits through him sharp.

You and his mother have stayed close—closer than he ever realized and he didn’t even know.

The terrace hums with heat that hasn’t faded even with nightfall, thick and unmoving like breath held too long. It spills through the cracked stone beneath them, sticks to skin, and seeps into every cushion and every glass of sweating scotch. The wine cellar terrace, half-dug into the cliff behind the villa, glows low with lanterns strung along rusted iron hooks, their flickering shadows cast against velvet throws and bare, sun-warmed walls. Somewhere deeper in the house, Doyoung is still pacing the dining room, rehearsing his speech for tomorrow, muttering under his breath and rejecting every draft Mark offers with an eye roll and a tighter frown but none of that reaches the cellar. Out here, it feels like the world has narrowed to this, liquor, cards, bare torsos, the salt-slick hush of waves beneath them. 

This is Doyoung’s night, his wedding’s tomorrow, his nerves are spiking, and the speech he’s been rewriting all afternoon has been crumpled and restarted more times than anyone can count. He’s been pacing the villa kitchen in socks and silence for hours, glass of wine refilled and untouched, mumbling lines to himself and snapping at anyone who offers help. Mark eventually gets sick of it. He doesn’t ask, he just pulls Doyoung out by the arm, murmurs something about air, about relaxing, about needing to reset before tomorrow. Doyoung protests until they reach the terrace, and then it hits him all at once — the heat, the low jazz, the lanterns swinging above bare chests and scuffed poker chips, Hyuck yelling about rules he made up on the spot, Chenle’s cackling from a corner pillow. He’s still tense when he sinks into the cushions beside Mark, eyes scanning the mess like he doesn’t quite know how to belong to it, but Mark just nudges a glass into his hand and leans in with a low, warm, “You’ll thank me later.”

The bachelor party hasn’t been revealed yet. It’s still building in the wings, waiting for the right moment. Mark knows what’s coming, but right now he just wants to anchor Doyoung back to earth, keep the guys together, let the mood settle into something good before it spikes into celebration. The night hasn’t erupted yet but the burn has started. Every breath tastes like salt, like tension, like something about to snap.

Mark sits closest to the record player, a gift from Doyoung, placed in the corner even though nobody can properly work it. The needle stutters through an old jazz LP, worn edges and haunting saxophone curling into the warmth like a memory too persistent to shake. Hyuck keeps pretending he’s in charge, slapping the deck against his palm with the flair of a magician who’s just discovered vice. “Ante up, gentlemen,” he grins, tossing chips across the table without waiting for agreement. “Tonight, the stakes are pride, dignity, and whatever shreds of masculinity you’ve got left.” 

Chenle is already barefoot, knees pulled up against a velvet cushion, waving a makeshift tally card where he’s scrawled their names and drawn little knives beside anyone who folds early. “I’m keeping score,” he says solemnly, lips curved into a grin. “Most likely to cheat, most likely to cry, most likely to choke in bed.”

“Put a crown next to Hyuck for that last one,” Jaemin mutters, his voice barely audible, head tipped back where he’s sprawled along the built-in stone bench, the cuff of his pants rolled and legs stretched long into the night. “He’s had two hands and three lies already.”

“You’re just mad I pulled a straight with pure sexual energy,” Hyuck retorts, flicking his lighter open and shut.

Doyoung adjusts his grip on the too-full glass of wine in his hand and finally looks around — really looks. The haze of cigar smoke, the sting of salt still clinging to the stone, the gleam of bare chests and sweat-wet skin stretched out across velvet cushions like a painting that got drunk halfway through. Hyuck is barking out nonsense rules between sips of mezcal, Chenle is halfway through a performance review of everyone’s poker face, Jaemin hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes except to ash his cigarette over the edge of the terrace. Mark meets Doyoung’s glance briefly before looking away again. Everything smells like heat and burnt sugar and arrogance.

His mouth curves into a tight frown. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice dry as the wine in his hand. “It smells like cigar and shame out here. Is this a wedding or a frat house from hell? 

Mark barely glances up, already bracing for the commentary, but Jeno shifts first, to tip his head slightly, the silver chain around his throat catching a slant of light like it wants to be looked at. His fingers toy with the edge of his poker chip, lazy and slow. “Cigars are Hyuck’s fault,” he says, not quite smiling. “The shame’s optional.” He doesn’t bother looking up. His cards rest steady in his hand, but his focus keeps slipping. He’s seated with one leg hooked loosely over the other, bare chest slick with a sheen of sweat and ocean salt, all sharp collarbones and careless posture, like he’s bored of winning but too restless to stop. The pile of chips in front of him is obscene. He hasn’t lost a single hand all night. His jaw is tight but his mouth is soft, and his lashes shadow his cheekbones every time he blinks down at the table, the expression unreadable, somewhere between distraction and detachment, like he’s playing a different game altogether, one only he understands.

The table is a humid, chaotic sprawl of half-drunk glasses, uneven stacks of poker chips, ash from Hyuck’s cigar dusting the velvet like confetti. Chenle’s barefoot again, Shotaro’s collapsed somewhere behind a cushion with his hair stuck to his cheek, and Hyuck deals the cards like a man possessed. His wrist flicks like he’s auditioning for a Vegas cabaret, dramatic to the point of unnecessary, each card cutting through the air like he’s trying to wound the night itself. The Queen of Spades smacks the edge of Chenle’s wineglass and almost sends it toppling, but he rescues it one-handed like a magician, holding it aloft and grinning like he deserves a trophy. “This one’s high stakes,” Hyuck announces, sweeping his arm out as he deals the last card like it’s a dramatic reveal. “Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to skinny dip alone and send the group chat a tasteful nude.” 

“Hyuck, that’s your kink,” Jaemin mutters without looking up, tapping ash off his cigarette with one hand while adjusting his chips with the other. “Not a punishment.”

“It’s called motivation,” Hyuck fires back. “Learn about it.”

Chenle snorts, throws his cards down without looking. “If we’re skinny dipping based on who loses, I wish Ningning was in this game. She’d act all innocent and then start peeling layers off like it’s nothing. Probably fold early just so she could mess with me. I’d forget how to play the second she took off her top. Honestly? I’d lose on purpose.”

There’s a chorus of snorts. Jaemin laughs behind his wrist. Mark clicks his tongue and jabs Chenle in the ribs with the corner of a chip. “Don’t be gross.”

“I’m being honest,” Chenle shrugs, shrugging deeper into his cushion like he’s been wronged. “If the girls were playing? We’d all be fucked.”

Mark glances at him over his glass. “Who specifically?”

“Oh, all of them,” Chenle says, grinning. “Ryujin would act like she doesn’t know the rules and then clean us out while texting her manager.”

“Seulgi would say exactly three words the whole game,” Hyuck adds, cutting the deck again with unnecessary flair. “And somehow end the night with everyone’s watch and dignity.”

“Areum would forget what game we’re playing,” Mark says, lips curving as he takes a slow sip. “Like genuinely. She’d just be there for the snacks and probably fall asleep halfway through.” 

“She’d throw in chips without looking,” Doyoung adds. “Win once, get bored, and leave.”

“Ningning,” Chenle starts, smiling a little too hard, “would play like she’s never seen cards before, then get mad halfway through and start betting aggressively out of spite. She wouldn’t win, but she’d make sure I lost.”

“Karina would overthink every round,” Jaemin says. “She’d play safe, try to be strategic. First hand would go great, and then she’d spiral.” 

“She’d also flirt through it,” Hyuck adds. “Giggle every time she gets dealt a bad hand, keep the table distracted. She’d last long enough to be dangerous, but then double down on the worst hand just to prove a point.”

“Irene would cheat,” Jaemin says confidently.

“She would,” Doyoung agrees, like it’s an accepted fact of the universe.

“She’d bring her own deck,” Hyuck nods. They laugh, loud and real, the kind of laughter that only happens when everyone’s a little too hot, a little too drunk, and too far gone in the night to care how loud they are.

Chenle clicks his tongue. “Nahyun would talk a big game. Do the whole smoky eye thing, sit real close to Jeno, whisper like she’s bluffing—but she’d fold every round.”

“She’d get mad if you didn’t fold for her,” Mark mutters, distaste on his tongue.

“She’d cry if you did,” Jaemin says.

“Alright,” Chenle says, settling back into the cushions, eyes flicking around the circle like he’s saving the best for last. “Y/N would fold first round,” he adds quickly, reaching for his drink with a smirk already pulling at his mouth. “Act all sweet and play it shy. Make us feel bad for even raising.”

“Then start giggling like she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Hyuck adds, already picturing it. “Say something like, ‘what’s a flush again?’ while collecting half the pot.”

“She’s lethal,” Mark says, shaking his head. “Not even in a cocky way — she just knows exactly when to hit.”

“She’d study all our tells by round two,” Jaemin mutters. “Every eye twitch, every chip tap. She’d let you think you were winning and then gut you clean.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t just win,” Doyoung says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “She’d make it hurt. Humble you with a smile on her face.”

“She’d do that fake apologetic thing, too,” Chenle groans. “Like, ‘wait, that’s good right?’ while throwing down the only royal flush of the night.”

Yangyang exhales a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “She’d fold early just to watch everyone else unravel. Then when it matters? She’d raise without blinking, lean forward like it’s casual — and you’d give her everything without even realising.” He says it softly, but there’s weight behind it. Like he’s not guessing. Like he’s seen it happen.

Jeno hadn’t said a word in ten minutes, he didn’t flinch when they joked about Nahyun folding under pressure, and didn't react when Mark mutters that she plays with expectation instead of instinct. Jeno keeps his head low, fingers tracing the rim of his glass with a rhythm that doesn’t match the pace of the room. His jaw is slack, mouth unreadable, chest rising slow as he leans further into the shadows. The firelight skims across his skin, catching the sweat sheen and the gold chain clinging to the hollow of his throat. He nods along here and there, but it’s empty movement, mechanical and detached. He’s not here to add. He’s watching, he’s waiting. His attention only sharpens when your name slips out, caught at the tail end of Chenle’s laugh like it wasn’t meant to land. That’s when everything shifts. Jeno’s gaze lifts. The motion is slight, deliberate, not dramatic enough for most of them to notice but Yangyang does. Yangyang is already looking at him.

Their eyes meet across the cushions. Jeno’s gaze is slow and deliberate, locked in with a stillness that feels sculpted, not accidental. There’s no smirk, no twitch of amusement, just something dark and quiet, razor-sharp in its focus. His stare doesn’t waver, it’s held too long to be casual but too calm to be confrontational. It’s the kind of look that says everything without speaking, like he’s not warning Yangyang. 

His thumb presses against the glass rim once, slow and soundless. His chest rises, barely. The fire flickers in the reflection of his eyes. When he speaks, it’s not sudden. It’s inevitable. “No,” Jeno says, voice smooth and low, almost too calm. “She’d pretend to fold, she’d let you think she’s soft. Then come back with a straight flush and make you look stupid for ever believing she wasn’t playing.”

He doesn’t elaborate or blink. He just lets it hang in the smoke-thick air, the sentence curling slow and tight in everyone’s chest. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It doesn’t sound like he’s guessing. It sounds like he remembers. It sounds like something that’s happened, like something he’s studied, the way your fingers graze the chips, the curve of your smile when you know you’ve already won, the flick of your wrist as you set down a hand that no one saw coming.

He remembers the way you play games, not just poker, but the little ones that start with a challenge and end with someone breathless. The way you’d push him, always a little too hard during play-fights, fists curled into his chest like you wanted to hurt and kiss him all at once. He always let you land the first hit, always let you laugh too loud when you thought you won, just so he could pull you in tighter after, arms locking around your waist, his breath hot against your ear as he flipped you under him and asked, low, if you really thought he’d lose to you. 

He remembers the way you play games, not just poker, but the little ones that start with a challenge and end with someone breathless. The way you’d shove at him during play-fights, always a little too hard, fists curled into his chest like you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to hurt him or fuck him. You’d scrunch your nose, giggling through your threats, calling him names with a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, soft, mean, irresistible. He’d always let you land the first hit. Let you think you had the upper hand. Let you gloat, loud and dramatic, collapsing into laughter with your body draped over his, so confident he’d let you win again but it was never a question of if he’d flip it, only when. He’d catch your wrists, slow and steady, thumbs stroking over your pulse, breath hot against your cheek as he rolled you beneath him like it cost nothing. Arms locking around your waist, chest flush to yours, lips dragging down the slope of your jaw. “You really think I’d lose to you?” he’d whisper, voice lazy and low, like he wasn’t already so hard it hurt.

You’d try to wriggle out of it, laughing again, breath catching as his hands slid lower, pinning your hips down while you arched into him anyway. There was always tension, always teasing, you’d squirm and whine when he tickled your ribs, suck in a sharp breath when his mouth ghosted over your neck, tug at his hair when he pushed your thighs apart just to press them back together again. He liked when you got bratty about losing. Liked it when your pout melted into a moan the second his hand slipped under your shirt. You’d say “rematch” with your panties already pushed to the side. He’d say “prove it” with his fingers between your legs. 

He remembers how serious you got over board games, that crease in your brow when you counted points, the way your lip would catch between your teeth when you were trying not to gloat. He always watched you more than the pieces. You didn’t play to pass time, you played to destroy and when he beat you, because he did more than you’d like to admit, it wasn’t about the win. It was about how you’d go quiet, pouty and twitchy in his lap, arms crossed until he kissed you through your own rules. Hands on your thighs, mouth slow and dragging, murmuring “baby, it’s just a game” while you rolled your hips to shut him up. There was nothing innocent about it. Not the tension, not the teasing, not the way you’d play just to get claimed after and he never minded losing. Not really. Not when it meant fucking you on the floor while the board scattered under your knees.

Doyoung lets out a shaky laugh, the sound too high and too quick, like it slips out before he can stop it. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt, clears his throat, eyes darting between faces like he’s trying to read the temperature in the room. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice tight with something between amusement and genuine concern. “You boys don’t even need to be playing poker to get some action. Aren’t all of you already sleeping with each other anyway?” The question lands light, half a joke, but it cuts just sharp enough to pull Jeno’s gaze back to the table. His fingers pause on his glass. 

Chenle claps once, delighted. “This whole friend group is an orgy and I stand by that.”

“Not everyone is fucking right now,” Mark cuts in, like he’s clarifying something serious. “Yangyang’s not sleeping with anyone in the group. Neither is Hyuck.”

Chenle doesn’t miss a beat. “Bro. He’s literally been fucking Y/N every night since we got here.”

Mark blinks. “Wait—what?” It comes out too fast, too sharp, like it caught somewhere between shock and something heavier. He stares at Yangyang, then at the half-empty bottle in front of him like it might explain something. “Seriously?” He leans forward, blinking again, voice dropping without meaning to. “I just didn’t think she’d—” He stops. Runs a hand down his face. “I thought you two were just… hanging out.”

Yangyang leans back into the cushions, fingers curling slowly around his glass like he’s got time to kill and no reason to rush. He lifts it to his mouth, sips like it’s nothing, then lowers it again but his eyes never leave Jeno’s. He tilts his head just slightly, enough for the firelight to catch along his jaw, and lets the words drop soft, almost bored.

“We’re not hanging,” he says smoothly. “I’m just keeping her busy, every night, don’t think we’ve missed a single one.” The silence that follows isn’t the kind that begs for a response. It’s the kind that waits for blood. Jeno's eyes stay on Yangyang, locked and unflinching, heavy with something darker than jealousy. He doesn’t look furious. He looks focused, like someone weighing outcomes. Like someone deciding whether to speak or snap. His jaw tightens once, his thumb brushes slowly along the side of his glass. 

Yangyang holds the stare, legs stretched out in front of him, entirely at ease but the smirk fades. The air between them pulls taut, invisible string wound between their chests, tension straining against silence. There’s no raised voices or fists yet. There’s just an undeniable sense that if either one of them moved, the whole room would tilt.

The laughter from before drains out of the circle like someone pulled the plug. Chenle’s grin fades. Hyuck shifts, glances at Jaemin, then looks back down at his cards like they might save him. Even Jaemin taps his cigarette out without a joke. Doyoung’s cough breaks the charged silence, it’s loud enough to break whatever thread had pulled tight around them, rough enough to sound just a bit too forced. His smile pulls a little too wide, too neat, his attempt at changing the topic. “This better not turn into strip poker,” he says finally, voice light but eyes flicking sideways like he’s already plotting his escape. 

Mark chuckles at a memory “Last time Shotaro cried because Jaemin took off his watch,” he adds. 

“That watch was sentimental,” Shotaro mutters from his cushion without opening his eyes. His voice is soft but stubborn, like he’s been waiting for someone to bring it up. “It had the moon phases on it. It was one that Y/N gifted me.” 

Chenle fans his cards dramatically, pulling everyone back to the game. “Okay, I’ve got nothing. I fold before I start but just know that if I did have good cards, all of you would be absolutely ruined.”

Mark flicks his hand across the table, discarding his cards with ease. “You bluff like a toddler.”

“You look like a toddler,” Chenle says too fast, instantly grimacing. “No wait, wait. That was weak. Forget it. Reverse it.”

“Too late,” Jaemin hums, taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’re getting flamed in the toast tomorrow.”

“Like you weren’t the one crying during the rehearsal,” Mark shoots back, one brow lifting, voice sharp but even.

“Your vows were manipulative!” Jaemin fires, pink in the cheeks now. “You weaponised sincerity!”

“Back to the game,” Hyuck cuts in with a groan, flipping the flop, three cards face up in the centre of the table. Two hearts and a club. The laughter dies down in slow increments, everyone leans forward like something primal just woke up in their stomachs.

Jeno hasn’t spoken in what feels like ten minutes. He’s the only one not leaning in, still draped across the corner of the couch like his body’s given up on pretending this is even competition. One arm hooked back over the cushion, silver chain catching the light across his collarbone every time he shifts, his other hand lazily moving a poker chip between his knuckles. His skin is sun-warmed and salt-slick, hair slightly messy like he forgot to dry it after the ocean, and the sweat pooling beneath his jaw only makes him look more alive but there’s something unhinged beneath the surface, something tight around the mouth, something too still in his eyes. He hasn’t lost a hand all night, but he doesn’t seem to care if that changes. His thumb taps the edge of his chips with slow rhythm, precise and meaningless.

The turn card lands, Queen of Hearts and Jeno’s thumb stops moving. Mark notices. Says nothing. But his gaze flickers. “Alright, bets,” Hyuck says, leaning back into the cushions, too cocky for someone who keeps folding. “If you’re broke, borrow. If you’re scared, fold. If you’re drunk — the same rules apply.”

“I raise,” Jaemin says immediately, tossing in three chips like he wants to burn his stack just to watch it go up in smoke. “Because chaos is a strategy.”

“I’ll match,” Doyoung says, fingers a little too steady, posture too upright. “But only because I think watching you lose is good for my soul.” He smiles like he means it, but the line of sweat on his brow suggests otherwise.

“I fold,” Shotaro mumbles, face buried in his cushion. “I have stage fright.”

“It’s not a performance,” Chenle scoffs.

“I have performance anxiety anyway.”

“Your hand isn’t even in this round,” Hyuck hisses, slamming a card down with flair. “Plus you’re literally a performance arts major.”

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move like the others do, doesn’t tap or twitch or shift his weight. His wrist turns slow, smooth, the chip balanced neatly between his fingers like it belongs there. His eyes stay low, steady, almost heavy-lidded with how little effort he’s putting in. Then he flicks. One flick. Clean, precise, the chip arcing through the air and landing dead center in the pile with the kind of silence that makes people notice. “Call,” he says, voice deep, low, no tension in it at all, like he’s not gambling, like he’s narrating something inevitable.

Jaemin breathes out a laugh, soft and amused. “You say that like it’s a love language.”

The river card lands, Five of Diamonds, and the game turns real. No one says a word. The only movement is Jeno’s thumb dragging across his bottom lip, slow and unfocused, his eyes locked on the centre of the table like the cards might shift if he waits long enough. He looks dangerous, like a man holding fire and pretending it doesn’t burn. “Final bets,” Hyuck says, softer now.

Mark adds two chips, fingers tapping once against the wood. “I want to see you fall apart, Jaemin.”

Jaemin raises him by one without flinching. “You’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

Jeno doesn’t raise or fold. He just holds his cards like they’re facts. One slow breath. One glance toward the pile. He waits. Jaemin throws down his hand like he’s presenting a miracle. “Two pair. Queens and Fives. Say it. I’m beautiful and terrifying.”

“You’re halfway there,” Mark says, showing a straight, smug. “But not enough.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jaemin groans, flopping back.

Doyoung lifts a quiet three of a kind and sips his wine like it was all beneath him from the start.

The room settles into a charged stillness, soft murmurs fading as the weight of the moment pulls every gaze toward him. Jeno lifts his hand with ease, each movement deliberate, fingers gliding over the velvet until they find the edge of his cards. He flips them with practiced grace, spreading them into a clean, measured fan across the table. Five hearts. Deep red, gleaming under firelight. A flush laid out like it was never in question. Tension shifts across the circle, breath hitching in the throat of the room, heat pressing in against bare skin. The game keeps going, but everyone knows who it belongs to now.

Hyuck lets out a wheeze and drops his drink. “You son of a bitch.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “You had that from the start.”

“I had it before the first round,” Jeno murmurs, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s not sure if he’s pleased or ruined. “I just wanted to see who’d fall apart trying to beat me.”

“You’re disgusting,” Chenle mutters, sounding impressed.

“Take off your pants, Jaemin,” Hyuck says gleefully. “Time to earn your badge.”

“No one is going skinny dipping,” Mark sighs, rubbing his eyes.

“Speak for yourself,” Jaemin says, already undoing his belt.

Outside, the night has unraveled into something looser, hotter, full of half-drunk limbs and half-open shirts. Some of the boys are in the pool now, stripped down and shouting across the water, their laughter echoing off the cliff edge and bouncing back in time with the old jazz still buzzing faintly through the speaker no one remembers pairing. A couple of them have sprawled out along the stone floor with half-finished drinks, chests rising slow, lulled by heat and exhaustion. The poker table is a mess of empty glasses and forgotten chips, the velvet marked with sweat and spilled liquor. There’s a cigarette still burning in the ashtray beside a half-played hand. No one’s keeping score anymore. The air’s grown heavier with salt and smoke, and the buzz of the night has melted into something low and pulsing, like the aftermath of a storm that hasn’t quite passed.

Jeno hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s still in the corner, half-shadowed by the glow of low-hung lanterns, bare chest slick with sweat that hasn’t cooled since the game ended. The heat clings to him, settles into the line of his collarbone where his chain sticks like it’s been welded there. His fingers are loose around a glass long gone warm, the condensation dried, untouched for too long. He hasn’t spoken since the final hand. Not a word. His eyes are open but far, tracking nothing, fixed on the stretch of terrace that leads to the water — the pool where your back arched against his, where your moans tangled in his breath, where you moved against him like it was the first time and the last. You left him there, still dripping, still reeling, like none of it mattered. Then the whispers came. You disappeared upstairs. Ended the night in someone else’s bed. He hasn’t been right since. He hasn’t thought straight. There’s a silence in his body that doesn’t belong here, doesn’t match the laughter or the heat or the way Hyuck’s still shouting in the distance. It’s not calm. It’s the chokehold left behind when need doesn’t get met. It’s a storm caught between his ribs, pacing without exit.

Jaemin’s next to him, shirtless too, smoke curling from between his fingers, the scent of it bleeding into the salt air. He leans back, lazy and long-limbed, then turns just enough to offer the cigarette across the booth without speaking. The motion is smooth, muscle memory, like he knows Jeno used to always take it. Jeno shifts his hand slightly, a slow, silent refusal that barely even qualifies as a shake of the head. He’s clean now, more focused and strict, wired into something bigger. Ever since the NBA contract, he’s cut it all: the pills, the highs, the smoke that used to keep him level. Now it’s just discipline. Just control. He drinks enough to stay loose, never enough to lose edge. Trains like it’s scripture. Plays like it’s war. It’s in the way his body holds stillness, how his fingers never twitch, how he stays rooted even when everything else spins. Jaemin doesn’t question it, he just takes another drag, exhales into the heat, and watches the edge behind Jeno’s silence sharpen by the second.

She arrives like perfume in a room that didn’t ask for it, sudden, strong, and already lingering before anyone can respond. The terrace doors part without warning, her silhouette sharp against the backdrop of stone and smoke. She walks in like she owns the scene, heels striking the floor with a rhythm too clean to be drunk. Her dress clings like heat, black and cut high, one strap slipping from her shoulder as if it’s part of the performance. Hoop earrings flash each time her head tilts, makeup sharp enough to slice. Nahyun doesn’t wait for permission. She moves toward Jeno like she’s following a script she wrote herself, gaze locked on to him, mouth pulled into something between a pout and a sneer. She’s glowing, or trying to. Not from joy but from friction, from spite, from the fire she’s been stoking in her chest since the day she arrived in this villa.

Jaemin taps the ash from his cigarette one last time, then stands without looking at either of them. Nahyun rather be doing what she’s done every other night since she arrived, stretched out poolside with a stronger drink, Jeno’s hands on her thighs, away from the pastel bullshit and fake laughter echoing off villa walls. The girls had their matching glasses, their safe little circle, their group photos with her cropped just out of frame but tonight she was stuck with them due to the bachelorette night. “The girls are bitches,” Nahyun mutters, tossing her bag onto the low table like she’s been waiting for an excuse to be angry. “They act like you’re still hers.”

Jeno blinks once, slow and dry, like her voice has started to blur into the heat. There’s no shift in his shoulders, no tilt of his head, no change in the angle of his mouth. He just blinks with the flat weight of someone who’s already tuned out. His stare doesn’t follow her pacing. His breath doesn’t catch on her bitterness. He looks at her the way you look at a drink that’s gone flat. It’s boredom, plain and solid, the kind that seeps under the skin and makes silence feel louder. He hears her but he’s already done listening.

“Maybe they know something I don’t?” she says next, a little too fast, too rehearsed, like she’s tried it in her head ten times before now.

“Maybe they’re just loyal,” Jeno replies, voice even, cold, unbothered in a way that lands like ice.

Nahyun laughs, and it’s fake — brittle and bitter, her lipstick catching at the corner of her mouth when her smile turns sharp. “You always get like this when she’s near.” The words hang. They don’t need air. They already burn. “I tried,” she says, pacing now, the slit of her dress flashing with each step. “I smiled at Karina when she pulled that fake-ass ‘love your dress’ routine — even though we both know she thinks I look like a knockoff. I asked about her stupid hair serum. I laughed at Ningning’s little punchlines like I gave a fuck. Areum sat across from me and didn’t say a word except to ask for the butter. And Winter—fuck—Winter asked me if I was working the event or just tagging along.” Her voice is rising now, eyes glinting with something more raw than irritation. “I tried. I really did.”

“They act like you’re still hers. Like this—” she gestures between their bodies, close enough to burn, “—is temporary. Like I’m temporary.” Her tone is quiet but mean. “They hate me.” 

His voice comes low, flat, stripped of heat or hesitation. “Yeah,” he says. “They probably do.”

She whips her head toward him, scoffing so loud it cuts across the room, all teeth and disbelief. “Wow. Cool,” she snaps, voice climbing with every word. “God, you’re such an asshole.” Her laugh is sharp and fake, the kind girls use when they’re about to cry but refuse to let it show. She tosses her hair back with too much force, bracelets clinking, rings flashing. “You sit here brooding, looking like the hottest person on this fucking rock, acting like you’re some poor misunderstood victim while I get treated like the extra no one asked for.” She leans forward now, voice dripping with that high-pitched, bratty whine that always covers something deeper. “You think I don’t notice the looks? The way they talk to me like I’m temporary? Like I’m background?”

She sucks in a breath, shaky, lashes fluttering with fury. “You wanna know why they act like I’m nothing? Because she exists.” She doesn’t say your name at first, like even giving it air would ruin the point but then her face cracks open. “Because Y/N walks into a room and everyone forgets who they came with. She doesn’t have to say a word, she just looks at people and it’s over. You know what it’s like standing next to her? Trying to speak and knowing no one’s listening? Because they’re too busy hoping she’ll glance their way, or say something nice, or smile like she gives a fuck?” Her voice breaks, but she powers through it, digging nails into the cushion. “She’s not just pretty. She’s fucking terrifying. She knows it. You know it. They orbit her like she’s got gravity stitched into her spine. One compliment out of her mouth and suddenly I don’t exist. I’m a glitch in the background. A typo.”

She laughs again, breathless, shaking her head. “And fine. Fine. Maybe she is drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe everyone wants her but she’s a bitch. A smug, selfish, manipulative bitch who knows exactly what she’s doing when she tilts her head and pretends to be sweet. She doesn’t even have to try. She doesn’t work for it like the rest of us. And you—” her voice snaps, gutted and cracked, “—you look at her like you’d burn down every version of your fucking life if she even hinted she wanted you back. Like you’d drop me mid-sentence if she so much as blinked in your direction. Like she still has you on a leash and she’s not even holding it.” She pauses, breathing heavy, mascara smudging at the corners as she stares at him like she’s searching for some kind of denial but he still hasn’t looked at her. Not once.

Jeno finally turns his head. Slowly, like the effort costs him. His eyes meet hers for the first time since she walked in, there’s a hollow weight of someone who’s hit the bottom of whatever restraint he had left. His voice cuts through her like a crack in stone, low and final and carved out of exhaustion. “Stop fucking talking about Y/N.” It sounds like a thread snapping. His jaw locks so tight you can see the muscle flicker, his throat working around the words he doesn’t want to say, the ones he’s already choking on. His eyes flutter closed, his head tips back against the cushion like he’s trying to disappear into it, trying to find a second of quiet in a night that’s dragged him bare. 

The bachelor party is already deep in its descent. Everything smells like sweat and sex and celebration. The boys had “kidnapped” Doyoung from the safety of his own suite two hours ago, dragging him half-dressed into a black SUV while he protested through laughter and low-level threats. They stuffed a blindfold over his eyes, poured a shot down his throat, and promised this would be the last mistake he ever got to make unmarried. Now he’s here, somewhere between amused and horrified,  slouched dead-center on one of the velvet couches, half-laughing, half-praying, a glass of wine held like a crucifix between his fingers. The others are sprawled in every direction: Jaemin with his ankle hooked over his knee, calculating the vibe like a strategist; Hyuck shirtless and yelling across the room, a bottle in one hand and nothing in the other; Shotaro nervously bouncing his knee, trying to act like this isn’t the wildest night of his life; Chenle midway through filling a shot he’ll probably regret tomorrow; and Jeno, sunk low into the far corner, chain against his chest, fingers wrapped around a half-finished drink, unreadable. 

The private penthouse lounge is bathed in low red and amber light, the kind that turns skin to velvet and sweat to gold. Thick blackout curtains seal the outside world shut. Bass hums slow and low from speakers embedded in the walls, each pulse more like a heartbeat than a song. The air is dense with whiskey, cigar smoke, the faint sweetness of weed and something floral that clings to the corners like perfume worn in another room. The couches are plush and sunken deep, all arranged in a semicircle facing the raised marble platform in the center of the room, lit from beneath like a stage that shouldn’t exist. It’s past two in the morning. Everyone’s already drunk. The energy is loud, feral, scattered — until the curtain parts.

She steps in like sin made flesh. The curtains peel back, velvet parting slow, and then she’s there — hips cocked, one leg forward, every inch of her soaked in red light. Her stilettos strike the marble like punctuation. Her crystal thong flashes as she walks, obscene and deliberate, the shimmer bouncing against her thighs with every sway of her hips. The lace bodysuit she wears isn’t made to conceal — just tease. It slices high at the hip and lower at the chest, framing her tits with the kind of confidence that makes silence collapse. Black lace clings to her arms and ribs, sheer enough to leave nothing to imagination. A mask veils the top half of her face. Her lips are painted wet and glossy, gum working between her teeth as she surveys the room like she owns it. In one hand, a riding crop. In the other, a remote and before she speaks, her perfume hits — sweet vanilla, smoke, familiar.

Jeno’s back tenses like it’s instinct. The bass shifts. She tilts her head, lets her legs spread slightly as she plants herself center-stage. She presses the crop between her thighs, dragging it slow up the inside of her leg, biting her bottom lip like she’s trying not to moan just from the friction. “You boys ready to behave,” she purrs, voice like syrup sliding over a bruise, “or do I need to teach you what obedience really tastes like?”

Hyuck’s already yelling, throwing his arm over Shotaro’s shoulder, bottle clinking in his grip. “Baby, I’m failing every test you give me. Punish me.”

“Oh my god,” Chenle wheezes, half-drunk and already recording. “She hasn’t even started yet.”

“She has started,” Doyoung mutters, legs crossed tightly, glass clutched with both hands like it’s his last defence.

“Jesus Christ,” Jaemin breathes under his breath, leaning forward slightly, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “She’s unreal.”

Shotaro’s voice comes out a little too honest. “She… she kinda looks like Y/N.”

That snaps through the room like a whip crack. Mark turns his head so fast his chain shifts across his collarbone. “Don’t put that image in my head” he says, sharp, eyes slicing toward Shotaro like it’s personal. “Don’t say that.”

Shotaro blinks, flush creeping up his neck. “I didn’t— I mean—just, like—vibes—”

“She doesn’t,” Mark says again, voice tight, jaw clenched.

But Jeno hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t blinked. His fingers curl slow around the edge of his glass. The stripper smiles like she heard everything. She walks forward, hips rolling in slow motion, each movement carved from control. She taps the crop against her palm. “Oh? Got a type?” Her voice dips low as she locks eyes with Shotaro, then Mark. “Bet you all do.”

Then she lifts her leg onto the edge of the couch in front of them, arches her back, and runs the crop between her tits. Her gum pops. “Here’s how this works,” she says, purring now. “You don’t touch me unless I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. You keep your hands on your thighs and your mouths shut, unless I’m sitting on one of them.”

Hyuck fucking howls. “Oh my god, marry me right now.”

“She said mouths shut,” Doyoung says weakly, clutching his drink tighter.

“Say please,” she demands.

Her walk isn’t rushed, but it slices through the room like something made to ruin men—heels cutting across marble in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes the couches feel too small and the space too hot. She trails one fingertip along the cushions as she moves, hips swaying like a threat, and when she rounds behind him, the perfume hits. Jeno still hasn’t looked up. Hasn’t said a word. But the second that scent curls into his air—thick, sweet, just the wrong side of right—something in him stirs. It doesn’t flicker, it coils. His fingers shift slightly on the glass like he forgot he was holding it, and the grip around his drink tightens just enough to show he’s not as detached as he looks. Not when it smells like that. Not when it smells like you. The sweetness isn’t generic. It’s exact. The heat of it is too familiar, the softness too specific, the undertone too cruel. It sinks past memory and straight into his spine, presses into his jaw, slides down his chest like your tongue used to. His body doesn’t move, but his pulse gives him away—right there, at his throat, just once, like his heart kicked up before he could stop it. She isn’t even touching him. She doesn’t have to. You already are.

The room doesn’t just react. It combusts. Laughter cracks like thunder against the walls, whistles cut sharp through the bass, and the applause starts as mocking but turns feverish the longer she holds their attention. She doesn’t smile at first—she smirks, tongue pressing into the inside of her cheek as she lets her body speak before her mouth does. Shoulders back, tits high, stomach tight in lace, she drags the crop across her hip and begins to move. Every step lands with purpose. Every sway of her hips is a dare.

Hyuck doesn’t stand a chance. She climbs into his lap without asking, without pause, grinding slow and deep into his crotch while he cackles like a man being exorcised. The tequila bottle is yanked from his hand, tilted down her chest, the curve of her breasts gleaming with liquor as she leans forward and lets it spill across his mouth. He chokes on it, coughing through laughter, and she slaps him—not hard, but loud, right across the cheek with a flick of her wrist and a hissed laugh. “You like that, don’t you?” she purrs, dragging her nails along his jaw. “Thirsty fucking brat.” Hyuck moans something incoherent. She blows him a kiss as she stands.

Chenle gets her next. She spins and rolls her hips back into his lap, ass grinding with slow, exaggerated rhythm that makes him freeze, arms lifted like he doesn’t know where to put them. She wiggles once—tight and purposeful—and leans over his shoulder. “Bet you come in thirty seconds,” she whispers, hips never stopping.

Chenle laughs, too loud. “I—okay, fuck—maybe twenty—”

She slaps his hand before it even touches her. “Did I say you could touch?”

He stammers, red-faced, reaching for his drink like it might save him from further humiliation. Then she turns and drops to her knees in front of Doyoung like it’s sacred. Her hands trail slow along his thighs before her tongue drags over the buckle of his belt, teeth grazing the leather. “You look like the kind of guy who needs rules,” she says, voice low. “Someone to tell him when to breathe.” Doyoung exhales through gritted teeth, one hand braced on the couch, eyes locked on a spot above her head like he’s praying.

Then she’s up again, moving. Shotaro blinks when she grabs his tie, startled before she even pulls. She yanks him to standing with one sharp tug, drags his face between her tits, and rocks him forward. “God, you’re innocent,” she coos against his ear. “Ever been face-fucked, baby?” Shotaro stumbles back, blushing so red it glows, and the boys explode again, hollering like it’s a show.

Jaemin leans further into the cushion when she approaches. His thigh stays spread, open, waiting, and she takes the invitation like it’s owed. Her hand trails up from his knee, nails grazing denim, fingers mapping the line of his zipper before flattening against the slope of his chest. She moves closer until her breath touches his jaw, and for the first time all night, she eases into something quieter—less performative, more precise. “You look like trouble,” she murmurs, voice tipped in flirt, but her eyes search his like she’s trying to remember something real. 

Jaemin’s smile tilts, amused and lazy. “So do you.” The corner of her mouth curves, but it’s slower now, slower than it should be. Her head tilts to the left, a pause opening between them, one beat too long. 

“Wait…” she says, softer this time, the edge of something unsettled catching beneath the silk of her voice, “have we met before?” Her fingers are still against his chest. The room doesn’t hear it but Jaemin does. 

His smirk doesn’t slip—it just shifts, mouth curving as his eyes narrow. “Not that I remember.” She lingers another second, chewing gum slowly, like memory’s right there at the back of her throat, and then she pulls away, laughing under her breath like the question never mattered. But Jaemin watches her turn, his gaze following the sway of her hips as she moves across the room and then he chuckles—quiet, knowing—because he does remember. He remembers the way she stripped down under the violet lights of that New York club, hips slow, eyes locked on him like she already knew which man she’d ruin by morning. The way Jeno looked when he followed her out and now, watching her make her way toward him again, hips sharp and sure and aimed like a weapon, Jaemin leans back with a grin because he knows exactly what’s about to burn.

She doesn’t waste a second. As soon as she turns from Jaemin, it’s like something inside her locks onto its target — hips swaying sharper, steps slower, every line of her body suddenly more deliberate. The lights catch on the crystals stitched across her thong, sparkle flashing across her thighs as she crosses the space toward the couch Jeno hasn’t moved from all night. He hasn’t looked at her once — not properly — but his spine straightens before she even reaches him. His fingers clench around the glass, breath caught somewhere in his throat, and when she stops in front of him, the room tilts.

Because he knows and so does she. It’s instant — thick and electric, a recognition that drops like a hook in the gut. He hadn’t known her name back then. He never asked, not in that cracked-glass hotel room in Manhattan, where the bass from the strip club downstairs never stopped shaking the walls. Not after he followed her out into the night the way he should’ve chased you instead. That was the night you walked out, the night you left him wordless and wrecked, a ghost of you still clinging to his skin. You didn’t just leave — you ended him. Said it was over with a shrug, called it toxic, said you couldn’t do this anymore and didn’t even flinch when he asked why now. You tossed his key on the counter like it meant nothing, walked out of his apartment like you hadn’t spent the night before moaning his name into his neck. Then, you fucked someone new with the necklace he gave you still on so he ended up in a basement strip club, drowned in neon and sweat and women who didn’t ask questions.

She wasn’t you but she looked close enough in the dark. Now she’s back in front of him, and it’s worse than memory because this time, she smells like you. She doesn’t climb into his lap, she slides, one leg straddling, her thighs part over his hips, cunt barely concealed by lace, chest flush against his as she sinks down with a moan so soft it doesn’t sound performed. Her hands cup the back of his neck, nails grazing the edges of his hair, and she doesn’t speak. She grinds — slow, circular, dragging her pussy along the bulge in his pants until his breath hitches in his throat. Then she leans in and kisses him.

She doesn’t ask permission when she climbs into his lap—just takes it, thighs spreading wide over his, cunt dragging slow against the bulge in his pants as her body settles into his like it remembers him. Like it wants him to remember her too. Her lips find his mouth fast, no pause, no tease, and the kiss is messy from the start, open-mouthed and breathless, tongues sliding together with heat that tastes like need. He kisses her back harder than he should, hands gripping tight at the swell of her ass, fingers digging in until she’s gasping into his mouth, her chest pressed flat against his, sweat and lace and skin crushed together as she rocks her hips into him again. He lets her grind slow, like he’s not even controlling it, like he’s just reacting, lips dragging down to her jaw, then back up, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth before biting down just enough to make her moan. She bites back, nails scraping up the back of his neck, hips rolling deeper with every breath she steals from his mouth. One of his hands slides under the hem of her bodysuit, dragging lace with it as he palms the inside of her thigh, pulling her closer, pressing her harder against his lap until she’s panting for more friction. His other hand fists in her hair, tilts her head back so he can kiss her rougher, sloppier, like he’s trying to drown every sound of the past in the heat between her lips. She moans again, louder this time, grinding down like she’s trying to fuck him through the fabric, and he lets her, hands everywhere, memory crashing over him with every sway of her hips because this is what it felt like last time—months ago, blackout drunk, a stranger in a room that wasn’t you but smelled enough like you to keep his eyes closed and now here she is again, body pressed to his like a punishment he asked for, like a ghost that kisses back.

No one in the room speaks. No one moves because none of them got touched like this.

It’s the night before the wedding, Irene’s night, and you’ve planned it to feel like something sacred. A soft send-off. A love letter in champagne and candlelight. It’s everything she asked for and everything you know how to give: a private rooftop bar overlooking the sea, tables dressed in white linen and rose gold, charcuterie boards laid out like altars, strawberries sliced into hearts, chocolate-dipped figs, sugared lavender shortbread. There’s a silk robe for every girl with her name stitched on the collar, slippers lined in velvet, a playlist of nostalgic slow jams looping in the background. You even brought handwritten notes for each of them, tucked into pearl envelopes and slid beneath their plates. It’s soft. Delicate. Romantic. Curated down to the last thread of fairy lights but the serenity doesn’t last. It never does. Ningning spikes the punch with absinthe and a wink. Karina drops a cap of molly into her prosecco like it’s part of the itinerary. Someone — probably Ningning again — changes the playlist to ‘Bad Girls Club’ reruns and turns the flatscreen up loud. The room hums with pink light and a kind of chaos that tastes like glitter and regret. Karaoke starts as a joke, slow ballads, breakup songs, girls swaying and scream-singing into a gold mic that keeps glitching. Irene laughs until she’s wheezing. Areum sips her drink like it’s poison. Then you grab the mic. Glossy-eyed, mouth already tight with everything you haven’t said out loud since the day you agreed to show up and not ruin this. It’s a classic ‘fuck you’ song. The beat kicks in and it’s venom. Every lyric hits too hard, too pointed, too close to the way Nahyun’s has been looking at you all night. You sing it loud, like a girl bleeding out through her voice and when you hit the bridge, you’re not looking at anyone but her. Nahyun’s face doesn’t change. She just crosses her legs tighter. 

Areum mutters, “This is not the vibe.” 

Ningning drains her glass, shrugs. “This is exactly the vibe.”

Later, in the gift box circle, the tradition twists — each girl brings a wrapped box for the bride, but inside each one is a secret, a dare, or a lie. Your gift gets handed to you last. The note inside reads: tell the truth about the last person you kissed. Your mouth still tastes like Jeno. Still burns from Yangyang. You don’t answer. You just throw back the champagne, and Karina catches it immediately. “You don’t drink on truths unless you’ve got something to hide.” She’s not smiling. 

Nahyun’s gift is simple, unassuming, soft lotion and perfume but her dare? “Show us your favorite picture on your phone.” She scrolls. She knows what she’s doing. She lands on a photo of Jeno’s side profile in golden hour, sunlight painting the cut of his jaw like a confession. You look away and scoff. Then the games move downstairs, into the backyard, barefoot in grass still damp from the sprinklers, drinks sloshing over red solo cups as the fire pit flickers wild and hot. “Never have I ever fucked someone who wasn’t mine,” Karina says, and half the circle drinks. Areum snorts. You sip slow and no one asks why. Nahyun doesn’t drink, she just watches you — calm, accusatory, glass tipped toward her lips but never touching. 

Nahyun follows up with, “Never have I ever had feelings for someone who’s taken,” and the table hollers, yelps, groans. 

Your turn: “Never have I ever been the second choice and still stayed.” No laughter. Just silence, weighted and sharp, broken only by the distant hum of a plane overhead. Glasses clink again and then it’s time for the legacy moment. Each girl brings something from high school, a cheer pin, a photo strip, a championship ribbon. You pull on a hoodie. which coincidentally has his number, ‘23,’ peeling at the back from too many washes. Areum rolls her eyes like clockwork. “Couldn’t let that one go, huh?” 

You smile like it’s stitched to pain. “Just matches my damage.” 

You notice it when she reaches for her glass, the way her fingers curl around the stem, the ring catching against the candlelight, delicate and glittering, perched perfectly on her index like it was made to live there. It’s beautiful. A soft gold band, thin and understated, curved gently into a loop with a single tiny diamond pressed into the center like a kiss. It’s not flashy, but it glows. The kind of ring that means something, that was picked with thought, maybe even love. Your eyes catch on it before your mind can stop them, and your voice comes quiet, curious, almost fond. “Where’d you get that? Is that new?”

She looks down at her hand like she’d forgotten it was there, then smiles softly. “Oh—this? It’s the ring that Jeno made. The ones for the bridesmaids. Didn’t he— Oh….” She stops. You see the pause before it happens, her lips parting around the next word and then sealing shut just as fast. Her lashes flutter once. Then she clears her throat, smile flickering. “I’m sure he’ll get Karina to give you it.” The way she says it is light but you hear the tease tucked beneath the sweetness, the way she doesn’t quite meet your eye when she says it, like she knows exactly what string she’s tugging. You just hum, eyes on the ring again, heart ticking a little too loud in your chest.

The girls are all scattered around the west courtyard, the aftertaste of merlot and secrets still hanging thick in the air. You’re still side by side with Areum, eyes fixed on the ring glinting on her finger, just watching it catch the light. The boys return loud, laughter echoing down the villa halls, footsteps too heavy for the hour, clothes still rumpled with smoke, sweat, and something darker. The energy shifts the second they arrive, but it sharpens when their eyes find Jeno. He’s the last to enter, shirt open, jaw locked, something unreadable carved into the tension of his face. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t break stride but his silence drags behind him like a shadow, and whatever high they brought back from the strip club doesn’t follow them through the door.

Shotaro’s the one who moves first, already at the front before anyone really notices, a mic in his hand like it ended up there without question, like it was always meant for him, posture a little sheepish but glowing with that warm, golden pride he wears so easily when it’s someone else’s moment, not his own, and he taps the mic once, clears his throat softly, the room quieting more out of curiosity than command. “Alright, alright, I know it’s late,” he says, voice bouncing gently off the marble and into the night, “but I wanted to keep you all here just a few minutes before the big day, before we all go to bed and pretend we’re not waking up at seven for hair and vows and panic”

The guys snicker, Jaemin groans from the back with his head in his hands, Mark mutters something under his breath about emotional manipulation and how he didn’t sign up for feelings tonight, but he doesn’t move either, none of them do Shotaro grins wider, rocking on his heels like he’s holding back a secret “I made something, just a little… montage, of everything good, a way to appreciate our beautiful life and beautiful company. This is for Doyoung, for Irene”

No one stops him, not a word, not a breath out of place, the room slips into a hush that feels both accidental and sacred, soft as the dimming lights that bleed gold across marble and velvet, pulling shadows into the corners as the projector stirs to life with a mechanical flick and a bloom of silver-blue against the wall. The first images are warm, safe, saturated in nostalgia, footage from away games stitched together in sleepy succession, Jeno’s jump shot caught mid-air in slow motion, muscles coiled, jersey clinging to sweat, the net snapping sharp as the ball slices through, Mark spinning past the camera with Yangyang hanging off his shoulder, both of them drenched in laughter, the kind that doesn’t need words to explain. Then it’s winter — your exhibition, the gallery soft-lit and echoing with footfalls, your work framed in gold and pride, names scrawled in elegant ink like they belonged to constellations, and there’s Karina beside you, eyes glossy, pointing something out with a hand tucked into yours. The bar comes next — Ningning asleep on Chenle’s shoulder in the far booth, Hyuck on the table, shirt half-off, dancing with a straw in his mouth like it’s a microphone, neon pulsing in time with the bass, and the whole screen alive with memory, with things that felt small when they happened but now glow like they were the most important seconds of your lives. The river court flickers up, flooded in late-June light, all of them barefoot and shouting, basketball bouncing wild across concrete while Chenle chases Mark into the frame and tackles him into a pile of towels, the screen drenched in brightness, in rivalry, in youth that hasn’t yet frayed at the edges.

Then the cut changes — quick, sharper, like the tape skipped or something inside it snapped. It’s the state championship night. It’s grainy footage, phone camera propped somewhere careless, but it doesn’t matter, not when the moment is this loud — you’re side by side with Jeno, standing at the edge of the celebration like you don’t notice the chaos around you, a champagne bottle dangling from your hand, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, and you’re laughing, head thrown back, mouth open, like something just broke free in your chest. He’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at you, grinning into your skin like it’s the only place he wants to be, and then he leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, your mouth, in that exact order, like muscle memory, like he’s been waiting all night to taste you and now that he has, he doesn’t want to stop. The room doesn’t breathe. The volume lowers fast, like someone realized too late what this was, and now there’s only flickering light and the shape of a memory neither of you escaped from, because by the time you look across the room, Jeno’s already watching you, unmoving, unreadable, and the screen goes black, but the silence stays.

Later, you can’t sleep. The image replays on loop behind your eyelids, every frame clearer than it should be. Your body feels too hot under the sheets, too tight in your own skin, and eventually you give up trying to lie still. You pull on whatever’s nearest, Yangyang’s hoodie, maybe yours, maybe his, and you slip barefoot out of the villa, walking like you’re not choosing the path so much as being pulled by it.

You end up at the altar, the one built for tomorrow, draped in white florals and clean intention, but under the moonlight it looks different, almost holy in the wrong way, like a monument to every sin that led you here, every touch that shouldn’t have happened, every love that didn’t end when it should’ve.

