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ahqkas · 8 months ago

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Can you please write dumb/subtle/random/cute things batboys will do while they are crushing on reader?

♯ FEEL YOUR LIPS CRUSH . . .

— gn!reader, fluff

BRUCE WAYNE

becomes overly observant but awkwardly obvious

bruce wayne is a master of observation—trained to notice the smallest details in a room, a person, or a crime scene. but when it comes to you, this skill becomes more of a curse than a blessing. his crush transforms his usual precision into something downright awkward as he hyper-focuses on the tiniest parts of your life.

it starts innocently enough. you’ll be in the middle of a casual conversation when bruce interrupts, his deep voice breaking through your train of thought.

“you’ve switched your coffee order recently,” he says matter-of-factly, his piercing blue eyes locking on yours.

you blink, momentarily confused. “uh, yeah. i wanted to try something different.”

“it’s good,” he replies, his tone completely serious, as if your new preference for caramel flavored coffee over vanilla is a critical observation.

sometimes his comments catch you so off guard that you don’t even know how to respond. like the time you came into the room wearing a pair of old sneakers. bruce, who was leaning against the kitchen counter sipping his coffee, glanced down and said, “those laces are frayed. you should replace them.”

you laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking. “uh, thanks for the tip?”

but bruce wasn’t joking. “i’ll send alfred to pick up new ones. you don’t want them snapping mid-step.”

he tries to play it cool, he really does, but his constant streak of seemingly random observations only makes his feelings more obvious. one afternoon, you find him glancing at your notebook while you jot something down. without even looking at you, he says, “you press harder with the pen when you’re tired. your handwriting’s smaller today.”

you set your pen down, giving him a skeptical look. “do you . . . keep track of my handwriting, bruce?”

his face doesn’t change, though you swear his ears flush the faintest shade of pink. “no,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee. “it’s just. . . noticeable.”

it’s the way he says it—quiet and genuine—that sends your heart fluttering. he doesn’t realize how much he’s revealing, but his small, awkward comments and laser focus on the details of your life make it abundantly clear.

the funny thing is, you’re not the only one noticing. alfred, who’s known bruce wayne longer than anyone, often raises an eyebrow or hides a knowing smirk whenever bruce starts one of his “random” observations.

( “perhaps master wayne should focus on his own handwriting.” bruce glares at alfred, but his lack of a comment only makes the butler’s smirk grow wider. )

finds excuses to be helpful

bruce’s wealth is something he wields with the subtlety of a battering ram when he’s crushing on someone. his intentions are good—he genuinely wants to help—but it often comes off as over-the-top or hilariously unnecessary. for someone as logical and composed as the bat, using his money to make your life easier feels like a no-brainer, but he doesn’t realize just how obvious it makes his feelings.

it starts small at first. you might casually mention needing to replace something—your laptop is acting up or your phone is outdated. the next day, without fail, a box will mysteriously appear at your doorstep. inside, you’ll find not just a replacement but the absolute best version of the device, meticulously selected and clearly expensive.

“bruce,” you say, holding up the latest model of a WE laptop you can’t imagine ever affording on your own. “did you do this?”

he looks up from his work, his expression calm and unbothered. “it’s practical,” he says, as if that’s a reasonable excuse for gifting you a piece of technology worth more than your rent. “your old one was slow. it’s inefficient to struggle with outdated equipment.”

when you try to protest, he waves it off, as though spending thousands of dollars on you is no more different than buying a cup of coffee.

but it doesn’t stop there. one morning, you’re sitting in the kitchen with him, absently complaining about how your car keeps breaking down. it’s an offhanded comment, something you don’t think twice about, but bruce takes it as a challenge. by the time you’ve finished your coffee, he’s already pulled out his phone to make arrangements.

“wait,” you interrupt him, narrowing your eyes as you catch him murmuring something to alfred over the phone. “what are you doing?”

“nothing,” he replies too quickly, but later that day, you’re startled to find a sleek new car parked outside your home, the keys and a handwritten note from the butler sitting on your counter.

“bruce!” you exclaim, storming into the study to confront him.

he doesn’t even look up from his computer. “your old car was unreliable. this one is safer.”

“that’s not the point!”

“it’s just a car,” he says with a small shrug, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

despite his attitude, it’s clear he’s putting an incredible amount of thought into everything he does for you. his gestures are less about showing off his wealth and more about making sure you never have to struggle, even in the smallest ways. because to him, it’s just logical—he has the resources, so why wouldn’t he use them to make your life easier?

DICK GRAYSON

finds excuses to touch you

for someone as physically expressive as dick grayson, touch comes as naturally as breathing—but when he’s crushing on you, it’s a whole new level. he’s not even aware of how much he does it at first, but the moments start to add up. it’s little things at first: the way he always seems to find a reason to brush his hand against yours, the casual way his shoulder bumps into you when you’re walking side by side, or the way he’ll lean close when he’s explaining something, his hand ghosting over yours as he gestures.

but then, it becomes less about the accidental and more about the intentional. when you’re sitting on the couch together, he’ll sling an arm over the back of it, his fingers close enough to brush against your shoulder. he’ll offer his hand when you’re stepping out of a car or climbing over something, even if you don’t need it, the contact lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“careful,” he’ll say, his voice soft and teasing, even though the step you’re taking isn’t remotely precarious.

“you know i can walk, right?”

he grins, squeezing your hand briefly before letting it go. “just being chivalrous.”

and then, there are the moments when he gets so wrapped up in the conversation or your presence that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. like the time you were sitting together, and he absentmindedly started playing with the hem of your sleeve. it wasn’t until you cleared your throat that he looked down, startled, his ears turning pink as he quickly let go.

“sorry,” he mumbled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “didn’t realize i was doing that.”

but the blush on his cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

for dick, touch is a way of expressing what words sometimes fail to say. every hand on your shoulder, every playful nudge, and every lingering hug is his way of saying, i like being near you. i like you. even if he hasn’t quite found the courage to say it out loud, his actions make it impossible to miss.

teases you relentlessly (but gets flustered when you tease him back)

teasing is how dick shows affection, how he keeps things light, and, more than anything, how he tries to get your attention. when he’s crushing on you, though, his teasing takes on a new level. every little thing you do seems to give him material to poke fun at, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes it clear he’s paying attention to everything about you.

if you trip over a word while talking, he’ll immediately smirk. “careful there, shakespeare,” he’ll quip. “do we need to enroll you in a public speaking class?” or if you drop something, he’s ready with a dramatic gasp. “wow, butterfingers, do you need me to carry everything for you? i could be your personal assistant, but i charge by the hour.”

it’s playful, yes, but it’s also consistent. he’s always looking for ways to make you laugh, even if it’s at your own expense. like the time you were struggling to open a stubborn jar of jam, and he swooped in, popping the lid off with ease.

“guess i’m just the stronger one here,” he said, flexing his biceps with an exaggerated grin. “it’s okay; not everyone can have these guns.”

but if you so much as raise an eyebrow or fire back with your own jab, the tables turn in an instant. one day, after he’d spent a full five minutes teasing you about your choice of coffee ( “a triple-shot vanilla latte with almond milk? fancy. are you sure you don’t need a royal escort to carry it for you?” ), you finally snapped back.

“oh, and i suppose you’re the coffee expert, mr. regular black coffee? real creative. i bet the baristas have your order memorized.”

the grin on his face faltered for a split second, his eyes widening just slightly. then came the blush—the faint pink hue creeping up his cheeks as he tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“hey, black coffee is . . . classic,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

and that’s the thing about dick grayson: as much as he loves dishing it out, he can’t always handle it when it’s directed at him. the moment you tease him back, especially if it’s about something he’s sensitive about (like his perfectly styled hair or his need to one-up everyone), he turns into an awkward, flustered mess.

“you spend how long on your hair every morning?” you asked him once, teasingly ruffling his carefully combed locks after he made fun of the mismatched socks you were wearing.

he froze, his hand shooting up to fix the damage. “it’s not that long,” he protested, his voice defensive but light.

“oh, come on! i bet you use at least three different products. don’t tell me you don’t have a favorite brand of gel.”

his cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, “i—you know, it’s just . . . maintenance! can’t all of us roll out of bed looking flawless, okay?”

you laughed, and he groaned, muttering something under his breath about how you were “way too good at this.”

JASON TODD

acts nonchalant but is always nearby

jason todd is many things—brash, sarcastic, sometimes even reckless—but when it comes to feelings he doesn’t fully understand, he defaults to keeping his distance . . . or at least pretending he’s keeping his distance. the truth is, when he’s crushing on you, he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, always finding an excuse to be wherever you are without making it obvious. or so he thinks.

take your quiet sunday afternoons, for instance. maybe you’ve settled on the couch with a book, enjoying the rare peace. jason walks in, all nonchalant, like he’s just passing through. he glances at you—just a quick flick of his eyes, like he’s making sure you’re still there—and then he settles in the chair across from you, a spot he never uses otherwise.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching as he pulls out a book of his own, the same one he’s been pretending to read for weeks.

he doesn’t even look up. “reading.”

you roll your eyes but say nothing, knowing full well he’s barely getting through a page. you can feel his gaze on you every few minutes, like he’s trying to memorize the way your brow furrows in concentration or how you chew on the corner of your lip when you’re focused. and if you catch him? he quickly snaps his attention back to his book, pretending obliviousness.

“didn’t know you liked this spot so much,” you tease, gesturing to the chair.

a smirk plays on the edge of his lips, though there’s a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “what, i can’t sit here now? thought it was a free country.”

it’s always like that—his attempts to mask how much he cares come with a side of sarcasm. but the truth slips through in the little details. like how he never actually leaves the room until you do. or how, even when you’re sitting in silence, he finds a reason to linger. maybe he’s scrolling through his phone, flipping through a magazine, or staring at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. but really, he’s just soaking in your presence.

and then there are the times when he doesn’t even bother pretending. like when you’re sitting in the kitchen, finishing up some work, and he wordlessly sits down across from you, arms crossed and chin propped in his hand.

“what?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“nothing,” he replies, though the slight curve of his lips gives him away.

it’s not that jason is afraid to admit he likes you ( although there is a possibility he is but we don’t talk about that )—it’s just that he doesn’t know how. so instead, he hovers. he sticks close enough to feel like he’s part of your world but not so close that he risks giving himself away. so while he might act nonchalant, the truth is, he’s anything but. every glance, every lingering moment, every excuse to be near you is jason’s way of saying he cares—he just hasn’t found the words yet.

fixes things you didn’t even know were broken

jason’s way of showing he cares is a little unconventional, but it’s always in the small, unspoken ways. he’s the type to notice things that no one else would—things that have been lingering for ages in the background of your life, just waiting for someone to fix them. but because it’s jason, he’ll never bring it up. he’ll just do it, no questions asked, and then act like it never happened.

it starts with the little things. your chair in the living room? it’s been squeaking for months now, but it’s not something you’ve gotten around to fixing. it’s one of those annoyances you’ve learned to ignore, a piece of background noise that doesn’t really bother you enough to take action.

until one day, it suddenly stops.

you sit down in the chair, and for the first time in ages, it’s silent. your eyes narrow. you didn’t fix this—so who did?

“jason?” you ask, glancing toward him as he lounges on the couch, pretending to be deep in whatever he’s doing.

he doesn’t even look up. “what?”

“the chair. it’s. . . quiet now.”

he pauses for just a moment, but it’s enough to catch the shift in his demeanor. he shrugs, barely concealing the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “must’ve gotten lucky. or maybe it fixed itself.”

you know it didn’t. but before you can press him on it, he’s already back to whatever he was doing, like the whole thing is no big deal. it’s almost as if he’s trying to play it off, hoping you won’t notice that he’s been quietly fixing things in your life, one at a time.

the next thing happens a few days later. you walk into the kitchen, only to find that the light above the sink, the one that flickers every time you try to use it, is now working. perfectly.

you stop, standing in the doorway and just staring at it. there’s no way you fixed it. and it certainly wasn’t broken enough to need replacing. so once again, you turn your gaze to jason, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table, eating a snack and acting entirely uninterested in your investigation.

“jason, did you—?”

“no,” he interrupts and continues watching the video essay he turns on every time he eats.

“uh-huh,” you say, narrowing your eyes, walking toward the light and testing the switch again just to make sure you’re not imagining things. it stays steady, glowing without hesitation.

he’ll never say it out loud, but each fix—each thoughtful act—speaks louder than any words could. the broken things don’t matter, because jason is here, fixing them in his own way, piece by piece.

