#I can get so insufferable when talking about them

[christopherisfoive]

Bad News, Baby

Han Jisung x Makeup Intern!Reader | Rockstar AU | 18+ | Smut

Summary: You spent the whole tour trying to resist him.

A messy black sports car, a mini skirt, and Han’s filthy mouth later — you never stood a chance.

Slow-burn tension, possessive backseat fucking, sticky fingers, and leather seats. He warned you he was bad news.

Warnings:

18+ only. unprotected sex. fingering. oral fixation (implied) overstimulation. dirty talk. possessive behavior. light manhandling. backseat sex. general filth

a/n: Idk man Jisung is just.....anyway this is not edited so pls forgive my mistakes and you can dm me about them :D love u! Will try to continue requests tomorrow. (try) goodnight :)

Your hand trembled just slightly as you angled the eyeliner pen against Han’s face.

He sat in the makeup chair like he owned it, legs spread wide, denim jacket slipping down his shoulders, messy hair falling into his eyes.

He wasn’t even pretending to behave.

"You're staring," Han said lazily, voice deep and smug, the smirk curling his lips pure trouble.

"Not that I blame you."

You scowled, focusing extra hard on the flick of liner at the corner of his eye.

Professional. You were professional.

You weren’t going to fall for some cocky, gorgeous, tattooed little shit of a rockstar.

"You keep talking," you said, voice carefully even, "I'll make your wings uneven."

Han chuckled low in his throat a rough sound that slid down your spine and pooled low in your stomach.

"Maybe I want 'em messy," he murmured, voice dropping, "like you’ll be after I’m done with you."

You nearly dropped the eyeliner.

Instead, you leaned in closer, letting your breath brush his cheek, a small, stupid act of defiance and whispered.

"You're bad news, rockstar."

Han's eyes gleamed like you’d just handed him a victory.

"Bad news, huh? You think about me being bad a lot?" You jabbed the cap of the pen against his forehead, making him flinch and laugh.

"You’re insufferable."

"And you," he said, grinning wide, "are gonna come crawling to me one day, begging for it." You stepped back, tossed the eyeliner onto the table, and turned away before he could see the heat creeping up your neck.

"Dream on, Han."

His chuckle followed you down the hallway.

"Every night, baby."

You didn’t notice your boss watching until it was too late. The lead makeup artist — a sharp-eyed woman who had already warned you once about getting "too friendly" with the talent gave Han a pointed look from across the room.

“Han,” she said loudly, arms crossed. “Leave her alone, would you? Some of us are actually trying to work.”

You froze, mortified. Han just smirked wider, tilting his head like he was innocent.

“Just making conversation,” he said, all fake sweetness.

“Save it for after the show,” your boss snapped.

“And stop distracting her.”

Han caught your eye as he slouched off toward the stage door, mouth curling into a wicked little smile meant only for you. Distracting you was the whole point.

And you were already losing.

-

The final night of tour.

The venue was packed, the energy insane. You were doing your best to stay invisible, fixing smudges, running around, pretending not to notice Han watching you from across the backstage area.

At the afterparty, you tucked yourself into a corner, pretending to reorganize the nearby table of drinks, the hem of your black mini skirt riding dangerously high when you moved, showing off the soft curve of your thighs. Your tight ribbed tank top hugged your waist, just visible under an oversized jacket slipping off one shoulder.

You weren't trying to look good. You just did.

Han saw you immediately and the second he did, his mouth curled into a slow, dangerous smirk. You didn’t hear him approach until he was already pressed up behind you, body heat sinking into your skin. His hand braced on the table beside yours, caging you in.

"You gonna keep running, makeup girl?" he murmured, voice dark and low against your ear.

You stiffened, gripping the table until your fingers hurt.

"You're drunk," you muttered.

Han chuckled, that rough, dangerous sound.

"Drunk on you, maybe."

You opened your mouth to snap at him but he grabbed your hand instead, fingers wrapping tight around yours.