He’s already there. Not facing you, not yet — just seated on the edge of the stone step like it means nothing, like this place wasn’t built for devotion. His back rises and falls slow, head tilted to the stars, moonlight poured along the slope of his throat and collarbone like it was drawn there by hand. His shirt’s undone, caught by the wind, and his legs stretch long into the dark like he’s trying to touch the horizon. You don’t call his name. You don’t have to. He’s here by chance — just like you are. Neither of you knew the other would come, neither planned it, said it, wanted to admit it, but somehow you both end up here anyway, as if the night itself conspired to bring you back to where everything always begins.

Your footsteps barely touch the ground. You’re not thinking. You’re not even moving, not really, you’re just being pulled, drawn, unspooled toward him like you were always meant to end up in his arms, like the air between you has been aching to close for months. His head lifts the second you’re close enough to feel. Neither of you speak. Neither needs to. Your hands find his shirt. His fingers thread into your waist. It’s not a kiss at first. It’s breath — shared, staggered, stolen — your foreheads tipping forward until there’s no space left for the past. Then his mouth is on yours, slow and deep, and your body breaks open. You’re clutching him like you’ll fall through the earth if you let go, your palms sliding up the heat of his chest, his grip firm under your thighs when he lifts you without thinking, without effort, as if holding you is the only thing he remembers how to do. There’s salt on your lips from where he bites them. There’s wet in your lashes and you don’t know if it’s yours or his. His chain brushes your collarbone. Your nails leave crescents in his shoulder. The wind moves around you but nothing else does. Not the altar. Not the sky. Not time.

Later, you’re still there — wrapped around him like you were threaded into the fabric of him, like if you let go the night might unravel completely. The altar is behind you, forgotten, or maybe fulfilled. His hands stay firm at your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin like he’s memorising you again, like touch is a language only the two of you can speak. The sky has started to pale, bleeding soft blue into the edges of the stars, and your bodies are warm where they meet, bare skin against bare skin, your breath catching as it mixes with his, one exhale echoing the next. You’re shaking a little, not from cold but from the kind of fullness that breaks you open — laughter folded into tears, your lips at his ear, whispering things neither of you will ever say aloud again. His chain is tangled in your fingers now. Your mouth is swollen. His shoulder bears the bite of your teeth. He holds you like you’re both apology and salvation, like the ache of missing you never stopped and having you again might kill him if it doesn’t heal him first.

You’re wrapped around him like nothing else could make sense. Your mouth tastes like salt and yes and his name in too many tenses, your arms looped around his shoulders, shaking with the kind of laughter that only comes when something hurts less than it used to. His hands are everywhere, waist, hips, spine but not to hold you still, just to remind himself you’re here. The sky behind you is beginning to shift, stars softening, the first thread of dawn pulled loose across the dark, but neither of you move. You just breathe, pressed into the hollow between his neck and collarbone, the place where your heartbeat always found rhythm. Then there’s your hand. Curled quiet at the back of his head, fingers threaded through his hair, and on it, something new. Not announced. Not spoken. Just slipped into place in the hush between what was and what comes next. A silver band, barely catching the pale light, warm from your skin, seated on the fourth finger of your left hand like it’s always been waiting. It gleams like a secret shared under your breath, a story folded into touch, a vow made not with noise, but with nerve endings. A ring — new, real, and shaped like a beginning.

The sound comes first, soft and deliberate, a leather sole brushing stone in the way a knife might whisper before it cuts, and then his voice slides in after it like smoke through a locked room — “Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package” — too casual to be clean, too smooth to be kind, and by the time you turn, he’s already there, Lee Taeyong, half-shadowed beneath the stone arch, suit immaculate, expression unreadable, like he’s seen this scene in a dream before and came to watch it rot in real time, and he’s not alone, because behind him, something waits, figures unmoving in the dark, faces turned just enough to be almost human, almost known, and suddenly the altar feels less like a promise and more like a trap, the steps beneath your feet more echo than ground, the wind more absent than still, and the moment more like a final act than an arrival, like he came not to witness the vow, but to break it. This isn’t a guest arriving late, this is a reckoning dressed in a name you used to trust.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

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 gives 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

[pineforestfox]

Just wanted to say this somewhere, anywhere

Ppl irl, in school, have walked upto me randomly and asked me if I had tourettes

I say 'no', (I tic when I get stressed, but I do not have tourettes) and they immediately start shouting '[birth name] is faking tourettes!!!'

Right, tics ≠ tourettes

I get that you literally got your information from TikTok but NO the two aren't the same

Sure, tics are a symptom of tourettes, but that doesn't mean that everyone that tics has tourettes

I do have autism, am a holothere and suspect DID or OSDD (heavy research that's developed into a special interest in the way different brains work/neurodiversity) and maybe even other disorders, so yes others do probably perceive me as 'odd', 'different' and 'strange'

But I've never said that I have tourettes, I've never told anyone at school about my disorders and certainly am not trying to fake one. I do have tics, I do not have tourettes

Anyways sorry for the rant, have a good day/night <3 🌲

[boopiemadz]

HIII saw your post abt travis x reader so PLSSSSS literally anything w him, maybe s2 timeline when Javi is missing like sitting by the fire with him in the middle of the night, or being like the only one he opens up to???? I just want to give him a hug oml 🙏

OML yes! This came out more angsty then I intended but thats okay, still has a happy ending for reader and travis dont worry. Also I wrote this as a !Fem reader btw.

If youd like I love when ppl leave comments on my stuff, it js makes me feel happy so feel free! But yeah heres the little oneshot I wrote based on this prompt.

WARNINGS!

Suicide, Death, Cannibalism (this is yellowjackets...), Loss, Grief, Kissing 🤭, and basic yellowjackets topics.

---

Time is a weird construct. Especially when stranded in the Canadian wilderness for an unknown amount of time. Ever since the crash you had kept tally marks in your journal, unfortunately you lost your notebook somewhere between the 21st and 26th day. So you had to restart. This time you kept time on the wall of the cabin, in the small corner you slept in next to coach Ben's room. You started this tally the day Javi went missing, the day of doomcoming. 

Doomcoming was a mess. 

Nothing about that night should've happened, it was the catalyst for everything. Though you never participated in the hallucinogenic chase that went down, there was still a deep pang of guilt that you didn't get to him sooner. You had been wandering around high on mushrooms far away from the group, but when you returned, the sight of Travis pinned against that tree, knife to his throat put a knot in your stomach.

It wasn't your fault.

What happened to Javi was not your fault.

What happened to Travis was not your fault.

What happened to Jackie was not your fault.

Yet it still felt like your fault.

---

It had been around 59 days since Javis disappearance, according to the tally marks. 59 days spent everyone out, 59 days since you felt anything at all. 

You'd spent the first few months staying close to the friends you were close to on the team, you loved the yellowjackets, those girls were a lifeline, a source of belonging. But something shifted somewhere between finding the cabin and doomcoming, the cabin was hot, and cramped, to be honest it made you infuriated. So to combat the overwhelming crowd you started to occasionally take a walk down to the lake to sit and think. This became a regular thing for you. Eventually someone found your spot.

“So this is where you go when you disappear”

Says Travis slowly approaching you. “Please don't be a dick and tell everyone” It's not that you didn't like Travis, he was just, abrasive. His demeanor was cold and snappy, but you couldn't blame him, he had lost his dad and wasn't exactly in the right state of mind. But you never really paid much attention to him either. 

“Nah” He says kicking the pebbles lining the shore. “I get it” He sits down next to you giving some room for space as you continue dipping your feet in the cold water. “Aren't you supposed to be out hunting with Nat?” You question “Not today, she went alone. I decided to come here instead of slowly dying of heat stroke in the cabin” You let out a giggle. 

That day marked the start of your friendship with Travis, he went from a rude and annoying boy to a close friend you'd sit with at the lake to escape from the fact that your friends are changing and everything that came with being stuck in such a place. 

---

When doomcoming happened it's like everything was flipped upside down. Talking to him felt too much, your routine lake chats stopped, eventually he went back to being the boy you'd never pay attention to, the boy who sat quietly by himself, except this time he didn't have his brother, he didn't have you.

---

The sun was setting over the snowy landscape of the forest. You'd sat yourself in front of the attic window watching it go down, yet another day without game, without peace, without javi. Ever since winter hit it's been maggots, leather belt soup and rationed meat. To say you were hungry was an understatement. Hell, a few weeks later you and the team would partake in cannibalizing your teammate Jackie (oop). 

Going back downstairs after sulking in the attic you got changed and started to settle down on your spot on the floor. Laying on your side looking at those tally marks that showed how long it had been since Javi disappeared, 59 days.

Just before you were about to close your eyes a figure walked through the dark and stopped at the door to open it and sneak outside. Everyone had already been asleep when you were up in the attic watching the sun get lower as due to the lack of food everyone had become increasingly low energy. 

You get up slowly so as to not disturb Akilah who was asleep peacefully beside you. As you crept up to the door and opened it, wrapped in your blanket, you squinted in the dark to see the person who’d left the cabin chopping wood. 

“Hey” You whispered, walking closer to the figure. “Why are you out here?” You questioned

As soon as the person turned around to face you, you finally recognized who it was, Travis. 

“I could ask you the same thing” He says, continuing to swing the axe breaking wood into smaller pieces.

“I came out here because I saw someone sneak out of the cabin, not because I wanted to stand in the cold” You retorted, giving him a sarcastic tone. He scoffs and throws some wood down on the fire pit leaning down to light the pile then sitting down in front of it hands out. In that moment, in the firelight you see it, a tear drifting down his cheek, eyes red and nose running. He'd been crying. 

In that moment you sit down next to him in silence, you hadn't had a real conversation for a long time, but something in you told you he shouldn't be alone right now.

---

After a minute of awkward silence a shift in the air starts to happen. You don't know why but for some reason the silence shifts from awkward and uncomfortable to a warm knowing embrace. It takes another second before he speaks up. 

“I- Im scared”

He says eyes are still focused on the fire in front of him. “Im so fucking scared Y/N” 

A tear falls down his cheek as he speaks, the heaviness of his statement hanging in the air. “I know” You say sliding your hand over his, something in you sparks when you finally touch. Then he turns to you, tears in his eyes, cheeks red and chin quivering. 

“I need you.”

And with that he lets out a sob, not just a tear or a cry but a gutoral sob laced with vulnerability and emotion. He buries himself in your shoulder quaking while you hold him. Holding him. 

“I'm here… Im here Travis” You mutter stroking his hair as a tear simultaneously escapes your eye. 

“I don't know what to do” He says, releasing from the embrace and wiping off his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I have no one left, what if Javi is…” You stop him “You have me” His attention softens as he shakes his head.

“Shit this is embarrassing” He chuckles softly trying to avoid eye contact. “I've never cried in front of anyone before” You speak up “It's about time you let it all go” 

“What do you mean?”

“You've been holding back this… grief, for javi. Sure we had talks at the lake but… ever since, its just been this quiet resentment. This needed to happen.”

He looks at you for a second before looking down to speak. “You know why I came out here?” 

“No”

“I've been coming out here every night. To leave food out for Javi. I knew you guys would yell at me if you knew… cuz of animals or something. But if there's a chance he's still alive, I need him to be.”

“Travis..” He cuts you off.

“But this night was different.” He takes a deep breath

“If hadn't… if we…”

You see the struggle in his eyes, the words he's saying he can't form.

“I was planning on killing myself” 

He finally spits out.

---

“Travis” Is all you manage to say as your throat dries up and your eyes water once more. You gently put your hand on his shoulder before you say another word. “Stay with me” He tilts his head to look at you, with an almost confused look “What do you mean by that. Why shouldn't I just try again tomorrow night.” 

“Because I need you” All you can hear is the wind, and your own racing thoughts. Your heart bounds across your chest as you think about him, about life and about this situation.

“I will come out here every night. I will stay by your side to make sure you stay alive.” You're not finished yet “Because I need you. I can't survive without you.” You take a breath “Everything in me says give up. Every bone in my body wants to jump off a cliff and just die. But when I look at you… When we would spend our evenings together by the lake. A tiny voice in me wants to live just one more day. With you.” 

You blurt this out without thinking, just a mash of thoughts and feelings you'd buried somewhere deep down. After another pause he doesn't speak, instead he cups your face with his hand, searching your face with his deep brown eyes until the land on your lips and he asks;

“Can I kiss you?”

And all you can do is nod before he comes closer and presses his lips on yours. They aren't tough, not like you'd expect but soft and gentle and patient. Peace fills your head and passion floods your mind as you kiss him softly but with a desire thats been brewing for a long time. After you both pull away a small smile forms on his face. 

“I guess I'm staying around.”

[w3haw3ll]

Red Flags & Riviera Nights- Charles Leclerc CL16 

Colleagues to lovers x Secret romance x Playful romance

4.9K Words (Masterlist)

Y/N L/N has just been hired as a PR and media liaison for Scuderia Ferrari — a job that means balancing egos, managing public image, and trying not to fall for the Monegasque heartthrob at the center of every lens: Charles Leclerc. 

TW: Smut (Its at the end and its not essential to the story.) 18+

The world outside still hummed with the buzz of the Monaco Grand Prix — fireworks crackling in the sky, champagne still sticky on pavement, and fans flooding the streets in celebration. 

But inside the Ferrari hospitality suite, it was quiet. Almost reverent. 

Y/N leaned against the balcony railing, her hair tousled by the evening breeze, eyes fixed on the harbor below. The yachts were lit like floating cities, the water dark and glittering beneath them. Monaco was a place of spectacle, yes — but in this moment, it was something else entirely. 

Peaceful. Still. 

Behind her, the door slid open with a whisper. 

She didn’t turn. 

“Didn’t expect to find anyone still up here,” came a voice — low, warm, unmistakably Charles. 

She smiled to herself. “Didn’t expect you to be done smiling for the cameras so soon.” 

He stepped beside her, not too close. Just close enough for the air to shift. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said, resting his elbows on the rail. “But tonight… I think I’d rather be here.” 

She glanced at him then. His curls still slightly damp from the post-race shower, shirt clinging just right in the humid night air, eyes catching reflections of the city below. 

Too pretty. Too dangerous. 

“That’s suspiciously poetic for someone who spent half the race swearing at his race engineer.” 

He laughed — a real one, low and throaty. “What can I say? I’m multifaceted.” 

“Mm,” she hummed. “Complicated.” 

He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way he did when he was intrigued. “And what does the team’s dazzling new PR specialist say about complicated men?” 

She held his gaze, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “They’re usually bad for business.” 

“But good for…?” he prompted, voice a shade lower now. 

Y/N turned to face him fully. “Trouble,” she said simply. “And I don’t do trouble.” 

For a moment, silence settled between them again — charged, delicate, like something about to tip. 

“I like that you don’t flirt back,” he said softly. “Everyone always flirts back.” 

She arched a brow. “You say that like I’m a challenge.” 

“Maybe you are,” he murmured. “But you also stayed. Everyone else went to the afterparty.” 

“Maybe I like the quiet,” she replied. 

His gaze softened. “Me too. Especially when you’re in it.” 

There it was — the shift. The bare honesty beneath all the teasing. She saw it in his expression now, unguarded in the shadows. 

“Charles…” she started, but her voice caught somewhere between caution and curiosity. 

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t push. 

“I know,” he said gently. “It’s just… something about tonight, it felt different.” 

Y/N nodded slowly. “It does.” 

And neither of them said more. They just stood there, side by side, Monaco glowing below, something quietly blooming between them — not loud or reckless, but steady. Intentional. 

Something that neither of them had the courage to name just yet. 

But soon. 

Very soon. 

The flirting was constant, moving from country to country yet nothing changed between the two. 

Barcelona 

The heat of the Spanish sun clung to everything — the tarmac shimmered under the afternoon light, fans were packed shoulder to shoulder behind barricades, and the Ferrari garage buzzed with movement like a well-rehearsed symphony. Y/N adjusted her headset and squinted toward the pit lane. She was in her element — coordinating driver interviews, managing social media narratives, smoothing over last-minute media chaos — but even she couldn't ignore the electricity in the air. 

Or the man at the center of it. 

Charles Leclerc had just climbed out of his car after FP2, race suit half unzipped and tied around his waist, helmet under one arm, curls damp from sweat. He walked toward the garage, speaking with his race engineer — all sharp nods and clipped Monegasque French — before his gaze drifted. 

And landed on her. 

Y/N was already looking away, eyes flicking down to her clipboard like it mattered more than the way his gaze made her stomach flip. 

But then his voice came through her headset. 

“You’re watching me,” he said, his mic still live. 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re literally on camera. Everyone is watching you.” 

“Not like you do,” he added, and she could hear the grin in his voice. 

She didn’t answer. She never gave him what he wanted. That was the game they played. 

Later that night, the rooftop bar of the team’s hotel glowed with golden lanterns and low music. Most of the crew had drifted off into the city, leaving behind half-drunk spritzes and the soft hum of conversation. Y/N had stayed behind to catch up on emails, a glass of sangria forgotten beside her. 

“Twice in one day,” came that familiar voice. 

Charles. 

She looked up and there he was — fresh from a shower, hair still damp, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal. He held a glass in one hand, leaned on the railing with the other. 

“Shouldn’t you be at some flashy rooftop party?” she asked, a brow raised. 

“I was,” he said, stepping closer. “But it wasn’t nearly as interesting.” 

“And you think this is?” 

“You are.” 

The words hung between them, heavier than they should’ve been. But Charles didn’t push. He leaned against the railing beside her, eyes scanning the dark Barcelona skyline. 

“You always look so serious when you work,” he said after a beat. “Like the world will fall apart if one thing slips.” 

“Because it might,” she answered. “This world — your world — it’s built on perception. One wrong narrative and the media runs wild.” 

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m glad you’re here.” 

She turned her head to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. No smirk. No teasing. 

“You’re not just good at your job,” he continued. “You care. And I see that.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She wasn’t used to praise that felt like… understanding. 

“Careful,” she said softly. “You’re starting to sound sincere.” 

“Maybe I am.” 

She looked at him for a long moment. And he looked back — not like a driver talking to a PR rep, but like a man seeing a woman who had been just out of reach for too long. 

Then — because the tension was too much, because the moment was teetering on the edge of something too real — she stood. 

“I should go,” she said, brushing her hand down her dress, suddenly aware of how intimate the setting had become. 

“Y/N.” 

She paused. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Looking at you like that.” 

Her heart stuttered. 

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.” 

And with that, she disappeared into the night — leaving him with nothing but the warm imprint of almost. 

Silverstone 

England greeted them with grey skies and drizzle — a typical Silverstone weekend. The paddock buzzed with umbrellas, wet tarmac, and the low rumble of engines echoing through the mist. 

Y/N stood under the Ferrari hospitality awning, tapping a pen against her clipboard, watching rain bead down the plastic covering. Her schedule was tight, media outlets piling on interviews after Charles’ strong showing in FP1. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. 

She was halfway through texting a follow-up when he appeared — soaked, curls flattened against his forehead, red team jacket darkened from the rain, and smiling like he’d just won the championship. 

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her phone. 

“I got caught signing things for some young fans. Thought you’d forgive me for that.” 

She glanced up. God, he was dripping — and undeniably smug about it. 

“You’re going to ruin your media suit.” 

“You’re going to lecture me?” 

“Only if you keep smiling like that.” 

He stepped closer, rainwater running down his jaw. “What if I smile like this?” 

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

“Then I might tell you to grow up,” she replied — but her voice was softer than she meant. 

He looked at her like he could see right through the deflection. 

Inside the hospitality lounge, the two of them ducked behind curtains and bustling PR assistants, setting up for back-to-back interviews. Charles sat down, water bottle in hand, legs stretched out, and watched her — the whole time. Not blatantly. Not obviously. Just… deliberately. 

When it was over, the media buzz cleared, leaving a lull in the late afternoon quiet. Y/N bent over his lapel, refastening a rogue mic pin. 

She was close now — too close. 

Her fingers brushed against his collarbone as she clipped the mic. The warmth of his skin. The slow breath he took in. The air changed. 

“You’re trembling,” he murmured. 

“I’m cold,” she lied. 

He caught her wrist, gently, thumb resting against her pulse point — which betrayed her completely. 

“You’re lying,” he said, and for the first time that day, the teasing fell away. 

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

“You make it really hard to keep things professional,” he added, so softly it felt like a confession. 

“Then maybe we shouldn’t say anything else at all,” she whispered. 

But neither of them pulled back. 

His fingers were still around her wrist, and hers still hovered near his chest. If someone had walked in right then, they would’ve seen it all — the storm held inside two people pretending not to want what they clearly wanted. 

And still… nothing happened. Not really. 

Not the kiss. Not the touch they both knew was coming — eventually. 

But it was enough. Enough to leave her breathless as she walked away without looking back. 

And enough to leave him gripping the edge of the chair, wondering when she’d finally stop walking away. 

Budapest 

Budapest in the summer was intoxicating. 

Golden light spilled over the Danube in the early evenings, casting long reflections on the river’s surface. The city breathed romance and tension in equal parts — cobbled streets buzzing with life, hidden alleyways that whispered secrets, and ornate rooftops silhouetted against a fire-streaked sky. 

The team motorhome was parked just on the edge of the paddock, near the hills that hugged the Hungaroring like a coiled serpent. Inside, it was cooler, quieter — a sharp contrast to the humid, sun-drenched chaos outside. But even here, in the sterile white-walled calm of her workspace, Y/N felt the heat clinging to her skin, dragging at her nerves. 

She sat at her desk, typing furiously, trying to put out another PR fire — a sponsor irritated by something Charles had said, of course. She was too focused to notice the knock until it opened. 

“Y/N?” 

She froze. 

Charles. Standing in the doorway, hair still damp from a post-session rinse, fireproofs unzipped and hanging from his waist, red team shirt slightly wrinkled. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual, and something in his stance made her pulse skip. 

“Not a good time,” she muttered, not looking up. 

“I know,” he said. “But that’s never stopped me before.” 

She finally glanced at him. The way the soft Budapest light filtered through the windows made him look unreal — all shadows and heat and something dangerous. 

“You need to go,” she said, standing. 

“I’m not leaving.” 

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. 

“Why can’t you just stop?” she snapped, crossing her arms. “Every time I start to think clearly, you show up. You smile, you flirt, and suddenly I’m not thinking about my work — I’m thinking about you.” 

Charles didn’t move. But something flickered in his expression — not hurt, exactly, but something close. 

“Maybe because I’m tired of pretending this is just flirting,” he said. “Maybe I’m done waiting.” 

“Waiting for what?” Her voice cracked. “For me to throw away my career?” 

“No,” he said, stepping forward, “for you to admit that you feel it too.” 

She stepped back instinctively, as if his presence was too much — and maybe it was. 

“You think this is simple?” she whispered. “That we can just… give in? What happens when the rumors start? When people think I slept my way into this role?” 

“Then we shut them out,” he said. “We deal with it together.” 

“You can afford to deal with it,” she snapped. “You’re Charles Leclerc. I’m replaceable.” 

The words hung in the air like smoke. 

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Not to me.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating. 

The low hum of traffic outside. The faint echo of laughter drifting in from the trackside fan zones. Somewhere in the city, the sun was beginning to dip behind Buda Castle, washing the skyline in gold and blood-orange hues. 

“You think this is worth the risk?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible. 

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. 

She looked at him — at this man who had slowly unraveled every wall she’d built, not with grand gestures, but with quiet persistence, real attention, and words that cut deeper than he realized. 

“And if it all falls apart?” she whispered. “If it ruins everything?” 

Charles stepped close enough that their breaths mingled. 

“Then let it,” he murmured. “I’d rather crash with you than keep pretending I don’t care.” 

The last thread snapped. She didn’t pull away when he cupped her jaw. She didn’t resist when he kissed her like he’d been dying to for months. 

It was heat and teeth and desperation — months of tension unraveling in one perfect storm. 

And when she pulled back, breathless, forehead resting against his? 

“This changes everything,” she said. 

“Good,” he breathed. “It’s about time.” 

Zandvoort 

The setting was low-key, the atmosphere thick with the tension of a race weekend. It was late afternoon, the Dutch sun just beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the paddock. The Ferrari garage was bustling with engineers and mechanics running through final checks, but amidst the chaos, Y/N found herself watching Charles through the corner of her eye, his presence magnetic. 

After the practice session, Charles approached her, wiping his forehead with a towel. He wasn’t in a hurry — there was a quiet stillness about him. As he stepped closer, their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat, it was just the two of them in the crowded space. 

“How’d it go?” Y/N asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be, an unspoken question hanging in the air. But she couldn't help herself — something about the way he looked at her made her feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to. 

“Better than expected,” Charles replied, his voice low, the corners of his lips pulling into a faint smile as he glanced at her. But there was something more in his gaze — something that wasn’t just about the race. 

For a moment, he just stood there, close but not touching, the space between them charged. She shifted slightly, fingers brushing against the side of her leg, but then — almost too quietly to notice — Charles reached for her wrist. His thumb moved gently against her pulse, the faintest connection. 

“You look good out there,” he said softly, his voice a quiet compliment, but there was more to it — something deeper, something he wasn’t saying outright. 

Y/N froze, her heart skipping a beat. She looked up at him, her pulse quickening, but before she could respond, he pulled back, his usual ease returning as the moment slipped away like sand through her fingers. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said, his words barely above a whisper. And just like that, he was gone — leaving her standing there, breathless and confused by the fleeting intimacy that felt so real. 

Miami 

After a long day of interviews and team meetings, they found themselves alone, standing in a corner of the Ferrari motorhome. Outside, the sounds of the crowd drifted in from the track, but inside, it was just the two of them, lingering in the quiet aftermath of the race day. 

Charles stood by the window, his back to her as he looked out at the city, but Y/N couldn’t stop watching him. The way he carried himself — the relaxed confidence, the sense that he was always aware of his surroundings — it all drew her in, and for the first time, she didn’t know how to hide the feeling that had been growing inside her. 

“You look distracted,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice laced with a quiet curiosity. 

Charles turned to face her, a small smile playing at his lips. He crossed the room slowly, like he was savoring the moment, and stopped just a few inches from her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body. 

“Do I?” His voice was teasing, but there was something more — an unspoken question in the way he said it. 

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wasn’t sure if it was the weight of his presence or the racing thoughts in her mind, but the moment felt thick with possibility. 

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, her tone softer now, more vulnerable. 

For a moment, Charles just stared at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he closed the distance, his gaze intense as he spoke. 

“You,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. “I think about you all the time. But I don’t know if this… whatever this is… is just a distraction or something more.” 

Her heart raced, the words hanging in the air between them like an unspoken confession. 

“I’m trying not to think about it,” she replied, almost reluctantly. “I can’t afford to lose control — not with everything on the line.” 

Charles’ gaze softened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. 

“I get it,” he said, his tone quiet but sincere. “But I don’t want to pretend it’s nothing. Not anymore.” 

The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken emotions. Charles’ hand brushed hers briefly, the touch light but deliberate, and for a moment, Y/N forgot to breathe. Before either of them could say anything else, the moment was broken — Charles stepped back, running a hand through his hair with a soft chuckle. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, his usual smirk returning. 

But Y/N knew. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

Singapore 

The heat of Singapore’s late-night race was oppressive, the air thick and heavy with humidity. It made everything feel slower, more intimate, more charged. After the race, Charles found himself walking out of the Ferrari garage, the engine sounds still buzzing in his ears, but all he could think about was Y/N. 

He spotted her leaning against the wall by the pit lane, her arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and for a brief moment, he stood there, watching her, as if he could somehow figure out the tangled mess of emotions swirling between them. 

When she finally saw him, she smiled, though it was a little too tight, a little too forced. 

“You did great out there,” she said, her voice light, but her eyes were full of something deeper. 

Charles didn’t smile back immediately. Instead, he walked toward her, his movements purposeful, stopping just close enough that he could feel her warmth. 

“Thanks,” he said, but the words felt insignificant. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Y/N stiffened, and Charles could see the hesitation in her eyes. The moment was heavy with everything they hadn’t said yet. 

“I think about you too,” she admitted quietly, her gaze lowering to the ground. “But I can’t keep doing this. I’m not ready to get involved in something that could distract me from what I’m here for.” 

Charles reached for her hand, his touch gentle as he lifted it to his lips. His gaze locked with hers, and for the first time, he wasn’t pretending to be unaffected. 

“I’m not asking you to forget your work,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “But I don’t want to ignore this either. Whatever this is.” 

She looked at him, her heart pounding in her chest, and for a moment, it felt like everything was about to change. 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. 

“But you want to figure it out,” he responded, the question hanging between them like a promise. 

She nodded slowly. And in that quiet moment, they both knew — something was shifting. Neither of them was sure of what it would become, but neither was ready to let it go either. 

Suzuka 

Japan’s Suzuka Circuit was cloaked in rain, the kind that blurred the floodlights into halos and made every surface shimmer under the night sky. It was the kind of race that demanded absolute precision — and it had taken everything out of them. 

Y/N stood near the team garage, her rain jacket soaked, lips pressed tight as she reviewed notes on her tablet with wet fingertips. She hadn’t seen Charles since the debrief. Not really. Not like she wanted to. 

They had been slow-burning through the past few races — brushing shoulders, sharing coffee, giving each other looks that said too much. But neither of them had dared to say the words out loud. 

Until now. 

She sensed him before she saw him — that specific electricity only he brought. The buzz of his presence slid down her spine before his voice cut through the patter of rain. 

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked, no pretense, no teasing in his tone. Just stormy-eyed Charles, his race suit half-zipped, soaked through, frustration evident in every taut line of his frame. 

Y/N didn’t look up. She couldn’t. 

“I’m not,” she said flatly. 

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was quiet, but it hit like thunder. “Every time I try to talk to you, you change the subject. Every time I get close, you pull away. I need to know what the hell that means.” 

The rain softened to a mist, but the tension was a downpour. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. 

“It means I’m scared, Charles.” Her voice cracked, raw and wet with emotion. “It means I care about you more than I should, and I can’t afford to screw this up. If this becomes real—if we become real—and it falls apart, I lose more than just you. I lose everything we’ve built together.” 

He stepped closer, shaking his head slowly. 

“That’s not how this works, Y/N. We don’t lose everything—we just change everything.” 

She blinked at him, chest rising and falling too quickly. 

“And what if we change everything and it still doesn’t work?” 

“Then at least we tried. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel the way I do about you. I look for you after every race. I memorize your expressions. I know when you’re tired, when you’re mad, when you need space. And I still want you — every version of you.” 

Y/N's eyes welled, and she hated it. She wasn’t supposed to cry — not here, not in front of him. 

“You deserve someone who doesn’t second guess everything,” she whispered. 

Charles stepped even closer, until their chests nearly touched. 

“I deserve you,” he said. “Exactly as you are.” 

A long, tense silence fell between them. The only sound was the gentle hush of rain on carbon fiber and the distant hum of the paddock. 

“Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away.” 

But she couldn’t. 

Because she did want this — all of it. The chaos, the quiet, the risk. Him. 

So instead of answering, she stepped forward and kissed him. 

It wasn’t delicate. It was pent-up and clumsy, lips colliding with desperation and years of wanting and not saying. Charles cupped her face with wet, shaking hands, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss like he’d been waiting his whole life to breathe again. 

When they finally pulled apart, she leaned her forehead against his, both of them gasping like they’d just finished a sprint. 

“We’re going to be a mess,” she whispered. 

“Yeah,” he laughed softly, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “But we’ll be a mess together.” 

Monza 

The Italian Grand Prix had always been electric, but that Sunday felt like thunder cracking through the sky. 

Red smoke curled through the grandstands, thousands of Tifosi chanting Charles' name, faces painted scarlet and white. The podium was a frenzy of champagne spray, metallic confetti, and deafening applause. Charles stood tall in the center, drenched, the Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders like armor, a triumphant smile on his face — but his eyes scanned the sea of red for just one thing. 

Y/N. 

She was barely visible, tucked just behind the team barrier. Her radio was off, her headset forgotten around her neck. She watched him, heart aching with something too big to name. The kiss in Suzuka had rewritten everything — now, they were something real. Quietly. Carefully. Hidden. 

But Charles had never been the kind of man to hide what he cared about. 

He ripped off the champagne-soaked cap and handed it to one of the team engineers without breaking stride. Cameras trailed him as he stepped down from the podium, past the FIA officials, past the interviews, straight toward the barrier. 

“Charles! Charles, a word about the win—” 

He ignored the reporters. His eyes were locked on her. 

Y/N’s breath caught when she realized he wasn’t stopping. 

“Don’t you dare,” she muttered under her breath, heart hammering. But it was too late. 

He ducked beneath the barrier with a speed that made the security flinch, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her to him. 

“Mon amour,” he breathed, the roar of the crowd fading for a second. “You didn’t think I’d let today end without this?” 

“Charles, there are cameras—” 

“Let them see.” 

And then he kissed her. 

Not a chaste peck. Not something that could be brushed off as “friendly.” This was months of tension, of glances across the paddock, of quiet conversations at midnight hotel rooms and hands brushing in the dark — finally breaking free. 

Flashbulbs erupted. The crowd screamed. The press lost its mind. 

“Charles Leclerc confirms paddock romance!”  “Mystery woman identified — team strategist Y/N L/N”  “Ferrari’s golden boy in post-podium shock kiss” 

Y/N broke the kiss first, laughing breathlessly as her hands curled in the collar of his fireproofs. 

“You’ve started a war, you know that?” 

“Then let them come,” Charles grinned, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ve already won the only thing I care about.” 

Behind them, the cameras clicked furiously. The team was half-cheering, half-horrified. But for Charles and Y/N, it was like standing in the eye of a hurricane — wild all around, but calm at the center. 

They were no longer a secret. 

--- 

The hotel suite was quiet — too quiet for the way their hearts were racing. 

Charles shut the door with a soft click, but the silence only made the electricity between them louder. Y/N stood in the middle of the room, still in her team gear, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment and desire. 

“I can’t believe you kissed me in front of the entire paddock,” she whispered, voice uneven. 

Charles dropped his race bag near the door and walked toward her, slow, eyes dark with heat and certainty. 

“I’ve waited too long to keep hiding you,” he said lowly. “Let them see what they want. You’re mine.” 

Y/N’s breath hitched — she didn’t move, didn’t speak, couldn’t. 

When he finally reached her, his hands slid to her waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of her shirt, warm against her skin. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured against her throat, lips brushing hot over her pulse point. “How you looked in the crowd. How you looked watching me.” 

Her fingers found the zipper of his fireproof undershirt, tugging it down slowly, exposing sweat-slick skin and the fierce, pulsing beat of his heart beneath it. 

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” she whispered against his jaw, lips dragging lightly across his skin. 

“So did you,” he growled, backing her toward the bed. “Wearing my team colors. Staring at me like that.” 

Her back hit the edge of the mattress, and she looked up at him through her lashes, a smirk playing on her lips even as her breath trembled. 

“And what are you going to do about it, mon chéri?” 

He didn’t answer. 

Not with words. 

He pressed her down against the sheets, kissing her like he needed to consume her — like the race hadn’t ended, like he was still chasing victory and she was the finish line. 

Their clothes hit the floor in a rush of heat and fumbling fingers, his touch reverent and rough, hers demanding and soft. Every kiss was a promise, every gasp a confession. He kissed down her collarbone, teeth grazing skin, his name falling from her lips like prayer and plea in equal measure. 

“Charles—” 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hands cradling her thighs, sliding up to her hips as he pressed against her. “Just like I always have.” 

And when he finally sank into her, it was like the world finally made sense again — no cameras, no engines, no eyes watching. Just the two of them. Skin to skin. Heart to heart. 

It wasn’t just about lust — though that was there, thick and blazing. It was about knowing each other in every way. About releasing months of tension and fear and secrecy, letting it all fall away in the dark. 

“Look at me,” he said when her eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed. 

She did. 

And what she saw — love, hunger, awe — made her fall all over again. 

The night stretched long and breathless, their bodies moving like they'd been written for each other, their names whispered like secrets passed between tangled sheets. 

By the time they finally stilled, tangled in silk and sweat and laughter, Charles pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head. 

“You’re not just my secret anymore,” he said softly. “You’re my everything.” 

[alligatorsleepover]

Been trying to put my feelings together about how I feel ms. Collin’s handled the alliance aspect of sotr , it was the first and only time we hear about people trying to form something against the careers and during the games where there’s double the amount of tributes! that is so interesting and I get that haymitch working with people who become the rebellion we see in mockingjay is important but I can’t help but feel the newcomers thing was thrown away in a sense , I think people prefer catching fire because katniss has a strong alliance and we see so much of what’s happening in the games because of it but sotr does what the first one did which is have the main protag be off on their own the whole time while other things happen somewhere else , but I want to know more about everyone else and it was set up perfectly only for it to be switched right before the games started

Just thoughts rn no big criticisms

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

staring at the sun (a matt murdock short story)

Synopsis: Sunny, Foggy Nelson’s other best friend from college, was a sharp-tongued, chaos-loving café owner who plays barista just for the hell of it. Matt was just a sight-impaired lawyer who came in for coffee and stayed for the banter. He leaned in first, sure of the signals, confident in her body language... but she turned him down. Complicated, she said. Messy. And then, in a moment of guilt or self-preservation, she turned him to Karen Page. The lines blur even further. The nights get longer. The lies get heavier. And neither of them can stop circling the moment they almost had—quiet, dangerous, and always just out of reach. Inspired by Staring at the Sun by TV on the Radio, this story is about almosts, bad timing, and the slow, impossible pull between two people who shouldn’t—but do—keep finding their way back to each other.

Pairing: Matthew Murdock x afab!reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol | so much profanity | blood | gore | a claire temple cameo | angst | jesus fucking christ so much angst | reader with an attitude, low self-esteem and bad jokes | reader has long-ish hair? (not a pixiecut, sorry girlies) | so many bad jokes holy shit | karen page being a badass | karen page being mistreated YET AGAIN | all shades of matthew murdock | foggy nelson is alive and never died and i refuse to elaborate any further | unclear timeline (but set somewhere around daredevil s1 and s2) | foggy and reader being college besties | reader being a certified mess | matt being a bigger mess | delirious confessions (man's lost three gallons of blood wdym) | typos | the best smut i've written so far | mentions of male/female intimate bodyparts | reader has a nickname |

Author's notes: Let me start by preempting this: I know that a reader with an attitude isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. She’s a bit of a handful, I get it. But she was created to feel human—to have layers, flaws, and a whole lot of contradictions. I did my best to keep some of the mystery, the vagueness, to make her feel real. But if that’s not your thing? That’s okay. Skip this fic. You won’t lose out on much. ❤ This was, hands down, the most fun and wild ride I’ve ever had writing. There were moments when I literally grinned and laughed at my own jokes like a lunatic, playing out scenarios in my head over and over again. It took me almost 5 weeks to put together, and I spent nearly every moment off work perfecting it, tweaking it, making it just right.

And now, looking at it? Finished? I’m so, so proud. I feel my writing style has sharpened over the last few months. Lost in Translation (a series I hope to release over the summer) helped me with that. It feels more human, more lived-in, vivid. I’ve been experimenting with styling (italicizing, bolding, playing with paragraph breaks) and I love it.

This fic holds a piece of me. It’s a piece I’ve given away for you to enjoy with me. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride

Word count: 55K

Music inspiration:

Staring at the Sun (2003) by TV On The Radio (especially the live @ SXSW 2011 rendition)

Late Night Feelings + Prelude (2019) by Mark Ronson & Lykke Li

Roi (2021) by VIDEOCLUB

Chemtrails Over the Country Club (2021) by Lana Del Rey

Seventeen & Jupiter 4 (2019) by Sharon Van Etten

Now I'm In It (2020) by HAIM

"You're staring at the sun. You're standing in the sea. Your mouth is open wide. You're trying hard to breathe. The water's at your neck. There's lightning in your teeth. Your body's over me."

Staring at the Sun (2003) by TV On The Radio

Sunny'd been a fixture of Foggy's life for over a decade. He didn't like her much at first. She liked him even less. She wasn't like his friends.

They met during their Columbia years. She had arrived at a pub quiz with Jonah. Unannounced. Uninvited. But she was there. She arrived bundled in an enormous coat, a beanie slipping over her eyes, and a wool scarf wrapped so high only the tip of her nose peeked through. Her eyes had done most of the talking that night—sharp, bright, impossible to ignore. She didn't say much. Just smiled and laughed. Snorted when Foggy said something hilarious. Argued with him half the time. Later, she'd explained she was 'trying to leave a good impression'. "This Y/N," Jonah boasted. She always said she was a catch, in the end. It was his new girlfriend. Jonah hoped she’d fit in with the guys.

She did. The photos and grainy videos from those years said as much. She stuck around long after Jonah didn’t. Drunk texts. Deranged 3AM calls. Singing when walking home in the rain, tipsy and happy. That spontaneous road trip down the coastline Matt had refused to take.

Yeah. She’d fit in just fine. Maybe too well for Jonah’s taste.

While Nelson studied law, Y/N pursued management and economics. Their ways never really separated. Blurry photos from hangouts, parties, and late-night trips—all tucked neatly in a battered album she only cracked open when she was drunk enough. She’d seen him stumble. He’d never let her. When she fell, he was there to hold her, make her laugh... to reassure her that she was worth all the trouble and nerve.

Sunny even suffered through his entire Marci debacle. Went out for a double date with the pair. And if that wasn't a sign of a true friendship... Foggy didn't know what it was. Just once. Never again. She still swore she saw Marci check her reflection in the back of a spoon.

She cried along with him. Laughed when the mood was right.

And then, she watched as Foggy started a law practice with his other best friend. Witnessed it in real time, from the ground up. The practice was something that was his. A legacy. Something Foggy was proud of, despite spending most of the time yammering about what a stupid idea it was. She was proud, too, even if she would’ve rather been shot than admit it. Nelson & Murdock. It sounded posh. Sunny offered quiet support through the process—free coffee, pep talks, and pastries. The works. She listened when he cursed Murdock to hell and back for being either a stubborn idiot, a man-whore, or vanishing for days.

Matt, of course. The brooding ghost of a man who was somehow everywhere and nowhere at once. The man she'd heard so much about... and still felt like she didn't know.

Sunny remained stuck at a café. Working as a barista... with the best latté in downtown Hell's Kitchen. Nelson never understood, but he didn’t argue—Y/N, with her independence, slight air of mystery, and effortless cool, was always a bit of an enigma.

Sunny yammered about the job all the time, but never quit. She didn't even attempt to resign. She often said the pay was shit, the shifts were hell, and the coworkers were dicks… but she stayed. For years now, actually. 'It’s simpler, y’see?' she always muttered when Foggy pressed. 'I can do whatever I want, whenever I want… I’ve barely lifted a finger in the past few years. And my boss fucking adores me, so…' she'd smirk 'Why not?'

She was usually like that—straight to the point, a pain in the ass, and secretly soft-hearted beneath it all.

Funnily enough, Sunny'd never met Matthew Murdock. The one Foggy always yammered about. His 'other best friend'. There had never been a right opportunity, at least not one Foggy deemed just right. But deep down, he knew they’d get along. Too well. But he also knew the two would get along easily... too easily. Both were sharp-tongued, witty, and sarcastic to their last breaths. And both were good-willed idiots with rough edges. ... with similar abandonment issues.

The idea of Sunny and Murdock interacting had always irritated Foggy. Always. They were aware of each other's existence; they sent regards and best wishes, but were never introduced. Foggy ensured to separate the two entities, two universes where Foggy felt the safest. Partially... it came down to the fact that most women deemed Matt a ridiculous catch. He was a lawyer, tall-ish, handsome, smart, and a seducer. A player, if you will. And Foggy didn't want to deal with that emotional mess, albeit potentially. Especially if Foggy would sit beside him, involuntarily serving as the wingman. Maybe it was because Y/N was charming in that impossible-to-pin-down way—the kind of Foggy never felt himself, but watched other men gravitate toward.

But... Things were about to change.

Matt and Foggy strolled down the streets of Hell's Kitchen, the bustle of New York buzzing around them—people weaving through the sidewalks, taxi cabs splashing through puddles, the heavy scent of asphalt and rain lingering in the air. Their destination was close, just a five-minute walk from the office. Foggy was talking a mile a minute, clearly excited about something, while Matt was just trying to make it through another long day. Difficult cases, legal loopholes, and fancy, meaningless words cluttered his head—a headache simmering beneath the surface.

"Alright, Murdock, you're in for a treat today," Foggy announced as they climbed the stairs into a small, lively café. The smell hit them immediately—coffee, lemon zest, cinnamon. The space was modest, with around six to seven tables total, each impressively occupied despite the midday rush. Others sat on the porch. Matt could hear laughter, soft murmurs, baristas taking orders, chatting, and exchanging pleasantries. The hiss of espresso machines. The soft thud of music. A woman's voice softly hummed along it. Matt smiled to himself.

"If this is another one of your ‘I've got a friend who'll change your life’ situations, I’m walking away," Matt muttered, dry as ever, his hand brushing Foggy’s elbow for balance, just enough not to send someone’s almond latte flying. "So," Foggy grinned, clearly unfazed by the threat. "I've got a friend who'll change our lives." Matt huffed a laugh under his breath. "I hate you." "You'll love her," Foggy promised.

The smell of fresh coffee and pastries hit Matt’s senses—rich, warm, inviting, and genuinely good. It reminded him he hadn't eaten all day.

"Another coffee shop, huh? Should’ve known," Matt murmured, his sarcasm slipping away. Foggy chuckled. "Nah, this place is different. It’s got a personality." "You mean she’s got one, no?" Matt hummed, nudging Foggy’s side. Oh, Nelson hated it when Matt got like this. Insinuating that this wasn’t about coffee, but rather a crush. "Leave me out of these speculations," Foggy shot back, steady as always. No crushes here—just years of friendship. "It'll make sense when you see her." "Low blow." "You asked for it." "I guess." Matt smiled, a rare, genuine one, his face softening.

The café bustled as they waited in line, chatting about nonsense. Matt's senses were pleasantly overwhelmed. Foggy spotted her behind the counter, arms crossed, watching the barista with boredom and amusement. As always, she was chewing gum, her hair twisted into a messy bun, the shared apron hanging on her like she owned the place.

"Yo, Y/N!" Foggy called out, waving at her with his usual grin. "Over here!" Her eyes shot up at the sound of his voice, warm and familiar. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of the two of them, her sharp gaze assessing Matt, chin tilting just slightly. With a sigh, she stepped forward, meeting them at the pastry display. "Always nice seeing you," Foggy hummed, giving her a quick hug. Her palm patted his shoulder in return. "Yeah, figures. I’m a motherfucking catch," she muttered, both of them snickering. "Who’d the cat drag in?"

Her eyes were on Matt now—he could feel it. Y/N was studying him, slowly and thoroughly. The reaction inside her body was nearly instant. Her heart rate picked up, and her blood ran faster. She tried to hide the quick gulp, licking her lips as she breathed in shallowly. Her scent shifted. Frankly, she smelled fucking amazing—coffee, vanilla, perfume... and, well, her. But she played it cool.

"Matt, this is Y/N Y/L/N, my other best friend, whom I also call Sunny," Foggy announced proudly. Matt assumed she gave a dramatic bow because Foggy scoffed, shaking his head. "You'd probably already met her at Columbia. Do you remember Jonah?" "An insufferable asshole? Junior year's property law?" Matt shot back, a playful grin spreading across his face as he turned to Foggy. "He could barely tie his shoelaces." "My words exactly," Y/N agreed, grinning. "Your guy's got charm, Fogster. That deserves a coffee on the house." "Where did Sunny come from?" Matt asked, intrigued. "Ah, you know it," Foggy scoffed. "She my fucking ray of sunshine." "Oh, fuck off." Y/N laughed back, rolling her eyes.

"Sunny, this is Matt Murdock." "The Matt Murdock? The man, the myth, the legend? The best man walking the Earth?" Y/N cackled, already moving behind the counter to start their order. "Oh, that’s rich." "Do I have a reputation?" Matt asked innocently, letting Foggy guide him toward a chair so he wouldn’t get in the way of the busy waitstaff. "I’m honored." "Mhm. Foggy mentioned you think coffee’s a personality trait," Y/N smirked, her voice almost flirtatious, sending Matt a wink. She clearly didn’t know that Matt, for lack of a better word, was blind. But Matt, on instinct, shot back with a sarcastic grin. There was silence before Y/N leaned in slightly, as if letting Matt in on a secret, "Poor Fogster can’t stop talking about you."

"Well, for the record, I don't think coffee's a personality trait. I just think it's essential. There's a difference." Matt teased back, and Foggy stood by, witnessing the collision of two worlds that had seemed so distant just that morning. "Uh-huh," Y/N nodded, mouth open as she watched her co-worker finish a triple americano. "Just by looking at you, you only drink black and without flair?"

This assumption took Murdock back.

A barista who knew her craft, it seemed, tuned in with an almost eerie sense for her customers’ tastes. What gave him away? Was it intuition? Years of practice? Or just a lucky guess? "You've got me all figured out," Matt admitted, grinning from ear to ear. It wasn’t an explicit confession, yet it conveyed so much. She’d know he’d just put himself in her good graces in record time if she paid attention.

His judgment was cloudier than he cared to admit. Because just as her body reacted to his presence, so did his. Her voice was so pleasant, and the way her tongue curled around his name had Matt’s heart skipping a beat. An absentminded grin formed on his lips. The shift in her scent set off something primal inside him. His pulse quickened, blood ran hotter, and—fuck—unwanted, indecent images flashed in his mind. Inside the coffee, outside it. In his bed. In hers.

Thankfully, Foggy was none the wiser—probably relieved they were getting along.

"Sure, I've got you pegged. Black coffee, no sugar, no frills. A typical lawyer move… speaking from experience," her eyes flicked to Foggy. The way her lips moved? Diabolical. Matt would swear he senses each twist and curl. She didn't flinch at his comment, her playful grin tightening for a second—a brief acknowledgment that she caught what he was putting down. A bite on her lower lip, a shallow exhale. Then, a soft scoff. But she didn’t bite. Not yet. She didn't visibly react to Matt's statement. Good. No reaction. Good. That answer was safe—she was either more reasonable than he was, or playing the game. Either way, they were in the clear.

Foggy let out a low grunt. "Not true," Foggy defended against the implication that this opinion was based on years of personal experience. "I go for a gingerbread latté whenever your boss puts it on the menu." "True that," Y/N hummed. "Gotta admit, she’s a bit of a dunce—told her a million and one times she should make it a permanent item, but she insists it’s a seasonal delicacy and that the upkeep would be too expensive."

One of the baristas shot Sunny a strange look. Like they weren't in on a joke. Sunny raised her brows in return. "What? She, categorically, is a dunce," Sunny muttered, earning scoffs from Foggy and Matt. "If you say so…" the coworker hummed, clearly biting back a response before stepping away from the espresso machine. Y/N just smirked.