TIM DRAKE

gets shy when you’re too close

tim drake is usually the picture of composure. he’s calm, collected, and can handle himself in just about any situation, but when you’re too close, all that confidence seems to slip away. it starts small. you’re sitting beside him, maybe sharing a space while working on something, and without thinking, you slide just a little bit closer to him. maybe your arm brushes against his, or your knee nudges his under the table.

it’s enough to throw him off, just for a second. his heart rate picks up slightly, and he tries to hide it behind the screen of his laptop, pretending to focus harder than he really is. but he knows, deep down, that he’s hyperaware of you now—of the way you’re sitting, of the way your presence seems to fill the space between the two of you.

his eyes flicker toward you, but quickly dart away, like he’s afraid you caught him staring. it’s an involuntary reaction, the nervous little shift in his posture as he tries to seem as casual as possible. he clears his throat, his voice slightly quieter than usual. “uh, sorry, was just—just making sure the laptop was charging.”

it’s obvious to you that he’s not really talking about the laptop. he’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but every time you’re too close to him, tim’s body betrays him. the way his leg shifts a little away from yours under the table, or how he tries to subtly angle his body so there’s just a little more space between you and him, even if he doesn’t want there to be.

you might not notice the subtle movements, but tim does. and every time you get close to him, whether it’s by accident or on purpose, he feels a flutter of nerves that he can’t quite explain. it’s not that he doesn’t want you near him—far from it—but the proximity messes with him in ways he doesn’t understand. his thoughts get jumbled, and his usual calmness slips, replaced by the flustered feeling he’s not used to.

if you ever catch him looking at you, his gaze quickly drops, and a soft blush creeps up his neck. “i—i didn’t mean to—uh, just making sure you’re not too cramped.” he mutters, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, anything to distract himself from the fact that he’s suddenly very aware of you being so close.

sometimes, when you get too near, tim will just freeze for a moment. it’s like his body can’t process the closeness, and the little awkward silence stretches between you two. it’s not uncomfortable—far from it—but it’s a vulnerable thing for tim, this closeness he doesn’t know how to handle.

but if you keep talking, or even just touch his arm gently when you lean over to look at something, tim’s composure slips even more. he shifts in his seat, trying to act like he’s calm, but his hand might twitch toward yours for just a second before he pulls it away like he’s afraid you’ll notice how he’s reacting.

follows you around during patrol

it’s late at night, the moon casting faint silver light across the streets, and the only sounds are the hum of city life and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. you’re out on a walk, maybe trying to clear your head or just enjoy the quiet, unaware that someone is watching you from the shadows. tim, clad in his suit, has been tailing you for a while now. it’s not that he’s trying to be creepy or intrusive, but rather, he’s just . . . concerned.

tim is the kind of person who can’t turn off his instincts, and tonight, for whatever reason, they’re telling him to stay close. he’s perched high above you on a rooftop, watching you walk along the street below, trying to remain unseen. his red robin suit blends into the darkness of the night, the shadows making him nearly invisible to anyone who might be looking.

he’s not sure why he’s doing it—it’s not like you’ve asked him to keep an eye on you—but there’s something about the quiet stillness of the night that has him on edge. maybe it’s because you’ve been a little distant lately, or maybe he’s just worried something might happen to you in the dark. either way, he’s got his eyes on you, and he won’t stop until you’re safely back where you belong.

he’s quick, agile, moving like a shadow himself. you might hear a faint creak of a fire escape ladder or the flurry of footsteps just out of your line of sight, but when you look, there’s nothing there—just the empty street, the soft glow of streetlights, and the ever-present hum of the city.

it’s when you stop for a moment, distracted by something—maybe you’re checking your phone or admiring a nearby storefront—that he’s closest. in that moment, tim takes a chance, moving closer to you, just a few feet away in the darkened alley. he’s not trying to startle you, but there’s something in his gut that tells him he can’t let you out of his sight, especially when it’s this late, and the streets feel a little emptier than usual.

he’ll hover just out of view, giving you space but never quite leaving you alone. if you keep walking, he follows, keeping his distance but staying close enough to ensure you’re safe. when you stop at a crosswalk or glance around, he’s already a few rooftops away, peering down at you from above, making sure you’re not being followed.

the closer you get to home, the more relaxed tim feels, but he never lets his guard down entirely. even when you reach the safety of your doorstep, he lingers just out of sight, making sure you get inside without any issues. he’ll remain in the shadows for a moment longer, watching as you lock the door behind you, ensuring you’re safe before finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

only then does he disappear into the night, his heart still racing, his mind replaying the images of your walk. he’ll retreat to his hidden vantage point, slipping into the dark corners of gotham once more, but the small weight of relief that you’re safe settles deep in his chest. even though he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s a part of him that feels content knowing you’re okay—even if you’ll never know how closely he’s watched over you.

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petalbcrnes · 3 months ago

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❛ HOW HE LOVES & BOYFRIEND HCS ❜ ; D. WAYNE—AL GHUL.

SYNOPSIS: how does Damian Wayne show his love and what is it like when he’s your partner?

A/N: on my old account this was my first part of the “how he loves” series for the bat-boys. So, again this is a repost of my old writing.

⤷ main directory.

REDAMANCY: The endless labyrinth of your minds has been unlocked and explored by both of you. Words are unnecessary for Damian to understand what you want and need. Your presence has left an indelible mark on his heart.

It’s the way the two of you gradually reshape your speech, crafting a language of your own—how a glance across a crowded room signals that you want to leave, and he’s at your side in an instant. Your hand finds his. Together, you’re out the door. He knows your routine by heart. He knows you’ll come home tired, so he’s already queued up your favorite show on the DVR, snacks spread out on the table.

UNSPOKEN ACTIONS: Damian doesn’t express his love through words or elaborate phrases woven with sophistication. His love shows in his actions—the subtle ways he tries to brighten your everyday life. It’s the way he washes your hair when you’re too exhausted, how he wakes up early to prepare you something to eat, how he ties your shoelaces when they come undone, how he straightens your outfit with care.

💬: I’ll do it. Only because you asked me to.

ONLY YOU: Damian only sees you. The crowd fades to a dull blur, while you stand out like the sun. You’re his choice, the one he wants to share every moment with.

Waking up, getting ready, cooking, strolling to the grocery store, wandering through the park at dusk—all of it is with you. He can’t imagine it any other way.

💬: You—you are the exception.

THE DETAILS: Nothing escapes his notice. It’s the way he brews two cups of coffee for you both, the way he listens to every word you say as though it’s etched in his mind, even if it’s as simple as how your day went. After particularly hard days, he stays close. He peels a piece of fruit, splitting it in half to share, because everything tastes better when it’s with you. Damian cares for the small things.

💬: You’re definitely the only person I’d do this for.

A LOOK IN:

Initially uncomfortable with casual touches and public displays of affection, but gradually becomes more comfortable with you.

Despite his prickly exterior, he might research and perform elaborate traditional romantic gestures, believing relationships should be conducted “properly”, (he’s trying, give him a chance).

He believes himself to get a proper gentleman, so expect flowers every time you meet eachother, opening the door for you, carrying your things for you and so on.

I can imagine Damian quietly using Arabic terms of endearment for you without ever explaining their meaning, (I apologise if this is the wrong translation).

Referring to you as "حبيبي" (habibi/habibti - my love) under his breath ; Whispering "قلبي" (qalbi - my heart) when you’re not paying attention.

He loves sparring with you if you’re into it. Even if you're not a fighter, he’ll teach you little self-defense moves — mostly so he can say he’s “protecting you,” but really, it’s an excuse to spend more time with you.

He won’t smother you, but you’ll notice little things — walking on the outside of the sidewalk, casually steering you away from crowds, giving you his jacket without saying anything if it’s cold.

In public, he’s proud and composed. In private? He will practically lay on top of you like a cat, insisting he’s “simply resting” while he traps you under his weight.

The first time he introduces you to Titus, he watches like a hawk for your reaction. If Titus likes you, it’s practically a marriage proposal in Damian's mind.

Damian doesn’t date casually. If he’s with you, it’s serious. He thinks about the future with you — marriage, building a life, what he wants to protect with you by his side.

#*dc #𓈒⠀݁⠀﹙ 📂﹚𝗆𝗒 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨 ₊⠀ ⟡#𐔌 hcs .ᐟ ﹒ ౨ৎ #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul #damian wayne x you #damian al ghul x reader #red robin x you #robin x reader #dc robin #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne headcanon #damian al ghul headcanons #d. wayne—al ghul #dc x reader #dc universe #dcu x reader #dcu x you

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seelestia · 1 year ago

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✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector, yet utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face are for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

#hsr x reader #aventurine x reader #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x you #hsr headcanons #hsr imagines #hsr fluff #hsr angst #seelestial.inks #gambler & knight 🎲

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fromdove · 3 months ago

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MY JASON TODD HEADCANONS ! j.todd x reader

"Careful, sweetheart. Arguing with me is starting to sound like foreplay."

— content: mention of weed/cigs, a tiny drop of melancholy maybe? idk

∿　　 . `💭` ㆍ

Jason smokes.

Cigarettes, when he’s angry. Weed, when he’s in pain. He knows you hate both. So he keeps it outside, far from you—lights up on rooftops or the fire escape. (even though his thoughts always drift back to "they wouldn't like me doing this"). He always showers & brushes his teeth very excessively before he climbs into bed.

He reads banned books.

Not because he wants to be edgy—but because something in him has always gravitated toward the things people tried to bury. The books that were too violent, too honest, too messy for polite shelves. The ones that made people uncomfortable because they told the truth and didn’t flinch.

He’s funny when he lets his guard down.

Not the loud kind. More like the quiet sarcasm that slips out mid-argument and makes you roll your eyes even as you smile. He likes making you laugh. Acts like it’s not a big deal, but the corners of his mouth always twitch when he gets you to lose it.

He’s loyal in a way that’s hard to explain.

Jason Todd doesn’t half-love anything. If you matter to him, you matter. He’ll show up every time. No questions, no hesitation. Even if he’s limping. Even if he’s been up for 36 hours. Even if he said he wouldn’t. Especially then.

He’s bad at talking about feelings, good at showing them.

He’ll change your oil. Pick up your prescription. Memorize your coffee order down to how many ice cubes go in the cup. If he ever says "I love you," it comes out quiet and unceremonious, usually when you’re half-asleep and unlikely to make it a big deal.

He reads more than you’d expect.

Mostly things with messy characters who make bad decisions and get bloody trying to fix them. He’s got a thing for underdogs, for people who claw their way out of the dark (lmao). He underlines lines that hit too close to home and never talks about them. But if you pick up his book and ask, he’ll sit there and try to explain—even if the words don’t come out quite right.

He has opinions about coffee that no one asked for.

Will passionately debate pour-over vs. espresso as if world peace hangs in the balance. Drinks his black but keeps oat milk in the fridge because you like it, and that’s the closest he’ll come to saying “I’m trying.”

He’s deeply suspicious of happiness.

Joy, to Jason, is a trapdoor. But yours? Your laugh, your fingers in his hair, your bare feet on the kitchen floor—he can’t help it. He keeps coming back to you like a moth to a flame. Singed, a little bitter, and completely undone.

He keeps a spare key to your place in his boot.

Doesn’t tell you. Just likes knowing he could walk in, any time, and find you there. Like home is a person and not a place. Like love is a door he never thought would open again.

He hoards your things.

A sock (?? he's weird.), a receipt you forgot to throw out, lipgloss/chapstick, a grocery list with your handwriting. He won’t throw them out. They stay tucked in his pockets, his jacket lining, his duffle bag, the glovebox of his bike. It’s not sentimental, he swears. But every time he finds one, he holds it like it’s breakable.

He sleeps like a boy who doesn't trust the dark.

It takes time. He tosses. His body flinches like it remembers too much. But if you’re beside him, something in him loosens. Not all at once, but enough that he can drift. Your fingers in his hair help. So do your sleepy mumbles when you turn over and hook a leg around him without even waking up.

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scarletwinterxx · 23 days ago

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for tonight and forever - choi seungcheol imagine

honestly i started writing this after watching a clip of cheol being sporty and my mind went yep i need it. i want this. so here we are😅 was listening to handlebars on repeat while writing this, I dont know but it kinda got that feels for it.

Also, if anyone's wondering like how i name/pick the other characters for my fics. Usually I just search who's the same age as them or a familiar name to me. Okayyy so thats all, enjoy!

PART TWO HERE

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You don’t plan to pick a fight with Choi Seungcheol every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He just seems to bring out the absolute worst in you. Or the best. Depends on who’s watching.

“Did you write another hit piece about the soccer team?” Seungcheol demands, jogging up beside you as you make your way across campus, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he’s in some kinda Nike ad.

You don’t even look up from your iced americano. “I wouldn’t call it a hit piece. I’d call it... journalism. Ever heard of it?”

He scoffs. “Right, because calling us ‘a glorified pack of sweaty golden retrievers’ is definitely objective reporting.”

“That’s not what I wrote,” you correct him calmly. “I called you a sweaty golden retriever. Singular.”

He stops walking. “Oh my god. I was the retriever?”

You glance over your shoulder and grin. “Obviously.”

It’s always like this. Snarky comments, stolen pens during class, endless bickering about your article deadlines versus his training schedules.

It’s become so routine that your friends don’t even bat an eye anymore when they see you two “arguing” in the cafeteria. Or library. Or literally anywhere with oxygen.

But last week, when some overconfident guy from the economics department tried to get handsy with you at the freshmen welcome party, it was Seungcheol who appeared out of nowhere, expression dark, stepping in with all the intensity of a final championship match.

“She said no,” he growled, standing in front of you like a damn shield.

You didn’t even have to say anything. just blinked at the guy slinking away while Seungcheol turned around and gently handed you your phone, which had dropped during the whole mess.

And then, as if nothing had happened: “You owe me chicken for that, by the way.”

Now, a week later, he’s still hovering. Annoyingly. Warmly. Protectively.

You pretend you don’t notice the way he always walks you home after late-night publication meetings. You pretend not to care that he saves the extra strawberry milk from team snacks for you. You pretend a lot.

You make your way across the quad, weaving through a sea of students and the occasional electric scooter, when someone bumps your shoulder and you look up to see Exy walking beside you, sipping on her banana milk like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.

"Okay," she says, dragging the word out suspiciously, "are you sure nothing's going on between you and Seungcheol?"

You nearly choke on your breath.

“What—no. Ew. Why would you—absolutely not.”

Exy raises an eyebrow. “Right. So him showing up to your department’s booth last week with snacks ‘for the team’ but only handing you your favorite is coincidence?”

“He was probably just—being annoying,” you mutter, tugging at the strap of your backpack as your ears warm. “He does that.”

“Uh huh. And I suppose he was just ‘annoying’ when he waited outside in the rain for you after your night class because he ‘happened to be nearby’?”

“He did happen to be nearby!” you protest, eyes wide. “The gym is like two buildings away—he probably just finished practice—why are you smiling like that?”

Exy leans in, smug. “Because I’ve never seen you this defensive unless someone messes up the Oxford comma.”

You stop walking to glare at her. “You’re delusional.”