"Come on," he said, voice thick with something wild and reckless."Let’s get out of here."

Before you could process it, he was dragging you through the crowd — weaving between bodies, yanking you toward the service exit at the back of the venue.

The heavy door slammed behind you with a metallic clang, cutting off the roar of the party.

You stumbled into the humid night air, heart hammering, adrenaline buzzing through your veins. Han didn’t slow down. He pulled you across the cracked pavement of the staff parking lot toward a black sports car gleaming under the streetlights, dusty from too many late nights and fast drives.

His car.

He yanked the door open without a word, shoving you into the backseat, the leather hot against your bare thighs. Then he was climbing in after you and slamming the door, sealing you both inside.

The world blurred away.

It was just the two of you now in the dark, the heat, the thud of your racing hearts.

"No more running," Han said, voice wrecked and raw.

And then he was on you.

You barely had time to gasp before Han’s mouth crashed into yours, rough, desperate, tongue pushing deep, hands everywhere. The car smelled like leather and sweat and smoke and him, thick and heady and suffocating and you drank it in like you were starving. Han shoved you flat across the backseat, his body pressing you down, grinding between your open thighs.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your mouth, voice shaking. “You fucking hear me? Mine.”

You whimpered, clawing at his shirt, heart pounding so hard you thought it might tear through your ribs. He pulled back just enough to look down at you. Messy hair, kiss-swollen lips, chest heaving and smirked. His hands dragged down your thighs. Rough palms against bare skin.

“Knew you were hiding this pretty little skirt under that jacket,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “You wore this for me, didn’t you, baby?”

You shook your head frantically, but your body betrayed you, hips arching up into his touch. Han grinned wider. He looked wicked, cocky and shoved your skirt up around your waist, exposing the thin scrap of panties underneath. He hooked two fingers into the waistband and dragged them down slow. Knuckles brushing over your soaked folds, making you gasp.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Fucking dripping for me.”

He dropped your panties onto the car floor and spread your thighs wide, hands gripping hard enough to bruise. Without warning, he shoved two fingers deep inside you. You sobbed, high and broken, back arching off the seat.

“So needy,” Han muttered, curling his fingers to press right against that sweet, aching spot inside you.

The wet, slick sound of him fingerfucking you filled the car — obscene, messy, desperate. You whined, hips jerking helplessly.

“You hear that?” he rasped against your neck. “That’s you, sweetheart. So fucking desperate for my cock.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. When he finally pulled his fingers out, you whimpered. The sudden emptiness unbearable. Han unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock was thick, flushed, leaking and grabbed your hips roughly.

“You gonna take it?” he whispered, voice shaking with how bad he wanted it. “You gonna let me fuck you until you can't even remember your name?”

You nodded frantically, eyes wide and tear-filled. He didn’t wait. Han slammed into you in one brutal thrust, punching a scream from your throat. The stretch was overwhelming and brutal, perfect, too much. He didn’t give you time to adjust, just set a hard, punishing rhythm, fucking you so deep the car rocked with every savage thrust.

“So tight,” Han panted, teeth scraping your neck. “Made for me.”

You sobbed, hands clawing at the leather, hips jerking helplessly.

At some point, Han slid his hand down your body, pressing hard against your lower stomach.

You felt it. The thick, brutal drag of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open.

“Feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am?”

You nodded desperately, tears spilling over, thighs trembling.

He grunted, grinding harder ,making sure you felt every thick inch and your mind completely shattered.

The pressure built fast , dizzying, unbearable.

Han’s hand found your clit, rough and messy, dragging you over the edge.

“Cum for me,” he growled against your lips. “Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You shattered , your orgasm ripping through you so hard you screamed, nails clawing at his shoulders, cunt clenching down around his cock.

Han cursed, fucking you through it ,and then he was groaning deep in his chest, slamming deep as he spilled inside you.

Hot. Endless. Overwhelming.

You whimpered at the stretch, the heat, the dizzying fullness.