"Maybe we'll surprise you," Matt mused, leaning into Sunny’s playful energy. He could feel her skepticism in the shift of her weight, the way her breath caught just slightly. There was something about her collected demeanor that didn't fit. Something she desperately tried to hide. It was strange. His body reacted to her. The entirety of her. Her reactions and physical processes. It was like hell and heaven in one package. He could feel her eyes moving over him, even if he’d never see it himself.

"I’ll believe it when I see it," she quipped. "You’d better not be as boring as Foggy says you are." "Oh, okay." Foggy scoffed, exasperated. "Are you just trying to start drama because you're bored?" "I don’t know—am I, Nelson?" Y/N replied innocently, though amusement laced every word. "And if I am, what are you gonna do about it? Object? Give me a break with that lawyer bullshit."

"You know,... I only ever see you working when I come in?" Foggy teased, their long history of banter evident. "Every other time I pass by, you’re literally just sitting here, doing nothing." "My boss loves me although I’m a bitch and don't do much," Y/N said smugly, with the energy of a cat that pushed a glass of the table and got away with it. "Deal with it."

"...And, well, am I boring?" Matt hummed after Foggy and Sunny fell silent, sending Foggy a bemused smile. Not even a moment of breathing space. Foggy groaned and rolled his eyes, already feeling a headache setting in from the sheer chaos. "I never said you're boring. Just that you've got a dry sense of humor," Foggy replied swiftly. "Sue me." "I'd rather not. We're behind on paperwork as is," Matt quipped back, making Sunny scoff. The sound twitched with the corners of Matt's mouth. "We don't even have desks yet..." The first espresso-to-go landed before them, and Y/N absentmindedly worked on the second. It smelled incredible. "And knowing Nelson, it only means you’re either boring or a killer," Y/N added. "Knowing Foggy and the company he keeps, I leaned toward the first one."

"Talking from experience?" Matt prodded, entertained. Y/N shrugged, eyes flicking up briefly. "Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve dealt with enough smooth talkers to know how it ends." Matt tilted his head. "And how does it end?" "Usually? With someone getting their coffee thrown in their lap," she smiled sweetly. "Accidentally, of course." Matt chuckled under his breath, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Noted," he murmured, voice lower than before—meant for her, and her alone. She looked up at him, just for a second.

And that second stretched long enough to make Foggy clear his throat. Loudly.

Y/N laughed—bright and sharp, like the best kind of trouble. The sound hit Matt like a spark to dry kindling, setting something alight in his chest. He felt it more than heard it, how the sound curled around him, rich and reckless. If Matt could see, he was sure he’d be watching her now, completely taken.

"Also, I'm a killer. That's how I know the crowd Fogster sticks to." "You sure are," Foggy muttered, standing up to pay for the coffee. But before he could, there was a sharp smack—the distinct sound of Y/N practically slapping his wallet out of his palm. "Nu-uh. We talked about this, Nelson," she scolded, leaning in like she was sharing a government secret. Her voice dropped to a whisper-shout, just for him. "Coffee’s the only way I get to see your handsome face on a semi-regular basis—gotta take what I can get, right?. You're not paying a dime." "Appreciate the heroics, but we have a law practice. We can afford two cups of coffee," Foggy muttered back, equally stubborn.

Was this a regular thing? Was this a part of their dynamic? Matt leaned back, listening, amused. Matt noted they bickered like a married couple—comfortable, familiar, intimate in a way that didn’t ask permission. Too practiced. Too easy.

Foggy attempted to pay, and Y/N outmaneuvered him at every turn. "Send it to charity if it makes you feel better," she quipped. "I hate thinking about how much I cost you weekly, Sunshine. Would hate it if you showed up one day to shake me down when you’re suddenly homeless." "Oh. If I even asked to crash at yours," she shrugged, "it would end with you begging me not to leave, Nelson. It would take two days tops to worship me like the goddess I am. I'd cook, clean, and maybe even iron your stupid shirts." "You gave me four espressos this week alone." Foggy insisted, a bit softer. "And my boss doesn’t mind," Sunny shot back. Judging by the rustling of bags, she was now aggressively packing up sweets just to piss him off. "She likes you. And takes it out of my performance bonus."

"Maybe you could stop dressing like a clown if you weren’t constantly giving away free stuff." Silence. "Too far, Nelson." Her voice lost all bite. The tease evaporated. Foggy winced. "Sorry." She shoved the packed sweets into his chest, harder than necessary. "Anyway, stick those four dollars up your ass."

Matt heard her approach. Of course, he did. But nothing prepared him for her warmth and the intensity of her scent. Her pace was steady, not rushed but not slow—almost as if she was always on the move, even when she didn't have to be. There was the faint click of boots or heels against the hard floor, the soft shuffle of fabric brushing against her legs.

When she was near enough, Matt caught the sound of her breathing—almost like she's carrying a slight smirk, her posture a bit cocky. There was a subtle vibration of her presence in the air, like how her footsteps shifted just before she stopped before him, or how her energy seemed to fill the space. She was cocky but lovable, energetic but soft.

"Tell me you're more reasonable than Nelson," Y/N whispered, so close to his ear that Matt swallowed a breath as his head turned toward her voice. Fuck, she was so close—her pulse steadily thumbing inside the artery in her neck, her breathing irregular, her body reacting to him. Murdock allowed himself a deep breath before answering. "...I'm more reasonable than Nelson," Matt parroted, voice low. He was bewitched. Sunny scoffed in his ear. She was chewing on a gum, mint flavored based on the smell. "Great," she hummed, haphazardly pushing one of the cups and a paper bag filled with pastry into his arms.

Her fingers brushed against the back of his hand, and Matt's grip on the cup tightened instinctively. Jesus. She was warm and impossibly soft, like her touch alone could undo him if he let it. He focused on the heat of the coffee seeping through the cup, grounding himself, trying to ignore how his body reacted. A batch of uninvited, unwanted, and very explicit images and ideas filled Matt's thoughts again, nearly doing him in.

This was stupid. He was being stupid. He'd been around plenty of beautiful women before, but something about her threw Matt off balance. It wasn’t just her voice or how her laughter had lodged deep in his chest. It was how she moved, smelled, and lingered just long enough to make him wonder if she felt it too. The tension. The spark. Desire.

It was dangerous. And yet, he wasn’t pulling away. Not yet. He just wanted a bit more of her heat and scent in his nose, let his heart beat irregularly for a little longer. Matt shifted in his seat, his leg brushing against hers. His breath caught, his body betraying him for a split second, and only then did he quickly pull away.

"Take this. Run the fuck away from here before Nelson actually pays for the goods." "That a good idea?" Matt whispered back, intrigued and amused. "Yeah, why wouldn't it..." That's when she clocked it in. She stilled, still leaning over him. The cane was set between his knees—a white cane clearly communicating he was blind. Her breath stuttered slightly, and Matt felt her gaze before she even voiced it. He could almost hear the hesitation in her silence as her eyes moved to his cane and then to his glasses, lingering just a little longer than necessary. She sounded almost unsure when asked: "...Is that why the slides are red?" "... Wouldn't notice the difference, to be honest." "I'm calling the plan off." "Why?" Matt pressed, a teasing edge creeping into his voice, the challenge hanging between them. "I won’t let some blind guy run into traffic for a coffee shop heist. I might be reckless, but I’m not that cruel."

"What are you whispering about?" Foggy joined the conversation again, pushing his wallet back into his tux. He's stuck six dollars into the tip jar, taking the 'paying the bill' scene as resolved. "You didn't tell me." "Tell you what?" "That Murdock's, well, that he's..." "Sight impaired, yeah," Foggy nodded, taking everything off Y/N's hands. "What does that change?"

"Are you serious?" Y/N shot back, mock-serious. "I could look like a monster, and he'd have no clue. Honestly, I’m starting to like this guy more and more." "You're already looking like one." "Low blow, Nelson." "Low blow, but you know you love it, Y/N," Foggy hummed, the two sharing a quick hug. "Yeah, I do... bastard. See you," she smiled, turning to Matt. "See you around, Murdock. Don’t get too bored without me. You know you wanna come around and listen to how I yap."

And... Well, Y/N wasn't lying. God, she really smelled good. "Depends on the topic," Matt murmured, voice low and close, the air between them crackling with a subtle tension. "But free coffee? You might just have me sold." A scoff. A short laugh.

Y/N’s eyes softened a beat, and then she muttered, "Oh, I like you already, Murdock." Something in her tone felt like a door had just been unlocked. Foggy groaned dramatically behind them, drawing out the sound. "Oh no." "Oh yes," Y/N corrected, her grin practically audible. Matt smirked, enjoying the moment more than he’d care to admit Something told him he’d come to this café a lot more often.

The Nelson & Murdock duo started frequenting the café nearly daily. Matt was hiding his side motives well. He never said—never admitted—that he wanted... needed to see Sunny. Not once. Foggy didn’t suspect Matthew’s so-called coffee runs were getting harder and harder to walk away from. That each time Sunny got near, something in Matt pulled taut. That’s why he always blamed it on caffeine. Or fresh air. Anything but her.

Besides, seeing Y/N improved Foggy's mood each time, despite his constant complaints of "she’s a pain in the ass".

Truthfully? The Page case was dragging on longer than they liked. Exhausting. Frustrating. And Matt... Matt constantly looked like a punching bag. Bruised. Swollen. Lips split. Knuckles red and violet.

They asked. Prodded. Worried. About what was going on? Why did he look like that? Did he owe money? Did he get into a crash? A fight? How could they help? Foggy. Sunny. Both. Matt deflected every time. It became a routine. They still asked. But their voices got softer. Like they were already bracing for the lie. Like it was better not to know.

It was way past closing. They barged in too late to meaningfully explain it, catching Y/N in the middle of a tax crisis. Why was a barista doing the taxes? Sunny didn't offer an explanation. She simply deadpanned, clicked her tongue, and closed the invoice book... very dramatically. She didn’t say anything. Just walked over, flipped the sign to closed, put on Hozier, and started making tea she swore wasn’t for him.

The lights were dimmed except for the ones over the counter. Foggy was perched on a bar stool, nursing a lukewarm espresso. Matt was sitting at the corner table, knuckles red, a faint split on his lower lip, jaw already swelling. He groaned with pain, cooling the bruises with a package of ice. His tie was gone, collar open, sleeves rolled. He looked like fucking shit... again. For a third time that month alone.

Sunny moved around the café barefoot, mopping. She even threatened the duo into taking their shoes off. Full-on threatened. She was in a no-bullshit mood that night. Refused to acknowledge any lawyer mumbo jumbo. She didn't look at Matt right away. She's seen it all before. The bruises. The exhaustion. That night? They worse.

Foggy chuckled into the silence, just as Sunny put the tea in front of Matt with attitude. "Jesus, Matt. You look like you fought a city bus and lost." "At least it was a tie," Matt smiled, hissing. His cheek was on fire. "Eh... I'm still 50-50," Sunny yelped, her feet sticking to the tile floor. "On what?" Matt quipped. "At least I'm alive." "Are you sure it's not a sex thing?" Sunny asked, all innocent and smiling, twirling the mop in her palm. Foggy choked on his hot chocolate. Matt exhaled slowly, lips twitching. Here they go again.

"Can we not?" Foggy coughed, but Y/N didn't move an inch. She still twirled with the mop. "I'm just saying," she sighed. "You disappear for days, come back covered in bruises, looking half-dead but somehow too casual and smug about it. And if it's a kink, I won't judge because you do you. Maybe just don't bleed on my floors after closing time? The boss will murder me if I don't get it off." She strutted behind the counter and grabbed the disinfecting spray like it owed her money. Matt deadpanned. "I'll keep that in mind." "You better. My mop's not unionized."

Foggy threw his head back, groaning. Matt just listened, his eyes closed. He could hear her heartbeat flicker when she spoke. That her voice hitched ever so slightly, with curiosity and a bit of judgment. He could feel her watching him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. He heard each stroke of her mop. She hummed along with the song.

"... And if it was a kink?" He hummed smoothly as she passed by. His head turned as she passed. If he wasn't blind, she'd swear he was watching her ass sway. Sunny stopped in front of the counter. She didn't look at him. "Then I'd say you've got expensive taste in bruises." Without a warning, she tossed a rag at Foggy. "Make yourself useful, counselor. You're not here to brood and look cute, that's his job," she threw her head in Matt's direction. "That corner's still sticky." "Remind me, why do I hang out here?" Foggy groaned but got up nonetheless. "Because I have better coffee than your office and I let you say dumb shit without kicking you out," Y/N offered, shrugging. "Say last week, for example. You said Marci was one of the best things that happened to you. Stupid as hell." "... And because she likes us." Matthew practically murmured, softly. It was a tease, but it finally made Sunny scoff and look at him.

"Don't push it, Murdock." There was warmth in her voice. The quiet was comfortable for a moment... easy. Just them, grinning at each other. Until Matt shifted in his seat, wincing. She snapped her eyes away, eyebrow rising. "Okay, real talk, idiot—whatever that is, maybe see a doctor?" "I'll survive," Murdock hissed defiantly. "He says that a lot," Foggy jumped in, taking the first opportunity to rat him out. "One day it's not gonna be true, and then what? I gotta explain to the cops how my blind best friend tripped and fell into six guys with brass knuckles? Yeah, real funny." "Six?" Sunny hissed. Another rug hit Matt square in the chest. No rest for liars. "You told me there were three. Three guys." "I didn't want you to worry." "Too late, doofus," she gritted through her teeth, angrily rinsing the mop. "You tripped into six guys? At least bring me back a trophy." "Next time." Matt got up, groaning. His ribs were on fire. "You say next time like it's a good thing," Sunny murmured, her worry finally slipping through. "Whatever it is... Is it worth it?" "For me it is," Matt defended, getting to work.

She sighed like she wanted to argue. Add something. Yell. Scream. That's how worried she was. And instead, there was just a soft, silent: "... Okay."

They fell into a seamless rhythm. They lingered at the café whenever they wanted. Sunny never had the heart to throw them out They started going to restaurants, public events, and Josie's whenever Matt wasn't doing... whatever he did in his free time. Sometimes they hung out at Matt’s place—playing Scrabble, watching movies, or just… drinking and talking about life. They shared memories and stories—Sunny curled up on the sofa under a blanket, Foggy and Matt seated at the table. And they shared everything. From relationships, horrible dates, the good ol' Columbia days, embarrassing memories, to last week's events? They talked about all of it. For a blind man, Matt was surprisingly good at board games. He always roped Y/N into playing 'with him' under the pretense of, well... being blind. Foggy always called it unfair, but obliged. He'd won most of the games anyway. ...and wholeheartedly hated how they looked during it.

They murmured, voices low, both grinning, scoffing, and giggling more than not. Sunny always sat too close to Matt, leaning toward him, hovering in his personal space. She laughed, her fingers brushing against his hand as she passed him the tiles, but for a second—just a second—she caught herself, pulling back too quickly. Cleaned her throat. Threw a jab at Foggy. It never crossed a line. But it always hovered there, close enough to make it uncomfortable.

Foggy caught Matt’s eyes flicking toward Sunny once too often, his expression softening in a way that didn’t go unnoticed.

"You okay there, buddy?" Foggy teased, nudging Matt’s shoulder. He shot a look at Sunny, then back at Matt. "You’ve been staring at her all night. You’ve got a thing for her now, or what?" Matt flinched, trying to cover it up with a smirk. "Shut up, Foggy." "Yeah, I'm just putting the pieces on the board," Sunny shrugged, unassuming and unfazed. "Y'know, because he's blind and all?" They never addressed it. Sunny refused to talk about it. Always muttered 'You're seeing things.' She was fine with things staying the way they were, right? No complications. Why? Maybe because of her past relationships and her bond with Foggy. And Matt? He wasn't the one to call her bluff. She needed to be the one to address it. Therefore, they always covered up with cheap jokes and sarcasm.

Foggy ignored it for the most part, maybe on purpose. Ignored how Matt’s voice would drop, rasp slightly whenever she leaned just a little too close. How his breath would hitch... just enough to give away how badly he was trying to ignore what was happening. He couldn't make it stop. He couldn't stop wanting her. But he couldn't let himself get any closer.

Matthew didn’t know when it started. Didn’t mean for it to happen. But more nights than he’d admit, he imagined her naked in his bed, just one room over. Especially during Scrabble nights, when the game felt like the most serious thing in the world. He’d never touched her. Never said a word. But the thoughts kept showing up, uninvited.

He liked being near her. Laughed when she sang along to the radio. Listened to her work with confidence. Listened to her hum while she cleaned, or laughed at him like it was her favorite sport. He took it like a champ—every jab, every pun. Smiled through it like a sinner in confession. ... And Sunny never reacted. She never flirted back. Not out loud. Probably believed she was a good friend... that she was acting believable. But her body betrayed her in millions of small, impossible ways.

Over the following weeks, their visits stretched longer. What started as simple transactions turned into lingering conversations. The Nelson & Murdock cases grew more... complicated. Dangerous. They needed the distraction and tough love Y/N provided. The café started feeling like a safe haven and an escape from reality. The trio bonded over work and personal lives, filling in the gaps of familiarity; until Matt knew where she was born and raised, how she found herself in New York, and by proxy, why she picked Columbia University. Matt noted she left out the entirety of her parents from the story... as if it stung to even remember. There was more lingering under the surface. She refused to elaborate. Refused to talk. Foggy asked him not to press when feeling Matt's desperation to dig deeper.

Matthew, in exchange, shared his life story with her. It wasn´t easy... wasn't nice either. It was late, long after closing hours—the mop lazily leaned against one of the tables, forgotten. They all had a shit fucking day. Rude customers. Bad sales. Shit weather. Foggy explained that Page, their current client, got nearly choked in jail. She survived... barely.

Sunny pulled out her most expensive bottle of Jack Daniels. The bottle was usually hidden behind a stack of unopened wine crates. She only brought it out on anniversaries or emotional disasters. That night, she poured everyone a glass. To toast to Karen and thank the Lord above for not fucking it up worse. But then? When their troubled scoffs fell quiet? The shared silence was heavy. Suffocating.

Matt didn’t even know why he started talking. There was an instinct inside him. One that needed to break the silence, to make it disappear. He needed to get it off his chest. It clawed at his ribs. It came out before he could make sense of the weight. Matt barely recognized the man talking. The man who could barely get a word out about his feelings… yet there he was, spilling it all. But maybe that’s what she did to him—made him forget himself. It felt wrong and right at the same time. He hated himself for needing her, for feeling this weak.

Matt started with his dad. Remembering him, smiling as if he were bleeding. Didn't even mention his mother, who abandoned him. Then, he talked about his accident. His years at the orphanage. How he was raised to be a Catholic... carrying the guilt that he wasn't enough. That he would never be enough. Foggy was sitting at the same table, looking at him over his glass. Sunny sat atop the counter, her legs swinging as she hummed and nodded, listening.

Foggy already knew Matt’s story, but it pained him like the first time he heard it. It was a tough listen. No one should carry all that. Especially not a kid. Y/N was silent, absorbing it all. She was a tough crowd and didn't cry often. Not even when watching How to Train Your Dragon. But Matt? Matt got to her. She was furrowing, fidgeting with her fingers, and her cheeks were puffed out as she tried to keep the tears in. She looked like a toddler, not knowing what to do with their emotion. She was mad at herself for letting it get to her at all.

Then, before Matt could process it, she moved. She hugged him. Quick, unceremonious, but warm. She grounded him, and for a beat, they both got lost in the small, fleeting connection.

Her scent hit him first—coffee, vanilla, burnt sugar, and something distinctly her. Strands of her hair brushed against his fingers, barely within reach. The softness of her pressed against his chest, the curve of her collarbone beneath his chin for just a second. His palm settled on the small of her back instinctively. He held her tight. Like he'd drown if she let go of him. And then she was gone, just as fast as she had approached. Matt barely exhaled.

Foggy cleared his throat, shifting beside him. "You good, buddy? You looked like you've just returned from five minutes in heaven." His tone was amused but not unknowing. Matthew Murdock wasn't a communicative man. Not half of his flings knew what he did for work before they had sex, Foggy assumed. And until that night, Foggy might as well have been the only person who heard the full story.

And yet, something urged Matt to talk about his life, which was rarer than a good day in Hell’s Kitchen. Foggy was smart enough to figure it was connected to Sunny, at least a little. But he decided, again, to turn a blind eye. If something were going to happen between them, it probably would’ve by now. There were only a few people immune to Matt’s blind-man charm. Sunny just happened to be one of them... or for Foggy’s sake, she played the part well.

Sunny ignored them, grabbed a paper bag from behind the counter, and shoved it into Matt’s palm. "Raspberry muffins, on the house," she announced, like it was nothing. Like the entire moment hadn’t just shaken something loose in him. Like she didn't have tears in the corners of her eyes. That night, Sunny and Matt stopped being casual acquaintances or just 'friends'. They became best friends.

Matt and Foggy picked up on Y/N’s questionable work ethic fairly quickly. She bent the rules as she deemed fit, refusing to acknowledge the "business has to be profitable to be run" concept. Matt caught on to it first, of course.

"You do realize you just gave us three extra pastries and didn’t ring them up, right?" he remarked one afternoon as she slid a brown bag across the counter. "The boss won’t mind." Matt arched a brow. "That so?" "Oh, yeah," she said, deadpan. "She’s a real softie." Foggy, halfway through unwrapping his sandwich, paused. "Wait—hold on. Do you actually like your boss, or is this sarcasm? Because I feel like it could go either way." "It’s sarcasm," Matt murmured while Y/N said, "I love my boss." She smiled, not helping herself. Matt smirked.

Y/N’s questionable antics became more frequent with each visit. Sometimes, she let them pay. On other days, she cut the total in half, like it was a casual suggestion. And on certain occasions, she’d even toss extra pastries into the bag with a half-hearted "Oops." Neither Matt nor Foggy questioned it too hard. They might've had a law practice, but weren't above taking free food and coffee.

But one night, after a long day, the café was nearly empty, and Sunny remained one of the last two workers standing. Matt had already noticed the pattern—too much overtime for it to be healthy, too often for it to be a coincidence. As was usual, he and Foggy waltzed in, dropping into the seats nearest the counter. Before they could even argue, their orders landed in front of them... with attitude. Y/N plopped into the chair across from them, letting out a tired huff as she surveyed the room.

Matt, as always, was listening. The way her heartbeat lagged slightly, the telltale exhaustion in her breath. He’d been piecing it together—the mystery of her connection to the café. ... Just as he’d also pieced together how her gaze tended to linger when he wore this particular shirt. Dark burgundy, Karen had once described it when he asked about it during a night at Josie's. Matt noted Sunny's eyes hadn't left him whenever he wore it. He’d left the first two buttons undone tonight, and… he wasn’t above playing into it. Especially when he realized it might play into Y/N's work ethic. Or her stubbornness.

"Let us pay today?" he murmured, disrupting the peace. His fingers traced the rim of his cup. He couldn’t see her, but his head tilted just so, aimed at her like he could. Sunny didn’t even blink. "How about you fuck off?" Foggy snorted. "You sure about that? I heard your boss flew back in from the Dominican Republic today... and the rent's due soon." Y/N waved her hand lazily. "Please. My boss is probably too busy reading her emails to care." Matt smirked, and Foggy outright laughed. "You’re a real piece of work, Y/N." "I just give people what they want," she said through a loud yawn, stretching in her chair as her coworker passed by with another order. Then, under her breath, "…free fucking espresso."

It was far from the last instance of her questionable work choices. She started experimenting on them. Sometimes she announced it, but oftentimes she didn't. At first, it was just... small details. New drink or pastry. A different brew. A different cooking process she'd seen on the internet. Coffee beans that were ordered from a different supplier. Foggy could always tell—her eyes would narrow, darting between him and Matt like she was running a controlled study. The only thing she was missing? A white lab coat and a sheet to record the results. Matt? Of course, he knew. He always knew. Even before his lips touched the cup. But he'd rarely ruin it for her. He just pretended to be surprised for her amusement.

That day was no different. Sunny slid Matt his usual—black, no frills—across the counter. But this time, the aroma hit him before the cup did. Strong. It was too strong. She was testing him. Matt smirked, already bracing for the hit of caffeine. "Feeling adventurous, are we?" "You can’t drink weak coffee and expect to make it in this city, Murdock," she shot back, caramel latte in hand for table seven. "What would this establishment do without its patrons?"

Both men snickered. Patrons. Sure. They’d cost this café more money than they’d made for it.

Foggy took a sip of his raspberry lemonade, cappuccino on the side. "I believe you just want to see Matt twitch with all that extra caffeine." "Maybe," Y/N’s smile was all too sweet. "But that’s beside the point. You two keep asking about my boss, and I keep telling you—she won’t care. I have free range. I can do whatever the fuck I want." "Gives you the right to treat us like lab subjects?" Foggy teased. "Yeah, you’re skating on thin ice," Matt added, playing along. "Might be enough to file a complaint. And I'm a lawyer. I'd win."

He could hear Y/N shift, leaning in close. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a mock-serious murmur. "Honey, I live on thin ice. It’s not like they’re gonna fire me—no one else can keep this place running anyway." Matt smirked. "On the other hand… a slice of that lemon pie might keep me from actually complaining." "You, Murdock, are a dog." She offered her hand, shaking on it. "Deal."

Other times, she was moody with them. She placed the coffee down with too much emphasis, her tone casual and uncaring, her expression neutral, not hostile, but not welcoming.

Foggy and Matt watched her deal with the customers during a rush, standing next to the espresso machine, leaning onto the counter, countless orders practically flying under her palms, served one after the other without care. Her co-workers dealt with the pleasantries, not her. "Does she ever follow the rules?" Foggy wondered, whispering to Matt. "Y'know, like... greeting the customers or being nice, for once?" Matt shook his head, grinning. "I think the rules are more of a suggestion for her." She scoffs at first, winking at them. "If you wanna call it that... call me a rebel with a cause, but I'm not in this for the rules. Either take your coffee and fuck off, or..." "Just fuck off?" Foggy offered, making her laugh wholeheartedly. "You seem to get into the groove of things."

There were even day that were striaght-up shit. For all of them. They left their practice long after closing hours, both slouched and exhausted. And just as they crossed by the café, there it was—the silent, soft "Yo!" She'd invite them inside, the place half-cleaned, the light in the kitchen still on. Even though the espresso machine was cleaned and turned off, she'd make them a fresh cup without asking.

"You two better be glad I'm in a good mood today. Or else, I'd charge your asses extra for that shot of espresso you didn't ask for." "Did you make me a double again?" Foggy whined despite knowing that Y/N's espressos were life-savers. "You'll learn to appreciate it one day." She half-mouthed, putting some of the sandwiches no one bought in front of them, sitting beside them with a coffee, and one for herself. "You're gonna get yourself in trouble," Matt whispered, carefully and softly. He could feel her palm shooting his shoulder before she bit into the delicious sandwich. "You can't just lose profit like this. Your boss will be furious." "Nah, I got connections. This job pays the bills; I'm here for the chaos." Y/N answered sternly. "Besides, she likes you two idiots."

Her laugh was tense, almost forced—a layer of mystery surrounding Y/N. It was clear she was hiding something. ... like the true owner of the place, for example. She never let it slip, stopped play-pretending, or gave them a solid clue. She just played it off as another barista who doesn't follow the rules. But Matt suspected there was more than met the eye. She was smart, sharp, and absolutely fearless.

Sunny slowly crossed the line and became a part of their office over time. She started bringing gifts in the form of fresh pastries and coffee at the nearest convenience, seemingly leaving her shift without repercussions. Always said that 'the girls got it'. She'd always show up unannounced, especially when things got too much. It felt like she had a shit-meter that screamed whenever Matt and Foggy needed a bit of commanding a moment off. The house and office spaces were old, their furniture beaten down, far from appearing even slightly professional... but it was the best start their law career could ask for. It was easily accessible for most clients, and the beaten-down aesthetics had their charm. Just like them.

That was when she met Karen Page, their newest client/assistant/intern/secretary/volunteer. The two found a quiet understanding, to Foggy's surprise. Sunny offered to help. She volunteered. She didn't want any money or a reward. She was there as a friend, supporting her friends who were struggling.

Sunny and Karen co-operated seamlessly, sorting through papers and useless junk Foggy hoarded. She also memorized Karen's favorites fast, such as coffee and pastries, always leaving them on Karen's desk. With a sticky note, usually. One that had a smiley face drawn on it. One day, Y/N even set out on an office necessities hunt around the town. Karen wanted to buy cheap. So they visited garage sales. And Sunny, acting like the personal cheerleader, supported most of Karen's decisions with a thumbs-up. Concerning technology, neither Sunny nor Karen was a particular expert. It wasn't surprising to anyone that half of the machinery didn't work... and the other half, that originally worked, was soon out of order thanks to a rat problem. Foggy wouldn't forget it or shut up about it anytime soon, that much was for sure.

"God, I can't believe you made Karen buy a broken printer," Foggy groaned, shaking his head. Sunny grinned. "Hey, she was so confident that it’d work. I couldn’t just not let her have her moment. She looked so happy spending your money, just so you know." "Yeah, well, that moment’s over, and now you owe her a new printer," Foggy retorted. "Oh, don’t worry, I’ll help her set up the real one. After you get rid of your little rat problem." She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Yeah, sure, the real one," Foggy grumbled. "Next time, I’m choosing the office supplies." "Fine, but I’m picking the snacks." Sunny leaned back, eyes sparkling with mischief. Matt’s laughter rumbled from the couch, and Sunny caught his eye for a split second before quickly looking away. Focus, Y/N, she reminded herself.

It didn't take too long for Karen to become a natural part of their dynamic. She was naturally curious, perceptive, smart, and funny. Her jokes were on par with Sunny and Foggy's, and Karen loved it when the two started arguing, yelling at one another through the entire office. It was easy. Practicter. The dynamic between Foggy and Sunny was natural. Kindled over the years of friendship. 'We're nagging like we've been married for way too long, honestly,' Y/N sometimes muttered to Karen, making her laugh.

Foggy tossed another file into the pile, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "This place is a circus. And you're the ringmaster, Sunny. You make us all jump through hoops just for a cup of coffee." "Hey, I didn't force you to drink my experimental batch this morning. You were very eager to try it." She shot him a playful wink. Karen giggled, watching them. "Eager? You mean desperate for caffeine in a place where no one knows what they’re doing?" Foggy laughed, flicking a stray piece of paper off his desk. "Oh, please, you act like I made it up on the spot. That was a high-end brew, thank you very much." Sunny crossed her arms, looking mock-serious. She was leaning into a doorframe, sending Foggy an egging smirk. Matt smirked, listening from the couch. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to have a caffeine problem here.” "You, Murdock, have a lot of problems, and caffeine's just the tip of the iceberg," Sunny shot back without missing a beat. "But it’s okay, I’m not judging you. You're just here to look cute, anyway." And Karen? She laughed, covering her mouth.

Yeah, Karen fit in just fine. A little too fine for comfort. Sunny noticed how Karen behaved around Matt. Her vocabulary changed, her voice softened, and she dropped into a lower register. She let the words roll off her tongue—distracted, but deliberate. Like her mouth was on autopilot, and her thoughts were somewhere else. Her eyes were distracted. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Karen Page wanted Matt Murdock—whether just the man or just the dick, Sunny couldn’t tell. And from what Sunny'd seen and heard... Matt thought about Karen in that way, too. And she told herself she didn’t care. That it didn’t matter who Matt leaned toward. But the way he leaned made her stomach twist.

Sunny heard it in his voice whenever they talked, especially after Karen dropped one of her insightful jokes. Usually, Sunny would laugh too. She heard the hushed laughs and scoffs as they leaned over his desk, like kids gossiping, thinking they were invisible. And as if that wasn’t already enough to grind her gears, Matt’s head kept tracking Karen around the office. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed her in his orbit.

Was that Murdock's usual, then? Did he trick Sunny before pulling back after realizing she's not giving in that easily? Hunt Karen down next—let Sunny watch, just to make a point? The same routine. The same trick. A lure to attract any woman he set his sights on. ... Why did it feel like a punch in the gut?

It was another late night. Loads of boxes to be organized and put aside. The office smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and burnt espresso—courtesy of the busted coffee machine Sunny had gifted them. It barely managed an americano and nearly exploded when asked for a latté. But hey… better than nothing. Matt put on a jazzy playlist as they lounged around in silence. Sunny way sat on Matt's desk, legs swaying around. Foggy was right next to her, sitting in the chair.

Matt and Karen were piled on the old, worn-out couch that had surely seen better days. They sat too straight, a bit too close. Matt had sat down the second Karen did—too impatient. A little too eager. And Y/N clocked it all, like a hawk. Like an uninvolved watcher. How Karen smiled and played with the ends of her hair. How Matt's knee bounced slightly from the internal tension. Sunny prayed that her and Matt's situation would be fixed thanks to Karen's (pretty obvious) crush. Called it 'the perfect solution'. On the other hand, it made Sunny nauseous, seeing them like this.

Sunny couldn’t know Matt wasn’t avoiding her because he didn’t want her. He was avoiding her because she still smiled like Foggy was home. That's who he was to her, after all. And for all the sins he could forgive himself… hurting Foggy like that wasn't to be one of them. But this was a line, and some lines weren't his to cross first. Matt would’ve rather taken a bullet than let her find out the truth.

He still wanted her in a way that made his hands shake. Still suffered every inappropriate thought—her naked, breathless, groaning his name—right alongside visions of her laughing in Times Square. Or drinking tea. Kissing him goodnight. Dancing to a '60s song playing from the stereo. In the end, it was all the same ache. Wanting her. And not being allowed to. He kept pretending the ache would fade. That if he ignored it long enough, it might forget its name. But he kept telling himself: Foggy mattered more than that. More than any fantasy. For both of them.

As she watched Matt’s knee bounce, her chest tightened. She tried to focus on anything else, but it was impossible. The air between her and Matt always hummed with something unsaid, something she was trying to ignore. And she was tired of that noise. For months now. She'd spent too long pretending not to notice how his scent lingered in her mind long after their meetings, how her pulse sped up when he leaned too close. He was so effortlessly perfect in a way that made her question if she was even allowed to want him.

The thought of him and Karen made her stomach twist. But if Karen had feelings, maybe Matt would chase her. And that would finally be the excuse Sunny needed to shut her heart down. But what if Karen didn’t? What if this never resolved? What would happen to them then? Did she even want to know? Sunny smiled half-heartedly as Karen cracked another joke, hoping the sound would drown out the sudden weight on her chest. She nearly yelped when Karen's crystal blue eyes suddenly turned to her.

"Okay, but... how did you and Foggy even start being friends? You're so... different," Karen wondered, leaning into the couch. "You never told me the story." "Ah, I get that one a lot," Sunny sighed, overly dramatic, pressing her palm to Matt’s desk like it owed her something. "Top ten questions for sure, right after 'Are you hiring?' Like how would I know, y'see?" "Oh?" Foggy soffed. "Do you, now?" "Yeah. No one in their right mind believes a catch like me would willingly spend time with you, Fogster," Sunny deadpanned—no blink, no pause, just murder. Foggy's lips turned into a wide O. Matt covered his grin with his palm, pretending not to listen. But she was sitting close. Too close. And her laugh still hit the part of him that couldn’t quite behave. Her gaze drifted, just for a second. Long enough for Matt to notice. Long enough for her to pretend she hadn’t. "Don't worry, I always say I'm sticking for your shining personality."

"You're such a bitch," Foggy muttered as Sunny laughed, her gaze drifting for a moment before she pulled herself back to the conversation. "But… it was a forced proximity kinda situation, yeah." Sunny nodded, her smile softening as her gaze drifted again, just for a second. "It’s… actually been so long. Wild, right?" "Yeah, I would," Foggy said. And then, quieter: "You’re not even that bad."

"So, forced proximity, huh?" Karen repeated, curling her legs under herself, sinking into the couch like she owned it. Closer to Matt now, who—almost too casually—draped his arm over the backrest. Sunny's breath hitched before she looked down at Foggy. Foggy scoffed, nearly choking on his latté. "Excuse me—forced? You came in uninvited, showed up with my friend, stole my fries, and told my trivia team name was trash." "First off, I was dragged to that trivia night against my will," she shot back, voice laced with mock offense. "And that team name was trash. You can't call yourselves the Legal Beagles and expect anyone to take you seriously." Karen let out a snort. "Oh my god, you were the Legal Beagles?"

"Don't… Let’s not," Matt grinned, trying to look casual, but his voice was strained, sipping his tea as if he could drink his way out of the awkwardness. "Let’s not ever talk about that again." Sunny continued, a bolt of energy suddenly passing through her. "I hated him at first. Thought he was cocky, annoying, and couldn’t shut up for five seconds." "And now she’s just listed all my best qualities," Foggy chimed, leaning back smugly like he’d won the lottery.

Sunny pointed at him. "Exactly! Took me nearly a year to see them, sure..." "Oh, fuck off. I hated you, too, you know?" "Oh, I do," Sunny snorted, leaning back. Karen's eyes darted between the two, a smile growing on her lips. "You weren't subtle about it." "You were… a lot back then. Commanding, loud, and a bit of a pain in the ass. Honestly, you still are," Foggy quipped. "Why am I even talking to you, huh?"

"So, how the hell did this happen?" Matt furrowed, glancing between Sunny and Foggy, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You should know?" Karen wondered. "Though you three have known each other for years." "No," Matt's voice softened, almost like he was sharing a secret. "I met her about six months ago." "There was this one night… Jonah ditched me. And you," she nudged Foggy’s knee with her foot, "stuck around. Cooked me pancakes. Walked me home. Didn't even try anything sleazy. And I… never actually thanked you for that." "My pleasure," Foggy hummed, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, the gesture light and easy, like they’d done it a thousand times.

Karen looked between them, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Well, that does explain a lot," she said, eyes glinting with amusement. "That does it." "Yeah," Sunny agreed, her voice softening a little. "That’s when I figured, fine, I’ll keep him. He’s... not that bad." "I'm flattered," Foggy said, placing a hand over his heart and exaggerating the gesture with a dramatic gasp. Matt let out a low, almost dismissive huff, meeting Sunny’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "You stayed... for pancakes?" His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, something that was just a touch too light to be nothing. "Have you ever had pancakes at two a.m.?" Sunny grinned mischievously. "Life-changing. Seriously. It earned Foggy the coveted spot as the first guy I’ve ever spent Christmas and New Year’s with." Matt raised an eyebrow, scoffing lightly. "You took him home? Must've made quite the impression. Introduced him to your parents, even? Must've been head over heels back then."

Foggy and Matt started bickering, their voices overlapping in a playful back-and-forth. But Sunny froze, her smile slipping just a fraction, her mind briefly wandering. Home, huh? Parents… The thought felt like a weight on her chest. Too soon. Too personal. Too raw. Some things never heal. Karen caught it instantly. Her gaze softened. She didn't say a word. Just mouthed a soft, knowing 'thank you.'

Matthew's melting point came a week later. The office was a mess—loose papers everywhere, law books cracked open and abandoned, the scent of old coffee lingering in the air. The fan rattled softly overhead, cutting through the quiet. The Union Allied scandal was heavy and fresh on everyone's mind, bringing the overall morale down. Matt, again, was bruised up like an abstract painting—a black bruise around his left eye, a swollen left cheek, and a burst lower lip. He grunted and whispered various profanities when he thought anyone paid attention. Matt winced slightly as he shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate the bruises. But his body betrayed him—his left eye nearly shut from the swelling, his movements stiff, betraying the fight he had with whatever latest mess had come his way.

Sunny glanced at Matt, but quickly looked away. She could feel the weight of his pain in the air, thick and suffocating. But she didn’t ask, didn’t even want to. The result would be the same. Matt would grin. Deflect. There was no point. He wouldn’t let her in. Would never let her in. The space between them was widening, not shrinking—not after everything that had gone unsaid. Foggy and Karen were long gone. No wonder. It was around 10pm—Matt and Y/N just finished sorting out another batch of useless, unrelated papers that Foggy insisted on keeping.

Y/N was curled into the end of the couch, her to-go cup balanced on her knee, long since turned lukewarm. Matt was next to her, stretched out with one arm draped over the back of the sofa, a go-to cup resting in his lap against his stomach, eyes closed under the glasses. He let out a relaxed hum, leaning his head into the worn-down couch.

"So, let me get this straight," Y/N started, shifting just enough to nudge him with her foot. His head turned in her direction. "You two took on a client who can’t pay you." Matt smirked, lifting the cup to his lips. "We take on a lot of clients who can’t pay us. That's where my conviction stands, actually." "Yeah, but this one is…" Y/N waved a hand in a vague circle, thinking. "Extra broke?" "She’s sweet," Matt counters. "Just got a bad deal. And you should hear how Foggy talks about her—practically fell in love at first consultation." "Sounds about right," Y/N snorted, sipping her coffee, then quirked a brow. "Wait, is she cute?"

Matt tilted his head, feigning deep thought. "Objectively speaking…" Sunny playfully gasped for air, prodded, leaning a little closer, her knee brushing his as she smirked, "No fucking way, Murdock. You’re blushing. Go on, admit it." Matt shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to his cup. "I'm not blushing," he muttered, but his tone was too defensive. He could feel his face heating, and he was sure Y/N caught it. "Come on, Murdock, stop being so mysterious. Just say it—she's cute, right? I know you think so." He fought back a grin. "I’d say, based on my experience with her... very cute."

It was a lighthearted moment. A throwaway comment. But then— Something shifted.

It was subtle. So subtle that Matt nearly missed it. He froze, just for a second, before he forced himself to lean back against the couch, his smirk returning like armor. A small shift in the air. The near-imperceptible way Y/N stilled—thinking, wondering. Her heart beat irregularly as she tried to hide something away. Her fingers twitched around the cup, tapping once before stilling. The faintest shift in her shoulders suggested she was bracing herself, like she was preparing for something she wasn’t quite ready for. Her pulse jumped before settling again, like she was forcing herself to play it cool. Matt didn’t move. But he clocked it—the full-blown battle Y/N fought beside him, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

And maybe—maybe it should've been nothing. Maybe he was imagining things, reading into something that wasn't there. Maybe Matt had already grown so desperate for her that everything she did felt like a signal. So he let it sit. Didn’t push. Instead, he leaned his head back against the couch, smirking.

"... You sound jealous," he teased—light, easy, sharp. The kind of thing Y/N was already used to. Familiar. It would push the conversation back to safer ground. She scoffed, shaking her head. "Yeah, I’m desperate for a woman I’ve never met to notice me. Get me her number the next time she drops by." "That’s not what I meant." "I know what you meant." It came off too harsh and fast. Defensive. She took another sip of her coffee, still playing it down. "You’re getting cocky, Murdock." Matt smirked. "It’s a law degree side effect."

She hummed, effortlessly shifting the conversation. "Speaking of, how’s the empire holding up? You two gonna make it to the end of the year, or should I start researching bankruptcy laws?" Matt chuckled, shaking his head. "We’re making it. Barely, but we are. The Union Allied might put us on the map. But... I'm sure I don't have to remind you how hard it is to run a business." "Yeah," her tone shifted—quiet, dismissive, warning him not to overstep. "Sure." "You never told us what you do, actually," his head turned toward her. "Why?" Y/N grinned, a little wicked. "But I do tell you. I yap about it for hours, and you see me suffer daily." "You tell me you’re a barista. That's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Exactly." She lifted her cup as if to prove her point. "I'm a fucking barista who hates their job. Sue me. There are thousands of us in New York alone. Coffee in hand, stains of that fucking syrup on my fucking jeans and everything." Matt huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You know, most people complain about their boss. You talk about her like she’s your best friend." "Foggy doesn't complain about you." "I'm not his boss. We're partners." "If you say so. And... she’s a nightmare," Y/N deadpanned. "Total hard-ass. No one listens to her."

Matt grinned, letting it go. "Poor woman." Y/N wasn’t budging—not tonight, anyway. Y/N sighed dramatically. "Yeah. If only she knew."

The room settled into a comfortable quiet. Matt could feel it. Her warmth was right beside him. Her weight leaned into his side of the couch just slightly. He could smell the faint traces of vanilla and coffee and heard Y/N's breath slow—she was more relaxed now. Smiling softly, if he guessed correctly.

And something shifted again. But this time, it was different. The room read differently. Tension crackled in the air. Electricity ran through him when she looked at him again. Matt turned his head, just slightly. The space between them was small. His hand twitched on the couch, resisting the urge to reach. Y/N’s voice was softer when she spoke.

"You good, Matt?" Matt swallowed, tilting his chin down, the smirk on his lips barely there. "Yeah." She raised a brow, noticing the hesitation. "You're staring," she murmured, poking fun at him. "I'm not." "Hm-hm." She hummed, giggling. "You totally are."

Matthew moved before he could reason with himself. His hand found her knee first, the fingertips skimming against denim. There was a slight, desperate tremor in his fingers. He paused for a second, breath catching, before letting his fingertips travel around her lower thigh—hesitant but eager to go higher. But he didn’t.

Sunny was silent. Her thighs clenched, her breath hitched as she sat up, slightly leaning toward him. Her heart raced, like she’d imagined this moment a hundred times—and now it was finally real.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t stiffen. In fact, she scooted a little closer, her breath fanning against his jaw as she tilted her head just so. And he took it as permission. The kiss was slow at first, testing. She tasted better than she smelled. Like coffee and remnants of mental bubble gum.

When her fingers softly wrapped around his throat, it shattered whatever restraint he had left. His body recoiled under her touch, making her moan. As she opened her mouth, Matt deepened the kiss, pressing her back into the cushions. They lay body to body, tangled on that old, worn-out couch. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, her lap desperately chasing the pressure of his cock. They could break that fucking couch for all Matthew cared. Hell, he would buy a new one.

He towered over her now, one hand braced beside her head, the other tracing the line of her jaw. She could feel him grinding into her. Her fingers curled into his shirt, and the feeling shot straight through him.

It was good—too good. His body burned, breath hitching, blood boiling. Her body beneath him roared like a motor. His glasses were gone—she’d probably taken them off. His right hand worked to undo his shirt, fingers trembling with adrenaline, while she helped untuck it from his pants. It felt so fucking good.

That was also why Matt noticed instantly when Sunny stilled beneath him. Her hands moved, then paused—fingers splayed gently against his abdomen. It wasn’t forceful. Not rejection. Just… a stop. Matt froze. His breath was heavy, pulse thrumming in his ears. He lingered for half a second but slowly pulled back, hovering just above her.

Y/N exhaled shakily, her voice quiet and careful. "We won’t be doing this." The words landed between them. A firm, full stop. Matt's jaw tensed. He cleared his throat. His dick, hard against her jeans, throbbed miserably. He muttered, barely above a whisper, "I thought you wanted—" "You thought wrong, Matthew."

She didn’t mean it. She didn’t believe her own words. Her body—and everything firing inside her—betrayed her. Matt knew that. ... But she said it anyway and stopped them before something detrimental happened. Something neither of them could take back. The problem was… it had already happened, to some extent. And Matthew was certain neither of them would just forget it. They’d pretend. But they wouldn’t. It would always linger, like a ghost—her taste on his lips, her sounds and scents, her body wrapped around him, impossibly soft and warm.

Matt let out a soft scoff—the kind that barely escaped his throat. Disoriented. Nearly ashamed. His hands let go of her slowly, reluctantly, pressing into the couch instead. Her hips buckled the moment he did, like she missed him already. Matt had to bite his lip... just so he'd stop himself from meeting her hips again.

He started to say, "Can we pretend…" Y/N finished it for him. "This never happened?" A beat. Then, a wry chuckle. The ghost of a smirk. "You got it, champ."

Another beat.

"...I saw it, y'know?" "Saw what exactly?" Matt scoffed, turning his head away. "Saw Karen." She mentioned it like it was nothing. Of course, she noticed. Y/N was too observant for her own good. "What did you see? There's nothing to see there." "I saw everything." Her voice softened. She shifted beneath him—not to escape, just to settle. "How she talks to you. Watches you like no other man on the planet. She’s crazy about you."

"Y/N, that's..." He scoffed again, leaning forward like he might press his forehead to hers. But her head turned away as she swallowed, nodding. "...I don't know what you're talking about." "You're different around her, too, you know?" "How?" "I can't describe how, Matthew. You just are." "You're seeing things that aren't there." A heavy pause. Then she muttered, "I'd better go now."

Matt listened as Sunny packed up in silence. No teasing. No humming. She didn’t even look at him before she left the office... Didn’t even say 'see you' in that breezy, sunny way she always did. He heard how sharply she turned off the lights. She just left. Left him alone in an empty office. Along with his thoughts.

The click of the door shutting still echoed inside the office, where the shadows suddenly felt heavier than the bruises. He hissed and forced himself to sit straight. His pulse was still racing in his ears, but it was different now. A knot tightened in his stomach, and his hand curled into the fabric of his pants. Matt sat alone in the dark, the echo of the door clicking shut ringing louder than any heartbeat.

He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. Instead, a slow, sinking weight spread through his chest like wet cement. Matt didn’t move. Not right away, he let the thoughts sink in. The couch was still warm where she’d been. Her scent still hung in the air. He sat there with his head in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into his eyelids, feeling every aching pulse beneath bruised skin.

Her words were still fresh and sharp. We won't be doing this. He desperately wanted to believe it was nothing, that she was just deflecting, just playing it cool. But there was something deeper gnawing at him now, something he couldn't shake off. He had believed... no, convinced himself he and Sunny were friends. That they could bounce back. That they'd be okay if he kissed her. More than okay. He’d pictured this night, this very moment, in a thousand different ways. In none of them had she left.

But now?

Now, it felt like a line had been crossed. And not the kind he could charm his way back over. It wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about the months of holding back, the things he didn’t let himself think when she smiled at him like that. About how he’d looked for her in a crowd without meaning to. About how his world always bent just slightly in her direction, like it was inevitable.

And he’d been so careful.

He was a good boy, doing what good boys were supposed to do. A good lawyer. Tried to be an attentive friend. Someone who tried to be decent. And Y/N? She’d seen all of that. She’d once called him a great soldier, and he clung to it like a benediction. Because soldiers followed orders. They held the line. They resisted.

His mind wandered to Foggy. His constant. His best friend. The one who’d introduced them, who always noticed when Matt got quiet around her. Foggy trusted him to be the version of himself that didn’t wreck things like this. He allowed Sunny to become part of that small, sacred universe. Woven into their trio so seamlessly that it felt like she’d always been there. She knew Matt now—really knew him. Knew his likes and dislikes. Knew how to make his brain shut up for five minutes. Knew how to talk nonsense in a way that felt like a lullaby instead of a distraction.

And now?

Now, the silence she left behind was deafening.