“And you,” she says, poking your arm, “are clearly in denial.”

You start walking again, faster this time. “He’s a varsity jock with too much hair gel and a hero complex. We’re oil and vinegar. Cats and cucumbers.”

Exy laughs. “Says the girl who let him carry her publication banner to the main hall ‘because his arms are already huge anyway.’”

You spin around, horrified. “You were eavesdropping?!”

“Please,” she snorts, “you were practically shouting.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Whatever you say,” she sings, skipping ahead as your classroom building comes into view.

You glance up at the sky, as if the universe might send a sign to back you up. All it sends is a familiar voice yelling from behind you.

“Yah, you forgot your charger again!”

You turn around. Seungcheol jogs up, holding out the charger you left in the library. Again.

You blink. “How did you—?”

“Someone posted in the group chat asking if anyone lefit. Figured it was yours. You always have it wrapped around your planner like a weirdo.”

Exy coughs something suspiciously like domestic behind you. You shoot her a murderous look.

Seungcheol, oblivious or pretending to be, grins and tousles your hair like you’re a child. “Don’t fry your laptop this time.”

You swat his hand away. “Stop doing that!”

He smirks. “You love it.”

You glance sideways at Exy. She doesn’t say a word but her eyes say everything.

You hate everyone. Except maybe… not really.

The next morning Seungcheol slides into his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall, pulling his hoodie over his head as if it’ll make him invisible. He spots Exy a row down, already seated, legs crossed, notebook open, pen twirling between her fingers like a threat.

He stiffens.

If he’s being truly honest, Exy kind of scares the crap out of him. She’s all sharp eyes and sharper comebacks, like she was born knowing where to hit where it’ll bruise. No nonsense, no hesitation. Still, he respects the hell out of her.

You’re friends with her, after all. And if he can’t be there every second someone looks at you the wrong way, it’s good to know Exy would probably throw a chair at their head without blinking.

The professor hasn’t shown up yet, and the room is loud with casual chatter, laptops opening, chairs scraping. He’s halfway through unlocking his iPad when Exy turns around in her seat, pins him with a look.

“Okay. So what’s the deal with you and her?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Are you guys a thing, or are you just really committed to the whole ‘enemies but not really’ bit?”

Seungcheol scoffs. “We're not—there’s nothing going on.”

Exy raises one brow.

“I’m serious,” he adds quickly. “We just… bicker. It’s a thing.”

“A thing,” she echoes. “Like a romantic comedy trope kind of thing?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.” Then, quieter, “Maybe. No. Definitely not.”

She narrows her eyes. “You literally showed up to her department meeting with hotteok last week.”

“I was in the area.”

“Uh huh. And the three extra packets of brown sugar filling were also just… coincidentally for her?”

“She likes them,” he mutters.

Exy smiles, but it’s more amused than friendly. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘denial’ thing, you know that?”

He frowns, but it lacks real bite. “Look, even if—hypothetically—there was something, it’s not like she’d be into me.”

“She calls you a golden retriever.”

“Exactly.”

“She also let you walk her home three nights last week. You think she lets just anyone do that?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Exy leans back in her chair, satisfied. “I’m just saying. If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

The professor walks in before Seungcheol can reply, but her words sit heavy in his chest.

Because the truth is, yeah, maybe he is a little gone for you. Maybe a lot. But he’s not exactly sure what to do with all of it. So instead, he flips open his notebook and pretends he doesn’t keep glancing at the empty seat you usually take in the front row.

His day ends with another practice. He kicks off his cleats by the bench, the grass still clinging to his socks and sweat drying cold on his back. Practice ran longer than usual, Coach yelling something about footwork and finals being no excuse to slack off.

But even with his body aching and the floodlights dimming one by one behind him, it’s not the drills or the scores that keep repeating in his head.

It’s Exy’s voice.

“If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

He scoffs under his breath, ruffling a towel through his hair like he can shake the thought loose. He’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

He’s just heading toward the front gate when he spots you.

You’re walking just a few steps ahead, cradling your laptop bag against your side like always. Head tilted, hair catching the orange glow of the street lamps, laughing.

His heart stutters for a second, because—God. He knows that laugh. Knows the way your shoulders shake when it’s something really funny. Knows that dimple you hate but can’t ever hide.

But it’s not the laugh that gets him. It’s who’s next to you.

Minhyun. Tall, clean-cut, business-major-Minhyun. The guy who spoke at orientation with the kind of voice professors wish they had. Charming, polite, good grades, good future.

Good with you.

Seungcheol stops walking without even realizing it. Just stands there half-hidden behind the practice fence.

You’re smiling at Minhyun. Like, really smiling. he hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t prepared for the twist in his chest seeing you like that with someone else.

Minhyun says something and you lightly nudge his arm, head thrown back, carefree.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn't move. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t let himself get closer. He just watches as you and Minhyun walk down the street, steps in sync, laughter echoing behind you.

And when he finally turns away, it’s with a bitter taste on his tongue and Exy’s voice louder than ever in his head.

The next day. The moment Seungcheol walks into the lecture hall, he doesn’t bother with his usual routine of slouching into his chair and pretending to scroll through notes.

Instead, he spots Exy, takes the seat next to her, and turns to her with the kind of urgency usually reserved for last-minute exam cramming.

“What’s going on with her and Minhyun?”

Exy doesn’t even look up from her notes. “Hello to you too, Seungcheol.”

“Yeah, hi, morning, what’s up with her and Minhyun?”

Exy finally looks up, pen still in hand, unimpressed. “Why?”

“No reason,” he says way too fast. “I’m just…curious.”

“Curious,” she repeats, in a tone that suggests she’s heard better lies from toddlers.

“Yeah. I mean—he walked her home last night, I saw it. They were laughing and all. It looked like they were, you know... close.”

“You were watching them?”

“I happened to be nearby,” he mutters. “They were loud.”

Exy hums like she’s already solved the entire situation and is now just watching him fumble. “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, almost offended. “I’m just making sure she’s not—like, getting her hopes up with the wrong guy. Minhyun’s… smooth.”

“You mean polite?”

Seungcheol frowns. “No, I mean, like, too polite. No one’s that nice without a reason.”

Exy snorts. “Well, lucky for you, there’s nothing going on.”

“What?”

“She’s not into him. She said he reminds her of a quiz app. Looks nice, says the right things, but kind of boring once you tap through the first few questions.”

Seungcheol stares at her. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Her words, not mine.”

Exy eyes him. “Still just curious?”

“Completely,” he lies.

She leans back in her chair, smirking. “Uh huh.”

And Seungcheol tells himself he’s not smiling. Not really. Exy watches him for a beat, then leans in with the casual menace of someone about to enjoy herself way too much.

“Although,” she says slowly, drawing the word out like it’s bait, “if there’s someone you should be worried about…”

Seungcheol stiffens. “What?”

She rests her chin on her hand, all innocent curiosity. “Seo Youngho.”

He stares. “Who?”

“Youngho. From the music department. Plays guitar, super chill, kind of a walking Tumblr post. Ringing any bells?”

Seungcheol blinks. “The guy with the weird beanie? That’s who I should be worried about?”

Exy grins. “She helped him with one of his interviews last week. Apparently, they’ve been messaging back and forth for edits.”

“Messaging?”

She shrugs. “You know how it starts. A casual thank you turns into a compliment. A compliment turns into, ‘Hey, wanna grab coffee and talk about your creative process?’ Next thing you know, he’s writing her a song with metaphors that don’t make sense but sound romantic.”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens, then closes.

“That’s not even—he wears socks with pineapples on them,” he mutters.

Exy raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles, arms crossed, “she doesn’t even like acoustic guys. She said so. Once.”

“Oh?” she asks sweetly. “So you remember what kind of guys she likes?”

“I remember everything she says,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

Exy’s face does not help.

“…Just as friends,” he tacks on, immediately regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

She pats his shoulder like he’s a very dumb, very loyal golden retriever. “Sure, Cheol. Totally just friendly concern.”

He slumps in his chair and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like pineapple socks my ass.

Exy is still grinning when the professor starts the lecture.

Seungcheol spots you near the fountain, earbuds in, head buried in your phone, your steps a little bouncy like you’re walking to the beat of something catchy. Totally oblivious. Totally… you.

He doesn’t think before calling out, “Hey!”

You look up, surprised, but smile when you see him.

“Hey,” you echo, tugging one earbud out. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym or something? Yelling at cones?”

“Rest day,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “Coach said we looked like overcooked ramen last practice.”

You laugh. “That’s gross.”

“He’s not wrong.”

There’s a small beat of silence, not awkward, just familiar. Then he casually drops it in. Smooth. Natural.

“So… you and Youngho?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“You’ve been texting? I heard you helped him with something?”

You squint like he just asked you to solve a math problem. “Youngho? I haven’t talked to him since like, the first week of classes? Why?”

Seungcheol falters for half a step. “Oh. I just—heard you were helping him with an interview or something?”

You tilt your head. “That was last semester. Wait, do you need his number or something?”

“What? No!” he says, way too fast, then clears his throat. “I just… Exy said you were talking. Thought it was a thing.”

You stare at him for a second before realization dawns. You smirk.

“Ohhh,” you say slowly, voice lilting. “She got you, didn’t she?”

He narrows his eyes. “What?”

“She totally messed with you.”

“I wasn’t—she didn’t—”

“You thought I was flirting with Youngho?”

“I didn’t,” he lies, every word defensive. “I was just… curious.”

You laugh, and it’s worse than any insult, because it’s light and teasing and just so smug.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you say, shaking your head.

He glares at the pavement like it personally betrayed him.

You nudge him with your elbow, still grinning. “For the record, I don’t go for guys who write songs with moon metaphors and own six different scarves.”

Seungcheol tries not to smile. Fails. “So what do you go for?”

You look at him sideways, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And you keep walking, earbuds back in, leaving him there on the path with his heart doing things it absolutely should not be doing.

Another day, another café.

You’re both hunched over your laptops, the small table between you a chaotic blend of charger cables, two half-finished drinks, your highlighters, his untouched notebook, and the occasional shared snack.

He’s scrolling through something on his iPad that might be soccer strategies or might be memes you stopped asking. You’re typing furiously, earbuds in but not actually playing anything, more for mental defense than music.

the bell above the café door jingles. You glance up and spot Minhyun just stepping in, scarf around his neck, a familiar tote bag slung over his shoulder. He hasn’t seen you yet.

“Oh, that’s Minhyun,” you say casually, pulling your earbuds out.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up, just hums like it doesn’t mean anything. Which is a lie, because you see the way he pauses in the middle of scrolling, hand hovering just a second too long.

You wave, catching Minhyun’s attention.

“Minhyun! We’re over here!”

Seungcheol finally looks up, but he keeps his face impressively neutral, like he doesn’t care even a little. Which you don’t buy for a second.

Minhyun smiles as he approaches. “Hey, small world. I didn’t know you came here.”

“I practically live here,” you say. “You want to join us?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth—probably to protest, you can feel it coming off him in waves—but Minhyun’s already pulling out the third chair.

“Sure, if it’s okay.” He glances at Seungcheol politely. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol replies with a nod that sounds like it costs him everything.

Minhyun settles in beside you, pulling out a book and a sleek little tablet. “What are you working on?”

“Publication layouts,” you say, already pulling one tab over to show him. “We’re redesigning the culture section.”

He leans in to take a look, and Seungcheol can hear the way your tone softens when you talk to Minhyun. friendly, focused, but soft. Not that it means anything. Probably.

He takes a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee, eyes flicking from you to Minhyun and back again.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. He’s just suddenly very aware of how close Minhyun’s chair is to yours. How you’re leaning in. How you laugh once, quietly, and nudge his arm with your pen.

Totally normal. Totally fine.

He pretends to look back at his iPad but spends more time glaring at his reflection in the dark screen.

You glance at him then, like you just remembered he’s there.

“You okay?” you ask, brows slightly knit.

He smiles, a little too tightly. “Perfect.”

You stare for a beat longer something flickering behind your eyes like you’re catching o n but Minhyun says something else and your attention shifts again.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and taps his screen to life.

Perfect, his ass.

Minhyun stays for about an hour maybe less, but to Seungcheol, it feels like a whole semester’s worth of third-wheeling compressed into sixty suffocating minutes.

He doesn’t say much. Just watches. Watches how your voice dips into that soft, almost melodic tone when you explain things to Minhyun. Watches how you tilt your head, eyes crinkling just a little more when you laugh at one of his lame puns.

Mostly, he watches how different you sound when you're talking to Minhyun.

It’s not that you’re fake. No, it’s worse. You’re genuine. Sweet. Thoughtful. Almost… gentle.

Nothing like the way you talk to him.

With him, it’s sarcasm, banter, eye-rolls and elbow jabs. It’s you calling him “musclehead” with your chin in your hand and the tiniest grin on your lips. It’s insults that somehow feel like compliments and arguments that stretch out longer than necessary just because neither of you wants to stop.

With Minhyun, it’s all warm tones and quiet understanding.

Seungcheol’s practically chewing through his own tongue by the time Minhyun checks his phone, apologizes with that polite smile, and stands to leave.

“I’ve got a meeting,” Minhyun says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, smiling.

Minhyun nods at Seungcheol, who manages a grunt and what might be a nod or might be a twitch.

Then it’s just you and him again.

You sip your drink like nothing’s changed, like the air isn’t thick with tension across the table. He’s silent. Half sulking. Half glaring at the innocent sugar packet in front of him like it personally offended him.

You glance up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” You go back to typing, but you can feel his mood hanging in the air like storm clouds. “You sure?”

He finally looks up, brow furrowed. “Just wondering.”

“About?”

He shrugs, but it’s tight. Forced. “It’s impressive.”

“What is?”

“The way your entire voice changes when Minhyun shows up,” he mutters, eyes pointedly on his iPad. “It’s like I’m watching a romcom where the lead suddenly discovers she has range.”