Han stayed inside you for a moment ,grinding lazily, making you feel every filthy, sticky inch.

When he finally pulled out, it was slow , dragging himself out inch by messy inch, until you were gasping, leaking all over the leather.

Instead of stopping, he rubbed his cock lazily against your bare, dripping folds , spreading the mess everywhere, making you twitch and sob from overstimulation.

“Such a good little mess,” Han muttered, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

He pressed two fingers against your swollen pussy, spreading you open, just enough to see his cum leaking out.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Prettiest thing I've ever seen.”

You shoved at him weakly, cheeks burning, but he just grinned and leaned in for one more filthy, claiming kiss.

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he whispered against your mouth. “And you fucking love it.”

And you did.

God help you, you did.

You were still catching your breath, trembling and dazed, when Han finally leaned back. The wild look in his eyes had softened, his thumb gently brushing your cheek, wiping away the tear tracks neither of you had noticed before.

He let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline fading, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded slowly, eyes still glassy. Your voice was too wrecked to speak yet.

He kissed your temple, not hungry or rough this time, just soft, grounding. Then he reached back behind the seat, pulling out the hoodie he always threw in his car and wrapping it gently around your shoulders.

"C’mere," he whispered, helping you sit up, guiding your body carefully into his lap as he stayed stretched across the seat. One of his hands rested against your back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb stroking slowly, gently.

No teasing. No smirk. Just Han, quiet and warm and holding you like you meant something.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

He murmured something into your hair — soft and low, too quiet to catch — but the way he held you a little tighter after said more than words ever could.

When your breathing finally evened out, you shifted in his lap slightly, trying to look at him. He brushed your hair back with a tenderness that caught you off guard.

“You were so good for me,” he said, voice low and real. “So fucking perfect.”

You felt your throat tighten again. He smiled at you — not the cocky smirk, not the tease — just a small, sincere curve of his lips like he was still trying to believe it happened.

And when you leaned into his chest, letting your weight sink into him, Han wrapped both arms around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He helped you climb off him carefully, guiding your shaky legs and holding onto your waist as you both adjusted yourselves in silence. When you winced softly, he muttered an apology under his breath and kissed your shoulder, then reached for his hoodie and slipped it over your head.

The air outside the car was cooler now, and Han didn’t say a word as he opened the door and helped you into the passenger seat up front. He tossed the hoodie’s sleeves over your bare thighs before shutting the door and sliding behind the wheel.

The engine rumbled to life, but he didn’t drive yet.

“You sure you're okay?” he asked again, glancing at you, softer this time.

You nodded slowly, eyes still glassy.

He leaned over, brushing your hair from your face. “Still think I’m bad news?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”

But this time, you were smiling — and so was he.

As he pulled out of the lot, one of his hands found yours between the seats and didn’t let go.

[thebluediner]

MIGHT'VE JUST LOST THE ALLEGATIONS

once again billie was at your house at noon because she had no plans for the day and was honestly bored. she just popped into your room for whatever reason you didn't bother to ask but when she came back out her mood had changed.

''was somebody here last night ?'' here as in was somebody in your room last night. billie asked her eyes looking at you like she already knew the answer but wanted it to be the latter.

'' in my room? no one why do you ask?'' you replied shifting your attention away from your phone to her

'' there's a jacket that's not yours in there'' billie said before sitting on a stool next to you leaning in as if was waiting for an explanation.

''oh got it from my date yesterday it was cold out plus I like it "' you answered her not shying away from her eyes in-fact you were too comfortable with the closeness between the two of you.

'' doesn't suit you '' she muttered under her breath looking anywhere else around the house.

'' so what would fit me yours ?'' you asked just to tease her and as an attempt to lighten up her mood.

'' yeah''

'' are you jealous ?'' you questioned genuinely shocked maybe this is why she was always in a pissy mood when you talked about your dates.

''and if I was?'' her eyes seemed to find your again. your eyes didn't miss the way she bit her lip she was nervous but she played it off.