The truth settled over him like a weighted blanket. Too heavy. Too late. She had seen it. Not just what had happened with Karen—no, him. The way he compartmentalized. The way he fooled himself. The way he tried to keep everything in neat little boxes. His life. His lies. His longing. And tonight... the box around Sunny had cracked.

Sunny also noticed Karen wanted to tear clothes off him, which Matt knew for weeks by then. He just opted not to lean on it too much. Because Karen's crush was anything but subtle. Even Foggy asked Matt here and there, whether he'd asked Karen out already... if she spent the night at his place. Matt just grinned. Karen tried to keep it under wraps. She tried. But there were certain reactions she couldn't fake or hide.

Matt replayed it in his mind—Sunny's body, and how it fit under his. The intoxicating and addictive whole of her. The taste of her. The way she whimpered when he kissed her just right, like he was the only person in the world who ever had. But it was more than want.

That’s what scared him. Matt wanted Sunny in ways that weren’t physical. He wanted her there. In his chaos. In his quiet. In his fucking life. And maybe she’d known that. Maybe that’s why she stopped it. Maybe she didn’t want to be another name he burned through.

Matt leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly in front of him like he was praying. But there was no saving this—not with a prayer. Not tonight.

He hadn’t been thinking. He’d acted on instinct. On heat. On everything that had built over months of teasing and lingering looks and arguments over shitty coffee. He wanted her. But Sunny wasn’t his. She didn't belong to anyone other than herself. And Foggy was, obviously, more important to her than some cheap hookup with his other best friend. And he’d promised himself he wouldn’t ruin anything for her.

Outside, New York was still alive. He could hear sirens. The distant rustle of radio calls. Distant car horns. Wind was howling faintly through the alley. Laughter, clinking of glasses, chatter, life... But inside the office, it was quiet. Too quiet.

His hand reached out like a reflex, brushing the spot where her thigh had been. Empty. Cold. He whispered into the dark, even though no one was there to hear it. "...I didn’t think you’d stop me." And maybe that’s what scared him the most. Because he was positive she wouldn't pull away. She wouldn't stop him. But she did. And, he’d have to live with the fact that she did.

The following few weeks passed in their own rhythm. Air was thick with unspoken tension. The world felt quieter and smaller than before. The café's familiar hum was quieter now that Matt had stopped just popping with Foggy. Sunny asked multiple times—Where is he? Why isn't he talking or showing? Why doesn't he react to any messages in their group chat? Did his... passion kill him? She tried to tell herself she didn’t care. That it was just Matt being his usual elusive self. But that nagging feeling in her stomach didn’t go away. Secretly, she hoped Murdock would just... walk through the door. So they could talk. Yell at each other. Resolve it somehow... anyhow.

It was a gloomy, rainy day; the café was empty, thanks to the downpour. The kind of day when you don't even want to leave bed. When everyone looks at you like they want to get punched in the face. "Spill it, Fogster," she fired, putting Foggy's mug down with attitude and sheer force. She didn't look at him. Despite that, Foggy already knew who she was going to ask about.

"What happened? Where's your little shadow?" Then, she started polishing the cup set for the fifth time. She wanted to occupy her mind... concentrate on anything other than Matthew.

Foggy blinked from his coffee, confused. "Huh?" "Matthew. Murdock. Blind guy. Glides in here like a ghost, nearly hits me with his cane, and then makes you pay? Sits in that corner like it's his goddamn throne? Ring any bells?" "Ooooh." Foggy snorted. "Yeah, I remember him. Saw him once or twice." "Ha-ha. You're so funny. Where is he? Hadn't shown in a few weeks, and my raspberry tart sales dropped by twenty percent, and my boss is unhappy." "Dunno." Foggy shrugged, putting his phone down. "Haven't seen much of him either."

Y/N visibly paused for a second. Was Murdock avoiding her? Was she too brash or harsh with him the other night? Well, she could've figured... he hadn't called since.

She tried her best to be gentle when letting Matt down. It wasn't that she wasn't attracted to him. Only God knew how empty Sunny's mind was the first time Matthew showed up... how rapidly it became emptier the longer he stayed. Sometimes, the only coherent thought in her mind was a vivid image of the two of them fucking. The sounds he'd make. How good would it fucking feel. How would he look resting on her knees with his head between her...

Foggy paused, disrupting Sunny's entire train of thought, eyeing her over his mug. "You okay?" "....Since when?" Sunny frowned. "Since when what?" Foggy reiterated, not catching on. "Since when is he MIA?" "Like... a week?" Y/N set the cup down and crossed her arms, a genuine frown forming. "That's like... weird, no? He's usually like clockwork. Is he ditching you?" What she asked, in reality, was: Is he ditching us? Is he ditching me? "He comes to work and texts me, but..." "So he's avoiding this place," Sunny muttered. Foggy's confirmation sank in. Matt was openly ditching her. The fragile truce they'd balanced on was broken—the truce of them not tearing the clothes off each other.

"I'm not gonna lie, Sunny. It certainly feels and looks like it," Foggy busied himself with his coffee, refusing to meet her eyes. "Whatever happened..." "Did he say anything?" She peeped, her usual energy gone. If Matthew also shouted that they nearly fucked on that nasty old couch, Y/N wouldn't survive it. How would she even look Foggy or Karen in the eyes? Foggy, thankfully, scoffed.

"Why are you looking at me like I've got the answers? It's Matt, and it's not unusual for him to act up like this. I don't know what's up with him. Maybe the planets are aligned weird or something." Foggy huffed, trying to play it down. "You always know what's up with him." "I usually know what's up with him; there's a difference. And this time, I simply don't know." "You think he's okay?" She murmured, leaning into the counter, looking at the life outside the café. It passed, no matter how much Y/N wished for it to slow down—to give Matt a chance to catch up.

"I... Think he's okay?" Foggy huffed, leaning in too—they were whispering now. "Are you okay, though? You're being weird." "Weird?" "You usually don't really care about either of us. We could be in the hospital for all you care, and you'd just send a get-well-soon card." "Fuck off, Fogster." A guilty grin tugged on her lips. "But yeah," Foggy nodded. "I assume he's okay. No need for you to worry." "You assume? You see him at work, text him, talk to him, and still just assume?"

"He's Matt. He gets like this sometimes. Trust me. It's just you seeing it for the first time," Foggy scoffed softly, patting Y/N's shoulder. "You'll get used to it." "It's just like... he was here. Like, every day. Along your annoying ass. And now he's not. So... I'm stuck with you and only you." "So you miss him?" "I miss my regulars, Nelson. They keep the lights on and raspberry tart sales above thirty percent." Y/N muttered, moving to clean the espresso machine for the fourth time that day.

"Right. Strictly business." Foggy nodded, not believing a word. "Strictly business," Y/N parroted back. "So, hypothetically, you definitely wouldn't care if he, say, started seeing someone and got too busy to let you bully him?" Y/N blinked, caught off-guard, forgetting the machine. "... Seeing someone?" Foggy shrugged, suddenly invested in stirring his coffee. "Hey, I said hypothetical. Don’t look at me like that." "That's a strangely specific hypothetical." "Hey, it's Matt. I know you can't see it, but there's this devilish charm about him. Plus, he's blind, which makes women empathetic. He’s been known to charm a girl or two. Wouldn’t be the first. Won’t be the last," Foggy explained calmly.

Devilish charm. Yeah, that described Matt’s presence perfectly. Cocked brow, mischievous grin… the way he tilted his head when listening, like he already knew what you were going to say. The way he stayed quiet, let the air stretch just long enough before answering, making you wait for it. Making you feel like you were the only thing in the room worth listening to.

Yeah... devilish charm.

It wasn’t hard to imagine him saying something low and teasing, running his thumb over a girl’s wrist absentmindedly as he spoke. It wasn’t hard to imagine him leading someone through the city with that ridiculous, ridiculous confidence—pulling her just a little too close, like he wanted her there. It wasn’t hard to imagine Matt kissing someone else the way he kissed her.

And that thought—that one—landed like a hook to the ribs. Y/N swallowed, forcing herself to shake it off. "You're right," Y/N nodded, quiet and beside herself. Tried to shake it off. Lowered her head, breathing shakily. "Whatever. He can do whatever he wants for all I care. I'm not his mother. And he's an adult." "This is how you handle 'strictly business', huh?" "That's how I handle friendship," Y/N hissed, emphasizing the word in particular. That's who they were. Friends. Who they were supposed to be. ... Sunny wouldn't be a good choice for him. Karen was warm, soft, and calm.

Out of the two? Karen with her blue eyes, blonde hair, endless legs, and the smile of a Disney princess? Yeah. That's how things were supposed to be—what Y/N nudged Matt toward, what Y/N made herself believe was the good choice.

"Whatever, I'm telling Murdock you miss him." Foggy huffed, shaking his head. "I don't," Y/N huffed, scoffing in disbelief. "That you ugly cried because your tart sales dropped," Foggy egged on, a teasing grin on his lips. "That you're on the verge of poverty because your boss charges the costs off your paycheck... and that you miss his ugly face." "Go to hell, Fogster," Y/N muttered, chuckling as she turned away. "You love me." "You're one lucky bastard."

Matt was a friend. A good one. More importantly, he spent most of his time trying to be a decent person. That was a quality Y/N found admirable. He was full of easy banter and smooth comments that always felt like a challenge, keeping Y/N on her toes. Now? The café felt silent despite bursting with life and profit. It felt lifeless. The world kept moving, people came and went, Foggy stuck to his usual routine—yet something was missing.

The routine had shifted. She didn’t press Foggy’s comment. Didn’t ask for details. Matt was seeing someone. That was a fact—undisputable, unchangeable. She didn't ask where Matt was... why he stopped showing up—never again. Never let herself dwell on the fact that their last conversation had ended with the ball on his side of the court—and he never picked it back up. It wasn't her place to ask. Not now. Not ever. But the tension was there. An awareness she couldn't shake off, one she never expected to feel around the people she considered closest friends. The distance between her and Matt? The weight of his absence? It crushed her in ways she didn't predict. It stung in a way she couldn't quite articulate... a way she didn't wanna admit.

So Sunny did what she did best: she treaded water. Kept up the jokes. Kept things light. Kept things moving. Day to day, dollar after dollar, latté after latté. Foggy didn't press her either; God bless him for that. He just tuned into her energy, keeping her from drowning. He was a good person. A good friend. ... unlike how Sunny and Matt were to each other.

And then, one sunny afternoon, he walked in. But not alone.

Karen Page.

Y/N's gaze flickered briefly toward the door as the bell above jingled. She assumed it was nothing. That it was another customer, another passing moment. And then she saw him. Of course, she saw him first. Matthew Murdock stood in the doorway, looking every bit like the man she remembered. He had a sharp suit, perfectly disheveled hair, stubble, glasses perched on his nose, and a confident smirk curling at the edges of his lips. The sight of him pulled at something in her, something she'd buried under sarcasm and self-preservation.

A reflexive smile flickered across Y/N's face until she saw her.

Karen walked in beside him, and suddenly, the world felt off-balance.

Y/N's stomach turned, but she held her expression steady. She had mastered that particular skill a long time ago. Still, she couldn't stop her eyes from darting between them—the easy way they moved together, the familiarity in the way Matt's hand rested at the small of Karen’s back, the quiet way he tilted his head when she spoke.

And Karen?

God. She was beautiful.

Not just beautiful in a way that made people look twice... but in a way that made them look once and immediately understand why Matt had chosen her. Blonde, soft but striking features, long legs, and a posture that exuded quiet confidence. She was put together, healthily confident, elegant without trying too hard. A stark contrast to Y/N, who was still wearing a goddamn apron, smelling like espresso and burned sugar.

And worse?

Karen lit up around Matthew.

Her laugh, bright and easy, rang through the café like music, like jingle bells. And Matt? He was listening. Not just in that casual, conversational way—but in the way he did when he cared. When he was invested. He nodded, hummed in response, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He had always been good at that—making a person feel like the only one in the room.

Y/N felt something twist in her chest. No, twist wasn’t the right word. It fractured.

The café felt smaller all of a sudden. The walls were closer. The air was heavier. She forced her gaze back to the counter, her hands moving on autopilot, gripping the edges just to keep them from shaking.

Matt and Karen weren’t just together.

They were together here. In her space. In his space. In the place where, for months, she had stolen his time with free coffee and sarcastic banter, where he had lingered at the counter longer than necessary, where she had memorized the way he smirked after making some clever remark, where he had made her laugh without even trying.

And now?

Now, Karen was in his seat. Sunny was suddenly very, very aware of how fucking empty that seat had been until that moment. Foggy turned to look at her, but Y/N didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t need to. She could already feel his concern, hear the weight of his realization in the sharp inhale.

But she refused to give Foggy, or anyone, anything to see. So she did what she did best. Playing unaffected. Reasonable. The big girl who didn't wanna steal others' toys. Y/N smoothed her expression while clearing her throat and forced a smile that she prayed looked real.

They approached fast. Slow enough for Y/N to take the image of them together, and too fast for her to at least attempt to deal with it. Even before they greeted, the air thickened so much it was nearly impossible to breathe. Karen was a new variable in this unspoken equation that's been building between them, one which Y/N wrote in herself. Recklessly. Stupidly.

But she hadn’t expected it to matter so soon. Certainly not even a month after Matt had nearly undressed her on that old office sofa. Did Karen know? And... Did Matt reminisce about it, just like she did? Or did he just throw it out of the window like it hadn't mattered? ... probably the latter.

"Hey there, stranger," Matt greeted, his voice smooth, a grin on his lips. A hint of unease didn't escape Foggy or Y/N. "How's it going?" "Still the same old shit..." Y/N muttered, already reaching for their usual cups—except for Karen’s. Sunny stilled, her gaze drifting. Karen didn’t have a usual yet. She would. Eventually. The thought made Y/N’s hands tighten around the ceramic. "... We're underpaid, understaffed, unrested, tart sales dropped another thirty percent, and I'm still forced to supply Nelson with free espresso. So..." "You could always stop," Foggy objected, trying to keep things light. "Nonsense. My boss counts on you idiots to defend the café in court if they find out about the laundry scheme." Y/N deadpanned.

There was a smile on her face, but her posture and tone were... Off. Matt huffed a soft laugh. Sunny could feel his eyes—or whatever he was doing—on her, but she refused to look at him.

"Sounds like you didn’t even notice I..." Matt muttered and hesitated, searching for the right word. What would he say, were they alone? ‘Avoided you? ’ ‘Thought about cutting you off? ’ No, that'd be too blunt, especially in front of other people. Matthew Murdock wouldn't ever say that. Eventually, he settled on: "... Haven't dropped by in a while." "Oh, why do you think I mentioned the tarts?" Y/N's lips twitched. It almost felt like their old banter was back. The words were light, nearly flippant, but they hit the mark. "You're the only one eating that shit anyway."

It must've been the stare that gave Y/N away—the hardened, cold one. One that slipped past her, one she meant to keep in, not out. It wasn't like Y/N to delve into her emotions publicly. And Nelson sensed something was very wrong. "How can you even have minus ten percent of..." Foggy's voice disappeared in the murmur of others, in porcelain clinking and silent music playing from the speakers. Sunny concentrated on making the coffee—she knew Karen's favorite, at least. She could make that. The hissing and sounds of the machine were familiar and calming. She didn't turn around to talk to either of them as usual, no jabs or dry jokes forming in her mind—they weren't tugging at the corners of her lips. She didn't want to look at Matthew. She couldn't look at him.

But Matt—grip tightening on his cane, jaw shifting—wasn't looking at Karen.

"So, you two, huh? Together?" That was the first sentence when she tuned back in. Foggy was asking them about what was already incredibly obvious, nearly freaking out. Sunny put the cups down forcefully—the porcelain clanked against the wood, making Foggy and Karen jump slightly. "Mhm," Karen nodded, giggling, blushing. "It happened... suddenly." "He treating you good?" Y/N hissed, leaning her palms into the counter, lifting her chin ever so slightly. Like she was measuring Matthew. "If not, I can always beat him to a pulp." "Why would you do that?" Foggy jumped in giddily, sending Y/N a clear message: calm down. "Because he’s blind, meaning I’d actually stand a chance. Gotta take the win where I can." Y/N explained as if it were obvious.

"That would be... unnecessary. He's been good to me, I swear." Karen laughed very uncomfortably while gently draping her hand over Matt's knee. "... Very good," she added." Y/N felt small in a way she didn't foresee—the dynamic between Matt and Karen, the way they already fell into a certain rhythm after only a month, the ease between them. A stark contrast to the ferality, passion, and dissonance she felt when she'd been with Matt alone.

Y/N nodded, inhaling deeply. The weight of the situation didn't settle right until she slid the pastry toward them. Her brain disconnected from the present. She just laughed when necessary, nodded, huffed, and hummed along. Matt's head lingered in Y/N's direction for just a fraction longer than necessary—long enough for Y/N to catch it. Long enough for her heart to race. What a traitor.

It didn't make any fucking sense—the way Sunny was overly suddenly affected by his presence, by how his attention flit back and forth between her and Karen, listening to them chatting about. The four of them were in this moment together, no longer just two friends and a sidekick. No longer just their little universe. It tilted and expanded. And Y/N hated it.

It was clear there was a divide, a shift she didn't anticipate, and impossible to ignore. The feeling in her chest? She didn't know what to name it. She didn't know how to name the space between her and Matt anymore—it wasn't safety nor affection, but it wasn't hatred or anger. More of... Sour anticipation. Like waiting to see which one breaks first.

As the trio left for their office, laughing and in good spirits, Matt handed Y/N her dishes back—an innocent gesture accompanied by his usual smirk. Her pulse spiked the moment their fingers brushed. She felt it. And Matt smirked. She wondered if he knew. His head was tilted, turned toward her, lips parted with unsaid words—ones that couldn't slip by under any circumstance. Did he know how much she felt his touch? All of it? Did he know how it lingered in ways it shouldn't? He must've.

As the door closed behind them, Sunny exhaled, trying to steady herself. But she couldn't stop thinking about it—about him.

The worst part of it? Karen wasn't hostile. In fact, she was the opposite. She was warm. Too warm.

Whenever Karen smiled at Sunny, it was genuine, as if Karen didn't know that the weight of her presence in this space was impossible to ignore. Karen was kind and soft. Genuinely a joy to be around. She often leaned on the counter and asked questions. She still stuck to Sunny's side whenever she swung by Foggy and Matthew's office. She asked the kind of questions that made Y/N want to retreat—personal things like life, the café, the city, her past, her likes and dislikes, her history with Foggy… everything. She tagged her on social media. Texted whenever she felt she hadn't seen Sunny in a long time.

Karen’s kindness wasn’t forced either. It was smooth and friendly, impossible to find any excuse to push her away and keep her at arm’s length. And that, for Sunny, it was really fucking uncomfortable. Karen appeared vulnerable, lonely, a little scared, and lost. It felt like Karen searched for validation, safety, and a group of people to take her in. A found family.

What did she want with Y/N, honestly? Win her over? Stake her claim in this group that used to be so easy to navigate? Just the three of them before Karen appeared? Before the unspoken words between Y/N and Matt started pulling things into a mess that felt too tangled to even begin unraveling?

Karen's eyes met Sunny's too often. Too insistently for it to be a subconscious pattern. Each time Y/N took her up on the challenge and kept staring, a sweet and welcoming smile tugged the corners of Karen's lips. And if Y/N insisted even then, Karen took it as a signal to have a conversation—to talk and share news and opinions. Karen wasn't trying to claim a space in Matt's life, no. It was something else. Karen wanted to fit into the routine, the rhythm they'd settled into. She wanted to be a part of the trio, to belong.

Sunny recognized how hard Karen tried—that to Karen, she only had been someone to befriend and connect with in a way that Matt and Foggy already had. But it felt like constant pressure, a gentle push, a suffocating one. Unsaid expectations. Karen's hopes were high already and rose with each question and interaction. Small thoughtful gifts, such as take-outs and rounds of shots and drinks at Josie that Karen paid for. She picked up Foggy’s stupid nickname, too. Sunny this, Sunny that. Annoying.

This was nothing like the coldness Sunny expected. No, Karen was a ray of sunshine—too warm, making Y/N wonder if she was missing something. If Y/N was wrong to want to distance herself from this, from Karen. How could someone resent another person for offering a genuine friendship?

And yet, it still stung.

No matter how warm Karen's smile was, how effortlessly she fell into conversation with Sunny, it didn't stop Sunny from feeling like an outsider. It didn't stop the heavy, gnawing feeling in Y/N's gut—that ache in her chest when she realized Karen wasn't just in Matt's life. She wanted to be in their life, in her and Foggy's.

It had Y/N wondering if there was still some room left for her, too.

When Karen asked if Y/N had any plans for the evening, she just smiled tightly. She gave a shrug, trying to hide the frustration. "I'll be here, as usual, just running this place because my boss is a dunce." Karen's question was a diversion, landing softly—but the words felt too familiar, like Karen was already carving out a space in Y/N’s future, trying to belong in a world that had never made room for her. And in that warmth, in that casual friendliness, Y/N felt the shift. The wedge was there, invisible, but cutting so fucking deep.

Matt always stood beside Karen, his attention flickering between the two women as they chatted (with more laughter and ease each passing day), and Y/N could nearly hear his thoughts. He didn't know what he was doing, what his presence inside the café was doing. But it was almost like he was too distracted to notice how Karen wove herself into this space, or maybe he was too far gone.

So... The worst part?

Karen's warmth, her humanity, how easily and naturally she slid into the space Suny thought was hers, Matt's, and Foggy's only... resulting in the fact that, for the first time, Y/N didn't know if she belonged here anymore.

It'd been a while since Y/N became a regular part of the trio's regular outings to Josie's—a bar Foggy and Matt discovered during their university days of absolute poverty. Josie's held a reputation in Hell's Kitchen, specifically for the quality of served drinks, which resembled, smelled, and tasted like the worst spirits ever. It was suspiciously dim, smelled like an ashtray, had sticky floors, and featured belligerent drunks. Nightly. ... exactly the type of Sunny's establishment, Nelson announced. She nearly slapped the smug out of him before she started laughing.

It was lively with the usual hum of conversation, the occasional holler from the dartboard crowd, laughter from the billiard table, and the clink of very cheap drinks. Filled with petty criminals and bikers, also. The four of them were settled at their usual corner table, the remnants of a few rounds scattered across the wood—they were tipsy. Not drunk enough to spill any secrets, but not sober enough to keep their mouths shut.

After weeks of watching Karen and Matt, together and happy, and suffering in silence, Y/N didn't feel any weight on her shoulders that night. She just felt... light. Tipsy. In a good company. In safety. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from this guy she met at the café. He asked for her number, and she turned him down. Fast and brash, as was on-brand for Sunny. So he came back. Again and again, until she gave in.

Brad (the guy's name) was not Y/N's usual type—in no way, shape, or form. Brad wasn't that funny, devilishly charming, effortlessly charismatic, broody, or banter with Y/N like his life depended on it. He wasn't 6'0", and he didn't have dark brown hair or glasses with red tints. He didn't wear nice suits and hadn't graduate with summa cum laude in law. Brad was, at least, romantic and sweet... nearly overly so. It seemed so from what Y/N had experienced so far. Very love-bombing, materialistic when showing his affection—flowers, nice dinners, finer things in life, which Sunny enjoyed.

He was a distraction. Brad wasn't a 'good boyfriend' type, definitely not a love-of-my-life material, but he was a good distraction. He didn’t make her nervous to sit too close or scared to meet his eyes for too long. And he was good in bed, that was for sure. Sunny texted back fast, shoving the phone back into her pocket. It buzzed almost instantly—Matt knew because, of course, he knew. Each time her phone buzzed, Matt's head tilted toward her slightly, almost unnoticeably—like he could guess what words and answers Y/N typed based on which part of her screen her thumb hit.

"You look..." Foggy sighed, taking Sunny back into the present. Karen was muttering something to Matt, her eyes darting to someone at the bar—she was probably describing someone's ridiculous outfit. "I look what?" Y/N whispered, sending Foggy a genuine smile, the first in weeks. "You look jolly... and alive. It's scary," he finished, sipping on a lukewarm ale. "What did you do? Did you put the tab on Matt and not tell him? Again? Did you read today's obituary? Who died? Anyone we know?" "You nicknamed me Sunny for a reason, baby," Y/N sang back, teasing. "Yeah, because you're actually a pain the ass. People thought you might hit them if they told you any unpleasant news back in uni." "Oh, they still do," Y/N shorted, laughing.

And, out of nowhere, Karen cocked her head and asked: "Did you and Y/N ever date, Foggy?" Silence. Both frozen mid-sip, their eyes darting to each other like two people who had just been accused of a felony. Looking at it now, Sunny understood where that came from—her body was fully turned toward Foggy, too close for being casual acquaintances out for a beer. They sat too relaxed, too open, and too near.

And then? Sunny erupted. Full-body laughter, head thrown back, practically gasping for air. "Karen," she wheezed between hiccups, trying to get her shit together. "Karen, you're growing on me, holy shit." Foggy blocked before shaking his head, his own laughter bubbling up. "Me and this bitch?" He gestured vaguely. "Oh, no. No, no." "Karen, babes." Sunny's palm landed on Karen's arm, startling them all—just a week ago, Y/N had refused to go within a foot of Karen... let alone touch her. "I'd fucking ruin this poor fella. For that question alone? The next round's on me, fucking hell..." Matt, who had been sipping on his drink quietly, finally spoke. "Some people want to be ruined," Matt mused, voice deceptively mild.

There were a few weeks of peace. Peace, when Matt was fully wrapped around Karen. Weeks where he listened to her, grinned at her jokes, and supported her in fully incorporating into the trio's lives. Matt's eyes were on Karen—and Karen only. As if they never kissed on that couch. As if he never cracked the compartmentalized box she'd been taking in his head... as if the box never existed in the first place. There were no suspicious comments, off-hand remarks, or suspiciously lingering gazes. Matt behaved like a good boy, a great soldier. Lust was a double-edged sword, but thankfully, Matthew was smart enough to seemingly just... bury it. Forget it. Move on.

And suddenly, he dropped this.

"What?" Foggy muttered. Both Sunny and Karen just frowned, waiting for an explanation. It took a moment. Matthew was thinking, calculating, trying to deduce which outcome would be the best.... something to say to save the situation. After a momentary panic, he simply grinned in his own wicked way. "I always pegged you to be such a type, Franklin. No offense." "Well, offense taken," Foggy huffed, and Karen giggled, letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Not Sunny, however. She glared. "Not against you, Sunny. I wouldn't say that unless I had a death wish, but I value myself and my mental well-being a great deal." "... And I'm not supposed to get offended?" Y/N muttered, her palm gripping the table's edge.

Fuck Matthew Michael Murdock.

"So, I take it as a no?" Karen inquired after a moment of silence. "He wishes we dated," Y/N muttered, playing with her drink until abruptly standing and kicking the rest of her ale in. "_But I was always too cool for Fogster anyway. I'll move to the pool tables, thought I saw Joe over there." "Joe who?" Karen asked, genuinely looking at the pool table to spot the man, except there was no Joe. Y/N gulped the joke down her throat. "Doesn't matter."

It didn't take long for Matt to approach Y/N under the pretense of playing a game of pool with her. A strange excuse for a blind man, sure, but nobody seemed to question. Foggy and Karen moved to the bar, chatting with Josie, while Matt practically snuck up on Y/N, who was chalking her cue and frowning at the table.

"Your eight ball isn't aligned properly." It was a sudden whisper—one that nearly earned Murdock a right hook. Sunny squealed and jumped away, shaking her head while looking at Matt with her mouth open. "How would you know?" She scoffed. It was melodic and rich. "Aren't you supposed to be blind?" "I've played loads of pool here, actually," Matt mused, taking the cue himself, leaning over the table. He placed his hands to further inspect the balls, fingers wandering, gently bumping. "Some called me a lucky son a whore... but I've won around five hundred in cash during uni. Loads of coffee from those shit campus coffee machines." "Don't you say," Y/N muttered, unfazed. She couldn't care less. If he attempted to impress her, he failed.

A quick, forceful nudge sent the balls flying—a few landing in pockets. Silence spread between them. Sunny stared at the table, one palm leaning into the edge, the other in the back pocket of her jeans. Matthew stood opposite her, leaning into the cue, head slightly tilted.

"Did I say something wrong?" "Oh, no," Y/N muttered dryly, without looking at him. "You were perfectly charming, as always." Matt studied her for a moment, leaning his head as he listened to her heartbeat and shaky breathing. Her pressure was high... she was pissed off. "Didn't feel that way." "I think you're just losing your fucking touch." She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking something off, stretching her neck. "That would be a first." Matt chuckled softly, but there was something unreadable about it. Y/N's head moved, her heart skipped a beat—her eyes met his. Or, well, his glasses. As if she were deliberating on something. "Would it, now?"

There was a pause before Matt leaned over. Another sharp nudge—another ball. A nearly impossible shot to begin with, and he played it like it was a child's game. Of course he was being a smug, insufferable asshole.

"You're mad at me," Matt stated, lining up his cue. Another nudge. With one smooth, confident stroke, the ball clicked against another, then rolled clean into the pocket. He straightened up, smirking. "Don't flatter yourself." Y/N shrugged, sounding casual. She was amazing at downplaying things, so much so that it sometimes left Matt in awe. "Who is he?" "Who? Joe?" "That's a childish joke, even for you," was a silent retort. As if coming from a disappointed parent. "Oh, I'm sorry for being hilarious, but I controlled myself. Karen was nearly under fire."

"The guy," Matt shot almost immediately, sending in another nudge. Y/N knew the shot wasn't aligned properly—it slipped because Matt's palm trembled softly. "The one you've been texting all night." "... there's no guy." "Sunny," Matt straightened up, sending her a soft furrow. "We're adults. And given the frequency of the texts and your inclination to text back..." "There's no guy, Murdock. End of story." "You text Foggy back after four hours, as a rule." Matt opposed, scoffing in disbelief, shaking his head. "And suddenly, there's someone you text back immediately? C'mon."

He looked so devilishly handsome that it nearly made Y/N want to cry. She'd forgotten how sexy Murdock could be when he tried. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, the formal trousers doing nothing for his ass. One palm placed on his hip, and the other held the cue. And that smirk. A quiet challenge. That ridiculously handsome fucking smirk that said 'you're lying and I know it.' Tousled hair. Tidbit too-long stubble. The soft dimples that formed in his cheeks.

"There's no guy," she whispered before walking off the bar, taking out her wallet, tears forming in her eyes. It was unfair. So unfair. "Sunny!" It nearly drowned in the bar's hum. She pulled out her wallet with shaking fingers. Keep it together. Left, right... There you go. Attagirl. A twenty slapped onto the bar. A quiet 'I'll call you tomorrow, Foggy!' as she stormed off. She turned, barely swallowing the lump in her throat. "Y/N!" Matt called after her. A little louder this time. "I was being a dick. I'm sorry!" But she didn’t stop. "…Don’t leave." He muttered, head tilting slightly like he was listening for her heartbeat, waiting for some sign that she’d turn around.

But she was already gone.

It reopened something Y/N already deemed sealed. A wound healed. A deal done. No more bargains or look-backs. And even though... Matt broke her in with his questioning.

Matthew hadn't tried openly inquiring again, but Y/N observed him. Each time she pulled out her phone, his head tilted slightly, like he was listening for something. The quiet twitch of his lips. The subtle shift of his shoulders. His fingers tapped absently against the table, matching the rhythm of her typing as if he were seriously guessing what she was texting. He'd jump back to the present the moment she put the phone away—to Foggy and Karen's conversation straight after, with unforced fluency.

Matt's mood worsened every time she spent a night at Brad’s. Sunny would barely be through her first sip of coffee, and Matt would already be slouched further in his chair, rolling his neck like he was working out tension. Tsk. His tongue clicked against his teeth. Another bad day in court, apparently. Another shit case. Another fucking box of papers sitting on his desk. No idea how Matthew knew when she literally looked, smelled and moved the same every damn day, but it was as if his little radar beeped anytime she got laid.

Sometimes, Foggy and Karen had to put him back in his place. 'What's wrong with you?' 'That was so uncalled for.' 'You're taking it a bit too far, buddy.' Other times, Y/N did it herself: 'One more word and you're out.' 'What was that, Matthew?' 'Too far, Murdock.' And each time, Y/N got: 'Sorry, Sunny. Had a bad day in the court.' The usual excuse. The same even tone. The same apologetic smirk—so practiced it made her teeth grind. And, like always, she let it slide. Gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Y/N didn't inform the others about seeing Brad. She let him introduce her to all his best friends, sure. Rolled her eyes while at it. Ground her teeth at horrible jokes. Even went as far as to hang out with them at times, but she didn't let him meet hers.

Foggy, Matt, and Karen were her safe little bubble. And Brad wasn't here to stay... nor in her life or her friend group. Foggy and Karen, of course, noticed that Sunny was seeing someone. They questioned, poked fun, and made her flustered. As good friends would. But Matt? He just watched and waited for only God knew what. And that made her suffer.

It was a usual Friday at Josie's—the café cleaned and closed, the office a fucking mess. The group stuck to their usual seats, chatting. The night was one where everything felt warm—the whiskey was cheap, the lights were low, and the air was thick with that kind of laughter that only comes when you're with the right people. Karen was curled up against Matt's side in the booth, too close for comfort but far away enough not to be annoying. Karen smiled against the rim of her glass, nodding at Matt's soft murmur. One of Karen's knees swung over Matthew's thigh. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her fucking pencil skirt. Sunny scoffed. Jesus.

She was good for him, too good. Everyone knew it, and no one said it. But it lingered in the way she squeezed his hand under the table. Karen burst into laughter along with Matthew. She always asked Matt if he was okay, if he was comfortable. Too good for a greedy, selfish motherfucker who very carefully eyed a different woman sitting just opposite them.

Foggy and Y/N, as was their usual, were locked in a ridiculous debate of hypotheticals—the kind only they could have. Something was wrong, something shifted. Sunny had drunk too much, based on the tempo of her speech and the velvet-y, monotone tone. No one asked. They knew Y/N wouldn't answer.

"No, I'm saying that if you had to choose between fighting one horse-sized duck and a hundred duck-sized horses, you'd pick the horse," Foggy exclaimed theatrically, making Y/N laugh. "Otherwise, you're just getting your ass kicked in surround sound." She snorted into her drink, smacking Foggy's knee as she tried to re-gather. "Foggy, be so serious. You'd get one good punch in before you get steamrolled. Had you seen yourself?" "And you'd do better?" "Uh, fuck yeah. I'd run, idiot." "Even if it had the ability of a horse?" Foggy pressed on, raising his eyebrows. "Now you're just making shit up."

Matt, tuned into their debate now, huffed out a quiet laugh. Karen nudged him playfully, a contented smile on her lips. She was relaxed, happy, and in good company. What else could she ask for? "You're in good spirits today," she teased, making Matt hum. No texts today, that's why. But he didn't admit it aloud. "Am I?" Matt murmured. He was. Karen made things easy, simple... quiet. It felt relieving.

Then, across the table—laughter. Bright, sharp, and completely untethered. Y/N, curled into Foggy’s side, was grinning at some ridiculous debate, her face half-hidden behind the rim of her glass. Matt’s attention was pulled like a thread caught in a spool. Automatically.

Foggy and Y/N were tilted toward them, the duck-horses forgotten. Sunny's eyes were laced with amusement, and her heart thumped along happily—a sound Matt loved to hear. "Don't let us keep you, champs," she said too sweetly. "Wouldn't want you turning into a pumpkin." "Huh?" Foggy retorted. "They surely have better things to do." Y/N snorted, making Karen shift with discomfort. Nicknames weren't new, nor was the teasing lilt in her voice. But tonight, it didn't land too well. "What, and make us miss out on another round of whatever this is?" Matt quipped with a clear warning. "Would be tragic, really," Y/N smirked.

Yeah, she had enough to drink for the night. But the words lingered, just for a second. Just enough for Foggy to cut in before it settled.

"Alright, I'm getting us all another round before this gets weird," Foggy announced, clapping loudly... except for the fact that it was already weird. He was standing, already gesturing for Karen to help carry drinks. And just like that, it was just Matt and Sunny at the table, looking at each other. "She looks like she's got a debt to settle." They heard Foggy say over the typical pub ruckus. "I thought it was delicious." "Yeah, yesterday, he hit into that lemon Meringue like there was no tomorrow." Karen agreed before they finally disappeared. Funny. Real funny. She stayed over at Brad's yesterday.

A beat of silence. Sunny lazily swirled the last sip of her drink, watching the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass. "You're drinking more than your usual," Matt noted neutrally. "Counting?" She simply shot back. "What's going on?" he tried to press on. "Nothing." "Yeah, and I'm not blind," Matt scoffed, shiting in his seat, shaking his head. Sunny also grabbed his glass, pouring it straight down her throat. "Don't stick your nose somewhere it doesn't belong, Murdock. Doesn't suit you." "I'm a lawyer. Of course, I'm nosy." "She's good for you." And just like that, Sunny had him speechless. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. She dropped the ball just like that, without a warning. He tipped his head—Matt knew. "You look happy. Both of you."

"That's what's been eating you up, then?" he murmured, unable to stop the grin forming on his lips. "Not really, no. Just an observation." "Sunny..." "I just don't think it's fair to her, y'know?"

Everything about that sentence was an open attack. Y/N wasn't blind or stupid. She got a read on Murdock—a long time ago, actually. "What I'm getting across is... Get your shit together and stop. Whatever this is between us? Karen doesn't deserve any piece of this. Neither does Foggy." "I'm not doing anything," Matt tried to defend himself. He straightened up, his Adam's apple bobbing with a forced gulp. "Yeah, sure, whatever." "So did something happen with the guy of yours, then?" Murdock pressed on. "There's no guy. Already told you." She hissed back, taking a long breath to ground herself.

"So you only fuck guys you won’t introduce to your friends?" Matt jabbed. And he hit a nerve. Sunny straightened, raised her jaw, and exhaled loudly. Loud enough to signal Matt to draw back immediately. "What do fucking care about some guy?" There. She finally admitted there was someone else. "What's it to you? You're dating a literal bombshell." "That's not what this is about." Matt deflected, laughing dryly. "Oh," Sunny matched his energy, snorting from anger. "But it clearly is." "Is this how we communicate now?" Matt wondered, genuine sorrow tinting his voice ever so slightly. He tilted his head, furrowing a little. "We used to be best friends, Y/N. And now? We don't even tell each other the truth."

"Yeah, well," she rolled her shoulders, shrugging. She swallowed. Blinked rapidly, like she was clearing something out of her system. Like she wasn’t about to break apart at the seams. "Shit happened," she said, but it sounded like she wanted to say something else, heavier. "Yeah, it did," Matt muttered in defeat. There wasn't more to add if he'd have to be honest. And Sunny'd agree. "Do you... Ever think about that?"

There wasn't a need to specify. He knew what she was asking about. That one kiss, that one night when she stopped him. The one where they could become something more than friends, and she turned him down. And yet, the raw vulnerability and tears in her voice felt like a hook to the ribs. The words burned and tasted bitter on his tongue. So much that his head turned away, in the direction of others.

Of course, he did. He didn't understand why she turned him down. It didn't make sense—the chemistry clearly pointed at that. Her body reacted to him unwittingly, automatically. Her heart still pounded when she looked at him, her voice was slightly pitched when she talked to him, and... So much evidence supported that she wanted him exactly the way Matt wanted her, too. They got along so well—stars aligned, a perfect symbiosis.

Then, she brought Karen into the picture. Neatly, perfectly, like she belonged there. As the obvious choice. The correct choice. And Matt? He liked being Karen’s boyfriend. He liked that it was easy, gave him structure, and something to reach for. He liked the laughter, the warmth, the uncomplicated intimacy that didn’t require second-guessing. And the sex was, frankly, amazing.

And yet, it was never quite enough. It was tainted.

So, as the good boy, Matt took a breath and smiled. His grin was easy, and his posture was confident: "What's there to think about?" One sentence—one which nearly had Y/N's entire world crumble apart. She nodded, scoffing and sniffling. "Nothing, I guess. You're right." Another beat. Then, she stretched, shook the tears off, and the moment passed like smoke through fingers.

"I'm hitting the jukebox. champ. Try not to look too miserable without me," and just like that, Sunny was gone too. What a hard task.

Matthew Murdock started a war that night. Because Sunny was on her behavior until he pressed. Until he dug in a freshly healed wound with his nail. She was reasonable and civil up to that point She talked to him, paid attention, and laughed at his anecdotes. Since that night? Cold as ice. Pretended Matthew didn't exist in her space, didn't breathe the same air, didn't react to what she'd said. She wasn't laughing with him anymore; she started laughing at him. And that, for one, drove Matt up the wall.

The further she was, hovering on his orbit yet away from his reach, the more desperate he became for her attention. His senses were on her whenever she was near. Her body still reacted the same—her heart skipped a beat when his fingers brushed her shoulder. Her breath still hitched when their arms touched. But her face? Her eyes? Her tone? Nothing. No reaction.

And that silence, that perfect detachment, ate at Matt like rot in his ribs. She’d learned him. Knew every game, every reach, every little trick he used to keep her orbiting him—and she no longer played along. Y/N's mind was trained now. She got used to Matt's selfish attempts to keep her attention on him and him only. She'd risen above their little game of push-and-pull.

But someone was watching, taking it all in. Karen. She observed Matt's behavior. She wasn't looking for any signs. But once she saw them? They were everywhere.

It started slow, inconspicuously. A few weeks in, they all gathered in the newly re-instated Nelson, Murdock & Page—the same old law practice, now dressed in a new coat. Foggy and Y/N were planning a celebration. The Union Allied case was finally put to rest. It recently passed its final inspection. Good to go and in the clear.

Sunny acted strangely around Matt for the past two weeks. They were talking, but it didn't feel genuine anymore. She responded, nodded, hummed, and laughed—but her eyes gave her away. Her head wasn't present in the conversation.

They were discussing something—whatever it was, it was loud enough to catch Karen's attention but not enough for her to actively engage and try smoothing things out. But something hung in the air. Matt's voice dipped, became smoother, and softened whenever the two engaged in an isolated conversation. It was subtle but distinct to a trained ear. His breath hitched as Sunny cracked a joke—a detached one. And Matt? He laughed like it was the first time he'd heard sarcasm.

Karen recognized the telltale signs—his body shifted subtly to face her. And not just turned to her; it was opened on all fronts All of Matt's walls were down. He angled his body toward Sunny, relaxed his shoulders in a way they rarely were. His voice was soft, like it was meant just for her. There was no tension, no guard. He was just… open. And Karen would also swear it wasn't like this just a month ago. Matt and Y/N talked, yes. And... they did so often. But Matt never made it this personal before.

Thankfully, Y/N seemed to ignore it as she put on her sunglasses, walked straight out of the office, and said loud goodbyes over her shoulder.

Karen kept on watching, on her toes. And it didn't take long for another clue to drop. It happened at Josie's. A week after Karen first noticed Matt's best attempts to bring Sunny back to his orbit. Sunny was leaning against the bar, chatting with Foggy. Her eyes beamed, her smile stretched so wide it looked like it might split her cheeks. It was a genuine, present one.

And suddenly, Matt was next to them—he and Karen had just finished playing a game of pool, walking back to regroup. His body shifted again whenever Y/N spoke. His shoulders settled forward, head tilted subtly so it seemed he was looking at her, even though he wasn't. It wasn't a flirtatious move, but there was something instinctive in how he was pulled toward her. When Matt laughed at something Y/N said, it wasn't forced—his body was drawn to her words.

Karen couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but she felt it: his attention was a little more on Sunny, like he refused to miss anything.

Another situation—Matt's apartment, a month later. It was a friendly hangout after a long time of no signs. After a period of peace, so to speak. Sunny kept to her side of the court, Matt to his. He hadn't tried to overstep in weeks, his senses and full attention on Karen and Karen only.

It was a rare incident for the four of them to hang out nowadays. The firm was neck-deep into heavy cases, and Y/N? She spent overtime after overtime in the café, claiming her idiot boss messed up the taxes, and she had to fix it—or the café would be shut down faster than she could say 'the Avengers'.

Matt and Karen sat on one side of the room, Y/N and Foggy on the other. They just finished watching a movie, and there was an easy, comfortable vibe—except for the subtle tension. Y/N decided not to be absent, voluntarily exchanging a few jokes with Matt. Again, he was faced toward Y/N. He wasn’t even pretending to hold back anymore. His body just followed her, instinctively. It followed while Y/N walked around the room with Foggy, bringing the takeout they'd ordered. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sunny adjusted around the room, and Matt followed, even though he couldn't have known. His radar was on, always picking up on Y/N's signal, mirroring her as if he knew where she was and what she was up to, without a sight. Karen wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

The realization came a month later. It happened at Josie's late at night. The usual crew gathered around in their usual booth, celebrating—another case closed and the tax returns properly turned in. It was a great night. They were winding down, downing shots, and celebrating. Sunny, as usual, was in deep hypotheticals with Foggy—laughing, snorting, and bending over at her waist.

Karen could feel Matt's attention shift to the other side of the table—how Matt's body just gave in.

It started as a fight for Sunny’s attention. Over time, it turned into something that neared submission. Matt turned into a dog and lay on his back, waiting for her to pet his belly. To call him a good boy. Matt was at Y/N's mercy. And Karen didn't assume he, sadly, didn't realize so. Each time she moved, adjusted, or even laughed, Matt followed the shift. Like he was on his knees, holding the last breath of hope, hoping for Sunny to answer.

It was a dance without choreography—Matt's body naturally and instinctively turned to Sunny. She was the one his senses were constantly tracing. Not Karen. Sunny. And it wasn't just a suspicion anymore—it was confirmed, undeniable.

As the night passed, Y/N and Matt got into a conversation. Sunny was drunk, giggly, and happy, showing Matt the warmth he'd missed for months... and he leeched onto it as if it were the last time he'd feel it. Karen watched Matt while playing pool with Foggy. Matthew hadn't overstepped, crossed any line, and wasn't too close or noticeable—but it felt like a gut punch to Karen.

Matt’s smile. The grip on his beer. The way his fingers tapped the bottle whenever she laughed. His quiet, bubbling laughter. His tongue over his lower lip—then the bite. The burgundy shirt. The one Y/N used to praise before him and Karen made things official. The one Matt stopped wearing. Until that night.

Karen's heart sank a little, but she didn't say anything. It was nothing—must've been. They were all good friends out for a drink, playing pool, occupying the jukebox, and singing drunkily. A natural dynamic, a natural order of how things should be. Karen pushed it aside, but the feeling lingered.

When the evening winded, Karen stood beside Matt, watching as Foggy supported Sunny by the waist. She was laughing loudly, pissed beyond anyone's expectations—waving at the pair of them, screaming 'I love you', into the void of Hell's Kitchen, ushered by Foggy who was also heavily intoxcicated. Karen sighed, glancing at Matt. The obligatory 'What is it? Are you cold?' came, it always does. 'Nothing,' Karen muttered back, entwining her elbow with Matt's. 'Just cold.' 'I'll warm you up soon,' Matt muttered seductively, making Karen scoff—but it was emotionless, just an obligation, a courtesy. She leaned her head on his shoulder—not out of love, but out of memory. Out of muscle memory, maybe. She didn't ask him about it. Would he deny it? Would he lie to her face? Or worse—would he hesitate? No, Karen didn't want to press yet. She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer.

Karen, sadly, didn't have to wait too long to get her answers. Something was going on with Sunny. She'd vanished into thin air, not seen in the café or their office. She wasn't picking up the phone and didn't bother to text back. Foggy was reaching out for a week, the most insistent and confused of the three. 'She'd never done this before,' he muttered when she hung up on him for the fifth time that evening alone. 'Do you think she wasn't kidding? That her boss runs a laundering scheme and is covering it up with the café? That Sunny'd entangle with some bad guys?'

It hurt to see Foggy this confused... left behind. Matt's mood worsened from day to day. Karen'd heard some of the messages he'd left in Y/N's voicemail: 'I don't know what's gotten into you, but we're here for you.' 'Just call us back.' 'We miss you. Foggy cried in the bathroom stall this morning—you'd laugh at him if you knew.' And the last one—a silent mumble Matt hoped anyone'd hear: '... don't leave me behind.'

Karen's heart shattered.

Sunny's text came on the same day, around eleven. Matt, Foggy, and Karen were hanging out at Josie's... but the atmosphere was tight. Even Josie noticed, asking, 'Where's the loud friend of theirs at?' Neither of them could answer. But the text? Simple and cutting. 'Anyone awake? I have booze. Come to the café.' Foggy was half-dressed the moment he'd seen the few words. Karen put on her coat while Matt sent her ahead to keep an eye on Foggy. He paid the tab before running into the rainy night after them. It didn't take long for him to be in the front.

The café was messy. The music was angry. No Hozier. Not even the early 2000s. Just a bunch of sounds that made Matt's ears itch. Y/N was already a bottle Jack in, holding it in her palm as she crashed another porcelain cup on the ground, massaging her face before taking a swing. No apron, laughter, or greeting—just a ratty sweatshirt, shorts, and bare feet... in late September. She stood, broken and hunched, behind the bar—the café turned into a warzone.

She'd been crying, Karen noticed immediately—mascara smeared, eyes red, nose running. She and Foggy exchanged a quick glance. This was bad. The bell jingled above them, catching Sunny's attention. Her eyes snapped to them—she stepped aside from the bar, bare feet crunching on the porcelain before exuberantly bowing. She nearly fell over.

"Welcome to the fucking circus," she announced, taking another swing. "Holy shit," Foggy muttered, breathless and stunned. "Sunny...?" Karen whispered, putting down her soaked coat and handbag, walking toward Sunny through pieces of glass. Another cup smashed on the ground It made Karen jump and cover her mouth. Y/N'd managed to get through the first shelf of the coffee's on-hand cups. Impressive.

"There she is, my voice of reason." Y/N's voice was flat and hoarse as she lifted the bottle toward Karen. "Want a drink? I promise I didn't poison it." "What the hell happened to you? You disappeared. You ghosted us," Foggy wadded through the debris, panicked, accusatory. Sunny snorted, nodding, humming. She sipped from the bottle like it was water. "And yet... here you all are. Like good little soldiers."

Matt, who had remained in the shadows until now, stepped into the dim lighting. Her pressure was high, her heart pounding, muscles tensed—whatever she'd been up to for the last weeks... must've been intense. Seemed like she'd avoided the shower and bed for the better part. "What's going on?" Matt was calm but tense. Sunny snickered. "Don't start with that lawyer tone. You sound like a fucking cop." "We were worried." Foggy tried approaching her, putting his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him—his hand smoothed her upper arm, his expression troubled. "I've been calling you daily, Sunshine, and you kept hanging up on me."

