#First time for everything!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

[jamminvroomvroom]

get to work.

LN x leclerc!reader

a sequel of sorts to as sick as it sounds, i loved you first - part 1 - part 2

in which lando starts the life with you that he’s always wanted

hi! me again - obsessed with these two soooo much so best believe i had to write (and will continue to write) more for them! thank you so much for continuing to read my work, ilysm and also huuuuuge shoutout to my brainrot bestie @lavenderlando because i truly could not do any of this without her xoxox lemme know what you think, likes and reblogs are aaaalways so so appreciated!

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!!! this one is kinda filthy hehe. smut, fluff, highkey breeding kink, brief switch!lando and switch!r, unprotected p in v, general sex acts in silly places, charles still having it out for lando lmao, mentions of pregnancy/family planning

7.2k words

you stare up at him, breathless, awestruck, leaning further into his touch. he’s swaying you gently to the music, ignorant to all the eyes of your nearest and dearest family and friends. fairy lights cast a warm hue over his face, leaving him golden and sparkling, gleaming with his love for you.

lando’s still pristine, suit unwrinkled, dress shirt crisp, tie straight, not yet wrecked by the party that will undoubtedly overflow all around you both as the night progresses. your dress flows out around you, fanning out in intricate layers of sharp white lace. your newly acquired wedding bands feel foreign on your fingers, but perfect nonetheless. you’re more used to it than him, though, having hauled around the giant rock of an engagement ring he’d presented you with just a few months before.

martin had been called on to be a groomsman, but he’d vouched for the DJ who’s inviting the rest of the party to join you and your husband on the dance floor. people swirl all around you, blowing kisses, squeezing your arms affectionately, but lando can’t keep his eyes off of you.

your husband.

your husband your husband your husband.

it felt just as delicious to think of him with that title as it is to say it. you say it anyway.

“my husband.” you hum, content, pressing your head to his chest, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“my wife.” he coos down at you, pressing a lasting kiss to your hairline, cautious not to mess up your carefully crafted hair.

but it’s your wedding night, and you want to kiss him properly! you figure you’ve earned the right to kiss him anywhere, anytime, whenever, so you tilt your head back and drop his hands, pulling him down. his hands find your cheeks, cupping them ever so softly as your lips meet, loving and tender. you smile into it, and he mirrors you.

“can’t wait for everything.” you sigh, blissed out from the adoration rolling off of him in waves.

“everything?” he laughs, forehead resting on yours.

“life, with you. always.”

“i’ll give you everything you want, baby.” he promises.

you wholeheartedly believe him.

-

“better make this quick, norris.” you giggle, backing up towards the marble counter.

lando stalks towards you, grinning hungrily, and hoists you up onto the sink top, making sure not to damage your dress - not that it would be the first time he’d ruined a white dress of yours. wasn’t that how you’d both ended up here, anyway?

“sue me for wanting to fuck my wife, norris.” he mocks, mouthing at the skin of your neck. you flush. mrs norris.

“no marks.” you breathe, trying to convey a tone of warning, but it comes out needy and weak, and would have fallen on deaf ears regardless.

“but you’re all mine now, honey. forever.” lando murmurs against your jaw, and your head falls back to let him run ruin across your delicate skin. “want everyone to know it.”

you don’t protest again, spreading your legs as he ruches the material of your dress so that it bunches around your hips. his hand skates below the material, blindly feeling the satin and lace of your panties. he groans as he traces over a damp patch, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

“soaked for me, baby. been wanting me? just had to ask.” he rambles, tugging your underwear to the side. “can have my cock whenever you want it, you know? it’s all yours.”

lando smears your wetness around with a swipe of his thumb, switching rapidly between messy circles around your clit and teasing dips into your cunt, shallow enough to make you squirm for more.

“just fuck me.” you pant, rutting your hips into his hand.

“the mouth on you, baby. filthy.” he scolds teasingly, but adheres, belt clinking and slacks dropping just enough to free himself.

he drags your hips even closer to the edge of the counter and you feel the warmth of him, hot and throbbing, ghosting over the seam of your pussy. you feel the tip of him press firmly against where you’re leaking, and a roll of his hips sheathes him deep into you smoothly.

“shit, we don’t have a condom.” his eyes fly open, finding yours. you just smirk up at him.

an earnest and vulnerable conversation in the weeks leading up to your wedding had you deciding to abandon your birth control, but you’d been using condoms ever since, not wanting any accidents in the run up to your nuptials.

“you said you wanted to get to work once we got married.” you clench around him for dramatic affect. your desire for flair makes sweat bead in his hairline. “so get to work.” you bite your lip, gazing up at him through lustful, hooded eyes.

“you’re gonna kill me, i swear.” he growls, finding a wild rhythm that makes you writhe into him.

slaps of skin echo through the bathroom, whines and cries of satisfaction and his name bouncing between the cream walls. he can’t take his eyes off of you, beautiful and spent beneath him, rutting your hips to meet his.

“i love you, lando, love you like this, mon amour.” you whimper, clinging to him. his shirt hangs wrinkled, tie loose and brushing against the skin of your chest that your dress doesn’t cover.

“i love you, too, baby. so fucking perfect for me.” lando groans, pressing a messy, open mouthed kiss to your lips. it’s all tongue and teeth, raw desire as you lick into each other. “you want me to put a baby in you already, huh? ready for me to fuck you nice and full and we’ve only be married, what, six hours?” he taunts.

“i want it, please.” you beg, softening your eyes and pouting your lips.

“my wife is such a needy slut for me, yeah, baby? gonna make me a daddy?”

a few more thrusts, and you’re undone, coating him as he stutters, fills you up. you pant into the intimate space between you both, satiated as you giggle, kiss him. you rake your hands through his sweat slicked locks, holding him close.

“we better get back.” he whispers.

“you’re dripping down my thigh.” you deadpan and he cackles, neck flexing as it does. you lick your lips subconsciously, anxious to mark the taut, tanned skin up when you have him all to yourself again.

“don’t worry, honey, i’ll clean it all up later.” he winks, and you slap his shoulder.

and when you’re curled into his side, cry laughing at max’s speech, recounting the unhinged DM you’d sent him once upon a time in qatar, you work overtime to keep your thighs clenched tight.

-

it’s 3am when you finally reach the villa, tucked away somewhere in sardinia, secluded and gorgeous. you creep around exploring while he drops your bags in the master suite, finding yourself on the back deck. from there, you can see the garden, green and ornate, bursting with flowers in shades of pinks and white. then, there’s the sea, waves crashing softly onto the white sand of your private beach. the privacy stretches on for miles in both directions, faint lights far away down the coastline.

you sigh, content, tears pricking your eyes. lando had picked this out, just for you, and his choices made it clear just how well he knows you. that’s how he finds you, wiping a stray tear, and he wraps you in his arms, his head perching on your shoulder. he breathes you in, and you feel him smile against the skin of your neck. open mouthed kisses are dotted over your shoulder and you relax fully into him, eyes fluttering shut.

“it’s so gorgeous, amour. thank you so much.” you whisper, turning your head and awaiting a kiss that quickly comes.

“don’t thank me, baby. this is the least you deserve.” he murmurs, resuming a soft suckle at your neck. you roll your eyes at his generosity. he’s so selfless sometimes that he forgets that he deserves this every bit as much as he thinks you do.

“can we go down to the shore? i’m too excited to sleep.” you giggle, and he hums into the hickey he’s leaving.

“course, honey. we have plenty of time to sleep.”

the plan was, after all, to eat, sleep, fuck, repeat. and swim, of course.

you walk down to the water hand in hand, taking your time through the gardens. he picks you a flower, tucks it sweetly behind your ear.

you ditch your shoes, sighing as your feet sink into the cool sand, damp from the push and pull of the waves. the stars are out, clear as day, and you play dot to dot, pointing out constellations to lando.

“do you have any idea how happy i am?” lando asks when you’re both sat in the sand. he pulls you into his side, your head tucking below his chin.

“if you’re as happy as i am then i’d guess pretty fucking happy.” you reply.

“the wedding was… god. i was kinda nervous about the whole event but as soon as i saw you walking down that aisle…” he trails off, scoffing in disbelief. “you’re a fucking angel.”

“i wasn’t even sure that charles was gonna let me go, you know?” you chuckle, gazing up into his watery eyes.

“i did have to pry him off.” lando laughs along with you, shaking his head.

“and then his speech.” you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling laughter. lando throws his head back in faux agony.

the speech in question had started with “to my sweet, dear baby sister and… lando”, and had ended with “and if you choose, for whatever reason, to make her unhappy, they will never find your body.”

“don’t think he’s ever gonna like me.” lando shrugs, tightening his arm around you, like someone might come and take you away.

“oh, shut up, he likes you! he just… likes to torture you more.” you grin cheekily up at him, and he can’t help but lean down and kiss you urgently.

“you are so beautiful.” he mumbles against your lips. “‘m so fucking in love with you.”

“je t’aime pour toujours.” you coo, licking into his mouth. i love you forever.

something urgent and guttural sounds from deep within him and you smooth your hands through his hair. he pulls away breathless, something wild in his eyes.

“we never talked about what happened in the bathroom.” lando rasps, eyes darkening.

“we got to work.” you smirk, echoing your previous words.

“but last time we spoke about it, you weren’t one hundred percent sure about the timing.” lando furrows his eyebrows, searching your face. your smirk relaxes into a smile, genuine with excitement.

“as soon as we said our vows, i knew i was ready. those things you said about family, about us having our own family… god, lando i would have let you have me right there at the alter.”

you are the light of my life. you make me happier than i ever thought i could be, and i will spend every day trying to make you feel the same way. from the moment i saw you, i was yours and i’ll stay yours until my last breath. my greatest joy so far is getting you call you my wife, and i can’t wait to call you the mother of my children. there’s no one else on this earth that i’d want to live my life with, raise a family with, come home to. you make me whole, baby.

safe to say, you’d said your own vows through a chorus of sobs.

“are you sure you’re ready?” lando whispers.

“i want a family with you, amour. let’s make one.” you raise an eyebrow, an invitation.

“i say we start right here.” lando beams, lunging towards you.

you fall back into the sand, laughing against his lips as he kisses you deeply, mouthing down your jaw. he wastes very little time, pulling at the strap of your camisole, licking over your bare flesh as he drags it down your arm.

“here? in the sand?”

“i said what i said.”

he peels off your top, nips at your bare chest as he pushes your sweats down, just enough to get his hand beneath your panties. you gasp wetly, eyes fluttering shut as he teases your folds with his fingers. he moans into the skin of your breast, hardening at the pooling wetness he’s discovered. a few calculated swipes of his fingers and he’s sinking them deep, your sweat pants restricting his movements. he adapts, rutting his fingers into you in a slow grind, thumb bumping your clit. your nipples peak, the ocean breeze and the cold sand under your back causing you to arch violently into him.

“you’re so wet for me, baby.” lando pants, before he closes his lips around your breast, swirling his tongue around your nipple. you’re sensitive, clenching around his fingers.

“want you inside of me.” you whine, bucking your hips to meet each grind of his digits.

“i am.” he flashes you a devilish grin, punctuating his words with a harder thrust.

“lando!” you growl, warning him.

“anything for my wife.”

he pulls his fingers out of you, the sound of the action obscene, and makes a show of sucking them clean while he strips himself bare. you huff, wriggling your sweats off so that you’re naked too, your thighs falling open on cue. he settles between them, brushing your hair out of your face as he settles on top of you.

you can feel him, throbbing and hot between your legs, small drops of him hitting your bare cunt. you keen into him, rolling your hips up to meet his.

“now, baby, please.” you beg.

“never get used to this, you know?” landos chest heaves as he pushes into you. “always feels as good as the first time.”

he sinks all the way in, taking note of every minuscule movement of your face. his breathing stutters at the warmth and wetness that envelops him whole, his tummy tight. you’re no better, lip caught between your teeth as you watch him hungrily.

“you remember our first time, baby? how good we were together, even then?” lando rasps, pulling out of you the tiniest bit, just to slam his hips right back against yours. it makes electricity shoot up your spine to the top of your head, leaving you hot all over.

“of course, amour, i think about it all the time.” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he sets his pace, slow yet so deliciously brutal.

“did you think then that we’d be doing this forever? that you’d be all mine, begging me to get you pregnant?” he teases, fingers digging into the plush of your hips.

“i used to think about it then, if we’d make it. knew we would. wanted you forever from the very first time.” you choke out, meaning it. “‘m so fucking happy lando.” you gasp, grabbing at every part of him that you can.

your hands smooth over his bronze skin, bound to get even richer from all of the sun kisses the rest of your honeymoon would bring. you zone out, honing in on the sound of the waves dancing against the shoreline, eyes staring up at the moon just behind his head. you can’t believe that you’re his, here, that this is real life and that you share a last name with a man that glows like the sun. a head of chocolate frosted curls obscures your vision, and you realise that you’re crying.

“baby? you with me?” lando draws you back to him, hips still.

“i’m here, ‘m sorry, it’s perfect. you’re so perfect.”

you pull him down, so desperate to taste him, moans muffled. your tears trail down his cheeks as well, so close and intertwined. he’s gentler now, pawing at your sides attentively, pulling your body along with his.

“gonna give you everything you want, pretty girl. my beautiful, beautiful girl.” lando coos.

“come with me.” you plead, nerve endings set alight by the overstimulating way his cock drags against your walls.

“you gonna take it all for me, mama?” and your vision goes white. he’s evil for that, playing you like a fool, but it makes you quiver around him, thighs shaking where they’re locked around his waist.

you chant his name, blasphemy, and words of absolute adoration as you let go, coating him in waves of your very own creation. he tries his best to ride through it, but one look at your twisted face, of your quaking body, and he’s dumb with pleasure, crashing down on top of you like a heated blanket.

the sun rises in the east when he carries you to bed, your eyes drooping as you loop your arms around his neck.

“get some sleep for me, angel. we have a baby to make.”

-

“do you ever wonder about trying new things?” lando asks, hand linked loosely with yours.

sea water rushes over your feet up to your ankles, the sun warming the skin of your backs as you stroll lazily along the coastline. it’s been three days of nothing but each other, a big, peaceful house and endless sunshine.

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“lando, for the fourteenth fucking time, i promise i’ll play tarkov with you when we get home, but it’s just not really my thing-“ you whine, but his louder than life laugh cuts you off, slicing through the serenity of the beach.

“not what i meant, baby.” he chuckles, utterly fond of the way your face wrinkles with confusion.

“what, then?”

“in the bedroom.” lando smirks, and your eyes go wide.

“like… like what?” you squeak, slightly lost.

your sex life was nothing short of adventurous, to say the least.

“like maybe…” he hums teasingly. “you take control?” lando raises his eyebrows suggestively, and you feel yourself flush.

“me? i thought you liked taking charge?”

lando stops, pulling you into his body. water splatters higher up your legs, cooling you down the slightest amount. his hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head up to look at him.

“i love watching you.” he states simply. “and i wanna watch you push yourself.”

“okay.” you inhale shakily. “okay.” you repeat with more conviction. an idea pops into your head. you can’t resist the smirk that pulls at the corner of your lips, and lando grins at the glimmer in your eyes.

“go back to the house. wait for me in our room.”

“naked?” he quips cheekily.

“what do you think?” you tease. lando kisses you quickly, but you push him back. “go.” you command.

he turns to walk away, repeatedly turning back to you, as if he wants to make sure he hasn’t imagined your entire existence. you just turn your back, staring out to sea. the sky is awash with streaks of purple and orange, and you feel your skin prickle with excitement. you take your time walking back, actively trying to slow yourself down. when you reach the door to the master suite, your breath hitches in your throat.

your husband looks fucking ethereal, stretched out across the off-white linen on the king sized mattress. he’s elongated by the way his head is thrown back, bathed in the lamp light as his muscles flex, taut from the way he’s gripping himself, working himself from base to tip. a faint sheen of sweat coats his bronzer-still skin and your mouth runs dry.

“couldn’t wait?” you rasp, low and dangerous. his eyes flutter open, and the bastard has the audacity to beam at you.

“took too long.” he shrugs, resuming without a care in the world. you hear him pant, teeth gritted from the pleasure.

“hands off, lando.” you slowly undress, untying your sarong and letting it flutter to the floor. your bikini quickly follows, landing in a colourful heap on the floor. you stalk towards him and watch him swallow hard when you perch on your knees at the end of the bed. “you asked for this, amour, and you couldn’t even wait to enjoy it properly.”

you’re pouting at him, feigning sadness. he picks up on it, eyes locked on you, trailing shamelessly over your breasts.

“was thinking about how pretty you looked out there.” lando rasps, fisting the duvet beneath him. you tilt your head to the side, raking your eyes over his frame.

“bad boys don’t get the real thing.”

you smooth your hand up his thigh towards his hipbone, and you notice the way he twitches, cock stood tall and waiting. he’s leaking, desperate and aching, but he plays along, needy for it. you grin lazily, wriggling up the bed until you’re close enough, throwing your leg over one of his until you’re straddling his thigh, the skin warm against your bare cunt.

“baby…” he breathes, bringing up a hand to graze your thigh, but you bat it away.

“no touching.” you scold. “i’m gonna take what i want and,” you pause, thoughtfully. “then, maybe, i’ll give you something.”

lando pouts up at you, slowly retreating his hand until it’s back at his side. his jaw is tight as he fights to keep his mouth shut, trying to be content with just watching. after all, you are quite the sight.

you roll your hips experimentally, gasping at the way your clit grazes his skin. your head falls back, out of it as you find a rhythm that works. you drag yourself backwards and forwards, panting as you go, your wetness smearing across his flexed thigh.

“it’s so good, lando,” you moan. “wish you could touch me, but you don’t behave.” you tut, smirking down at him.

“i’ll be good, baby.” he chokes, and your eyes fly open. you rake you eyes over the shape of him, the tense dips of each of his abs, the way his hip bone pulses, leading all the way down to where he’s throbbing.

“looks painful.” you bite your lip. “want me to help?”

“please.” he coos, reaching out for you again before he thinks better of it, twisting his fingers back into the sheets until his knuckles are white.

you grip the base of his cock, loose at first, squeezing tight a few times. his mouth falls open, a deep, unhinged groan rumbling through his chest. you almost lose yourself in how gorgeous he looks but you remain focused, fucking your hand up and down on him a few times, experimenting.

“you gotta wait, amour.” you warn, thumbing at the tip, smearing beads of pre cum over the head. lando whines, squeezing his eyes shut, teeth gritting so hard that his jawline pops, defining it even more than usual. you grin. he’s wrapped so tight around your finger.

“don’t tease me.” he begs, bucking his hips into your hand.

“but you gotta keep it all in for me, amour. save it all so you can fill me up whenever i want.” your voice drips all over him like honey, making him shiver violently.

“you can’t just say that-“

“i can, lando. i can,” you giggle, evil. “and you’re gonna take it.” it’s a promise and a threat and he’s seconds away from blowing his load all over you.

“jesus, i’ve created a fucking monster.” lando hisses, gasping with every slow rub of your hands over his cock.

“and now you’re gonna deal with the consequences, sweetheart.” you purr. “you wanna fuck me?”

his eyes shoot wide open, and he nods desperately, his gaze boyish and needy.

“so wet for you, lando, think i’ll just sink right…” you trail off, manoeuvring yourself so that you’re hovering over his length, red and swollen. “down.” you moan, filling yourself up with ease.

lando cries out, a broken man of his own design, and you pant, rocking yourself backwards and forward as you adjust to the intrusion.

“we feel so good together.” you breathe, peering down at where he’s splitting you open.

“so good.” lando affirms. “can i touch you?” he whines, the veins in his arms protruding through his skin. they remind you how powerful he is, how easily he could flip you over and pound into you like a madman, but he’s letting you destroy him and he’s loving every second. you clamp down around him at the thought, a gush of your slick dripping down around him.

“touch me.” you comply, and he springs from the mattress, sitting unsupported in the middle of the bed as his hands snake around your waist. you anchor him though, holding him close as he holds you tight against him, rutting up into you so deliciously that you cry out his name wetly, face buried in his hair. “so good for me.” you whisper.

your hands cup his face, pulling back from his frizzy curls enough to press your lips to his, swallowing each-others moans.

“gonna come, baby.” lando mumbles into your lips, eyes glazed over with panic, scared you’re gonna deny him.

“that’s okay, amour, you saved it all for me.” you kiss the words against the corner of his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as your own orgasm tightens your belly to the point of no return. “good boy, lando, fill me up now, sweetheart.”

the grunt he lets out heightens into a whine, lost to the crook of your neck as he releases, grinding into you as he lets go. it sends a rush of heat up your spine, a flame to gunpowder, and you thrash in his arms, meeting your own end seconds later.

you come down in his embrace, pulling away to meet his wide eyes, awestruck and glossy.

“thank you, baby.” he mutters, hugging you tight for just a moment, before rolling you onto your back.

“love you.” you whisper, confused as to where he’s going when he starts to move down the bed.

you don’t have to wonder for long, watching as he settles his head against your thigh, licking his lips as he finds his release dripping out of you. two fingers run through your folds, teasing each and every overstimulated nerve. your teeth sink into your bottom lip right when his fingers sink into your cunt. lando’s in a daze, watching the way everything seeps out of you.

“keep it in for me.” lando slurs, transfixed on every clench of your spent cunt around his thick fingers. your eyes roll back in your head.

-

you roll over in the bed, the sunlight streaming through the linen curtains rousing you from your slumber. you push your hair from your face, reaching blindly for your husband but your hand lands on cold sheets, thudding dully against the mattress. you wrinkle your nose, sitting up and scanning the bedroom. you don’t find him, confused. he never wakes up first. your feet meet the cool tiles of the floor and you pad into the en-suite to freshen up, pulling a loose robe on before you make your way downstairs. you can smell eggs, toast and something floral, and you grin giddily, already anticipating what awaits.

you find lando in the middle of the kitchen, sleepy eyed and smiling at you like you’re the centre of the universe, sent to earth just for him. he’s surrounded, surrounded, by flowers, all kinds of varieties, and they flood the space, every surface covered by bouquets and arrangements. behind him, nestled amongst the sea of pinks, yellow and whites, the table is laid out with a delicious spread, and you feel a pang of hunger at the sight of fresh pastries and juices.

“mon dieu.” you sigh dreamily, grazing a hand over flower petals as you make your way through the jungle towards lando. “all of this for me? how the fuck did you manage this?” you swoon, wrapping your arms around his neck. he leans down, kisses you sweet and slow.

“rumour has it, there are no flowers left on the island.” he chuckles into your neck, and you giggle, leaning up to kiss him again.

“you’re insane.” you reply, awestruck. how did you get so lucky?

“ready for the day?” lando asks, toying with the ends of your hair.

“as long as i get to eat my body weight in sfogliatella first.” you tell him, eyeing the table behind him hungrily.

-

droplets of water sparkle in the sunlight, dripping slowly down his lean back, flexing with every shake of his head.

lando had crawled out the pool, and right between your legs, where he now resides, mouthing at the crotch of your bikini bottoms. he snaps the band of them against your waist, and you arch further into him every time his nose bumps your clothed clit.

“you’re being mean.” you whine, head falling back against the sun lounger. your book has fallen to the stone paved floor, your place surely lost, but you couldn’t care less. every time you pick the damn thing up, your husband has found a new, unique, way to entice you out of actually reading it, usually with his tongue.

“you want my mouth, baby? just say please.” he smirks up at you, wet curls falling over his eyes. water droplets drip over your thighs, cold against your warm skin and you shiver.

“please.” you growl, not really meaning it, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“polite.” lando tuts, but he relents, twisting the ties that hold the bottoms together until they come undone. he tugs the material away, throws it blindly, and the quiet splash that sounds from behind him tells you both that they’d landed in the pool. he looks up at you, sheepish, and you glare at him.

“make it up to me.” you mutter, bucking your hips into his face.

lando complies, closing his mouth over your clit, sucking softly at the bud. you’re throbbing for him, writhing in the heat of the sun at his electric touch.

two fingers slither between your folds, and he groans into your cunt at the slickness that he finds there, laving his tongue through your slit to savour your taste before his fingers sink inside of you. as he builds a rhythm, fingertips bumping that special spot, you cry out, melting completely into the lounger.

“can feel us from earlier,” lando slurs, lips bumping your clit as he speaks. you shiver, the wet squelch between you quivering thighs leaving you utterly breathless. “so good for me, keeping it all in.”

you let go a few seconds later, grinning languidly as you watch him lick his fingers clean through your sunglasses. he kisses you cheekily, leaving you with your taste on your tongue, and he throws himself back into the pool.

“get my bikini bottoms!” you call, flustered by the way the low sun hits him, paints his golden and shiny.

“but i prefer the view without them.” he winks, but dives under the water to retrieve them nonetheless.

-

“‘m so, so in love with you.” lando rasps into your ear, mouthing at the skin of your flushed cheeks.

you’re chest to chest, eyes locked as he grinds into you, deeper and deeper somehow with every thrust. he leaves you dizzy, tingling and weightless with every stroke, hips brushing yours.

“lando,” you sigh dreamily, threading your fingers through his curls. they’re loosening from the humidity, the heat burning between you both, no longer perfectly coiled like they had been during your dinner date.

lando had hired out a small italian restaurant overlooking the sea, soft fairy lights strung over your heads as you’d sipped wine, hands loosely clasped together. he’d toyed with your wedding band the whole time, eyes rarely leaving yours. it was a perfect end to a perfect honeymoon, and as he’d driven you back to your villa, the tension had simmered.

he had you on your back quickly, but he was careful with you, lazily revealing more and more skin as he slowly undressed you. he’d tried to slide between your thighs, eyes lit up with longing, but you’d refused him. you needed him against you, buried so deep, intertwined. lando hadn’t fought you much, pouting at the deprivation of getting a taste, but when he’d slid his cock through your folds, easy because of your glistening slick, his eyes had rolled back and he’d gotten over the disappointment.

“you’re so perfect.” you pant, leaning up to kiss him. it’s sweet, full of passion, leaves you wanting. “i love you.” you whisper when he pulls away, his forehead resting intimately against yours. warm breaths mingle, rapid and needy from the intensity of it all.

when you fall apart under him, a string of jumbled french rolls off of your tongue, your eyes squeezed shut at the pure inferno of ecstasy that washes over you. you’re both damp with sweat, his curls falling in a mess over his forehead, framing pretty eyes that roll back in his head when he burrows deep and reaches his own release.

once you’re untangled, you lay facing each other and his fingertips ghost over the curve of your bare waist. you watch one another, utterly content with the silence, bathing in the warmth of the bedside lamp and the pale moonlight that filters in through the open balcony doors. the cool nighttime breeze grazes over your naked bodies, pulling you out of the unrelenting heat of the moment and into something serene, peaceful.

“i can’t wait to spend my life with you.” lando whispers, his words soft in the quiet of the room. you let them wash over you, tuned in to the waves rippling against the shore in the distance. you grin coyly back at him, grabbing the hand that he’s stroking you with. you pull it to your lips, kiss it sweetly.

you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you, your back to his chest, loose curls tickling the skin of your neck. one of his hands rests gently over your lower belly, covered with one of yours.

your bags wait by the door, packed and ready to go home, where the rest of your life with him begins.

-

“i like this colour better, i think.” you muse, flicking between paint swatches. violet white and apple moon have caught your attention, but you wonder if a colder undertone would work best. you’ve taken on the task of redoing a guest room, a little end of summer project.

lando wrinkles his nose and you roll your eyes playfully.

you’re lounged across your sofa, the sun slowly dipping behind the horizon and you watch it through the open balcony doors. the room is tinged orange, glowing, painting your husband angelic.

“don’t you think something… warmer would work better?” he asks, leaning closer to have another look.

“not everyone loves fluorescent yellow.” you tease, and he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

“okay, not that.” he laughs. “what about,” he scans the other swatches on the coffee table, reaching for one. “this one?”

he hands you honey beam, and you toy with the small card.

“i think it’s too pink.” you say.

“it’s cute! i just think we should paint it something soft, just in case…” he trails off, leaning forward and immersing himself in the samples. you lean in, too, chasing him. he has this small smile on his lips, lost in thought.

“hey, ‘in case’ what?” you ask.

lando turns to you, just stares for a second. the low sun makes your eyes sparkle, and he melts.

“in case we get pregnant.” he says quietly.

“oh.” you coo, grinning up at him. “i suppose you have a point.”

“yeah?” he breathes, excited in a way you can only compare to a sweet, innocent puppy.

“yeah.”

“like, baby, i love your eye for design but i don’t want our baby to grow up in a a pretentious, grey, prison-“ lando teases you, and you shut him up by wrestling him back onto the sofa.

“ve te faire foutre.” you scold, kissing over his cheeks.

“i love you and i love our house.” lando murmurs sincerely.

the paint swatches are forgotten as you laugh together and kiss him sweetly into the sofa.