You blink. “Are you seriously—?”

“Not that it’s any of my business,” he adds quickly, still not looking at you. “You can sound however you want. I just didn’t know you had that tone in your arsenal.”

You stare at him, amused and mildly annoyed. “You mean a normal tone? You want me to start cooing at you too?”

He glares. “No. Gross.”

“Then what, exactly, is your problem?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Crosses his arms. “…Nothing,” he mutters again.

You lean back, arms crossed to mirror him. “Wow. Someone’s sulky.”

“I’m not sulky,” he grumbles, sulkily.

You watch him for a moment, a smile creeping at the corners of your lips. “You’re totally jealous.”

He scoffs, eyes wide. “I am not—”

You raise an eyebrow.

“—jealous,” he finishes weakly, shoulders sinking.

You hum, satisfied. “Sure, Cheol.”

And you go back to typing, smirk hidden behind your cup, while he sits there, stewing in the mess he doesn't want to admit he's already in.

It’s game day. The campus field is packed. students gathered on the bleachers, the buzz of excitement in the air, banners fluttering in the breeze.

You're by the sidelines, bundled up in your oversized varsity jacket, press tag clipped to the hem, camera hanging from your neck. You've already snapped a few wide shots for the publication but you're really here for one thing. Or well… one person.

You spot Seungcheol jogging over, all athletic swagger and sweat-damp hair, pulling off his warm-up jacket with the kind of ease that makes the girls in the stands sigh a little too loudly.

He’s scanning the sideline like he always does—and his eyes land on you immediately.

“Don’t get in the way,” he says, coming to a stop in front of you, chest rising and falling just a little faster than normal. “And don’t drop that camera again. Last time was—”

“Cheollie,” you coo, cutting him off in that voice, syrupy and infuriating. “You look so strong today. Are you gonna score a goal just for me?”

He freezes.

Right there on the turf, hands on his hips, mouth parting like the words got caught somewhere between his lungs and his brain.

“…Why,” he mutters, “why are you like this.”

You don’t answer. Just smile sweetly and lift your camera to get a shot of his stunned expression.

That’s when Yuta jogs by, slowing just long enough to glance between the two of you, brows furrowing.

“You good, bro?” he asks Seungcheol, wary.

Seungcheol doesn’t look at him. “No.”

Yuta looks at you. You give him a cheerful wave.

Yuta looks back at Seungcheol. “Okay, cool. Not my problem.” And he jogs off without waiting for a response. You stifle a laugh.

Seungcheol glares at you like he’s trying to burn a hole through your smile. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

You lift your camera. “Say cheese, baby boy.”

He groans, dragging his hand down his face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” you chirp, snapping the shutter.

And as he jogs back onto the field, you catch it. that tiny twitch of his lips that betrays the fact that maybe, just maybe, he really doesn’t.

They win, of course.

Final whistle blows, and the field erupts. The crowd’s on its feet, cheers echoing across the bleachers as Seungcheol gets swarmed by his teammates, arms thrown over shoulders, shouts of victory mixing with the sound of cleats thudding against the grass.

You’ve already got the shot—the moment he scored, that raw burst of power and focus in his eyes. Pure, stupid perfection. You’re checking the image in your viewfinder when you hear your name being called.

Loud. Familiar.

You look up just in time to see him jogging toward you, grin wide, sweat-slicked hair falling into his eyes, jersey clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t even start,” he says, breathless, still high on adrenaline.

You don’t miss a beat. “My strong baby boy scored a goal just for me, huh?”

He freezes again, hands on his hips, jaw clenching like he’s trying so hard not to rise to the bait but his eyes are already dancing with fire.

And then—he lifts a hand.

“One…”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Two—”

It takes you half a second too long.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—”

You barely turn when he lunges.

You shriek, half laughing, half panicking, and bolt, camera bouncing against your chest as you take off down the sideline like your life depends on it—which, in this case, it kind of does.

Behind you, you hear him shouting your name between bouts of laughter.

“I swear—when I catch you—!”

You don’t dare look back. “You’ll what? Hug me? Thank me for the moral support?”

“Moral support?! You called me baby boy in front of my entire team!”

“You loved it!”

“YOU’RE DEAD!”

And that’s how you end up sprinting across campus, laughing your lungs out, camera swaying, heart hammering—not just from the chase, but from the way his voice sounded when he said your name.

You barely close the door behind you when Exy’s voice rings out from the kitchen.

“So,” she says, in that sing-song tone that always means she knows something, “how does it feel to be publicly chased down the sideline by Choi Seungcheol in front of, oh I don’t know, half the campus?”

You groan, dropping your camera bag to the floor with a dramatic thud. “Exy. No.”

“Oh, yes.” She leans against the counter, mug in hand, eyebrows up. “Do you know how fast my phone blew up? My friend from engineering said it looked like a scene out of a teen drama. One minute he’s scoring the winning goal, next minute he’s full-on sprinting after you like he’s ready to propose or commit murder.”

“He wasn’t—” you start, but she’s already smirking.

“You called him baby boy.”

“That was his fault!” you point accusingly, peeling off your jacket. “He was being all sulky and—whatever—I was just messing with him.”

“Oh, and then he chased you. Full speed. Zero hesitation. Definitely just bro things, right?”

You make a strangled noise and cover your face with both hands. “Exy, please. I’m going to melt into the floor.”

She sips from her mug. “So when are you two making it official?”

You drop your hands and glare at her. “There’s nothing going on.”

She snorts. “Sure. And I only like himbos with abs and no brain cells—oh wait, that’s true.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“I am,” she agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

You dodge past her into your room, slamming the door shut with a dramatic groan, but even through the wood, you hear her yell:

“CALL HIM BABY BOY FOR ME NEXT TIME!”

You’re curled up in one of the worn-out lounge chairs, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced on your knees as you edit photos from yesterday’s game. The student lounge is half-empty, low buzz of conversation around you, the occasional clink of coffee cups from the vending machine nearby.

You hear footsteps and don’t bother looking up until a shadow falls over your screen.

Seungcheol’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You’re not gonna call me that again, are you?” he says, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s bracing for impact.

You don’t even blink.

“No more baby talk for you,” you reply flatly, scrolling through the thumbnails. “I’ve decided to retire that version of myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shoot him a quick glance. “Clearly you couldn’t handle it. Almost tackled me on school property.”

He slides into the chair beside you, sprawling with way too much comfort, his leg knocking gently against yours. “You ran. Like a criminal.”

“Because you counted down like a threat!”

“I was threatening you.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t very effective.”

He scoffs. “You screamed and ran. That’s literally textbook effectiveness.”

You glance at him, then back at your screen, lips twitching. “Still. No more soft talk. You’ve been cut off.”

He leans in, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You raise a brow, not looking at him. “It’s a warning.”

He hums, and you can feel the smirk without even seeing it.

“Good,” he mutters. “Didn’t like you calling me that anyway.”

You side-eye him, slowly. “Then why’d your ears turn red?”

His jaw tightens. “They didn’t.”

“Okay, baby boy.”

“Yah—!”

You’re already laughing again as he flails for your laptop in mock betrayal, and the girl across the lounge glances over at the two of you, then whispers something to her friend.

Yeah. The rumors are probably already flying and somehow, that doesn’t bother you one bit.

“You get sulky when I talk soft with other guys,” you say, biting your grin, “but then when I do it to you, you hate it.”

He stares at you, deadpan. “That’s ‘cause you do it with spite when it’s me.”

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “Spite? Cheol, I poured honey into my voice for you.”

“It was poisoned honey.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He scoffs, leaning back like the weight of your crimes is too much to bear. “You didn’t say it to be nice. You said it to get in my head.”

“…And it worked,” you mutter under your breath.

“I heard that.”

You shoot him an innocent smile, and he groans, dragging his hands down his face before tossing his head back against the chair. “I’m never living this down.”

You tilt your head. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t call you baby boy anymore.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Thank God.”

You grin wider. “I’ll think of something worse.”

He whips his head toward you, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare—”

But you're already back to editing, humming like the angel of mischief you are, while beside you, Choi Seungcheol quietly braces himself for whatever fresh torment you’re cooking up next.

The music’s too loud, the lights are too dim, and the smell of cheap beer mixed with overpriced cologne is already giving you a headache.

You glance around the packed rooftop bar, surrounded by a sea of familiar-enough faces classmates, clubmates, the occasional TA trying to look younger than they are.

You sigh into your cup, swirling whatever vaguely citrusy drink you’ve been nursing for the past twenty minutes. All you know is that it’s 10PM, your feet already hurt from standing too long in boots that looked better than they feel, and you’re three whole messages deep into debating if it’s too early to fake an emergency and leave.

You’re tucked off to the side of the open terrace, leaning on the railing, the city lights flickering in the distance. Your phone’s out, thumb hovering over your texts when—

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. That voice, equal parts smug and teasing, is practically branded into your brain at this point.

“You sound surprised,” you say, glancing up with a dry look as Seungcheol steps into view. He’s ditched his usual hoodie for a black button-up, sleeves rolled, hair swept just slightly back like someone definitely dragged him into looking decent for this.

He shrugs. “I am. I figured you’d be hiding in your room with tea and a face mask.”

“How do you know I do face masks on Fridays?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Exy talks. I listen.”

“You spy.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your drink, but you don’t move away when he leans next to you against the railing. Neither of you says anything for a moment.

The party rages on behind you But here, in this sliver of quiet under the glow of the terrace lights, it almost feels like you’ve stepped out of it.

“Seriously though,” Seungcheol says, voice a bit softer now, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d try being normal for once.”

He chuckles. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You shoot him a look. “Horribly. I want to leave.”

He grins, bumping your shoulder gently. “Give it twenty more minutes. If it still sucks, I’ll make up a fake emergency for both of us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”

“What are friends for, baby girl?”

Your jaw drops.

“No. Absolutely not. You do not get to turn this around on me—”

But he’s already walking away, that stupid smug grin plastered across his face as you fume behind him, drink in hand, fully forgetting how much you wanted to leave just a minute ago.

Seungcheol’s gone for two minutes. Three, tops.

He’d left you leaning against the terrace wall, muttering something about grabbing real drinks this time—“not whatever watered-down lemonade that was”—and you’d waved him off, rolling your eyes but letting him go.

He doesn’t expect anything to happen in those few minutes. It’s a mixer, not a crime scene.

You’re still where he left you. Only now, there’s some guy standing way too close. One hand braced against the wall next to your head like a goddamn cliché, the other mid-gesture like he’s trying to impress you with whatever he’s slurring through his tequila breath.

But what sets Seungcheol off isn’t just the guy—it’s you.

Your arms are crossed tight, jaw clenched, your glare sharp enough to cut. It’s the look you give right before a verbal takedown. Or a physical one. And Seungcheol knows that look. He knows the way your shoulders tense when you're holding back.

He's by your side in an instant, slipping between you and the guy like it’s muscle memory.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm, low but there’s a warning threaded through it like steel. “You got a problem?”

The guy blinks, thrown off. “Huh?”

“She’s not interested.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away, doesn’t raise his voice but something about the way he stands, the way his eyes have gone cold and unreadable, makes it feel louder than a shout.

“Woah, man, chill,” the guy says, backing up a half-step. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

You don’t say anything, but your eyes flick sideways to Seungcheol, and for once, there’s no smart remark waiting on your tongue. The guy mutters something under his breath and stumbles off, finally disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol turns to you then, brows drawn in concern. “You okay?”

You nod, a little slower than usual. “I was about to knee him in the groin.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

“Thanks.”

He exhales, finally relaxing, and hands you your drink. “Next time just deck him. I’ll vouch for you.”

You snort. “Thought you said you didn’t want to get kicked out of school for assault.”

“I said me. You can get away with anything.”

“Even calling you baby boy in public?”

He groans. “Don’t push your luck.”

You spot her before she spots you which is exactly three seconds of peace before her eyes lock in and her grin goes full shark mode. Exy, armed with a drink in one hand and chaos in the other, pushes her way through the crowd like a woman on a mission.

“Let’s dance,” she announces the second she’s close enough, already reaching for your wrist.

You jerk back instinctively, eyes wide. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” she counters, looping her fingers through yours. “You’ve been standing like a moody wallflower all night. Come on, I’ve got the perfect song.”

You shoot a panicked look at Seungcheol, who’s beside you sipping from his drink with all the calm in the world. Your eyes practically scream: Help me.

He doesn’t even blink. One second you’re getting tugged forward, and the next you’re yanked right back, a firm arm locking around your waist like a seatbelt.

You barely register the movement before your back hits Seungcheol’s chest, his drink still in one hand, his other arm cinched around you like he does this all the time.

“Sorry,” he says, voice casual, cheek resting near yours as he stares Exy down. “She’s busy.”

You blink, stunned, heat crawling up your neck as the crowd seems to muffle around you.

Exy raises both brows, lips twitching. “Busy?”

“She’s got a prior commitment,” Seungcheol says smoothly, sipping his drink. “With me.”

Exy smirks, shaking her head slowly. “Wow. Okay. Fine. I’ll find someone else to humiliate on the dance floor.”

“You do that,” Seungcheol says, not letting go.

She gives you one last teasing glance before disappearing into the crowd. And still he doesn’t let go.

“Nice save,” you say quietly.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, chin brushing the side of your head. “My reflexes are scary good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how loud your heart’s gotten. You stay there, tucked against him, the bass of the music rumbling through your bones but somehow, with Seungcheol’s arm still around you, the chaos of the party feels… muted.

Comfortable, even.

“Are you gonna let go?” you ask, only half teasing.

He shrugs behind you, arm unmoving. “You looked like you were in danger. Can’t be too careful.”

You tilt your head slightly, cheek brushing his collarbone. “Of Exy? She’s five-two and dances like she’s summoning demons.”