Sunny nodded, popping her lips, stepping aside. "Yeah, I know. I was... busy." "Busy what?" Matt hissed. Oh, he'd already known. Read her like a book. "There was a lot." She hiccuped. On a whim, she reached for one of the syrup bottles. She smashed it against the counter, watching the sticky liquid spill everywhere, unamused. "Self-pity, wallowing, contemplating why I'm never enough... You can choose, really." "You don't get to do this," Karen whispered, approaching gently. "Push us away and pretend it's noble, Y/N. That's not a strength. That's..." "What? Cowardice? Delusion?" She leaned into the counter, tilting her head at Karen, sniffing. "Please, say it. Say what you all really think."' "We think something happened, and you're hurting." Matt gritted through his teeth, and Y/N snapped again—her head turned to him as if he was the one she'd had a personal vendetta with.

"Oh, so now I get to hurt? Suddenly, my emotions get a seat at the table?" Another cup. "You don't get to walk in like this and talk, Matthew." "Calm down, Sunny. What are you even talking about? We've always cared, you know that." Foggy sighed, eyes tearing up. This wasn't the first of Y/N's reactions to something he'd witnessed, but hearing she still doubted him? That hurt. "No, you kept on teasing. Prodding. And thought you were soooo fucking slick with it, that me neither she can see it. Months after I told you we ain't working out. To fucking drop it. To value the good that's happened to you. And now you come running because I texted?" Y/N mimicked him, her tone and accent eerily similar to Matthew's. "It feels like I'm the punchline, don't it? Because what would I tell you when you kept pestering me about him? 'Yeah, actually, he's fucking me raw on Sundays and ignors me on Mondays?' Good one. That he called me a phase? Oh, let's all fucking laugh, it's hilarious."

Foggy flinched in shock. Karen covered her mouth, and Matt? Didn't move, just stared at her, studied her. She'd been drunk enough for Foggy and Karen to ignore the first half of her speech, thankfully—otherwise, Matt knew he'd be in deep shit.

"I'm not worth the worry or the attention. Y'all have a whole law practice to run, to keep track of. I'm just me—running a shitty café downtown Hell's Kitchen." "That's bullshit," Foggy argued, voice firm. "Don't you dare. How long have I dragged your ass down, Fogster, huh? For over ten years. And for these two?" She pointed to Matt straight away, fuming. He was no longer the subtext—he became the topic. That was his last straw. "Oh, come on. Give me a break with that bullshit. That's a whole other mess." "You think we didn't notice?" Matthew's voice was now sharp, loud, taking over the café as he walked toward Sunny. "You think I didn't hear it every time you tried to laugh like you weren't dying inside? Why do you think I pressed? Asked about him? About how things were with him? Just to hear 'Oh, there's no one. I'm not seeing anyone.' every fucking time? Like running into a wall."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Y/N froze, eyes meeting his. The conversation didn't concern Karen and Foggy anymore—did it ever? "Because you wouldn't let me!" That was one of the rare occasions where Matt didn't control himself and lashed out, snapping out of his calm lawyer persona. "Because you said the same fucking thing over and over again, kept me out, lied." "Because I needed someone to make me distracted, you idiot. And you were ruining it for both of us!" And just like that, all of Karen's worries were outright confirmed. No denial anymore—just pure facts. "You thought you needed him and kept me at arm's length. There's a difference." Matthew muttered. "Fucking look at her!" Y/M shrieked, pointing at Karen, who was hugging herself. She was crying. "She's the girl. Beautiful, soft, calm, and perfect—she deserves the world. And you were too stubborn to let go of me and give it to her." "Do you think I enjoyed it? Feeling the disappointment and confusion every fucking night?" "Seemed it!"

The silence was thick and crushing as Karen looked between them. Whether Matt and Sunny realized it, this was a full-on lovers' quarrel. Settling problems and observations they've held in for months, feelings Y/N ran away from. Karen blinked, tears lining her lashes. She'd seen this spiral before. In herself. In Matt. That quiet, destructive way of disappearing before someone could tell you they loved you anyway.

"Brad... He had this way of... making me feel wanted. Not like the fifth wheel. Brad was a nobody, just like me, just living his life out here." "And now he's gone. And you were about to leave us, too." Matt hissed, leaning into one of the chairs, taking a deep breath—he was on the verge of breaking. "I didn't want you to see me like this. I'm a letdown enough as is. Just look at me," she threw up her hands, scoffing with despair, full-on crying now. "You're ours, dumbass," Foggy muttered, voice cracking. "We're not going anywhere, don't you get that?"

"I didn't want to be the sad one, the messy one, the one you have to clean up after," Sunny muttered, finally setting the bottle of booze down. She's finally letting Foggy approach her. "And yet, here we are." Karen was soft but direct, keeping up the act despite Sunny's outright admission. Making sure Sunny was safe was a priority for Karen. She could deal with Matt's ass later. "Because we choose you, even when you're messy. Especially then. It wouldn't be us without you." "You want to push us away?" Matt joined in—quiet but dangerous. "Fine, but you don't get to pretend we didn't care... That I didn't. You keep me out of this mess of yours." "Matthew, shut up." Karen hissed. "You don't get to talk now." "Don't I? Because—" "And there he goes—Matthew fucking Murdock, everyone. Even though you're persisting about caring, it fucking feels like I'm alone here." "You're refusing to leave any of us in, you idiot!" Even though he tried to keep it cool, he, too, reached for a cup and shattered it on the ground. Foggy, betrayed and confused, just watched as it all fell apart—the past year of their friendship. "Instead of acknowledging anything, you keep hiding behind your little walls, not even letting me approach you. I tried. And you shut me off, saying Karen's the right choice. So I moved on—for you. And you're right. She's fucking perfect while we're both a fucking mess."

Matt's words cut deep, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

"What do you think I was supposed to do? Dump all my shit on the three people who have their perfect lives and their perfect dynamic?" Sunny's voice was quiet as she leaned into the counter, scoffing at Matthew's words. "That's not what this is. Don't even fucking bother." Matt spat back, also quietly. The energy was already let out—only the aftermath remained. "No? Then what, Matt? Why are you mad? Doesn't this disrupt your little evening out with your perfect girl and best friend?" "I'm not mad." "Oh, fuck off, you're seething." Sunny scoffed.

"Alright!" Foggy yelled, watching the situation unfold—Karen, broken, was ushered to one corner. Sunny stared at Matt, ready to launch another ballistic missile. And Matt? Half-expecting Y/N to kiss him, half-expecting her to slap him... to do anything. "That's enough, you two. You've both said plenty." "No, no," Y/N raised her palm, stepping toward Matt with a frown. "Gotta something to say, Murdock? Go on." "You shut me out," Matt repeated. The room was silent for a heartbeat. Maybe two. Then, Sunny scoffed. "We've heard that before. Any other closing argument?" "You were something to me." It was a whisper—loud enough to break Karen's heart. "And you still are. And the further away you are, the more desperate I am to get close." "Oh, great," Y/N spat, leaning into a chair before throwing it to the side. "You just love fucking things up for everyone, don't you?" "Matt..." Karen was soft, nearly inaudible.

But Matthew heard Karen's heart break into pieces. She was trembling, tensing up. She had started five minutes ago, but now his words had settled in; there was no going back. "Okay, this is done. Everyone's got enough for tonight." Foggy cleared his throat, stepping forward, trying to disperse it before it got even uglier. "God, I'm such a cliché. Screaming in a place I own, drunk on two bottles of fucking Jack Daniels." Y/N wiped her face, laughing bitterly. "You're everything but a cliché," Matt countered, helplessly quiet. "But I am. And you just didn't notice until it wasn't cute anymore."

"Alright, you. You're going home," Foggy hissed, wrapping his coat around Sunny and walking to the staff room to retrieve her slippers. "Karen, are you okay?" She hadn't answered for a bit, just sniffing, hugging herself. "Karen, I—" Sunny stuttered, but Karen scoffed with disbelief. "I've known for a while," the blonde admitted, putting her coat back on. "It's just... different, hearing it aloud." "I didn't mean..." Matt jumped in, but Karen's palm on his elbow stopped him from saying anything. The squeeze was tight, painful. "No." Karen hissed, shaking her head. Karen’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a finality that made Matt’s blood run cold. "Not here, not now. Foggy'll take Sunny home, and he'll make sure she's safe. We'll go to yours, I'll pack my shit and we're done with this." "Fuck..." Y/N muttered under her breath, leaning into Foggy's side. "Do you understand me?" Karen inquired, gritting through her teeth. "Karen—" "I said: Do you fucking understand?" Matt’s chest tightened like he was suffocating in the weight of it all. He whispered, barely audible, "Yes."

The word was like a stone dropping into an abyss. Defeat.

The night was rainy yet crisp, and the city noises seemed muffled as the group left the café. Sunny's café. The sidewalk felt far too empty. Foggy, still a little too tipsy for his own good, was supporting Sunny by the waist—they would wait for a taxi under the canopé. Karen shot one last look toward the duo.

"Do you have her?" Karen asked the question, loaded with more meaning than the simple words implied. "Yeah, yeah. Nothing new; I saw it all before. You know how she is. Comes, goes, gets pissed and sets off some nukes. That's our Sunny." Foggy kept a hand firmly on Sunny’s waist, guiding her with the kind of care that didn’t match his carefree tone. He knew this dance well. She’d fall apart, pick herself up, and burn it down again. But that night felt different. His voice didn’t carry the usual lightness

Matt wasn't listening. His attention had already drifted toward the distant streets, the low hum of the city somehow feeling far too long. He didn't wanna talk about it... any of it—didn't wanna voice the frustration over the admission he'd just... yeelled into Y/N's face, hurting Karen in the process—hurting her beyond salvation. Karen never deserved this. He thought he'd been subtler about all of this—as if. Karen saw right through him.

He wasn't sure when it had happened. Sunny'd always had him wrapped around her little finger. But when did he let those feelings cross the threshold? That Matt didn't know. And he was fucking furious with himself for it. Furious that ot was more than her breaking things off with someone else—he hated that it hurt, even when he knew it shouldn't.

And the worst part? He’d dragged Karen into this mess, espeically when he knew she didn't deserve any fucking part in this. Matt was furious with himself. He hadn’t just let things slip with Sunny; he’d let the whole damn thing spiral out of control. He didn’t even have the right to be part of any of this. He wasn’t good enough for either of them.

"We need to talk," Matt muttered again, this time with more weight, like the words were a sentence he couldn’t take back. Karen's palm was steady on his elbow, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The silence between them had already said everything that needed to be said. She was waiting for him to say the right thing, but deep down, Matt knew there was no way to make it right. "Who were you trying to fool?" She inquired after a bit. "I don't even know." "Finally," Karen scoffed coldly. "Some fucking honesty." "Karen..." "Don't Karen me."

There was silence as they walked through Hell's Kitchen. It was late and dark, long after midnight—the streets were empty, save for the occasional taxi, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The noise of Hell's Kitchen had softened, the usual energy now muted by the stillness of the night. It was as if the city had quieted down in sympathy with the weight hanging between them. Matt loved this part of New York. It was familiar—tenements as high as he could see, sun reflecting in closed windows, the smell of bistros, and the unrelenting ruckus of tourists. The adrenaline thrilled him, the usual fuss filled with energy to keep moving, night after night. Not even doing anything. Just keep moving. For himself, Sunny, Foggy, Karen, and countless others, nameless faces in the crowd—those, he'd save in the dead of night. Usually, he'd feel safe... at home. Not that night.

That night, Hell's Kitchen felt like a foreign place. The buzz of the streets that usually fed his restless energy now felt oppressive, suffocating. Matt’s footsteps were heavy, his pace slow—he couldn’t outrun the storm inside him. This wasn’t home anymore, not with the weight of everything he'd just said—the weight of what Sunny said and the turmoil and debris it'd left.

Matt’s usual calm was cracked, a tension neither of them had seen before. He was caving in. "Did you know it the entire time?" Karen peeped, voice shaky as she held back tears. "I'm just wondering if it was all a lie. If we were a lie... if I was just some fucking distraction?" "We weren't a lie," Matt butted in immediately. "How?" "How what?" "How did we happen then? Was I an afterthought? Someone to lick your wounds when she kicked you down the stairs?" "No, Karen. You'll never be anything like that to anyone. Not to me, and certainly not to her." "Didn't sound like it back there." Karen snickered sarcastically, gulping her tears down.

"I knew since the moment I met her," Matt admitted, clearing his throat. His palm landed on Karen's in a friendly, apologetic gesture. His thumb drew absent-minded circles on her knuckle. He sensed it—the hitch down Karen's spine, her heartbeat slowing down with adrenaline, and her stomach turning when she gasped for air. "I think she knew too. Either about me or her, Sunny knew."

"And you have the gut to tell me I wasn't—" "You were the right choice, Karen. That’s the truth. That's who you are." Matt’s voice softened, but the words still cut deep, cutting through the bitterness in his chest. "You were always the right choice, but I was too selfish to know how to appreciate that. Too caught up in my own damn shit to see it. I dragged you into this... Into me. And I’m sorry for that."

Karen stopped walking for a second, her breath coming in uneven gasps. The words were there... hanging in the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. Instead, she settled for a long, shaky breath and a final glance at Matt. "I don’t know if I’ll ever understand any of this," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the dark. "I don't think any of us will," Matt muttered, his words heavy with truth. The city lights flickered around them, offering no comfort as his gaze shifted toward the ground. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus, but his mind spun. "Karen, if I could’ve fixed this, I would’ve. But if I try to do that, we'll both suffer." "If I’m the right choice," Karen’s voice faltered, "then why am I not enough?" "You are. You're everything anyone could ever need," Matt whispered, his voice cracked and rough. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, guilt and grief pulling him down. "But the truth is, I’m just not the guy you deserve, Karen. You need someone who isn’t… broken. Someone who isn't stuck on someone they can't have. Someone who can give you what you need without dragging you through all of their shit."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic. Matt’s hand hovered near Karen’s, but he didn’t touch her. The space between them felt vast, more than just the distance of the sidewalk they walked on. They were both lost in the same silence, aware of the finality in the air. There'd be no epilogue. No continuation. No re-opening. A chapter closed. They continued walking, worlds apart. The quiet between them was deafening, filled with everything they hadn’t said and couldn’t fix. Karen wasn’t looking at him anymore. Neither was Matt. It felt like the last time they’d ever walked like this—together, yet so far apart.

She'd packed her clothes, personal belongings, even her favorite mug—small souvenirs she moved to Matt's as their relationship progressed. The bottle of perfume hidden in his bathroom cabinet. Her favorite jersey thrown over the head of his bed. The nice spices she'd introduced him to. Her toothbrush. The surplus pair of shoes hidden in the shoe rack. Sweatshirt on the coathanger. All gone in one night.

Matt helped her pack with a patient, bittersweet smile. Offered her a warm cup of coffee while they waited for her cab. They communicated while Karen packed—Matt was with her each step of the way, ensuring Karen knew how much she'd meant to him. To all three of them. She'd become a friend, a co-worker, and an irreplaceable part of the family. He repeated, again and again, that it was his fault. He beat himself down just to see Karen come up on top, feeling a bit easier. She smiled—knew him too well. But didn't oblige. Didn't indulge his martyr routine.

"What did Sunny mean when she said you ruined this for yourself?" "She meant that she set us up," Matt muttered, head hanging low. His voice was rough, truthful to a fault. There was nothing to hide anymore. Karen froze, setting her cup down too fast, reflexively. "Insisted she wasn't good news. She made me realize that you had feelings for me, and I had them for you, too." "Oh?" Karen scoffed, her voice quiet, too quiet. The past tense Matt used hadn’t escaped her—had meant final. Meant done. There was a new, unspoken edge Matt wasn't familiar with. But he deserved it, each and every last bit. "When?" "Karen..." Matt breathed, pleading. She didn't wanna know—didn't need to know. "Don't. You owe me the truth." "I owe you the truth," Matt admitted, turning away, his fingers curling around the edge of the countertop. "Not to torture you more over something you don't deserve." "I asked you a question." Karen insisted.

"Months ago." "Figures, Matthew." She turned sharply. "Stop being a fucking lawyer for once and say it." "It was late. You and Foggy had left the office… I kissed her. We nearly—on the couch—I wanted to, God, I wanted to. She stopped me. Beat some sense into me." A beat of stunned silence hung between them, the room holding its breath. "What?" "You've heard me the first time, Karen." "You can't be serious," she took a deep breath, her breath growing shallow as she started pacing around, massaging her stomach. "And you just..." "It made sense back then, okay?" "Well," Karen said, voice tinged with bitterness, "she's also the one who tore us apart, hm?"

Matt’s throat tightened, guilt crashing over him in waves. He couldn't speak, even though he knew Karen’s words were right. He knew Karen wasn't wrong. Karen sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand as she took a slow step back.

"I... I don't think—It’s not her fault. And even though it’s foolish," her voice cracked just a little, but she caught it quickly, "I don’t blame you either." She shook her head, trying to regain her composure, burying everything she felt underneath that mask of calm. "But stay out of my sight for some time. Don't text me. Don't call me. Avoid me inside the office."

The words hit Matt like a blow to the chest. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Karen’s words cut deeper than he imagined. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, to fix things, but nothing came out. Before he did, the door clicked closed behind Karen, leaving him alone inside the darkened apartment.

Thankfully, he'd already known where his next steps would lead. To someone who orchestrated this. Someone who'd poured the gasoline into the fire. To the idiot who hurt his girl. To Brad, who had no idea Matt had been tailing him for weeks.

The mornings came with new beginnings. Absolutions. Resolutions. Not this one.

The night was too long for Foggy's liking—and even longer when Matt asked for a meet-up in front of Y/N's tenement.

As Foggy said, the night was awfully long. From clearing the wounds on Sunny's feet to a wave of fresh, unfiltered rage toward Matt… to a full-blown breakdown once the alcohol started wearing off and the consequences came into focus. She hated herself for a bit. Said a few awful things about herself.

Actually, she said a lot of awful things as Foggy kept the hair out of her face and mouth. She was crying. Apologizing. Begging for forgiveness—when she wasn't even the one who should've been begging in the first place.

That bit made Foggy cry. Then came the vomiting. Foggy had stayed beside Sunny through it all, a steady presence, the only thing keeping her tethered. He’d smoothed her hair, dried her tears, and listened while she spiraled. Swore she was enough. Promised Karen wouldn’t hate her. And swore—multiple times—to kick Matt in the balls.

By sunrise, Matt and Foggy were walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, aimless and half-numb. The café—Sunny’s café—was closed. The morning shift had clocked in already and discovered the wreckage. Probably called the police and only checked the security cameras after. They must've been shocked to see the night's events unravel.

Half an hour passed in silence before Matt finally exhaled, his voice low, thick with regret—his knuckles still pulsing from the night before. "I fucked up." Foggy shot him a look, the kind that held nothing but tired honesty. "Yeah, man. You fucking did. And this time, I don't see how you could get out of this unscathed. And just for the record—you deserve everything you got." Matt nodded once, already aware. "Easy. I won't. Y/N will make sure I won't."

And just like that, everything changed. The air between them was different, colder, heavier. Nearly ten years of friendship, memories, and hardships. Matt was his rock, his best friend, his man.

But right there and then? They both knew there was no going back from here. Everything Foggy feared would happen? Happened, bringing everything down in flames. He'd been unsure about introducing Matthew to Sunny for this exact reason—Foggy was worried they might hook up and destroy everything. And yet, it worked well. All too well. They became the best of friends. They became a well-oiled machine. And then Matt found Karen. Since then? Straight to the pits of hell. And all of this? Everything that'd been said and admitted? Matt burned the whole damn bridge... not only the bridge but the entire fucking town, including lifestock.

Their friendship entered a new era—one Foggy didn't know how to navigate.

Foggy crossed his arms, staring Matt down with an unimpressed glare that only years of friendship can refine. Like a let-down parent. Like someone who'd trusted him just to be gutted out like a swine. The dim glow of the streetlights outside cast long shadows across Matt’s face. He didn't need to see Foggy to know what he looked like.

"You're such a selfish, stupid, idotic dick who always get the best girls and lets them down like it's nothing," Foggy started, railing up, voice filled with rage. "Yeah." "That's why I didn't want to introduce Sunny to you. Because you always fuck it up—no idea how you manage, but you ensure everyone ends up in shambles." "You're right," Matt admitted, head low. "By God and everything above, you don't even reach Sunny's ankles, and Karen shouldn't be even looking your way. But somehow, you have them both all over you." "Yeah, you're... Both?" "What are we? Playing stupid? Deaf? You're already blind—you can't be dense and deaf too." "You said both," Matt pressed, stepping forward. His breath was shallow. Did Y/N talk? About him and her? About what she really felt? Everything Matt had already known and hoped she'd admit? "Did she..."

"Oh, ho-ho," Foggy laughed without any amusement whatsoever. "We're not playing this fucking game, Matthew. Don't get your hopes up," Foggy muttered in defeat, knowing well that he'd just admitted something he shouldn't have. Sunny would kill him if she found out that Matt also knew. "She's ready to tear you a new one once she wakes up. She'll... Murder you, or worse." "Figures."

Foggy’s hand curled into a fist at his side—tight, white-knuckled, like the tension had finally reached bone. He stepped forward once, close enough for Matt to smell the remnants of last night’s whiskey and desperation on him. "I swear to God, if you weren't my best friend—" Matt didn’t flinch. He didn’t have to. He stood still, almost like he wanted Foggy to do it. Like a man ready to be punished. Because he deserved it, all of it.

Foggy froze, jaw clenched so tight it popped. The moment hovered—too hot, too fragile—until he exhaled and spun away, muttering something between a curse and a prayer under his breath. "You’re not even worth the bruise I’d get on my hand," Foggy added bitterly. "But I am your best friend," Matt smirked, devoid of emotion. Foggy sighed, exasperated. "Fucking unfortunately."

Finally, Foggy exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to scrub away the exhaustion Matt had caused him. Then, once he properly set his eyes on Matthew, he cackled with disbelief.

"Look at you, Jesus Christ," Foggy suddenly scoffed, turning away again. "What?" Matt asked patiently. "Ruffled hair, shirt askew, and that bruise on your cheek?" "What are you talking about?" "Is he still among us?" Foggy asked, his voice dry. Matt tilted his head. "Who?" "You know who," Foggy expanded, shooting Matt a look. "That guy of hers?" "That... Brad, you mean?" Matt asked innocently. Caught red-handed. Literally—his knuckles were bursting, buried, and bloody. He didn't kill him. He was very tempted, but his faith didn't allow him to—and Y/N wouldn't ever forget it if he did.

"Yeah, that one." Matt exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching as if debating how much he wanted to reveal. "Eh..." He gestured vaguely, and Foggy groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Matt remembered the sounds, the cracking of bones, even Brad's hoarse apologies and pleas. But Foggy didn't need to know.

"Matt." "He’s breathing," Matt says, ever so casual and reluctant. "Maybe not enjoying it, but breathing."' Foggy closed his eyes for a long moment. “Jesus Christ.” "He cheated on her," Matt said, like that explained everything. And to him, it did. "Admitted it himself." "After you made him." Foggy objected, and Matt nodded, looking away. Foggy had a point. Foggy let out a sharp breath. "You don’t have the right to be jealous here. You know that, right? You had Karen. You weren’t supposed to care."

That name—Karen—landed like a punch. Matt didn’t answer. His jaw flexed once. Twice. Matt's throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever guilt was threatening to surface, and for a second, just a second, he looked like a man choking on the truth. He turned his head slightly away, as if avoiding the weight of it, the name.

And Foggy saw it. Saw how it cracked something in Matthew—small, but real.

Matt tensed just slightly, his jaw tightening. "I didn’t care." Foggy scoffed, spitting. "Uh-huh. Right. And that's why your knuckles are bloody and I’m the goddamn Pope. Anything else to add to this pile of nonsense? Your fucking lies? Like you're not sneaking out at night doing God knows what? Like you didn't try to bone my best friend? Like you didn't use our other best friend as a band-aid? Am I missing something?"

Matt stayed quiet, his smirk fading. Foggy watched him for a long moment before shaking his head, the frustration warring with something almost like sympathy. "You know what your problem is, man?" Foggy finally said, crossing his arms tightly. "You pretend like you don’t feel things. Like you’re above it all. But the second someone actually matters to you? You go nuclear. Every damn fucking time. And I'm sick of it." Matt exhaled through his nose, looking almost amused. "That’s a bit dramatic." "Oh, is it?" Foggy shot back. "Let's have a fucking rundown, then. First, there was this woman... Oh, yes, Claire. And now Karen. And Sunny. You don’t know how to sit with your feelings without burning everything down. You have no idea how to keep your fucking hands to yourself. And the worst part? They let you. All these gorgeous, intelligent women let you. They trust to get close enough so you can stab."

Matt rubbed at his temple, voice tight. "I had it under control."

"Oh, let's hear about that," Foggy laughed, but there was no humor. "Bull-fucking-shit. You were barely keeping it together; you barely are, even now. And then, Sunny moved on. Why is that? Oh, because she's an actual decent friend who didn't wanna fuck it up. And what did you do in retaliation? You put some poor bastard in the ER because you couldn’t handle the fact that she was finally trying to get over you while having Karen Page at home." Matt clenched his jaw. "... I didn’t put him in the ER." "Oh, well, I’m sure that’ll hold up in court," Foggy deadpans. "‘Your honor, my client only broke his nose and maybe a few ribs, but he did not, in fact, put him in the ER. May I encourage a bail?’"

Matt didn't respond.

Foggy sighed again, rubbing his temple now. "Look, man, I don’t know what you want me to say here. That you’re right? That you’re justified? Because I don’t think you even believe that." Matt swallowed, the fight slowly draining from his posture. "You could’ve told me. Looking back at it, it was fucking obvious, you obnoxious bastard, but you could've..." Foggy said, softer this time. "Instead of letting me find out like this... let alone poor Karen. She okay?"

A beat. And then Matt finally muttered, "Yeah. She'd a fighter. She's doing better than me... Isn't as much of a mess, anyway."

Foggy watched Matthew for a moment longer, something unreadable in his expression. Then, shaking his head once more, he muttered, "You fucking idiot."

The follow-up was always the worst. Always.

Sunny dreaded it like the day of the kingdom come. She constructed scenes and dialogues. Replayed the scenarios inside her head, again and again. Nearly to the point of making herself believe it'd already happened. She was never good with forgiveness and reckoning. On letting go. On forgiving—or being forgiven, for that matter.

Since her little breakdown at the café, she’d felt small. Insignificant in ways she hadn't ever imagined. Like a leftover someone had to clean up. Just a broken-down, used toy.

Sunny genuinely feared the day she’d run into Karen or Matthew again.

But it had to come. And—God help her—she wanted it to come. Sunny wanted to face it all: the guilt, the pain, the way Karen’s eyes might cut through her like glass. She wanted the shame. The full weight of whatever Karen wanted to throw her way. She wanted to earn it. To earn forgiveness and resolution, the friendship Karen used to offer so scot-free. Now that Sunny fucked up? She wished things were as easy as they were just a few weeks ago, back when they laughed over a stupid joke or a hypothetical at Josie's.

The café was nearly empty. The evening light stretched across the floor in long gold lines... like it didn’t even want to be here. Since Sunny's return from her "well-being break," the place had gone tiptoe-quiet. No one joked around anymore. No one snapped back when she barked.

They asked questions now. Genuinely wondered. Deepened their bond. Tried to support her. You okay, boss? Need help with that, boss? How are you feeling today?

Like she was a glass left too close to the edge.

They’d all seen it. The security footage. Of course they did. It was inevitable. They loved the café as much as Sunny did. It was their home, their livelihood. They watched their boss down two bottles of Jack behind the bar. They've seen her chuck mug after mug at the floor—the good ones, her favorites. The ones that cost a fortune. The ones she'd always freaked out whenever one got broken. Syrup bottles shattered across the counter. Watched as she threw furniture to the floor.

And then... they arrived. Karen. Foggy. Matthew. In all their fucking, shining glory. They were talking. Arguing. Faces sharp and tired and beautiful in ways she couldn’t stand to look at for long. Then everyone else cleared out, just like that. Nobody asked what happened after. Nobody needed to. She didn’t remember them leaving—only that they had. Only that the mess had been cleaned by hands that weren’t hers. Only that someone had tucked her into bed, and the scent of cologne she couldn’t admit she missed.

The café was too quiet now. Too polite. No one played the radio anymore. The regulars stopped teasing her about the playlist. Even Luca, the old man who used to complain about her latte art, only smiled at her sadly now. As if he were waiting for her to break again. Like it was inevitable.

Sunny hated it.

She hated the hush of it all—how the world rearranged around her like she was fragile porcelain someone had already dropped. She was never fragile before. Never considered to be someone to look after, to clean after. That wasn't her. She was fast, rough around the edges, loud-mouthed, funny, and often considered rude. She was a fighter. Not a victim.

The bell over the door rang like a scream.

Sunny didn’t flinch, but she didn’t breathe either. She started behaving like this. Flinching whenever the door opened. She shot her eyes up, stilling before realizing... it wasn't Matt or Karen. Only then, she breathed. It must've been another customer, Sunny assumed, another passing moment. She'd be let into their life briefly before getting kicked out again—talking about their day, family, work. She forced out a pleasant smile, which faded the second she looked up from the register and saw her. Tall. Blonde. Composed. Wearing her trench like armor and looking around like she hadn’t mapped the entire room before she walked in. Like she hadn't spent day after day there already.

Karen Page.

Sunny’s mouth went dry. Her hands twitched at her sides, craving something to hold, fix, to anchor. She couldn't breathe. Her eyelids twitched, the sour taste of worries settling on her tongue.

It was time. Sunny wanted this. She wanted it, and her knees were shaking. She stepped out from behind the counter.

"Karen." "Sunny," Karen muttered back, the corners of her lips twitching in a smile she hadn't let out. As usual, she took the corner seat at the bar—the one usually occupied by Matthew. "You look..." "I look like what? Like, I hadn't slept in a week? Like, I can't live with myself? Like the worst person in the entirety of New York? All of the above?" "I meant to keep it at 'like a piece of fucking shit,'" Karen declared, snickering. It made Sunny smile as she turned to fetch Karen's cup. She stilled for a beat. Oh, right. Matt's usual cup was the first to go during Sunny's rampage. Karen's cup was right after.

"That works too," Y/N hummed, nodding before picking up her personal cup—elegant with golden rimming, one anyone but Sunny was allowed to touch. The cup was passing down to Karen now. And Karen was well aware. "I would've imagined Foggy would tag along? Just in case you'd have an insatiable urge to choke me? Which I wouldn't even blame you for."

Karen offered a small, tired smile before glancing around the café. It was homely, familiar, and surprisingly still felt like safety, the friend group's hangout spot that Karen loved deeply. "Foggy's dealing with Matt. At least he's trying to, from what I've heard. He wanted me to check in on you, though..." Karen paused, her voice dropping lower and smoother. "Okay, yeah. I wanted to check on you; figured I should see you myself. I was worried about you, you know? And you hadn't even... called or texted."

They shared a beat of silence. Karen's genuine worry and friendship felt like a right hook. With everything Matthew admitted... with what Sunny admitted, Karen should've hated them both. Instead, she came to the cafe and scolded Sunny because she was worried about her. For fuck's sake. Y/N let out a long breath and stepped aside the espresso maker, tearing up, sniffling into the sleeve of her sweater.

In Sunny's scenario, Karen was raging—yelling at the top of her lungs, blaming her for destroying her little fairytale. And instead? Absolution. Care. Love. A kind smile to go along with it.

"I don't... I don't even know what to say, Karen. This is... is all so messed up. And it's my fault. I fucked it up, fucked everything up. For everyone. For you, Foggy..." She didn't add 'for Matthew', but the flicker of Sunny's eyes conveyed the sentiment clearly. Karen didn't move for a moment. She simply studied Y/N's face with lips slightly parted and an inquiring look in her eyes. Then, she let the trench slip off her shoulders—she sat across Y/N, but not too far away. The warmth was still there, despite everything.

"Sunny..." "This is freaking me out, Karen. Can you... I don't know. Scream? Throw a cup or two? Anything?" "Stop," Karen hissed, quiet but deadly—it made Y/N stand straight, waiting for the confrontation. "I crossed that bridge already. You should see what I've done to Matt's desk." Karen smiled, eyes shooting up to Sunny to see her reaction. "Knowing you? Fuck, Sunny, you'd love it... I think." "This is not how this is supposed to go, Karen." "No. You don't have to say anything. You don't owe me shit. Don't explain a mess that wasn't only yours to make. I just... wanted to see you, make sure you're okay." Karen's eyes landed on Y/N's palms, forcefully gripping the counter. "You're not hiding from me, are you?" Sunny slowly glanced up, shaking her head slightly. "I don't do hiding, Karen. I'm just making sure to keep things from going off the rails, ensuring the situation won't get worse than it already is."

The blonde nodded, chuckling dryly. The weight hung between them, but neither seemed eager to dive into it.

"I've been talking to Foggy," Karen muttered after a pause, looking away as Y/N resumed her usual cup of coffee. "A lot, over the past few weeks. And we both agreed you're not the problem here. Matthew's the one who should've acted like the grown-up, not you. Foggy, he's... worried for you too, you know?" "Foggy knows I'm fine." "You hadn't insulted his hairstyle in two weeks," Karen hummed, tilting her head. "If things were normal, I'd be sure you're running for a record. But when things are like this." "I'm fine." Sunny insisted, furrowing. "I'm... okay. Doing good." "Have you seen him lately?" Karen wondered quietly, playing with a nearby sugar jar and the coffee spoon sticking out. "Is he still showing up after close like he used to?" "So... That's who you think I am, huh?"

There it was. There it, finally, fucking was. The accusation was dressed in velvet. What Karen meant: 'You're still seeing him, aren't you?' 'You're a little slippery eel, huh?' 'This was the endgame the entire time, wasn't it?'

"What are you talking about, Sunny?" Karen scoffed nervously, hunching her shoulders to appear smaller. "You just insinuated..." Karen snapped her eyes at Sunny. "I didn't insinuate anything." "But you should, because it was my fault," Sunny hissed, finally cracking. "And there's always two sides to..." "No." Karen turned Y/N down quickly, resolutely. There it was. The hurt turned into anger. And Karen? She was fuming. But not in Y/N's direction.

"Listen, no matter how much would I loved for that asshole to eat it all up..." Y/N laughed, her voice unsteady and weak. Karen grinned. "Don't play the devil's advocate." "There are always two sides to a coin," Y/N argued, standing her ground. "Even though I've thought about it a million times and don't know what more I could do to keep him at arm's length... There must've been something that I was doing to keep Matthew—I don't know—keep his hopes up. It might've been a phrase, a look, anything, but I'm not innocent."

"No matter how much I appreciate you trying to own your share of blame," Karen started slowly, her blue eyes rising to Y/N with conviction. "This is, in fact, Matthew's mess. You've done your damndest to avoid this, and yet? He pushed through. Like the hard-ass idiot he is. Chasing stars when you informed him they'd never be in his reach. This had very little to do with you." "I'm the cause, Karen." "And he's the one who acted." Karen banged her palm on the wooden counter, taking a deep breath as she realized she had overstretched it.

Sunny looked down, her fingers tracing the plating under Karen's coffee mug. She wanted to apologize, but realized it was too complicated for a simple 'sorry' to solve anything. There was more going on than just Matt. This was about Sunny and Karen, too. By proxy, even about her and Foggy. They as a whole. As friends... family.

"It doesn't feel like that, though. I was just trying to—fuck, I don't know what I was trying to do, okay?" Sunny's voice was meek as she looked up, like a child attempting dishonesty for the first time. "I just didn't want to hurt anyone, okay? You know that, right?" Karen's eyes softened, but a quiet pain still hid inside. She leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet but firm. "I know. I know you didn't mean to, Sunny." There was a beat of silence.

"I just thought Matt and I had something... real. I thought we were solid." Karen's eyes dropped to the counter for a beat. When she looked back up, they were glassy. "I didn't realize I was the second option after he shot his shot with you—that I was the consolation prize." Her voice caught slightly, then steadied. "And knowing you were the one who nudged him to ask me out?" She laughed once, bitterly. "Knowing you sent him to me right after you nearly fucked in our office?" A beat of silence. "Yeah," she said, voice low. "I'll admit—that stung."

So... Karen knew about the night. About Sunny and Matthew. About what they've nearly done. Karen knew about the few hasty kisses that could've led to damnation... the kisses that felt like knocking on heaven's gates and deepest pits of hell. Did Y/N tell her when she was drunk, or did Matthew finally own it after months of hiding it? Did Foggy know? He'd bring it up, no? No? Because if he knew... Sunny nearly threw up at the thought alone.

Sunny swallowed loudly and clearly, putting Karen's usual in front of her, guilt tightening her throat. Another anxiety attack set off in her chest, another wave of tears in her eyes as she blinked rapidly, her pressure rising exponentially. Sunny's mouth opened and closed again, no words coming out. She wished to say something apologetic and comforting, but nothing could make things better. None of what she could say wouldn't paint Sunny as the scum of the Earth. She was the cause of the disctrucion, she wasn't blameless—she fucking orchestrated it.

The silence was thick, but Karen broke it. She shook her head, laughing softly at herself.

"I'm not mad at you, dummy. Not really." Karen paused, as if testing her own words. "It's just... he does this." She leaned her elbows on the counter, eyes far away now. "The night Matt cracked and let me take the first step? That wasn’t the first time I made a move on him, you know?" A soft scoff escaped her. "Back when I shot my first shot... You weren’t even in the picture yet. Not for me, anyway." Her gaze sharpened again, like she was replaying it all in her head. "And he turned me down that night. Said he had 'someone else on his mind.’" She nodded slowly to herself, lips pressed in a tight line. "Should’ve left it as it was."

"But I was stupid enough to come back for a second round. And a third. And I should've known better." Karen nodded to herself. "When he just said 'okay'? I should've been more vigilant. Because you and him?" Karen huffed a soft laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Looking back now… you two were really fucking obvious. God, I missed your coffee so fucking much." "You have every right to be mad at me." Sunny landed up, a little confused. "I should be furious, yeah. But the thing is, I can't be mad at you, Sunny. Not when it's Matt. Not when I know how he operates, when he's the one who fucks everyone over." There was a beat of silence. "I was pissed. I'm still pissed. But he... He's just like this. Selfish, broken, doesn't have his shit togeter. It's not just you; it's him also."

Y/N sat down on her stool, watching Jas deal with the pleasantries. The internal conflict was evident. "I didn't want him to get hurt when I turned him down, you see? I... I tried not to... but then—" She paused for a second, deep in her thought, frowning. "I didn't think it'd backfire, not like this. He was just... there, y'know? I didn't want to stop it... Stop him. I wanted it. But it didn't feel right. We didn't feel right. But you two did." "I'm not as perfect as you like to think, Sunny." Karen hummed. "Right, you're more than that." "You don't owe me an explanation for him. Or for what happened between you two." Karen reached out for her palm, squeezing it with hers softly. Sunny’s face fell. Her mouth opened like she might speak, but nothing came. Her throat clicked in silence. "It's not just about him and what happened. It's about us, too. About the friendship we have. And we've been friends for too long for me to be mad at you for trying to do what you assumed was right."

"I sold you like a piece of meat, Karen," Y/N muttered, voice trembling, first tear rolling down her cheek. "Yeah, well... It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't wanted it, would it?" Karen opposed. "I made decision after decision that let me lose everything with a clean fucking cut." Sunny scoffed and looked away. Her fingers twitched, then closed around Karen’s wrist—something to hold onto. Something real.

"Yeah. And guess who had to sit across from him pretending it didn’t gut me?” Karen caught herself and exhaled slowly. "Sorry. That wasn’t fair. What I was gonna say is... You haven't lost me, Sunny. Not yet. And Foggy's there, too. And, even though you hate hearing it, Matt's also waiting for your next step, I bet." Karen cleared her throat, sighing. "You're dealing with your mess, but don't think you've lost us. You're my best friend—that someone I call when shit goes south. And I worked too damn hard to tear your walls down to just let go. Even though I see why you were so damn unapproachable now..."

"I was just..." Sunny breathed, shaking her head. Karen paused. She watched her friend, shoulders hunched, trembling fingers around her wrist. "You really cared about him, didn’t you?" Sunny didn’t answer. Karen’s voice dipped low, almost a whisper. "Then why didn’t you go for it?" That landed. Heavy. Too honest. But it was already out there

Karen gave a humorless laugh, eyes glassy. "And it stung, didn't it?" Sunny blinked at her. "...What?" "Seeing someone you're pinning after with somebody else. It’s brutal." Karen exhaled through her nose, her voice calmer now, almost too casual. "And now imagine dating that person. Watching them slowly come alive for someone else." She looked down, a thumb running absentmindedly along her cup. "Someone who fits better. Who sees all the same ghosts and still wants to stay."

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Karen cut in gently, not looking at her. "You had a shot with him, Sunny." "...Karen—" "You had him," Karen repeated, her voice almost kind. "So... why didn’t you hold on?" "Because I'm not a good fit... Not for him... For anyone. I don't have anything to show up for." "But you have Foggy. Us. The café. You never owned up to owning the café before you drank your ass off, Sunny," Karen mumbled, sending Y/N a soft frown. "You always downplay everything you achieved, even yourself. Isn't that a shame? Because what I see before me is a wonderful, hilarious, and intelligent woman who fucking owns the world."

"I don't deserve you saying that," Sunny shook her head violently before turning away. "Karen, I don't even know what I'm doing. Never really figured out who I'm supposed to be." "And who the fuck did? People who pretend they have it all figured out are liars," Karen whispered, tearing up, too. "None of us knows what we're doing, Sunny. That doesn't change; we're both here. And we're both worth the attention and everything we got." She leaned forward, a sour smile on her lips. "We worked for it. You don't have it all figured out. Just... don't push me away. Not over him. Not over this."

There was still so much to solve, but this was enough for now. A closing Y/N so desperately searched for. Better than anything she had hoped for. Enough for Y/N to walk around the counter and hug Karen firmly, clinging to her for her dear life. And Karen held her just as tight. None of this would be easy, but they were holding on. And that counted for something.

After ten minutes of casual chatting and catching up, Karen picked herself up to leave—her queue to hit the office. And as she paused by the door, she looked back at Sunny with a warm smile. "Take care of yourself, okay? Don't let this mess you up more than it already has. It's not worth it. It'll all work out in the end." "...Only if you will." "There she is," Karen hummed, a pleased smile on her lips. "My favorite smart-ass." "You'r so fucking lucky I won't tell Foggy you said that." "Wouldn't you look at that? She's feisty too." Karen snickered, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. "I missed you." "Yeah, yeah. Just go already, Page, before you inflate my ego too much. It's enjoyable, but yannow what they say..." "Wouldn't love nothing more." Karen sang as she left, waving at Y/N, smiling widely at her.

Foggy showed up a few days later, looking as if he’d come from the ends of the earth. The last espresso shot whirred out with a tired groan. Sunny leaned against the counter like she owned the place, of course, which she did.

But today? She wanted to play pretend and fully embrace the part of a disgruntled employee. Her fingers tapped an absent rhythm against her half-finished drink, eyes flicking to the door like she was waiting for a ghost. And she was waiting for one.

She was waiting for Matthew Murdock. His presence lingered. His absence was loud. The last untangled thread. The last issue left unsolved. The last conversation that needed to be had. Or, to use the correct term, it was an argument waiting to happen, looming on the horizon like a storm.

The conversation she had with Karen? The absolution she had found? It tightened their friendship. Now, said friendship ascended into sisterhood.

Sunny and Karen phoned daily now, sent each other cat videos (to give Y/N credibility as said disgruntled employee), and went out for a glass of wine two times a week. For the first time in a while, Y/N felt… good about herself. Confident, even. If Matt came crawling back now, asking for another chance, maybe she’d entertain it. Maybe. The idea shouldn’t have felt like a temptation, but here she was, thinking about it.

And suddenly, Foggy arrived, sending Sunny a tired nod, his body slouched with exhaustion. Franklin Nelson, her best friend. He approached just as Y/N giggled over a video Karen had sent her a few minutes ago. Despite his usually carefully curated visage, he looked dishevelled, like someone running on exhaustion, guilt, Red Bull, and caffeine. His hair was windblown, tie half-undone, and he wore the face of a man who's been through seven special kinds of hell and got kicked out of the eighth. He looked like he had sprinted into the café and immediately forgotten why.

Y/N didn't bother looking up from her phone as she mindlessly scrolled down her Instagram page. "Well, if it isn't Hell's Kitchen's most overworked manchild? You look like a rejected extra from Law & Order," she crunched her nose. "Fuck, you smell like one too." Foggy deadpanned as he approached the counter. He took his usual seat with a heavy sigh. "If only. At least then I'd get a catering table and someone to explain what the hell is going on with my main co-star." He planted his hands on the counter like he might physically hold himself together that way.

Y/N finally moved—she raised an eyebrow. "Matt finally started ghosting you, too? Cute. I was starting to think I was special. He hadn't bothered picking up my calls for a few weeks now, didn't even bother listening to a single voicemail." "Yeah, and if I know you—and I do—most of those voicemails probably sounded like a death threat. I’d be hiding under the bed if I were him," Foggy said, forcing a dry chuckle as he watched Y/N prepare his usual coffee. "Touché." Y/N murmured. "He's vanished, Sunny. And I mean—vanished. No texts, no calls, no 'Hey, I'm going through a moral and mental breakdown again' post-it on the door, no Facebook updates, just... radio silence. I even tried knocking at his door, which felt weirdly domestic." Foggy looked up to her as if she had answers. Y/N's lips curled into a horseshoe as she nodded dryly. "He wasn't home. The door was locked, but I'd swear I heard someone inside."

"Well," Y/N then snickered as she sipped her coffee, unimpressed and unfazed. "I didn't get a memo either, so unless he joined a cult or found God again, we're all equally screwed. Karen said she hadn't seen or heard of him in weeks." "Impossible to rule out either." Foggy sighed, rubbing his eyes like it was all starting to blur together—the casework, the disappearing act, the emotional whiplash. "So what, Fogster?" Y/N muttered while leaning in, tilting her head to the side cockily. Her tone was sharp. "You came here hoping I'd give you his GPS coordinates? Or just wanted the comfort of mediocre coffee and my sparkling fucking personality?"

Foggy smirked, shaking his head. As Y/N leaned back behind the counter, she pushed a piece of chocolate cake his way. Foggy opened his mouth to argue... to see a middle finger as he looked up. Sunny was, again, absentmindedly staring into her phone. "Came mostly the personality. The free pastry and coffee are a bonus. Also, I figured if anyone's got a bat signal for Matt, it's you." "Wow. What an honor," Y/N gasped sourly, mockingly. "And here I thought I was just the emotionally neglected side piece of his disappearing act or the one who tried to pull head out of his ass... unsuccessfully, mind you." "C'mon, that's just mean," Foggy muttered against his better judgment.

Matthew fucked up... and he was also aware that hell would break loose once he stood before Sunny. That's what Matt was terrified of: talking to her. Resolving the issues. Arguing again. Admitting this was something more than simple physical attraction. Therefore, Foggy didn't mean to fuel Sunny's fire any further. But... Sadly for Matt, she did that on her own.

Foggy and Matt... They've talked a lot before Matt vanished. Day after day, Foggy chipped at Matt's defense, question after question, silence after silence, jab after jab. Foggy was pissed it Matthew. So fucking pissed. But... Matt was his best friend, still. They discussed the events of the last year. Everything that happened, everything Matthew wanted and thought about, was what Matt was desperately running away from. About how Y/N was bringing Matthew to the verge of insanity. And about how Matt tried to be a good soldier, listened to orders and restrictions, and followed her wishes. Even fell in love with Karen for a few passing months. And how Matt, for the love of God, tried to stay strong. But Sunny broke him each time, without fail.

Foggy had forgiven Matt. Mostly. But he knew it wasn’t enough. Sunny needed closure, and Matt wasn’t going to give it up. Push and pull. Again and again. "It’s how Matt copes, Sunny. It’s not intentional. Or at least… I don’t think it is," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in frustration..

"No, he just ghosts anyone who gives a damn. Same thing, really," Y/N shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She took a sip of her coffee, eyebrows raised. "You did that too, Y/N. Hypocrite much?" "But I came around." Sunny hissed back. "It’s like he thinks asking for help is a sin. Like his Catholic guilt will crush him if he admits he’s not okay… but then he’s gone before he has to deal with it," Foggy said, his voice dropping into something that wasn’t quite humor anymore. He chewed the chocolate cake slowly, lost in his thoughts.

"Newsflash, counselor—Matthew Murdock, your boss and best buddy, was never okay. This man treats emotional intimacy like it's a goddamn virus. And guess what? I'm out of fucking gloves." "Sunny..." Foggy sighed softly with his typical Foggy warmth.

"No, seriously, Fogster," Sunny exhaled, "I've been doing the whole 'wait for him to come around' thing," Sunny threw out her palms, running them through her hair as she breathed deeply. "I even tried to be nice. I'm pretending I don't wanna stomp him into the ground. I call and text persistently. I begged him to talk. I promised I'd keep it together, no yelling, no anger… just a conversation to figure out where the hell we stand.... And for what?" She cleared her throat, looking away, rolling her eyes. "So he can disappear the second it gets hard? When's the time to apologize and face his own mess? Deal with the consequences of his own fucking actions? No, Foggy, I'm not doing that. None of that." She scoffed, tossing her hair out of her face like she was also trying to shake Matt off.

"Look, Sunny, I'm not saying you should wait. Everything you feel is valid. I'm just saying... don't pretend you don't care. Stop pretending it doesn't concern you," Foggy muttered tiredly. "You're awful at it, especially with him." "Oh, no, I'm great at it. Shut up." Y/N quipped, both smiling sadly. "...Fuck, I'm a whole ass mess. Aren't I?" "Yeah, but it’s your mess. You thrive in chaos, even when it’s self-inflicted." Franklin sighed, leaning into his chair to look Y/N in the eyes. "It's your default. But honestly? Pretending you're a heartless bitch is way more functional than whatever cryptic monk routine Matt's pulling." Y/N grinned despite her best attempt at resisting. "That's the nicest insult I've gotten all week. Thanks, buddy." "Anytime. I'm great at those when I'm not portraying the role of a confused, forgotten best friend."

"Do you..." Y/N whispered after a moment, thoughtful. "Do you think he'll come back? I mean, what happened was fucked up, but we can get through it. We can talk about it, y'know? Or... is this his new persona? Part-time ghost and full-time martyr? Might get the girls going when he's blind, on top of that." "When it comes to Matt? Flip a coin, break a mirror, light a candle. That's about as good as it gets." Foggy shrugged—his worries were visible despite his dry humor. Y/N leaned into the counter, her voice dipping into something raw and honest. "Cool. So I'll keep making coffee and pretending I don't check the door every five seconds like a lovesick Victorian widow." "Hey," Foggy leaned in with a smile. "At least your cappuccino slaps." "Damn right it does."