''you can take me on a date too eilish I'm not picky '' you leaned onto the counter getting closer to her. again, you did not miss the way her eyes flicked to your lips.

'' right then go get ready ?" a smug smirk appeared on a face once the words left her lips

'' right now?'' your eyes widened a bit not expecting her actually do it.

'' you got anywhere else to be?'' she was right you didn't so you had no excuse to not go. that's exactly how your first date went leading to many more and your friendship fading into something more, something official.

people around the two of you thought you guys were already a bit too much when you weren't dating but now you're just insufferable. billie clung to you like somebody told her the moment she let go you were going to be snatched up. her hands roamed around your waist, lower back, around your shoulders, your thighs when she felt possessive over you they tread around your neck.

gosh the way billie wanted everyone to know you were hers she talked about you to everyone even strangers. every time somebody would talk to her she always found a way to mention you too. '' oh yeah my girlfriend right there chose my outfit today'' '' oh yeah my girlfriend likes that brand too'' '' oh yeah my girlfriend was talking about that earlier on'' '' oh yeah my girlfriend wrote that song'' '' oh yeah my girlfriend stars in that movie''.

billie was your number one supporter and she wanted everyone to know too. it was odd to not find her under your comments after posting something sometimes she'd be he one filling the comment section. the one time you had a collaboration with calvin klein. ''fuck baby I'm so hard'' ''when are you coming back home '' '' I need you so bad '' '' I'm going to explode I swear to god'' '' I'm gonna freak to this every single night ''

billie needed to show you off it was becoming her natural instinct. her wallpaper changed from that horny clock to a picture of you she took of you in her car right before she fucked you in it. she even wanted to rock up to every red carpet with you by her side but you refused not because you hated her like she claimed before you'd be too distracted by her you would forgot how to even do your job out there.

billie was an obvious car freak everybody knew that. she hated a mess in her car she hated foreign things polluting her space but not when it's you. her dashboard and her car holders were filled with your lipsticks, hair ties , bows and she didn't mind at all in-fact she left them out so anybody who came in would know you were there ,they would know she's claimed.

pda was definitely on the table for billie at this point in her mind she didn't even realise she was doing it she was just too lost in your presence to even register you were in-front of other people. if she felt the need to pull your body against hers she did so immediately with no hesitation if she felt like your lips tempted her she didn't waist a minute she kissed you there and there. if she felt your exposed shoulder needed a kiss she would place it there with no care who was filming and who wasn't .

billie would always ask you to come sleepover at her house. every time she would go to yours and when she came back it felt empty in her own house and she just missed you too much so she started calling you over. she said when you would come over by the time you leave her bed would smell like you and that somehow brought her relief when you weren't there .

billie refused to watch any romantic movies you starred in . the first time she did she wanted to cry in jealousy so she vowed to never again. well now when she watched them it was a ritual that you kiss her right after every romantic scene so she wouldn't feel so jealous. your friends and family said she was so pathetically in love with you when you told them about it.

god forbid you attended the same events you two were glued next to each other the entire time even in the after parties actually scratch that you were worse in the after parties. if a person would go in some corner there you two were. you were seated on billie;'s lap basically straddling her and billie's hands were all over you.

so yeah you two definitely lost the allegations

[cheriemariii]

Part 1/5 of that damned jrsih yuri au look book I've been working on for three weeks straight now 🤞 (under the cut :3)

usagi

-what if scrooge mcduck were an insufferable lesbian mostly

-I remember back when i was drafting her i saw someone on twt refer to a character (idk who xd) as “femme prince” and it just stuck with me yknow???????

-so yeah anyways she loves suits. u could be doing your groceries and randomly find this renowned writer wearing the most annoyingly extra suit u have ever seen in ur life.