-

lando relaxes into the seat, waiting for the plane to take off. oscar sits across from him, already falling asleep, hoodie pulled tight around his head. charles and alexandra are supposed to be joining them on the flight back to nice. he wonders where they are - he wants nothing more than to get home, curl into his wife’s side. lando snaps a picture of his dozing teammate, smirking at the screen, but before he can upload it to his instagram story, your contact photo fills the screen. he accepts the facetime, beaming as your tired eyes meet his through the screen.

“hey baby.” lando coos, sticking his tongue out at you.

“mon amour,” you greet, grinning at him lazily. “have you taken off yet?” you ask softly. you’re on your side in bed, blankets cocooning you, and lando aches to be there with you.

“soon, waiting for your brother and alex.” lando rolls his eyes jokingly, and you tut.

“i’ll tell them off.” you frown, unserious.

“god, don’t do that! i’m already terrified of that man.” lando shivers, and your laugh fills his ears, warms the blood flowing through his cheeks. “are you okay, though, baby? you look tired.”

“yeah, think it’s just sugar crash,” you half shrug. “i’ve been really tired for the last few days, it’s nothing.”

“sugar?” lando’s eyebrows furrow. you’re not one for sugary things, supplementing it with your body weight in snacks. you’re a savoury girl, through and through.

“yeah, i’m all kinder-d out.” you giggle, sheepish. his eyes go wide.

“my kinder?” lando gasps, feigning hurt. he sees it, then, the pile of wrappers on the nightstand behind you.

“whoops? don’t even know what came over me, but your entire stash is gone.”

“how am i ever gonna forgive you for this?” lando shakes his head, smirking at the screen.

“just get more on the way back? please?” you plead, giving him the eyes that he’d die for.

“course, baby.” he promises, but he’s mulling it all over in his head. “you’re not getting sick, are you?”

cravings. overly tired. all you had to say next was that you were nauseous and he’d be buying a crib. he kept his mouth shut, though, because it clearly hasn’t dawned on you yet.

“not sure, i’ve been fine mostly.” you shrug again, and lando can’t help but smile like a fool. “what?” you ask, noticing his untamed expression.

“nothing, i just love you. okay, baby, i’m gonna call charles and see where he is. i’ll be home in a few hours.”

“don’t forget my kinder!” you call, blowing him a kiss. “have a good flight, amour, i love you.”

lando can’t quieten his mind, too overwhelmed with the possibility that you’re about to expand your family, something he’s imagined since before he’d even proposed.

when charles steps onto the small plane, met with the sight of his brother in law grinning like an idiot at absolutely nothing, he wonders, yet again, what kind of joke god was playing on him.

-

you hear the front door open, the soft thud of bags dropping to the floor, and you spring from the mattress. you ignore the way your tummy turns uncomfortably, and speed down the hallway to meet him.

“hey baby.” lando murmurs, holding you tight when you jump into his arms. you never get used to him being gone.

“missed you.” you whisper, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm and spicy, and even better than usual. “i’m so proud of you.”

lando was leading the championship, but he couldn’t get too comfortable. charles and lewis were looming in the near distance, and oscar was creeping towards the party at a rate of knots. but lando was on a streak of race wins, and he couldn’t deny that your praise made him giddy. after all, these days it was all for you.

“yeah?” lando asks, pressing his forehead against yours. you hum in agreement, leaning in for a kiss. it’s sweet, tender, silent confirmation of just how much you’ve missed one another.

“did you pick up my chocolate?” you pout, fingers intertwined as you walk to the sofa. you drop down, curling up and lando sits next to you.

“i did, and i also got you something else.” lando smiles coyly, unzipping his bag. your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

first, he hands you the kinder chocolate. then, he hands you a pregnancy test.

seeing the two items together makes it dawn on you, and you slap your hands over your face.

“mon dieu!” you gasp. “how did i not realise?” when you lower your hands, lando sees how your eyes glimmer with tears, your lips stretched into a nervous smile.

“so i’m not crazy for thinking it, right?” lando laughs, cupping your cheeks with warm, shaking hands.

“you’re not. should i take it now?”

“i might die if you don’t.” lando’s dead serious, the tension between you palpable.

you stand from the sofa, speed towards the bathroom, and lando watches you go. he sighs, rubbing his eyes, overcome with jitters and excitement.

time seems to stand still as he waits, eyes locked on the door that you’d gone through, waiting for any movement. five minutes must have passed, but if you’d told him it had been five years, he would have believed it. the door handle makes him jump to his feet, and he walks towards you tentatively. your expression is unreadable and he wants to scream.

“so? are you- are we?” lando pleads, only a few steps away from you now.

your neutral expression morphs into one of pure joy, the tears you’d been holding back streaming in a free-for-all.

“all that work we put in must have paid off.” you whisper, and lando surges towards you. your feet leave the ground, held so tight as he spins you around.

“we’re having a baby?” lando breathes, placing you back on the ground carefully.

“you’re gonna be a dad.” you manage through tears.

“my god,” his voice is laced with disbelief, utterly enamoured with you. “i can’t even believe it.” his face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you feel his wet, hot tears pooling there.

“i’m pregnant.” you say it slowly, tasting it on your tongue, feeling the weight of it. your husband clings to you, and your hands rake through his hair, soothing him with your dull nails across his scalp, as you ground yourself in the ecstasy of the moment.

“we did it!” lando cheers, flushed red, his watery eyes shining like the sun hitting the sea. you’re shaking, fingertips grazing your sweatshirt covered belly. his fingers lace with yours, rubbing gentle circles over the fabric.

“we did.” your voice wobbles, cheeks aching from your unshakable smile. “what the hell do we do now?”

“we plan a really elaborate hiding spot so that charles never finds me. you and the baby can visit.” lando replies earnestly, bursting into giggles when you swat his arm.

he pulls you into a kiss, so slow and gentle that the whole house melts away around you; all that’s left is you and him, and something so beautiful that you’ve created together.

“thank you.” lando mumbles against your lips.

“i’m just glad you convinced me not to paint the spare room grey.”

-

taglist

(lemme know if you wanna be added or removed. tags that don’t work will be removed)

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[moonlitstoriess]

Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Initial Rhysand, Eventual Kallias x fem!Reader (2/2)

Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?

See masterlist

Part 1

Warnings: none I think

Azriel winnowed them inside the grand entrance hall of the Winter Court’s palace, and the instant her boots touched the icy marble, Y/n felt the air shift. Cold, crisp, and biting—but not in an unwelcoming way. No, it was different from Velaris’ warmth, different from the suffocating tension that had clung to her like a second skin. This was clean. It was fresh. It smelled of snow and pine, of something untouched and unburdened by the weight she had been carrying for weeks.

But her body was still heavy. Exhaustion curled in her bones, her limbs aching from both the winnowing and everything leading up to it.

Azriel set her bag down beside her, his movements careful, precise—as if handling something fragile. Which, she supposed, she was. But she wouldn’t break. She couldn’t break. Not anymore.

Before she could even take in more of her surroundings, a familiar, cool voice broke through the silence.

"Welcome to Winter, Y/n."

Kallias stood a few feet away, dressed in pristine white and silver, his platinum hair gleaming under the grand chandelier’s light. His sharp, glacial blue eyes softened as he took her in, as he noted the weary set of her shoulders, the way she clutched the front of her coat as if holding herself together.

Y/n tried to muster a smile, something resembling a greeting, but all she managed was a tired nod. “Kallias.”

The High Lord of Winter stepped closer, his gaze scanning her as if committing her presence to memory. “You must be exhausted.” It wasn’t a question.

Before she could answer, Azriel’s voice cut through, softer this time. “I’ll be checking up on you.”

She turned to him, the words lingering in the air between them. It wasn’t a warning, wasn’t a demand. Just a quiet promise. She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—gratitude, maybe, or guilt, or just a strange sadness that this moment, this transition, was real.

Still, she nodded. Then, before she could think too hard about it, she took a small step forward and wrapped her arms around Azriel, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Azriel stilled for half a second, then exhaled quietly, his own arms tightening around her in a silent promise.

"Bye, Az."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it made his grip on her tighten. “Take care of yourself, little ghost.”

She let out a quiet breath. He hadn’t called her that in a long time.

He pulled away first, his hazel eyes flickering to Kallias.

A silent conversation passed between them. One that Y/n wasn’t fully privy to but felt in the tense set of Azriel’s jaw, in the unreadable shift in Kallias’ expression. It was an understanding. A warning. A promise.

Then, Kallias broke the silence, his voice cool but edged with something pointed.

“As long as she is with me, she will always be cared for.”

It wasn’t a simple reassurance. It was a statement. A reminder. And perhaps, a veiled jab at the one who had failed her.

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he only nodded, only gave Y/n one last lingering glance before he winnowed away, the shadows swallowing him whole.

And just like that, it was real.

She was here.

Truly, fully here.

Silence stretched between her and Kallias before he exhaled softly. “Are you hungry?”

Y/n hesitated. “I—”

His gaze sharpened slightly, sweeping over her frame. His lips pressed into a frown. “Have they not been feeding you properly there?”

She blinked, startled by the question.

And before she could think of a response, he added, “I can see your collarbones.”

It was true. The months of stress, of sleepless nights and overthinking, had left their mark on her body. She had eaten, of course—but only enough to function. Only enough to get through the days.

But she couldn’t say that.

So she just shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Kallias’ frown deepened. And then, to her surprise, he reached out, placing a warm, steadying hand on her shoulder. Not forceful, not imposing—just a firm, grounding presence.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re pregnant. Carrying another life, giving your energy to them. Of course, you being well-fed is of the utmost importance.”

She opened her mouth, but he was already picking up her bag. “Come,” he said smoothly. “Let me show you to your rooms personally.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” There was no room for argument.

So she followed.

The halls of the Winter Palace were as grand as she remembered—tall ceilings, intricate carvings of wolves and swirling ice patterns adorning the archways. Everything gleamed in shades of silver, white, and blue, but it wasn’t an unfeeling cold. There was warmth woven into the design, into the soft glow of faelights lining the corridors, into the thick, plush rugs muffling their footsteps.

“You’ve made a few changes since I was last here,” she noted, her voice quiet but steady.

Kallias glanced at her. “Somewhat.”

"Somewhat?" she echoed, raising a brow. "There's an entire new wing on the east side."

His lips twitched slightly. "You noticed."

"I notice everything."

Kallias hummed. “It was necessary. We needed more space.”

Y/n huffed a quiet laugh. "For what? Ice sculptures?"

Kallias chuckled, the sound low, but real. “For expansion. Winter has been growing stronger these past few years.”

Something in the way he said it made her glance at him. “Stronger how?”

He slid a look her way, something amused but serious in his expression. “We’ve been securing better alliances. Strengthening our borders.”

Y/n tilted her head slightly. “So, politics.”

“Politics,” he agreed. Then, after a pause, “Which you’ve never had much patience for.”

She scoffed. "No, I just never had patience for stupidity in politics."

Kallias smirked. “Fair enough.”

A comfortable silence settled between them.

And then, more gently, he added, “You never answered my question.”

She frowned. “Which one?”

“If they were feeding you properly.”

Y/n exhaled, already tired of this conversation. “I ate.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She looked away. “It’s the only one I’m giving.”

A quiet beat.

Then Kallias murmured, “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

Her breath caught for a moment.

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she focused on the hallway ahead—on the set of ornate doors that Kallias pushed open, revealing her chambers.

The room was beautiful—bathed in soft hues of silver and white, with a fireplace already crackling in the corner. The bed was large, draped in plush blankets that looked like they had been crafted from the softest furs. A seating area was arranged near the balcony doors, the windows opening up to a breathtaking view of the snowy mountains in the distance.

Y/n exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening just a fraction.

Kallias set her bag down by the bed. “If there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask.”

She turned to him. “This is… more than enough. Thank you, Kallias.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave her a small nod. “I’ll send some servants to help you get settled in and bring you food.”

She wanted to argue, to say she could handle it on her own. But the truth was—she didn’t want to. She was tired. So, instead, she just nodded.

Kallias lingered for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he turned toward the door.

“Rest, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “You are safe here.”

And then, with a final glance, he left.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was suffocating her.

The first thing Y/n did after Kallias left was sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The exhaustion in her bones was unbearable, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest. The quiet of Winter was so different from Velaris, from the ever-present hum of the city, the laughter of people she had once called family. Here, there was only silence, save for the distant howl of the wind outside her window.

The room was warm, but she still felt cold.

She had barely unpacked when the servants arrived, bringing trays of food—warm soup, roasted meats, fresh bread. Everything smelled rich and comforting, but the moment she sat at the small table and lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, she set it back down. Her stomach twisted at the thought of eating.

The exhaustion finally won over the overthinking. She stripped out of her clothes, slipped into a nightgown the Winter servants had left for her, and slid under the thick blankets. The mattress was plush, the warmth inviting. Still, it took her a long time to sleep.

When she did, her dreams were filled with shadows and echoes of the past.

The soft sound of footsteps stirred Y/n awake. At first, she barely registered it, the warmth of the blankets anchoring her to the bed, her body still sluggish with exhaustion.

Then came a gentle knock at the door, followed by the quiet creak of it opening.

"Lady Y/n?"

Y/n forced her eyes open, the dim morning light filtering through the frosted windows. A young female stood at the threshold, her hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes bright but cautious.

"I apologize for waking you," the maid said, stepping further into the room. "But I was sent to assist you in getting ready for the day."

Y/n blinked, mind still sluggish from sleep. "Getting ready…?"

The maid offered a small, polite smile. "High Lord Kallias has requested to see you. He wishes to personally show you the palace grounds."

That woke her up.

Y/n sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Me?" she asked, voice raspy from sleep.

"Yes, my lady."

Y/n stared at the maid, confused. Kallias wanted to show her around? Personally?

Her first instinct was to decline. To stay buried in the warmth of the bed, to avoid whatever this new world was trying to offer her. But then she remembered Azriel’s quiet words before he left.

"Take care of yourself, little ghost."

The thought of him was enough to make her sigh, her reluctance softening just slightly.

"Alright," she murmured.

The maid nodded, moving to help her out of bed. Y/n accepted the assistance, stretching her limbs carefully before allowing the female to guide her toward the dressing screen.

"The High Lord wanted you to be comfortable, so he had clothes prepared for you," the maid said as she unwrapped a fresh set of winter garments.

Y/n hesitated before reaching out to feel the fabric. It was soft, warmer than anything she’d ever worn before, and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves.

"It’s beautiful," she admitted quietly.

"Everything in Winter is made to withstand the cold," the maid explained as she assisted Y/n into the outfit. "And with your condition, the High Lord was adamant that you have only the warmest materials available."

Her condition.

Y/n looked down at her stomach, her hands instinctively brushing over the swell of it. She had almost forgotten—almost.

A child. Rhysand’s child.

Her throat tightened.

"Do you need anything before we leave?" the maid asked gently, sensing the shift in her mood.

Y/n forced herself to breathe, to push those thoughts away. "No," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "I’m ready."

The maid studied her for a moment before nodding and leading her toward the door.

As they stepped into the hall, Y/n found herself exhaling slowly, steadying herself. She could do this. She would do this.

She was nervous, but there was something thrilling about wearing these colors—Kallias's colors. Winter’s colors. She had heard the whispers about how striking she looked in the ensemble, but it was Kallias's reaction that she had been anticipating the most.

As she rounded the corner into the main corridor, her heart fluttered at the sight of Kallias standing by one of the grand arches, his eyes immediately falling on her. He was speaking to a servant, but the moment his gaze landed on her, everything else seemed to fall away.

His lips parted, his jaw tightening for a split second before his eyes widened in clear awe. His posture straightened, and he seemed to forget the conversation altogether as he stepped forward.

Y/n felt her breath catch in her throat, suddenly self-conscious. His gaze was intense, as though he could see straight through the fabric to the very essence of her.

“You look…” Kallias's voice faltered slightly, his words tripping over themselves as he stared at her, clearly taken aback. “You look... breathtaking, Y/n.”

A warmth spread through her chest at the sincerity in his voice. She felt herself flush, the heat in her cheeks rising despite the chill of the palace around them.

“I... thank you,” she murmured, suddenly unsure of what to say. She wanted to dismiss his comment, but his reaction made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for. His gaze was soft but filled with admiration, and it made her feel special, cherished even.

“I’ve seen many dressed in Winter’s colors,” Kallias continued, still a little breathless. “But none wear them like you.”

Y/n smiled at that, feeling a strange giddiness inside her. “I... I’m not sure I’m used to it,” she said, her voice almost shy as she glanced down at the dress.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You wear them with such grace, as though Winter was made for you."

She could feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of his words settling over her like a comforting blanket. It was impossible not to feel seen, truly seen, in that moment.

Before she could respond, Kallias quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Shall we? The palace grounds await."

They stepped outside, and the cool air of Winter immediately wrapped around them. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the sky, their icy touch brushing against Y/n’s cheeks as she walked alongside Kallias. He led her through the sweeping courtyard, the grandeur of the palace laid out before them like a kingdom untouched by time. The air felt still, the only sound being the crunch of their boots in the snow.

"I’m glad to see you settling in," Kallias said, his voice warm but with a subtle edge of concern. "Winter is... different, I know. But I’m glad you chose it as your place of peace."

Y/n glanced at him, her thoughts swirling. “I needed something... quiet. Somewhere to breathe,” she said, her tone soft.

“You’ve come far,” he observed, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "But—" He hesitated, clearly unsure how to continue. "But why Winter? Why not the Night Court?"

Her stomach flipped at the mention of Rhysand, and she quickly deflected. “I think I just needed the distance,” she said, her voice a little sharper than she intended. “Rhysand has a lot on his plate, and I didn’t want to add to that.”

Kallias didn’t press her immediately, but his sharp eyes seemed to catch every tiny change in her expression, every flicker of discomfort. There was a brief silence, and then he changed the subject with a gentleness that surprised her.

“Well,” he said, his voice lighter now, “Winter may be cold, but it has its warmth in unexpected places. Take the ice gardens, for example.” He gestured toward the path ahead, where the glistening, frozen flowers seemed to sparkle like jewels in the sunlight. “The flowers are grown by our people, with care and patience. Something about them... they remind us of the resilience Winter offers.”

Y/n was entranced by the sight. The beauty of the ice flowers seemed to mirror her own thoughts—fragile, yet persistent. “They’re beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

“They are,” Kallias agreed, his smile warming his face. “They remind me of my people. Of how, even in the harshest of winters, we find a way to thrive.”

They continued their walk, moving through the courtyard toward the training grounds. Y/n caught sight of some of Winter’s warriors practicing their skills, each of them moving with disciplined precision. There was a quiet power to them, a strength that seemed almost palpable.

“Winter warriors,” Kallias said, as if reading her thoughts. “They are the heart of our court. They defend these lands with their lives, and they do so without hesitation.”

Y/n watched them for a moment longer, her mind briefly wandering to what it would be like to be part of something so powerful. Her stomach tightened, but she quickly pushed the thought aside.

“They look... strong,” she commented, trying to distract herself.

“They are,” Kallias agreed with a hint of pride in his voice. He glanced at her, his gaze thoughtful. “I respect them deeply. They remind me that strength is not just physical—it's in how we weather the storms, how we carry on.”

As they continued, Kallias showed her more of Winter’s wonders: the grand library, where the ancient texts of Winter’s history were kept, and the quiet nursery, where young children played in the snow, their laughter ringing out like music to Y/n’s ears.

Seeing the children, Y/n’s chest tightened. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to watch her own child—her soon-to-be faeling—play and grow in a world that was, despite its trials, filled with warmth. The thought of their laughter, the innocence of childhood, made her heart swell. But just as quickly, that warmth faltered, a sharp pang of uncertainty twisting in her gut. She thought of the father, and the disappointment that would soon greet their child. The weight of that truth settled heavily in her chest, the lightness of the moment slipping away.

She let out a soft breath, unsure whether she should voice the thoughts swirling in her mind. But Kallias was beside her, his presence reassuring as always.

He caught her gaze and offered a small, knowing smile. "You'll find your peace here, Y/n. You’re not invisible to us. You never will be."

His words struck a chord deep within her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe it.

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as she entered the breakfast room. The space was like something out of a dream—a vision of comfort and warmth amidst the icy landscape. The walls were adorned with intricate ice carvings that seemed to shimmer in the pale light streaming through the large, open windows. The soft, crystalline glow of the snow outside reflected against the glass, casting a cool, blue light throughout the room. Fresh, crisp air drifted in through the open panes, filling the room with the scent of winter—clean, pure, and invigorating.

The centerpiece of the room was an exquisite ice glass table, its surface smooth and glistening. It was shaped in a perfect circle, almost like the moon itself, and it sat near the grand window, offering a panoramic view of the Winter Court's sprawling grounds. Snow-covered trees stretched as far as the eye could see, and the distant mountains were crowned with frost, standing tall and proud in the winter sky. The soft crunch of snow underfoot could be heard in the distance, accompanied by the occasional call of a bird soaring through the crisp morning air.

Kallias stood by the table, his tall figure framed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the coldness of the landscape outside, but it felt so comforting. It was a sanctuary.

Y/n stepped in, eyes wide as she took in the serene beauty of the room. She was still adjusting to being here, still unsure of what to expect. But the peaceful atmosphere seemed to ease her troubled thoughts, if only slightly.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing at Kallias, who had already moved toward the table, preparing to sit down. He looked back at her, his brow slightly raised, as though expecting her to join him.

“Wait… You’re having breakfast with me too?” Y/n asked, her voice betraying a slight edge of surprise.

Kallias paused, a faint expression of confusion crossing his face. “Yes. Why wouldn't I?”

She shrugged slightly, not wanting to delve too much into the strange discomfort she felt about it. "Shouldn’t you have some more important High Lord things to do? I mean... shouldn't you be dealing with other matters? Running a whole court?"

Kallias didn't miss a beat, his smile warm but firm as he cut her off. “My priority is making sure you’re well. You’re pregnant, alone in a new place, and probably in need of some company. Why wouldn't I stay and keep you company?" He gave a small, almost amused chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if the idea of leaving her alone was incomprehensible to him. "I would think this is the least I can do for you.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. She was surprised by how matter-of-fact Kallias was about it—how easily he dismissed her discomfort with something so genuine. She didn’t have an answer for him, but she did feel a pang of something in her chest, something warm that slowly began to ease her wariness.

Before she could say anything further, he spoke again, his voice quieter, softer. “You’ve been through a lot, Y/n. And yes, Rhys isn't here. You may feel lonely, I can imagine. But I won’t leave you alone unless you ask me to.”

The mention of Rhys made something tighten in her chest. Her throat constricted as her mind flashed back to the months before—how his absence had felt like a cold void in her life. His distance, the fact that he had retreated into his "duties" and left her with little more than empty promises.

Kallias was right. She had been lonely, even before coming here. But she couldn’t—no, she shouldn’t—talk about that now. So instead, she just shrugged again, her voice faltering as she spoke, though she didn’t realize it. “Well, no... not really,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the floor, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “He used to... he used to have breakfast with me every morning. But, since my pregnancy... he’s had more important things to do.”

Kallias froze, his hand still hovering near the back of the chair, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes darkened. His expression shifted from curiosity to something harder to define. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and he masked it with a soft, reassuring smile. “More important things...” he repeated, his voice filled with an edge of something she couldn’t quite place.

He stepped forward, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward the table. “Y/n,” he said, his voice low and protective, “you are never an afterthought here. Not by me. You are never a burden or an inconvenience.” His eyes met hers, sincerity written in every word, every glance. “You are a priority. And so is your child.”

Y/n’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest at his words. She had never heard them from Rhys, not since the pregnancy began. She had heard about his ‘important work’ and his ‘obligations.’ She had heard about everything else except her.

Now she knew why.

Kallias pulled out the chair for her, and for a moment, she stood there, uncertain, before taking a seat. The table before her seemed so foreign, but oddly inviting—something about the simplicity of it soothed her in a way she couldn’t explain.

He pushed her chair in gently and moved around to the opposite side, where he seated himself as well. The silence between them felt comfortable, not awkward, and Y/n found herself leaning into it, a small part of her grateful for Kallias' presence.

That little breakfast marked the beginning of a new chapter in Y/n’s life. Her time in the Winter Court, now almost a week into her stay, had transformed from uncertainty to something more comfortable, more familiar. Kallias had seen to it that she was well taken care of. The warmth of the palace, the crisp air outside, and the peaceful surroundings made the months of her pregnancy bearable. Each day felt like a healing step, both physically and emotionally.

Her bump, now at eight months, had grown rounder, more pronounced. It was impossible to ignore, and though it felt heavy at times, there was also a sense of pride that came with carrying this new life inside of her. She was doing this. Alone, yes, but she was doing it. She could handle it. Or at least, she told herself that every morning as she slipped out of bed and prepared for the day.

Kallias had been a constant presence, always checking in on her, offering kind words, and inviting her to walks around the palace grounds. He was thoughtful in a way that made her feel safe, yet distant enough to allow her space when she needed it. He treated her with respect, never prying too much, but always there with a comforting smile when she needed it most.

But beneath the surface of this peaceful life, the nightmares never stopped. They came in waves, uninvited and unwelcome, twisting her mind with their brutality.

Rhysand’s betrayal still haunted her, even here, in this foreign place. There were moments when she would find herself dissociating, her gaze unfocused as her thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t just the constant ache of her loss, but the sudden, unbearable images that would flash before her eyes. Images of that night. Of Rhysand and Feyre in her bedroom, kissing, their bodies pressed together in a way that left no room for doubt. The dream replayed itself in her mind constantly, a sickening reminder of everything that had been ripped away from her.

She would blink, and the memory would vanish as quickly as it appeared, leaving her breathless, her chest tight. She couldn’t escape it. And yet, despite her aching heart, she pretended she was fine. She told herself that she was healing, moving on. Each day with Kallias felt like another layer of protection, a cocoon she’d built around herself to shield her from the past. But deep down, she knew she wasn’t truly healing. She was only pretending, masking the pain.

And Kallias knew. He saw through the facades, though he never asked about the cracks in her armor. His presence was gentle but insistent, like a steady hand on her back, urging her to heal in her own time.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see the wounds.

One night, two weeks into her stay in Winter, she woke again to a nightmare.

The dream began like any other—a vision of Rhysand, of their time together, filled with love, tenderness, and hope. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, whispering promises of forever. She felt the warmth of his lips against hers, the love she had once known. It felt real. It felt like him. And for a moment, she allowed herself to believe in the dream—believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be the way they once were.

But then, as always, it turned. It warped.

His face twisted, his eyes cold. The warmth was gone. The love was gone.

“You’re not my mate, Y/n,” he spat, his voice cutting through her like a blade. “Feyre is. She always has been. So why don’t you just leave?”

Her heart shattered, her chest seizing with an unbearable ache as the words echoed in her mind. Why don’t you just leave?

She woke with a jolt, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. The room was too dark, too quiet, and the only thing that kept her grounded was the soft sound of her own ragged breathing. Her hands trembled as she wiped away the sweat from her forehead, trying to calm her shaking body.

But then, she felt it.

Warm arms—strong, steady—slid around her, pulling her against a solid chest. She froze, her heart racing, a gasp escaping her lips.

“Shh, it’s alright,” a soothing voice whispered, low and calm. “You’re safe.”

Y/n blinked, her thoughts hazy as she tried to make sense of what was happening. It took a moment for the fog to clear, and when it did, she saw him—Kallias, sitting beside her on the bed, his chest bare and his hair mussed from sleep. His worried eyes studied her face, his hands gently brushing the sweat-soaked strands of hair from her forehead.

“What... what are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice shaking as she struggled to regain her bearings.

Kallias didn’t answer her immediately, only pulling her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could absorb the pain she was feeling. His heart beat steadily beneath her ear, a rhythm that she clung to. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, but it wasn’t just physical warmth—there was an emotional depth there that made her want to melt into him.

“I felt your pain,” he murmured, his voice thick with concern. “I heard you calling out... shouting. You’re next to my room, and I couldn’t ignore it.”

Y/n blinked again, trying to process his words, the meaning of them, but her thoughts were foggy. He felt my pain?

But the thought quickly slipped away as she focused on the fact that he was here, now. Holding her. Her breath hitched as she whispered, “I... I’m sorry. What was I shouting? What happened?”

Kallias gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his eyes were still heavy with concern. “You were just shouting ‘no,’” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “That’s all.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but relief flooded her. She hadn’t spoken about Rhys. He didn’t know.

But then, as quickly as the relief came, the memories of the nightmare returned. The cruel words Rhys had spoken—the betrayal, the rejection—tore through her heart again. Her breath caught, and her face crumpled as the tears started to fall. Uncontrollable, heart-wrenching sobs wracked her body as she clung to Kallias, burying her face in his chest.