They shared a chuckle, quiet and tired. It didn't fix anything, but it made the weight easier to carry. Y/N playfully nudged Foggy's shoulder, sending him a small smile. "Guess that makes us the unofficial heartbreak club. You bring the lawyer tears, I'll bring the espresso, and Karen will be our mascot since she's the prettiest of the three of us." Foggy, as a champ, raised his coffee like a toast. "To messy hearts and overpriced prosecco." "And the assholes who don't deserve either," she whispered, clinking her mug with his.

There was a pause as they watched the life unravel around them. The café hummed, soft and steady, like it held a breath for both of them.

Y/N’s gaze drifted toward the door, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her coffee mug. The sound of the milk frothing in the back, the low conversations filling the air—it all felt distant, like she was hearing it underwater. Everything was static, but the tension between her and Foggy was so palpable it could suffocate her. Foggy noticed her change in energy. She was still, too still, her expression clouding over with something unsaid, but deeply felt. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, and in that silence, Foggy could almost hear the weight pressing on her chest.

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely—a subtle thing, a breath that didn’t quite reach her lungs all the way. She exhaled slowly, as if trying to release the heaviness that was piling up inside of her. She glanced at Foggy, and her eyes, despite the quiet, betrayed everything. He wasn’t sure if she was afraid or frustrated, but whatever it was, it was gnawing at her, eating her alive.

After a long beat, she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, "Do you think he'll come back?"

Foggy paused, his heart sinking at the fragility in her voice. It wasn't a question she'd asked before—not like this. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was broken open, vulnerable. The kind of vulnerability Matt didn’t know how to handle, the kind Y/N had been hiding behind the sarcasm and bravado.

"Do you think he's coming back?" she repeated, quieter now, almost to herself. Foggy didn’t know how to answer that. He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch out, unsure of what would fix this. His thoughts circled around Matt, around their friendship, around everything that had gone wrong.

Y/N looked down, blinking hard as she seemed to gather herself. She exhaled sharply. "I'm done waiting for Matthew to crawl out of his guilt-ridden man cave like some trauma-soaked soldier," she muttered, standing up suddenly. The movement was decisive—almost like she was forcing herself to move before her resolve crumbled under its own weight.

Foggy didn't move. He watched as Sunny undid her apron by muscle memory, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked, but not enough for anyone else to notice. There was something deeply final about the way she moved now, like this moment, this step, was all that was left. "Sunny—" he started, voice quiet, trying to stop her from doing something impulsive, but she shook her head before he could finish. "No, Fogster," she said softly, her voice flat. "I'm not going there to cry or beg or ask if he still wants me because I know he does."

Foggy froze, but Y/N kept going, furrowing and fidgeting with all the anger and confusion. "He wants me. He always has and never really stopped. And that's the damn problem. He wants everything, all and at once—me, Karen, you, Claire, redemption, punishment, control, chaos... But the second it stops fitting into his little compartments of right and wrong, Murdock bolts. And somehow, we're the ones left feeling like we did something wrong." She took a breath, steadier now, letting the stress out.

"I'm not going to tell him he's broken. Because he isn't," Sunny shook her head, her fingers wrapping around the back of Foggy's chair. She smiled, somber and quiet. "I'm going to tell him he's selfish and stubborn and a pain in the ass. Because he is. And I'll tell him, loud and clear, that I'm not just gonna sit in this café pretending I wasn't part of what he's actively attempting to leave behind." Foggy didn’t answer. He just watched, eyes full of quiet grief and awe, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

He'd never seen her actively pushing against something in such a vulnerable, poetic way. Usually, she'd just chug it to Matt being a dick and leave it at that. It wasn’t about love, or sex, or even the relationship. It was about friendship. And some damn fucking respect.

She looked at Foggy, softening a little. "I know I'm not the easiest person to want... I'm messy and loud, and I give away cake I should charge double for." "That's why we like you," Foggy argued back, making her chuckle. "But he was trying. And I kept turning him down—my ego, issues, whatever. Because Matt's not easy to want either. And I never asked him to want me. But I want to ask him to finally own it, own me with all my shit, problems and bagagge. And if he can't... then at least I said my piece."

She walked past Foggy, feeling his eyes on her back. She paused at the door, watching the world outside move on, unbothered, unaware, and uncaring. It was just another day in Hell's Kitchen. The world didn't stop for her, Matt Murdock, heartbreak, or drama. It didn't really matter. In the large scale of the universe, they meant nothing. And yet, everything rode on this moment and the upcoming conversation. Her fucking universe threthened to fall apart.

"And if he dodges me again? I swear to God, I’ll throw a brick through his window and bring whiskey to toast the wreckage. I’m done chasing ghosts." Foggy nodded, furrowing a bit. Then, he lifted his coffee in a mock salute, barely holding back a smile. "Give him hell." "Oh, I intend to," Y/N smirked, half-hearted but real.

She stepped into the street—hellbent, exhausted, furious, and full of the clarity that only comes after chasing someone too long without ever saying it out loud. This wasn't about getting him back. It was about finally showing up for herself, to prove her self-worth.

Y/N’s boots echoed sharply against the sidewalk as she cut through Hell’s Kitchen, every step laced with purpose. The city didn’t care—still alive with tourists, street vendors, and flashes of culture that felt distant and irrelevant to the storm in her chest. Yellow cabs hissed past. The sun had started its slow descent, casting the streets in that golden-hour haze where everything felt a little too cinematic to be real.

She'd spent the entire walk crafting a speech. Something about how Matt needed to fix things with Karen, stop ghosting his own emotions, call Foggy back, and quit acting like the world’s pain was his personal burden to carry. How he needed to stop being such a damn idiot. How she was finally—finally—ready for him. Ready to let him in. Or walk away for good.

Her pace quickened as his building came into view. Her fists clenched at her sides, not in anger but in anticipation. This was it. No more circles. No more ghosts. She was going to put the truth on the table and make him choose—step up or step aside. No more spiraling. No more silence. Tonight, she would either fix this or let it burn.

She pressed the buzzer at the front entrance, her nerves suddenly flaring in her stomach. A moment passed, and the door creaked open. And when it did, Sunny's index was pointed right at the person standing in them, nostrils wide and voice halfway loaded with a snarl. "Matthew Michael Murdock, you absolute prick, I swear to God if you don't explain why I've been calling you for three weeks without a single text back, I'm kicking your balls..." She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at a strange woman standing in Matthew's doorframe.

She was striking, with dark curly hair and stormy eyes. One that'd kick your ass without lifting a finger. And she was... covered in blood. It was on her hands, t-shirt, jeans, and even smeared on her face, accompanying her frown. And it wasn't just a few drops. The woman was soaked in it. Sunny saw maps and drips of the liquid smeared and splattered across the wooden floor. She blinked, taking a step back, trying to process what she saw.

The apartment, usually so simplistic, bright, clean, and neat? It was messy, reeking of pain, blood, chaos, and fear. The smell of copper, iron, and dust lingered. It was dark, empty, laced in darkness—this was nothing like the Matt Y/N'd known.

The woman's gaze was sharp, and though she seemed unbothered, Sunny's mind went off the rails instantly. She was distressed and confused and barely grasped the view. "What the fuck?" Sunny asked, her voice shaky though her anger was bubbling on the surface. "Is Matt... even here?" "You’re the one who's not supposed to be here. Not at this hour, not now." The woman hissed back, closing the door a bit. "What do you want here?" "You—are you his newest...?" Sunny's voice cracked, unsure if it was jealousy, panic, or pure confusion. "Jesus. Of course. I was so fucking stupid." "Excuse me?"

That tipped the scales. Sunny took in a breath, and something within her... it broke. She was furious. Her entire plan was already falling apart, and here was this bloodied stranger standing between her and Matt. "Where is he, then? And who are you? What is going on here?" Sunny demanded, not caring to hide the irritation. The woman didn’t answer right away. She just tilted her head like she was trying to remember a dream. "I’ve seen you… Once or twice," she finally said. "Oh, yeah?" Y/N scoffed in return, nearly hysterical. "That's cute." "You’re... the barista," Claire muttered, recognizing her. "Figures. Matthew, he has... pictures of you and your friends. All over the place, actually." The woman sighed and let the door go, walking inside the flat and plopping a fresh pair of plastic gloves on. "God knows what for," she muttered, her eyes lingering on Sunny just a beat too long. "It's not like he can see them."

Sunny flinched. She didn’t know what stung more—what the woman said or how easily she said it. "Is he hurt?" Sunny whispered, finally catching the scent of iron and fear. "What happened in here?" The blood wasn’t just on the floor—it was drying in ugly handprints on the wall. A streak across the kitchen tiles. A smear on the couch. The whole apartment reeked like copper and sweat and smoke. Like someone had screamed, and no one came. Sunny’s brain lagged. It wasn’t just a few drops. There were patterns of it. Trails and spatters. It was still wet.

The air hit her next. A thick, metallic tang that clung to her tongue and stuck to the roof of her mouth. She blinked hard, the dim apartment making her eyes strain to adjust. The familiar corners of Matt’s place, once so clean and curated, were gone beneath the carnage. The floor was stained. The coffee table askew. There was a jacket half-draped over a chair, torn and dark with something that hadn’t dried yet.

Sunny’s stomach rolled. She took a step back, the toe of her boot skimming something sticky. A chill shot up her spine. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room.

"Matt?" Sunny cried out weakly. Her voice trembled, and tears formed in her eyes. No answer. Just a faint, wet sound—air scraping against blood. And then, she stopped, dead in her tracks, her eyes popped open. Sunny didn't see him at first. She'd heard him wheezing and fighting for air before seeing his silhouette—he'd blended into the couch, dressed in all back and covered in sticky, hardened, congealing blood.

It was him.

Matthew—bleeding out on his fucking couch. Stirring, hissing with pain, growling quietly. The couch was soaked. Black in the dim lighting. He looked awful. Worse than awful. The man she’d known as the sharp, witty, blind lawyer was… broken. His face was bruised, his clothes torn, and his breathing labored.

This wasn't Matthew but someone entirely else.

Matt lay atop the couch, blending in, half out of his suit, mask off, but the upper part still on, torn from force, cut in places. Someone had swung a knife at Matt, clearly attempting to kill him. A gash, dark and ugly, painted his side like something biblical. The room stank of iron, sweat, and something darker—desperation and fear.

The stranger sat beside him. She was calm, capable. Wearing scrubs and rubber gloves like this was just another Tuesday. She didn't look up, her fingers working on Matt's side.

The stranger was stitching Matthew up with a concentrated furrow, her hands steady. She didn't even look up at Y/N. "Close the damn door. We don't need the neighbors noticing or seeing what Murdock's up to." Sunny didn’t move, just stared at Matt, then at the woman, then back again. "What the fuck is this?" she whispered. The woman sighed. "What does it look like?"

"Who even are you?" "Huh?" The woman grumbled, shooting Y/N a cold stare. "The door. Close it. Now." "Are you his... girlfriend? Is that it?" Y/N shot instead, her anger bubbling beneath the surface. She didn't know why, but she couldn't stop the words from spilling out.

The woman exhaled, stretching her neck before finally answering. "I'm Claire," she replied, her tone flat. "And I'm the one who's been patching him up. He's a stubborn fucking idiot who knows well that showing up in a hospital would lead to federal charges. He's been a real pain in my ass. Now, please, close the door." Y/N stopped but nodded and slowly walked back to the entrance, sealing it shut before begrudgingly walking back to the scene of a—literal—crime.

"I—" Y/N stumbled, heat rising in her throat. "I came to scream at him, and you weren't supposed to be here. This wasn't supposed to be here." "Yeah, well, he wasn't supposed to get stabbed in the ribs either, but here we are." Claire wiped more blood from his abdomen like she's already done it a hundred times. "Whatever you came to talk about? Wave it goodbye. He's not in a state to talk, let alone think. Help me or get out.''

"S-stabbed in the ribs?" Y/N stuttered, leaning into the kitchen sink as she processed Claire's statement. "Like actually stabbed?" "No. He's just pretending to be bleeding out, of course. This ensemble cost us a fortune, didn't it, Matt?" Claire clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes. "Listen. I know it's a lot to handle for one evening, but do us both a favor and either be useful or leave." "You're joking." Y/N scoffed, pieces slowly falling together. "You're fucking joking. He's the... guy. The one the news writes about. The... Devil guy or whoever." Y/N took in a shaky, panicked breath. "It's him."

Claire wanted to throw in another jab, but Matt stirred under her palms, deliriously turning his head around, locating something. Claire tried to push him down to the couch, but his upper body was dangling in the air... his senses betrayed him. It was like he heard her. On all sides. Everywhere. All at once.

"Sunny?" Her name on his lips was broken, barely conscious.

"He's delirious. Don't take it personally." Claire muttered, glancing up sharply. "It's extremely personal, though," Y/N whispered, slowly dropping her coat and crossing the room, kneeling next to Claire. Sunny's hands hovered as she watched Claire still holding the needle—she didn't know where to begin. She locked eyes with Claire. "Are you his nurse? What do you want me to do? What am I supposed to..." "Take his hand and hold it. He blabbers about you each time he's nearly passed out. Mumbles your name like a damn prayer." Claire announced, fast and harsh, not giving Y/N any choice. "No. I’m not his girlfriend. God forbid. I’m just the idiot who keeps stitching him up every time he decides to play martyr."

Sunny exhaled through her nose, her chest aching before she dragged the tips of her fingers across his palm—it was deathly cold, sticky with sweat. And yet, she carefully squeezed it between her fingers. "So, it's real then? There's a blind guy who beats up all the goons, thugs and rapists in the still of night? All of it?" Sunny wondered, her other palm carefully tracing the back of Matt's head. It was covered with black cloth, hiding away most of his face. His lips opened and closed as he gasped for air." Claide nodded. "All of it."

Matt reached for Sunny again, his fingers tracing her wrist. "Y/n... Didn't want... You to know..." "Oh, I bet you didn't, you insolent prick," she muttered bitterly, but she still grabbed a rag that Claire pressed to her palm wordlessly. "Let me guess. Guilt? Self-sacrifice? A bad case of the 'I'm too broken to be loved'? You can fucking choose, you idiot." Claire hummed, watching Y/N closely. Then: "He's lucky you're here... that he has you around." "Yeah, well," Sunny pressed the rag to his side, ignoring how warm he still felt, even bleeding out. "He's so much luckier than he deserves."

Matt groaned as they shifted him around. His hand latched onto Y/N's forearm with surprising strength for someone half-conscious. Claire's gloves snapped off as she grabbed the med kit. The stab wound was sewn together, and the rag in Y/N's palms was soaked with blood, dripplets falling to the wooden floor. The scar was to be bulky and ugly, but at least he wasn't bleeding out.

"Okay, Romeo, hands to yourself. You're not dying that fast." Claire muttered, passing gauze like she's done this blindfolded a thousand times before. "If you keep reaching for her like you're in a Nicholas Sparks movie, I'm tranquilizing you for my benefit and her convenience." Y/N swallowed hard. Matt's fingers weren't letting go—his grip was trembling but insistent and unrelenting.

"I'm here," Sunny mumbled, leaning in close as Claire nodded, diving in with the medkit. She pressed her forehead to his just as he groaned through gritted teeth. "Jesus, Matthew, you fathead... what the hell did you do to yourself?" "She knows," Matt mumbled, like it was the worst confession of his life. His head searched for Claire, lips parted as he gasped for air. "Claire, didn't want her to—Sunny—wasn't supposed to... know." "Yeah, well, you've bled on the furniture and ruined the fucking mystique, idiot," Y/N snapped, then grabbed his jaw lightly, forcing his head toward hers. "You fucking idiot. You could've died."

Claire scoffed, raising a brow. "You really don't hold back, do you? It turns him on. Mentioned it here and there while bleeding out." "I've had weeks to plan this monologue," Sunny gritted, finally slipping the mask off to brush the damp curls off his head. His skin was unhealthily pale, his cheeks slightly hollowed. They were drenched in ice-cold sweat. His eyes, even though dysfunctional, felt empty that night. "But I didn't expect it to be so... slurred."

Matt groaned again, half a wince, half a laugh. Claire popped a protein bar and a bottle of electrolytes on the table next to him. "He hadn't eaten in two days. Won't take it from me. Try your luck." Y/N eyed her, palm still playing with Matt's hair.

Worse than that, there was a batch of fresh clothes laid on the side and a whole package of moisture wipes. "... You mean to feed him like a Victorian wife?" Sunny muttered humorlessly. Claire shrugged and scoffed. "Surely showed up with the energy of one."

Y/N stared for a bit, then ripped open the bar with her teeth and broke off a piece. "Fine. But if he bites me, I'm smothering him with a pillow." Matt blinked, his head nuzzling toward Sunny's chest—he closed his eyes, humming, as if he searched for something and just found it. "...you're real mad, huh." Sunny didn't answer straight away, just snorted and looked aside, trying to keep her cool. "I'm actively not screaming because you're leaking vital fluids, Matthew. If you weren't half-dead, I'd've been putting you through the wall."

Matt opened his mouth, letting her shove in the food because he couldn't figure out anything smug to save his life. "Chew," Y/N barked, and Matthew? Obeyed without a word. Claire bit back a smile as she taped fresh gauze over a stitched gash. "This is the weirdest rom-com I've ever been third-wheeling." "I'm not... " Y/N started, then stopped, letting out a defeated sigh.

Her voice was sharp with something that tasted like grief. "I didn't come here to do this... Didn't want to be here like this." "I know," Claire chirped simply. "But you are." They exchanged a glance. Quiet understanding. "Next in order... you're gonna have to get him out of the rest of his... suit. He won't let me touch him." Claire announced.

Y/N stared at Claire for a bit, jaw falling open. She instinctively pushed away from Matthew's delirious form. "I'm not his..." Matt stirred, clutching at her again. His nails dug into her tender, warm skin. "Don't go." She let out a soft grunt, taking in all the pleading... the genuine desperation in his expression. He was softly gasping for air like a fish out of water, his entire upper body curling up to her chest. Like he was listening to something—some sound that grounded him and calmed him.

"And can I... Will you let me..." Sunny cleared her throat, shooting a glare at Claire. "Your scary doctor here said we need to clean you up. And I'll need to... Undress you for that. Is that okay?" "Oh, please. Like he hadn't imagined it before." Claire scoffed dryly. "Okay." Matt nodded, inhaling deeply before shooting up with a loud groan—Y/N nearly didn't have time to catch him mid-sit. Claire jolted too, catching his arm, pulling him up with one well-timed tug. Matthew whined while dragging himself through the apartment, gritting his teeth together, grinding and clenching his jaw... just so he wouldn't scream. He basically collapsed into the shower. That was Claire's cue.

"All yours now." She pointed at Matt, stretching her back with a huff. "I'll be back in the morning with antibiotics. And coffee. We'll need both." "I own a café," Y/N yelled at her, offended. "I am running solely on caffeine, stress, and bad decisions." Claire scoffed, looking down at Matt. Then, she walked herself out. "Wouldn't have guessed if I tried. Channel that energy into undressing that vigilante boyfriend, will you?" "He's not—!" Sunny growled, tossing her head back like the universe was laughing at her. And it clearly was. "I'll be right back, okay? Don't go anywhere."

She walked to the living room, taking the clothes Claire prepared—the water was already running when Y/N came back. It had begun to fog up the tiny bathroom by the time she came back. Matt crawled up the tiles, half-standing, half-holding himself up on the wall now. And he was shivering from more than the cold.

His suit had been stripped off in bloody pieces, crusted against his skin like battle-worn armor. Carefully, with quick but forceful tugs from Sunny. She always whispered a 'sorry', leaning her forehead into his shoulder blades while waiting for the immediate pain to subside. The tips of his fingers traced his skin and muscle. Matt was swaying now, barefoot, holding onto the tile wall, in a flickering bathroom light, shoulders caked with dried blood and soot.

Y/N was still in her jeans. The tank top clung to her sides from the heat and dampness of supporting him. She stepped in after him without ceremony, shoes kicked somewhere outside the door, socks forgotten on the tile. The second the water hit his skin, Matt hissed. His knees buckled. She caught him—one arm under his, the other gripping his chest, her palm pressed just over his heart.

"Jesus, Matt..." "I’m fine,” he rasped, breath hitching, "—I’m fine. Just—" "You're fucking not." Her voice was low, almost a growl filled with tears. "Shut up and let me help you, yeah?" His head tilted, nose brushing against her temple like he was trying to place her. His hair was dripping into his mouth. He looked lost, helpless, and so young, bleeding in places she hadn't reached yet.

"You're warm," he mumbled suddenly as she cleaned his throat. She stilled for a fraction before getting back. He was leaning into her, cheek pressed to her shoulder, mouth too close to her skin. "You smell like—like oranges. You always do that. Why do you do that?" "I—what?" She blinked, scoffing, shaking her head. "It's just soap, Murdock; it's not that deep." He made a noise like he didn't believe her. Like even now, half-dead, he was still taking inventory of her.

"Did you know," he mumbled, eyes half-closed as she ran her hands up his spine to rinse off the blood. "You hum when you're nervous?" Y/N's motions stopped altogether. "I heard you. In the café. After that night." "What night?" she asked softly, even though she knew. "The one where I was with Karen," he whispered. "And you told us about Brad."

Silence fell between them, all but the steady beat of water against tile. Her hands slowed, and so did her breathing. They'd reached his lower back, and she could feel the tremor in his legs... muscles giving up, body refusing to fill orders. "You hummed," Matt continued, scoffing. "When Foggy held you together, so you wouldn't fall apart. You looked at me like you were begging me not to say the wrong thing. And I said the worst thing." Y/N's voice cracked. "You were jealous, Matthew. You weren't thinking straight." "Didn't know what to do with it," he admitted, nodding, wheezing for air.

"And now? He swayed a little. "Now I'm naked in my shower, and you're fully dressed, and it feels like penance." She let out a dry, breathy laugh, forehead falling forward to press against his chest. "You're delirious. Won't even remember half of the shit you'd told me." He dropped his chin to the top of her head. "I know. But I'll remember this, though. Us. Here."

They stood there for a long time. Water rushed down on them, blood thinning out, pink-tinged rivulets spiralling toward the drain. The blood and soot disappeared, showing all the bruises that were hidden until then. Dark, violet splashes of clogged blood on his ribs, his back, abdomen, and even his thighs. His ankle looked busted. Her hands moved again—careful, efficient, almost reverent—over every cut and bruise. He let her. Didn't hide, didn't run away. Just Matt Murdock and his vigilante bullshit.

"Hey," he muttered suddenly, voice rough and wrecked. She glanced up, keeping up the motion. "I would've come to you sooner. To talk and smooth things out. But I'm a goddamn coward." She didn't answer. Didn't need to. She just tipped his head under the spray and washed the last of the blood from his hair.

Matt nearly fell getting out. She caught him again. Of course, she did. Her arm wrapped under his ribs, the towel already waiting on the sink. Matt let her manhandle him into sitting on the closed toilet lid, his face tilted to the side, eyes closed, breath coming fast and shallow like every little moment lit his nerves on fire. He was shivering now, a damp towel clutched loosely in one hand, the other arm resting against the sink as if the porcelain might stop the world from spinning.

"Let me do it," Y/N murmured, kneeling down in front of him. "I won't look. Promise." She touched his knee, softly and warmly, her nails tingling his skin. Matt scoffed, despite the fever, muscle spasms, and blood loss. His head turned toward her, his eyes lowering and darting in her approximate location. "You can." "Shut the fuck up." Y/N scoffed back, getting to work.

She dried his legs first—calves, knees, thighs—with gentle, practiced motions. Moved to his arms. Across his collarbone. Up his neck, where bruises were blooming like plum-colored secrets. "You're not gentle," he whispered, almost smiling. "You're just pretending to be." She looked up, towel still on his shoulder, covering anything deemed inappropriate. "You don't know me." "But I do," Matt argued back, voice too sure. "Better than anyone." "Delirious," she reminded, tapping his nose with the corner of the towel in her palms.

He caught her wrist and held it, just for a second. "You're warm again," he murmured, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist like he could hear something underneath. His eyes closed, his lips flinching as if he were counting. Her pulse. His thumb was put directly on her artery. "I used to imagine what it'd feel like. Feeling this." "And how is it?" "Better," Matt admitted. "You were with Karen," Y/N murmured after a beat. Her voice had no edge. It wasn't scolding—just a reminder. A soft one. "I know." "You had someone. I had someone. And I was..." "Hurt," he said simply. "Lonely. Stunning. Too fucking loud in every room. You always made it so hard to breathe... still do."

"Matt..." He finally opened his eyes. Bloodshot. Glassy. But focused, fixed in her general direction. "Don't go," he rasped, softly and quietly. "Not tonight." Sunny felt the air change in her chest. Something caught in it, caught and stayed there. "Where? Where shouldn't I go?" "Stay here," he gulped, lowering his hand down to lay it on his thigh, still holding onto her. "Bed. Just..." Matt breathed out in agony. "Just next to me."

The vulnerability was staggering. No smug smile. No teasing. Just a man with open wounds and cracked ribs asking someone—the woman that mattered the most—to stay like it mattered. Because it did. "Okay," she nodded. "Yeah?" Matt smiled, his voice cracking as it was the best news he'd heard all month. "Yeah."

How could she not? How could she leave? How would she find the guts to leave him alone and on the brink of death? She wouldn't ever forgive herself.

By the time she got him into bed, he was half-asleep again. Too tired to put up a fight about the fresh gauze or the old, forgotten, too-big shirt she'd slipped over his head. She also stole one, leaving her clothes out to dry. He hummed something when she lifted the blanket—something about how her hands were too cold and she always smelled like tangerines, which still made no sense to her. She slipped beside him, fully clothed. No touching. No cuddling. Just them, drifting off to sleep.

Until his hand finds her under the sheets. Fumbling. Tired. Fidgeting. Weak. Shaky... Warm. Their fingers laced. Quietly. Like it counted, like it mattered. Neither said a thing. They didn't need to.

"I can... hear it," he stuttered, drifting in and out of sleep, voice raspy and forced. The fever was reaching its peak. Sunny turned her head to him, furrowing. "I feel it." "What?" "You." "What can you hear?" "Everything," he smiled, humming as he took a long breath. "You're so far away. Close but so far away." "You're being melodramatic." "Can I?" "Can you what, Matt?" Y/N wondered quietly. "Come closer," he breathed out, already counting on a sharp 'no.'

It'd be understandable, logical even. After so many lost battles, wars, disappointments, genuine happiness, and push-and-pulls? She wouldn't even entertain...

"I'm cold," she whispered, looking up, breathing in shakily. Her body was coming alive under Matt's hands—her blood running quicker, her heart beating like a drum, her breath shaky and uneven. It wasn't appropriate... but it was human. "Make it better." "Yeah."

He moved closer to her in silence—she adjusted to fit his beaten-down form. Her elbow supported his head as a pillow, and she wrapped around him like a safety blanket. They weren't cuddling. They simply lay impossibly close, feeling each other's breath and each small movement. Matt hummed again, his forehead gently bumping into her ribcage, his palm weakly grasping at Y/N's hip. "What are you... Humming about? You've done it multiple times tonight." "It's rhythmic. Steady. Constant," Matt explained, starting in the middle of his train of thought, as usual. He scoffed, gulping. "I'd recognize it anywhere." "Okay..." She sighed, realizing she couldn't get any sort of answer. "Your heart." his ear nuzzled even closer. "It beats like a drum."

"Sure, Romeo," Y/N muttered, but couldn't hide a smirk. "Go to sleep now, you've pushed through too much already." "But... you'll be gone when I wake up," he winced, already half-knocked out. "Yeah, probably. But that's how this works. We both fucked up." "Will I see you again?" He wondered, genuinely scared and already half-asleep. Everything shrunk inside Y/N. Her stomach churned with nerves. She didn't think about it. Before she could stop herself, she soothed his shoulder. At first, her palm jolted back—her brain finally caught up with her actions. Then, her hand settled again, its fingers drawing nearly insensible circles on his skin.

"Yeah," she murmured finally. "You’ll see me again, Matt. I’m not done being mad at you yet." "I'm... glad."

His voice was barely there—just a crackled breath, like the sound of something fragile finally being set down. He didn’t smile, not really. But his lips parted like the weight in his chest had shifted, just enough to breathe again. Y/N swallowed hard. Her fingers stayed on his shoulder, still tracing mindless patterns. Matt was already slipping back under, the lines of pain softening with every breath.

And suddenly, she wasn't so sure she could leave. Not because he asked. Not because he needed her. But because, for the first time, Sunny needed him, too. Even like this. Especially like this. And she slept decently for the first time in a long time.

Claire arrived early in the morning, when the city was still foggy and dim. She tried to be quiet... as quiet as a woman juggling a paper bag filled with antibiotics, gauze, and two large coffees manages. She knew Matthew's apartment would still be messy. The bloodstained towels lay by the bathroom where Y/N dumped them. The shreds of Matthew's clothes, the remnants of his 'suit', all lay on the ground, left as they were. The weird, humming stillness that only comes after a storm? Claire is familiar with that.

What she doesn't expect is them—in bed, curled up, vulnerable, and asleep. She wasn't expecting to walk into a Hallmark Christmas movie.

Matt was dead asleep on his back, arms slack at his sides, bandages peeking from under a t-shirt Claire'd never seen on him. He didn’t flinch when the door opened. Not even when Claire swore under her breath. Sunny was curled beside him in a borrowed, too-soft tee, tangled in the blankets. One of her hands rested against Matt's chest. She must've fallen asleep trying to make sure he was still breathing. Claire stood there for a second, long enough to let the judgment roll in. Long enough for a gentle furrow of brows, lips curling downward.

Matt's head rested next to Y/N's chest, her breath and heartbeat his lullaby—her nose buried in his hair, lips touching his forehead. He'd never fallen asleep like that next to Claire. Never.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, not loud—but not exactly quiet either. Y/N stirred. Groaned. Blinked awake, disoriented, like her brain forgot where she fell asleep. She sat up fast, eyes adjusting to the light, heart pounding from the instinct alone. "Jesus—Claire? Is that you?" Sunny croaked, voice hoarse. "What time is it?" "Time for my shift," Claire answered, holding the bag for Y/N to see. "Which apparently includes third-wheeling a Florence Nightingale reenactment."

Y/N groaned again, pulling away from Matt like she remembered he was real. "I wasn't—this wasn't what it—" Claire raises an eyebrow and puts Sunny's coffee on the counter too hard. "Relax. I'm not his mom... or his girlfriend." Y/N scoffed softly, still rubbing her eyes with one hand. "Still not what you think." Claire shrugged, watching Sunny lazily lounge toward the counter, wearing only Matt's t-shirt and underwear. Claire grimaced. Nearly every woman who'd entered this flat looked exactly like Sunny did. Not one had the man himself clinging to them like they were his lifeline.

"He talks about you a lot, you know," Claire announced, watching Sunny with interest, and didn't bother hiding. As if she were deciphering her and Matt's attraction to her. "Mainly when he's on the brink." That got Y/N's attention. Her hand stilled mid-air. Claire started unpacking supplies, not looking up. "Between all the fever spikes, gallons of blood, trying to crawl off the couch, and burst knuckles? You often are the only thing he kept asking for. There was you, then some Karen gal for a month or two, and then you. Just you. I feel like I've been living with you for the last few months." Sunny blinked, lips parting, but said nothing. She just picked up her coffee, like it was the only thing keeping her upright

Claire didn’t know why she told Sunny. Maybe to warn her. Maybe to watch her flinch. Maybe to say it aloud.

But Y/N just nodded, sighing, letting the information run through her brain. The weight settled fast, and it was dense. Heavy as fuck. How was one supposed to react, hearing someone very close cry for them when bleeding out after beating down low goons, petty criminals and rapists? "He... say anything specific?" Sunny asked finally, voice soft. Her eyes were glassy but wide open, her pupils dilating. Claire responded with a look. One part amused, two parts exhausted. "Nothing I'd repeat before coffee," Claire smirked, shaking her head. "But I remember he yammered about your laughter making his teeth ache. That it is 'too close', like he could feel it in his bones... whatever the hell that means."

Sunny was stuck, her eyes lingering on Claire. Sunny didn't understand this statement either, just like Matt's whole tangent about tangerines and oranges... but it touched something inside her. Claire continued casually, just updating a chart: "Also asked if you still wore that ridiculous bandana when you cleaned the espresso machine?" She genuinely tilted her head, flashing Sunny an amused look. "Said it made him crazy. I said you do, for your information." "I—what?" For the first time, the woman opposite Claire smiled. Then, she started laughing. Sunny's entire facial structure softened, nearly glowed. Her laughter was so heartfelt and lively... and it all started making sense.

Claire didn’t smile back. Not at first. She just watched Sunny. That laugh—that was the one Matt meant. Loud, short, rough around the edges, but real. It hit like a body blow, just for a second, watching it come to life before her after hearing about it like a campfire ghost story through all those half-conscious nights.

"You know," Claire said finally, voice quiet again. "I thought he was delirious. Kept saying your name like it was a goddamn prayer. Whispered it like he was asking for forgiveness." Sunny’s smile faltered. Her knuckles tightened around the coffee cup, white at the edges. Claire shrugged, not cruel, just honest. "He never did that with me."

There it was. The admission. It hit Y/N like a truck as she lowered the cup back down, lips parting. Of course. Of fucking course. Claire was right up Matt's alley—no beating around the bush, no-bullshit attitude, beautiful, stormy, and with a dry sense of humor. A woman at her place, excellent medical knowledge, sharp tongue, and impeccable work under pressure skills. Compared to her? Y/N looked like a boutique mannequin. What was she good for? Brewing coffee?

There wasn't a trace of bitterness in Claire's statement. Just a sense of clarity. It felt like Claire had already let the wound heal, but still needed to press on the scab to see it come off, just a little. "Back then, it was all adrenaline and distraction," Claire continued. "Found that clown in a trashcan, bleeding out. I was all about hookups, patched-up ribs, and keeping things surface-level back then. I liked it that way. The danger, y'know? The mystery of him." Sunny looked like she was holding her breath. "I wondered. Every woman does when they have a man..." Claire clicked her tongue, scolding herself. "The way he talks about you... It's not surface. It's marrow-deep. And it's unsettling."

Sunny didn’t answer right away. She just looked down at the bloodstained towel still on the floor, the remnants of something violent, terrible, and familiar. Then quietly, like she was asking herself: "So what am I supposed to do with that?" Claire sipped her coffee. "No idea. But if you figure it out, write a book. I’ll preorder." "Yeah. As if." "I found a man whom I settled with," Claire said after a moment, voice turning reflective. "He's... great. Has a criminal history and an insane ex, but he's... he made me feel whole," A wry smile touched Claire's lips. "I used to wonder if Matt was even capable of that. Of choosing peace. Convinced myself he wasn’t. And then you showed up."

Sunny let out a dry laugh. One that didn’t reach her eyes. "Yeah, well. I’m not sure I’m the ‘settling down’ type either." Claire gave her a once-over, brow lifting slightly. "You sure about that?" Sunny didn’t answer. Just tightened her arms around herself. The coffee was growing cold in her hands. And Claire didn’t push. She just nodded toward the bedroom, where the faint sound of movement rustled from the sheets—Matt stirring.

"You’re not just another warm body in his bed, if that’s what you’re trying to convince yourself of," Claire said softly. "Trust me, I’ve been one. I know the difference. That Karen of yours probably saw it too… from what Matt spewed." Sunny stayed quiet. Still looking down. The professional mode settled back in like a jacket shrugged over tired shoulders. "Don’t let him scare you off," she added. "He’s an idiot, not a ghost." "…He’s both," Sunny murmured, barely audible. Claire grinned. "Yeah. But for some reason, he keeps coming back to you." She cleared her throat. "So. Are you sticking around?"

"I..." Y/N let out a short breath, closing her eyes before letting her face fall to her hands. "I..." "You can't," Claire finished. "I get it." "But... Keep me posted?" Sunny offered, almost shyly.

That surprised Claire. But she nodded, watching as Sunny stood, pulling on her jeans. She didn’t bother changing the stolen t-shirt—just shrugged on her coat. "Does he have your number?" "If he didn't erase it?" Sunny gave a half-shrug, glancing toward the bedroom like it hurt to look. "You're giving him way too much credit." Claire's voice was dry. "This one doesn't have any self-preservation instinct."

Sunny didn't walk to the café. Not at all. She got lost in the early-morning Hell's Kitchen. People rushing for work, tourists flowing around her, and taking photos of the marvels of central New York. Cars passed by, people yelled—a mix of curse words and inaudible accents. Vendors were already in their places. The gloominess. Incoming storm. Steam is coming out of the ventilation system. Everything. The blood—Matt's blood—clotted and dried deep under her nails.

Foggy called her. Multiple times, just as she walked on the Brooklyn Bridge. Hair ruffled her hair as she stared at Foggy's number and contact photo (of them laughing together) before she shoved the phone back into her pocket. Karen was next to call. Then Foggy, again. She assumed they were sitting next to each other in the office. The only thing she paid attention to? Claire’s texts. Claire texted sharply and quick, straight to the point—just like she spoke. No bullshit atop, no nothing.

7:15: He’s awake. 7:34: He’s being a pain in my ass. 7:40: Just checked the wounds. He’s healing fast, but don’t tell him I said that. He'd get cocky. 9:04: He asked about you. 9:45: He keeps asking if you’re cold. Keeps insisting you should’ve taken his coat. 10:57: Still asking about you.

She entered her tenement around noon, just after finishing some noodles two streets over. Exhausted and shellshocked, she accidentally kicked the trash bag next to her apartment door—except it was no trash bag. It was Franklin Nelson, slumped over, his jacket bunched beneath him like a pillow. He had a to-go cup of coffee before him, gone ice-cold by now. He looked exhausted—eyes pink-rimmed, phone clutched in one hand like he was willing it to ring.

The sound of soft footsteps and gentle stumble jolted him awake. He looked up, confused, rubbing his eyes, watching Sunny as if deciding if she was real. Her hair was windswept, wet, and messy. Coat wrapped tightly, like armor. Her eyes flickered to him, and she didn't say a word. Just... nodded and unlocked the door, leaving it open. Foggy hesitated, but followed with a heavy sigh.

Sunny's place was dim, clearly not used in a few days. The fridge hum was too loud. The incoming train shook the entire apartment. The sun was piercing. Her favorite blanket, half-folded, lay on the couch just as she left it. Clothes were all over her bedroom floor as she left them, running late for yesterday's shift. The undone dishes still clogged the wash-basin. It was her home, her small flat on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen. Just how she left it. And now? After what she'd seen? It felt so alien.

When Foggy caught up, Sunny stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter. Her gaze was absent, her body trembling—her palms were in front of her face as if she prayed. She didn't take her coat off. She still didn't spare Foggy a glance. No grin. No snarky remark. Just a horrified, stone mask on her face.

"Want coffee?" She muttered after a moment. It was so silent that Foggy almost didn't catch it. "Only if you're making for yourself," he smiled gently, sitting at the kitchen table. But Sunny? She just turned around. Didn't answer. Didn't bite back. Didn't move, either. "Rough night?" "You can't imagine."

There's silence as Sunny moves around the kitchen. It's quick and methodical, perfectly paced—it's a mechanical distraction. Foggy stepped closer, but not too close. She heard him coming, even saw him, and still jolted away from him. Foggy's eyes fell on her face. No bruises, just tiredness. A long, sleepless night. But then, he clocked it in. Small trails of blood under her nails and between the rough skin of her knuckles. One that you can't wash off easily. It's dried, barely visible unless you're looking for it.

"...I take it you've spent the night at Matt's?" That makes her pause. Then, she lets go of the cup, and it shatters. Sunny doesn't nod. Doesn't confirm. Just breathes—shallow and sharp. "...He was bleeding," Sunny muttered, voice unstable, shaky. Foggy didn't flinch—didn't offer comfort when she glanced at him. When she searched for shock and disbelief. "Yeah. That's kind of the deal with him."

And just like that, it clicked. Sunny scoffed—a low sound that sent chills down Foggy's spine. Her head snapped up as she fought for another breath, slowly and carefully, like the hinge of her neck just unlocked.

"You know." She didn't need to say more. Foggy met her eyes—no use pretending, he figured. "I've known for some time, yeah," he admitted softly. Silence. Her eyelids fluttered, nostrils widening as she nodded shakily, processing the information. She gulped, leaning into the counter like her knees were giving out.

"He didn't tell me. None of you did. Not even once, not a hint," there was a beat of silence as her brain caught up to speed. "Do you know how many times we joked about that... what's his fucking... Daredevil? How often did I call him a walking concussion with a cape? And how Matt laughed each fucking time?´" Foggy smiled, sad and exhausted. When he attempted to smooth Y/N's shoulder, she maneuvered away and pointed her finger at him, moving her mouth as if it could make the sourness disappear. "...He doesn't wear a cape.

That almost earned a laugh from her. Almost. "Jesus..." Sunny scoffs, looking at Foggy as if she'd never met him before. Her ass collapsed on her table. "How long?" "What? How long has he been doing it?" Foggy scoffed with disbelief, ready to defend Matt—he was still disappointed over what Matt'd done to Sunny and Karen, and he didn't understand Daredevil that well either... but it was Matt's choice, by the end of the day. His way of saving the world. The light... the little that remained. "Jesus, Y/N, how am I supposed..."

"No," she hissed suddenly, recoiling. "You don't get to fucking say this, Franklin. And you know damn well that this isn't what I'm asking. When did he care to inform you? How long are you his guy in the chair?" "I'm not his—" "How. Long." She gritted through her teeth, giving Foggy one last chance to answer. "Last fall," Foggy answers against his will. "I accidentally found out last fall." "Oh, fuck me," Y/N recoiled even more, putting her hands on her hips, hyperventilating. "Oh, Jesus. And none of you... Fuck you. Fuck you, Franklin. Fuck. You."

"Sunny, c'mon. I couldn't just come to you and say: 'Oh, guess what Matt's up to during weekends? That's right. Being a local punching bag!' It was his secret, not mine," Foggy mocked, but that's when she hit him with: "He could've died, Nelson." It was quiet, broken. Sunny teared up. "Like... One day, he wouldn't show up at the café. And I wouldn't know. I would ask you both, again and again. And you wouldn't tell me. We wouldn't even know where he was or who landed the last stab?" She scoffed again. "And you're standing here, just okay knowing with that?" "I have... faith in him. I've seen him take on Wilson Fisk. Matt's being careful. He's a pro by now..." "Careful?!" She shrieked. "That's what you call careful?! I'm surprised he's even alive!"

They fell into silence as Sunny hyperventilated, trying not to cry—a train passed by the tenement, the fridge still humming.

"I didn't want you to carry this secret. Because it's fucking crushing," Foggy muttered after a bit, sniffing. "And before you, Matt didn't want Karen to know... he didn't even plan on me knowing. I used to think he's just whoring around. That was back when he started. Late-night adventures, last-minute plan cancellations. Meanwhile, he'd been the most wanted punching bag in Hell's Kitchen."

Y/N didn't answer and watched Foggy like a cobra ready to strike. "It was... when I found out... it nearly ended our friendship. And I refused to let you go through this—sitting up at night, wondering if he's ever coming back." "But I was wondering. I always was, Foggy," Y/N sniffled, her voice hoarse. "But I just didn't know why." She swept her face, furious that she was crying. "You think that’s better? Thinking I was too much? Too clingy? That I wanted too much from him?" Then, she tilted her head and put her palms at the small of her back, preparing for the final blow:

"Meanwhile, he was out there bleeding out, and you two were swapping stories over drinks. He could've died," Sunny muttered again. "And I would've just thought he's ghosting me again. And don't lie to me now—you and Karen would've kept me in the dark, propping it up."

"...But you went to see him anyway," Foggy mumbled, trying to change the topic. Sunny nodded sourly, looking away, contemplating whether to talk or throw him out. "Claire was there. She knew what to do. I just stood there with a towel," she raised her trembling hands, looking at her fingers. "There was so much blood. He got—got stabbed in the ribs. Repeated my name in his sleep."

That was when Foggy finally approached, softly smoothing her shoulders. "Welcome to the club, sweetheart." "The club where you watch the people you love bleed out?" she asked, her voice flat. It made Foggy scoff unhappily. "Yeah, that one." "How do I forgive him for it?" She asks, her eyes meeting Foggy's. He was silent for a long beat before gulping forcefully. "You don't... I never did," he admitted. "But you love him anyway. Because that's what Matt'd do for you if the roles were reversed."

She nodded frantically, her eyes darting across Foggy's face. "Can I hug you now?" "Of course," he whispered. "C'mere, here you go. I got you... I got you."

It took fifteen minutes for her to get the worst out. And Franklin held her through all of it—palm planted at the back of her head, the other at the small of her back to keep her from falling on her knees as she swayed. The screams muffled by his sweatshirt were bad. Her fingers, grasping for his shoulder like she was drowning, were worse. But she sat at the table when she was done, her coat finally off. Matt's t-shirt surrounded her like a shield. It smelled like him. Foggy made tea.

"I thought I knew what kind of damage he came with," she muttered, hugging herself, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed. "The Catholic guilt. The hot-and-cold routine. He looked at you like he was reading scripture between your ribs. How he disappeared for days, and it felt like I couldn't take a breath..." "Yeah," Foggy nodded. "That sounds like Matt." "But this? This is blood-on-the-sidewalk, ribs-cracked-on-a-Tuesday kind of damage. Do you know if he ever played pool or went out with us, because I pushed, while still..." Sunny furrowed, thinking how to phrase it. Bled? Had his kidney kicked in? Knuckles burst to strain? "I wouldn't think about it," Foggy muttered. Nearly every other week, he meant to say.

"And the worst part?" Sunny's voice cracked, just a little. The laugh coming with it is bitter. Singular. "He let me think I knew him. Matt... he let me think he's just a blind lawyer with a chip on his shoulder and a thing for rooftop views. I thought I was the one with secrets." Foggy didn't interrupt. Simply listened—that's what he'd always done best. "He didn't even flinch, Fogster. Not when I found him lying there. Not when I saw what was left of the suit. He just looked at me, even though he couldn't see me. Gurgled my name through the blood in his fucking mouth. Like telling a punchline to some sick joke that's been flying over my head this entire time."

Foggy sighed quietly. "That's because he never thought he deserved to keep you around in the first place. But you swept him off his feet." "Claire insinuated that's not a hard feat either," Sunny grimaces, silently thanking Foggy for the tea. "Claire was... A phase, workplace mishap if anything," Foggy muttered against his better judgment. "He pushes people away constantly, Sunny. You've seen it. You've felt it. And he'd always done it. But you're still here. Still standing. Unrelenting. Ready to kick his senses back into him."

"And for fucking what?" She grinned. "So I can bandage him up while he bleeds out for a city that doesn't even know his name? So I can blow on his gunshot wound and tell him it'll be okay soon?" "You stayed because you give a damn," Foggy smiled at her. Albeit sadly, he smiled. "And Matt needs that so fucking much. He's just a stubborn idiot who refuses to admit it."

The silence returned, heavier this time. Filled with the storm-cloud of pressure setting in. "I missed it." She mutters, barely above a whisper. "I watched him so closely but missed this. Foggy, I missed all of it." "You didn't miss him," Foggy scoffed humorlessly. "You found Matt inside the storm exactly because you didn't know any better. And you've seen him for him only."

Sunny exhales, shaky, raw—like something inside her chest just cracked. "He didn't call me. Not once. Over the last few weeks, I mean... doing God knew what." "Because he refused to let you see him like that." "Too late," she whispered, her voice hollow, gaze absent again.

They sat at the table, both lost to their thoughts, silent. The clock ticked. The pipes shrieked. The sun moved, disappearing out of sight.

"What now?" Foggy whispered. Sunny stood up. Paced around the room, her movements sharp, like her body couldn't even sit still under the weight of everything. "I don't know. I thought I could walk away. No matter. That I'd just say my piece while he sits and listens." "...and can you?"

Sunny's face turned to him, her lips curling. Fingers dug deeper into the curve of her hips as she watched him. The guy she'd known for nearly a decade now, someone she'd call first if shit hit the fan—someone she viewed as a brother. One she'd breathe for if needed.

"...no." She stopped pacing. Didn't look away from Foggy, pure tiredness and woe deep inside her eyes. "Didn't think so," Foggy nodded. "How the hell do I live someone who wears a mask to war every night?" Her voice was small. Real. "One day at a time," Foggy hummed without missing a beat.

It was the calm after the storm. The small break when things feel nearly normal... even though they aren't. Everything felt so mundane—except it isn't.

The café hummed with the usual chatter and coffee-steam noise. Smelled like coffee beans, whipped milk, and burnt sugar. There's a clatter of people enjoying Sunny's brew, chatting, laughing. Friends meeting after a rough week, coworkers buying mass orders for boring board meetings, and mothers, with their newborn babies, and best friends sat in the corner, sipping on mimosas.

Sunny stood behind the counter, a coffee filter in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on a new addition to the forefront. A simple corkboard. Beaten down, bought in the stationery store down the street. It's been slowly growing together.

She found a few old Polaroids in her drawer, neatly hidden away—out of sight, out of mind. It was a collection of blurry shots collected over the last year. Foggy and Karen bought it for Sunny's birthday. It was awfully sentimental for her taste—they made her cry with the first few photos they snuck and already added to the album. She refused to admit it.

In the first picture, Karen and Foggy laughed while licking ice-lollies. The camera showed their faces at a questionable angle. In the second photo? Matt was waving at the camera, sitting in their office, a collection of laws translated to Braille sitting in front of him. Other? Small moments of stillness and beauty.

Her café in the golden hour. Karen was walking on the Brooklyn Bridge, the golden sunlight creating a halo around her. Sunny and Foggy's former hanging spot. Their law practice, the office to be exact—it was vacant in the picture, silent and messy, as always. The last photo was of her. Sunny was standing behind the espresso machine. She looked... gorgeous. Serene, a half-smile on her lips as if she thought about something. The duo insisted Matt had taken it with Karen's help.

And they, over the past year, added on. There were tens of pictures. All of them looked ridiculous. It made Sunny scoff and grin, her heart missing a beat. No context needed... And yet, Sunny always wrote the date and occasion on the back of the photo. A photo of Matthew at a Hallowe'en party, dressed as a police officer. A hot one, if Sunny had to admit. Grinning like a doofus—the kind of smile Sunny liked the most. God. He was gorgeous.

She stared at it with a furrow, shaking her head. A roll of scotch tape stuck to her wrist like a bracelet, her apron slightly dusted in flour even though she hadn't touched it all morning. "Fucker. Could've told me, stop me from feeling like... I'm insane. You want insane? I'll show you insane." She got to work with the quiet focus of someone assembling a shrine. Or, maybe, a future crime scene. Because right in the center of the corkboard, in fresh ink and all caps, were three separate mugshot-style Polaroids. She hadn't the heart to desecrate the memories. She'd scanned the photos... like a bitch.