“That’s exactly why I stepped in.”

You laugh quietly, your fingers curling slightly around the hem of his sleeve. Neither of you moves to create space. Not even a little.

After a beat, he says, voice lower now, more honest, “You sure you’re okay here?”

You glance up at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” he pauses, eyes scanning your face. “You looked like you wanted to bolt earlier. Thought maybe the crowd was too much.”

You blink. It’s not the question itself. It’s the way he says it—like he noticed. Like he always does.

Your voice is soft when you answer. “Yeah. It was a lot. But... this helps.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods once, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“Okay. Then I won’t move,” he says simply.

And he doesn’t. You stay like that standing there in the middle of a rooftop party you never wanted to be at. with Seungcheol wrapped around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there’s nowhere else you’re supposed to be.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking the same thing.

It’s late afternoon, you're in the library seated across from Minhyun, half your things spread out. Supposedly working. Mostly talking.

“Well, someone has high standards,” Minhyun says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, arms crossed like he’s cracked some great mystery.

You raise a brow. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, clearly enjoying this. “Just saying. You always complain about guys being boring, or messy, or not knowing what a double space after a period is.”

“Okay, that last one is basic formatting decency,” you argue, sitting up straighter. “I shouldn’t have to date someone who thinks microsoft word automatically fixes their laziness.”

He snorts. “See what I mean? High standards.”

You wave a hand. “It’s called not settling. I have taste.”

“Oh, you definitely have taste,” he agrees, mock-thoughtful. “Just not anyone specific in mind?”

“Nope,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You’re back to flipping through your notebook like it suddenly got interesting.

He narrows his eyes, amused. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You glance up, expression innocent. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” he says, pointing at you like he’s found a clue on a crime show. “The guilty one. You’re hiding someone.”

“There is no one,” you insist, biting back a laugh. “I would know. I live in my own head, unfortunately.”

Minhyun leans forward, elbows on the table now. “So you’re telling me not a single guy has caught your attention lately? Not even, I don’t know, a certain varsity soccer player with the world’s most punchable smirk?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you definitely do.”

You’re halfway through forming your next liesomething about how you barely talk to Seungcheol anyway when Minhyun just grins and goes back to his notes like he hasn’t just lobbed a truth bomb across the table.

And despite your best effort, your brain is now helpfully supplying you with a memory: Seungcheol’s arm around your waist, the solid press of his chest behind you.

You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat in your cheeks.Minhyun doesn’t say anything more but the look on his face says everything.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You freeze, mid-sip of your drink, caught red-handed by absolutely nothing.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” you say way too defensively, setting your cup down a little harder than necessary. “I’m thinking about this—this paragraph on media ethics. Because that’s what we’re here for. Academics.”

You kick him under the table. Lightly. Mostly.

He grins, rubbing at his shin. “Ow. Abuse. I’m telling Exy.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, burying your face in your notebook.

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

You groan. “Minhyun, I swear—”

“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, leaning forward again, his voice more teasing now, “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy pretending to reread the same line over and over. But inside, your brain is spinning. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not nothing.

But saying it out loud? That feels like something big. Something you’re not ready to hand over just yet.

So instead, you glance up and deadpan, “I hope you spill your coffee on your notes.”

Minhyun laughs again, loud enough to get a side-eye from the librarian but he doesn’t push.

What you didn’t know is that a few rows down in the same library, someone else caught the whole scene.

Kim Mingyu, long-limbed and tragically loud even when he’s trying to be quiet, had been on a solo mission to actually study for once in his life. He’d just settled into a corner with his econ notes and a banana milk when his gaze drifted, purely by accident, toward one of the study tables across the floor.

And there you were. With Minhyun. Laughing. Smiling.

Leaning in just close enough that if someone didn’t know you, they’d absolutely mistake that for flirting. Honestly, even if they did know you, they might still mistake it. Because there’s something about the way you kicked him under the table, the way Minhyun grinned like he won something, the way you laughed afterward that.

Mingyu blinked. Watched for another beat. Then slowly pulled out his phone.

Mingyu: yo. ur girl’s flirting with someone at the library rn lol Seungcheol: who Mingyu: The girl? Seungcheol: The guy, you idiot Mingyu:Oh Mingyu: Minhyun. They look cute, close too. Seungcheol: k

Mingyu stared at the typing bubble for a moment. It blinked in. Blinked out and that was it.

Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, Seungcheol stared down at his phone, jaw ticking just slightly. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t his business. That you weren’t his.

But that didn’t stop the quiet, unwelcome twist in his chest. Didn’t stop him from wondering just how close “close” meant.

He gives it a few seconds maybe ten. Just enough time for the screen to go dark, for his reflection to stare back at him in the glossy black glass. His jaw’s tight, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Mingyu’s message sits there like it’s daring him to react.

He tries to ignore it but fails. before he knows it, he's swiping up, hitting your name in his contacts, thumb moving like muscle memory.

“What?” your voice comes through, casual and distracted, like you didn’t just launch yourself into the back of his mind and set up camp there. “I’m in the library.”

“I know,” he says, and it comes out sharper than he means. He clears his throat, tries again. “I just… what are you doing?”

There’s a beat. Then a quiet, “Homework?”

“With Minhyun?”

“...Do you have a problem with that?”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “No. I mean—no. Just asking.”

“You sound weird,” you say, more amused than anything. “Wait—did something happen?”

He wants to say no, because this is ridiculous. He has no right to be calling. No claim. No excuse.

But instead, what comes out is, “Were you flirting with him?”

Dead silence. Then a laugh “What?”

“I’m just asking,” he snaps, defensive now. “Mingyu saw you two. Said you looked... close.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, half-laughing. “Did you really just call me because of something Mingyu said?”

“I didn’t call because of him,” he says quickly. “I called because—”

He cuts himself off. Because what? Because he didn’t like the idea of someone else making you laugh like that? Because the thought of Minhyun sitting across from you, pulling that easy smile out of you, made something coil tight in his stomach?

You’re still waiting on the other end.

“Because I wanted to hear your voice,” he finishes, quieter now. Honest.

You go silent. He hears the distant rustle of papers, a soft sigh.

Then, you say, “You’re ridiculous.”

He almost smiles. “Yeah.”

“And needy.”

“Only a little.”

“I’m hanging up now,” you say, but you don’t.

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on nothing. “Okay.”

Your phone buzzes again barely five seconds later. You glance at Minhyun, who raises an eyebrow, clearly seeing the caller ID flash across your screen. You mouth one sec and pick up, standing up from your seat

“You better not be talking to him with that baby voice shit you do.”

You laugh a full, startled laugh that earns you a glare from a nearby student and a very entertained look from Minhyun.

“Oh my god,” you say, still grinning. “Are you actually spiraling right now?”

“I'm not spiraling,” Seungcheol grumbles, voice low and half-muttered. “I’m just saying. You do that thing—your tone gets all soft and sugarcoated and—ugh. I don’t want to hear that being used on anyone but me.”

“First of all, you hated it when I used that voice on you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because when you do it with me, it’s annoying. When you do it with other guys, it’s... threatening.”

You snort. “Threatening?”

“To my sanity, yeah.”

You shake your head, amused and maybe a little flattered in the most chaotic way. “So what, you want me to reserve the baby voice exclusively for you now?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then—

“...Maybe.”

You nearly drop your phone from how fast your hand flies up to your face.

“You are unreal, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I just know what’s mine,” he says, all confidence now, like he didn’t just blurt that out by accident. Your smile softens, just a touch.

“I’m still in the library,” you murmur.

“So?” he replies. “Not like I can kiss you through the phone.”

You pause. That was... not a joke. Not fully. And your heart? Oh, it flips.

You swallow. “Then maybe stop calling unless you're ready to make that kind of statement.”

There’s a long, loaded silence.

Then, low and smug, he says, “Good. So you were thinking about kissing me.”

You hang up and across campus, Seungcheol laughs to himself like he’s just won the lottery.

Practice is the last thing on his mind. The sky is bleeding orange over the field, the kind of late afternoon glow that usually helps him lock in, focus up.

But Seungcheol’s head is somewhere else half on your voice in his ear earlier, half on the way you hung up on him like you were flustered out of your mind, and maybe a little on how good that felt.

He’s tying his cleats on the sidelines when Mingyu drops onto the bench beside him, kicking his legs out like a golden retriever who just learned how to stretch.

“You know what’s funny?” Mingyu says, not even pretending to ease into it.

“No,” Seungcheol replies flatly, not looking up. “But I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“I texted ‘your girl’s flirting at the library’ and you didn’t even ask who I was talking about,” Mingyu says, all grin. “Just went straight into panic mode.”

Seungcheol freezes for half a second before continuing to tighten the laces. “I wasn’t panicking.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Mingyu drawls. “You were calmly accusing her of using her baby voice on other men within seconds.”

“I was just—checking.”

“Sure,” Mingyu says. “Checking. Out of concern for her academic productivity.”

Seungcheol glares at him. “Do you need to be like this?”

Mingyu slaps a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m just being a supportive friend.”

“Supportive friends don’t act like tabloid reporters.”

“Supportive friends call it like they see it, and what I see is a man deep in denial about being down horrifically bad.”

Seungcheol grabs a water bottle and takes a long sip just so he doesn’t say something that proves Mingyu exactly right.

Mingyu leans in, eyes twinkling. “You like her.”

“She’s annoying.”

“You like her.”

“She talks to me like I’m a five-year-old.”

“You’d let her step on you if she asked.”

Seungcheol gives him a deadpan look. “You good?”

Mingyu shrugs. “You’re not denying it.”

Seungcheol exhales, tipping his head back, letting the fading sun hit his face. Mingyu, satisfied with the tension in the air but not quite done poking the fire, stretches his arms overhead, lets out a content sigh, and adds, far too casually:

“But, like... they do kinda look cute together, don’t they? Minhyun and her.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps up so fast Mingyu almost flinches.

“What did you just say?”

Mingyu fights back a grin, trying to keep his tone innocent. “I mean, he’s got that polite, nice guy thing going on. She’s sharp, a little mean—classic opposites attract. Balance, y’know?”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticks.

“They don’t balance,” he says, too quickly. “Minhyun’s too bland for her.”

Mingyu raises a brow, delight practically radiating off him. “Bland?”

“Yeah. She’d eat him alive. He’d fold at the first sign of an argument.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I fight back,” Seungcheol snaps, and then immediately realizes how that sounds.

Mingyu full-on cackles.

“There it is! There’s the alpha wolf! Jesus, dude, chill before you end up headbutting someone.”

Seungcheol scowls and tosses the ball at Mingyu’s gut lightly, but with just enough force to make it a statement.

Mingyu catches it with a grunt, still laughing. “So defensive. You sure she’s not your girl?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer this time. Just turns toward the field, jaw set, hands on his hips, trying and failing not to think about how close you and Minhyun had been sitting.

The following day you barely make it five seconds into sitting across from him at the student lounge before you're hit with the weight of his mood.

Seungcheol’s already there when you arrive hood up, arms crossed, textbook open but clearly untouched. His eyes flick up when you slide into the seat across from him, but he doesn’t say anything.

You squint at him. “Okay. What’s this vibe?”

“What vibe.”

“The one where you’re one exhale away from challenging someone to a duel.”

“Dramatic.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin on your palm. “Did Mingyu say something again? Did he beat you at something? Or is it because of—” you pause, catching the flicker of something in his eyes, “—Minhyun?”

Nothing but that nothing is so loud, it may as well be a full confession.

You grin. “Oh my god. You’re sulking again.”

“I’m not sulking,” he mutters, refusing to meet your eyes

“You have sulking energy. Your entire aura is sulk.”

He slams the book shut “Why him?”

“What?”

Seungcheol looks at you then, eyebrows slightly furrowed, like he’s genuinely annoyed but underneath, there's something else. A little unspoken frustration. Maybe even jealousy, thinly veiled.

“Minhyun,” he says. “Why do you laugh like that when you’re with him?”

You stare at him, lips parting, unsure if you’re hearing him right.

“Are you seriously asking me why I laugh at jokes?”

“I’m asking why you laugh differently.”

You lean back in your seat, slowly crossing your arms, lips tugging into a smug smile. “Choi Seungcheol... are you jealous?”

He narrows his eyes. “No.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I’m just observant,” he grumbles.

You lean in, resting your elbows on the table. “You know, if you wanted me to laugh like that with you, maybe try not scowling at me the minute I sit down.”

He snorts, finally just barely “Then stop using your baby voice on other guys.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, huh?”

He leans back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not until you start using it where it counts.”

And just like that, the mood shifts. The sulk might still be there but so is the smirk.

Then he says it. Just like that, out of nowhere. No warning. No buildup.

“And don’t think I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

No break. No pause. Not even a breath.

“You thinking about kissing me.”

Your brain screeches to a halt. “What—”

“I heard you,” he says, leaning in, smug etched all over his stupidly handsome face. “You said it yourself. ‘Then maybe stop calling unless you’re ready to make that kind of statement.’ Which means you were thinking it. Which means—”

“That is not what I said,” you argue, pointing at him like that’ll physically push the words back into his mouth. “You twisted it. You butchered it.”

“Oh? So you weren’t thinking about it?”

“I was—hypothetically speaking. There’s a difference.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “So you admit you thought about it.”

You gape at him. “That’s not—no! I was talking about you! You were the one flirting over the phone—”

“I was flirting?”

“‘I wanted to hear your voice,’” you mimic, dropping your voice into a painfully off-key version of his deeper tone. “That’s you! That’s textbook flirt!”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “Did it work?”

You glare. “I hung up on you.”

He grins. “Exactly. You panicked.”

You stare at him for a full three seconds. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, like he’s delivering some grand conclusion, “you’re still here.”

You want to throw your pen at him. But more than that, you want to wipe that smug look off his face.