He didn’t question her. Didn’t ask why she was crying, didn’t ask about Rhys. He just held her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back as she cried. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his strong arms never wavering.

Y/n’s chest shook with the intensity of her grief. It felt as though all the pain she had buried, all the hurt she had held inside, was finally being released. She wasn’t alone in this moment. Kallias was there, and he didn’t demand anything from her—he just was there.

She cried for what felt like hours, the weight of everything too much to carry. And when her sobs finally slowed, when the ache in her chest began to lessen, she pulled away slightly, her eyes red and puffy, her face blotchy.

Kallias’ gaze was soft, his worry still there, but now there was a quiet understanding in his eyes.

“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m here, Y/n. I’m here for you.”

And for the first time in months, she allowed herself to believe it. She allowed herself to believe in the comfort he offered, the tenderness, the care.

For now, it was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/n didn’t feel invisible.

Snow drifted beyond the frost-lined windows of his study, the icy landscape of Winter Court bathed in a soft morning glow. The beauty of it should have brought him the usual sense of peace. Instead, Kallias found himself staring blankly at the papers in front of him, his mind elsewhere.

Or rather—on someone else.

Y/N.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. It had been a week since she arrived. Two weeks of watching her, observing the way she carried herself—like someone who was trying too hard to appear whole. At first glance, she looked well enough, but Kallias had always been perceptive. And Y/N… she was anything but fine.

She had come to Winter alone. Pregnant and alone.

That fact alone unsettled him.

How could Rhysand allow his supposed mate—his pregnant wife—to travel to another court by herself? If it were his mate, his wife, he would never—never—have let her out of his sight, let alone across Prythian.

The first day she arrived, he had noticed it.

Beneath the heavy cloak, beneath the graceful way she moved, something had been… off. She looked uncared for. Not in the sense that she was unkempt, but in the way a male should care for his pregnant beloved—fussing over her, ensuring her comfort, making sure she felt loved.

Kallias had tried to push the thought away. Surely, there was an explanation. Rhysand wasn’t a fool—he had always been a male who protected what was his. Yet, Y/N was here, alone. No messages from Rhysand. No sign of him even worrying about her absence.

Kallias drummed his fingers against the polished wood of his desk.

There were things he wasn’t being told. He could feel it.

And last night had only confirmed his suspicions.

The memory of her nightmare was still fresh in his mind—the frantic pull in his chest that had woken him, the way he had found himself running to her door before he even realized what he was doing. Her shouts, her fear. He had felt it like a blade to the ribs.

And when he found her, drenched in sweat and tears, sobbing into his arms…

His jaw tightened.

It had taken everything in him not to stay. Not to hold her until morning, until he knew for certain she would be all right. But she wasn’t his. She had never been his.

If only she knew.

If only she had ever noticed him properly before.

Kallias let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head at himself. Pathetic. After all these years, the feeling had never truly left, had it? Even when he was barely a young High Lord, he had felt it—that pull toward her, the way she lit up every room she entered. She had been his first quiet longing, his other half, even before he fully understood what it meant. But she had already belonged to someone else.

And now, here she was, in his court, in his home, carrying another male’s child.

Kallias clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He would not make a fool of himself. He would not fail her. She had come here, had chosen his court for her solace. He would be the sanctuary she needed—nothing more.

“Dare I ask what’s making you scowl like that?”

Kallias opened his eyes to find Marek, his second-in-command, watching him with raised brows, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. The male stood across the desk, setting down a stack of reports.

“Nothing,” Kallias said coolly, straightening in his seat.

Marek gave a skeptical hum before sitting in the chair opposite him. “Right. Nothing. Which is why you’ve been glaring at your desk like it personally offended you.” He exhaled, leaning back. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the High Lady of Night, would it?”

Kallias stiffened slightly but kept his face impassive. “She is a guest in my court.”

“She is a pregnant guest in your court,” Marek corrected, studying him. “Alone. Without her partner. Which, frankly, is something I didn’t think I’d ever see.” He shook his head. “Strange, isn’t it? That the great Rhysand would let his beloved travel alone, stay alone—especially now.”

Kallias remained silent, his fingers curling slightly against the desk.

Marek wasn’t wrong.

“That surprises you too, doesn’t it?” Marek pressed, tilting his head.

Kallias exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window before finally speaking. “I won’t pretend to understand the affairs of another court,” he said carefully. “But yes. It is… unexpected.”

Marek studied him for a moment before his lips twitched. “You’ve been softer lately.”

Kallias turned back to him, brows furrowing. “Excuse me?”

Marek smirked, leaning his elbows on the desk. “Since she arrived, you’ve been… different. Softer.” His voice was laced with amusement.

Kallias scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, am I?” Marek drawled. “Because last I checked, you don’t usually look at guests like you’re ready to tear apart whatever put that sadness in their eyes.”

Kallias tensed but masked it with a blank stare. “You’ve had too much wine.”

Marek only chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe I just see what you refuse to admit.”

Kallias gave him a pointed look. “Enough.”

Marek’s smirk widened, but he raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Back to business.” He slid a set of documents across the desk. “The plans for the new army base. You wanted to review the latest designs.”

Kallias exhaled, pushing aside the weight in his chest. “Good. Let’s go over them.”

Marek didn’t say another word on the matter, but the knowing gleam in his eyes remained.

And even as Kallias turned his attention to the documents before him, a single truth echoed in his mind—one he was desperately trying to ignore.

He was getting too close to her.

And he didn’t know if he could stop.

It started during a healer’s visit.

The Winter Court had its own healers, and Kallias, in his quiet, careful way, had made sure that Y/N had regular check-ups. He never pushed too hard, never insisted she take the treatments, but the way he made sure things were taken care of spoke volumes.

Today, he was sitting by the large window of her quarters, papers scattered across the table in front of him, though his attention kept drifting toward her. She hadn’t been feeling her best recently—more tired than usual, more distant—but the sight of him nearby always seemed to soothe her.

The healer, a soft-spoken male named Hesperos, was gentle and methodical in his examination, pressing his warm hands to Y/N’s swollen belly, murmuring soothing words of a spell. The healing magic rippled through her, a cool, peaceful energy.

“The baby is strong. Healthy,” Hesperos said with a smile. Y/N exhaled in relief, her shoulders relaxing.

Kallias, however, didn’t smile. His focus remained unwavering, but something about the way he was sitting, so quietly intense, made Y/N feel as though he was seeing through her. She didn’t know why it felt that way.

She smiled at the healer, her voice soft. “Thank you, Hesperos. I feel much better after every visit.”

Hesperos gave a warm chuckle. “It’s our job to make sure you do, my lady.”

But then, his expression shifted. He blinked, his hands pausing over her stomach. Y/N’s gaze flicked between him and Kallias, her stomach tightening slightly at the sudden tension in the room.

“Is something wrong?” Y/N asked, her voice shaking just a little.

The healer seemed almost uncertain, glancing at her before looking toward Kallias. His gaze lowered, his hands falling back to his sides. “My lady… I need to ask… Have you been under any extreme stress lately? Or emotional strain?”

Y/N blinked, frowning. “Stress?” she echoed, forcing a laugh. “I mean, of course, I’ve been tired lately, but—”

“No, it’s not just the fatigue,” Hesperos interrupted gently. “This is something more than simple exhaustion. I’m detecting some… emotional strain.”

Y/N’s smile faltered, her mind racing. She quickly shook her head, a forced chuckle escaping her lips. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been resting well here. I haven’t been stressed. Everything’s fine.”

But there was a strange, almost skeptical look on Hesperos’s face. He leaned a bit closer, studying her carefully, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “What I’m sensing, it’s the kind of strain we see in those who’ve endured emotional trauma. Perhaps…during or maybe even before the pregnancy?”

A weight settled over her chest. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the room feeling suddenly too small. She could feel Kallias’s eyes on her now, sharp, calculating.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t know how to respond.

The healer, sensing her discomfort, withdrew slightly, his expression sympathetic. “It’s nothing too serious. The baby’s fine. But I would advise you to take some more time to care for your emotional well-being. Take it easy, my lady. Rest, and avoid any unnecessary stress.”

“Of course, of course,” Y/N replied quickly, nodding. “I’ve been resting plenty. I’ll take care of myself.”

Kallias hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved either. He was just staring at her, his jaw clenched, his hands folded on the table, his expression unreadable.

Y/N felt her heart race.

She looked away, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. She forced herself to look calm, to smile. “Nothing, Kallias. It’s nothing.”

But he wasn’t convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “You’re hiding something from me.”

She shifted uncomfortably. Was this it? Was this where it all ended?

“I’m not hiding anything,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “I’m just… I’ve been through a lot, that’s all. And I’m pregnant.” She shrugged. “It’s normal.”

But he was still staring at her. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion.

Finally, he stood up from the chair. The motion was quick, almost as if he’d made a decision. His expression remained unreadable, but Y/N felt the tension in the air.

He walked toward the door without another word.

“Kallias?” Her voice barely broke the silence.

He paused at the door but didn’t turn around.

She didn’t know why, but she found herself standing, moving toward him. The instinct to reach out, to stop him, was stronger than the part of her that told her to stay still.

But before she could take another step, Kallias turned sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And just like that, he left the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving her in a sea of confusion. Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of his sudden departure. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he think she was lying?

Why was he upset?

Y/N stood frozen in place, her heart heavy.

“Why does it feel like he’s mad at me?” she whispered under her breath. “What did I do?”

Her chest tightened with the rush of emotions.

She moved toward the window, staring out at the stark beauty of the Winter landscape, but it wasn’t the frozen scenery that filled her mind. It was him—Kallias’s withdrawn look, his darkened expression, the quiet fury in his eyes.

But maybe he was disgusted by her. Maybe she was too much of a burden. He’d been kind, too kind, and now, with everything she’d been holding inside, she probably had let it slip. He probably didn’t want to be around someone like her.

Just the thought made her stomach turn. She couldn’t hold on to his kindness forever.

Her gaze fell to the door, but just before she could even begin to move towards it, she was stopped by the healer, his expression soft and calm.

“My lady,” he said gently, his eyes full of understanding, “please, you can’t be running around with a belly like that.” He gestured to the comfortable chair by the window, urging her to sit back down. “Rest for now.”

Y/N nodded silently, sinking into the chair with a sigh. She was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally… physically.

But even as she closed her eyes and tried to push away her thoughts of Kallias, her mind kept returning to him. His departure had felt like something more than just irritation.

Was he disgusted by me?

Did he hate me now?

I’ve pushed him too far.

She closed her eyes tight, unable to stop the tears that pricked at her eyelids.

He barely felt himself move as he stormed out of the room.

His mind was spinning, his pulse roaring in his ears like a blizzard. The healer’s words echoed over and over again in his head.

Extreme stress. Emotional strain. Trauma.

And then—before the pregnancy.

Kallias’ hands curled into fists as he raced down the halls of his palace, his heart slamming against his ribs. His thoughts were a whirlwind, pieces snapping together, his worst suspicions solidifying into a devastating truth.

She wasn’t just struggling because of the pregnancy.

She had been suffering long before she ever arrived in Winter.

Kallias knew. He knew.

A growl ripped from his throat as rage flooded his veins. His magic surged, ice crackling at his fingertips as he barely managed to contain the violent storm building within him.

He wouldn’t contain it.

Not this time.

Not when she had been suffering in silence, not when she had been left like this, abandoned and alone, with his child growing inside her while she silently broke apart.

The halls blurred around him as he winnowed in a snap of ice-cold wind, the world bending to his fury.

The wards around the townhouse shattered the moment Kallias appeared.

The sheer force of his arrival cracked the air like a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the house.

Rhysand’s inner circle was gathered in the sitting room, locked in a heated argument, voices overlapping in tension and frustration.

“I can’t believe you—” Mor was snarling at Rhys, her hands clenched at her sides.

“She deserved better than this, Rhys,” Azriel’s voice was colder than night, his wings flaring slightly as he stood rigidly beside Cassian.

Feyre’s voice was tight. “I didn’t—”

“She probably hates us too because of the shit you dragged us into,” Cassian interrupted, his expression dark with disbelief.

And then, in a blink, the argument halted.

Because Kallias was suddenly there.

The moment he appeared, a bitter chill flooded the room, ice creeping along the floor, frost curling at the windows.

Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias launched at him.

“You little bastard.”

The words were venom, spat through clenched teeth, right before Kallias swung.

The impact was sharp, a solid hit to Rhysand’s jaw that sent him stumbling back. Gasps erupted around them—someone shouted Kallias’ name—but he wasn’t done.

Rhys recovered quickly, eyes flashing pure fury, and retaliated, his power snapping through the air as he tackled Kallias.

Fists flew, the sound of their bodies colliding shaking the very walls of the townhouse. Furniture splintered, ice and darkness clashing violently as Kallias slammed Rhys into the floor, his hands around his throat.

“How dare you,” Kallias seethed, his grip tightening. “How fucking dare you.”

Rhys wrenched free, throwing Kallias off him with a burst of raw power. Kallias skidded across the room, but he was already back on his feet, already lunging again—

Cassian and Azriel intervened.

Cassian caught Kallias, hauling him back with an iron grip, barely keeping him restrained. Azriel stood between them, his expression unreadable but watchful, wings flared wide.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Cassian bellowed, struggling to hold Kallias back.

Kallias didn’t answer. His gaze was still locked on Rhys, both of them breathing heavily, murder in their eyes.

Until his gaze shifted.

Feyre.

She was kneeling beside Rhys, her fingers gently brushing over his jaw, her eyes wide, lips parted slightly in concern.

That was all Kallias needed to confirm everything.

His stomach twisted, something cold and ugly settling in his chest.

His muscles tensed, and he shoved Cassian off him.

“When you saved us all from Under the Mountain,” Kallias said, his voice deadly quiet, his cold blue eyes settling on Feyre, “when I gave you a part of my power… I never thought I would ever regret it.”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’ jaw.

Kallias took a slow step forward, gaze flicking back to him.

“But now, standing here, seeing this ugly, pathetic scene before me, I feel nothing but regret. And disgust.”

Silence.

Feyre’s breath hitched, but Kallias ignored it.

His glare returned to Rhys, who still held his furious, defensive stance, though something uneasy flickered across his face.

Kallias bared his teeth. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?” His voice was quieter now, but sharper than shattered ice.

Rhys didn’t answer.

Kallias took another step, his fury rising again.

“If you wanted to break things off, you should’ve done it before putting a child in her. Before making her worry, before leaving her to suffer alone.”

A thick, heavy silence.

Everyone was watching.

Even Amren’s expression was unreadable, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Kallias’ voice rose.

“She has been having episodes where she freezes, clutching her belly and staring into nothing—” He gritted his teeth.“And when I bring her back, when I gently bring her back to the present, do you know what she does?” His laugh was cold. Cruel. “She smiles like nothing happened.”

Rhys’ face remained unreadable.

Kallias’ voice turned into a snarl.

“Do you know she has nightmares every gods-damned night? Almost as if she’s being reminded of your disgusting actions?”

Feyre flinched.

Kallias stepped even closer, furious now.

“And do you know, Rhysand—” His tone was filled with nothing but pure wrath now. “—that she has been doubting herself every moment? She’s been trying to hide it, but it’s killing her. From within.”

Rhys’ expression finally cracked. A flicker of guilt.

Kallias sneered.

And then, his voice dropped into ice-cold steel.

“You better apologize. On your knees.”

His words struck deep, the weight of them suffocating the room.

“Beg for her forgiveness, because you still have a gods-damned faeling on the way, and you best hope you can be a good father—at the very least.”

He took in Rhys’ barely concealed guilt, the tension crushing the room.

And then Kallias turned.

His parting words were quiet, but lethal.

“Because if you aren’t—” he gave one final, piercing glare “—I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your immortal life.”

And with that, he vanished, winnowing away in a gust of frozen wind.

Leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence.

An hour had passed since the healer had left. An hour of pacing, of restless hands wringing together, of her mind spiraling with thoughts she could not untangle.

Kallias was nowhere to be found. She had searched, called his name softly in the empty halls, but there had been no response. And with every passing moment, the worry in her chest grew, coiling tighter and tighter.

So when she finally stepped out of her room, heart pounding, she nearly missed him—almost didn't see him slipping into his own chambers, his hand on the door, about to shut it. But the soft click of her own door opening must have reached him, because he hesitated, head tilting slightly before turning fully to face her.

Their eyes collided.

And the first thing she noticed were the bruises—small but unmistakable wounds marring his otherwise perfect face. Red marks along his jaw. A faint cut near his cheekbone. His lower lip was slightly swollen.

She inhaled sharply.

There was only one being he would have fought like this.

Kallias remained silent, waiting for her reaction, and she sighed as she slowly stepped toward him. His fingers twitched on the door handle, as if torn between shutting himself away or—

The door opened.

Silently.

An unspoken invitation.

Y/N stepped inside, and Kallias shut the door behind her, locking it with a quiet click.

Her gaze flickered around the room—cold and grand, yet undeniably his. The heavy drapes of silver and midnight blue, the dark wooden furniture, the ever-present chill of winter that clung to the air but did not touch her skin. A fire crackled low in the hearth, barely illuminating the carved designs along the high ceiling. It was neat, yet something about it felt untouched. As if no one had lived in it for too long.

When she turned back to him, Kallias was still watching her. Silently. Intently.

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly.

“Do you have any tonics or salves?” she asked, voice softer than she expected.

A slow, almost dazed nod. Then, without a word, he turned and led her toward an adjoining washroom.

She took what she needed—her fingers grazing along the neatly arranged bottles, picking out the ones that would soothe the swelling, heal the cuts. Then, guiding him back to the bedroom, she pressed gently on his chest, urging him to sit at the edge of the bed.

Kallias obeyed.

And when she stepped between his legs, pressing a cloth to his jaw, she felt the way his body stiffened beneath her touch. Not from pain—but from something else entirely.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.

Until finally, she whispered, “I take it you’re aware of the situation now?”

A slow nod. Then, just as softly, he whispered back, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her hand faltered for a second before she resumed dabbing at his jaw.

“What difference would it have made?” she murmured. “You and I… we weren’t that close.”

A mistake.

Because in the next heartbeat, his hand rose—gently but firmly clasping her wrist, halting her movements.

She looked at him, confused, but his grip did not waver.

“If only you ever gave me a chance,” Kallias whispered.

Her breath caught.

“What?”

His eyes burned with something raw, something centuries-old.

“If only you ever looked outside your bubble with Rhysand,” he continued, voice thick with emotion, “and saw me. Saw that I was there for you—heart and soul, every moment, wishing for you to be mine.”

The words slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.

She stepped back, barely registering the cloth slipping from her hands.

“What?” she repeated, disbelieving.

Kallias stood, not letting her distance herself.

“Do you know what a painful feeling it is to watch your mate be in love and carry another male’s child?” His voice cracked—just slightly. But his expression remained steady, unwavering. “To give her heart to him?”

Her mouth parted, but no words came out.

Mate.

He knew.

He knew.

“You knew I was your mate?” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

A sad, almost broken smile touched his lips.

“I’ve known for nearly two hundred years.”

She felt dizzy.

“I felt it the moment I saw you,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower, more vulnerable. “And since then, I always felt you. Every moment. Every breath. During those fifty years under the mountain, I couldn’t feel you through Amarantha’s magic—but my thoughts were with you. Always with you.”

Her eyes burned.

“And after we were free…” He let out a shuddering breath. “You have no idea how overjoyed I was just to feel you through the bond again.”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “The moment I was told you were pregnant, I wasn’t surprised. But I was still in pain. The weeks and months after that were no different.”

Y/N’s lips trembled.

“But that night,” Kallias whispered. “That night I felt great pain coming from you. And the next day, I had my reply sent to you.”

Her breath hitched.

“The night I found them kissing,” she murmured in realization.

His expression darkened, rage flickering across his face before he took a steady breath.

“I tried keeping this a secret,” he admitted. “I tried my best, Y/N. But…” His voice thickened with emotion. “I have already hidden this for two hundred years. I can’t do this anymore.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I understand if you need time to process it all,” he whispered. “But please, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

She didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to respond to this revelation that shattered everything she thought she knew.

“I…” She swallowed hard. “I need time to process. I am… I don’t—I don’t know what to say or do.”

Kallias held her gaze, his eyes filled with something unreadable.

“You don’t need to do anything,” he murmured. “Just be confident in your decision. Whatever it may be.”

She looked away, blinking back the tears.

Then, slowly, she turned toward the door.

She hesitated—just for a moment.

Then left.

And behind her, Kallias stood still in the center of the room, watching her go.

The days passed, but the weight of Kallias’ words did not fade.

If anything, they lingered. Clung to her skin, to her mind, to her soul.

She had not spoken to him about it since that night. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she didn’t know how.

Her mate.

Her mate, and he had known for nearly two hundred years.

She hadn’t known what to do with that information. She still didn’t.

So she had done what she always did. She buried it. She carried on. She let the days slip into nights, avoiding him when she could, enduring the unbearable tension when she couldn’t.

But she felt him everywhere.

Felt him in the way his gaze lingered on her across the dining table. In the way his presence filled the room the second he entered it, like winter itself bending to accommodate his power.

In the way her body, despite her protests, was aware of him.

Kallias, however, did not push.

He did not corner her, did not force her into another conversation about what he had revealed.

But that did not mean the tension between them had lessened. If anything, it had thickened.

And at night, when sleep refused to claim her, her mind would return to him.

How had she never seen it? Never felt it?

The way he looked at her. The way his voice softened ever so slightly when he spoke to her. The way his magic, cool and crisp as fresh snow, had always sought hers.

Rhysand had been her world for so long. She had loved him, given him everything. She had never once thought to look elsewhere.

But now—now, she had to.

And it terrified her.

So when another sleepless night came, when she found herself tossing and turning in her sheets, mind refusing to quiet, she could no longer take it.

A pull.

It tugged at her insides, restless and unrelenting.

She didn’t think. She simply obeyed it.

Throwing back her covers, she slid on a robe over her thin nightgown and padded barefoot out of her room.

The halls were silent, the moonlight casting long shadows along the frost-covered floors.

She didn’t need to wonder where she was going.

She already knew.

Her feet carried her straight to Kallias’ office, the pull within her intensifying the closer she got.

The door was slightly ajar, and when she reached it, she hesitated.

Then, taking a steadying breath, she pushed it open.

He was there.

Sitting behind his grand desk, head buried in documents, the glow of candlelight flickering against his sharp features.

He did not move at first.

But then—he stilled.

As if sensing her.

And when he slowly lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm.

And that was when she realized—

She had come in wearing only her nightgown and robe.

A thin nightgown.

One that clung to her, that left very little to the imagination.

His gaze ran over her, darkening as it fell to her now prominent belly, before slowly trailing back up to her face.

She swallowed hard, cursing herself.

His voice was quiet, unreadable. “Y/N.”

She forced herself to clear her throat. Forced herself to hold his stare, despite the way it made her entire body feel like it was burning.

“I…” She inhaled deeply. “I came to ask some questions.”

Kallias did not move. Did not look away.

His gaze remained fixed on her, heavy and waiting.

When she did not immediately continue, he arched a single, silver brow.

“Ask them,” he murmured.

She tried to collect her thoughts, tried to remember why she had come here in the first place.

“Why?” she finally breathed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His expression did not shift.

But when she kept going, words spilling from her lips in a desperate attempt to understand—

He cut her off.

Smoothly.

Calmly.

“Do you want the answers or not?”

She stopped mid-sentence, mouth slightly parted.

And then—slowly—she nodded.

Kallias rose from his chair.

Her stomach clenched.

His movements were slow, deliberate, as he stepped around the desk, rounding it towards her.

His eyes never left her.

With each step he took, he answered.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said, voice low, steady, intense, “because you were in love with another. Because I wanted you to choose me for me, not because fate dictated it.”

Another step.

“I didn’t tell you,” he continued, “because I saw the way you looked at him. And I knew you never looked at me the same.”

Another step.

Closer.

Her breath hitched, but she did not move.

By the time he stopped, they were chest to chest.

She was close enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold magic always humming beneath his skin.

Her heart pounded.

And when her gaze—without her permission—dropped to his lips, Kallias’ jaw tightened.

“Stop tempting me,” he murmured.

Her breath came unevenly.

“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered.

A low, quiet growl.

“Your existence is enough to tempt me,” he said, his voice raw. “Everything you do. Everything you wear. It tempts me.”

She didn’t know what came over her.

Perhaps it was the way his voice had turned rough, husky.

Perhaps it was the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if restraining themselves from reaching for her.

Perhaps it was the way her own body reacted to him, to his closeness, to the sheer, undeniable pull between them.

An urge.

A reckless, uncontrollable urge to kiss him.

Her fingers twitched.

Her breath mingled with his.

His hands fisted at his sides.

But instead—

Instead, she ran.

She took a sharp step back, nearly stumbling over herself as she turned away and hurried out of the room.

She did not stop.

Not when she reached her chambers.

Not when she collapsed onto her bed, heart racing, skin burning.

She did not stop.

But she cursed herself the entire time.

A month.

It had been a month since she had arrived in Winter.

A month since she had learned the truth.

A month since her world had shifted beneath her feet.

And now—

Now, she was nine months pregnant.

Due any day.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her swollen belly as she gazed across the gardens of ice and snow.

It was breathtaking. A masterpiece of nature and magic intertwined.

Frozen roses glistened beneath the pale sunlight. Delicate trees, their branches coated in frost, stood tall against the clear blue sky. The air was crisp, biting against her skin, but she welcomed the cold.

It grounded her.

Unlike her thoughts. Unlike the turmoil that had been storming within her since that night in Kallias’ office.

Since she had nearly kissed him.

Since she had run.

She had avoided him even more after that. Refused to be alone with him. Refused to give him the chance to speak to her about what had happened.

But it hadn’t stopped her from feeling him.

Hadn’t stopped her from being aware of him every time he was near.

Hadn��t stopped the dreams.

The ones where his voice, husky and low, whispered to her in the darkness.

Where his hands, warm despite his magic, held her.

Where his lips—

She exhaled sharply, cutting off the thought before it could fully form.

No.

No, she wouldn’t think of that.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she focused on the silence around her. The stillness. The temporary peace that came with the gardens.

Until—

She felt it.

Him.

His presence.

A familiar, steady weight pressing against her senses.

The air seemed to shift, thickening with something unspoken.

And then—

Slow, measured steps against the snow.

She knew it was him before she even turned.

And when she did—

Her breath caught.

Kallias strolled into the gardens with an effortless grace that only he possessed.

His white hair gleamed beneath the sun, tousled just enough to make her wonder if he had run a hand through it in frustration. His sharp jawline was dusted with the barest hint of stubble, making him look unfairly handsome.

He was dressed in his usual pristine attire, the elegant fabric emphasizing his powerful frame.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that made her heart stutter.

It was his eyes.

Icy blue, watching her softly.

Unwavering.

She turned away immediately, forcing herself to focus on the frozen roses once more.

She wouldn’t do this.

Wouldn’t stand here and pretend her body didn’t react to his presence.

Wouldn’t pretend her heart didn’t ache with confusion every time she looked at him.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She tried to leave.

But the moment she took a step forward, his voice—deep, steady, commanding—cut through the air.

"You can't keep running away from everything."

She froze.

Slowly, she turned to face him, her hands tightening around the edges of her robe.

Her lips curled slightly. "I can try."

His expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes.

A mixture of exasperation. And something else. Something deeper.

"You are impossibly stubborn," he murmured, stepping closer.

"And you are impossibly persistent," she shot back, lifting her chin.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "It seems we have that in common, then."

She pressed her lips together, unsure how to respond.

Kallias took another step, his gaze sweeping over her face, then down to her belly.

She expected him to stop there, but his eyes softened—so much it nearly hurt to look at.

"You're due any day now," he murmured.

Her throat tightened. "I know."

Another step.

Closer.

"Are you well?" he asked, voice quieter. "Do you need anything?"

The sincerity in his voice, in his concern, made her pulse stammer.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at her for weeks.

"Why do you care?"

Kallias blinked.

His brows furrowed slightly, as if the question confused him.

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

"The faeling," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you care for my baby when you know they are from another male?"

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

Kallias’ expression softened in a way she had never seen before.

Slowly, he stepped closer.

And before she could move, before she could stop him—

He gently grasped her arms.

His touch was careful. Warm.

And when he spoke, his voice was so quiet, so reverent, that she could hardly breathe.

"Because it is not the baby’s fault to have such a father."

Her chest tightened.

"Because none of this is their fault."

Her vision blurred.

"Because they are yours. And that is all that matters to me."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

Something inside her cracked.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Kallias’ fingers twitched against her arms.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached up and brushed the tear away with the back of his knuckles.

The touch was light. Barely there.

But it made her stomach flip nonetheless.

She parted her lips, wanting to say something—anything—when—

A throat cleared.

Both of them stiffened.

The moment shattered.