Above them, on a rippled notebook paper, the title read: "DO NOT SERVE. COMMITTED A FRIENDSHIP MISCONDUCT. THEY KNOW WHAT THEY DID."

Foggy's photos were first. He looked bewildered in it, mid-blink, holding a sandwich. The caption underneath read: "CRIME: MAIN ACCOMPLICE. KNEW EVERYTHING. SAID NOTHING. ATE MY COOKIES. PROBABLY STOLE MY FAVORITE FUZZY SOCKS (yes, I remember)." Karen was next. She was caught in profile, sunglasses on, sipping something iced. She was drop-dead gorgeous. "CRIME: PETTY LIES. MAKING SHIT UP. KNOW SHE'D SAY 'IT'S COMPLICATED' LIKE I'D HELP. ACCESSORY TO SECRECY." Last but not least, there was Matt. Of course, he was. A blutty, overexposed shitty shot taken during Saint Patrick's day at Josies. Half his smirk caught in frame, head tilted like he knew it was coming. "CRIME: ARE YOU JOKING? COME ON. YOU KNOW. DON'T EVEN."

Customers coming through stared at the board, confused. A teenager squinted at it and asked her friend if it was 'some kind of performance art'. A woman with a stroller whispered, 'I think I saw that blonde guy at the legal clinic.' Barista on shift—Anita—just stared at Sunny, then back at the board, lips parted in confusion. Café's entire ensemble of employees—at least the college students who stuck for good wages and low requirements—knew Foggy for well over five years now... and he was amazing. The calm to Sunny's chaos. He was the sun to her perpetual internal storm. All the employees also knew Karen and Matt. Mainly thanks to the extensive time they spent with Sunny over the last year. And the café is becoming their hangout spot. Many bet that Sunny and Murdock would hit it off the moment they met. The energy? How did Sunny seem calmer around Matt? And the way he always searched for her whenever he walked in? And let's say that last year's unpredictable developments cost a few bored students too much money.

"Wait, am I allowed to serve them still or…" Anita asked cautiously, handing off a cappuccino. Sunny didn’t answer. She just added a paper gold star to the corner of the board, like she was grading betrayal. Then she stepped away, furrowing, tilting her head before adding another one. Half past one. Time for their lunch breaks. Time for Karen and Foggy to arrive any moment. Karen arrived about ten minutes later, holding a brown paper bag with apology pastries. Foggy told her Sunny was mad... like, real pissed. But Karen didn't know why. She froze when she saw the board. Then read the caption under her name. After, she looked at Sunny, who met her gaze and didn’t blink once.

"Okay," Karen nodded. There was no need to explain. Karen was smarter than she looked. "I deserve that." "You think?" Sunny deadpanned, not a grin in sight. She turned back to the espresso machine, putting the metallic milk jug so forcefully that Anita flinched. "Do you want milk with your lies or just a splash of guilt and my tears?" Foggy appeared behind Karen, holding Sunny's favorite take-out. "Oh boy," he muttered, keeping his hand tucked in his coat like he was walking into court. "Traitors. Both of you." Sunny muttered simply, unapologetically. "I didn't know how to tell you." Karen smiled humourlessly, stepping toward the counter.

"Oh, you know what's really funny?" Sunny said, overfrothing the shit out of the milk for Karen's latté. "You all knew that I hate surprises. But somehow, somehow, none of you thought maybe the part where my friend moonlights as a... you know who might warrant a fucking group text." Foggy raised a hand halfway. "We... talked about it, Y/N. It isn't simple." "I know," Sunny cut him off. "But you still suck for it." He nodded solemnly. "Fair." "I brought apology croissants?" Karen gently slid the bag across the counter. Sunny looked at it, unimpressed and cool as a cucumber. Then glanced back at Karen, grasping the bag, sending Foggy a nod so he'd also hand over the peace offerings.

"Are they... chocolate or almond?" Sunny muttered, eyeing the bad with an exhausted, overly dramatic sigh. "Both." "...Damn it." Foggy leaned over to Karen and whispered, "This is going better than I expected." Karen nodded, whispering back while Sunny started chewing on the first croissant, grimacing like an angry toddler. "She hadn't thrown them at us yet. Good sign."

Foggy then obediently placed the takeout bag on the counter next to the croissants, like he was offering tribute to a queen in the middle of a very inconvenient coup. Sunny inspected the contents without a word—opened the top, peeked inside, nodded once like a war general surveying rations. "Okay," she said, tone unreadable. "This buys you... three sips and no eye contact." Karen blinked. "Three sips?" "Of your coffee. Before I say something that ruins your entire week." "Karen, this is an offer you don't argue. That feels fair," Foggy nodded, inching toward the other end of the counter where he knew the emergency cookies were stashed.

"No," Sunny snapped, eyes narrowing. "You're not off the hook either, Nelson. You knew. You helped." "I brought noodles!" he argued, holding the bag up slightly, like it was holy. "And I brought a deep emotional wound, so I think I win," Sunny replied sweetly, slapping a lid on Karen’s latte with the most unholy clack.

Karen slid into her usual spot by the window (Matt's former seat). Foggy followed and sat across from her, but neither of them dared to touch their food or their coffee yet. Sunny watched them with all the grace and forgiveness of a god waiting for her thunderbolt. Anita wandered by, leaned in toward Sunny. "Should I... like... put 'milk with guilt' on the specials board or? Sounded good, boss."

"Leave it blank," Sunny said. "Let them live in uncertainty. Like I did." "Jesus Christ," Karen muttered under her breath. "You heard that?" Sunny called from behind the counter without even looking up. "No! I—" Karen froze, eyes wide. "God, it’s freaky how good you are at this." "Yeah, imagine how Matthew felt," Sunny said airily, wiping the steam wand like she was sharpening a sword. Foggy leaned toward Karen, whispering, “We might not survive this lunch. In such a case, just call my parents and tell them I love them." "I'll call them," Sunny muttered again. Karen looked down at her cup, sighed. "Just drink slowly." They each took one sip. Sunny stared at them like a predator with excellent customer service.

From behind them, one of the regulars pointed at Matt’s photo and asked, "Wait, is that the guy who always orders the cortado?" Anita nodded slowly. "Yup. That's Matt.” "Why’s he banned?" "…I have no idea." Anita sighed. "And if you know what's good for you, I wouldn't bother asking."

Sunny didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. The corkboard said enough. And Matt wasn’t there to defend himself anyway. She continued watching Karen and Foggy with the expression of a toddler on the brink of a tantrum. But bringing her favorite noodles sure put them back in her good graces.

Sunny kept the corkboard up even after Karen and Foggy left—croissants forgiven, not forgotten. But the mugshots? She took those down the next day. Matthew wouldn't even see it, so there was no point in being overly petty. Not because she wasn’t still mad. She absolutely was. She just… needed the space. And she’d run out of gold stars.

Instead, she tacked up something new. Little clippings. A growing, chaotic collage. Spent the entire night putting it together, cruising through various websites, Instagram posts, and Reddit threads. There were so many people talking about him—he'd touched the lives of so many that didn't even know his name. Never seen his face. People who hadn't heard him laugh and didn't know how scared of octopuses he is. But they were all thankful. Over the social media—small forums, posts, and news articles. All talking about him. About Matthew. Celebrating the fact that he was a hero. He was a small one, compared to the Avengers, but he impacted so many lives of everyday people.

It started with a torn corner of a New York Bulletin front page. "DEVIL OF HELL'S KITCHEN STRIKES AGAIN," it read in heavy black ink, the photo underneath grainy and off-center—a figure in black, mid-jump between rooftops. Bloody. Bruised. But kicking. She pinned it right where Matt’s “CRIME: YOU KNOW.” caption had been. Sunny never addressed it. Not even when asked. Especially when asked. Just pinned picture after picture, article after article, each small 'thank you' after thank you. She also spent an ungodly amounts of time just looking at it.

Then came more.

Screenshots from local Reddit threads. Blurry cellphone captures posted with captions like “caught this outside 10th & 47th, dude MOVES like a damn ghost,” and “he pulled me out of a flipped taxi, not joking.” A stitched-together timeline from an amateur conspiracy blog theorizing patterns in Daredevil’s appearance: colored strings drawn on with red Sharpie, circled dates, a heavily pixelated still from what looked like a doorbell camera. Someone had left behind a scribbled "thank you for saving my little sister" on a napkin once, unsigned. She pinned that up too.

Foggy showed up. When he'd seen it, Sunny's newest art installation, his expression tightened into an unhappy frown. Then, he walked to the board, pulled out a receipt from his wallet—handwritten on the back in Sharpie: "Double espresso, extra shot, don’t get cute." Matt dictated it to Foggy back when he and Sunny still argued over just stupid, petty bullshit—back when she wouldn't even look at Matt if he didn't offer a megapack of M&Ms upfront. Foggy pinned it up.

Karen added one too when she and Sunny regrouped for a late-afternoon mimosa. She'd kissed a napkin, writing a short "thank you for everything" on it. She pinned it up right next to Foggy's receipt. "He's still being a no-show?" The blonde muttered when sitting back down. "It's his turn to crawl," Y/N answered, watching the corkboard. "I've done my share. Seen him in the office lately?" "No."

None of it was polished. It was chaotic and messy and very obviously curated by someone pretending they weren’t deeply invested. ' But still—it was there. And it was important. No names. No faces. Just the ghost of a man she hadn’t seen since the storm.

Anita noticed how the stupid corkboard had grown first. It wasn't just Sunny's pissy art installation anymore. It became a place for quiet community acknowledgement. A head nod. A soft, whispered 'we see what you're doing and we're grateful for it.' There were children's drawings now. Personal letters. A picture saying: "WHERE DID THE DEVIL OF HELL'S KITCHEN VANISH?" She aused mid-shift, cocked her head. "Uh… new art direction? I thought you hated the Avengers after Hulk bulldozed your former café to the ground and Stark sent you a letter practically saying 'sowwy, uwu'?"

Sunny was wiping down the espresso machine like it was the most interesting thing in the universe, refusing to look up. "Don't worry about it. I have it under control." "You realize he's probably dead, right?" Anita tried softly. "People hadn't seen him in nearly three weeks. That guy's schedule is a mystery, but..." "Yeah, and I'm also aware that the tooth fairy moonlights in organized crime. Get back to work," Sunny gritted, giving Amita an unflattering glare. One that sent a chill down her spine.

Foggy, sitting at the bar and quietly working on a case, watches Sunny with the corner of his eye. How she flinches, puffs out her cheeks like she's considering it. That Matt hadn't made it through the latest nonsense he'd tangled himself in. That he wasn't among the living anymore.

Foggy stared at his phone when Sunny turned her back to him, sniffling. His thumb hovered. He typed. Deleted. Rewritten.

YOU:

Corkboard’s full of clippings now. News stuff. Reddit junk. A napkin that says "thank you" in glitter pen. She made you a wall, man. No pictures. Nothing traceable. You’re safe. But she knows. And she kept you on the wall anyway.

Foggy paused. The thread read 'delivered'. Matt's status wasn't even showing—he wasn't online in weeks. Then, Foggy added:

You don’t have to respond. Just figured you’d want to know someone’s out here being mad and proud of you at the same time. Classic Y/N. She hates you. Misses you. Loads. We all do.

He sent it, then leaned back in his chair and exhaled tiredly. And maybe, just maybe, he let himself hope Matt'd come back soon.

It had been nearly a month since any of them had heard about Matt. As if he vanished. They factually knew he was locked up in his penthouse, probably only leaving at night—his neighbors confirmed it. They heard shuffling, this, and groans. Two people arguing. Quietly. Which meant Matt was still letting Claire in.

Until he reappeared. Like a ghost. Out of nowhere. Just like that. As if picking his phone was too fucking hard.

The café was just closing—a late January evening. The snow was falling. No Doubt on full blast, patrons and regulars spread across the establishment—Joe working on his laptop in the far corner, Lindsay and her daughter eating Sunny's chocolate-chip cookies at the bar, both getting a mug of marshmallow-induced hot chocolate in front of them. The scent of cinnamon and gingerbread spread across the café, and Sunny's jeans were messy with flour and burnt sugar. A nice day. The corkboard was still up, overflowing with mementoes and letters.

The bell over the door hadn't rung in half an hour, but Sunny looked up anyway—the sensation of someone watching burnt into her head. And there he was. Matthew Murdock. Sticking against the white powder snow like a sore thumb—black glasses, black jacket, hands in pocket, and a cap on his head. No cane in sight. He even nodded when Y/N clocked him in. As if he knew. As if he felt something shift. His head was slightly tilted as if he listened for said something.

Sunny froze, everything inside her stilling for a beat. A flicker of emotion—fear, ache, and terrible anger—crossed her eyes. But she didn't move. Matt matched her—didn't knock, didn't walk in. He knew she was watching already... and he waited for her to move.

She straightened, forcing a gulp before she slapped the towel off her shoulder, folded it cleared her throat. Amita noticed. The mile-long stare, saying 'you better have a good reason,' aimed straight at Matthew. His tightened posture, as if he felt he wasn't supposed to be there, but came anyway. "Amita?" "Yeah, Y/N?" "I either walk back in with federal charges," Sunny muttered, leaving the counter. "Or won't come back. You got your keys?" "I'll lock up," Amita nodded, leaning in. "Get his ass." Matthew scoffed outside. As if he heard. What the fuck was that about?

The walk of shame toward the door felt endless. She didn't open it. Just stood on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, furrow on her face. Matt matched her again, step by step—he leaned toward the glass. "Can we talk?" He asked, muffled by the glass. Sunny scoffs bitterly, shaking her head. "You said everything." "...Not everything." She exhaled. Looked up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Then she opened the door—just barely. Just enough to lean against the frame, keep a physical barrier between them. "Running off for a month with a saviour complex said the rest."

"C'mon, Sunny..." "Don't you—" She hissed, nearly slamming the door shut. "You lied. For months, and even made Foggy and Karen lie, too." "I was protecting you," Matt argued. "But God knows there is nothing I could keep away from you." "I didn't ask for protection, Matthew. I asked for you. And I didn't even ask that much... or did I?" Sunny snarled, her eyes darting across his face. His jaw shifted, like her accusation stung—because it did.

"I didn't know how. If you noticed, I'm not too good with keeping people in." Murdock whispered, leaning a bit closer. His eyes closed, lips trembling slightly—he was, again, listening for something. Counting. "You knew how to flirt. Knew how to behave to keep me around. Knew how to touch me like you'd memorized every inch of me before you ever laid a hand on me," Sunny spat like a professional rapper. "Not good with people? Hypocrite much?"

Silence. His brows furrowed—he couldn't come back with anything. Sunny was dead on. Relentless. Pissed off. Hurt. Turning him on. His lips opened and closed of their own volition.

"So you know how to make me feel like I'm wanted, but not how to make me stay?" She asked, full-on rhetorical. "That's what you said to Claire to keep her at arm's length? To Karen? That's what you're here to say to me?" She stepped just enough to let the door fall shut behind her, standing close now, toe-to-toe. Fierceness, no-bullshit attitude, just like Matt loved her. He felt her scent at the back of his nose. Her pulse raced through her body. Her heart beat like a drum. Her fingers trembled—either from the cold or the urge to hit him... and God knew Matt would've let her.

"Don’t act like you’ve been a saint in all this. You think I ran? You’ve been pushing and pulling for over a year. That's fucking rich." Matt hissed back, finally fending for himself. "When I wanted you—on that fucking couch—you pulled away. Then you asked me if I still think about it. You fell asleep next to me... and trust me, I realized how little remained for you to climb on top of me, Sunny. When I was half-dead. You went to Claire. Not me. Then didn't even bother texting or calling. You like the push-and-pull. And you keep on coming for a second round. So maybe stop pretending it’s just me." Sunny fell silent, staring him down, her lips parted. Matthew didn't realize he'd closed the gap while talking, that her chest was heaving, bumping into his. He could feel the warmth of her nose and breath on his face. Each slight twitch and tilt of her head was torturous.

"And you think you're the only one who bleeds? Come the fuck on, Matt. Wake up." She whispered after a beat of silence, standing her ground. "Do you think you're the only person in New York who struggles with intimacy? With keeping people in? Wake up." His throat bobbed. "This was never about hurting you, Sunny." "Except you did. Oopsie, am I right? You still do. Each time you disappear and show up like this, you look at me like I'm the reason you can't breathe, and then disappear when I reach for you." She scoffed, stepping aside. "So. Why are you here? To blame me? To taunt me? To remind me of your martyr status or your exclusive pussy club? Or..."

"I’m here because I miss you, alright? Because I couldn’t sleep. Because the silence nearly killed me. Because food doesn't taste the same!" Matthew exclaimed before she could hit another rhetorical right hook. He ran a hand through his hair, voice raw now, "I’ve been living with your ghost—with your laughter in my walls, your heartbeat in my ears, and your smell on my sheets. You have no idea what that's like." "I don't?—" Sunny cackled, loud and rich. Just once to let his blood curl. Her mouth twitched like she might've had something else to say—but she didn't. Just gave him a nod. Slow. Firm. The kind that closes a door without slamming it. "Can't believe I waited for a month for you to accuse me of... Just go."

And she walked back inside, leaving him standing in the snowy afternoon. Except this time, Matthew doesn't leave. The bell jingled twice as he followed her inside, not asking for permission. Like he owned the place, damn side walk and the five feet of space between them.

"We're not doing this again. You don't get the walk away just because it's inconvenient for you, not this time," his voice regained its typical raspiness and vibrato. "So let’s stop pretending. Let’s either end this now, or end up in bed. I’m tired, Sunny. I’m tired of us doing this dance and calling it anything else. I'm tired of our shit, Sunny." Lindsey nearly choked on her hot chocolate, and she rushed to cover her daughter's ears. Amita's eyes snapped toward them. The café fell silent as Y/N straightened and stretched her neck. Then, she turned around. Slowly. Menacingly.

"I walked away?!" She full-on, no warning ahead screamed into his face. "You were incapacitated on your couch with another woman nursing you back to life—whom you also fucked might I add—while calling my name!" Silence. The café was dead silent. 'Fuck me sideways,' Amita muttered, already typing into the barista group chat. "She saved it," he muttered. Like that explained everything. "And I was a convenient body to warm your bed between shifts?" Sunny bounced the metaphorical ball right back, nodding sweetly. Except it was rotten to the core. "Got it, Matty. Understood." "God, you are so stubborn—" "Me? Stubborn? Rich, coming from you!" Now, she was pointing at Matt, hands and lips trembling—her body couldn't decide whether to cry or to slap him. "Who's the one who lied about everything? About who they are? And, then, listen to this," she actually looked around the café, rising both her fingers, "he has the fucking audacity to look heartbroken when I gound out? Let alone that little, petty, month-lasting hiatus you pulled."

"I didn't lie about a thing," that, sadly, was true. Matt couldn't lie under the pretense that Sunny never really asked. "You didn't tell me either." Immediate shutdown. Sunny was shouting again, having even the tourists outside watching. Frankly? She couldn't care less. "I wanted you. Not the fucking lawyer who turns everything into arguments and defense. Not even the fucking... whatever is that you do in your free time. Not the martyr. I wanted you. And each time I thought I had a piece of that—every time—I lost it."

Instead of pulling away after being called out, for the first time ever, Matthew took a step toward Sunny. "You know why?" "Enlighten me." Sunny quipped back. "Because that piece? The one you're yammering about? I never gave it to you. You took it." He smiled. It wasn't ironic or biting. It was a full-on, wide, Matt Murdock smile. Then one that lit his expression up. "Foggy just... forced you into my life, then you handed me god-awful coffee, game shit for weeks and I knew I was done. You have no idea what it was like—how it felt—to walk in here and just listen to you, knowing I can't touch. Day after day, month after month. Just pretending I'm content with what we had." Y/N scoffed flatly, her hands on her hips. "Let me take a guess? It felt like nothing." "It felt like coming home," that shut her up for a beat. Just a half though. She was feisty, just like he liked it.

"Except I'm not home, Matt," she muttered bitterly. "Not to you, not to Foggy, barely to myself. I'm a stopover. I make noise. I make jokes. I make coffee. And then? I get left. And I'm fine—" "Bullshit," he retorted, fast and sharp. Cut through her defense like a knife. "You're not a stopover. You're the only fucking thing I ever kept coming for." "Then why did you leave?" She muttered. Matt flinched, his jaw clenching. Sunny wasn't asking about just now—she meant each time he left. Repeatedly. "Because I thought you didn't want me," he answered honestly. "Because you said you don't want me." "But I do want you. Of course I do!" She shrieked from the bottom of her lungs, gasping for air. "But I'm not good enough for you, and you know that!"

The entire café stiffened as everyone inside—and outside—watched the two. Matthew stared at Sunny, stunned, his mouth open. His senses were dialed to a hundred as he perceived her. She was blinking erratically, the weight of her atonement heavy on her shoulders. The hot tears on her cheeks, the panicked breaths, fidgeting of fingers. All the shit she'd ever inertnalized, every demon that'd ever haunted her... Matt could see it all if he wanted. And he did.

"You think you're not good enough for me?" Matt laughed, but he wasn't amused. He was wrecked, her low self-esteem hitting him like a truck. He stepped closer, voice lower and softer now, breath warm against her cheek. "You're everything a fool like me could ask for, Sunny. Every second I've spent pretending otherwise was just me—being a goddamn coward." "I run a café," she hiccuped, hollow. "No, you own it, there's a difference," Matt grinned, voice cracking. "You make people feel seen. You remember orders, and stories, and heartbreaks. You watch kids grow and celebrate milestones with others. You give people a safe place to be." She was shaking, lips parted, eyes glassy with fury... and something else. "You're making me feel like I matter. And I hate you for that." "You matter more than anyone," Matt whispered softly, his nose bumping into her forehead before he planted a quick peck on the crown of her head.

A siren wailed in the distance. Someone whistled from across the street. "Go get a room!" Someone screamed across the street, but neither of them moved. His palm carefully played with her hair, his nose buried in her hair where her scent was the most instance. Sunny didn't even attempt to embrace him back. In fact, her body was tense.

"So. Now, that we're done..." Matthew whispered directly into her ear. "What's the verdict?" "Of?" She scoffed, ironic. "What would it be? The bed or the end?" He muttered, voice raspy, cracking at the utterly inappropriate images flashing inside his head. "I haven't even..." Sunny pushed him off herself, taking off the apron. She stretched her palm toward Amita, who handed her her coat and essentials, wishing Y/N a nice evening. "Can you at least let me digest this shit?" "Are you serious, Sunny? Running away? Again?" Matt followed right in her steps, outside the café like a shadow, mirroring her steps and tempo. "Right after I had the whole speech about this being it?" "You put me on an emotional fucking whirlwind, Matthew," she hissed, not even looking at him as she fixed her scarf. "That shit I've screamed at you? I've never admitted to anyone. And I yelled it in a café full of people."

"I figured you might not be the one to openly share your feelings," Matt mused. They were slowly setting back into a certain rhythm, one that wasn't as alien or hostile. "You'd hate group therapy." Y/N was running home to hide before the world, and Matt followed. She wasn't pushing him away, didn't send him to the furthest ends of hell. That was a victory in Matt's book, albeit minuscule.

"Jokes? Really? Now?" She grimaced. They stopped at the crosswalk, next to each other, watching the city move on without them. The snow kept falling, sticking to the ground. "Also, bullshit. You're talking like you've been to one. You'd never get therapy." "Touché," Matt chuckled, feeling as she warmed up. Her voice was fuller, melodic again. "Just for the record, if I did therapy," she started, crossing the crossroads. Her elbow, by muscle memory, bumped into Matthew's palm. Another green light. His fingers grasped for the coat as if he were drowning. "...It'd be solo. One-on-one. No audience. No. There wouldn't be Matthew Murdock, watching me spiral." "That's a shame," Matt muttered, half-smiling. The moment they stepped back on the sidewalk? Sunny shook his hand off. Violently. As if he were burning through the material of her coat. "I'd bring popcorn."

"You’re not letting go, are you?" She stopped all of a sudden, staring at him. "You're serious." "Dead serious," he nodded. "I can’t believe I dumped all that in front of Amita like a goddamn live mic..." "Deflecting much?" Matt muttered, tilting his head. "What?" "Keep at it and you might believe it's true... one day," he continued as if it was obvious. Y/N straightened up, sending him a confused frown. "Your mind is racing. With you and me, inside your shoebox apartment. You've already nudged the door open and your brain can't catch up to speed," Matt hummed, stepping close—he inhaled deeply, humming. Sunny stared at him for a beat too long, her breathing shallow. It wasn't a surrender, but not a retreat either. Her throat bobbed before she cleared her throat.

"You don't know what you're asking about, Matt." She stepped a bit closer, her body shaking. She constantly shifted weight from one for to another, debating a retreat. "Stop pretending you got me to read like a book." "The problem is I do," Matt's head tilted slightly—in the way it always did when he was about to corner someone. His voice dipped low, circling with something dark and certain. "I know what you sound like when you lie, Sunny." She blinked, stunned.

"Your breath hitches. You talk faster, spew whatever comes to mind—like you're trying to outrun the lie while digging a deeper hole. Your shoulders tense up and you shift your weight to the left... just like now. You clench your jaw and raise your chin. Every single fucking time." Matt had never had her speechless like this. Her eyes fell down to watch her body moving, and Matthew... he was right. On all accounts. Without seeing her. She just stared... so Matt kept going. "I know what your heartbeat does when I'm close. What your scent does when you're angry at me but still... famished. I know the difference between your laugh when you mean it, and the one you use to push me away."

He slipped his palms into his pockets, all his senses clinging to her. Tourists and others passed around them. Some grumbled. Some didn't pay any attention. And Sunny stood there, unable to argue back. She felt stripped bare. Matthew took a step forward. He wasn't close to touch. Just close enough to haunt.

"So when you insist you don't want me the way I want you?" His voice dropped into a raspy, broken whisper that sent a chill down her spine. "I know you're lying before you even finish the fucking sentence. And God help me, Sunny, but every time you lie like that—I want to tear the truth out of you with my mouth... and imagine how you'd sound while I'd be doing it." "Get out of my head," she mustered. But her voice lacked conviction. Like he was already in, and hated it. "You don’t get to know me like that."

"You think I don't?" Matthew pranced, clearly running a victory lap. The words were measured. Calm. Final. Thought through. "You think I couldn't tell what I was doing to you? When you first laid eyes on me? I wondered how close you are to squirming." She flinches like he struck her, and Matt takes it as another opportunity to step closer. "I could hear your pulse shift every time I leaned in. I could smell it on your skin, taste it in the air—that you're close to coming undone just by walking around me. It had me imagine what'd happen if I touched you in that moment. I felt your body betraying every word coming out of your mouth."

Her breath hitched, indicating a comeback. So he shook his head and clicked his tongue. That shut her down again. He was quiet and dangerously honest. "The whole 'We're not doing this' act? Cute. Real cute. If I kissed you again, you'd forget you ever pulled back. You said 'it's nothing' like I've imagined things. But you'd tense and tilt your chin. Your lips would part—just a little. And your heart—God, your fucking heart—it raced like it was trying to outrun the lie."

"Y-you're imagining things," Sunny whispered, gasping for air. Her body vibrated, practically begged for Matt to just touch it already. But he wasn't doing it until she'd say the words. He wanted her as a whole. "No. I'm blind, not oblivious. That's the thing about me—you lie with your words, but I get the truth anyway. I always do." He scoffed, turning his head away. "You think it didn't kill me? Having you close, pretending we're nothing, while every inch of you begged me to close the space?" "Don't." She begged, meek and soft. "You’re not being fair." "Every time I touched your wrist passing a mug, your breath would hitch. You'd stand still a second too long. Your fingers would curl in, like you were trying to hold yourself back. For your good conscience. For Foggy and Karen. I didn't have to guess. I didn't have to see. I could feel it." Matt, gaining, inhaled deeply, tilting his head. Oh, Sunny realized. That's what he was doing. While he breathed weirdly. "I can feel it now, Sunny. Right here. Like you’re trying not to fall apart. I can smell it, like you're doing your damndest not to come undone. Hear it. Taste it... And all I’ve done is talk. Ran my fucking mouth. But it should be somewhere else."

"So what? You just... just let it happen? Sat like a good boy with hands on your knees and what? Tasted me? From the fucking air? Because I walked by?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound insane." "No," Matt admitted flatly. "I suffered every second of it." That stopped Sunny again. Matt's voice shook, dropping even lower. Like he was grasping on remnants of his will not to pounce on her. "I went home, each second of it carved into me. Every smell. Every tremble. Every quiver. Every clench of thighs. Each time you scooped on your chair and cleared your throat, looking away."

They fell silent, the world moving past. It was too quiet. Too raw. "It drove me insane. You drove inane. And I let it happen, because I'd rather have a piece of you than nothing at all," he admitted softly. "Because you refused to betray Foggy. Because you wanted to believe Karen's the perfect match for me. Because you prayed that it'd go away one day." He sniffled like he hated himself for admitting, "But it didn’t. And it won’t. Not for me. Not when it's you."

Sunny was frozen. Breathing hard. Tearing up. All of her walls were down. All that remained was Matthew in front of her, admitting something deep which neither truly grasped. Mo one’s ever said anything like that to her before, not like this. Not from a place of such damning, brutal clarity.

"And if you want to keep pretending this was one-sided—if you want to say you don’t feel it right now—then go ahead," Matt straightened again, bracing before her final words. "But I know what I’m doing to you. Because you do the exact same thing to me. And there's not much control left in me. You're my garrotor, jury, and judge."

"I'm not saying it didn't mean something..." Sunny retorted, backing away. Her voice was shaky but defiant. There was still fight left in her... Matt'd be surprised if there wasn't. "I'm saying you don't get to do this, not to me and not like this." "Do what?" Matt murmured. "Be right? Finally admitting to it aloud?" "Be smug about it," she snapped, turning on her heel, storming down the sidewalk. Matt, again, fell in step beside like they were out for a stroll, like she didn't just crack her rib cage open in public.

"You don't realize how unfair this fucking is. You have all these cheat codes. Hearing shit, smelling stuff, feeling things. That's just—" "What, an evolutionary advantage? I'm already blind, Y/N. I need to catch up in other areas." "It's like you read me, you dick—" She spat. "Like I don't get a single secret in this city." "Only when I'm interested and listening." Matt hummed. "Things got a range, too, you see?" "Which is always, you nosy prick." Sunny retorted. "...I do enjoy a good audiobook."

"You're enjoying this," Y/N fumed without turning. "Immensely." Matt nodded, a pleased smile on his lips. "I should leave you in a ditch next time." "We both know you won't, Sunny." She spun around, throwing her hands into the air. "And how the hell do you know what I won't do? Are you a psychic, too?" "Because you could've done so before, and you chose not to," Matt barked, matching her energy. "Even after you found out who I really am. Even after you watched me bleed all over my couch and ruined your night." "I should've smothered you with a fucking pillow," she groaned, more to herself than her.

"Mhm. Feisty." "Oh, don't you fucking dare doing that." Y/N hissed over her shoulder. "Do what now?" Matt teased, faux innocent. "Feisty. Like I'm some challenge for you to win. I'm not a prize, Matthew." "Never said you were," Matt retorted. "You're just impossible to walk away from." "Bull-fucking-shit." "Why else am I walking next to you instead of limping away from Claire's?" He hit a nerve with that one. Sunny faltered, and Matt clocked it—the stutter in her step. "You don't get to spin this into some flirtation. This isn't cute." "No, you're right. It's real. And it's driving you insane."

She scoffed so hard she nearly tripped over a cracked sidewalk. They've arrived at her tenement now, her keys clutched in one trembling hand, body radiating 'don't you dare follow me inside' while her other hand still reached back to ensure he was there. Matt stepped in close—too close. The air between them crackled with static. "Give me one good fucking reason why we're still yapping here instead of standing in your bedroom, ensuring you don't have a damn article of clothing on?" Sunny choked on air. "Jesus, Matt—" "You want honesty?" It was just a whisper, eerily calm, disrupted only by the passing train. "You're not the only one who's been suffering. But I'm done with play pretend. You want me? Then stop running. Let me in. Let me have you."

"What if it's just physical? What if it doesn't work out?" She whispered back. "What if you won't want me after you conquer me? Will I just be another name on some mental checklist? Another notch in the belt of whatever fucked-up thing you call intimacy? I don't want to lose myself." "You won't, I promise," Matt smirked, his palms shooting up to her jaw to caress it, his forehead leaning to hers. "I've already done the losing part for both of us. But if you want to keep yourself safe, pretending your hands weren't shaking, putting those keys in... I'll walk away. I'll be your good soldier. Just say the words." But she remained silent. Her eyes were closed. She was thinking, contemplating.

"I can hear your heartbeat. You're thinking about it." "I don't want to think about it," she winced. "But you are. Every second we're standing here," Matthew cooed, letting his finger numb on the warmth and feel of her skin. "Let that breath out, the one your body's holding. You're aching, and it's killing me that you don't allow me to give you what you want. Each of your nerves is on fire." "I don't trust myself with you," she murmurs, barely above a whisper. "Good. You shouldn't," Matt admits earnestly. He knows himself, seen himself operate. She was right for still keeping the red light on. "Because I'll ruin every rule you have if you let me, Y/N. I'll peel you down to bone and worship what's underneath. We're allowed to want this." "Matt..." "Then say it. Get it out. Tell me to leave and I'm gone. Say it like you mean it, not like you're hoping I call your bluff. Because I will. I'll walk away. But if you don't... if you won't say it, then I'm not taking a goddamn step away from you." Her eyes met his. She was crying, and he could feel it. He smeared tears with his fingers, shooing them away. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her lips trembling. "Your mouth says no. But baby... everything else on you is begging." "Are you bluffing?" She hated how close he was. How safe it felt. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

It came without a warning. None of her physical reactions indicated the split-second decision. Her keys jingled to the ground, and her purse followed suit. Her hands in his coat, in his hair, mouth crashing like she was starving and he was the first breath of oxygen. She surged into him, toes barely hitting the sidewalk as she collided with his chest. The kiss was open-mouthed and messy at first—an ugly bump of noses, her hair in his mouth, her teeth pinching his lip. Matt winced from the jolt of pain, letting it travel down his spine before embracing her. His palms settled on her hips, feeling the friction of her body against his—it burned so fucking right. He couldn't help it and groaned... like he'd wasted a lifetime waiting for this.

Because in a way, he had.

The door of her apartment clicked shut behind them. Sunny cried and laughed the entire time she led him up the stairs. Her breath was unsteady, and she stumbled multiple times. Matt found it endearing. But when she led him inside her shoebox apartment... he just stood there. Still. Frozen. Because... fuck.

The door closed behind him, and it felt like submersion. He didn’t step inside—he sank. Sunny's scent hit him first. Her. Just her. All around him. Suffocating him. So thick he swayed, one palm catching the wall to keep him upright. The place smelled like vanilla and citrus, and the ghost of whatever lotion she used now. The sun-warmed sheets, thanks to how her bed was positioned directly under the fire escape, something sweet on the counter, her shampoo in the bathroom, and the hall. And her again. Unmistakable. Undefinable. Her. All over the sheets, the couch, the bed, in the fabric of her clothes... Just her, so intense he wouldn't dream of it.

His lips parted as he gasped for air, but each breath just tore the remnants of his will. It wasn't one smell. It was a map. A fucking universe. And he was locked away for so long it hurt. "Jesus Christ..." Matt muttered, barely audible. He didn’t mean to say it. Didn’t mean to fall to pieces standing in her doorway, already undone before she ever touched him.

He sensed her tossing her coat over a chair, taking off her boots like nothing was different, like this wasn't the moment he'd gone mad over. Matt didn't follow. Not right away. He couldn't. Because her apartment was so loud to him. Not in noise... no. In feeling. In the hum of her absence, where she just stood. In the quiet beat of her heart down the hall. The scent of her skin soaked into every inch of this place. It was unbearable.

It was heaven.

It was warm. Lived in. A couch with a throw blanket she never folded. A record player with dust on the speakers. Books were stacked in corners like she was halfway through all of them. He could smell the paper, the glue holding the paperbacks together. And that smell. God. It was in the walls around him. It was in him now.

Matt let out a slow, controlled breath. He's been in fights that felt less overwhelming.

"Are you okay?" She muttered, a grin clearly audible in how she said it. "Coming in or planning to pass out by the door?" "Trying to decide if I'm even awake." She stopped and scoffed, turned around to say something snarky—but the look on his face made her pause. He looked wrecked. And she hadn't even touched him yet. "... Matt?" She muttered softly, warmly, her steps leading her closer. Her fingertips tug on his glasses and cap, setting them down on the table. "Here you go. Give me this... take your time."

He moved, finally. It was deliberate—like he worried the place might vanish if he moved too fast. The tips of his fingers traced the curve of her ass before he tapped onto the wall, moving forward, slowly and methodically. He traced the back of her chair. Trailed along the kitchen counter. The edge of the wall. Memorizing it. Mapping her life.

He was inside her home. In her space. In her.

Sunny moved around carefully and silently, following and watching. She was smiling. Matt felt that. His ears caught the sound of her heartbeat. The incoming train, the track vibrating in the distance. The snowstorm outside was picking up. The radiators were buzzing, the steam moving through them. Matt followed around, his head tilting and turning, to where she stood. Bare feet on the hardwood, her weight shifting like she was trying to pretend this wasn't seismic.

He reached for her. Found her hand. Tugged on his and made her giggle breathlessly. When she didn't pull away, he brought it to his mouth and kissed her palm. A silent thank you. A quiet worship. He felt it. The jolt running through her. The clench of her thighs. The hitch in her breathing. Then, he pressed the palm to her face, running her fingers across his cheek, jaw, and mouth. She pressed her fingertips into his skin with childlike fascination.

"You don't know what this is doing to me." His voice was low, hoarse—so unlike him, he couldn’t recall when he’d ever been this desperate for a woman’s touch... if he ever was. "Then tell me." She whispered back. And he wanted. But couldn't. Not with words. But he could show her.

His hands reached for Y/N's waist—finally, finally—and he drew her in like he was breathing her for the first time. And in a way, he was. Her heartbeat stuttered when he dipped his head, nose grazing her neck. Her head tilted instinctively, her fingers grasping the hair on his neck. He groaned. Like a man shot through. Because her scent was right there, clinging to her skin. Coming from there. And this close, Matthew was utterly undone.

"You smell like heaven..." He murmured into her throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right where her pulse palpitated. "And bad ideas." She laughed, breathless. "You're the one to talk." But Matt? He shivered. His palms shook when he skimmed the hem of her shirt, unsure where to start and what to savor first. He wanted all of it. But his senses were on fire—every square inch of her body screaming at him. Warmth. Pulse. Need.

And he could hear it. In how she breathed. In how she shifted closer. In how her asking warmed his hands as he moved higher and higher... And then, the shirt was off. Matt just stood there. His hands hovered, breathing raggedly. He was starving. Famished.

"You're gonna break me," he winced. She smiled, pulling him closer. "Then break."

And he did. They haven't even made it to the bed. Not fully. Matt was half-undressed, t-shirt off, belt unbuckled, Sunny's thigh hooked around his waist as he pressed her back against the door. Her fingers roamed through his hair, her lips sucking on the soft skin on her collarbone. Everything was heat, chaos, and reckless want... Until he forced himself to stop, pressing his forehead to hers. His chest heaved. His heart was too loud and fast. He looked pained, gasping for air. Feral. Like he was trying not to come apart at the seams.

"What are you doing to me?" He stutters, voice rough, strangled. Y/N blinked. Furrowed and tried reading him, pulling away... his body followed immediately. "Too much?" He laughed—sharp and desperate. "You... you don't get it."

Matt's hands trembled where he cupped her hips. He pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at her—even if he couldn't see her. He felt her. And then it broke. The dam. He started talking. Low and unfiltered.

"Your heart's been pounding since I stepped through the door. I can—can hear it in your throat, in your wrists, in your chest—like a fucking drum. And every time you breathe, I smell you. You changed shampoos. From tangerines to vanilla and something—peach?" He guessed. Sunny choked a laugh. "Apricot, actually." "It's all over your pillow. All over me now. I can taste it on my tongue. You moved your leg just now. The air shifted—I felt it. I heard how the fabric on your jeans rubs against your thighs. How your bra scratched your skin."

Matt leaned back in, his lips brushing her cheekbone. "And I'm hard as a fucking rock just from the sound of your mouth parting." Sunny shuddered, pressing her thighs together in search of a bit of release—but Matt wasn't done. "You keep saying you're nothing special. You have no idea. Just the way you move? I've been memorizing it for a year. The tilt of your hips when you walk. How you always prop your ass up. Like you want me to see it... and slap, knead, kiss, and worship it. You don't have to touch me. I can feel what you want." He exhaled, near trembling.

"I’ve had to walk out of that café more times than I’m proud of… just to keep myself from doing something I couldn’t take back. But I carried you with me—your laughter, scent... and it drove me insane. Especially when I felt it in the courtroom," he whispered, clearly not proud of himself. "Made me feel like I could tear any defence apart." And then, he pulled her back in, voice nearly breaking. "Before I can... Before we... Before I'm inside you, I need you to understand what you're doing to me. Because if I touch you now, really touch you, I'm not stopping. I won't want to stop."

And for once, Sunny didn't deflect. She didn't tease him as she ran her fingertips across his temple, idly moving strands of hair out of his eyes. Because she could see it. How overwhelmed Matthew was. How fragile his control had become. How close to falling apart he actually was. And it wasn't just lust. It was everything.

"Then don't, Matt," she whispered softly. The sound of his name falling off her lips in this way and setting had him scoff with desire. "Don't stop." He exhaled like he'd been hit. Pressed his mouth to hers—slower this time. Reverence, yes, but a hunger behind it. Like he was tasting the answer to the question he dreaded asking… and yet, he couldn’t stop himself now.

It was hungry, consuming. The kind of kiss you feel days later, when no one's looking. The kind of kiss that makes you forget your name, let alone whatever excuses you had for pushing it away in the first place. His hands moved with purpose. Not frantic, not clumsy. Matt knew Y/N like the back of his hand. He suspected what made her tilt her head like that, what made her fingers curl in his hair, and lips on a soft, involuntary noise that shoots straight to his gut. It made him groan. That, in return, flashed heat between her legs, making her moan. What a fucking mess they were.

They, finally, fell into her bed. The wind howled outside, like it couldn’t decide whether to scream or freeze them in time. Snow and ice drummed against the window, matching the frantic pulse of his heart as her legs wrapped around him instinctively. But he stopped. Didn't press forward—just felt how her hands were above her head, her breasts slipping out of her bra. He just... breathed. Took it in. As before, he nuzzled the underside of her jaw. Breathed against her pulse point. Rocked himself against her lap, making her back arch. His voice came out wrecked.

"How can you be fucking everywhere?" He paused, breathing against her pulse point, like he could feel every beat of her heart against his lips. His fingers lingered at her throat, a feather-light touch, dragging down with agonizing slowness. He could feel the heat of her skin seeping into his fingers even before he made contact… and then he did, tracing the valley between her breasts, feeling the way her chest rose sharply with every breath she took. His voice was tight, forced through a strangled groan, "Jesus... your skin. It's hot. So hot. I can feel your heat before I touch you." Sunny just watched, arched her back, breathing loudly... waiting. Her eyes were blown wide, hips buckling. She tried her best not to move, to give Matt the space he needed. But she physically couldn't stay still.

Her chest heaved, the need inside her building with every brush of his skin. She tried to hold back, but it was getting harder. She wasn’t used to waiting—not like this. She could feel the heat of him pressed against her, the tension between them making her body ache with want. But still, she tried to hold off, giving him space—because if she didn’t, she might not have the strength to stop him, or herself.

"I've imagined this... a hundred different ways. More than that. I've fucked my hand to the sound of your voice in my head and still didn't come as hard as I will inside you," he muttered, reverent, confessing. She whined when he palmed her crotch through the jeans. She winced once, biting it back as if she regretted satisfying him. His lips curled into a dangerous smile. He heard it. "There it is." His palm moved, squeezed her, copying the lazy sways of her hips. "You're a real smug son of a bitch, you know that?" "You're just mad we waited until now, Sunny." "You didn't wait," she scoffed, eliciting a sensational moan as she swayed against his palm again. "You chickened out." "Oh, honey." Matt scoffed, slow, controlled. "You’re trying so hard to behave, aren’t you?" he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "But I can feel how much you want it. Every breath you take, each time your hips move without permission... It's all written on your skin. And I see it."

He propped one arm next to her head, one knee between her thighs, hovering just above her. His senses were roaring. Her skin burned beneath his palms, her breath hitched unevenly against his chest. The scent of her arousal soaked the air—sweet, heady, impossible to ignore. Her pulse was frantic, a staccato drum beneath soft, overheated skin. She moved slowly, intentionally, propping herself on her elbow to kiss him. Her mouth was hot and clumsy with need. Her hand slid down, unfastening the button of her jeans, guiding his fingers under the fabric The moment he touched her, she shuddered—a sharp inhale through her teeth, her body arching helplessly. "Fuck," he breathed, practically purred into her mouth, a guttural sound catching in his throat.

His fingers slid through slick heat, and his brain short-circuited.

"Oh my God…" he muttered against her ear, forehead falling to hers. He smirked. That smug mothefucker smirked. "You’re soaked, Sunny." His breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to drag his lips along her jaw, intoxicated. "I knew you were dripping," he groaned, his voice low, reverent. "But this?" He kissed her neck, just under her jaw, right where her pulse was hammering. "Your scent. That fucking taste... It’s amazing." A pause. A breath. A smirk. "...It’s all over you now. Hovering in the air." He nearly didn't finish the sentence. Could barely think at all.

She whimpered into his mouth, trembling. Her jeans were still half-on, digging into her thighs, but she didn’t care. Neither did he. The only thing that mattered was his hand between her legs and the way her hips rolled shamelessly into it.

He moved with practiced precision—slow, reverent strokes designed to undo her. He'd done it a thousand times—with different women, at different places, under different circumstances. But any of it mattered until that night. Matt was watching Sunny fall apart in high definition. Fucking finally, long overdue. He felt each twitch of her lips, every catch in her breath, every flutter of her lashes. She was trying not to fall, and failing beautifully.

He felt her. Everywhere. Not just under his fingers, soaked and grinding, not just in the way her moans spilled into his mouth like confession, but everywhere. Her breath ghosted against his cheek—hot, trembling, and uneven. Her heartbeat thundered, syncing with the pulse between her thighs. The little gasp she made when he curled his fingers just right? He’d chase that sound like a song stuck in his head for the rest of his life. "Matt—" she whimpered, voice barely hanging on. "Shh," he whispered, kissing her jaw, the corner of her lips, her throat. "I know. I know, sweetheart." He wasn’t teasing her, not like usual. This was deeper. Slower. Cruel in its tenderness.

She was writhing under him now—knees falling open, jeans shoved halfway down her calves, breath stuttering like her body was short-circuiting. Matt was grinning. Fucking grinning. He kissed her—messy, slow, obscene—and said, against her lips, "Jesus," he scoffed. "You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore." Her only answer was a moan—thick, guttural, throatier than it should’ve been—and the way her hips bucked into his palm, desperate for more. "That smug mouth of yours," she gasped, hips rocking up. "You talk too much, Matt." "You love it," he growled back

He played with her like a new Christmas toy—the kind he’d begged for all year and finally got to unwrap. Testing what made her squeak. What made her sob. What made her gush.

And she both hated and loved him for it.

"Matt... I'm gonna," she whispered, and Matt smiled against her jaw. "I'm gonna..." He slowed down, making her huff. "You will," he murmured, promising. "You’ve waited this long, sweetheart, and you can wait a bit longer. I wanted to fuck you into the mattress the second you showed up with that cheap apron and smartass mouth." She sucked in a breath, feeling his fingers slipping under her panties. Sunny didn't deny it, just nodded frantically, biting her bottom lip. She was hot. Sticky. Soft. Tasted like honey. He could taste it.

"I wanted you then. I want you now. I've always fucking wanted you." He pulled just enough to speak directly over her mouth. "So try giving me one good reason why I'm not inside you yet... why I wasn't a year ago?" His fingers slipped inside her, moving slowly. So achingly slow it had her mouth open agape, her face turning to him. Her hips pressed against his hand in a deliciously torturous rhythm. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He waited, feeling her body trembling. The more it trembled, the more Matt smirked knowingly. "Didn't think so."

Her body gave the answer before her mouth did. The way her legs tightened around his waist. The way her nails dug into his shoulders. The way her breath hitched and her head tilted back, like she was already halfway gone.

He watched her face the whole time—because that’s what Matt did. He watched. Every stutter of her pulse, every ragged inhale, every time her lips parted like she might say something, only to get swallowed by sensation again. It was worship and ruin, wrapped into one.

"I hate you," she whispered, broken and breathless. "I hate how good this feels." He chuckled. "No, you don’t." "I do," she gasped, voice shaking as his fingers curled just right. "I hate that you knew exactly how to—" "You mean this?" he whispered, dragging his thumb just slightly higher, circling slowly, deliberately. She cried out. He caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her like he could pull it into his lungs.

"I could do this all night, Sunny," he murmured against her lips. "So unless you want me to make you come like this, with your jeans still halfway on and my fingers inside you, you better say it." She blinked up at him, dazed. "Say what?" His lips ghosted over hers. "Say you want me." "That some fucked up moral code'f yours?" She scoffed, biting on his lips lightly. "Ruining panties and pussies only after permission? A 'your daughter will be back by ten situation?'" Matthew laughed, genuinely amused. "Look at how talkative you are." His hand sped up, giving her a taste of heaven. She clenched around him. "I need to hear you say it. Please. I could’ve had you all this time," he muttered, forehead pressed to hers. "Don’t make me wait any longer."

Her breath hitched, the word please hitting her like a punch to the gut. Not because it was desperate, but because it wasn’t. Because it was controlled. Because he meant it. Because Matthew Murdock never asked for what he didn’t already know he could have.

And that made the 'please' feel like something else entirely. Like reverence. Like surrender. Like devotion.

Sunny's laugh cracked—barely a sound, more like a choked gasp—because how the hell was she supposed to be witty when his fingers moved like that? "Jesus, Matt, what makes you think I’ll let you?" she whispered, hips rolling hard against his hand now, her walls fluttering around his fingers. "You’re gonna make me say it?" "I’m making you feel it," he countered, lips against her neck, voice so low it rumbled right through her. She whined, eyes fluttering shut. Her head hit the pillow like she was giving up the last bit of control she had.