Unfortunately, kissing him would do exactly that. Which is why you don’t. Not yet.

You just mutter, “Don’t flatter yourself, Choi,” and flip open your notebook, pretending to focus.

But from the way you can feel his eyes on you, you know this isn’t over. Not even close. He doesn't let up. In fact, he leans in.

Elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours with that sly smile that should be illegal on campus grounds. Close enough that you can smell the faint traces of his cologne, like pine and trouble.

“And yet,” he murmurs, smug and slow, “you’re blushing, babygirl.”

You freeze. Eyes wide. Brain empty. Heart somewhere doing backflips against your ribs.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me—”

His smile deepens, utterly pleased with himself. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

“I am not blushing—”

“You are.” He points lazily, like he’s stating the weather. “Right there. Your cheeks. Like strawberries.”

You slap both palms against your face. “Stop looking at me—” He laughs, leaning back like he just won a championship match.

You glare at him through your fingers. “You think this is funny?”

“Hilarious.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You grab your pen like a weapon. He raises his hands in surrender, still grinning like the devil in a varsity hoodie. But Seungcheol? He’s already forgotten the rest of the world exists. Because all he sees is you. Flustered, indignant, glowing red and still sitting right there across from him.

And he’s never felt more victorious in his life.

It’s been a few days, but nothing’s changed.

If anything, he’s gotten worse.

Now Seungcheol’s teasing comes armed less banter, more ambush. One second, he’s making fun of how you chew your pen when you’re focused, the next he’s casually dropping something like, “Careful, keep doing that and I’m gonna think you’re trying to distract me, sweetheart.”

Which, of course, earns him a full-on attack with your highlighter. Or your notebook. Or, once, your water bottle though to be fair, that was more of a warning toss.

He just dodges, laughs, and runs off like the menace he is, usually calling a smug “You’re obsessed with me!” over his shoulder while you try not to chase him down and tackle him in the middle of campus.

It’s a game now, and he plays to win.

Which brings you to now. another game day, your camera bag slung over your shoulder as you take your usual spot on the sidelines. The stadium is buzzing, the sky starting to dip into dusk, and you’re setting up your lens when something drops over your head.

You flinch, camera instinctively cradled to your chest, and yank the thing off only to find yep. A varsity jacket.

Not just any jacket. His jacket.

You turn around instantly, already knowing who it is.

Seungcheol stands a few feet away, casually stretching like he didn’t just try to blindfold you. He’s grinning, loose and cocky, in that way that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Sun’s setting,” he says innocently. “Didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

You hold up the jacket like it’s evidence at a crime scene. “This almost took me out, Choi.”

He shrugs. “Worth it. You look cute in it.”

Then you narrow your eyes, lips twitching. “You just wanted me to wear your jacket”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Wouldn’t complain.”

“You are—so—insufferable.”

He starts backing away toward his team, still grinning. “Still wearing it though.”

You glance down at the jacket in your arms. And yeah, you do pull it on but only because it’s cold and definitely not because it smells like pine and trouble and home.

The game starts, the first half going like the usual but then it happens. It happens fast, too fast to process. One second, the ball’s moving upfield in a blur, and the next, a player slams into Seungcheol. Hard.

You hear the collective oof ripple through the crowd as his body hits the turf, legs folding awkwardly beneath him before he rolls over, clutching his side.

Your heart lurches to your throat.

The ref’s whistle blows sharp and loud, halting the game. A few players drop to a knee. Others stand, tense and quiet. You grip your camera like a lifeline, frozen on the sideline as medics rush the field.

You lift the lens with trembling fingers, trying to keep it steady as they kneel beside him, talking quickly, checking something near his ribs.

They help him to his feet slowly, his arm slung around one of the staff, weight uneven. He’s limping, favoring his side, jaw clenched. But even from here, even under the stadium lights, you can see him trying to brush it off, like he’s fine.

He’s not fine.

They help him off the field, and the game resumes minutes later but without him. You keep scanning the benches. The sidelines. The crowd.

He’s gone.

And you can’t move. You want to, but your job—your literal responsibility—keeps you stuck at the sideline. Camera still in hand. Fingers still numb.

Every few minutes, you steal glances again, just to be sure you didn’t miss him coming back. But his spot on the bench stays empty and your chest feels a little like it’s folding in on itself.

Meanwhile Seungcheol is in the locker room, the small medic room too quiet.

He’s pissed. Not the kind of pissed where he’s throwing things or yelling. no, this is the quiet kind. The boiling-under-the-surface, jaw-locked, muscles-tense kind.

The kind where he has too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it.

The medic room is too white. Too still. And he hates how sterile everything feels, how he’s being told to rest when all he wants to do is get back out there and finish the damn game.

He leans back against the padded table, an ice pack strapped to his ribs, shirt halfway off. His phone’s on the bench across the room, untouched. He hasn’t looked at it once.

The door creaks open and Yuta steps in, still in his cleats, jersey grass-stained, hair damp from sweat.

Seungcheol sits up straighter. “What’s the score?”

“We won,” Yuta says, casually. “2-1.”

Cheol exhales, but there’s no relief in it. Just more frustration. “Should’ve been out there.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuta shrugs, peeling off his gloves. “Not much you could do with half your ribs probably cracked.”

“Not cracked.”

“Probably,” Yuta repeats.

Seungcheol glares at the floor.

There’s a pause before Yuta jerks a thumb toward the hallway. “By the way. Your girl’s outside.”

Cheol’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Yeah. Pacing like she’s about to wear out the floorboards,” Yuta smirks. “Muttering something about rules and how you’re stupid and reckless and honestly, she sounds more pissed than you.”

Seungcheol’s already sliding off the table.

“You’re not cleared to leave, bro,” Yuta calls after him.

“Then tell the medic I’m stretching my legs.”

Yuta raises both brows. “Stretching your legs or going to get yelled at?”

Cheol throws his shirt over his shoulder, heading for the door. “Probably both.”

The second he steps out, he sees you. Right there across the hallway, arms crossed, pacing a tight little loop like you’ve got fire under your feet.

You don’t even notice him at first too busy muttering to yourself like you’re rehearsing a speech that ends in murder. Then you hear the door shut.

You whip around.

“Choi Seungcheol—”

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely about to get yelled at.

“You absolute idiot,” you start, marching up to him. “What part of take care of yourself did you not understand? You got wrecked, Cheol—rammed, like you were nothing but a traffic cone—”

“I’m fine,” he says, calm but slightly amused. “See? Walking. Breathing. All parts attached.”

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why the hell did you try to get up like you were fine? You were obviously in pain—”

“I was fine.”

“You couldn’t even walk straight.”

“Okay,” he admits, “mostly fine.”

You throw your hands in the air. “Unbelievable.”

He just watches you, eyes softening, lips quirking at the corners. “You were worried.”

“Of course I was worried. You're—” You stop. Catch yourself. Almost let the words slip.

He steps closer.

“Say it.”

You glance away. “No.”

“Say it.”

“No, because you’ll get that smug look like you’re about to win something—”

“I already feel like I did.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding too loud to ignore. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping just a little, “you’re still here. Still yelling. Still wearing my jacket.”

You look back up, intending to retort—but he’s already looking at you like that.

Like that. Warm. Steady. Quietly proud. And maybe a little in love.

You glare at him “You’re impossibl and you’re stubborn.”

He replies back, smiling as if he isn’t nursing a few bruised ribs“You look good when you’re mad.”

“I’m gonna throw your cleats at you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You lunge. He laughs then winces.

You freeze instantly. “Wait—are you okay?”

“Still sore,” he admits. “But worth it.”

Your voice is quieter when you say it this time, like the wind got knocked out of your chest but you still needed to say it anyway.

“You scared me.”

Seungcheol’s smile falters just a little.

“I know.”

You shake your head, staring at him, hard. “No. I mean it, Cheol. I—I couldn’t even see where you went after they helped you off the field. You weren’t on the bench. No update. No text. Nothing. I just had to stand there, holding a damn camera, wondering if you—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do,” you cut in. “But you keep getting in these stupid plays like you have to carry the whole team on your back or something. You don’t always have to be the one who takes the hit, Cheol. You're not invincible.”

He watches you for a long beat. Then takes one step closer. Then another.

“You done?”

You blink. “No.”

He’s close now. Arms open, head tilted down to look at you fully like he always does. “Good. Get it all out.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling—”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning openly now. “Because you’re here. And yelling. Which means you care.”

You glare “Of course I care. You big dumb idiot—”

“Babygirl ”

“Don’t babygirl me right now—”

“I’m gonna.” He grins wider. “Because I like the way it makes you flustered.”

“Seungcheol—”

“I promise,” he says suddenly, cutting through your spiral. His tone drops. Softens. Steadies. “No more of that. I’ll be more careful. I won’t disappear on you. I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

You narrow your eyes, watching him like you’re still deciding if you can believe him. “I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I will end you.”

He holds up a pinky. “Scout’s honor.”

“How many times do I have to remind you, you were never a scout.”

He smiles that boyish handsome smile, showing the dimples on his cheeks

“Still counts.”

You’re about to shoot bac another sarcastic comment, another dramatic eye roll but he doesn’t wait. He just opens his arms and tugs you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Your face presses against his chest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Slower now. Calmer. Warm.

“I need a hug,” he says softly, chin resting against your hair. “So shut up for like five seconds.”

You sigh, but you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jersey. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“I still hate you,” you mumble.

He chuckles. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

You swat at his ribs.

He flinches and tightens his arms around you. “Hey! Injury!”

“You’re lucky I don’t aim lower”

He hums, a low sound in his chest. “Still not letting go.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He doesn’t.

He’s halfway through zoning out when it happens.

Sitting near the back of the lecture hall, earbuds in, one arm slung over the back of the empty chair beside him, pretending to review his notes but really just rereading the same sentence for the fifth time.

His brain’s still somewhere else. Specifically that night a few nights ago when he got pulled out of the game. If he’s being honest, it was worth it. He might not have been there for the winning goal but it felt like he was the MVP that night.

Then the chair next to him creaks. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

Exy’s presence is impossible to miss. She’s got that smirk today, too, the one that makes him instinctively brace for something. She doesn’t say hi.

Just, “So.”

Seungcheol glances at her warily. “So…?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “What are we calling it now? Friends who hug like their lives depend on it? Friends who give each other heart attacks on the field?”

He sighs, already exhausted. “You really don’t have anything better to do?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Just here to make sure you’re emotionally stable before you inevitably do something stupid.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.” Exy leans back, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. “But you will, because you’re both stubborn idiots who think prolonged eye contact and light bullying is a form of communication.”

“You’re very dramatic for someone who wasn’t even there.”

“Didn’t need to, I have eyes everywhere” she says

“What do you want, Exy?”

She shrugs “Just making sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

Exy leans in, not unkind, but unrelenting. “Look. You like her. Obviously. And she likes you back. Also obvious. But if you’re gonna keep doing this—whatever this is—just make sure you’re not playing tug-of-war with her heart. She’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. She sees it anyway, in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into fists on his thighs. The quiet kind of protective that never quite fades, even when he’s sitting still.

Exy softens, just a little. “She really does care, you know.”

He nods. “I know.”

Exy watches him a moment longer, like she’s trying to decide if she should keep going or let him sit with his own thoughts.

Spoiler: she keeps going.

“You know what she likes, right?” she says, drumming her fingers against the desk. “The reason she messes with you so much? It’s because you never say what you mean unless it’s wrapped in sarcasm or some post-goal adrenaline.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “And you’re suddenly her spokesperson?”

“Please,” Exy says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve known her longer than you. She’s my roommate, my soul sister, sometimes the voice of reason. You get what I mean”

He shoots her a glare. She ignores it.

“She likes straightforward guys,” she continues, voice a little more serious now. “Not the ones who get jealous in the corner and stew in silence, not the ones who pretend like they don’t care. She wants someone who shows it. Not in a weird ‘mine mine mine’ way, but like… make it clear.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “I don’t want to come off—”

“Possessive?” Exy finishes. “Yeah, you already are but neither of you acknowledges it. But you know what she likes more? Feeling chosen. Loudly. Publicly. Like, no room for guessing.”

He’s quiet again. Processing. Thinking.

She nudges his leg under the table. “You don’t have to post her on Instagram with a cheesy ass caption. But you do have to stop pretending like you’re just ‘hanging out’ when the whole campus already knows you’d deck someone for even looking at her sideways.”

He lets out a breath, more exhale than sigh. “…You think she really likes me back?”

Exy looks at him like he’s said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. Which, in fairness, he might’ve.

“Seungcheol. She ran to the locker room after you got benched. She paced like a worried girlfriend. She lets you hug her in front of people. She calls you baby boy.”

His ears go red instantly. “That was—she was teasing—”

“She blushed,” Exy says, shaking her head. “That’s like her version of a declaration.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then another. Then, “So what do I do?”

Exy shrugs, getting up as the professor finally walks in. “You stop being a coward. And you start making it obvious or atleast more obvious than you already are”

She pauses, smirking down at him. “Starting now would be ideal.”

Later after his last class, he waits for. Like he always does, you never asked why you’re just used to it now.

You’re already mid-rant about your journalism group,voice going a mile a minute. Something about missed deadlines, broken printers, and the absolute disaster that is your publication’s group chat.

He’s barely said a word, just walking beside you with that small smile tugging at his lips, watching the way your face scrunches when you get fired up, the way you skip a step when you’re being dramatic on purpose.

The sun catches your hair, and he wonders again how he got so gone. Maybe it slipped between the banters, the teasing, the walks after class. Just like this one.

He can’t even recall what campus life was, or his life, was before you. You’ve become that one constant in his everyday routine. From countless morning coffee runs, to late lunch hall trips to late night convenient store runs. He doesn’t know just when he became your first call, but he doesn’t mind. You’re his first person he’d call too, if he’s having a great day or a bad day or he just needed a break from all the madness.