Y/N turned her head—and felt the breath get knocked from her lungs.

Behind the servant standing in the archway of the gardens—

Stood Rhysand.

Her heart stopped.

The servant bowed slightly before addressing Kallias.

"High Lord Rhysand of Night, Your Grace."

The moment the words left the servant’s mouth, Kallias went utterly, dangerously still.

Y/N barely had time to react before Kallias’ arm pressed lightly against her, a silent yet firm movement as he pushed her behind him.

As if shielding her.

As if Rhys was a threat.

Her lips parted, her entire body locking in place as Kallias stepped forward, dismissing the servant without even looking at him.

Rhysand’s violet eyes flickered between them.

Between her.

Between Kallias.

Between where Kallias had moved to shield her.

And in that moment—

In that heartbeat of silence—

She knew.

Everything was about to change.

The air was thick with tension.

Y/N barely breathed as she peeked out from behind Kallias' broad frame, her heart hammering.

Rhysand stood just beyond them, his violet eyes unreadable, his wings tucked in tight, his hands flexing at his sides.

But she saw it.

The hesitation.

The hurt.

The way his gaze flickered—between her, between Kallias, between the space Kallias had deliberately placed between them. Between the connection he clearly saw.

He swallowed, composing himself with a slow inhale before exhaling heavily, his face blanking out.

Finally, he spoke.

"May we…" His voice was quieter than she expected, rough.

A pause.

A hesitation.

He sighed before trying again, voice steadier, though there was something raw beneath it.

"May we have a talk?"

Y/N sucked in a breath.

She felt Kallias tense beside her, his body a solid wall of unwavering strength. His eyes never left Rhys, cold and sharp as ice, watching every move the High Lord of Night made.

But he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t argue when she stepped forward, gently brushing past him.

Still, before she moved completely out of his reach, she turned.

A small, real smile—one just for him.

"Don’t worry," she murmured, holding his gaze. "I need this."

Kallias’ icy blue eyes softened.

A barely-there nod. Understanding.

"I will be nearby," he promised, voice quiet.

But when he turned to Rhys, his gaze hardened, a silent death glare that sent a chill through the air.

Y/N ignored it.

Instead, she led Rhysand a little further away, her posture shifting.

Gone was the hesitance, the uncertainty.

The second she turned to face him again, her entire demeanor changed.

Her voice was sharp. Cold.

"Talk."

Rhysand exhaled, his expression twisting as if it physically pained him to begin.

But he did.

From the start.

From Under the Mountain.

From the moment Amarantha had taken him, from the moment he had felt something shifting deep in his soul, long before Feyre had even arrived to save them.

How he had suspected Feyre was his mate before she had even set foot in that cursed place.

How the bond had begun pulling at him, whispering, nudging, long before she had even known him.

How, during every trial Feyre endured, during every moment of her suffering, his instincts screamed at him—protect her, protect her, protect her.

How, by the time she had finally saved them all, finally broken the curse—

"By then," he murmured, his voice nearly shaking, "I already felt the bond snap into place for me."

Y/N stilled.

A cold, hollow silence stretched between them.

Rhys swallowed.

"So when I arrived back home—to you. To Mor. I already knew."

A sharp, bitter laugh left her lips.

Of course.

Of course.

Her heart clenched, but she smiled—a twisted, cold thing.

"I should’ve known."

Rhys flinched.

"Because you weren’t yourself from the moment you came back."

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop.

"Always hesitating to touch me. Always distracted. Always—" She let out another humorless laugh, shaking her head. "I’m surprised I’m even pregnant right now."

Rhys’ jaw clenched, shame clouding his features.

"Y/N—"

"Save it," she snapped.

But he didn’t stop.

He explained everything.

Why he kept disappearing at night.

Why he had been gone for days at a time.

How, when Feyre and Tamlin were about to be wed, the bond had pulled him to her so strongly that he had to interfere—had to take her.

How he had been with her every time he was not with Y/N.

And how he had hidden it.

Lied.

Made her doubt herself.

Her hands curled into fists.

Her voice was softer when she spoke next, but it was far colder.

"All this time," she murmured.

Rhys stilled.

"All this time," she repeated, her voice shaking just slightly, "I had eyes only for you."

Her breath hitched.

"And yet—"

She met his gaze, let him see the truth in her eyes.

"Kallias has been my true mate all along."

Rhysand froze.

His entire body went rigid.

"What?"

A small, cruel smile touched her lips.

"You heard me."

Rhys shook his head slightly, as if trying to process it.

As if he hadn’t even considered it.

"Kallias is my mate," she continued, voice firm.

And this time, she felt it—the truth of the words, settling into her very bones.

Rhys looked… devastated.

"I—" He faltered.

But she didn’t care.

"I understand," she said, voice cold, "that Feyre is your mate."

Her fingers clenched at her sides.

"Because now that I have found my mate—" Her voice wavered. "I know what it feels like."

Rhys opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"But hiding it?" Her eyes burned. "Making me doubt myself? Hate myself? Making me feel like I was losing you because of something I did?"

Her voice cracked.

"I won’t ever forgive you for that."

Rhysand flinched as if struck.

But she wasn’t done.

"But we have a child together."

His gaze snapped to hers.

"At least tell me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that you will be a good father to them."

Rhys’ lips parted, his expression crumbling.

"Of course," he breathed, "of course, I will—"

But before he could finish, before he could even take a step forward—

Y/N gasped.

Pain. Sharp and sudden.

She clutched her stomach.

Her knees nearly buckled.

"My—" She gasped again, her body tensing.

Rhys’ eyes went wide.

"Y/N?"

"My water—" Her breath hitched. "The baby—the baby is coming!"

Chaos erupted.

Before she could even register what was happening, Kallias was there.

Instant. Immediate.

Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias shoved him aside, reaching for her.

"I’ve got you," Kallias murmured, his arms strong as he lifted her effortlessly into his hold.

She barely registered Rhys following as Kallias carried her inside, barking orders.

Midwives. Midwives were summoned at once, servants scrambling.

She clung to Kallias, her breath sharp, her body burning as the contractions began to intensify.

"I’m here," Kallias murmured against her forehead.

Her vision blurred.

"You’re not alone, starlight."

Rhys followed.

Kallias did not acknowledge him.

Not as he carried her into her chambers.

Not as he lowered her onto the prepared bed.

Not as he whispered, over and over, words only meant for her.

Words of comfort.

Words of devotion.

Words that Rhysand would never say again.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of lavender and fresh linens thick in the air as Y/N lay on the soft sheets, utterly exhausted. But despite the ache in her body, despite the whirlwind of emotions that had led up to this moment, her heart was full—because in her arms lay a tiny, fragile miracle.

Her daughter.

She traced the baby’s delicate features, her small nose, her plump little lips, the faintest dusting of dark lashes against rosy cheeks. She was warm, impossibly tiny, and perfect.

Rhysand sat in the chair beside the bed, unusually silent. He had not left. He had not even tried to. Instead, he was staring at their child with something so raw in his expression that, for the first time in a long while, Y/N saw him not as her betrayer but as a father.

“She has your nose,” Rhys murmured after a long pause, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and emotion.

Y/N huffed softly, tilting her head. “But your lips,” she countered, smoothing a thumb over the baby’s pout.

Rhys gave a small, breathless chuckle, his violet eyes bright as he leaned in just a little closer. “And your cheeks. She’s going to be so beautiful, just like her mother.”

For a fleeting second, a warm, nostalgic peace settled between them. An understanding. An unspoken acknowledgment of the life they had created together.

Then Y/N’s expression hardened. “Now that you have a daughter, you better pray she never meets a male like you.”

Rhys inhaled sharply, clearly stung. But instead of responding with guilt, his lips pressed into a determined line, his violet eyes flashing with something fiercely protective. “I would kill any male who ever hurt my princess.” He softened immediately after, gently extending his hands. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated but eventually nodded. She watched as Rhys cradled their daughter in his arms, his touch reverent, as if he were holding something sacred.

He was utterly enchanted, whispering soft words to the little girl, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead. And for a moment, Y/N could see the father he was meant to be—the father he would be.

But she could not let that soften her resolve.

“I believe by now you know,” she murmured, folding her hands over her lap, “that I will be staying here permanently. With my mate.”

Rhys visibly tensed. His gaze flickered to her, pain swimming in his violet eyes. “Y/N…”

She shook her head, unwilling to hear whatever argument he might have.

Instead, Rhys exhaled sharply, adjusting the baby in his arms. “When she comes to Velaris, you too—”

“Not now.” Y/N cut him off, her voice firm. “I won’t be coming anytime soon.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it down.

Y/N, however, turned her full attention back to her baby, brushing a finger over her tiny fingers, smiling as they wrapped around hers. In a playful, sing-song voice, she cooed, “But Uncles Cas and Az, and Aunties Mor and Amren—they are always welcome here, aren’t they? Yes, they are.”

Rhys sucked in a slow breath. She saw the way it gutted him, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. But he nodded. “Of course.”

They spoke a little longer, quietly agreeing on how they would co-parent, what would be best for the child. But when Rhys finally murmured, “Y/N… I am so sorry. And Feyre is also—”

She didn’t let him finish.

“Save it,” she said coldly, her gaze snapping back to his. “You may leave now. You saw the baby. Come back tomorrow, if you will. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

Rhys looked like he had a thousand more things to say, but he only nodded slowly, gently placing the baby back in Y/N’s arms before standing. He hesitated at the door.

“Call Kallias in,” she ordered, her voice unrelenting.

Rhys turned to leave without another word.

And the moment Kallias entered the room, Y/N’s body instinctively relaxed.

He was by her side in an instant, his ice-blue eyes full of nothing but love as he settled beside her, tucking a strand of damp hair from her face.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, gazing down at the baby. “Just like her mother.”

Y/N exhaled a soft laugh, her lips curving up. And as she looked at him, at his pure, unwavering devotion, she felt a shift deep within herself. A warmth. A certainty.

“I accept,” she whispered.

Kallias stilled, his brows drawing together slightly.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I accept you as my mate, Kal. And I’m so sorry I never paid you the attention you deserved before.”

Kallias blinked, stunned for only a second before his expression softened into something radiant, something home. He reached for her free hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love,” he murmured, cradling both her and their child in his arms. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but for the first time in months, it was not from pain.

Kallias leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss to her lips. It was slow, lingering, full of unspoken promises.

When he pulled away, he smirked, his thumb tracing circles along the back of her hand. “Get well soon, my beautiful High Lady. I have a coronation to plan for you.”

Y/N let out a disbelieving laugh.“You seriously would do that?”

He only grinned. “You deserve it. The Night Court never deserved you.”

Y/N’s heart clenched, and she leaned into him as he cocooned her and their daughter in his arms.

Kallias pressed another kiss to her temple and whispered, “But before that… our mating ceremony.”

Y/N giggled softly, curling into him.

Home.

She had finally found home.

----------------------------------------------------------

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[3amfanfiction]

Picture Perfect pt 1

Lieutenant MacTavish confiscated your suggestive, racy photo when your then-boyfriend was waving it around, showing all his army buddies. If he then studied your picture and used it as wanking material for the next year, complete with a few domestic fantasies, that was nobody's business but his own; he wasn't hurting anyone. The picture was tucked away in a drawer, completely forgotten about until the day he came back from deployment as a captain with a nasty bullet graze and spotty memory. Cleaning out his desk, he found your photo again. He couldn't remember your name but he knew what you sounded like moaning his name. He didn't remember where you'd met but he knew he slipped a ring on your finger the night you both went out searching for the best garlic bread in the city. He wasn't sure if you had family but he knew what the silken clench of your cunt felt like around his fingers and cock. With all his unexpected free-time maybe he should track down his wayward wife. It had been too long since he'd seen you and he wasn't one to let things slip through his fingers. Whatever caused your separation would be dealt with, he wasn't going to lose you again.

3k words about Captain MacTavish finding his wife who he needs to re-woo. Nothing too serious, just a little scene.

His head ached as he cleaned out his desk, at least half due to his clenched jaw, muscles corded and knotted along the sharp jut of bone. Who did the brass think they were, putting him on indefinite leave just because of a bit of spotty memory. He remembered everything important! Everything that mattered was highlighted neon bright in his brain—the things that would keep his men alive, the pressure points of informants needed to complete the job. It was only the finer details that seemed to slip through his fingers like sand. What school he went to, when he'd graduated boot camp. A snarl crept across his face he gathered up everything in his desk drawer and threw it into a box. Talk about bullshit.

Slamming the drawer shut he turned to the next, scooping up handfuls of papers and knickknacks alike to be thrown haphazardly together, ready to be toted off home. He'd given up his life for the military and this was how they wanted to treat him? The first sign of something not going their way and they wanted to ship him off like trash. Like he couldn't do his job better than everyone on this goddamned base. Who had the longest streak of missions without a casualty? That's right, it was him.

Reaching into the back of the drawer he swiped around heatedly, looking for any remaining items he might have missed with his first pass. A smooth, glossy material met his fingertips and he pulled it out with an annoyed huff, turning to throw it into the box with the rest before taking in what was in his hand.

It was a picture.

A very pretty picture.

You were sat on the bed, suggestively posing for the camera, perched on your heels with a warm smile directed towards the lens. Eyes staring into his soul.

He knew this picture. He'd helped you take it, hadn't he? Or maybe you'd sent it to him? He couldn't quite remember the particulars but he remembered the photo. His pretty wife, all dolled up just for him in his favorite color. You'd sent it to help him through a deployment now that he was thinking about it. Something to remember you by while he was away.

As if he could forget you.

He slumped back into his chair holding the picture up to study it. Tilting it to keep the reflective shine off your face. Where was his wife at now? He knew he hadn't seen you for a while, but why? Why didn't you live together?

His head gave a particularly nasty throb and he tucked the thought away, refocusing. It didn't matter why you weren't together. He would find you and bring you home. He didn't believe in divorce and it was time to work through this separation. Plus, he had a plethora of unexpected free time suddenly staring him down. What better way to use it than to find an errant spouse.

Tucking the picture into his pocket, he started making plans to reach out to a few old friends. A name would be helpful but he was nothing if not resourceful.

\\\

You had just put the finishing touches on your dinner, aromatic herbs scenting the air when the doorbell rang. Wondering who would show up this late in the evening unannounced, you wiped your hands before heading to see. What greeted you was a mountain of a man with a flinty look on his face. A grown-out mohawk and bright blue eyes, weathered and creased, met your gaze before a slow smile broke out across his sternly handsome face.

"There you are, bonnie lass. No need to worry any longer, I'm home."

Without waiting for your response he ducked down to press a kiss to your cheek, his scruff scratching your skin before he pushed his way inside, letting a hand drag along your hip in passing. You shivered and shifted away, your mouth dropping open in shock.

"Wait—you can't come in," you spluttered, trying to place if you'd ever seen this man before. You followed him hesitantly to the kitchen where you saw he had found your silverware drawer and was taking a bite of your food hunched over the stovetop.

Watching him shovel the food into his mouth you observed the stranger, keeping a healthy distance between the two of you. You took in his disheveled hairstyle all the way down to his well-worn boots which he hadn't bothered to remove at the door. Asshole. He was already rude for storming in like he owned the place but to not have the common courtesy to pull his filthy shoes off before he tracked dirt all over your clean floors was beyond the pale.

"Better than I remember, hen."

Your eyes grew wide as you stared in shock at his audacity. "You can't just push your way into a strangers home and eat their food. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" You mentally smacked yourself, pulling yourself back to heel quickly. Your mouth was going to get you into trouble one of these days.

"Ach, it's been a while since I'm talked with my mam. I hope you've been keeping in contact with her." Great blue eyes turned to pin you to your place, "It would break her heart if she stopped hearing from you."

You weren't going to even touch the double standards of that statement. Maybe if you were feeling a bit more sure of yourself but you felt firmly on the back foot right now.

"Why are you here?" you tried again, getting your thoughts back on track. "What is it you want?" Direct. To the point. You'd knows the man for less than a minute but you got the feeling he would steamroll right over the slightest hint of hesitancy from you. A wrecking ball in human form.

He paused, his hand halfway to his mouth loaded with another bite and gave you an obscure look, eyes glinting with something you couldn't make out.

"I'm here to bring my wife home, of course."

Of course. So simple. And it explained exactly nothing.

"Okay," you hedged, frowning at him. "I don't have her tucked away in a closet so what's that have to do with me?"

The stranger gave a mysterious smile before going back to your food. It was already halfway gone with the way he was inhaling it. A spark of annoyance traveled up your spine to sit with your shock and unease. You'd spent a good chunk of time making that and now you wouldn't even be able to enjoy it.

You'd really been looking forward to it too.

"Well?" you tried again. "Why are you in my house if you're looking for your wife? I certainly haven't seen her," and you wouldn't tell him even if you had. There was a indisputable manic glow coming from behind his eyes that made you wary. Some hind brain part of you perking up with a flashing 'danger' sign when you looked at this man who had commandeered your kitchen.

Scooping up the final bite, he dropped his spoon into the sink with a swallow and came over to you, reaching up to cup your face, thumbs rasping gently along your cheekbones. The way his fingers curved over the back of your skull kept his hands in place when you tried to pull away. "Just look at you, prettier than I remembered."

He did seem awfully entranced with you now that the food was gone. Eyes roving your face and trailing down to your stockinged feet before locking with yours once more. A small hint of a smile peeked through his sternness, a hint at brighter depths hidden behind the stone wall of his stoic expression.

Whether that brightness equaled kindness was still up for debate.

"I still don't know who you are or why you're in my house," you stammered, him finally relaxing enough to allow you to pull back out of his grasp. You took a shaky step backwards to put some distance back between the two of you.

"Gonna play it that way, are we?" he rumbled, his deep voice holding a bit of a growl. "All right. If I wooed you once I can woo you again, aye? I'm not above a bit of groveling to get you back where you belong." You were annoyed at the flutter you felt when he smiled charmingly down at you. Clearly a well-practiced expression on him. "Although you acting like you don't remember your husband's name is pretty hurtful. Are you a spiteful lass, then?" His smile changed to a there-and-gone smirk hiking up one side of his mouth, "I always did like them with a bit of bite."

You swallowed nervously.

"I think you need to leave," you tried, gesturing towards the front door. "I'm not your wife and there's no one else here so I'd appreciate it if you left." You tried to steel yourself, puffing up your chest to make yourself seem bigger and more self-assured. Hoping to dissuade him.

"We'll take it slow, I know better than to rush these things," he stated, dropping down to press a there-and-gone kiss to your forehead. "I'll be by tomorrow to fix that dripping faucet and then we can go for lunch."

Pulling your thoughts back into line you gaped at him. "Do not show back up at my house tomorrow," you told him, ire barely concealing the pleading lining every word but he wasn't listening. With a mockingly cheerful whistle he headed back towards the door, breezing out just as easily as he had breezed in.

You were left with a rumbling stomach and a quiet house, feeling like you'd just been sucker-punched. What just happened?

\\\

You weren't going to answer the door no matter how hard he knocked. You weren't home. Nobody was home so he should just leave.

Fretting on the couch, you glared at your entryway in outrage and uncertainty in equal measure. How long was he going to beat on your door? It already felt like it'd been going on for ages. You could barely hear yourself think with the way his hammering blows rattled the wood. You knew it wasn't the most secure and you were half worried he was going to take it off its hinges if this kept up.

You still weren't sure what happened last night.

After he left you scrounged up some dinner. Nothing like what you'd originally made but needs must. By the time you were finished you were beyond exhausted, the day's events draining you of every spec of energy. Deciding that you would deal with everything tomorrow you went to bed, certain that things would look different in the morning light.

What you hadn't counted on was tossing and turning all night, mind running a thousand miles an hour as you thought about your self-proclaimed 'husband' in all his glory. Why had he picked you to barge in on?

The only way you saw it was he was trying to con you out of or into something.

This whole 'wife' shtick could be a ploy he used with other unsuspecting people until he got whatever he wanted from them. This would hold a lot of weight if you had anything of value. Beyond a few pricey electronics there wasn't a whole lot you had.

And if he was trying to con you into something, well good luck to him. You were nothing if not stubborn and knowing someone was trying to pull a fast one on you ahead of time? You'd be able to dig your feet in until the problem went away.

But now it was noon and the problem was back at your house with no true plan in sight.

You didn't have a whole lot of options past hoping he went away. You'd rather not get the cops involved though you would if he seemed at all violent. You didn't have anyone who could come scare him away or talk to him for you. You were stuck hoping that he would get tired and leave. Hoping that he decided you were too much effort for whatever prank or ill plan he had hatched with you as the victim.

While your thoughts slowly spiraled you never noticed the pounding quieting before there was a rustle of bags and a scraping sound coming from the handle. What you did notice was your door suddenly swinging open, the stranger from last night standing back up to full height from where he'd been crouched, pocketing something in a swift movement.

"Salty lass, not letting your husband in when he's knocking at the door," he groused before brushing it aside, moving back towards the kitchen to deposit the bags he was holding on the table. "I brought lunch with so we could eat here and get to know each other again rather than going out. I don't much care for the stares," he gestured to his temple and the mass of scar tissue that furrowed from his brow back towards his skull. "There's a fantastic little deli not too far from my house. I couldn't remember what you liked so I got a few different options."

You could only stand and watch in dismay as he worked to pull food from the bags he brought, a well-worn tool bag set off to the side showed he planned to make true to his word from yesterday.

With the daylight and an absence of shock you were able to take him in, from his broad shoulders pulling at the cotton covering them—seams straining against his bulk as he moved around your kitchen pulling out plates and cups—down to his thick thighs, rounded and looking quite capable of running anyone down. You watched him do a double-take at the kitschy collection of mugs you owned before continuing on. In no time flat the table was set and he looked at you expectantly.

"Did you just pick the lock on my front door?" you finally gathered yourself enough to ask, still staring at him, not making a move towards the table. You kind of thought that only happened in tv shows and books, not in real life.

The stranger brushed it off with a wave of his hand, "Don't worry about all that, although we need to see about getting you some better security. You'll move into mine, of course. It's much more secure."

You did a double take at his presumption.

"You're joking. If anything I need better security from you."

This was ridiculous. What was the bit? What was he hoping to swindle from you with all of this? You didn't have spare cash—everything went straight to bills. Your apartment was decorated with items from the thrift shop, nothing he could hock. You had half a mind to let this play out—see it through to its end just to watch his mounting frustration.

"That's hurtful, hen. I know I've changed a bit over the years—got a few more scars than you probably remember—but I'm still me, aye? Still just Johnny, even though I'm a captain now." His chest puffed up on the word captain, clearly something he took pride in. You couldn't help the sardonic congratulations you shot his way, looking to stick a pin in his inflating ego.

He didn't seem to hear the tone you used and for the first time you saw a full, true smile break out over his face, nothing like the earlier smirks and half-hearted grins. It was shocking how much it changed his whole demeanor. Suddenly this stern, stoic man turned into a kid being complimented on their artwork.

For a split second you felt ashamed at yourself, that you could be cruel to someone like that, even if it was slight and mostly in your own head. Only for a moment though. You quickly remembered that he was in your house after picking the lock no less. It was annoying how easily he seemed to derail your thoughts and feelings.

He stepped closer to you as if he were about to sweep you into a hug, a loved one to share in a celebration with. You darted around the table instead, keeping it firmly between the two of you, wanting all the distance you could get from this handsome stranger.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sure your wife misses you," maybe you could redirect him? "You should go find her."

"Does she?" he asked with a quizzical smile, as if you were in on a joke together and he was playing along.

"Without a doubt."

"Well, I'll have to do everything I can to make sure she takes me back." With a jarring slap to his thigh he changed the subject. "Come sit down, it's time to eat."

You watched him warily for a moment, ensuring he wasn't going to lunge for another hug before hesitantly taking a seat. Looking at the food spread out in front of you, your mouth started watering like a traitor. You would be ecstatic at the offering if it wasn't your insistent pseudo-husband who brought it.

Pulling a dish towards you with a fleeting thought about poison, you let your mind wander to the sounds of chewing. What were you going to do? He clearly wasn't going to leave just because you told him to. He acted like you'd known each other for years

Maybe it was best to play along. You could act like a separated spouse and give him a to-do list a mile long to scare him away. You couldn't see another way out of this past being so odious and leaning into stereotypes hard enough that he got bored and stopped playing this unusual routine. And in the back of your mind you were worried about what would happen if you upset him by insisting too strongly that you weren't his spouse.

You looked at him, observing as he demolished his lunch. Hopefully it would wear the shine off of this spouse routine quickly. If he was picking the locks to get inside it wasn't like you could keep him out. Instead you'd wear him down, make him see that this wasn't really what he wanted and then he'd go on his way. Breeze out of your life the same way he'd breezed in.

With a plan firmly in place you took the time to enjoy your lunch. Might as well milk it for everything he'd give you while you were doing this and the food truly was delicious. He'd managed to get a little bit of everything so it was practically buffet style at your table. In no time flat you were stuffed.

Finishing your last bite you turned to look at him. Time to get started.

"You said something about fixing the sink?"

[igettotakethis]

This is from Ryan North’s run on the FF! He’s a fantastic (ha) writer, he’s right up there with Hickman and Lee/Kirby in my book. He does a kind of villain-of-the-week style things, a lot of problems that get solved in 1-3 issues.

He writes the family with love, which I think is essential to writing them. They’re Marvel’s first family, y’know? On top of that, it’s not just the main four that get the love and respect. Alicia, Franklin, Valeria, Nikki, and Jo get some as well!

North’s written a ton of cool stuff, he’s also written for Adventure Time, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl, Dinosaur Comics, and How To Invent Everything, off the top of my head. He’s on tumblr too, @ ryannorth

aparently in the latest fantastic 4 comics johnny storm has been in a relationship with an alien, and that would be pretty standard affair for marvel heroes, right.

except someone at marvel with fucking balls of steel and the biggest brain in the known universe made the alien look... actually alien

this is the greatest thing ive seen in my life, is almost enough to make me want to read the comic

[mameillieureennemie]

i had been thinking about this all day at work.

fwb!vi x f!reader - 1

summary: looks say far more than words can.

when you and vi first started this arrangement, the way she looked at you was different.

it was a look of hunger; a look that a mountain lion would possess as it laid its eyes on an innocent lamb. to say she wanted to eat you was too kind—she wanted to devour you, tear into your flesh with sharp, and wet her gullet with your blood.

it was possession that drove her to throw you on the bed before mounting you. the desperate urge to keep as she swallowed you whole, bones and all, until there was nothing left of you.

that was months ago, when the arrangement was still fresh. when you firmly stated that this was nothing but downright filthy sex, and vi agreed.

but everything has changed.

vi doesn't look at you the same.

except she does, but it's worse somehow.

while she still pins you down with that gaze of raw possession, it's...softened.

no longer is it harsh and jagged, slicing through your flesh with serrated edges. now, it cradles you, like gentle hands holding the delicate body of a baby bird. cautious, easy...

fond.

it terrifies you.

vi's nestled in the cradle of your thighs, hiding her face in the plush of your stomach. her arms are locked around your waist, tight and assured, and she's humming a tune. it's muffled, but it's familiar; a song that she lets loose when she's happy.

when she's happy with you.

there's a heavy rock in your stomach, pulling you down towards the ground. it may drag you through the earth, suffocating you in the terrifying heat of the earth's mantle. maybe the heat will kill you first, but you'll be killed nonetheless.

this is what your fear feels like. this is what you were afraid of.

vi's shifting on your lap momentarily draws you away from your inevitable breakdown. she's now lying on her back, baring her face back to the world—back to you.

the smile on her face is tender; it's what some might even call loving. the rock in your stomach gains five pounds, nausea pooling at the back of your throat.

no.

"hey, pretty girl," vi murmurs, low and slow, as if those words are her secrets. "what's going on in that head of yours?"

the words sit at the tip of your tongue, scrambling for freedom. they seep into your taste buds, leaving behind the most sour of tastes.

we need to stop this, is what yells to be said. we said no feelings. this was supposed to be about sex and nothing else. so why does it feel like you're in love with me?

why does it feel like i'm in love with you, too?

"nothing," you say instead, mimicking the low and slow, like you're also telling secrets. "just wondering about what i should do tonight."

you stress the i a little too harshly, but vi doesn't notice. or maybe she does and refuses to care. maybe she's acting on her own will, doing what feels right by her standards.

which is unfair; she isn't allowed to do this to you.

"well, if you don't anything in mind," vi says easily. "we could go catch a movie or something? maybe go and grab something to eat from jericho's?" the way she says we is too simple, as if it's always been we and not you and her.

you stare down at her for a moment, really take her in. the slope of her nose, the scar on her upper lip. the soft pinks of her cheeks, and her eyes. wide and power blue and far too expressive of their own good because she's looking at you with that look again.

that look that means way too much.

when you open your mouth, all that falls out is a lie.