-and the very few times she is not wearing one (mostly when she is supposed to be chilling at home) she still dresses up like a rich man. as a fun fact, the outfit pictured above is inspired by smth usagi actually wears in the manga jdhsjdhshh

-if she ever wears a dress its only for an extremely formal event that isaka forced her to go to. And ofc it IS something too fancy

-pretty much her entire wardrobe is way too expensive….. and also its huge

-also she likes wearing heels bc she likes being taller than she already is (very much so…..) and she is surprisingly good at walking with them for someone who hates going outside

-her hair always looks the same bc she may not be lazy enough to put on full makeup and dress like she came out straight from a snobby men fashion show somewhere expensive every single day….. but she is too lazy to do her hair.

-killer bod somehow? and will make sure to use it against misakis ~composed japanese woman~ facade at any given opportunity :)

nowaki

-butchbutchbutcbhbutchbutchbutch

-keeping her close to canon :)

-very much into dark plain colors, mostly bc she likes keeping things simple when it comes to clothing. this accidentally makes her look a little bit more intimidating than she actually is tho ;p

-wears sweaters most of the time bc they are comfy and other stuff is a lil harder to find in her size xd

-on a related note, shes not much into shopping bc most stuff she tries fits weird one way or another, so her wardrobe is rather limited (ALTHOUGH hiro is working on expanding it a lil bit 🤞she often gifts her clothing on special occasions, and seems to be the only person who can actually pick stuff that fits her right :3)

-she is hugeeee as already implied xdxd very broad shouldered and fit and muscular (not exaggerated but its definitely there) and strong and and and……… i would even go as far as to keep the canon height (1.86 m if im not mistaken????). Naturally the difference between her and the average japanese woman (hell, even between her and other characters considered “tall” in this au) is waaaay more noticeable, so it draws even more attention

(-from here on i will be using nowaki as a reference to talk about a characters height…..)

-very neat when it comes to her work clothes, but likes to decorate her lab coat with pins and such bc her patients seem to like it :)

-also i dont remember if its ever stablished what happened to the flower shop job but id like to believe she gets to keep it, at least as a weekends thing or smth,, (nowaki seemed to enjoy it idk idk :”3)

-miyagi

-milf. Not in the “older woman with ginormous sex appeal” way, but because she literally looks like someones mom

-(actually, its not rare for people to take her for shinobus mother when they go out together, even if they dont look alike in the slightest jsjsjs this is a bit more comprehensible bc in this au they do have the ages to be mother and daughter (21 and 42), but booooy does shinobu get defensive about it…..)

-quite feminine, but still tries to remain comfortable most of the time (so mostly pants, loose blouses, etc etc)

-has a thing for patterns, specially florals, and specially very colorful or elaborated ones :)

-wears heels often (she likes them ✊)….. and wonders why her back hurts….

-shinobu likes to gift her jewelry :D her earrings remain the same tho bc it hurts to put them back on (i swear it does!!!!!)

-kinda skinny and just slightly taller than the average woman

-very short hair for easy maintenance mostly

-killer skincare routine, but mostly bc shinobu is a little annoying about her aging properly and shares with her a lot of her own stuff xd

asahina

-kind of old fashioned???? I mean most of the references i used seemed to be from like the 70s so ig….

-very feminine, but in a rich (isakas courtesy) church lady kind of way. So very long skirts, high-collared shirts or straight up turtlenecks, thighs….

-to this day isaka remains the only person to have ever seen her bare ankles in the past 20 (or so?) years

-very tall. To the point of not looking like a gremlin next to nowaki at least

-she is also very skinny tho, so in a way she does end up looking quite small in comparison xd

-the scar on her face is bc of the car accident (coughmurdersuicideattemptcough) as a child :) it is mostly hypertrophic scars from the glass and debris falling on her and some burnt skin too, and she cant feel or move that side of her face as much as normal (hence the ever lasting lack of expression…..). It doesn’t look as obvious as i made it seem tho, that was mostly to bring out the fact that its there xd I would love to make a more detailed post about it if only i could draw…….