You don’t even notice when he slows down, steps dragging just a bit more than usual.

Too busy talking, you reach back with one hand and grab his, tugging without even looking at him. Intertwining your fingers with his like you’ve done it before.

“Anyway, I told him, if you turn in your draft the day after deadline again, I’m going to start publicly shaming you—”

But he doesn’t budge.

You stop mid-step, turning. “What—?”

He’s looking at your joined hands. Not in shock or hesitation. Just… lingering.

You follow his gaze and blink down, like just realizing you were holding his hand. Then back up at him, one brow raised. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, your hands and then at your face like he’s trying to memorize something.

“What,” you say again, a little more cautious this time.

“You always do that?” he asks, voice low, just a little amused. “Grab my hand like it’s nothing?”

“You were walking like a grandpa. I didn’t want to miss the bus.”

He laughs softly. “Right.”

You tilt your head. “What’s going on with you?”

He shrugs, but doesn’t let go of your hand. In fact he holds it firmer “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

But he’s not smiling now. Not fully. He takes a step closer, just enough to make your hand drop between you.

His voice is quieter when he says, “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

Your heart skips. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes meet yours, all steady, no teasing this time. “You hold my hand like it’s nothing. You call me baby boy in front of my teammates. You yell at me when I get hurt”

You open your mouth to say something anything but he cuts in, voice soft but serious.

“I’m making it clear now. I like you. Not just for the banter. Not just when it’s easy.”

He squeezes your hand, not hard. Just enough.

“I want to make it obvious.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest now, and for the first time in a while, you’re the one struggling for words. But your hand tightens back around his, and your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile.

“You’ve always been obvious, you growl at other guys if they so much so look my way” you joke

He scowls at you, “Here I was being genuine and sweet”

You smile small at first, a little shy, but then it breaks wider, soft and warm and so you.

But since you’re you and he’s him, you reply back

“I guess I just never said anything because you didn’t either. But we both knew, we both know what this really is. Good to know you finally got your big boy pants on and say it loud and proud”

He lets outs chuckle, looking down at you. He tucks in the few strands of hair blown by the late afternoon wind, his other hand still holding yours.

And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you just pick up where you left off. “Anyway, as I was saying—this guy? He sends in drafts written like a text message. Like, full-on ‘LOL’ and emoji placeholders. I wish I was joking, Cheol.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, not because of the story but because of you. The way you bounce back so easily, how nothing ever feels awkward with you for long. One minute you’re standing still while he’s basically confessing on a quiet campus path, and the next you’re dragging him toward the bus stop with your fingers still looped with his.

He glances down at your hands. Intertwined. And you’re not letting go.

You’re still talking, still dramatically reciting the tragedies of group projects and typos that somehow made it to print, but your thumb brushes against his like it’s always been meant to be there. And he’s just… listening.

Not saying much. Not needing to.

Because this? This moment your voice in his ear, your hand in his, your familiar little eye-roll when you notice him smiling too long is everything.

And there's nowhere else he’d rather be. This right here has been the ultimate goal all along.

A FEW MONTHS LATER.

The first thing he hears when he opens his eyes?

Your voice. Of course.

Not soft, not dreamy, not the gentle cooing kind of morning wake-up call some people probably expect from their girlfriends.

No. yours is sharp, brisk, and deeply exasperated.

“Choi Seungcheol, I swear, if you forget your cap, I’m not turning around this time. We’re not missing line-up just because you take three business days to get ready—”

He groans, arm flopping across his eyes as he cracks a smile. “Good morning to you too, jagi”

“You’re impossible in the mornings,” you mutter, rifling through a bag near the foot of the bed. “I don’t know why I agreed to be the responsible one in this relationship.”

He peeks at you through his lashes, hair still a mess from the night before, lips pressed in that familiar line that says you’re trying not to smile even as you’re scolding him.

Still you. Unmistakably, unapologetically you.

And for some reason, he feels full just watching you.

Because today’s the day. Graduation. The end of all-nighters and library corners and half-serious bickering in cafes. The end of walking across campus as “friends” with a mile of tension between you and the start of something else.

“Are you even listening to me?” you ask, exasperated, already halfway to the mirror to fix your hair. “The trip, Seungcheol. We leave next week. And you have that early training thing right after we get back, so if we don’t get everything packed—”

He pushes himself up slowly, stretching, watching you spin through your checklist with military precision.

“—and your mom said she wanted photos after the ceremony, so don’t disappear with the team, okay? And please don’t forget to eat before we leave, I’m not dealing with you fainting in full gown and—”

You’re cut off with a kiss. Firm, quick, not giving you a chance to back away or dodge it like you do sometimes just to be difficult.

You blink at him. “What was that for?”

He grins, thumb brushing your chin. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

You swat at him, cheeks flushed. “Shut up.”

He tugs you back gently, arms looping around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. “You know, when we first met, I thought I’d lose my mind if I had to listen to you nag me every day.”

You snort. “Charming.”

“But now?” He kisses your temple, voice soft. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands come up to rest over his anyway.

“Better not,” you murmur, the edge in your tone barely there. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He smiles against your skin, eyes slipping shut for one more second.

You. Still you. Still loud. Still quick to argue. Still calling him out when he needs it but now he can shut you up with a kiss. Now, you’re his. Officially. Publicly.

Somehow he managed to distract you enough to pull you back in bed but you’re still talking.

Even now, knees planted on either side of his hips, straddling him in the middle of your shared chaos of a room. gown half-steamed and a to-do list longer than your patience. You’re going off about last-minute logistics.

“You didn’t charge your camera last night, did you? You said you would, and if it dies while my parents are taking photos, I swear to God, Seungcheol—”

He’s not even trying to keep up anymore. Not with your words, at least.

Just… watching you. The way your brows furrow when you’re pretending to be mad. The way you keep adjusting your hair like it’s not already perfect. The way you’re sitting on top of him like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And your voice filling every inch of his morning like it always does.

He thinks, Yeah. This is it. This is what he wants every morning to be like. Even if you’re nagging him. Especially if you’re nagging him.

You lean forward a little, pressing your hand to his chest like you’re trying to make a point. “Seriously, if we’re late, Exy is going to murder us both. Don’t give me that look—”

“Babe,” he says, laughing softly.

“No, you always do this—you smile and nod and then forget everything I said—”

“Babe,” he says again, pulling you down gently, your face just inches from his now. “I love you.”

You blink. Mouth still parted mid-rant. Eyes just a little wider. And that second of silence? It might be his favorite part of the whole morning.

He grins. “Like, really, really whipped for you.”

Your expression twists somewhere between smug and flustered. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Hopeless.”

“Absolutely.”

You huff and try to sit back, but he doesn’t let you, arms locking around your waist.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Call me whipped. Call me down bad. I don’t care.”

He presses a kiss just below your jaw, and your fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his shoulders.

“I’ll take all of it,” he adds. “If it means waking up to you. Every single day. Nagging and all.”

You try to look unimpressed, but your lips betray you with the softest curve of a smile.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

And you do. Maybe a little more than you’d ever admit out loud.

So you lean down, brushing your nose against his, and mutter against his lips, “Only if you remember the damn cap this time.”

You kiss him, once. Twice. “And I love you, too”

He laughs again head thrown back like you’ve just handed him the world.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The door swings open, the morning sun spilling across the hallway as you bolt out in full momentum. heels clicking against the tile, hair slightly tousled from your last-minute panic fix, your phone clenched in one hand and a rolled-up copy of the graduation itinerary in the other.

“—and I told you,Cheol, if we don’t get to the hall before they start locking seat assignments, I am not begging some underpaid volunteer to let us in. And no, don’t give me that look, you were the one who decided to iron your shirt twenty minutes before we had to leave—”

He follows behind you, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His cap is still crooked, tassel flipping wildly in the breeze, and he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.

Not when you’re out here looking like that radiant and already halfway to combusting because of a scuffed shoe or a forgotten pin or God knows what else.

You keep going, barely glancing back. “—and I can’t believe you tried to bribe Exy with iced coffee so she wouldn’t tell me you forgot to RSVP to the post-grad dinner. You know she’s lactose intolerant—”

“Babe.”

“—and then there’s still the trip itinerary we haven’t finished, your mom’s gift still needs wrapping, and I told you at least four times to print out your boarding pass just in case—”

“Baby,” he says again, stepping closer now, his hand brushing your wrist.

You spin toward him, full of momentum and indignation, your mouth already open to launch into another paragraph of minor disasters and contingency plans.

But he just cups your face in both hands, warm and sure, and pulls you in.

Kisses you. Firm and fast. You freeze, lips caught mid-word. Your eyes flutter open in surprise, brows drawing together.

He pulls back a half second later, grinning. “Hi.”

You blink, processing.

And then, just like that, “Anyway, as I was saying—if we don’t get to the photo op on time, your sister will murder us both, and you still haven’t replied to the family group chat—”

He kisses you again.

You make a muffled noise into his mouth, both hands lifting in frustration that he can never let you finish a proper thought.

He pulls back again, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

You glare. “I swear—”

Another kiss. This one longer.

This time, when he pulls back, you're breathless. But still stubborn.

“I hate you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smiling because I’m two seconds from kicking your ass in front of your entire graduating class.”

He grins, nose brushing yours. “Still worth it.”

You push lightly at his chest, trying to turn away. “We’re going to be late—”

He kisses you again before you can take a step. And again. And again.

It becomes a pattern. every time you open your mouth to talk, he just silences you with a kiss. They’re quick at first, just small interruptions. But the more you fight him, the longer they stretch. The slower they get. Until you’re not even trying to speak anymore—just giggling helplessly against his mouth as he pecks you one more time, then another, and then another.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble into his shoulder, finally giving up, forehead resting there while he loops an arm around your waist.

“You love it.”

“Debatable.”

“You love me.”

You groan dramatically. “God, don’t remind me.”

He laughs, light and easy, kissing the top of your head as you both start walking again, fingers intertwined, the rush of the morning finally slowing down.

And somewhere between the bickering and the kisses, the nagging and the laughter, it settles in:

You’re still you. He’s still him.

But now… it’s official.

Caps and gowns, travel plans and futures ahead. Whatever comes next—training camps or late deadlines or burnt breakfasts—he’ll have you. And you’ll have him.

Even if he’s five minutes late. Even if you never stop nagging.

Even if the only way to shut you up is kissing you breathless at the door every single morning.

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pittifullyyours · 2 months ago

Text

Pink Doughnuts - Dr Jack Abbot x F!Doctor!Reader

Summary: You left Pittsburgh with a cavernous hole in your heart, and return to find pieces of it shattered across the floor years later. In fact, you ran far, far away. But will a honky tonk bar, Dana’s birthday and hazel eyes that make you feel like the world will collapse from under your feet somehow draw you back in?

Notes: So…this is my first time posting ANYTHING on any forums, let alone Tumblr or AO3, in about 9 years. Please forgive a starved wannabe-hobbyist writer for any mistakes.

This has not been beta’d. I’m honestly terrified to let another single person read it…so it only made sense to let it loose on the world at once right?

In saying that, please please please let me know if you are enjoying this little teaser of a chapter. I’ve got a whole lot more lined up, but am utterly terrified that I’ll do a disservice to my people.

The Pitt and Jack Abbott have sufficiently ruined my life. I cannot stop the mania. Hope you enjoy!

All my work is my own, yadda yadda. Reposting is not permitted on any other platforms without my express consent and appropriate credit.

AO3: Pittifully_Yours

=================================

Your footsteps echo quietly into the night air as you slowly come to halt in front of the bar doors.

The thrum of the night coming alive in the city was normally electrifying - music spilling from bars as doors are pulled open and closed, laughing and love-sick couples walking arm-in-arm, cab horns piercing as they push along groups of young people making their way around, so engrossed in each other and oblivious to the world around them. You took a deep breath, feeling part of your chest rattle a little at the familiar sounds, smells…it felt like home.

And as soothing a thought as that was, you can’t wipe the furrowed brows from your face as you peer up at the huge, neon sign spelling out ‘THE TWO STEP’ in multicoloured lights. Of course the mandated cowboy hat dangled over the bright letters, almost like it was tipped in a nod of welcome.

And yet you continued to stare at the dark oak doors, adorned with brushed brass knobs, almost as if waiting for it to magically come to life and tell you to hurry up and come in from the cool Pittsburgh winds.

‘This is such a dumb idea,’ you mumble under your breath. But it’s not like you were here of your own volition - hell, you hadn’t even stepped foot in a Honky Tonk bar before. And never even realised this particular one existed in the countless years you resided in Pittsburgh.

But for Dana, you’d move mountains. Three weeks ago, your email tone had ‘bing’ed on your phone and you couldn’t stop the smile that had pulled softly at your mouth once you read the name of the sender.

‘Hey kid,

Would love it if you can make it, understand if you can’t though. Miss you.

Big hugs,

Dana’

The email attachment was clearly (and very cleverly) designed by one of her daughters, decorated in old school, Western movie-style fonts, outlines of cowboy boots, and spelling out the pertinent birthday party details. It stated that it was a big one for Dana, but didn’t specify an exact number. Not that it particularly mattered - no one would dare ask Dana anyway.

But that was how you found yourself on the sidewalk in front of the bar, decked out in an old band t-shirt, one of those little skirts with fringes dangling down the sides sitting just above your knees, and a pair of black heeled boots. Still, rooted in place, heart skipping in a way that you knew was anxiety and not something more concerning, and still frowning at the door to the damn place.

A little voice in your head just echoed the sentiments from before, about how stupid this was, how it could become a really awkward night, and how being gone for 3 years might make this more un-welcoming than you’d ever imagined.

But a more certain thought came to the forefront of your consciousness, with clarity and sincerity - ‘for Dana’.