"actually, i have to wake up early in the morning." you lie through your teeth because you need to get away from this—from her.

the look in vi's eyes changes, slips into something foreign; something unknown. you've never seen this look before, but you can't find it in yourself to worry about it.

when vi leaves, she presses a lingering kiss upon your lips. her hands grasp at you a bit too tightly, as if feeling you for the last time. then she's gone without a word, and a part of you wonders what that could have meant.

but as the weeks go by and vi goes unheard of, you suddenly realise on a deathly cold morning.

vi was saying goodbye.

[yoongelectric]

Drunk in love — LN4

~ believe when i say that you’ll know once you taste it

• part 1

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: the night where you and lando just wanted to forget about each other but ended up getting closer than ever

genre: smut, angst, fluff, friends to lovers

warnings: curse words, jealousy, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, oral sex, breeding kink

notes: english isn’t my first language so i’m sorry ig there’s any mistakes. i might have gotten a little excited with the lenght of this fic, part 2 will be shorter

The music plays loudly within the walls of your room as you and your best friend get ready for the night. After hours and hours of trying to convince you, Olivia had finally made it, not that you weren't a party girl, in fact you adored it, the feeling of being drunk, the people, the dancing, the music, flirting with strangers, you used to spend the whole week looking forward to go to your favorite club but for months now all those good times have lost all meaning when all you can see is your best friend going from girl to girl every weekend without any type of remorse. And for months you’ve been trying to do the same thing to stop thinking about him, only achieving the opposite.

You can’t blame those girls, in fact, you understand them perfectly, not just because Lando is rich and famous, that's the least important thing really, but in any crowd he's always the first man you see, he's handsome, attractive, even magnetic, the kind of man no girl would ever say no to, and you were painfully aware of that, because of course, you were one of those girls who could never say no to him.

That's what bothers you the most, because no matter how many dates you go on, how many strangers you flirt or sleep with, how much time you go without seeing him or speaking to him, you always notice how they are not him, how they don't have his laugh, his eyes, his charisma, his charm, his way of hugging you, his way of making you forget everything and everyone, no matter how good they are in bed, none of them can make you feel the warmth that you feel when he simply holds your hand or rests his hand on your waist to help you walk through a room full of people, and it's already getting tiring to hope that at some point that's going to change.

While you finish applying the sluttiest red lipstick you have, and check that you are not missing anything in your purse, you look at your outfit in the mirror, a little black dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, actually, if you are not careful you can flash anyone at any moment, you feel attractive, you know you look pretty, but you also know that neither this dress, nor the makeup you spent so much time on, nor your perfect hair will be enough for Lando to look at you the way you want.

Olivia seems to notice the sad expression on your face, "y/n don't make that face, if Lando is stupid enough to not make a move on you then he doesn't deserve you to spend another second thinking about him" she says handing me a shot of vodka that I swallow without hesitation

“Do you think I'm in love with him because I want to, Olivia? If it was up to me I would only see him as the friend he sees in me, that's what he wants, but it seems I can't.”

“if you want to believe that he sees you only as a friend then go on, i think he’s just a pussy” Olivia shouts from the door as I grab my keys and follow her.

-

Lando stared at his glass of whiskey, lost in thought, looking at the time on his watch from time to time thinking about when you would arrive, he was dying to see you, he didn't know if he was imagining it but he had this feeling that you’d been avoiding him all week, you didn't answer his messages, and if he called you, you quickly ended the conversation saying that you were busy, you had always been very bad at lying, who can be busy on a Saturday morning? He knew that his doubts would be solved at any moment and oh how he wished it was just his head fucking with him.

In the distance he saw a girl who he could have sworn was you, but after looking at her for a few seconds he slapped himself internally for having mistaken you for someone else, how could you be that girl? She doesn't have your grace, nor the light that seems to follow you everywhere making you look untouchable, the people around her don't turn around automatically and he doesn't feel that comfort in his heart when looking at her, but what's the point anyway? None of them make him feel anything like that, none of them are like you and he knows it.

He knows that you are the girl for him, he has known it since he won his first race and as soon as he crossed the finish line the first thing he thought was if you would be proud of him. He knows that he will probably love you all his life and that without you his destiny is to wait for someone to entertain him enough to not think about you all the time. He knows how sad that is and he's not sure if he can continue like this for much more, but he can't condemn you to what a relationship with him means, he barely has time for himself and how could he try to have a relationship with you if he can't give you all the time you deserve? How can he try to be with you if it means you have to be moving from one side of the world to the other all the time or not see him as often as he would like?

If everything was different he would have jumped right into your arms months ago, but you deserve much more than what he can give you.

Max's voice brings him out of his thoughts telling him something painfully true "so you’re already looking for a girl who looks like Y/N to spend the night?" How much more time can he spend trying to find you in another person? probably a lot less than he thinks.

-

He was hypnotized, watching you dance with your friends, running your hands over your body, laughing and looking so sexy, since you arrived he couldn't stop looking at you, a feeling between how bothered he was by that sinful dress that hugged your body in all the right places and the concern for the cold greeting he had received, he was gripping his glass tightly and using all his will not to grab you by the waist and pull you against him, he wanted to ask you the reason behind your actions, how were you able to stay away from him, when it felt impossible for him to do that.

It was then that he saw him, tall, with a bright smile, just the type of boy you've always liked, he approached you and spoke to you so carefree, calm, without the all the nerves Lando felt every time he had to get too close to you. He doesn't know what the boy said to you that made your laugh echo throughout all the VIP area but he was sure as hell it couldn't be that funny, how could your eyes shine like that looking at someone that two seconds ago you didn't know existed? how could you look at a stranger the way Lando had always wanted for you to look at him? oh how oblivious he was

As soon as he tried to get up to stop the situation, he felt the hand of the same girl he had seen earlier on his shoulder and as some type of divine signal it was then that he came to his senses. If he really loved you, he should let you live your own life.

Back to where you were, the nameless boy grinded against you while grabbing your hip and the two of you danced to the rhythm of the music, he was cute, sure, he was nice and funny, but in your drunken state your head seemed to betray you making you think about Lando over and over again, each song seemed to be talking about him, about you, about the two of you, and just when you were trying to get away from the boy it occurred to you to look at him, At this point you should be used to it, glass in hand, a girl on his lap, kissing so passionately it made you want to cry.

You were fucking sick of it, sick of the looks of pity from all your friends, of not being able to get mad at the girl, or Lando, you could only be mad at yourself for having these stupid feelings and not being able to settle for his friendship that at the end of the day was the best thing that had ever happened to you, and you really don't know how or when but you were glued to a wall kissing the guy, he was grabbing your ass tightly and biting your lip while you were pulling his hair trying to understand the situation you found yourself in, with far too many drinks on you, the jealousy, shame and unreciprocated feelings you felt for your best friend, you decided to lose yourself in the touch of the boy you had just met.

When the girl moved away from him to take a breath he saw you, your hair messy, your dress rolled up and that son of a bitch's hands grabbing you just like he would like to do, he didn't even have the decency to take you somewhere more private, but again, who was he to get involved in what you were doing if he knew that he couldn't give you what you deserved anyway, so he grabbed the girl's face and continued kissing her, but he couldn't stop thinking about you, the weight of the girl on his lap made him wish it was you, Lando wanted you to grab his hair just like you did with the boy you were kissing, he knew he could make you feel much better than him, he would take you somewhere empty because only he should be the only one to see you this way, he would grab you by the waist and pull you against him, he would kiss you with so much feelings that you wouldn't doubt his love for you, the erection that grew underneath his pants made him imagine how good you would feel rubbing yourself on him and he was sure it would feel like heaven listening to you moaning his name when he went down to kiss your neck.

“fuck, y/n just like that, baby” he didn't expect that it was going to be your name the one that escaped his lips.

The look of confusion and shock from the girl who was sitting on his lap brought him back to reality, and he doesn't know if he was suddenly sober or if all the alcohol that was in his system hit him at once but his body, his mind and all his senses told him to look for y/n, so apologizing to the girl and getting her off of him, he began to look for his love.

He looked around but there was no sign of her, her friends were still dancing in the same place but she and the boy he had seen her with earlier had disappeared, he asked Max but he told him that he had lost sight of them ago. For a while, when he saw Olivia, he realized that if anyone could help him, it was her.

he got into the crowd of dancing girls trying to get her friend's attention, "Olivia, hey, where did y/n go?" He said when the girl finally saw him

"Lando, I think you should leave her alone, she's busy" your friend knew that today you just needed to forget about him.

"Did she leave with him? Just tell me if she's still here, please" Lando was desperate, he feared that if he didn't find you now he would never have the courage to confess his feelings to you again

Olivia finally gave up "she just told me she was going to his house, I don't think they're gone yet" she took a deep breath and added "she's trying to forget you, I know deep down you know that, don't do anything if you know you're gonna hurt her, Lando."

"Thank you, i promise i will not" he said before running to the club’s door

You don't know why you agreed to this, but you found yourself walking towards the car of the boy you just met today, do you really want this? you don't know, in your head you just think that maybe this is it, maybe he can make you forget about Lando, in fact, you should be happy, he is cute, hot, funny, attentive and respectful, why aren't you happy? And why do you feel so relieved when you feel a hand on your shoulder stopping you?

"y/n, please don't go with him" you turn around when you hear the familiar voice and you feel your stomach do a thousand flips when you see the person you've been thinking about all night.

You pause to look at him before speaking, he looks agitated, in a hurry even, as if he was going to run out of time, but even in that state he is the most attractive man you have ever seen, some buttons on his shirt are undone showing his chest, as if the slightly see-through fabric wasn't enough, his tanned skin glowing under the night lights and you don't understand why he has to come out of nowhere now to ruin anyone else for you.

"Lando, is everything okay?" Your voice denotes concern and Lando just wants to have you in his arms.

"lov- sorry, y/n" he corrected himself "don't go with him, I need to talk to you, please, I need you to give me a chance"

"what are you talking about?" Your words came out like a whisper, you had to be misunderstanding him, or not?

"Sorry mate, this isn't your fault, but I love her, she's the love of my life, I can't let her go."

Suddenly you remembered the boy who was there with you, you looked over your shoulder, you only saw confusion in his gaze and you felt sorry for how he had ended up in this situation just because of bad luck, you shared a look and the boy understood that he had to leave.

"Lando, if this is some kind of joke or you're just doing it because that girl rejected you, I want you to know that it's not funny."

Lando felt a pang of pain in his chest, what had he been doing wrong all this time for you to believe him capable of playing with you like that?

"this isn’t a joke, y/n, I'm tired of pretending that I don't just love you, baby." he said taking a few steps until he was right in front of you "I don't know what I did for you to not want to see me or talk to me, but let me fix it, even if you don't feel the same way, I need you to treat me like before, I miss you love"

"I was just trying to forget you, Lando" the tears began to fall down your face and you didn't know if you felt shame, joy, anger or relief, if he felt the same, why had he made you see him with all those girls before? Why hadn't he spoken sooner? Why hadn't you spoken sooner?

you felt his lips on yours, and for the second time that night you were kissing someone, but this time everything made sense, you could only think about lando, you were right where you wanted to be, you were aware of his touch in every place where his body made contact with yours and time seemed to have stopped, you were addicted to the feeling of finally having him all to yourself and you didn't want to stop even to take a breath or move to another place.

He felt the same way and with all his strength he moved away just enough to mumble "let's get out of here."

-

The car ride to your house felt like a fever dream, you wanted to talk to each other but you had so many ideas in your head that you didn't know what to say first, you wanted to touch each other but you didn't want to spend another minute without being in a place just for the you two, so all you did was share looks of love and happy giggles

You two were finally home and it seemed like you were glued to each other, the heat in the room was becoming more and more unbearable as you kissed, grabbed and caressed each other, thanks to muscle memory you managed to get to your room and Lando just pushed you to the bed before climbing into it straddling you

"So pretty, baby, I can't believe I finally have you" he said kissing your neck and lifting your dress asking permission to take it off.

You nodded silently and Lando wasted no time in removing the garment that covered your body. He began to run kisses and licks over your shoulders, collarbones, arms and stomach until he left you desperate and trembling beneath him. You knew he was enjoying it but you had waited so long for this that you couldn't stand him not touching you right where you wanted, losing your patience you reached behind your back to unclasp your bra.

“nuh huh, that's my job, precious, let me enjoy you just the way I want” He said kissing, sucking and biting your neck, his words sending shivers to the wet areas of your skin.

"Lando, please, you're going to have plenty of time to enjoy me in every way you want, just fuck me already, I can't wait." As you spoke you couldn't help but arch your back when lando gently bit your collarbone making a moan escape your mouth.

you heard him laugh cockily "plenty of time? does that mean we're going on a second date?" and just when you thought about slapping him for his bad joke you felt him cup your pussy relieving half of the tension you felt.

He lived to please you and if you wanted to get to the point that's what he would do, he quickly got rid of your bra attacking one of your nipples with his tongue, circling the muscle over it before taking it all in his mouth, moaning softly into it, after a while he moved to your other nipple, repeating his actions, but paying attention to the previous one with his big, rough, veiny hands, you were a moaning mess, and every once in a while you had to remind yourself that this was really happening and it wasn't a product of your imagination.

"mmh Lando that feels so good, please don't stop" you said trying to reach his member to touch it over his clothes, but you instantly felt him pin your arms over your head

"not yet, y/n tonight is all about you, let me make you feel good" he said moving down to your hips leaving kisses right on the waistline of your panties

He stopped to look at the lace panties you were wearing, black and all see-through, they were sexy but at the same time elegant and Lando felt like he would faint right there.

"these are so pretty, it's a shame i have to take them off," he said, taking your underwear on each side and removing it in one go.

It was at that moment that he saw you naked for the first time, you looked so hot but also innocent, the look of desire and at the same time love in your eyes could not be compared to anything that Lando had seen before, and he couldn't believe he had been missing on this for so long.

He ran a hand over your wet center and hissed at the sensation.

"baby, please do something, I'm going crazy" you begged, pushing your hips against his hand, trying to get more friction.

"well, since you're in such a hurry, god, we have to work on your patience, love." Without warning, Lando put a finger inside your hole and at the same time went down to lick your clit, while leaving his finger still inside you, he licked your bundle of nerves from side to side, up and down and circling his tongue against you, the euphoria you felt at that moment didn’t allow you to speak, the only thing that came out of your mouth were desperate breaths and moans of his name repeatedly. Every time you dared to look between your legs and saw your friend's piercing eyes you felt yourself embarrassingly quick getting closer to the edge.

"Lando, I need more, please, I want to cum."

so you felt a second finger inside you, he began to move them at a soft and strong pace, curving them inside you in the most delicious way, it didn't take long for you to finish all over his mouth and fingers, with a scream of his name and pulling him against you by his hair, he continued sucking your clit until you pushed his head due to overstimulation.

“You taste so good, my love, please let me do it again” he said kissing your inner thighs trying to open your legs again.

"another time, babe, I want you to fuck me, I need to feel you" you said pulling him from his shirt, you were feeling a little self conscious as you noticed how he was fully dressed and you were naked in front of him, so you unbuttoned his pants begging him to take them off, he, always willing to please you, pulled them down at the same time with his boxers, letting his dick come out freely in front of your face.

None of all the dirty nights you spent thinking about him could prepare you for what was in front of your eyes, his member, the perfect length, thick and veiny, with his tip all wet, seemed to beg you to put it in your mouth.

And that’s what you did, kneeling on the bed in front of him, licking the tip vaguely and without wasting much time you started sucking on it. Lando grabbed your hair in a ponytail and allowed himself to enjoy the heat of your mouth.

You wanted to make him feel good, it was the only thing you could think at that moment, and when you looked up and saw his face contorted with pleasure, his head thrown back and tasted his salty precum you could only moan in satisfaction, the entire moment made you so wet again and your hole clenched around nothing.

Against all his desire and will, Lando removed his dick from your mouth, it felt so good, but he needed to fuck you, he needed to feel your wet walls around him, so once again he pushed you on the bed and put your legs on his shoulders.

"Are you ready?" The question felt like a joke, you had been ready for months.

"yes, so ready, please fuck me"

You felt his member press against your pussy and the wetness made it so easy for him to slide in all at once.

Both of you moaned in unison as you felt that you were finally where you belong, Lando stayed still for a moment to let you get used to the size and to take a breathe so he wouldn’t cum on the spot.

When he saw your desperate face and felt how you pushed your hips against him, Lando began to fuck you without mercy, hand on your neck choking you just the way you like it, grunts and moans escaping from his mouth, turning you on more and more.

"baby, please, I'm so close, you fuck me so so good, I love your dick so much, please" you didn't know what you were saying, you just knew that you didn't want anyone but him.

Lando couldn't help but laugh at your state, but he wasn't much better than you, feeling his orgasm getting closer, he removed his hand from your neck and began to draw circles on your clit, his thrusts were erratic and the trembling in his legs let you know that he wasn't going to last much longer.

"land-o, baby, cum inside, I need you to fill me" and with those simple words the two of you climaxed at the same time, white dots filled your vision and you could swear it was the longest orgasm you’ve ever had, when you came back to your senses, your friend removed his member from your hole and turned your positions so that you were on top of him.

"We should clean up" you said, ignoring your tiredness, trying to be responsible.

"Let's stay like this for a while, I need to hug you, hold you close" despite his tired tone you could hear him talking to you with a smile.

A few minutes passed and just when Lando was about to fall asleep, your words brought him out of his state.

"You know we'll have to talk about this tomorrow, right?"

And just like that, he remembered each and every reason why he hadn't done this before.

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER V: TENDER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,7k words)

Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡

Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.

There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.

But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.

You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.

The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.

Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.

The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.

The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.

“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”

Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.

“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”

The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”

The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”

You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”

The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”

“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”

Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”

You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”

That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.

“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”

You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.

The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”

You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”

The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.

Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.

But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.

You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.

-

The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.

Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.

Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.

Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.

He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.

Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.

He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.

Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.

Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.

He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.

Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.

Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.

“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.

It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.

You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”

The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.

The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.

“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.

Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”

Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.

“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”

Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”

Both of you blink at him in confusion.

“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.

“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.

“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.

Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”

He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.

Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”

Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”

Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.

Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”

As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.

-

Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.

You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.

Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”

Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”

You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”

All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”

Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”

“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”

Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.

“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.

“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”

You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”

He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”

But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”

Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”

You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.

You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.

“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.

You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.

-

The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.

“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.

“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.

Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”

You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.

Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”

The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.

But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.

Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.

You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.

“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.

You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?

You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.

You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?

-

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.

He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.

Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.

You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.

Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."

The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.

That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"

This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.

"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.

Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."

Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.

Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.

As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.

-

The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.

Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.

You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.

His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.

The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.

You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”

“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.

As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”

Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.

Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?

The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.

“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.

Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”

His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?

You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.

As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.

-

The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.

Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.

“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”

You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”

The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”

That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.

Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.

After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”

He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”

You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”

Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”

You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”

He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”

You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”

“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.

“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.

“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.

Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”

You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.

But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.

“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”

Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”

Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.

Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”

Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.

The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.

You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.

Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”

Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”

It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.

“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.

Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.

Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.

You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”

Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.

You perk up slightly. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.

Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”

You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.

You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”

Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”

You nod with a grin. “Very.”

“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.

“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”

“Very,” Minho deadpans.

Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.

How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.

-

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.

As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.

“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.

Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”

You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”

Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”

You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”

He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”

You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”

“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.

You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.

Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.

“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.

With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”

Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”

Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”

Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”

“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”

You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”

Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”

You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.

Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.

“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.

He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”

Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

-

You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.

“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.

He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”

You nod simply. “Yes.”

Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”

You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.

Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.

You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What are you three doing standing around?”

Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.

“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.

The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.

You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.

The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”

He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.

Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.

When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.

The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.

Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.

“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.

“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.

Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”

The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”

As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”

You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.

You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.

-

Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.

Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.

The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.

Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.

“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.

“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”

The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.

Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”

Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”

He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”

Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.

“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.

“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”

Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.

When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.

He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.

And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.

Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.

-

Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.

He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.

The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.

Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.

“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.

Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.

“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.

Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”

The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”

Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.

“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.

Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.

Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.

“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.

-

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.

In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”

You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”

Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.

Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”

You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”

The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.

“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.

You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.

Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”

The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.

Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.

You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”

You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”

“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.

Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”

His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.

Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.

Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”

This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.

When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”

You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”

Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”

Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”

“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”

Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.

As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.

You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.

-

The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.

As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.

You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.

The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.

When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.

Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.

-

Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.

When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.

The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.

Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”

Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.

When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.

When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.

As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.

Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.

Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.

You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.

-

“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.

A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.

“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.

Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”

Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.

The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.

Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.

The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.

The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.

You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.

Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”

Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.

You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”

His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.

“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.

Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.

And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.

-

Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.

You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.

“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.

Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”

You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”

Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.

Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”

His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”

Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”

You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.

He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”

The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.

Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”

Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.

“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”

His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”

Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.

He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.

-

The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.

The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.

He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.

Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.

You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.

Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.

He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.

“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.

You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.

Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.

You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.

Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.

You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”

You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”

Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”

Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.

Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.

“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”

You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.

Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.

Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.

-

The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.

Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.

“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.

“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.

Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”

Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”

That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.

Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.

“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.

Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.

Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.

“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.

Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”

Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”

Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”

Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”

Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”

“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.

Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”

Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”

Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.

“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”

Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.

As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.

For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.

-

The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.

The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.

You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.

Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.

“It’s unfair,” he says softly.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”

Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”

You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.

Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”

You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”

Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”

You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”

Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”

“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.

“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”

But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”

It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.

-

The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.

With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.

The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.

There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”

You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”

“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”

Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”

“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.

“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.

“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”

Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”

You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”

“Is he bad-tempered?”

You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”

“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”

You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”

Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”

You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”

You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he nicer?”

You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”

“Does he like your cooking?”

You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”

Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”

You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”

There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”

“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”

“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.

You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”

“I just did.”

Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.

“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.

Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.

-

The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.

“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.

“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.

Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”

Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”

For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.

“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”

Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”

Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”

“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”

Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”

Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”

Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.

You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”

Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”

Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”

The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”

Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.

Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”

The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”

Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”

Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”

“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.

Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.

Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”

Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.

Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.

He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”

Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.

Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.

-

Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.

“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”

Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.

Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.

The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”

Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”

Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”

Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.

“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.

Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”

Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.

Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.

“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.

Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.

Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”

You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.

Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.

The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.

Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.

-

It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.

The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”

Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.

Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”

Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.

“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.

Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”

Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”

Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”

Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.

“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.

He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.

The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.

“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.

Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.

The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.

-

Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.

“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”

You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”

You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”

At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.

The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”

You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.

When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.

“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.

Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.

Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.

He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.

You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.

Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.

Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.

And yet…

As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.

-

Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.

Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.

Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.

Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.

Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.

Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.

“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”

Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.

“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”

Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”

He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”

The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.

That’s his cue to leave.

Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.

Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.

-

Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”

The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”

Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”

You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”

He gives a small, coy nod.

Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.

His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”

You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”

He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”

Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”

Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.

You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.

Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.

As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.

Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.

-

Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.

He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.

When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.

“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.

Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.

The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.

“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.

Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.

“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.

Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.

You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.

You nod, confirming his suspicion.

“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.

Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”

Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”

You grin, nodding without hesitation.

“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.

You nod again, your grin widening.

He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”

Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”

Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”

Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”

He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”

“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”

“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.

With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.

“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.

You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.

He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”

You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”

As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.

His brows furrow. Something’s off.

“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.

“Yes, Chef?”

Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”

Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”

Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”

Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”

The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.

“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”

Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.

Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”

The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.

“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.

Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”

Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”

Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.

“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.

Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.

Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”

The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.

Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.

“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”

Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”

Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”

Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”

Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”

You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”

But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”

Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.

Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.

“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”

He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.

“However, I’m in love with her.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.

Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.

The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”

Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”

Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.

“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.

Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.

He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.

If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.

-

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[cuprohastes]

So the history is a little bit more complex, in the way that his history is generally are.

To start with your head, Internet Explorer, or Netscape. There were other browsers which Netscape was based on, but generally speaking once things had settled down it was Internet explorer or Netscape..

Opera was around, but generally nobody really used it and it was pretending to be Netscape.

Netscape Navigator wanted to do everything. It wanted to be your web browser and your email client.

Which these days is a whole bunch of so what?

But back in the days when computers were running on single digits of megabytes, it was considered very bloated and slow.

Internet explorer three for example was actually a lot faster and slimmed down.

Then in the early 2000s, because Netscape becomes so bloated, a new browser came out. It was called Phoenix.

Phoenix was very fast and use less memory. It was still based on Netscape’s code which intern was based on mosaic.

They also got into trouble with somebody else who claimed that the Phoenix name was interfering with their trademark, so they renamed it to Firebird. And more or less the exact same thing happened again so they called it Firefox.

Which is a type of red panda.

Overtime Firefox has become more bloated, but at the same time RAM and storage has expanded and plateaued.

Now, there was also the KDE based web browser Konqueror, which is a little bit of dark humour – first comes navigator, then explorer, and then conqueror…

Apple looked at the KDE open source browser, and did what they always do.

Namely, they grabbed the code renamed it to Safari, which is fully in keeping with the dark humour origins of its original name, and then pretended that they invented it. Sorry – “innovated it“.

However, because Apple had the money to poor development into the project, and because it was open source, the fork which was renamed to Web kit turned out to be a lot better than Internet Explorer or mosaic/Netscape based code.

So Google picked it up for it again into the chromium project, developed chrome and went from there.

Because the chromium browser project was pretty much able to do anything – HTML5 video, audio, supporting flash, advanced CSS, supporting DRM, plug-ins, and crucially, able to re a text without it looking junk as all get out…

… And it could also run Java and JavaScript very fast…

… A lot of the other browser project stopped trying to write their own code and just went with chromium. There was even a text editor called Atom built on the chromium project. Which is great if you don’t mind opening up a text editor that immediately eats 1/4 of your RAM.

But because everybody immediately moved to chromium because it had chrome and Apple funding the development of the base project, we ended up with the homogenised ecosystem.

Including Microsoft Edge, which is a really good browser apart from the normal Microsoft bullshit.

Firefox on the other hand, stuck to its own code base, which has got sections that are prehistoric. For example they used to be a well-known bug that Firefox had no intention of fixing – if you turned on certain graphics settings that were very useful in computer games, it would blur every webpage that Firefox opened.

And Firefox has overtime loaded itself down massively, plumping itself up to the point where it is now no longer the fast nimble web browser that it was supposed to be to replace Netscape.

Unfortunately, even chromium based browsers that are nominally open source are also memory hogs. And because chrome likes to assert dominance over the base code (which is still partially an Apple project) they keep messing around and sticking in things like this new manifest concept which is pretty much dead in the water but that’s not going to stop them, to prevent you using plug-ins to prevent adverts.

Because while Google was a search engine, they made their money from supplying Google ads which were far less horrifying and intrusive and a better user experience.

Which they immediately threw away as soon as they had market dominance.

So now the world is full of basically three types of browser:

Chromium based stuff which is possibly morally and technologically dodgy because it’s still being developed by an evil corporation which is obsessed with preventing people avoiding advertising.

Firefox, which is not good, it’s just less evil. The Firefox foundation is nominally a nonprofit however you will notice that they do like to slip in paid content into new installs, that you then have to dig around to turn off. And eventually they will indeed start explaining that they can’t support certain plug-ins because their biggest donators have a vested interest in not allowing and blocking.

And finally weird twiddly little projects that you’ve never heard of. These tend to be permanently in beta, and most often get to the point where the one or two people dealing with them just give up. Or they are based on an outdated paradigm, like everything should be piped through the command line and displayed as a plain text file.

Which at this point is starting to sound slightly attractive.

So what’s a girl to do?

Use multiple browsers. Go and turn on all of the security, and run DNS blockers and firewalls, and VPNs.

Stop reading webpages directly. Pipe them all through a local read later service, or Firefox pocket to strip out everything but the main article (which doesn’t always work).

Pick up all of your website reading through an RSS reader, and then open up the webpages in an RSS client that removes all of the adverts and re-passes the page as plain text.

If you are slightly horrified by the amount of effort that I’ve just described, congratulations you are a normal human being. You are basically doomed because the bar for entry is now so high that you have to spend months, or years learning the technology to open up a webpage without having your soul sucked out.

If you have strong opinions on which services should be used and which webpages should be blacklisted because they aren’t VPN compliant, hey welcome to the club! You are a terrible awful nerd, just like me.

The most popular browsers in different countries in 2012 and 2022.

by @theworldmaps_

[sc0tters]

Loved You Forever | Luke Hughes

summary: four times you and luke knew you both wanted more, the one time a move was made, and the one time you both actually remembered it.

request: yes/no

warnings: underaged drinking (if you're american), minimal swearing.

word count: 6.16k

authors note: happy February loves! I realised that this might have been a better valentines day piece but too late? I am actually in love with this piece though and it was seriosuly so much fun to do another 5+1 thing and I'm pretty sure that this is my first proper attempt at it. I am nothing but a slut for best friends to lovers with Luke! After the loss tonight I think we all deserved something sweet so I also think this might be one of my first attempts at tooth rooting of sweet?

Luke had been in your life for as long as you could have remembered. 

The two of you met during a day at the park, you had been desperate to be on the seesaw but as your siblings got caught up with Jack and Quinn it left you alone, sat on the one side all by yourself “can I join?” Luke asked pointing at the seat that was in the air. 