-the exact same hair and extremely similar silhouette in every look is not a lack of creativity, but a show of how she always strives for consistency and balance and neatness (…..it may be a lack of creativity…..)

ijuuin

-“i have all the ideas very clear in my head” <- me when i lie

-ngl ijuuin was a bit tricky djdhsjhdjsgshs like i could imagine her in my head but not have a very clear concept until a while ago……

-ANYWAYS i recall ijuuin dressing quite classy every once in a while in the manga, so that was what i was going for here kinda?

-cant help but feel she looks a little old fashioned too but in my mind this is what cool asf looks like so idc

-ik she LOVES patterns. Everything colorful and elaborate… She also likes to experiment with them, clashing them together and such

-she goes out on her pajamas a lot more than she should. But puts on her pretentious trenchcoat (inspired by canon!!) to cover it so its okay 👍

-has very beautiful hair and will make sure everyone notices it(hence why she never puts it up even if she somehow styles it…)

-quite tall. not to the point of not looking ridiculous next to nowaki, but its a highlight

-also has the body of a greek goddess statue and yuu is very much obviously obsessed with it :)

[mmmerimari]

coping!reader - test drive

He didn’t call it a date. Didn’t come to her door either. Just sent a lazy “here” text and leaned against his truck, arms crossed and head down like he was doing time. No flowers. No plan. Just the implication that she should be flattered he showed up at all.

She came anyway. Slid into the passenger seat with a too-large cardigan tugged around her arms, her bangs freshly trimmed and curled. Yellow ribbons on her sneakers. A little strawberry lip gloss.

“Hi,” she said. Not too cheerful. Performed casual.

Rafe glanced at her once. “You always dress like a crayon box or is this special for me?”

She smiled, slow and soft. “You're lucky I didn't wear the banana earrings.”

He didn’t laugh. Just shook his head, pulled out of the lot without saying where they were going. Some old rap station crackled low on the speakers, mostly static. She didn’t ask him to change it.

They ended up parked in front of the marina. Not by the yachts. Down where the dock was rotting and the tide smelled like algae and salt rot. Somewhere no one would bother them. Or see them.

There was a convenience store bag in the backseat. He threw it in her lap without ceremony.

“I got snacks.”

She peered inside. Gummy worms. A flat soda. A melted Hershey bar. “Wow,” she deadpanned, “someone’s aiming for a Michelin star.”

“Didn’t realize you were a bitch about candy.”

She pulled out the Dr. Pepper and cracked it open. “You look like someone who’s never had to buy their own groceries.”

He smirked, leaning back. “You think that’s an insult?”

That earned a snort. She sipped the drink, wrinkling her nose at how warm it was, but didn’t complain. He watched her from the side, pretending not to.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. She didn’t look at it. Just picked at the label on the soda can until it peeled into strips.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, finally.

“No.”

His mouth twitched. “That was a quick answer.”

She shrugged. “It's a simple question.”

It wasn’t though. Not really. Her gaze landed on the water in front of them.

“You know most girls would kill to be here right now.”

Y/n just hummed. Noncommittal.

“Christ, you’re weird. You remind me of Sarah,” he said eventually.

“I should hope not.”

“I mean,” He gestured vaguely. “You pretend you’re shy, but I’ve seen the way you talk to people. You like the attention.”

“Sure,” she said. “Everyone does.”

“No,” he said, cutting her off like she was stupid. “Girls like you, the yellow shoes, baby voice, ‘I’m-so-nice’ complex, you live for it. You want everyone to think you’re harmless so no one calls you out when you’re full of shit.”

She turned to look at him, calm and unimpressed. “What's so wrong with that?”

“It’s pathetic.”

“Mm.” She blinked once. Tilted her head. "Or maybe it’s just strategic.” She smiled. Not sweet. Not even fake. Just like she already knew he wouldn’t get it.

That made him pause. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. She wasn’t coming for him. She was just… playing.

He cracked his knuckles, watching the marina lights flicker. “So why'd you say yes? I- I know people say things... about me and-”

“I don't care,” she said. “You seem chill.”