And so you took a deep breath, a few steps towards the entrance and turned the door handle to the bar.

********************************************************************************************************

The inside of ‘The Two Step’ was dimly lit, but still emitted a warm glow. Various glowing beer brands, photos of famous country music legends and more neon letters spelling out cheesy phrases on across the walls. Fairy lights stream above the dance floor, and in front of the hardwood floors that are scuffed from years of stomping boots, is a live band covering what you recognise as a modern country song from the long drive that got you here.

And as you take in the faint smell of leather, sweet barbecue grease from the kitchen and stale beer, you hear your name shouted from further in and snap your head forward to see a huge, lopsided grin on the beautiful blonde walking your way, arms already outstretched.

You step into the hug that exuded warmth - maternal, loving and cherished in every sense of the word.

“It’s been too long, kid. We’ve seriously missed you.” Dana whispers to you.

“And I can’t believe you let them throw you a cowboy-themed 21st birthday again”, you reply, mirth dripping all over your words as Dana pulls away to scan your face. Her eyes bore into every part of you, ignoring your teasing and scanning, as if you needed medical clearance to stay at her birthday party.

“If I buy you enough tequila shots tonight, do we get to see you on the mechanical bull?” you continue, while she finishes appraising you, seeming to find some kind of answer in your face that she’s semi-content with in her evaluation and throws you a wry smile.

“Fuck no, ain’t enough tequila in the world for that shit.” she scoffs, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of the massive mechanical bull penned off in the corner of the bar.

“But I reckon if we team up and give Whiticker just enough,” she continues, pinching her fingers together to show the fine balance of her proposal, “he’ll have the ride of his life.”

You throw your head back as a wicked cackle escapes you and the glint in Dana’s eyes turn from scheming to warm concern in a matter of milliseconds. Her hands are on the top of your arms, almost as if she wants to keep you glued in place.

“Seriously though, you doin’ okay over in California, hon?”

“I’m okay, promise” you breathe, a light smile tugging at your lips at the sight of her worry. “Seriously, it’s not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. The sun’s always out, the food is amazing, and the hospital I’m at is great. But the charge nurse could probably use some of your pizzazz.”

You wink at her, but your attempt to appear blasé falls flat as the worry still reigns supreme over Dana.

“Okay,” she says with an almost sigh, “just don’t go turning into one of those assholes doing dog yoga on the beach with a kale smoothie. Then I’ll know I’ve lost ya forever.”

“Never”, you whisper in a hushed, solemn voice - nodding your head and making direct eye contact like it’s the most serious vow you’ve ever sworn.

She nods her head back at you, seeming to shake off the air of concern.

“Come on, kid, there’s a few people that have been itching to see you”, Dana says. She leads you by the hand further into the bar, and you look up to see a few familiar faces sprinkled throughout different sections of the venue.

You smile at the thought of all these people here to celebrate Dana; an ode to the woman she was and the way in which people gravitate around her.

You almost crash into her as she suddenly stops and spins towards you again, face pulled into a grimace and realisation suddenly dawning in those eyes.

“What now?” you joke, eyebrows pulled upwards in surprise - Dana was never caught off guard. Her face grimaced a little, looking like she was dreading whatever she was about to say. You stood there in silence with her for a second, face confused but waiting for her to spit whatever it was out.

“Jack’s here, y’know”, she mentions in a soft exhale. She almost cringing at having to tell you this piece of information - a heads up, word of warning, cautionary offering in whatever shape it took.

Not that it mattered, since you already knew.

Less so of a ‘knowing’ and more of a ‘sensing’.

The skin-prickling awareness, heavy and filled with something more than a cursory glance that you had felt as soon as the bell on the bar door had chimed the announcement of your entry. You knew the bell’s chime was too quiet to be heard against the strumming of the band and the voice crooning in the microphone, the laughter and sound of beer glasses clinking to rest on sticky tables around the bar.

But he heard it anyway. You felt those eyes tracking your every movement, head to toe, step by step as you moved through the space - and that felt familiar too.

Like pulling on an old sweater that lay discarded over summer and is picked up as the cooler months creep in. Well worn, sliding over your skin and giving you goosebumps of familiarity. The weight of his gaze from somewhere in this bar was a sensation you knew well.

Revelled and cherished in, once.

Sought out with hunger, even rage sometimes.

And a sensation you didn’t know what to do with anymore.

Your gaze pulls over Dana’s shoulder, sensing that his close proximity in this direction caused the crashing-to-a-halt-to-give-a-warning approach to this whole conversation.

And just as the motion of someone moving away from one of the wooden, circular tables on the opposite side of the bar catches your eye, there you see him.

Staring directly at you from across the room.

Sitting with a few others, cradling a beer glass in his hand and completing ignoring the conversations occurring around him.

Hazel eyes locked on you - pinning you in that spot, not daring to breathe while he holds onto your gaze with a powerful grip. You stare back, rising to the challenge and forcing yourself to suck in a breath.

Seconds that feel like a millennia pass. You’re struggling to gulp down air, and would be worried about the bar having a carbon monoxide poisoning issue with the accompanying head spins you were currently wading through…but you know it was just him. The effect he had on you - gripping, and unending, and unshakeable even with your mightiest efforts.

Those eyes, flecked with green and brown that you knew well, struck a magically fine balance of looking hard and broken at the same time.

The thumping of boots towards and on the dance floor as the band picked up the pace behind you now seemed like a distant echo.

And it isn’t until Dana softly grabs hold of your arm, gently saying your name in a tone that’s not unlike soothing a child, that you finally snap out of it.

You were prepared for this, this little voice echoes in your head. He’ll probably avoid you, and you stay as far away as possible, and it’ll all be fine.

You force your eyes to make contact with Dana’s, who has evidently returned to the state of worry and concern you had literally just appeased with your smiles and jokes earlier.

“It’s fine, Dana” you say, the most superficially composed smile growing on your face.

You berate yourself into projecting an easy calm in your voice, ignoring the twitching of your fingers and repressing the urge to cross your arms and curl into yourself. God, it was her birthday - she didn’t need to be fretting on you like this.

“We’re all big boys and girls here. It’s really not a problem!”

Fuck, if only your voice hadn’t squeaked at the end of that sentence and given away the cracks in your false confidence.

Dana’s eyebrow furrowed again, eyes squinting and seemingly assessing the bullshit you were pouring forth. Equally assessing whether now was a good time to call you on it.

“Listen, if-“

A squeal accompanied by arms wrapped around you quite literally yanked you from the conversation, spinning your around and finding the face of one Cassie McKay.

“I can’t believe you made it” she semi-squealed, pulling you into a fierce hug. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this face!”

You hear Dana sigh, followed by a familiar male voice as you’re pulled from Cassie’s arms.

“Hey! Stop hogging her!” Frank bellowed, only semi-joking. You are again torn from Cassie’s embrace into the quick but tight one from Langdon, smiling and winking over his shoulder at Mel.

“Jesus, can you stop pulling me around like a rag doll please? You’re gonna give a girl a complex!”, you chuckle.

Frank’s stint at rehab had left him angry at the world - torn between hating himself for every misstep that landed him there, and everyone else around him. As soon as you had heard about it all though (via your group chat with Princess and Perlah), you started messaging him across the platforms. Text, Instagram, Facebook, you name it. Initially, you were thoroughly iced out - 3.5 weeks of complete and utter silence on his end in response to your incessant, one-sided jabbering. It took an absolutely repugnant TikTok video link to a video comparing animals with their celebrity look-alikes that finally broke the ice.

“Are you sure you aren’t the one who should be monitored 24/7 and in a 12 step program right now?”, was all you got back from Frank. But you knew it was enough to remind him that the sibling-like bond you had forged in the trenches of the Pitt were not forgotten to time or distance. And so you kept it up, sending him inane videos and memes, knowing it would make him scoff a laugh and question your sanity - even after his time at the facility was done and he had returned to work.

“You look pretty good for someone who spent 6 months in a padded cell,” you joke, still holding onto his shoulders.

“It was rehab, you asshole, not a goddamn asylum from the 1950s.” He replies, shaking his head but still laughing quietly.

“Whatever. Just count yourself lucky Mel seems to like them a little bit coo-coo…”

You make circle motions on the side of your head in the universal sign for “crazy”, winking and laughing as you duck behind Frank to give Mel a warm hug (and sweep stealthily away from an arm gesture you knew meant he was coming to pull and / or mess up your hair).

Mel giggled into your shoulder as you said hello, and you fist-bumped a greeting to Whitaker who stood behind her shoulder.

You hear Dana’s name being called from a distance, and wave her off with a ‘go, go’ motion while you caught up with the rest of the group that had corralled around you, smiling in re-assurance to the charge nurse to take her leave comfortably.

Before you know it, a glass was dangling in front of your face, connected to a familiar arm stretched over your head. You reach the glass filled with what looks to be your standard drink order, and turn to find Robbie with a small, hesitant smile on his face.

“Hey there, stranger.” He quips, “Reckon it’s my turn for a hello hug?”

You could spot the awkwardness on him from a mile away. The drink was the alcoholic equivalent to an “I come in peace” sign to an alien - cautious, attempting to be friendly, but fully prepared to be rebuked.

A part of you that had hardened over the years cracked, seeping a slight warmth into your veins at the sight of him expecting to be shunned by association.

You pulled him into a death grip - eyes welling a bit, and a deep breath echoing through you at the friend, the mentor, the truest kind of family you used to know wrapping his arms around you.

“I tried to call,” he mumbled weakly into your shoulder, almost pathetically.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you whispered back.

“I thought you hated me.” He replies pathetically.

You pull away, connecting his slightly watery gaze to yours.

“Never.”

You quickly dab at your face, making sure mascara wasn’t leaking from the outpouring of love you never expected to be graced with in his bar, while Robbie makes quick work to do the same on his zip up jacket sleeve.

“Now,” you begin, “where is my ridiculously hot best friend who happens to be married and spawning offspring with you?”

“Putting said offspring turned hellion to bed before the babysitter arrives,” he chuckles.

You smack his arm and gasp, putting an exaggerated hand to your chest.

“Don’t you dare speak about my godson like that. He is a ray of sunshine and I’ll hear nothing else on the matter.” You defend, frowning at him with a threat in your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Robbie replies, shaking his head, “tell that to me when he’s standing over you, breathing heavily and whispering about chicken nuggets under his breath at 3am while you’re trying to sleep.”

You cackle at the vision of it all, laughing harder at the thought of Gray’s curly head of hair and deep chocolate eyes looming above Robbie every night like something that needed to be exorcised.

“Heaven help me when she gets here…” he begins rubbing a hand up and down his face, the picture of exhaustion at their years of antics together.

“Ahhh shut up, you’ve missed me,” you chide, softly elbowing his stomach after he turns to stand beside you and his arm wraps around your shoulder.

Robbie sighs deeply.

“We really have, Y/N. We really have.”

You smile quietly, before Robby continues.

“And not just the day shift…”

Your sharp intake of breath is enough for Robbie to know he’s said too much, or the wrong thing altogether. His eyes are tainted with an apology - but also a truthfulness that makes you clench your glass and take a deep sip of your drink through the straw.

His saviour comes in the form of an arm looped through yours, Cassie’s, as she drags you to the dancefloor. And as you pull away from Robbie, your bittersweet smile at him lets him know he’s off the hook.

He raises his own glass in a soft motion and nods, seemingly making his way to the back of the room before disappearing from view altogether.

You are spun in your boots on the sticky dancefloor, tassels on your skirt swaying as you join the group dancing to the band. Mel, Frank, Cassie, Dennis, Trinity, Samira, Javadi and Matteo clap, holler, stomp and step to the country jam being belted out on the guitars and drums in front of you all. You give the four you hadn’t seen yet a quick ‘hello’ and warm smile, turned quickly into a full on belly laugh and cackle as Whitaker whips out a quick country two-step and some moves that were evidently reminiscent of his farm boy youth. Jaws drop and suddenly he’s giving them all a crash course in Line Dancing 101, Frank surprisingly struggling the most.

And this right here, this sense of joy, wholehearted, unabashed, and enveloping, had been missing from your sunny, Californian existence.

You signal that you’re headed to the bar with your empty glass, and turn to make the short walk over. Stepping up to the bar top, you signal the barkeep in a Stetson who promises to head over to you next.

And then it hits you. The goosebumps and tingling - the sensing you had picked up on before. But this time stronger, more intense and evidently triggered by the final steps closer of a presence to your left that you’d be able to spot in the dark without any light.

The smell of him alone almost caused your knees to wobble, held up straight only by your nails that had seemed to embed themselves into the sticky wood of the bar top.

Looking straight ahead at the selection of top shelf spirits, your brain felt like it was misfiring a chant that wouldn’t manifest.

He’ll ignore you, you ignore him.

But there was no ignoring the warmth exuding from the body that was a whisper's distance from yours now, seemingly intent on causing your heart to palpate, almost to the point of medical intervention. Your hands were getting clammier by the second, knowing that the eyes boring into the side of your face had once been softened through gentle caresses and whispered confessions.

He says nothing, but from your peripheral you can see the sculpted frame leaning on the bar top, elbows on a sticky surface, fingers intertwined, solid forearms with a bulging vein as though it took physical might to restrain himself from touching you. And while every element of his body looked the picture perfect portrayal of composure, she knew that those hazel eyes wouldn’t be pointed with rage, or fury, or pleading at the same line of vodka and scotch on the bar wall that you would be. They would be squarely and firmly placed on you.

So in a move so wildly stupid, so incessantly moronic, and against every fibre in your being telling you to run from a world of pain in those hazel eyes, you turn your head so that you are face to face.

And the most juxtaposing cacophony of cold hard steel, pain and anger flares as he takes in your face from this distance.

“Hello, Jack.”

#dr jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #jack abbott fanfic #abbotxreader #dr jack abbot #jack abbot #jack abott

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