A grin spread across your face “you wanna sit with me?” You asked almost not believing him “yeah you seem sad.” It seemed that it was all it took for your friendship to be formed. 

Hours were spend on that seesaw over the autumn months as you got to know him. You were no longer the sad lonely girl to him, now you were the fun and chatty one who had a dog. 

𝟏

You had been a bundle of nerves the entire week. 

In the week leading up to prom your dress was in need of alterations and your date had decided that going with the captain of the cheer team was far better suited to his taste than you. Your curling iron had also decided the morning of prom that it was going to stop working.

So while you felt like the world was against you, Luke decided to step him. He had gotten Ellen to drop off a brand new one courtesy of him of course, with a note saying that he couldn’t want to see you that night. 

The moment that he learnt about you no longer having a date he changed his own plans, well first he actually did a happy dance because now you were single which he appreciated. But then he told the hockey boys that he was breaking from the pact of going as a group. At first they all gave him stick, but when they learnt it was for you they understood. 

Because even if you were totally off limits and so clearly Luke’s girl, they all had eyes as a hormonal teen boy. And you were a total package. 

So that was how Luke ended up on what was a date but didn’t feel like it because he felt like your second choice, even if he had never been the one to ask you in the first place. Gosh he had seen all of the cringey proposals online but he knew you would have loved one of those. Something to laugh about afterwards that could be cherished as a memory forever.

Jim placed his hand on Luke’s shoulder pulling him out of this thoughts “you okay bud?” He asked cocking his head as he furrowed his eyebrows “I’m good.” Luke nodded “just worried about the time.” It was a lie but it was enough to take the attention off of him and his thoughts.

Your mom looked at her watch “y/n are you coming down anytime soon!” She called up the stairs fearing that you’d end up late and miss the limo that your friends had arranged after pictures. 

You turned down your music as you rolled your eyes. In your opinion you weren’t late, just pulling everything out of your drawers because you couldn’t find the perfect earrings to go with your dress “yeah, yeah I’ll be down there!” You yelled back focusing on what you were doing. 

Luke stood between his parents and yours “sorry about her.” Your mom apologised as she softly shook her head, knowing that this was how you were “it’s okay I mean she’s.” Luke was lucky he was cut off because it meant that he didn’t have to come up with an end to his statement. 

“I’m ready!” Your words traveled down to the group causing all of their heads to turn to your bedroom door. You were right by the top of the staircase so there wasn’t much of a walk for you before your dress was revealed in all its glory “wow.” Luke thought he had said it softly enough for nobody to hear. But the smile on Jim’s face said it all, he knew his son was in love as he watched you twirl all excited for him to finally see the dress.

The red dress hugged every part of your body that you wanted it to. And now with the alterations your slit showed the right amount of leg, it was enough to look hot but not enough to the point where the dress wouldn’t have been appropriate for a high school prom.

Luke felt his throat grow dry seeing you at the top of the stairs, with a smile painted on your face. You looked gorgeous, in every sense of the word as you radiated this glow that encapsulated your body. 

His hands grew sweaty, gripping at your corsages packaging. Watching you walk down the stairs, the sounds of your mom in awe with your dad taking pictures turned to background noise. Luke couldn’t understand how you were panicking about your hairstyle to him at lunch all week, because it seemed like it was made for you. 

You stopped on the final step holding your hand out to Luke, enjoying the moment of him in his navy blue suit. It was easy to see that he had just had his hair cut, but you weren’t going to make a comment about it as you appreciated the effort. 

Sure you wouldn’t have cared if Luke showed up in jeans and his crocs, but he knew how important the night was to you so he made it important to him. His hand was soft against yours as he helped you down the final step “you look-” he cut himself off, opting to take the chance to bask in your beauty once more. 

It made you rub your lips together nodding in agreement “you too.” The sight made Ellen place her hand on her heart. Her youngest son here stood tall and all cleaned up, in front of the girl that his parents wished he’d date. 

Luke let out a soft gasp remembering that he was still holding your corsage “this is yours.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously, hoping you’d like it “it’s so pretty Lukey.” You held the plastic container in your hands pulling out the pink arrangement. 

You handed it back to him “put it on f’me will ya?” You asked watching him nod “sure.” He obliged your request seeing how pretty it looked with your manicured nails. 

Your eyes shone looking at it “it’s perfect.” You confessed leaning up to kiss his cheeks “thanks, Lukey.” You gave his arms a squeeze before you settled back in front of him. 

He prayed his cheeks didn’t betray him as they felt warm “anytime.” Luke honestly would have done anything to bring that smile out and for you to kiss his cheeks again. Even as he hoped he’d be lucky to kiss you properly one day, he prayed that this wasn’t the last time he’d get to feel one of your kisses. 

𝟐

Your high school graduation was not what you expected it to be. Sure you expected to be a little emotional leaving the place that had helped shape you into the person you were set to become. It was the place where Luke cemented his life long place as your best friend. 

You held your diploma in your hand as you searched through the crowd for him “y/n!” Luke cheered causing you to whip around. 

His smile matched yours as you let out a squeal before you ran into his arms. You almost knocked him over as you laughed “someone’s excited ‘eh?” He let out a soft laugh settling you back on your feet. 

He had spent a portion of his afternoon wishing he told you how pretty you looked “I mean how can I not be we have like properly graduated.” If you looked back at the memory now you would have laughed, you felt so prepared for the big world when in actuality you were still so young with so much more growing to do. 

Luke smiled “I mean we always knew you were going to.” Brains had always been your thing, much more than Lukes at least.

You looked at the athletics band around his shoulders “and you got this.” You toyed with the ends of it in your hands “I think we both should be proud today.” You had succeeded in your own fields, reminding each other why you did so well as friends because you were so different.

Luke could see that something else was on your mind “what is it?” He asked, seeing that there was a glimmer of excitement like you were trying to hold back a bomb of importance. You felt like a child who had been trying their best to hold off on telling the secret they promised their parents that they would keep to themselves. 

You pulled the grad cap off of your head as you took in a deep breath “remember how I told you that I wasn’t sure where I was going because of those scholarship applications?” You were the more academically inclined out of the two of you, to the extent that you did have a good chance to get some scholarships. 

This was why you hadn’t decided where exactly you were going, so Luke hadn’t been told of any of the places that had accepted you. This was the first and last time that you were ever going to be holding a secret from him, the last few weeks felt like your very own definition of torture “so you remember how we applied to some of the same schools?” You asked, reminding him that three schools appeared on both of your lists. 

He nodded, raising his eyebrows and urging you to continue, “well one of those schools was UMich, and I got in.” Luke let out a gasp, knowing exactly where this conversation was about to go “yes?” He urged you to carry on so he didn’t celebrate prematurely. 

You rubbed your lips together “well how do you feel about getting an apartment roomie?” It had been a conversation since you were both eight years old, if you went to uni together, then you were going to be roommates to some degree. 

Luke finally allowed himself to cheer as he pulled you into a hug. He spun you around as he let himself celebrate the news “I can’t believe that we are staying together.” He was honestly in shock as he finally placed you back on the ground. 

In the distance stood your mom and Ellen, who watched the interaction unfold in front of them “I wonder if this is what they need to take a step forward.” Everyone but the two of you knew about the undeniable feelings between you both. They knew it was asking for a lot, though, because you two had been around each other for so long that maybe it just wasn’t meant to be and maybe that was okay. 

Ellen smiled as she watched Luke grab your hand before he pulled you into a group of people “I think that maybe they are only going to be friends.” She let out a sigh as the words left her lips. Boy did she hope that the two of you proved her wrong.

𝟑

Luke had yet to come down from the high that was being drafted to the same team as Jack. He was absolutely ecstatic and having you there too was the perfect moment for him. His family had all come along and they mixed with his friends, every one of his supporters were in that room. 

He almost got emotional when he thought about it because none of you had to come, not to the bar afterwards and not to the draft itself either. But when his name was called by the New Jersey Devils Luke just remembered pulling you into this hug as Jack hit his back in excitement.

You were his absolute best friend and world so it was never a surprise that Luke hugged you first but still fans had been going on about how Luke basically blanked his future teammate at first. People who followed Luke’s days at Michigan knew who you were, if someone listened to Luke talk for long enough you were brought up in a conversation. And it wasn’t that it was weird for him but it was because you did everything with him so away from the ice, you were attached to every memory.

But for the people who hadn’t paid attention, you were the mystery girlfriend in their eyes. So you were also now the new target of everyone’s Instagram searches. Their comments to you saying they wished they were Luke’s girlfriend made you laugh, because you felt the same way. His name had been circled with hearts in the corners of your notebook pages. They were left in the math and English books because you knew that was where Luke would never have looked.

Luke would never have admitted it aloud but he knew whenever you weren’t in a room. The sound of your laugh burning at his ears, how you seemed to radiate this sense of light and warmth that could be felt through the room. He had been caught up in a conversation with his parents friends when he had lost that feeling. 

It was clear to them that Luke had his mind somewhere else, or well they knew it was with someone else so they let him go. You were nowhere to be seen as his eyes scanned the crowded bar “she’s out front I think Lukey!” Jack slurred his words clearly drunk but still knowing all too predictable his younger brother was. 

Luke felt his cheeks grow warm as his eyes went wide “relax dude, just go to her.” Jack laughed as he rolled his eyes, not caring about it before he went off again. 

He tried to make it subtle to anyone who watched but Luke headed straight for the door where he of course found you. You were still in his devils cap as he put it on you when he finished his media interviews. An awful attempt at a joke was made when he said that you could be a player now too.

It looked so good on you as he smiled “there you are.” It was like a weight off of his shoulders when he found you. 

You were in your own little world before you looked at him “shouldn’t you be inside?” You asked as you cocked your head “this is a party for you after all.” Luke rolled his eyes, turning the cap around so that he could see your face not covered by the lid of the cap. 

He leaned against the wall next to you “I wanted to be with you though.” You blushed at the words, your hand reached for his “I just wanted a bit of air is all.” You explained putting his mind at ease as he had worried that you were overwhelmed. 

You licked your lips “I’m proud of you tonight.” The confession made his ears ring as his head felt fuzzy “all I did was get drafted.” Luke always was one to downplay his achievements, but you never let him succeed.

A laugh escaped from you lips “Lukey you were drafted fourth and to your brothers team.” You reminded him in a duh tone “you’re actually gonna be an NHL player now.” It had been his dream for as long as he could speak, from the moment you turned seven it even had a space on your vision board cementing itself in the right hand corner. That’s how much you knew he was getting into the big leagues.

Luke looked up at the night sky before he let out a sigh “god everything is going to change isn’t it?” He chewed at the inside of his cheek feeling your eyes piercing into his soul.

The words echoed in your ears as you pushed off of the wall before you stood in front of him. Things didn’t need to change, in fact you didn’t want them to. 

You smiled as you held your pinky out to him “what is this?” He asked mimicking your movements “a promise that I will always be with you.” Your voice was sweet as you nodded. 

Luke knew he was wrong but part of him thought about how beautiful you looked in the light, how kissable your lips looked too “forever and ever?” Luke cocked his head letting a grin spread across his lips. 

Your heart throbbed at the thought, you wanted Luke around for all that time and more “forever and ever.” You agreed locking your pinky into his before you both kissed your thumbs. 

The gesture seemed small but it was something that you both could agree on. For you and Luke, it meant that the promise was written in the stars as if you had written it on sand. With every passing wave that came in with the tide, the message still stood. 

𝟒

Luke hated the fact that he was leaving soon. He knew that his time with you at university was always going to have an expiration date, but he never thought it was going to come so soon. 

You two spent all of your life together, often moving within six months of the other. So now if he really was leaving you then it felt like this was the last time. 

Your paths had always been one of the same, with both of you never straying far away from the other. Luke had gotten so used to you being around that the only person who he was worried about leaving was you. 

Life had always been the y/n and Luke party that he didn’t know how you were going to react if he left you “what’s going on in that mind of yours?” You asked finding him sat by himself. 

He smiled seeing you stumble in his direction “I am just thinking.” He confessed watching you sit on his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

A giggle escaped from your lips “ain’t that dangerous.” Those words made him scoff as his eyebrows furrowed. 

You seemed so care free in that moment, it made him envy you. How did it all seem so easy for you as he felt like his head was barely above water, drowning with worry “I am kidding.” You rubbed his cheek against your thumb “what are you thinking about?” You asked urging him to let you into his thoughts. 

Your hand squeezed his cheek reminding him that you were there for him “what if I don’t make the right call going.” Luke felt that a weight was lifted off of his shoulders letting that confession slip “I think that the universe is going to put you in the best position for you long term.” You truly believed that everything happened for a reason, so if the agent did come and ask Luke to join the devils like you knew they would, then it was the right thing for him.

It seemed that you always knew what to say to him “and what do you think I should do-” Luke hugged you not taking a chance to let him finish “you are going.” You stopped him from trying to hug you. 

He raised his eyebrows “I am?” Your tone made him think you were going to be forcing him onto that plane if you had to. 

Luke ran his fingers through your hair “y’know I’m happy that you’re going.” Your confession made him furrow his eyebrows “you are?” He cocked his head as he had of course told you all about the possibility of being signed the moment he learnt the agents were coming to Florida. 

You nodded sending him a smile “I mean this had been your dream like forever and Jack will be happy to have you there.” Your explanation calmed his heart, practically brushing the worries from his mind “and how do you feel about it?” The two of you were feeling a little more open tonight as you had a bit too much vodka sprite in your system to think clearly. 

A sigh escaped your lips “honestly I’m gonna miss you.” It was the first time you actually admitted that “but it makes me so happy that you get to live out your dream.” Your hand ran along his shoulder. 

A smile formed on his face “I love you.” He blurted out unaware of the ramifications it could have had “I love you too.” You mumbled kissing his cheek. 

Luke frowned knowing that you didn’t acknowledge what he meant, he was in love with you. 

𝟓

Christmas with the Hughes family was something that you had always loved. It seemed to be a family tradition for you too as you always seemed to crack a nod to the event. 

Selfishly you loved that it was in Michigan, the short drive from campus meant that it was where you spent the first half of your Christmas break. Your parents came down to them and then brought you back home afterwards and it was the perfect little routine. 

This Christmas felt particularly refreshing as you had missed Luke, it was the first Christmas since he made the move to New Jersey and it meant that you two were forced to pack everything into the days he had off. Years of perfectly crafted Christmas traditions forced into three days that you usually put into two weeks. 

The days felt jam packed not that you or Luke cared, the only time you weren’t with each other was when you went to the bathroom. Nights he had home were spent talking to you until the sun played peek a boo in the curtains. 

Christmas night was by far your favourite highlight though, matching sweaters with Luke and eating so much that you were in a food coma. But this year something felt different, you couldn’t put your finger on it and part of you didn’t want to acknowledge it. 

You were never one to push out of your comforts and you just assumed that Luke would share the details of his life if he wanted to “will you excuse me for just a sec?” You asked cutting off one of Quinn’s old friends as you saw Luke heading up the stairs. 

The boy shot you a smile and motioned to you to go. Nobody ever needed to look hard into the relationship, you looked at Luke like he was the man who made the moon and the stars that sprinkled around the universe. It may not have been the case but he was the light of your universe and the stars of your eyes. 

Jack and Quinn couldn’t help but watch, softly elbowing each other as they knew it was only you and Luke up there “think they’re finally gonna do it?” Jack asked sipping at the eggnog from his cup. 

Quinn pursed his lips together “I think it’s been a little too long for that.” The captain craved to be proven wrong, this was probably the first and the last time he touch of that really.

You saw Luke on his phone “hey,” your voice was soft wanting to check up on him “oh hi.” Luke smiled turning around to see you. 

His phone got tucked into his back pocket “thought you were going to still be downstairs.” He added, having had watched you talk away with that boy most of the recent hour. 

But you shook your head “I wanted to check on up on you.” The act was something meant to be innocent, like it always was. Because you cared for him, this was the what you were meant to do, and what you had always done.

It made him smile “look if you want a quiet day tom-” you were almost immediately cut off “I actually just want to spend time with you alone.” Luke explained making your heart feel so full. 

You loved the way that he had with words even if you envied him, it made it so much easier falling in love with him “so you wanna stay up here for a bit?” The request made you nod, taking his hand with a squeeze as the two of you took the three step walk to his room.

His door opened letting the mistletoe drop from the frame that was only seen when the lights turned on, causing your eyes to go wide “shit.” Luke grumbled as it sat between the two of you. It was like a sign from the universe, begging for one of you to put it out of its misery. 

The mistletoe stood above the two of you, shining like it was sent from the gods to put you both out of your misery “we don’t have to.” Luke felt his jaw go slack, not wanting to make you uncomfortable as you stared up at the leaf fixture “Jack thought it was funny to put it there.” He added remembering how he was actually planning on removing it the night before. 

Oh how different that night would have turned out if he had. 

A dry laugh left your lips “who are we to go against an age old tradition?” You asked letting your eyes lock onto his “are you sure?” Luke studied how plump your lips were and god he just wanted to kiss them. 

You ran your fingers over the knitted fabric that was your Christmas sweater “I feel like I should be asking you that?” You shot back slightly raising your eyebrows as you felt that he was trying to tell you something in a softer way. 

Oh god no, he thought to himself shaking his head “I do wanna kiss you!” The panic escaped in his voice, doing little to help his nerves as his heart and mouth betrayed his brain “but only if you want to kiss me too.” The boy straightened his shirt with a cough attempting to block the embarrassment that  came over his cheeks. 

You smiled with a nod “I wanna kiss you Lukey.” Your head buzzed as you drunk one too many vodka cranberries that night.

His hand cupped your cheek as he nodded “and we agree that this won’t make anything awkward right?” His words made you roll your eyes. Sure you knew he was being cautious and you should have appreciated how much he cared for your feelings, but god you just wanted to kiss him.

So that’s what you did, you wrapped your arms around his neck so that you could bring him down to you. The move took the boy by surprise as he steadied himself placing his other hand on your hip. His lips were rough against yours, reminding you that you needed to buy him a chapstick he’d actually like. 

Luke always knew that your lips were going to taste good, but he never could have predicted that you could have taste that sweet. It caused this buzzing sense in his head that only stopped when you pulled away just as the sound of footsteps came from the stairs “oh good mom you found it!” Quinn called out going back downstairs. 

You drank in the sight of Luke, your lip gloss shone on his lips as he fiddled with his hair “I guess we should go back down?” Luke asked with a shrug as you nodded “maybe just-” you brought your thumb to his lip. Brushing your finger against his lip to collect the product from his lips “there.” You took a step back with a smile seeing that there was now no evidence of the fact that you had kissed him. 

The only issue with this kiss was that neither one of you would remember it. Well you both it, but because it was what you had longed for, it felt like a dream. And with the fear of rejection creeping up your neck like an uncontrollable rash, it was best to keep it all to yourselves. 

Because after all how does one ask someone if they really did kiss last night?

+𝟏

The crackling noises of the burning wood echoed in your ears as you stared at the campfire “you should talk to her.” Quinn’s voice was soft, somehow still startling Luke who stood by the cooler. 

His hand gripped at the new beer can “why would I do that?” Luke asked, adjusting his gaze to make out that he wasn’t looking at you “are we seriously going to do this again?” Quinn couldn’t help but let out a laugh. 

He had spent what felt like Luke’s whole life watching the both of you dance around your feelings. Luke’s lips turned upright into a smile at the sound of your laughter, which made his heart bloom with joy, but that was short-lived when he saw Jack being the cause of what you found so funny. 

Luke’s lips were quickly forced into a thin line as his hand tightened around his drink “Luke, Jack is the last guy that she would ever go for.” Quinn reminded his brother, placing his hand on his taller brothers back. 

It made the Devils player furrow his eyebrows “you don’t know that.” Everyone in fact knew that, Jack was the kind of man that you would have ended up killing if you had to live with him for the rest of your life. Hell even Luke knew it, but he was willing to forget about the logic. He never seemed ready to acknowledge that there was a chance you could like him back.

A whine escaped your lips “y’know lying is just mean right?” You sunk back into your chair “yeah well I ain’t lying.” Jack shot back rolling his eyes. 

You clearly didn’t believe the boy as your arms crossed “fine look at them right now and if he isn’t then I will shut up.” Jack clasped his hands together as if a lightbulb had turned on above him. You sighed sending him a nod as you turned your body back to the porch, allowing your eyes to scan the area for Luke. The boy cut himself off in the conversation with Quinn when your eyes locked with his “this means nothing.” You mumbled still in denial. 

It honestly should have been so obvious to you both, I mean everyone around you both noticed but the two of you.

The night carried on with you trying to ignore Jacks comments as Luke did the same. Cole let out a yawn as he blinked “I think it is time for bed.” He announced placing his hands in his thighs as he got up watching a few of the guys agree with him.

As the last two besides for you and Luke, Quinn patted Jacks shoulders “why don’t we head up to bed too?” He asked, barely giving his younger brother a chance to say no. Jack was pulled up as he sent you both a salute “don’t stay up too la-” his tease was cut off when Quinn slapped his hand over Jacks mouth. 

Luke watched Quinn and Jack walk back into the house before he turned back to see you smiling at him “what?” Luke asked pushing his curls out of his eyes. 

He worried that he had something on his face “why don’t you come sit with me?” You offered, patting the camping chair next to you. It felt weird having him sat on what felt like the other side of the fire, he was way too far away from you for your own liking “do I have to?” Luke let out this dramatic sigh letting you know he was messing with you as he got up. 

It was nice just being alone with him away from just your bedroom. Since he moved to New Jersey you really did appreciate the one on one time that you got with him “I’m glad you came this year.” Luke confessed finally taking his place in the chair next to you. 

You rested your head against the back of your chair “I’ll always come for you.” Your hand reached for his wanting to reassure him “unfortunately for you the return policy on this friendship is long expired so you’re like really stuck with me.” You spoke in a serious tone that made him laugh. 

Luke squeezed your hand “darn I was just figuring out how to write my reason for returning ya.” You reached out to hit him “and what was that going to be?” You cocked your head running your tongue along your teeth as you smirked. 

He felt his heart pound sitting closer to you “don’t think it makes a lot of sense yet.” Luke shook his head, not having an actual answer for you. 

The crackle of the fire served as the perfect background noise “well you’ve got to speak now or else you might really be stuck with me.” You pointed out sticking your tongue out at him making the boy grin as he shook his head. 

Truthfully he was never going to return you, hell it was going to have to be you returning him if anything. Even then he was not going to leave you without a fight to stay.

Luke ran his fingers along your jaw “I think coming to Jersey would be good for you.” He knew it was one of your options for what you’d do after you graduated “oh god are we gonna be those friends who end up living next to each other and raise their kids together?” You laughed opting to cover the nerves that coarsed through your veins. 

It made the boy shake his head “can I tell you something?” He asked sucking at his teeth “you know you can tell me anything.” You nodded ignoring how close your face was to his. 

Luke could hear Jack and Quinn in his mind screaming at him to finally stop being such a baby and just tell you how he felt “and it can’t change our friendship.” You now grew worried at words “you’re scaring me.” That was also what Luke didn’t want. 

So before he dug himself into a hole he just decided to jump off of the decision cliff he was on “I like you.” The words escaped from his lips “so when you talk about us living next to each other with our families it’s not nice.” He shook his head watching you listen.

But he didn’t stop there “and it kills me that you don’t feel the same-””you think I don’t like you?” You asked letting out a laugh as he nodded. 

You threw your head back shaking your head “oh god Luke I’m mad about you.” The words were meant to be innocent but they lit a fire under his ass “but then why do you talk about us raising separate families together?” Luke scoffed almost thinking that this was a dream and you were joking. 

But still it was your turn to explain to him “I thought that it was all I’d get.” You shrugged feeling your cheeks grow warm. 

Under the moonlight as the fire illuminated your face, you looked beautiful “can I kiss you?” The question was something you had wanted to hear for such a long time now “yeah.” You nodded with a grin dropping your head as he cupped your cheek so that you could kiss him. 

The kiss had you swearing that fireworks should have been going off around you guys. The boy was sweet letting the taste of whatever lipgloss you wore make him feel drunk. Was it vanilla? Or maybe even cherry? Well he didn’t really care, it taste good and he was getting to kiss you.

Jack and Quinn stood in the kitchen watching with smiles on their faces “who would have thought that it would take them this long to finally get together?” He laughed shaking his head “I am just glad that we don’t have to put up with another summer of these two and their puppy dog glances.” Quinn shuddered at the thought, mentally cringing at the idea of having to listen to Luke psych himself out of telling you how he felt. 

But what both boys forgot, was that when you have been in love with someone for so long, when you finally get them you enjoy it “oh god.” Jack slapped his hand over his mouth watching Luke pull you onto his lap. 

His hands cupped your ass, deepening the kiss as you were addictive to Luke “and just like that it got weird.” Quinn announced listening to Jack agree as they shut the blind of the kitchen window, opting to finally give you both some privacy. 

[casscainmainly]

I'm very much in the 'Bruce is not Duke's dad' camp, but mostly because I think Duke doesn't see Bruce that way; I actually think Bruce would be more than willing to adopt Duke. My ideal dynamic is Duke being lukewarm to slightly positive on Bruce, and Bruce being absolutely obsessed with Duke.

Duke (on Bruce):

"Can't keep waiting for Batman to swoop down and save the day." (We Are Robin #1)

"I'm fine on my own. As Duke, as Robin. I don't think Robin needs a Batman." (Batman: Rebirth)

"Thank god for my mentor. For my friend." (Batman & The Signal #1)

"I think Batman is wrong." (Batman & The Outsiders #13)

Duke starts pretty disillusioned with Bruce, but grows to like and care about him as a friend/mentor. However, he always treats Bruce as fallible, keeping that initial skepticism in Bruce's effectiveness.

Bruce (on Duke):

"I'm trying something new, Jim. Something... better." (All-Star Batman #1)

"You're a good ally." (All-Star Batman #3).

"Duke, from the moment I met you[...] you were always about one thing... finding a new way to be a hero in Gotham. Something independent of the past, and... of me." (Batman & The Signal #1)

"Excellent job for someone on his first day." "You're a gift to this city."(Batman & The Signal #3)

"You represent Gotham's best." (Batman: The Secret Files: The Signal)

This man has been obsessed with Duke from the start, and it only grows stronger as time goes on. He both idolises and symbolises Duke as representative of Gotham and hope, and Duke's insistence on independence only makes Bruce like him more.

And it makes so much sense in light of Bruce gifting him a suit with bat ears and a bat symbol, encouraging him to adopt the name 'Signal', offering him a place to stay; everything he's ever done for Duke is very much 'I need this kid to be in my manor and be as closely associated with me as possible.'

So does Duke want Bruce to be his dad? Not really. Does Bruce want to be Duke's dad? Almost certainly yes.

[waywardangel-wilds]

More post-war Katniss hilarity/feels I believe are 1000% canon:

1. Gets asked by Peeta to go to the harvest fest or some other community event. Realizes like 30 minutes in that they’re on a date. Tells Peeta in amazement “we’re on a date!” Peeta just chuckles at her. Like duh. We’re holding hands.

2. Bullies Haymitch about eating and drinking water. Occasionally gets yelled at for her trouble. The man apologizes by way of giving her random things like an orange or a bundle of feathers for her arrows. She understands.

3. Finds kids in her fathers lake once and get this bitter sweet feeling about time and change.

4. Has her first argument with Peeta and gets so struck by the normalicy of it that they end up laughing and forgetting about it.

5. Realizes that the lake freezes over entirely and that she can skate on it! Begs and bothers Peeta until he agrees to the hike only to both be equally terrible at it.

6. Starts adopting some of Peeta’s habits because she spends so much time with him. Same for Peeta.

7. Haggles for everything forever.

8. Learns more about herself now that she doesn’t have to worry about whether she’ll survive the winter. Gets back to wearing dresses occasionally, allowing herself to enjoy how it makes her feel. Feels radiant again sometimes.

9. When asked about how she’s doing or her day by friends she mentions Peeta with loving annoyance. “Well you know how he is,” rolls her eyes.

10. Sings casually again. It makes all the difference.

[del-thetiredwriter]

Twisted Wonderland/ Otome AU

Warning: not really dark themes? Mentioned. Gn reader. English is not my first language.

Notes: it’s been a really long time since. I was going to post this as soon as finishing translating this but my mid-term exams were came up so I couldn’t post anything. Anyway I hope you like this post. I will post Octavinelle part as soon as I finish the translation.

Summary: : One day, you opened your eyes and found yourself in Twisted Wonderland. And the task the System gave you is to get one of the lead characters love meter to 100% by the end of the main story and reach their happy ending.

Part 1

Leona Kingscholar

Lonely , grumpy savanaclaw's dorm leader, second prince Leona Kingscholar. I can't say that your first official meeting with Leona will be very good, and the same goes for the percentage of your love meter. First of all, good luck, your job is very difficult. However, after the overblot incident, your job will be a little easier.