"...I want you," she whispered, too soft, barely a confession. He stilled. "What was that, honey?" Her eyes snapped open. She scowled, breathless and shaking, half-crazy from the denial and how close she was. "You smug little shit."

Matthew grinned—really grinned, wide and wicked—and kissed her like it was the last thing he'd ever do. His fingers moved, deeper this time, dragging her back toward the edge. "That’s not a no," he said smugly, and she moaned through clenched teeth. "No," she echoed, a gasp now. "It’s a fucking yes. Fuck me so hard I won't walk tomorrow. So hard that my neighbors come knocking. So hard that when you think about it in court, you'll have to stare at the judge, hard as a rock, unable to think about anything other than how I feel around you."

And just like that, he moved. Tore the rest of her jeans off like they’d offended him. Kissed down her body like he was praying. She took care of the rest of his clothes, hungrily palming and scratching each inch of him. And it felt heavenly. And when he finally pushed inside? When they both winced and curled? When she screamed his name like there wasn't another man on the planet? It was like everything in the world snapped into place.

She was still panting when he kissed her again. Just after coming apart. Was it her hand or his that rubbed her clit? Matt couldn't recall. She just remembered how she screamed. It echoed inside his ears. The kiss felt softer this time, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away. But his body betrayed him. Still hard inside her. Still twitching. She felt it. Of course she did.

"You're still..." she started, voice shredded and breathless. He'd just finished ruining her. It was a miracle the bed survived. He felt the grate falling off. The mattress was falling through. Her neighbour shuffled toward the wall right as he growled into her throat. He nearly snapped at them to mind their own fucking business. "...fuck, Matt."

He didn’t move. Just kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then lower. "I told you," he murmured, voice wrecked and sweet all at once. "I could do this all night." His hips rolled once, lazy and deep, and she gasped—body arching like she’d been shocked. "Oh my God—" "I know," he muttered. He didn’t mean her exclamation. He meant her. How hot she still was. How tight. How wet. How perfectly she fit around him, like this was what they were always meant for.

He pulled out—just enough to drag the head of his cock against her, slick with her, teasing her—and then pushed back in slow. Her nails dug into his shoulder. He grinned. "You’re sensitive," he noted, smug as ever. "Poor thing." "Don’t tease me," she warned, voice hoarse.

He thrust again—harder, deliberate, and her body jolted beneath him. "Who’s teasing?" he whispered. "Is this teasing? Teasing would be pulling out. Teasing would be stopping." Sunny moaned—bit into his neck like she wanted to shut him up and never stop hearing him at the same time. He fucked her slow, deep, endless. Hands on her hips. Her legs locked tight around his waist. Sweat collected between them.

Matt buried his face in her neck, breath ragged. She kept clenching like she didn’t want to let go of him. Like she didn’t want to wake up. God help him, he wanted to stay. "You feel like sin," he whispered, almost angry with how good it was. "Like heaven and hell got in a bar fight and I’m the loser." She laughed—high and breathless—and rolled her hips up to meet him, harder. "Shut up and lose, then." He growled. "Gladly."

Matt didn’t stop—of course he didn’t. He was already obsessed. Addicted. She clenched around him like her body wanted to keep him forever, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

"Oh, honey," he drawled, dragging his teeth against her collarbone. Another roll of his hips—deep, controlled, cruel. She gasped, clung to him like she was falling. He chuckled, low and wicked. Another thrust, this time slow enough to make her feel every inch. "Want me to stop?"

"Fuck no," she rasped, nails dragging down his back. "Don’t you dare." He groaned into her skin, lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "Then take it. Take all of it." And God, did she.

The rhythm he found was deeper now, steadier—not frantic, but possessive. Each movement grounded like a promise. Each drag of his cock meant to remind her. Who was inside her. Who knew her. Who would ruin her again, and again, and again. Her moans were louder now. She didn’t even try to hide them. Didn’t care about the neighbors. Didn’t care about the broken bed. All she cared about was him—his hands, his breath, the words rasped against her neck.

"You’re mine right now, Sunny," he muttered against her throat, almost in disbelief. "All mine." She nodded, eyes glazed, body giving in. "Yours," she breathed. "Yours, just yours, baby." Then, as she arched, she softly whispered, "Don’t stop. Not yet. You're doing so good for me." And that did it. Matt was lost, gone in an instant. He slammed into her, his control slipping just enough to make her cry out. He felt her tighten around him, helpless, her orgasm coming on again, fast and raw. One of her hands was in his hair, the other frantically working between her thighs.

"Come for me again," he whispered. "Right now, honey. Show me." And she did. Writhing under him, breath breaking into sobs of pleasure. She winced his name like it was salvation. And Matt—Matt didn’t stop. Not even as she fell apart.

It happened during one of his last, forceful thrusts—loud and sudden. The sharp CRACK of the headboard splitting sent them freezing for a heartbeat. Matt stilled, breath caught in his throat, his hand splayed wide on the mattress like he could hold the world steady if he had to. Sunny blinked up at him, wide-eyed and flushed, chest rising fast beneath him. "...Did we just—?"

Matt laughed, breathless and completely wrecked, his forehead falling to her shoulder. "That wasn't me," he muttered, even as his hips rolled again, slow and possessive. "That was you." She gasped, legs tightening around his waist. "You broke my bed, Matthew."

"No," he corrected, grinning against her skin. "We broke your bed." Another thrust, this one rough enough to knock the frame again. A loud thump followed. He didn’t even flinch this time. "I'll buy you a new one."

"You better," she moaned, voice thick, clinging to his back now, breathless and fucked-out. "Preferably one that can handle being fucked like this." He groaned, cock twitching inside her at the sound of it. "You keep talking like that, and I’ll break the floorboards next... or your kitchen table." "You’re a menace." "At your service." And just like that, the headboard gave another warning groan—half splintered already. Neither of them cared. Let it collapse. Let the whole fucking room fall apart. He just kept moving, kept whispering filth against her skin. And she kept coming back to life beneath him.

The world outside the bedroom didn’t exist in that moment. There was no Hell’s Kitchen, no responsibilities waiting to drag him back into the real world. It was just them. Just this.

Matt felt her fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his back, her breath soft against his neck. He breathed it in like it was his last. The smell of her, the warmth of her skin against his, the rhythm of their hearts still tangled in the aftermath. He wanted to pull away, but he didn’t want to lose this moment. To lose her.

She felt so right, but that scared the hell out of him. Why was he letting this happen? But then she kissed his forehead, soft as a whisper, and all the thoughts scattered like they didn’t even matter. Maybe he was letting her in because, for the first time in his life, it felt like she wasn’t going to break him

They lay on the floor, atop the remnants of her collapsed bed. Sunny's embracing him, playing with his hair, kissing the crown of his head as if he hadn't ruined her pussy for the next few days. Overwhelmed and breathless, they were both staring at the ceiling. She was humming the rhythm he liked, but hadn't learned what song it was.

He didn’t recognize the tune. She was humming it so gently and softly. It sounded like a secret—not for him to hear. But she held him like she didn’t want to let go. Kissed the crown of his head like he hadn’t just ruined her. He didn’t recognize the tune… But he’d never forget it.

"What's that song?" She blinked. "What song?" "The one you hum when you think no one’s listening... the one you hummed just now." Matt breathed, tracing soft circles on her inner thigh. There was a long pause where she frowned and stilled for a second. "It’s just a song I used to cry to in college." There was a beat of silence and vulnerability. She gasped for air like it hurt. "I still cry to it sometimes, it's a banger." "You're not telling me, are you?" he murmured against her skin. "No," she answered, equally soft. "Not even if I promise to eat you out?" he half-joked, wanting to do it anyway. "Not sure if I should’ve said that… but I’d still do it." "I'm not to be bribed, Murdock." "Sorry." "No need to apologize. It’s all good." It was decided. It was her little secret. And Matt didn't press any further. "You're good."

Matt returned to the chaos inside him—his heart racing, his mind a tangled mess of emotions and urges he couldn't untangle. He was still drenched in her, and it didn’t feel real. He was here. In her arms, in her bed... and it felt like he was drowning in it. His control, everything he’d kept locked away, was slipping. He hated it. No, he loved it. Maybe he wanted it to slip... needed it to slip.

It was a year. A year of boundaries that had just… snapped. They were gone, dusted in the wind. Non-existent. She didn’t know. No one did. But he knew. The rawness of it, of her, felt dangerous.

Could he really just let this go? Just the idea of letting her walk out, slip through his fingers... It made something clench in his chest. What if they'd be back at square one by morning? What if this was just a temporary slip—a mistake that would make everything harder? What if she'd shut him out again, admitting to a momentary weakness, bringing it down to his blindness? Why was he even thinking about this? This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

He couldn’t stop replaying how she felt and responded to his touch. Her body was so warm and welcoming. Her hands pulled him deeper, as if she needed him to stay forever. How could he forget it? Would he even try to? It wasn’t just about the sex or about how she blew his mind. It was her. How she made him lose control. ...then held him in her arms like he wasn’t a man made of pieces that didn’t quite fit.

And he couldn’t get that out of his head.

Matt was stripped down to just his skin and her name on his tongue. Vulnerable and small in a beautiful, honest way. One that only came with post-sex clarity. But he was still famished. She begged him to slow down around forty minutes ago. ...deserved a bit of peace and rest. She was warm beneath him, too soft, too real. His mouth was everywhere—cheek, jaw, neck, shoulder, the space between her breasts, like he’s been dying of thirst and just now found water.

His voice was wrecked. "I still don't think you realize what you do to me." He wasn't trying to be poetic. It wasn't the ecstasy of a post-nut clarity either. He was being literal. "You made me feel the most of it," Sunny sighed contentedly, wriggling under him to find a better position on the broken bed. "But I got a feeling you're going to tell me." "Am I talking too much?" Matt hummed, scoffing, raising his head to hover over hers. She was smiling. Big and wide. Because of him. "I can shut up." "No," it was immediate, nearly panicked. "Don't you ever. Never again." "Want to hear it, then?" "Tell me." She muttered, giving him a quick peck before comfortably setting back down. Her fingers started gently scratching his back.

"It's funny... whenever you walk by, I taste you in the back of my throat. Every damn day. Coffee, burnt sugar, vanilla, and something... sun. That's you. Your shampoo. That vile lotion Foggy got you for Christmas," he chuckled, fully opening the gates into his world. "You rub it into your hands after closing, when your skin feels too dry from polishing the glasses." Y/N laughed. "...the one I pretend I'm not using?" "Yeah, that one. But I like it. And then, there's the sweat from when your machines break. The difference between an espresso and a double, latté and cappuccino. I can taste the raspberry tarts you've just finished baking lingering on my palate, while you're telling me it's banana bread." She scoffed in disbelief. "That's how you always knew? Even before Foggy realized? It's your... senses?" She wondered. "Guilty as charged. I smell it. Feel it. All of it. All the time." He's talking slowly and carefully, reverent and memorizing. His fingers traced her ribcage delicately.

"I get hard the second you start talking back or smack shit," he snorted, shaking his head with disbelief. Was he talking too much? Oversharing? Y/N fell silent... he definitely overstepped. "I hear your mouth and I... God, I feel in my spine." "I visited you in court once, with Karen," she admitted out of nowhere, stilling under him... smiling. "To hear you on defence. I nearly soaked the bench. It's nice hearing you feel the same." "I... didn't know that." "You weren't supposed to, dummy," she beamed, her chest shaking as she laughed. "I was mad at you back then." "Why?" "Because you called my playlist tacky," she explained. "Said, and I quote, that I'm making the entirety of New York's sightless community suffer." "Was that when you played Panic at the Disco?" "Yup." "I was fucking with you." "... you looked so gorgeous," she whispered, gently tousling his hair. That shut him up. "Tailored suit, burgundy shirt, black tie. I remember the angle of the sun—it reflected off your glasses. You walked around like you owned the place and sounded too smart... the only guy I wanted to dick me down in a court room was Gabriel Macht. Until I saw you in action." "Who's Gabriel Macht?" Matt wondered, genuinely amused. "He played Harvey Spencer in Suits? Fucking icon?" "Ah. So, I’ve got competition." "You better step up your game. I was seventeen back then, and he swept me off my feet. "Jesus." He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers. "You remember all that?" "Like it was yesterday."

"And then you laugh..." Matt continued, smiling into her lips. "And I can see it. Like stars twinkling in the darkness around me. I can fucking see you." "That sounds... nice." "More than you imagine. It's relieving. And... I can feel your heartbeat—here," he leaned down, kissing the space under her ribs. "Here." Her inner thigh. "Here." His lips brush above her, making her shudder from how overstimulated she was. "You had no idea how much I've wanted to ruin you." "Oh," she whispered, taking his chin between his fingers to lay him back down. "But I do." "Impossible." "... wanted to do the same to you. The moment Foggy introduced you? I was gone, Matt. And when I handed you the sweets and asked if you were smarter than he? And you smirked? Fuck." It's a quiet and careful admission. It's real, and it makes his heart skip a beat. "Can I try?" "Try what?" Matt smiled, dimples forming in his cheeks. "To map you... try to see you, just the way you see me?" "You'd wanna try that?"

His mind was gone with that question. Everything clicked into place. Her careful tone. Her warmth... one Matt was feeling for the first time. The tenderness of her voice. Everything on the planet was long forgotten, his lips parting and closing, his head hovering above hers as if he were watching her. He had a few girls doing it for the fun of it, sure... But this felt different. Serious.

Matt didn’t speak. He just nodded, jaw tight, throat working like he was trying not to fall apart. "Lie back for me," she whispered. "Try to relax." "You're making it sound like a colonoscopy, Sunny," Matthew tried to deflect, his voice weak. He helped her straddle him before letting go of her. "Shush, Murdock. Stop being a lawyer for a moment."

He obeyed, slow and unsure, arms behind his head, breath shaky. Her fingers started at his face, thumb grazing the ridge of his brow, the curve of his cheekbone, the scar near his temple. Sunny traced the bridge of his nose, the softness of his mouth. "You’re handsome," she whispered, even though she knew he didn’t need to hear it. Or maybe he did. Maybe now he did, when it was coming from her.

"I used to imagine this," she admitted, smile palpable in her voice. "When you’d sit at the counter, all smug in your suit. I’d think... what would it be like to learn you this way? With my hands, not my eyes." Matt’s breath caught in his throat.

She moved slowly, reverently. Her palms moved across his shoulders, chest, and the curve of his ribs. Her index finger ran across the fresh, deep cut. Matt flinched, but her lips shushed him with a soft, sweet sound he hadn't heard yet. She frowned and leaned down, kissing is tenderly. Then she continued down, over the soft scarred skin of his stomach, the dips and rises she had memorized by accident and now traced on purpose.

He was watching her the whole time, without eyes. With his breath, his heart, his stillness.

"You’re... beautiful," she murmured, hands settling over his chest again. "You know that?" He scoffed. His cheeks started warming up... it'd been years since he last blushed. "I don’t think that’s the word people usually go for." "What's the word, then?" "Ugly son of a bitch," Matt admitted. "Bastard, if they're original." "That's a phrase, not a word. One'd think a lawyer would know that." Sunny teased, her eyes still closed. "Touché." "I like my description better." "Okay," he nodded, his heart skipping a beat... as if he were a lovesick teenager. He even giggled. "Don't let it go into your head." "Mhm." "You already did, didn't you?" "Maybe," Matt jolted under her, laughing. It was a loud, melodic sound. She'd only heard him laugh like that once... so carelessly and freely. And Sunny loved it. With her eyes closed, she felt how his entire chest rumbled with the sound and felt each movement of his palms that settled on her thighs, each flicker and curl of finger. The sensation ran down her spine.

Her fingers slid lower again, carefully, as if she were reading Braille in reverse—telling his story back to him, touch by touch. Matt reached for her, one hand settling on her hip, grounding himself. "Your abs are nice," she hummed, "but your attitude still needs therapy." "Are you back at this again?" "Mhm," she nodded as a woman on a mission. "Any more jokes?" Matt teased. Sunny sighed heavily... here she goes. "Do you know... what’s scarier than a blind man with enhanced senses?" She muttered. "No?" "A man who still thinks smirking is a personality. And takes his coffee dark without any flair." "Oh God," Matthew groaned, laughing. "That was horrible." "I'm talking from experience," she laughed, opening her eyes again. Her thumb purposely traced his jaw, his stubble, and the small dimple in his chin. He was beautiful, breathtaking even. He lay in the light of the streetlamps reflected by the ongoing snowstorm, head tilted, giving her the smile she loved so much. The sky was milky white, just like his chest. Matthew didn't much, Y/N assumed.

"Did I do good?" Sunny whispered. Matt didn’t answer at first. His smile softened into something unreadable, and for a long, slow second, the only thing between them was the sound of his breath catching. Then he nodded once, subtly. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "You did more than good."

Her fingers stilled on his chest. His heartbeat fluttered under her palm like wings, trying not to take off. "Most people… they don’t really try," he added. "They touch me like I’m unbreakable. Or like I’m decoration. Or something they just wanna use and throw out. But you…" "I know better," she murmured, gaze steady on his. "You’re not breakable, Matthew." "Then what am I?" "A fucking menace," she said, grinning.

He laughed again, head dropping back against the pillow as she leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. "But you’re my menace, if it makes any better,” she added, and this time when she spoke, her voice dipped into something serious. Something close to reverence. "And it worries me that... I don’t care if I need a little therapy after." Matt exhaled sharply, the sound caught between disbelief and want. He reached up. Brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, thumb grazing the edge of her jaw.

"I’m trying not to fall for you," he confessed, lips barely moving. "And you're making it fucking it fucking difficult. Especially when I don't know if you'll want me gone in the morning." "Same," he whispered. "Especially when you smell like cedar and expensive regret." Neither of them moved for a beat. And then, quietly, helplessly— "Let’s both keep failing. And see if ever land."

And he kissed her. Not with heat this time—but with awe. Like he was saying, thank you. Like he was promising something. Like he was already hers, long before she’d even asked.

"You're breathing differently," Matt noted, letting his arm roam to her waist. "What is it?" "Shush." "What are you doing?" "I'm listening, Matthew, and your yapping makes it really fucking difficult." She hissed back, voice laced with enjoyment. "I'm not used to things being this quiet around you." "You mean I shut up for once?" "No, you're still annoying... just in a lower register," she earned a breathless laugh when he tugged her closer, pressing her closer.

"Your heartbeat. It's calmer. Steadier." That was what she listened to. It had Matthew melting under her hands. "Yeah?" Matt wondered. "Like it knows something changed," she whispered, closing her eyes in concentration. He exhaled... as if her statement meant more than it should. "Well, it's got a lot to keep up with. The speed you ran your mouth at..." He deflected. Being called out on a bluff didn't feel good, especially unwittingly. "Watch it, Murdock." He turned toward her, smiling like he already knew she was grinning too. "Or what? You gonna hit me?" "Too early to experiment with kinks," she muttered sarcastically. "But not when you're naked. I have some decorum." "Right. Because we've been so respectable about all this."

Another beat of silence. Matt traced patterns across her back, one hand under his head, his mind elsewhere. His fingers kept moving, tracing nothing across her skin, trying to commit the moment to memory before she could take it with her. "... I'm hitting the shower," she said quietly, as if she stayed too long, something would crack. He sat up almost instantly, closing the gap again. "If you go, I'm going with you." "Only if you behave." "Not a chance." She smacked his chest lightly, squealing happily when he love-tapped her buttcheek right back. "That's domestic abuse, just to you know." "Please," she scoffed richly. "You've had worse from strangers in alleys. Real tough guys." "Yeah, but none of them smelled like jasmine and trouble." "Smartass," she mouthed, already leaning in to kiss him. "Fathead," he murmured back, letting her.

Sunny's place was trashed by the morning. Traces of a long night were everywhere. Painkiller lay forgotten on the counter. A glass was left on the bedside table. Shoes lay around the perimeter like landmines. Matt tripped over one during a bathroom break. Sunny laughed. Post-bedframe-murder, the victim still lying broken in its place. The place looked like a post-lust hurricane and smelled like sex and sin.

A leg of the broken bed leaned sadly against the wall like a fallen soldier. Matt did it around five in the morning. The mattress fell straight on the floor. Y/N bumped her head and nearly cried. The sheets are in the kitchen for some reason. A bra was thrown over her bedroom's bookshelf. The button of her jeans that Matt accidentally popped when ripping them down her thighs. A sock—his sock—was looped around the freezer handle. Neither of them knew why. There was music playing low in the background, because, of course, there was. This wasn't a brunch mood—it was a debauchery soundtrack.

Sunny herself was flat on her back across the dining table. Shirtless. Glowing. Her mouth was open, but no words were coming out. Just breathy, half-laughed curses.

Matthew was seated right in front of her, comfortably sitting in a dining chair, looking like he owned sin, church, and the Vatican, but there was a flicker of something beneath the cocky posture. His hair was a mess. His jaw ached from the grind of all the tension he'd built up. His t-shirt? Inside out, because, of course. His jeans were unbuttoned, hanging dangerously low on his hips.

He’d told himself an hour ago he was leaving. First, he swore he needed to study a case, while in reality, he needed to leave before things got too complicated. Then he’d said he didn’t want to ‘disrupt the brooding brunch’—that was the joke he’d made to cover up the lie, but the truth was, he was too tangled in the moment to let go.

And now, his head was between her thighs like it was a sacred task. His hands locked around her hips, trying to keep himself grounded—focused. Because the way she tasted, the way she moved under his hands, it made everything he was fighting for seem insignificant. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said about leaving. The weight of everything outside this room felt like it was a million miles away.

But he couldn’t forget. It would catch up to him eventually. This… thing they were doing, it wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be better than this. Sunny asked. Pleaded. Turned him down. Repeatedly. And he didn't listen. He pulled back slightly, mouth still hovering, breathing her in, tasting her. I’m leaving. This isn’t me. This isn't us. This isn't supposed to be us. The words echoed in his head, but his body kept betraying him, staying exactly where it didn’t belong. Fuck.

"Matt?" she whispered softly, bringing him back to the moment. Her fingers brushed against his hair, the slow shift of her touch grounding him. And for a brief second, the guilt nearly swallowed him whole. He’d tried to keep his distance, be the man who didn’t let anyone too close, especially not her, but she had this way of pulling him under without even trying.

He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to smile. "I said I was leaving," he said, his voice barely above a murmur, a half-hearted deflection. He didn’t believe it and could tell she didn’t either. But it didn’t matter right now. "Then you said you didn't have breakfast yet?" Sunny teased, her nipples perking in the cool air. "Make up your fucking mind, counselor." "Which is, technically, still true." "I offered to make scrambled eggs." "But they wouldn’t taste like you." "You smug—"

The lock rattled. Violently, loudly. Sunny’s eyes shot to the clock, wide with horror. Sunny didn’t have to look at the clock—she already knew. The second hand ticked past twelve. Too late. She tensed up, choking on air, her pressure skyrocketing. Her thighs clenched, closing Matt out. Her knee nearly hit his forehead. Both of them froze in horror. "Fuck, the brunch." Matt gnarled under his breath, his mind already going over what this meant—Foggy Nelson was behind the door. No time for shoes. No time for escape. "We forgot the brunch," Sunny hissed, gasping for air—whether it was from the nerves of a near-orgasm was hard to decide. "You forgot the brunch," Matt muttered back. "Any chance I'm slipping out?"

"No way, José," she yelped, trying to get off the table. Matt's hand, still grounding her hips, obstructed her—she launched off the table with a crash loud enough to make God wince. She meowled, hiding behind the counter. "You're the catholic one, I bet you can confess your sins faster than I." "What's that supposed to mean?" Matt hissed back at her, panic overtaking him. "We'd better start with penance, is what I mean."She fumbled for a sheet like it was a lifeline, tugging it over her naked body in one panicked sweep. "Because Foggy will ensure we won't see another sunrise."

Too late. For anything.

Foggy crashed in the following second. "Yo! You will not believe the traffic..." He stopped dead in his tracks, a jug of orange juice pressed to his chest, a paper bag of pastries dangling from the other hand. His eyes swept the room. He furrowed, straightened. Looked at Matt like he wasn’t sure if he was real. Sunny clasped her mouth, closing her eyes. She tried to slow her breathing down as Foggy walked right past her.

Matthew looked… well. Freshly fucked, for lack of a better term. His jeans were unbuttoned, hanging low on his hips. His t-shirt was inside out. Hair tousled, stubborn pieces sticking up in ways that should be illegal.

"What are you—what’s going on?" Foggy asked, his voice thinning out mid-sentence. That was when he saw it. The mattress lay on the collapsed bed. Her bra was hanging off the library. Shoes were scattered like debris after a war. "I can explain. This isn't what it looks like," Matt said, hands up like he was trying to approach a feral cat—or an agitated horse.

"...So. You’re here." Foggy set the orange juice and bag of pastries on the table with a thud, like a disappointed parent who walked in on their kid throwing a rave instead of doing homework. He didn’t need details. He knew. He just didn’t want to know "I am," Matt nodded way too calmly, like this was just another Tuesday. His palms still hovered in surrender, waiting for Foggy to lunge. "At Sunny's place," Foggy pointed out, as if that part was still up for debate. "Technically, yeah." "Not invited though," he added, voice sharper now, eyes raking over the scene. Her panties were on the floor. The unmistakable smell of sex in the air. A towel half-on, half-off the bathroom door. It was the kind of visual evidence that didn’t need cross-examination. "Which is weird," Foggy continued, jaw tight, voice getting cracking as the betrayal set in, "because it was a pretty exclusive guest list. She wanted to punch you square in the face two days ago."

"Yeah, weird," Matt agreed, dead serious. Not even flinching. Not apologizing. Just standing there, looking freshly fucked and annoyingly composed. "Guess I let myself in." "Right," Foggy nodded, licking his lips, leaning his palm on the table as he tried to keep his cool. "Because usually, when I walk into someone’s apartment, there’s not a mattress imploding in the corner and a bra hanging off Dostoevsky." "…Could’ve been Sartre." Foggy blinked slowly. Scoffed. Laughed once—humorless and dry, like sand in his throat "Didn't know she..." The sound of Sunny shuffling behind the fridge was impossible to ignore���skin sticking against the wood, frantic and small. Foggy’s eyes stayed locked on Matt’s, but his voice betrayed him, quieter now, edged with a wounded kind of hurt. "Do you, at least, have the decency to come out and look me in the eyes, Sunny?"

Then, from behind the counter, so soft it almost wasn’t there... A broken, barely audible whisper. "...Hi, Foggy." Foggy’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened into a thin line. Matt could practically feel the heat radiating off him—the fury building under his skin. It was palpable. Sunny, flushed, glowing from the aftermath, trembling where she was crouched, still gripping the wrinkled sheet to her chest like it was the only thing holding her together. Sweat beaded on her temple, her body shaking with a mixture of guilt and adrenaline. Foggy saw it all. He knew her, for fuck's sake. Seen her glowing with post-orgasm bliss already. He didn't need to ask. He looked at her, eyes wide, a moment of disbelief before the anger finally broke free.

"No fucking way," Foggy mutered, reaching for the bag lay on the table to carry it away. "No fucking way." "O-okay, hey," Sunny scrambled to her feet, holding out her hands defensively. "There's no need for a thoughtless reaction." She scrambled on her feet, blocking the exit. The entire hall could see her buttcheeks if they oh so pleased. "I didn't invite him. I... didn't know he'd stay, honestly?" She winced as soon as the words left her mouth, too rehearsed, even to her ears. They were fucked. "Oh, he stayed, huh?" Foggy spat back. "Let me guess. You have nothing to do with that bra on your bookshelf and the fact that YOUR BED HAS A BROKEN HEADBOARD AND IS MISSING A LEG?!"

Matt cleared his throat, adjusting his inside-out t-shirt like that'd somehow fix the apocalypse in the room. Matthew was guilty as charged. To the full extent.

"So did you climb in through the window? Like some role-play, voayeur shit?" Foggy cackled humourlessly, debating on whether to throw a punch. "Or did you seduce the doorknob too? "...front door," Matt muttered quietly, looking at the ground. "She opened it." "Because there was a snowstorm coming," Y/N yelped as if it'd justify them. "Oh, the snowstorm!" Foggy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "That explains the nuclear-grade poor judgement, why of course!" "Foggy, it's..." Y/N muttered. "Not what it looks like?" Foggy smiled at her sweetly, rotten to the core. "What did you guys do, then? Watched cartoons?" "He’s—uh—he’s just here because the sink was leaking," Sunny nearly jumped after a wall when that left her mouth.

"The sink?" Foggy blinked like she had just been hit with a frying pan. "Yup," she played along, gasping for air. "Leakage. Everywhere. Biblical stuff. Like Noah’s Ark, but wetter. Catastrophic." "Y/N..." Foggy shook his head, a headache coming fast. "You nearly broke my nose the last time I tried fixing your toilet reservoir. Said you don't need 'a fucking man' to do your 'fucking plumbing.'" He sighed. "Setting aside the fact that Murdock is blind... and forgot to fix his pants." "...I did tighten a pipe or two," Matt offered weakly. Foggy didn't even look back at him: "Yeah? Tightened that headboard too, I assume?"

"To be honest, it was a shit headboard," Matthew argued. "It was from IKEA," Sunny hissed back at him, offended. "Furniture from IKEA is never shit." "Yeah, but..." "YOU ARE A BLIND LAWYER, MATTHEW," Foggy yelled, exasperated. The dam finally broke. And they both deserved it. Sunny closed her eyes, hearing the door opposite hers squeak. She was standing there, her buttcheeks on full display, taking the humiliation because she deserved it. She even heard her neighbour shuffling in the doorway. "STOP PRETENDING YOU KNOW SHIT ABOUT CARPENTING. YOU'RE NOT A CONTRACTOR EITHER."

"Foggy…" Matt whispered. "Don’t. Just… don’t. I’m not gonna defend it. But yelling’s not gonna fix anything either. She's standing stark naked in the hallway. Let her come in and close the door before unleashing hell." "Jesus Christ, you two," Foggy spat, walking toward Y/N's personal collection of bourbon hidden in the kitchen. "I'm sorry!" Foggy yelled toward the neighbor. "I just found out my two best friends are fucking behind my back like it's another Tuesday! Sorry for bothering!"

"That was so unnecessary," Sunny yelped when closing the door, adjusting the sheet around her body as she mumbled a soft 'sorry' toward the neighbor. "No," Foggy answered flatly. "No?" Sunny hissed back. "You didn’t even have the decency to move the underwear. Or I don’t know, text me? Maybe say, Hey, Foggy, don’t come over. We’re busy christening the coffee table." He took a sip of bourbon like it was water. "Real considerate."

"I didn't plan it," Sunny murmured softly. "Got tangled up and forgot about the brunch. I'm sorry, okay? It just... happened." "She didn't do anything wrong," Matthew joined, slowly approaching Foggy, his martyr persona on display. His feet stuck to the wooden door, the sounds feeling awfully domestic. "It was my decision to break the silence because I'm selfish fuckin prick who always shows up too late. Showed up at the café. Argued with her in front of half of Hell's Kitchen. Kept pestering her for nearly an hour before she even considered letting me in." His words said, 'blame me'. His face? 'Punch me.'

"Oh, so it's your fault now, huh? That supposed to make me feel better?" Foggy set the bourbon hard enough to rattle the counter. "Don't take the hit for her, Matt. She's not some helpless bystander in a tragic love story, nor are you. She knew what this would mean. You both did." "Foggy, c'mon..." Matt muttered. "You were fucking when I unlocked the door, Matthew," Nelson shot back, sharp and to the point. "Don't Foggy me." "I didn't mean for this to happen," Sunny muttered. "Oh, no, you didn't mean to hurt me," Foggy smiled humorlessly. "There's a difference. Matthew knew this was gonna happen. He planned on it. That's why you showed up at that café, didn't he?" "Yeah," Matt nodded. No need to lie any further. Foggy was pissed enough as was. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Yeah." "She's my best friend." "And we danced around it for a year, Foggy," Matt spat back. "All four of us knew this'd eventually happen. So stop acting like it's some revelation of the fucking century."

The silence was thick. No one moved. Even the creak of the old radiator felt too loud.

Sunny shifted, the sheet slipping slightly as she bent to grab the throw blanket from the couch. She wrapped it tight around her like a towel at a public pool, eyes flicking between the two men, her heart still a little too loud in her chest. "...So," she said, voice scratchy and soft. "Anyone hungry?" Foggy shot her a look that could vaporize water. Sunny raised both hands. "Okay. Not the time for jokes. Got it. Sorry."

Matt sighed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed like he was trying to hold himself together. "There was supposed to be brunch," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "I said I was leaving." "Oh, that’s what this was? Brunch?" Foggy deadpanned. "And here I was, thinking it was just raw sexual tension and shattered boundaries o’clock." A beat passed. Matt cracked a smile, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "That’s... a long time on the clock, then."

Sunny laughed before she could stop herself. A short, guilty thing that made Foggy’s expression twitch between betrayed and exhausted. "I hate you both," he said, reaching for the bourbon again. "But I do smell bacon." Sunny blinked. "You smelled that from—wait. Are you serious?" He held up a hand. "Don’t. Just... don’t test my grief-driven powers right now." Another pause. The air had shifted. Matt dared to ask, "You want us to make you a plate?"

Foggy looked between the two of them. Still pissed. Still hurt. But under it all? "…Yeah," he muttered. "But I’m eating in complete silence while you two reevaluate your life choices." "Reasonable," Sunny nodded quickly, already half-sprinting toward the kitchen. Matt followed slowly behind her, nudging Foggy’s shoulder gently as he passed.

The tension in the room was suffocating, but it was slowly turning into something more manageable, like an overstuffed bag that's finally being zipped up after too many failed attempts. The anger hadn't evaporated, but it wasn't boiling over anymore. There was some breathing room.

Foggy looked at Matt, standing near the kitchen door, hands in his pockets, trying to look small in a space that felt like it was closing in on him. His eyes flicked over to Sunny as she moved toward the kitchen, her movement quick and awkward, but it was enough to break the moment for a second. "Still pissed," Foggy muttered under his breath. Then louder: "You’re not getting away with just bacon."

"Also reasonable," Sunny said quickly, barely glancing back as she raced to the kitchen. Her voice was light, but fragility in it that made it clear she wasn’t entirely sure if she’d ever be able to laugh about this again. Foggy, for all his frustration, cracked a small smile when he heard her voice disappear down the hallway. Then, his gaze snapped back to Matt, as if to reinforce that the tension was still there. Then, as if he snapped out of a trance, Foggy called out...

"No, Sunny, absolutely not." His tone was firm, but he couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. "You are taking a shower. And putting some clothes on. Right now." But Sunny, never one to miss a beat when challenging Foggy, smirked over her shoulder. "But you love my bacon, Fogster." "You’re not gonna make me imagine... never mind," Foggy groaned, rubbing a hand down his face in exasperation. "Just go. And pick up your underwear. I don’t need that in my head right now."

"'Kay, yeah, absolutely." Sunny slid around him and stopped next to Matt. Their shoulders brushed, but it was enough to send that little spark flying between them again. For a split second, Matt looked at her. She looked up at him. His hand brushed against her hip. Softly, carefully. Foggy clocked it in, looking away immediately. The gesture was as natural as breathing. As if it were just a thing they did. As if the rest of the world had melted away, leaving only them.

But they didn’t say anything.

"You got it?" she asked softly. "Foggy is extra about his bacon." "Mhm," Matt muttered, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His fingers lingered on her hip a little longer than necessary. The touch wasn’t for Foggy’s benefit—it was for her, for them. He lowered his head, planting a quick peck on her temple. Foggy turned away, gulping forcefully. He didn’t want to see it, but part of him understood it. That didn’t make it easier. Or logical.

Foggy couldn't look at them as they stood there. He couldn’t—didn’t want to see whatever strange, complicated thing was playing out between them. Instead, he turned away, pretending to focus on something else. He knew his thoughts were spiraling. And he couldn’t quite stop them.

As Sunny slipped into the shower, Matt leaned against the doorframe, watching her go. " Still friends, Nelson?" he asked quietly, his voice an even murmur.

Foggy took another swig of bourbon, setting it down with a force that rattled the glass. He didn’t look at Matt. He couldn’t, not after all of this. Instead, he just muttered, "Jury's out, dickhead."

But the thing was—Foggy didn’t leave. He watched as Matt mapped out the kitchen, even muttered where Y/N kept her pans. He watched Matt attempting to cook in a different environment. And that meant something. In the world of Nelson and Murdock, that was enough to keep this strange, twisted friendship alive. For now.

Foggy was sitting at the kitchen table, watching Matt clean up the remnants of last night before he closed the bedroom door. He was acting like a boyfriend. It was... too domestic. Offputting. The silence was heavy after Sunny exited her shower, tittering about in an oversized hoodie. She immediately mixed a mimosa and collapsed in front of the couch, her legs criss-cross. Matt sat beside her. Instinctively.

"So... Brunches are over," Sunny muttered to liven up the heavy silence. "Forever. I'm changing my name tomorrow and moving to the woods. Gonna live in shame with the squirrels." Matt scoffed. "Dramatic much?" "I mean..." She exhaled, rubbing her eyes. "They're not over, dummy," Foggy hummed, staring into his plate. "But you two better never complain about my dating anyone ever again," Foggy huffed, showing bacon and surprisingly delicious scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Not even when it's Marci?" Y/N yelped, soft and innocent, sending a wide-eyed stare to Foggy. "Especially when it's about Marci."

Foggy's eyes trained toward them. Sunny was still silent. Thrown off the rails. She clearly didn't think as far... counted to have at least a few weeks before admitting to seeing Matthew. And Matt? He carried the energy of a cat that knocked over a lamp and got away with it. Matt's legs were flanking Sunny's shoulders. Like he had nothing to lose anymore... proudly showing it off. Showing her off. Foggy pointed at them.

"This is not normal brunch behavior," he announced. "I'll write it down in the rulebook. I want you to know that." "We don't have a brunch rule book." She laughed back. Sunny snorted into her drink, leaning back against Matt's knee. She jolted, scrambling away—just until his fingers brushed past her ear. He captured a damp strand of her hair, like it was nothing. Like he wasn't even touching her. Like it didn't mean everything. Foggy rolled his eyes when he saw her eyes light up. "We do. Starting today."

"Oh, who's being dramatic?" Sunny retorted, looking at Matt. "Just to recap. I brought the best croissants in NY, and you brought trauma," Foggy sighed. "Does that track?" "You walked in, unannounced," Y/N muttered dryly. "It was 12:20. That's not unannounced. That's brunch-adjacent courtesy, Sunny." "You just stuck your keys into the lock like it was nothing?" She argued back, her humor and energy coming back to her. "That's why you gave me a pair, remember?" Foggy snorted back, sarcastic as ever. Sunny was smiling. There it was. The report they built over a decade. "Besides, you were supposed to be brooding over a certain someone not calling."

"Were you?" Matt jabbed, suddenly overly-interested in the conversation." "No," Y/N snapped back immediately. "But she was," Foggy grinned, knowing he was ratting her out for fun. "She was furious that you were being a no-show. Even made you that damn corkboard. Celebrated you like a hero." "Didn't you say you literally hate superheroes since the incident?" Matt egged on innocently. "It's a 'say thank you to a local blind dumbass who takes beating and rather risks his throat than calling his friends back' board," Sunny muttered under her breath like an angry todler. "Don't get your hopes up."

"I hope you both stub your toes tonight. Without socks. On a chair," Foggy then finished, leaning into his chair. "Oh," Y/N scoffed with disbelief. "Wow." "We deserved that one," Matt muttered toward her, gently tapping her shoulder. As if he was signaling to back out. And she listened.

"No, but seriously," Foggy pointed between them. "We all saw this coming. Karen did. I did, but didn't wanna. Sunny heavily implied it, but, hear this... If you fuck this up, Matt, you're dead. I'll kill you myself. With my bare hands. This is personal." "Oof, yeah, you deserved that one." Sunny nodded, patting Matt's knee. But Matt couldn't move, his fingers freezing between Sunny's hair. This wasn't just a throwaway jab. Foggy was dead serious. Sunny wasn't just some girl. She was Foggy's girl. And he'd breathe for her if necessary. Just as she would for Foggy if it came to it.

"What do you mean?" Matt scoffed, trying to send Foggy a confident smile. But it was tight. Nervous. Message received. "You'll be home by nine, when you promise to be. No more disappearing acts before telling her. If she says 'jump', you better be already in the air, asking 'how high?' Dinners. Flowers. Sweets when she's on her period. Princess fucking treatment, Murdock," Foggy shrugged his shoulders. "And by the end of it, you better be wifing her up." "Is that a threat, Nelson?" Y/N teased, missing the context. "I can decide my own..." "Dead serious, Sunny. This isn't about you. He knows what I'm talking about." Foggy's eyes were shooting bullets through Matt. "You don't get to do whatever that was and not wife her up. I've seen too much. Karen saw more. And just because I turned a blind eye to you ogling at Sunny like a lovesick teenager."

Y/N paused mid-sip. This was serious. Very serious. Matt's hand twitched in her hair. "Foggy, you're acting up." Y/N hummed, trying to calm the situation. "No," Matt answered silently, voice raspy and broken. "He's not. He knows what he's talking about." "Do you understand, Matt?" Foggy asked, still glaring at Matt. "C'mon, you two, can you not?" Sunny laughed uncomfortably. "Noted." Matt nodded. "And if you don't, I will." Foggy closed the discussion. It made Sunny choke on air at the thought of it. Then, she started laughing, her entire body shaking. The mood slowly warmed again.

"Scandalous," she rasped for air, her head leading into Matt's knee. Her laughter tugged on his lips until he eventually gave in. "God, imagine us dating." "We’d kill each other in a week," Foggy muttered, smiling too. "Foggy, I love you... But not like that. Not even drunk on tequila and lonely." She hummed, sending him a contented smile. Her head was splayed on Matt's thigh, as if saying: 'See? It's okay. I'm okay. We're okay.'

"Yeah, but I'd learn to fold laundry your way," Foggy answered as if they were negotiating. "... And label the spice rack alphabetically because I know how often you can't find basil and oregano." "Okay, now that's a low blow, Nelson," Matthew smiled, easing back into the moment. His arm slipped around Sunny's neck, playing with the strap of her hoodie. "Love is war, Matty," Nelson argues. "And I fight dirty." She fell into careless laughter, tipping sideways until Matt caught her. His hand went around her waist. Lingered. Then back to the strap. Her laughter still had him smiling. God, Foggy realized Matt was too far gone as he mumbled, "Good to know." It was soft, like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

The conversation slowed, settling into a comfortable silence. Matt absentmindedly toyed with the strap of Sunny’s hoodie, his gaze drifting, but his mind elsewhere. Foggy broke the quiet, setting his glass down. "Alright, I’m out before you two make this weirder." Y/N teased, "Scared of me? Though you liked weird?" "Scared of both of you," Foggy grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "See you lovebirds later."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt strangely final. Matt leaned back, eyes on Sunny. "So… we really wouldn’t have survived dating, huh?" Sunny’s smile softened, but there was a hint of something in her eyes that didn’t quite match the lightness of the conversation. "I don’t know. Are we even dating?" Her voice was playful, but the undertone was more serious, more uncertain. Matt cocked his head, studying her. "You tell me. You've heard Foggy." A quiet laugh escaped her. "How about we… don’t label things just yet?" she murmured, her fingers slipping into Matt’s as if to emphasize the point. "See where it leads? Take our time?" "Would a dinner cancel out your little hypothetical?" "Well, I guess I’ll leave it to you to decide?" "My place after?" Matt offered. Sunny's eyes flickered to his lips, then back to his eyes, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her mouth. "We’re so bad for each other," she whispered, a quiet, unsaid yes hanging between them. Her body was already reacting to the invitation, even if her mind wasn’t quite ready to admit it. He nodded, a small smile forming. "Guess we’ll find out."

And for now, that was enough.

"Your mouth is open wide. The lover is inside. And all the tumults done. Collided with the sign. You're staring at the sun. You're standing in the sea. Your body's over me."

Staring at the Sun (2003) by TV On The Radio

Thank you for reading. All interactions are appreciated. ❤ Do not copy or repost. Have a wonderful day. ❤

[atinyyuyu]

Title: Only for me.

Guide: Y/n= Pink Yunho=Blue

WARNINGS: Squirt,breeding kink,Stomach bulge from yunho’s magnum dong,yunho is drunk,possessive Yunho😍

Authors note:Finally posting a story after a while!! this story was made based on the Poll i did!! I will try to work on the kidnapper seonghwa story but i know that’s gonna take me a month…so i’ll try to come out with some Ateez headcanons in between and mini stories or even links and hard thoughts!! please enjoy!!

It was Your annual girls night out and you decided that you wanted to go to the mall with your friends while Yunho stayed at your shared apartment hanging out with his friends playing video games and drinking.

you got back earlier than yunho expected and when you walked in wearing a short skirt and a tank top that showed off your breast he got a little upset because all his friends were staring.

You heard a couple “Damn y/n!” and “Yunho you got a good one” you could tell yunho was drunk and he was slowly getting upset by what his friends were saying.

You minded your own business and went to your shared bedroom and changed into pajamas.

about 30 minutes later Yunho came into your shared bedroom his cheeks flushed pink from drinking. he walked over to the bed and laid next to you.

“Baby~” “hi Yuyu…did you enjoy your hangout with your friends?” “mhm…missed you.” “i missed you too puppy…”

you heard him groan at the nickname ‘puppy’ and you felt something hard poking at your thigh.

“Youre mine…i hate what my friends said…” You knew what he was talking about. the way his friends were checking you about made his blood boil.

“Yuyu…you know i only have eyes for you…” You stared down at his growing erection and gently began palming it.

“a-ahh~ b-babe…feels good…” You sat up and straddled him slowly rocking your hips. “f-fuck~”

he quickly flipped you around now you we’re at the bottom. “You know youre mine right baby? all mine~”

he slid your pants down your legs and quickly took his sweats off to. “need you…need to be inside you…need to cum inside your pretty pussy to let everyone know youre mine.”

you felt your panties getting more and more soaked the more he talked and the longer his erection pressed against your core. “Y-yuyu kiss me…”

as soon as that request left your lips he quickly complied. his soft lips crashed against yours. you could taste the alcohol on his tongue as you passionately made out.

his hands slowly slid down from your face to the hem of your shirt and he lifted it over your head and tossed it somewhere. he started licking your breast making you arch your back slightly.

“Y-yunho!~ fuck…” “Mmm you like that princess?” “y-yes~ don’t stop…”

————————————————

“Y-Yunho too big!~” You never got used to the stretch he gave you no matter how many times he has fucked you. “Take it like a good girl…god you’re so tight…”

And without warning he started moving his hips at an ungodly pace. “Jesus!! Y-Yunho~” You heard his groans and whimpers and it sounded like music to your ears.

“Fuck babe…” he groaned out then took your hand placing it just below your stomach. “You feel that baby? it’s me…and i’m gonna stuff you full…” those words alone combined with his actions made you cum instantly around his fat cock but he didn’t stop.

“Y-Yunho too much…” “you can take it…yes baby take it like the good slut you are.”

it felt like he picked up the pace and you just couldn’t take it. the more he thrusted the deeper he felt. “Cum for me baby…let’s cum together please…please princess for me…” you couldnt deny him with the way he begged. his eyes looking at you glistening and desperate. you nodded and immediately he came inside you. “Fuck yes… yes i love stuffing you full….”

but your orgasm felt different this time. it came over you like a tsunami, much more stronger than before and way more watery. You had just squirted.

“Y-yunho i’m so sorry!” He looked down at the mess. it was all over his abdomen,Your thighs,his dick, and of course the bedsheets. “O-oh wow…you’ve never done that before…” “i didn’t know i could…” “well i got try it again sometime…”

After getting washed up in the shower and having Yunho carry you to bed as he played with your hair with your head laying on his chest he looked down at you and said: “Remember you’re only for me.” god you loved possessive and jealous Yunho.

[iris-drawing-stuff]

The sillies!

I kinda want to try my hand at actually writing fanfiction about the Milgram Omori AU, but would anyone be interested in that?

[vaguely-concerned]

ingellvar must have so many strange off-putting little personal habits in their day to day life that they don't even realize come across as weird, especially if they haven't ever dated outside of the watchers much. in rye's specific case I think lucanis has a capacity for such immaculate 'sure my life is already so fucking weird this might as well happen' energy that I believe he'd be able to roll with the punches admirably given the time, but it really would be a situation like

(what was going on there was that rook was placing down some experimental wards, by the way, it's what he does to calm down before bed and if he wakes during the night. what with the necropolis itself being a liminal space of lf sorts on a cosmic scale, watchers take the additional liminal space between wakefulness and dreaming extremely seriously b/c they know there are things drifting through that would just love to get their foot/tentacle/conceptual spores in that particular half-ajar door that should not be allowed inside. or outside, I suppose, depending on your point of view. rook and lucanis are also experimenting with whether solid wards can help any with lucanis' weird post-spite dreams even if they can't do anything for the more mundane ptsd ones. third reason because in my worldstate they still live in the lighthouse after the game: unless gently dissuaded wisps will sometimes drift by while you're asleep and hover over your face curiously as they sense your mind doing stuff in the fade, and no one likes waking up on an eldritch sneeze with a well-meaning yet terrified wisp zooming about the room. important watcher novice 101 lessons.

blessed mental image of rye cross-legged on the floor, barefoot in his PJs with his hair down and no makeup, peaceably tracing out elaborate geometric shapes that somehow make your eyes scared when you look at them* while lucanis sits on the bed and reads out loud to both him and spite and occasionally sneaks some carnal looks at rook's fully unleashed curly hair and bare wrists & throat...... okay I think I've found the thing that will help me through the day thank you for coming on this journey with me)

*what is the paint he's using made out of and why is it such a deeply unsettling colour? don't worry about it! :) patented mostly well-meaning yet also borderline condescending mortalitasi hand wave of 'don't worry your sweet little non-nevarran head about it we both know you don't actually want to know. do not ask questions lest you learn the answers, especially if you're going to be annoying at me and freak out about it. let the things man was not meant to know stay unknown. unknown by you I mean I'm built different'

[aprill-99]

The men of Bridgerton support women’s wrongs. That is, frankly, the most important and attractive thing about them.

[fisherrprince]

the problem is I’m such a staunch believer in the slow buildup, the earnest enjoyment of meandering through terrible story decisions and weird nothing subplots to build up into a conclusion that explodes out from all that as fantastic storytelling and intrigue based on all that buildup, such that it makes it necessary to get through all that or you’re missing something essential, that I’m also a terrible person to talk to about what makes a story good. I can tell you plenty of what actually makes something tight and well-written and all that technical speak but how could anyone take my advice when I so so so love excruciatingly long unnecessarily complex fumbling and weird nonsense that spirals into, inexplicably, weird nonsense that makes you cry your lungs sore