Leona does not trust anyone due to his nature and experiences. He is sure that you are approaching him for a reason he has difficulty guessing. He will do his best not to get attached to you. After all you will also prefer someone else compared to Leoana , who has always been the other option throughout his life. So please stay by his side when he tells you to get lost, because deep down he loves being with you. I would also like to point out that being by his side will increase your love meter a lot as he runs away from you.

With Leona, it usually happens when he uses you as a pillow and sleeps (sometimes you swear he doesn't sleep). But you try not to talk too much in this activity, because the last time he bit you because you nagged about being late for class and your friends waiting for you while he was taking a nap . Afterwards he threatened to bite you again (not too harshly) and eat you. Although this unexpected event increased Leona's love meter considerably, you understood the warning that day very clearly. Sometimes you two would play chess. And usually, let's say, you are the loser. Leona loves the facial expressions you make when you are trying to figure out his next move or when you are cornered and lose. He also shows the privilege of being a prince in the later stages of your relationship, both materially and emotionally.

Now let's come to Leona in dark mode. Leona is a possessive lover by nature. Although it bothers him when you spend time with others, he respects you, but she can enter dark mode, especially depending on how he learns about your friendship with Malleus Draconia. In fact, Leona is also aware of the existence of the system. Not talking to him about this system stuff or following someone else's route along with his route can again put him in dark mode. Leona in dark mode is quite possessive. He wants everyone to know that you belong to him. He even leaves clues that others can understand without you noticing. Leona is very cunning and intelligent. He knows that brute force is not enough to possess you completely. He acts like a perfect lover in your relationship. He monopolizes you financially and emotionally . He introduces you to his family on holidays. Even if you don't realize it, these meetings are called engagement meetings in the press. Farena is ready to do anything for his only brother.

Ruggie Bucchi

Laid-back yet cunning, Savanaclaw second year student Ruggie Bucchi. Dear player who chose the Ruggie route, first of all, if you want to increase your love meter, I should mention that a portion of your income will go to buying donuts for this hyena boy. Please adjust your income with him in mind. Everything else aside, it won't be that hard to be friends with Ruggie, but it will take a long time for him to fully trust you and increase his love meter. However, once you exceed that limit, your love meter will increase continuously.

Your time with Ruggie is usually spent eating meals together or listening to him complain about Leona. Listening to him, giggling while he complains... oh, you are really too much for Ruggie... Also, watching him in club activities will increase your love meter quite a bit. Now, I may have said at the beginning that a portion of your income will go to this hyena boy, but that doesn't mean he does nothing. Although he doesn't get gifts very often, this hyena boy saves money to buy you gifts on special occasions. Even though he can't spoil you right now, he promises himself that he will spoil you as he wants in the future.

Now let's talk about Ruggie in dark mode...Ruggie knows he's not the best. After all, your environment is full of people who are smarter, more talented, richer, and more handsome than him. What kind of relationship you have with these people doesn't matter to Ruggie in dark mode, what matters is that Ruggie is inadequate to them in many ways and that you might leave him because of his inadequacy. What if you find someone who can spoil you as you want? Someone who can give you the life you deserve...

At first, you don't notice anything, but the "suspicious accidents" that people around you experience make you realize what's going on quickly. Ruggie doesn't use his unique spell on you, meaning he doesn't use it to a certain extent, but this doesn't apply to others. I think you can get help from Leona when you start to suspect him.

If you don't put him in normal mode before it's too late, he won't hesitate to use his unique spell on you. Ruggie's only wish is to live a happy life with you, even if that means he has to make you his puppet...

Jack Howl

Looks tough on the outside but is actually quite caring, first-year Savaclaw student Jack Howl. Your love meter increases little by little after you meet Jack. This wolf boy really respects you a lot. After all, it is really respectable that you, who is non-magical and from another universe, can deal with so many things. Your friendship will progress in a short time with the right steps.

In your free time, you usually do sports together, forced by Jack. If you are not used to sports, I wish you luck. It will be quite difficult to keep up with Jack, but don't worry, there will be short breaks and motivational speeches and cheers from Jack that he thinks are motivating in his own way. This wolf boy does most of what you want, even if he doesn't want to show it. Even if he doesn't like it. Do you want to play with his wolf form? Okay, but only for 5 minutes. Do you want to stroke his tail? Okay, but don't take too long. Do you want to go shopping with him? Okay, but don't expect too much comment from him. Because when he asked you what you thought about the last outfit you tried on, he praised you in his own way and the store employees looked at you strangely. Even though Jack supports and praises you in everything, his praise can be a bit strange. Also, when you cheer for him or compliment him, don't be fooled even if he tells you that it’s unnecessary or that you're wrong. His tail shows how much he likes it. Jack may lie to you but his tail never does.

Jack has always respected your boundaries and still does. Even though his inner wolf side has completely different thoughts, he manages to control himself. However, if that dark wolf side of his loses control… oh boy. He changes from a gentlemanly man to a possessive, jealous, restrictive person. He questions everything you do. Why were you talking to that boy? Who is he? This can also lead to fights. If you can't get him to normal mode without his love meter going too high, it will debatable whether you'll get a very happy ending.

[whiskis]

The commander's mate (part 1?)

A/N: Two SFW stories in a row, sorry, my brain is not really horny this week. That said, part 2 of this lil snippet everyone loved, enjoy!

Alien x fem!reader|| SFW, hurt/comfort || tw: kidnapping

"You are going to take the million and shut up if you don't want your brain blown for keeping a commander's mate imprisoned on a pet shop," he replied, his gun already out as your brain spiraled with the info he just let out.

What did he mean by “mate”? Did aliens talk in Australian lingo? You highly doubted that, and your brain was already scrambling to get a response. Maybe… Maybe your monsterfuckery books weren’t so wrong after all, maybe he was talking about that kind of mate. But that couldn’t be, could it? There was no way you got kidnapped from earth and thrown into a monster pet shop just for an alien to find you and claim you as his mate. That couldn’t be possible. Your life wasn’t like that…

It was a dream. That was it. Everything you just saw and experienced was a dream. You didn’t get kidnapped. You didn’t wake up on a pet cage with a very angry gobling-pet-store-owner screaming at you in a language you didn’t understand. Nope. A dream. That explained it. That explained everything.

You pinched your side and pressed your eyes shut tightly. Wake up, wake up, wake up… You repeated to yourself over and over.

A warm big hand touched your bicep and you almost shoot into the stratosphere when you jumped up, scared. You opened your eyes in a rush and found the alien staring back at you, his eyes tender. “Little human, it’s time to go.” His voice was a lot sweeter than before, equally deep, but soothing in a way.

Your scared brain couldn’t work properly and a thousand questions piled in the front of your mind, but the first that escaped your mouth was: “How do you know my language?” He didn’t have an accent, but you knew he didn’t learn English at school like you did.

He covered your hand with his much bigger one, he was crouching in front of the cage, but still towered over you by far. “I’ve been to earth many times, little human,” he explained. He was rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, and your body was slowly melting.

It ached, you ached, to be closer to him. But you denied yourself of that, you didn’t understand what your body was feeling, maybe it was Stockholm syndrome or something. Even if that syndrome was bullshit and he wasn’t the one who kidnap you.

“Why?” You asked. You didn’t exactly know about what you were asking, you only knew… need. Need like no other. To know. To meet. To touch. It was driving you slowly made not to be as close to him as possible. You crawled to him, and he helped you out of the cage, but you were still on the floor as he crunched next to you.

“Political affairs. I know your world leaders very well,” he said with a chuckle, his mouth tilting in something that (you hoped) was a try to smile but looked more like a grimace. That only answered part of your confusion, but at last it was something.

“Who are you?” You finally let out, your brain clearing enough to question him on the important part. Being closer to him made your mind clearer, and that should scare you. But it didn’t, you couldn’t be scared when he was so close.

“I am the commander of the intergalactic alliance,” he let out in a formal tone, just to go back to his shooting one when he added: “and I’m your mate, my lovely human.”

“Like the Australians?” You asked, trying to make sense of something.

He laughed, throwing his head back and arching his neck in a way that made your mouth water to bite him. Where the fuck did that thought come from? You stepped closer, his body so close to yours that you could feel the heat emanating from his colorful skin.

“No, little human. Not like the Australians,” and that was everything he said as he took your hand, and helped you up, leading you away from the creepy monster pet shop.

A/N: Reminder that you can read all my other stories back in @monstersflashlight (all organized in this masterlist), thanks for reading!

[earthchica]

You Are My Joy

terry richmond x black, fem!/plus size reader

summary: you and Terry celebrate your son's 1st birthday and go on the journey of watching him grow from toddlerhood to preschool. The talks of another baby cause some tension.

warnings: FLUFF, daddy/mama, dilf! terry, milestones, birthdays, mention of baby talk, time skips, domestic life, nicknames [ baby, sweetheart, baby girl & more ] words: 5k

note: hiii, we're back with this story. Please enjoy, but there may be some errors.

sequel to { funny how time flies } mini-series masterlist chapter one { everything I ever wanted } chapter two { make it right }

It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and the house was excitedly buzzing. Balloons in shades of red and blue floated lazily from the ceiling while a giant Elmo banner proudly declared.

"Happy 1st Birthday, Elijah!" You glanced around the living room, marveling how Terry and you had transformed the space into a mini Sesame Street wonderland.

Terry was in charge of the snacks, and he had pulled out all the stops.

“I got these cookies shaped like Elmo’s face, and trust me, they’re gonna be the show star!” he proclaimed, gesturing dramatically as if announcing the headliner at a concert.

You chuckled; he always knew how to bring the excitement. The doorbell rang, and without missing a beat, Terry darted to answer it.

He swung open the door to reveal his family—his dad and mom, his siblings, and Auntie Marisa, who was already sporting an Elmo t-shirt.

“Hey…family. Y’all ready to Celebrate Elijah?” Terry shouted, his voice booming with infectious enthusiasm.

Auntie Marisa rolled her eyes but couldn’t hold back a smile. "Oh….child, it’s a 1-year-old’s birthday party, not a concert!"

“Look at this Elmo cake!” You chimed in, bringing out the showstopper. It was a beautifully decorated cake with Elmo’s big, friendly face on top.

Your mom, who was holding Elijah, the unofficial family baker, beamed with pride. "That's so cute!"

“Ooh honey, that cake looks sweeter than Terry’s dance moves!” Auntie Marisa teased, making everyone burst into laughter.

“Hey now, my dance moves are classic! Just wait until the ‘Baby Shark’ song comes on! I’m about to hit y’all with the moves you didn’t know you needed to see,” Terry shot back, throwing a playful smile at Elijah, who giggled at his daddy.

As the guests settled in, you noticed your mom trying to balance Elijah on her knee.

“Oh, look! Elmo loves little kids just like you!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the TV where an Elmo special was playing.

Elijah’s eyes went wide; he was utterly entranced, babbling in his baby language as the cheerful music filled the room.

“Is it just me, or does he look like Elmo right now?” You joked as he wiggled in my mom’s lap.

Terry leaned in closer, “He does! All we need is a red onesie, and we have an Elmo right here!”

“Let’s not go that far; I’m not ready to be overwhelmed by my son’s cuteness!” You laughed, shaking your head.

As the party continued, it was time for the gifts. Family circled up, and you and Terry started pulling out brightly wrapped presents.

“Let’s see what we got here!” Terry announced, opening the first gift.

“Elmo plushies? I see we’re all feeling the theme!”

Terry's brother said, “At this rate, Elijah's gonna be the coolest kid on the block like he’s the mayor of Sesame Street!”

The laughter flowed endlessly as Terry attempted to reenact Elmo's laugh.

“Ahh, ha ha ha! You gotta give it your all!” Auntie Marisa exclaimed, her laughter filling the room as he clumsily tried to mimic Elmo.

“Can’t forget, 1 year means we gotta show off those baby dance skills! Come on, Elijah!” Terry said, lifting him into the air while doing a little shimmy.

Elijah laughed—whether he knew what was happening or just enjoyed being twirled around, both of you never knew.

The party wrapped up with cake, and everyone gathered for a slice.

“Elijah, this is your special day! Just remember, you gotta share this sugar with your fam!” Your dad said while sneaking a second slice for himself.

“Yeah, and if you’re anything like your dad, you’ll miss out on cake because you can’t stop dancing!” You joked, nudging Terry, who pretended to be offended.

As the sun began to set and the laughter echoed through your house, you couldn’t help but feel incredible gratitude.

Watching both of your families come together, surrounded by love and joy, made Elijah’s first birthday a day to remember—a beautiful celebration fueled by laughter, smiles, and, of course, a lot of Elmo!

-

Weeks later, the memory of Elijah’s birthday still lingered like the faint scent of vanilla frosting. The days had stretched into a rhythm of baby giggles, diaper changes, and late-night cuddles, but today was different.

Today, something extraordinary was unfolding right before your eyes. You and Terry were lounging on the couch, sipping coffee and discussing the latest episode of a reality TV show you both had reluctantly gotten hooked on.

The room was bathed in soft morning light, and Elijah was sitting on the floor, surrounded by his favorite toys—a mismatched collection of colorful blocks, a squeaky rubber duck, and, of course, his beloved Elmo plushie.

“Babe, did you see how she came for him at the reunion?” Terry said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Shit, he had it coming though.”

You chuckled, setting your mug down on the coffee table. “Oh, he definitely did. But let’s not act like she didn’t bring her own drama to the table. Chile, everybody in that room was messy.”

Terry grinned, leaning back against the cushions. “True, true. But messiness makes for good TV. I can’t wait for next season.”

Before you could respond, a sudden movement caught your attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Elijah wobble to his feet, using the edge of the coffee table as support. His chubby little hands gripped the wood tightly as he steadied himself.

“Oh my God, Terry, look!” you whispered, your voice trembling with excitement.

Terry turned his head, his eyes widening as he saw Elijah standing there, his tiny body swaying like a reed in the breeze. “No way… is he about to—?”

Before Terry could finish, Elijah let go of the table. It seemed like he might topple over for a moment, but then he took a step—a wobbly, uncertain step, but a step nonetheless.

His little face lit up with determination and surprise as he shuffled forward, his arms outstretched for balance.

“Oh my God!” you gasped, clapping your hands together. “He’s walking! He’s walking!”

Terry was on his feet now, crouching down a few feet away from Elijah. “Come on, little man! You got this! Walk to Daddy!”

Elijah giggled, his drool-dampened lips curling into a wide grin as he took another step.

Then another. And another. Each one was shaky like he was navigating a tightrope, but he kept going, his tiny sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor.

“Look at him go!” you said, your voice rising with each step. “Terry, he’s doing it! Look at our baby; he’s really doing it!”

Terry’s face was lit up with pure pride; his hands outstretched as if to catch Elijah if he stumbled and encourage him forward.

“That’s right, lil man! You are a whole walker now! That’s my son!”

Elijah wobbled again, his little legs trembling slightly, but he pressed on, his focus laser-sharp. It was like the whole world had narrowed to this moment—this tiny human taking his first steps into a bigger world.

“Come on, baby boy,” you cooed softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “You got this. Come to Mama.”

Elijah’s face scrunched up in concentration, his chubby cheeks puffing out as he took one more determined step. And then another. And then—he was there, tumbling into Terry’s arms with a squeal of delight.

“Aye! That’s my boy!” Terry whooped, scooping Elijah up and spinning him around in the air. Elijah’s laughter filled the room, pure and unfiltered, like little bells ringing out a victory song.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it,” you said, wiping at your eyes as you stood up, your heart swelling with pride. “Our baby just walked! Like, for real walked!”

“Man, look at him,” Terry said, putting Elijah down and letting him walk again, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s going to be running before we know it,” Terry said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“We really need to baby-proof the house. And I mean really baby-proof it.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, your heart swelling as you watched Elijah take brave little steps toward you. “But right now, let him enjoy this. This is amazing!”

With each tentative step he took, your hearts soared. At that moment, nothing else mattered—just the pure joy of watching your baby discover his world.

Elijah, giggling, managed to stumble forward and grasp your leg for support. You scooped him up, showering him with kisses as Terry joined in, his laughter ringing through the room.

“You did it, Eli! You walked!” Terry said, beaming with pride. “Before we know it, you’ll be running off on adventures of your own. Just promise us you’ll always come back to us, okay?”

“Yes, promise,” you added, your heart full.

-

Terrible Twos, “Mama! Dada! Wake up!” Elijah chirped, his voice high-pitched and bubbling with a joy that seemed to radiate through the room.

Just turned two years old, he reveled in his newfound independence, a charming phase that primarily involved an exaggerated refusal to wear pants.

His curly afro hair stuck out every which way, and his hazel eyes were lit for the day's excitement ahead.

Terry groaned, cocooned in the sheets, pulling the covers over his head as if they could shield him from the cuteness assault.

“I can’t handle this level of cuteness before coffee,” he mumbled through the fabric, his voice muffled but teasing.

“But he’s too cute to ignore!” you playfully countered, stretching your arms and feeling the residual warmth of the covers slip away as you bounced out of bed like a coiled spring released.

Elijah spotted you and emitted a delighted squeal, arms up as if asking to be picked up.

Watching Terry lumber out of bed, disheveled and squinting against the morning light, you couldn’t suppress a laugh.

“You look like a sexy zombie. Add some sunlight and breakfast, and you might wake up!”

“Ha! Very funny, you know I lose a little melanin in the wintertime, girl,” he retorted, rolling his eyes but grinning as he ruffled Elijah's hair.

Deciding that a family breakfast was required to kickstart your energy-filled day, you entered the kitchen. Elijah was launching a mini treasure hunt, rummaging through cabinets with glee.

“Terry, do you think he’ll sit still long enough to eat?” you joked, pouring a glass of bright orange juice into a sippy cup. With a swift, unexpected move, Elijah flung a cereal box off the table.

“Not a chance,” Terry replied, reflexively catching the cereal box mid-air with one hand, a gesture that almost seemed rehearsed.

“Ever since he started walking, he’s got too much hustle in those little legs. I swear, he’s part rabbit!” you mused, smiling as Elijah bounced around the kitchen.

His infectious smile lit up the room while he tried to keep breakfast from morphing into a chaotic battlefield.

Elijah darted past, squealing, “Mama! Dada! Race me!”

“Oh boy, here we go!” you said excitedly, apprehensive.

“Ready, set, go!” Terry shouted, and just like that, the three of you were caught in an impromptu race that had you all dashing through the kitchen, navigating around furniture, and back to your seats, laughter echoing through the house.

"I won…!" Elijah cackled, throwing his arms up in gleeful triumph, his little face glowing with pride.

“You know he’s gonna be a little athlete,” Terry grinned, already pouring himself a hefty cup of coffee. “Like a mini Usain Bolt!”

“Or a high-speed whirlwind!” you added, shaking your head and smiling as you glanced at Elijah. “But either way, we need to get him to eat something today.”

While Terry distractingly wrestled Elijah into his little chair, you hurriedly prepared a plate of scrambled eggs and colorful fruit.

The calm was short-lived; in an instant, Elijah’s tiny fist shot out with surprising strength, flipping the plate off the table with theatrical flair, and it clattered to the floor.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the spectacle. “Yooo! Who taught you to do that?” you exclaimed, covering your mouth in delight, unable to believe the sheer drama of the moment.

Elijah’s giggles filled the room, his laughter so contagious that it drew chuckles from Terry, who was wiping a tear from his eye.

“Not me! Although that was quite impressive! He got his daddy’s strength,” Terry joked, puffing out his chest in exaggerated pride.

“Okay, daddy’s strength! But who’s gonna clean this mess up?” you shot back, crossing your arms with a playful smirk.

“Looks like it’s all on me, huh?” Terry responded with a mock sigh, grabbing a towel and kneeling to collect the food remnants with exaggerated care, making a show of it for Elijah’s entertainment.

“It’s a good thing I’ve been working on my Olympic cleaning skills,” Terry joked, pretending to lift invisible weights as he gathered the shattered pieces.

“Hey, while you’re down there giving the floor a full spa treatment, I’m gonna try to get this little munchkin to eat something,” you said, turning back to Elijah, who was busy inspecting his dad's cleanup efforts with curious, wide eyes.

“Elijah, baby, how about we eat some food? You’ve got eggs and fruit waiting for you!” you said in your sweetest, motherly tone.

“Nooo!” Elijah declared resolutely, shaking his head with the fervor only a toddler could muster.

You rolled your eyes but felt a smirk creeping onto your face. “What if we make it a game? You know how they say superheroes eat fruit for strength?”

His eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Superheroes?”

“Yep! You wanna be a superhero, right?” you asked encouragingly.

“Uh-huh!” Elijah nodded enthusiastically, clearly intrigued.

“Alright then! Superheroes gotta eat their super fuel!” you held up a bright yellow banana-like magic. “Banana for super strength! And how about some eggs for super speed?”

Terry chuckled as he stood, towel in hand, watching your antics with genuine admiration. “Man, you’re good at this! If only I could distract him like that when it’s my turn to get him to eat.”

“Just wait ‘til I whip out the secret weapon—yogurt!” you declared, your motherly instincts fully engaged. You carefully set another plate in front of Elijah and kept your gaze pinned on him like a hawk, ready for any sign of resistance.

Your tactic proved fruitful; with some coaxing and playful encouragement, you finally got Elijah to eat breakfast. As he took a bite, his eyes widened in wonder, as if he had just discovered a culinary treasure.

“Mmmm!” he exclaimed, savoring the taste.

“Yes, is it good? That’s right! Now, a couple more bites, and then we can explore!” you encouraged, unable to contain your delight as he surprisingly took a bite of the egg.

“Look at you go!” Terry exclaimed, pride swelling in his voice as he flopped back down on a chair beside you. “Our little champ is besting his breakfast like a true athlete!”

“Just wait ‘til he runs circles around the park,” you replied, watching Elijah chew thoughtfully with a slight grin.

“Speaking of the park, are we ready to give this little one a walking tour?”

“Only if you promise to keep up with him. You know he’ll take off like a rocket,” you replied, both of you chuckling as you readied yourselves for what the day had in store.

-

“Pfft, please! I got him!” Terry scoffed, flexing his arm like he was preparing for some epic showdown. “I’m the king of parenting in this household!”

Elijah finished his breakfast, clapping his hands in triumph. “Yay!!”

With that, the exit was on the horizon. You all bundled up, and the world outside awaited. The sun shone brightly as you stepped outside, and fresh air welcomed you like an old friend.

“Come on, buddy! Let’s show the world who the real champion is!” Terry called as Elijah took off, running down the driveway without a glance back.

“Wait up, Speed Racer!” You laughed, but you loved watching him explore. Elijah darted towards the park, his little legs pumping with pure joy.

As you reached the park, Terry caught up to him, hoisting him into his arms.

“Okay, champ! What’s our plan? Do we play tag, chase squirrels, or climb to the top of Mount Mama and Dada?”

Elijah squealed, wiggling in excitement. “TAG!”

“Alright then, you can’t catch me!” Terry shouted, leading the charge more profoundly into the park.

You shook your head, grinning at the sight of your two favorite people tearing through the grass, laughter trailing behind them. It was a morning full of chaos, laughter, and more love than you ever asked for.

Fast-forward to the afternoon, and we were knee-deep in the glorious jumble of diaper-changing time. Elijah had developed a habit of wiggling like a fish during this process.

“Alright, little man, let's get you sorted out!” you said, trying to hold him still.

“No diaper! Noooooo!” Elijah squealed, laughter echoing off the walls.

“See? This is why we can’t have nice things,” Terry joked, trying to wrangle Elijah’s squirming limbs. You both exchanged a glance, a mix of exasperation and delight.

“We can get it done; just follow me!” you said, and you broke into a silly song about changing diapers, which made Elijah giggle uncontrollably.

“Just when I thought parenting couldn’t get any more…interesting, we need to potty training him,” Terry quipped.

After the successful change, Terry stood up and looked at the clock.

“Alright, little one, time for your beauty sleep. Or should I say beauty naps? Your cuteness needs to get recharged,” he said, lifting Elijah into his arms.

“Good luck getting him down! I’ve got faith in you,” you called after him, watching as Terry gently rocked him back and forth, whispers of “time to sleep, my little athlete” pouring from his lips.

Once the door closed behind them, you sank onto the couch, feeling a wave of relaxation wash over you. You grabbed the remote, flicked on your favorite show, and let the noise wash over you like a warm blanket.

Not long after, Terry returned, catching you in blissful tranquility. He leaned against the doorframe with a teasing grin, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Look at you, lounging like a goddess. Did I mention how beautiful you look today?”

“Oh really? I’m just in sweats and an old tee?” you shot back with a smirk, stretching your arms above your head.

“Baby, please! You could be in a potato sack, and you’d still be finest as hell in the room,” Terry replied, walking over and plopping down onto the couch beside you.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You keep talking like that, and I might just believe you!”

Terry leaned in a little closer, a playful glint in his eye. “I’m dead serious. You light up my whole day, even when I'm half asleep.”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Richmond,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder. “What’s on your agenda? Trying to get some kitty while our son's napping?”

“Maybe, never stopped us before,” he said, walking over to you. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “But first, how about we take advantage of this rare silence? I’ve got a few ideas.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh? Do tell.”

Before you could react, Terry’s hands were on your sides, tickling you mercilessly. You burst into laughter, squirming to escape his grasp.

“Terry! Stop!” you gasped between giggles, trying to push him away, but he was relentless.

“Nope! You’re mine now!” he declared, his laughter mingling with yours. The two of you tumbled off the couch in a heap, still laughing uncontrollably.

Finally, he relented, collapsing onto the floor beside you, breathless and grinning like an idiot.

“You’re terrible,” you said, swatting his arm lightly. “What if Elijah had woken up?”

“He’s out cold,” Terry replied confidently. “Besides, I needed to remind you who the fun parent is here.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the fun one. But I’m the one who negotiates for him to eat his breakfast,” you shot back, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Terry laughed, shaking his head. "True, You're mama bear, I’ll give you that.” He stretched out on the floor, his arm brushing against yours.

“And you’re amazing. I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through you at his words. “We do it. Together. Team Richmond, remember?”

“Team Richmond,” he echoed, his voice soft. He turned his head to look at you, his expression serious momentarily.

“I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. I love you, baby, so much.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat but swallowed it, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Me neither, Terry. I love you too.”

For a moment, you just lay there, the silence between you comfortable and familiar. Then, Terry’s mischievous grin returned.

“Alright, let’s see if we can take a quick nap before the little man wakes up.”

You chuckled, letting him pull you to your feet. “Go ahead; I’m gonna catch up on my favorite show.”

Terry smirked, grabbed a blanket, and came to lay his head in your lap. "Suit yourself," he teased with a smile before getting comfortable and closing his eyes.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face as you began caressing his hair. "Yeah, yeah, enjoy your nap."

As Terry’s breathing evened out, you turned your attention back to the TV, though your mind kept wandering.

At this moment, you wouldn’t trade for anything. The laughter, the chaos, and the love all felt like the perfect little life you’d built together.

-

Preschooler, Before you and Terry knew it, Elijah was five years old and about to start preschool. Where did the time go? One minute, you and Terry were chasing him around to make him eat his breakfast, and he grew since then.

“Okay, what if he doesn’t make any friends? This is a huge deal!” You fretted, stuffing crayons into the bag.

“Sweetheart, he’s a sweet kid. I think he'll do fine!” Terry reassured, peeking at Elijah.

“Yeah, but what if he gets overwhelmed? Or worse, what if he gets bullied?” You asked, imagining the possibilities.

Terry chuckled, “I’m not worried about him being bullied or anything like that. We've taught him how to defend himself.”

"Look, Mama, Look, Daddy!" Nerves fading, both of you turned back to him, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the two of you had a little superhero astronaut in your hands.

Elijah was trying to turn the living room into his spaceship. The cushions were scattered everywhere, and he was wearing a cardboard box on his head.

"I’m takin’ off!" Elijah shouted arms stretched wide, running at full speed towards the wall.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Eli, be careful. I don't want you to crash into the wall! No time to patch up no spaceship!"

Terry chuckled, adding, "If he’s anything like you, he isn't ever flyin’ straight. Need a pilot’s license to get in that box!"

"Ha! Look who's talkin’! You were the one who thought you could parallel park that big ole SUV in a tiny spot last week!"

"Hey, I got that baby in there; it just took a couple of tries!" Terry replied with a laugh, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"But back to Eli," you said as Elijah started reenacting what looked like a dramatic countdown. "We need to get him ready for preschool. How do you feel about all this, babe?"

Terry sighed, “I’m excited but low-key sad. Our baby boy ain’t no baby no more.”

“Tell me about it! Next thing you know, you blink, he's in college, and he gonna be off dating and all that!”

Terry put on his best dramatic voice, “I can already see him comin’ home talkin’ ‘bout, ‘Mama, I met this girl…’”

“Wait, what? Nah, don’t even play like that ‘fore I gotta put him in bubble wrap!” You joked, rolling your eyes.

Elijah’s spaceship—ahem, box—finally reached its destination against the couch, and he let out a triumphant “We landed on Mars!” before collapsing into giggles.

You and Terry exchanged a look, both of you thinking the same thing: this kid would run y’all ragged, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Alright, Captain Eli,” you said, scooping and spinning him around. “Time to fuel up the spaceship crew. What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken nuggets!” Elijah shouted as if it were the most obvious answer in the universe.

Terry smirked, “Chicken nuggets? Again? Eli, you gonna turn into a nugget at this rate.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Elijah asked innocently, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

“Nothin’, baby,” you said, caressing his fade waves. “But how about we mix it up tonight? Maybe some regular chicken nuggets and some mac and cheese to go with it?”

Elijah considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “Okay, Mommy, but only if it’s the kind with the squiggly noodles.”

“Squiggly noodles it is,” Terry said, heading toward the kitchen. You followed Terry into the kitchen, still carrying Elijah like your little koala bear.

"Alright, team," you announced, setting him down on the counter.

"Let’s get this dinner movin’. Eli, you’re on cheese duty. Terry, you handle the noodles. And I’ll season the chicken nuggets so they don’t taste like they came straight outta the freezer."

Elijah clapped his hands excitedly. "I’m gonna make the cheesiest mac and cheese ever! It’s gonna be so cheesy, it’s gonna need a passport to cross state lines!"

Terry burst out laughing. "Where he get that from? That ain’t my genes!"

"Please," you shot back, grabbing the seasoning shaker. "You, the one who said the spaghetti last week was so saucy, it needed a chaperone. Y’all two got jokes for days."

As you all worked together in the kitchen, the banter kept flowing. Terry started doing his best cooking show host impression, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone.

"And here we have Chef Elijah, master of the cheese shredder—do not underestimate his power! Watch closely as he transforms this block of cheddar into a cloud of deliciousness!"

Elijah giggled uncontrollably, holding the cheese grater like a prized artifact.

“And now, for the grand finale!” he announced, dramatically sprinkling cheese over the pot of noodles like he was casting a magic spell.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you watched them. “Y’all better not be messin’ up my kitchen,” you warned, though your grin gave you away.

“I swear if I find cheese in places it ain’t supposed to be…”

“Cheese is supposed to be everywhere!” Elijah declared, still giggling.

“It’s the law of the universe!”

“The law of the universe, huh?” Terry said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, when you grow up and become president, you can make that official.”

Dinner was ready, and you sat at the table, digging into your feast. Elijah insisted on narrating every bite of his chicken nuggets like a food critic.

“Hmm, this one has a crispy exterior with a tender interior—10 out of 10! And this mac and cheese? A symphony of squiggles and cheese—perfection!” Elijah giggled.

“You watchin’ too much Food Network,” Terry teased, shaking his head.

After dinner, you all settled on the couch for movie night. Elijah was practically bouncing with excitement as you scrolled through the options.

“Ooh, what about this one?” Elijah said, pointing to a colorful animated movie about a talking dog. “He looks funny!”

“Alright, funny dog it is,” you agreed, hitting play and leaning back on the couch. Terry grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over all three of you, creating a cozy family cocoon.

Halfway through the movie, Elijah’s giggles slowed down, and his head drooped. When the dog in the movie had his big hero moment, Elijah was utterly out, snoring softly like a little bear cub.

You glanced over at Terry and nodded toward Elijah. “Guess somebody’s had enough fun for one night.”

Terry chuckled softly. “Man, he fought sleep hard tonight.”

“He always does,” you whispered back, carefully sliding out from under the blanket so you wouldn’t wake him. “I’ll get him ready for bed.”

But just as you reached over to pick him up, Elijah stirred slightly and mumbled, “No… I want Daddy to do it.”

You froze for a second, then smiled. “Alright, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

Terry’s face lit up like he won the lottery. He scooped Elijah up gently, cradling him like the most precious treasure in the world.

“Alright, little man, let’s get you to bed,” Terry whispered, his voice soft as a lullaby.

As they headed down the hallway, Elijah mumbled sleepily, “Daddy, can I have a baby sister or brother? I want someone to play with.”

Terry’s steps faltered momentarily, his heart doing a little flip-flop in his chest. He glanced down at Elijah’s sleepy face, those big hazel eyes barely open but still filled with hope.

“You wanna play with a baby?” Terry asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah,” Elijah murmured, his head resting against Terry’s shoulder.

“I’d teach ‘em how to shred cheese and everything.”

Terry laughed softly, his chest vibrating against Elijah’s tiny body.

“Sounds like you got it all figured out, huh?”

“Mhm,” Elijah replied, already drifting back to sleep. The little boy was out cold again when Terry reached Elijah's room. Terry laid him down gently on the bed and pulled the covers to his chin.

Terry sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching Elijah’s chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of sleep. The stuffed dinosaur Elijah insisted on sleeping with every night was tucked under his arm.

He caressed Elijah’s forehead, his heart feeling so full it might burst. “Man, what am I gonna do with you?” Terry whispered to himself, shaking his head with a smile.

Terry stood quietly and turned off the bedside lamp, leaving the room bathed in the moon's soft glow through the window. Back in the living room, you were tidying up the remnants of movie night.

Popcorn kernels scattered on the couch, Elijah’s juice tipped over on the coffee table, and the blanket in a crumpled heap on the floor.

You were humming softly to yourself when Terry walked back in.

“He’s out cold,” Terry said, plopping down on the couch beside you.

“Knocked out.” He added, and you laughed, handing him a pretzel you’d just found under the cushion.

“Here, snack for your troubles.” you joked, and Terry took it with a mock bow.

“Much obliged.” He leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling momentarily before turning to you.

“So….,” Terry started, scratching the back of his neck like he always did when he was about to say something that made him nervous.

“Elijah hit me with a little somethin’ on the way to bed.”

You raised an eyebrow, tossing another pretzel into your mouth. “Oh yeah? What’d he say this time? He wanna be an astronaut, superhero chef who only cooks mac and cheese in zero gravity?”

Terry chuckled but shook his head. “Nah, nah. It was… different this time.” He paused, biting his lip like he was trying to figure out how to phrase it.

“He asked if he could have a baby sister or brother.”

You froze mid-reach for another pretzel, your hand hovering over the bowl. “Wait, what?”

Terry nodded, his expression a mix of amusement and mild panic.

“Yeah. Said he wanted someone to play with. Even said he’d teach ‘em how to shred cheese.”

You burst out laughing, nearly knocking the bowl off the coffee table. “Shred cheese? That’s his selling point? That’s what he led with?”

Terry shrugged, grinning despite himself. “Hey, don’t knock it. The boy’s got vision.”

You leaned back against the couch, shaking your head with a smile, though your heart was doing somersaults.

“Another baby, huh?” you said softly, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers written on it. “That’s… a big ask.”

Terry nodded, his grin fading into something more thoughtful.

“Yeah, it is. But… I mean, he’s not wrong. It’d be nice for him to have someone to grow up with. Someone to share all his cheese-related wisdom with.”

You snorted, elbowing him lightly. “You’re really leaning into this cheese thing, huh?”

“Hey, it’s a cornerstone of our family culture,” Terry replied, mock-serious. “But seriously… what do you think?”

You sighed, tucking your legs under you and turning to face him.

“I don’t know, Terry. It’s not like we haven’t talked about it before. We always said maybe someday, but… is someday now? Are we ready for another baby?”

Terry reached over and took your hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of it.

“We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” he said, his voice soft but steady.

“Elijah wasn’t exactly planned, and look at him. He’s the best thing that ever happened to us.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “True. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard....it still is but Late nights, diaper changes, the endless questions about why the sky is blue… Can we do it all over again?”

Terry leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours. “We can. Together. And this time, we’d have Elijah to help. He’d be the best big brother. Plus, he’s already got the cheese-shredding tutorial ready to go.”

You laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “Oh my goodness...you really won’t let that go, will you?”

“Never,” Terry said with a grin. “But seriously… I think we could do it. I think we should at least talk about it. Not because Elijah asked, but because… maybe it’s what we want too.”

You sat there for a moment, letting his words sink in. The idea of another baby—a tiny person who would look like Terry, you, or even Elijah—was thrilling and terrifying.

“Can I have a few days to think about it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to wrap my head around it.”

“Of course, baby” Terry said, squeezing your hand again. “Take all the time you need. It’s not like we’re deciding tonight. Just… think about it, yeah?”

You nodded, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. The two of you sat there in comfortable silence. The minutes stretched on, and eventually, Terry let out a long yawn.

“Alright,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms over his head.

“I think it’s time to call it a night.”

You chuckled, standing up and gathering the last stray popcorn into your hand. “Yeah, and you know he’s going to wake up at the crack of dawn.”

Terry groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. “Why do kids have so much energy? Like, where does it come from?”

“The cheese,” you joked, tossing the popcorn into the trash. “It’s the secret fuel.”

Terry laughed, shaking his head. “You’re probably right. Alright, let’s go.” The two of you made your way to the bedroom.

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards. As you climbed into bed, Terry turned to you, his expression soft in the dim light.

“Whatever we decide,” he said, his voice low and steady, “we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

You smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Yeah, we do. Goodnight, Terry.”

“Goodnight, baby,” Terry replied, his voice heavy with sleep. He turned off the lamp on his nightstand, plunging the room into darkness.

You lay there for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, your mind still swirling with thoughts of another baby.

TAGS

@saturnville @kisssssssssssss @grlsbstshot @nayaesworld @onherereading @blyffe @duhitzkay380

@milktert @sefiya0x @urgirlygoddess @honeytoffee @cocooned-butterfly

@vivaalenaa @m1sk1n3 @blackpinup22 @writingsbytee

@peachbuttetfly @ayeeeitsmiracle @fakxmbj

[diorsdolliest]

𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒; min ho

summary: y/n is heartbroken after being stood up on valentine’s day, but when min ho confesses his feelings, she begins to question everything she thought she knew about him—and herself.

warnings: N/A

word count: 2798

VALENTINE’S DAY WAS THE WORST !

every year, you swore it wouldn't bother you.

and every year, you watched your friends get grand gestures, love confessions, and sweet surprises while you got... nothing.

you saw it in the way yuri's eyes lit up when juliana asked her to be her valentine, the way they looked at each other like the rest of the world didn't exist.

you wanted that.

no—you needed it.

too bad you didn't have a boyfriend. or anyone remotely interested in you.

and as if that wasn't bad enough, kitty refused to let it go.

"kitty, just face it—i'm never getting a valentine. i've accepted it, why can't you?" you sighed dramatically, flopping onto the couch.

kitty, ever the optimist, shook her head. "i'm a matchmaker, y/n! someone out there would be so lucky to have you."

before you could respond, the dorm door swung open.

and, of course, it had to be him.

min ho.

he took one look at you and scoffed. "do you have to be here?" his accent curled around each syllable, laced with irritation.

you rolled your eyes. "yes, i do. if you have a problem with it—frankly, i don't care."

his jaw ticked. "shocking."

"god, you are so insufferable," you shot back, shifting to face kitty instead. "anyway, what's your plan for valentine's?"

at the mention of it, kitty's expression faltered. "nothing, i guess. dae hasn't asked me or anything yet."

you gasped. "excuse me?"

kitty shrugged. "he probably will, i just—"

"if he doesn't, we're having a girls' night," you decided, already springing to your feet. "just us, old 2000s rom-coms, and—"

your eyes flickered toward the kitchen. without thinking, you strode over and snatched the freshly popped popcorn min ho had just made.

he turned slowly, gaze darkening. "put. that. back."

you smirked, tossing a piece into your mouth. "make me."

for a second, neither of you moved.

min ho stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he stared you down. "you're so annoying, you know that?" his voice was lower now, quieter.

your heart kicked up—whether from irritation or something else, you refused to acknowledge.

"and yet," you popped another piece into your mouth, "you're still standing here."

his eyes flicked to your lips for half a second.

you blinked.

before you could react, you turned on your heel and skipped back to kitty, plopping down beside her.

"i'm sure dae will ask me, though... right?" kitty asked, her voice hopeful.

you forced yourself to focus, nudging her playfully. "of course he will. he loves you."

but as you spoke, you could feel min ho's stare burning into you from across the room.

and for some reason, you didn't hate it.

a week later, you were caught completely off guard.

jaehyun—a boy you barely spoke to—approached you in the courtyard, a single rose in his hand and a box of chocolates tucked under his arm.

your first reaction was to laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “me?”

jaehyun grinned, nodding as he stepped closer, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. “y/n y/l/n, will you be my valentine?”

you blinked, glancing around like this was some kind of joke. but there were no snickering friends hiding nearby, no cameras pointed at you for some cruel prank.

just him, holding out the chocolates, slipping the rose behind your ear with careful fingers.

and for once, for the first time ever, you felt chosen. wanted.

a slow smile spread across your lips. “yeah, i will.”

jaehyun smirked before walking off, his friends clapping him on the back.

you watched him go, your heart thrumming in your chest, warmth blooming in your stomach. then, clutching the chocolates, you spun around and ran back to your dorm, excitement bubbling over.

for the first time, valentine’s day wasn’t something to dread.

it was something for you.

february 14th.

you spent an hour getting ready, carefully picking out your outfit, fixing your hair, and perfecting your makeup.

by the time you arrived at the restaurant, you were practically glowing, heart hammering with anticipation.

you found your table and sat down, smoothing your dress.

the waiter came over, pen poised over his notepad. "would you like to order?"

you shook your head, smiling. "oh, i'm waiting for my date. he'll be here soon."

the waiter nodded and walked away.

you checked your phone. no messages.

he's probably just running late.

thirty minutes passed. you were still sitting there, hands folded neatly in your lap, foot tapping against the floor.

an hour.

the waiter returned with a hesitant look. "would you like to order something while you wait?"

your stomach churned. "no... i think he'll be here soon."

you pulled out your phone, hesitated, then finally texted him.

no response.

you clicked on his profile.

blocked.

your breath hitched.

the realization crashed over you like a wave, drenching you in humiliation.

he wasn't coming.

two hours later, you ran out of the restaurant, the cold night air biting at your tear-streaked cheeks as you rushed to kitty's dorm.

the moment you reached the door, it swung open.

min ho.

you froze.

his gaze flickered over you, taking in the trembling shoulders, the ruined makeup, the way you clutched your arms around yourself like you were trying to hold the pieces together.

and then his expression shifted.

the teasing smirk he usually wore was gone. instead, his brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as he took a step forward.

you didn't give him the chance to speak. you shoved past him, storming into the room and collapsing onto the couch, burying your face in your hands.

min ho followed, shutting the door behind him.

silence.

then, the rustling of fabric as he moved closer.

the couch dipped beside you.

you flinched, immediately shifting away from him. "if you have something to say, i don't want to hear it!" your voice cracked, betraying you.

min ho exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "y/l/n... what happened?"

his tone. you weren't used to it. not from him. it wasn't condescending, wasn't laced with the usual irritation. it was something else.

something dangerous.

something that made your walls tremble.

you shook your head, wiping the fresh tears that spilled down your cheeks. "it's nothing."

min ho didn't move. "you look like you just had the worst night of your life. tell me."

you swallowed the lump in your throat.

for a moment, you considered shutting him out.

but then his eyes locked onto yours—deep, searching, unwavering—and suddenly, everything poured out.

"i was asked out by this guy," you whispered.

"jaehyun. and he—he asked me to be his valentine, and i thought, for once, someone actually wanted me. and then he stood me up." your voice broke on the last word.

"he blocked me."

the weight of it hit you all over again, a fresh wave of embarrassment and hurt crashing down. your chest tightened as more tears slipped down your face, shoulders shaking.

min ho was silent.

then, before you could react, he reached for you—his hands gripping your wrists, gently pulling them away from your face.

and then he did something you never expected.

he pulled you in.

your breath hitched as you crashed against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, warm and secure and safe.

the shock nearly knocked the air out of your lungs, but the moment his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, the dam inside you broke completely.

you sobbed into his shoulder, hands clutching at the fabric of his hoodie. "i feel so stupid," you choked out.

min ho tensed. "you're not stupid."

you shook your head, unable to stop the spiral. "i just—i wanted it so badly. i wanted to feel special. but i guess i'm just—"

"don't."

his voice was firm.

you blinked up at him, sniffling.

min ho exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. "you are so much more than what that asshole saw you as. he's an idiot. he's a coward. and he just lost the chance to be with someone beautiful, talented, annoyingly stubborn—"

you let out a watery laugh.

"—and actually gives a shit about people," min ho finished. his voice lowered. "you deserve more than that. so much more."

you swallowed hard, your heart pounding.

it wasn't just what he was saying.

it was how he was saying it.

the way his gaze flickered down to your lips for half a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

the way his fingers curled slightly like he had to stop himself from holding you closer.

the way he was looking at you.

like he was realizing something.

like maybe he should've been the one to ask you first.

your breath caught in your throat.

min ho must've realized how close you were because he cleared his throat, quickly pulling back—but not before his fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to.

you stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "you should get some rest," he muttered. "you look exhausted."

you shook your head, wiping your cheeks. "stay with me, please." you looked down, avoiding his eyes.

min ho went completely still.

you didn't dare move, didn't even breathe as the weight of your words hung in the air between you.

stay with me, please.

you hadn't meant for it to come out so desperate, so raw. but now it was out there, and there was no taking it back.

his breath was slow, measured—like he was carefully choosing his next move.

then, without a word, he leaned back into the couch, his body still tense, but he didn't leave.

"i'm not gonna leave you alone like this," he murmured, voice quieter now.

you nodded, but you didn't look at him. couldn't.

because if you did, you knew you'd break all over again.

the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. the only sound was your shaky breathing, the occasional sniffle as you wiped at your cheeks.

and then—just barely—you felt it.

min ho's fingers, brush against yours.

a hesitation.

a pause.

and then he held them.

not in the way a friend would. not in the way someone offering comfort should.

his grip was warm, steady—but his thumb traced over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

your breath hitched.

what is he doing?

min ho cleared his throat, but he didn't let go. "you're such an idiot."

your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "excuse me?"

he let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head.

his grip on your hand tightened for half a second before he finally let go, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"i mean, really, y/n?" he muttered.

"some guy gives you a rose and suddenly you think you're in some fairytale romance? you actually believed he—" min ho cut himself off, jaw tightening.

he looked away, breathing heavily through his nose.

you stared at him, something in your chest twisting. "why do you care so much?"

his head snapped back to you, eyes burning. "because it's you."

the room went deathly silent.

you barely had time to process before min ho was speaking again, voice lower, rougher. "do you have any idea how fucking frustrating it is to watch you chase after people who don't deserve you? to see you get your hopes up just to end up crying like this?"

your throat tightened. "min ho—"

"i would never do that to you," he interrupted, his voice breaking slightly.

"i would never make you feel like you're not enough. and you—" he huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you don't even see me, do you?"

you froze.

your pulse pounded in your ears as you stared at him, at the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his hands clenched into fists like he was trying to hold himself together.

like this confession had been clawing its way out of him for way too long.

"...what?" your voice was barely above a whisper.

min ho let out a sharp exhale like he'd already said too much. but then his eyes locked onto yours, and something in them shifted.

screw it.

he surged forward, his face just inches from yours. "i like you, okay?" he muttered, the words dripping with frustration, desperation, something dangerous.

"i have liked you. and it's driving me insane watching you throw yourself at guys who don't even know how lucky they are to have your attention."

your lips parted, but no words came out.

min ho's jaw tensed, his eyes flickering between yours, searching—waiting.

for what, you didn't know.

for you to push him away?

to laugh in his face?

you didn't.

instead, you did the only thing you could do.

you reached for his hand again, gripping it tightly in yours. and this time, he was the one who sucked in a sharp breath.

"say it again," you whispered.

his brows furrowed slightly, his voice barely above a breath. "what?"

you swallowed, heart hammering against your ribs. "say it again."

min ho's fingers curled around yours. his voice was quieter this time, but just as intense.

"i like you."

you could barely think. barely breathe.

but then min ho leaned in, so close that his lips ghosted over your cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat too long.

his breath was warm against your skin, his grip on your hand tightening like he was grounding himself.

his voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper.

"...and i'm so fucking tired of pretending i don't."

you didn't move.

didn't breathe.

min ho's confession hung between you, thick and suffocating, as if the weight of it alone could crush you.

his breath was warm against your skin, his grip on your hand firm—like he was daring you to pull away, begging you not to.

but you couldn't.

your heart pounded so loudly you swore he could hear it.

every nerve in your body was on edge, hyper-aware of him—the heat of his body so close to yours, the tension radiating off of him like an electric current.

you forced yourself to swallow. "min ho..."

his name came out weaker than you intended, barely more than a whisper.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowed, his lips parted slightly like he was preparing for the worst.

like he expected you to shut him down.

and maybe you should've.

maybe you should've laughed it off, teased him, acted like this was some sick joke—because what other explanation was there?

this was min ho.

min ho, who bickered with you like it was a second language.

min ho, who always had something sarcastic to say, acted like he barely tolerated you most of the time.

min ho, who was right here, so close you could feel every breath he took.

"i—" you swallowed again, voice barely steady. "you can't just say things like that."

his jaw tightened. "why not?"

"because..." you hesitated, your grip on his hand loosening, but he didn't let go.

because it would change everything.

because it was easier to keep pretending.

because if you let yourself believe him—if you let yourself hope—you wouldn't survive it if he took it back.

min ho exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained. "you really don't get it, do you?"

you blinked at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "get what?"

"that i see you." his voice was quieter now, raw in a way that made your stomach twist.

"i see all of you, y/n. not just the part that laughs too loudly, or the part that annoys the shit out of me daily. i see the part that cries when no one's looking. the part that wants so badly to be chosen—" he broke off, shaking his head.

"and it pisses me off that you don't even realize you already are."

your breath hitched.

min ho's gaze flickered between your eyes, your lips, and back to your eyes.

his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you again, but something was holding him back.

you.

you were holding both of you back.

you squeezed your eyes shut, your pulse thrumming wildly against your skin. "min ho, i don't—"

"tell me you don't feel it." his voice was low, almost desperate. "tell me i'm wrong."

you opened your mouth, ready to deny it. to throw up your defenses, to make this easier.

but nothing came out.

because you did feel it.

you felt it in the way your chest tightened whenever he was near.

in the way his absence left a void, you hated to acknowledge.

in the way, his touch, his words, and his presence sent something sharp and terrifying through you.

you felt it.

and min ho knew.

his lips parted like he was about to say something else—one final push to make you admit what was already written all over your face.

but then, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

you jumped.

min ho jerked back slightly, his grip on your hand loosening for the first time. the moment shattered the intensity between you dissipating like smoke.

the door creaked open, and kitty's voice rang out.

"oh—uh, am i... interrupting something?"

your head snapped up, your breath still uneven.

min ho let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair, forcing his expression back into something unreadable.

"no." his voice was flat, distant.

"nothing at all."

liar.

he shot you one last look before standing up, jaw tight.

then he walked out, leaving you alone on the couch, pulse still racing, heart still pounding, and everything left unsaid.

pt 2 - all i really want is you

[lanf1an]

DREAMS lando norris pt.2 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.1 wordcount: 1248

The Louis Vuitton event was everything it was supposed to be—elegant, high-profile, filled with models, designers, and A-list athletes. You had been to fashion events before, but this was different. The merging of fashion and motorsport brought a unique energy, an almost surreal overlap of two worlds you hadn’t expected to be a part of at the same time.

You kept yourself busy, moving between conversations with your colleagues at Louis Vuitton, small talk, strategic networking, and answering questions about the collection. Lando had been doing his own thing—flashing smiles for the cameras, entertaining sponsors, talking to reporters, and a rotation of beautiful women.

You didn’t interact much throughout the night. Still, you were aware of him, it was impossible not to be in the suit you styled him in. You knew you had done a good job.

Until you heard your name.

The interviewer was smiling, microphone angled toward Lando as cameras recorded. 

"Yeah, the partnership with Louis Vuitton is great. But not only that, this outfit is styled by my sister’s best friend, which makes it extra special," Lando said smoothly, the perfect PR-trained answer. "Means a lot to me to be working together—first at Quadrant and now here at Louis Vuitton."

You stilled.

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like it was some full-circle, sentimental thing. Like he had ever said something like that to you before. As if you had actually personally worked together at Quadrant. It annoyed you, making your professional work sound like something personal and intimate, reserved for him, as if you hadn’t styled some of the other drivers with the same attention.

You turned away, ignoring the weird mix of irritation and something heavier sitting in your chest. You weren’t going to let it get to you.

And you hadn’t planned on saying anything.

But when the event was wrapping up and you were back at the hotel, by some cruel twist of fate, you ended up in the elevator together. Just the two of you, the hum of the lift filling the silence as the doors slid shut.

Lando leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands in his pockets, looking unbothered as ever. You had to say something. 

"What was that all about?" you asked, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about?"

You gave him a look. "That perfect little PR answer."

He smirked slightly. "Thought you’d appreciate the shoutout."

You folded your arms, unimpressed. "You’ve never said anything like that to me before."

"Didn’t know you wanted me to, the media has given you enough attention." he shot back, tilting his head.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Right, cause that’s all I care about."

Lando turned, arms folding over his chest. "What’s the problem? It was a nice answer."

"That’s not the point."

"Then what is?"

You didn’t have an immediate response, which only made his smirk widen.

The elevator doors slid open, and before you could walk out, his voice stopped you.

"Anyway," he drawled, walking towards the door. "Thanks for the nice outfit, it was great, should’ve asked you to style me sooner.’’ he stretched his arms above his head, yawning.  ‘’Can’t wait to take it off though. Looking good is exhausting, sweet dreams stylist" 

You rolled your eyes without a response, walking to your room annoyed that it had gotten to you.

-

The second night of the Louis Vuitton x F1 launch was in full swing, luxury and motorsport merging under glittering lights. You kept to your side of the event, mingling with the LV team and ensuring the drivers looked sharp.

You barely interacted with Lando after yesterday, just the occasional glance across the room to admire the suit you had picked out for him tonight.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, your phone buzzed.

Lando: Where are you?

You frowned, typing back.

You: At the event, obviously.

Lando: Need you. Now.

Your heartbeat kicked up. You glanced around, trying to spot him, but he wasn’t in sight.

You: What? Why?

No response.

Then another buzz.

Lando: Toilets. Back hallway. Please.

Your stomach twisted. Without thinking too much, you slipped away from the crowd, making your way toward the hallway. You pushed open the door to the private restroom area, and there he was—leaning against the sink, looking both frustrated and amused.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, shutting the door behind you.

Lando exhaled sharply, tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Zipper broke.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“No, I’m making it up for fun,” he deadpanned. “Yes, I’m serious.”

Your eyes narrowed, stepping closer. “A Louis Vuitton zipper doesn’t just break.”

Lando hesitated. Just for a second.

It was quick, but you caught it. And suddenly, the situation felt… off.

You crossed your arms. “What exactly were you doing before this broke?”

Lando’s expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to catch the shift—the slight smirk, the too-casual way he leaned back.

“Are you implying something?” he asked, voice teasing.

You raised a brow. “I don’t know. Am I?”

His grin widened, but he didn’t answer.

Your stomach twisted, an irrational frustration bubbling up. Why did you care? It wasn’t your business what—or who—he was doing before this event. But the thought of him slipping away with someone, being careless enough to mess up his suit right before stepping out onto the carpet, annoyed you more than it should have.

“Forget it,” you muttered, stepping closer. “Just—hold still.”

Lando’s smirk lingered, but he obeyed, shifting just enough to give you better access.

You knelt down, fingers adjusting the fabric quickly. The problem itself wasn’t as bad as he made it sound—it was a minor snag, nothing you couldn’t handle. But the proximity was dangerous. Your fingers moved with careful precision, but it was impossible not to graze the warm skin beneath the waistband. You could feel the way Lando barely shifted, his breath steady but controlled, like he was making an effort not to react.

“Not bad at this, are you?” Lando murmured, voice lower than before.

You didn’t respond. You just focused, ignoring the way his muscles tensed when your fingers brushed against him.

Finally, with one last tug, you straightened. “There. Fixed.” 

Lando glanced down, then back up at you. Neither of you moved.

The air shifted.

And then, before you could think too hard about it, he leaned in.

His lips met yours, firm and insistent. It was messy, rushed, like neither of you had planned for this but couldn’t stop it either. You barely had time to react before you were kissing him back. His hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you into him like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

Then, as suddenly as it started, you pulled back.

Breathless.

Lando exhaled, eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s one way to handle a wardrobe malfunction.”

You stared at him, your own breath unsteady.

What the hell just happened?

WN: Hope you guys like it! Let me know!

tl: @freyathehuntress