That made him smirk and laugh softly. Chill. Sure.

He studied her now. Really studied her. Bangs a little uneven. Collarbone freckled. The kind of pretty that didn’t beg to be seen but still made people look twice.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and tucking one hand under her thigh. “I do like fun,” she said lightly, “and you seem... entertaining.”

There was a little shimmer on her eyelids, glitter probably, that sparkled when the sunset got low enough.

“You don’t know me,” he said.

“I know enough.”

“No, you think you know.”

She shook her head softly. “I don't think it's that complicated.”

Rafe stared, her smile grew.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re insufferable.”

She hummed and turned to the window, resting her chin on her palm, staring out at the half-lit dock like it was somewhere worth being.

He didn’t move. Just sat there next to her, quiet. The radio kept crackling and she started mouthing the lyrics to something old, offbeat. Her lips were pink and sticky and smiling in the corners like she knew he was watching. She liked being watched when she pretended she didn’t notice.

Eventually, he leaned back, adjusting the seat. “You wanna go do something, or just sit here and waste time all night?”

She smiled again, warm this time, and nodded.

"Can I drive?"

if you're interested: readers

[chimkennuggies]

Again with the Raphael x Cazador agenda bc I'm still losing my mind over them‼️‼️‼️

Anyway, thought I'd share some headcanons bellow the cut as well:

- I just KNOW they both have hour long conversations about some play they've seen or book they've read. Their taste is similar in that aspect.

- Raphael knows about Lady Incognita's books (that's canon btw) and mentioned it to Cazador once, who instantly started ranting about how the girl didn't appreciate the "gift" (he doesn't appreciate it either if you think about all that datamined/beta stuff + how much he just wants to be "normal" BUT he is also a hypocrite sooo), also, he used to give advice to her whenever he found one of her drafts.

- In a modern setting Raphael would probably be like those annoying filmbros who doesn't stfu about some niche film they've seen and Cazador would be the same with some celtic metal group that has like 24 monthly listeners (kinda projecting in this one, I'm both).

- They would talk shit about anyone + if they go to some ball together after the first 40 minutes they'll probably end up talking only to each other.

- On the hc that both of them are trans, Cazador hasn't had any operations and isn't on t (although it's not bc he's comfortable in his own body but bc he doesn't want to have anything to do with it, he just prefers to live with an idealized version he made on his head after centuries of not seeing his reflection), Raphael is literally the opposite, he has had all the operations and has been on t since he ran away from Cania, hating the self he left behind.

- Now, some shoutouts to the fact that they're both SO AWFUL, I love them being so so toxic.

- Cazador usually doesn't like being touched and Raphael just thrives on being an asshole so he's always breaking the man's boundaries. PDA in the worst possible way.

- Cazador enjoys to compare Raphael to his father because he finds it extremely entertaining the fact that he takes it at heart and gets so offended by it (he knows how much the other has suffered because of his progenitor).

- Cazador having scars on his body from before being a vampire and Raphael biting them‼️‼️

-Raphael listening to Cazador talking shit about all of Raphael's features he despises just to make him even more insecure (let's be real, Raphael is SO fucking self-conscious, because there's no way all his paintings and Haarlep themself being so completely different to his real self is a normal trait).

- Both of them being prone to violence and fighting for every minor disagreement would make them the worst neighbors possible ngl.

- Raphael having the lower canines really really sharp while Cazador has the cuspid canines being almost razor-edged, iykyk.

Lastly, here are some songs I associate w/ them because I haven't seen any playlist include these:

Cazador:

Rule #34 - Fish in a Birdcage

Femtex - Therapy?

Never Wanted to Dance - MSI

Under the Spell - Me And That Man

Heel On The Shovel - 16 Horsepower

Raphael:

The Hell Of It - Paul Williams

Low Estate - 16 Horsepower

Nunemaker's Parable - Everybody's Worried About Owen

You're So Vain - Carly Simon

Bensonhurst Blues - Oscar Benton

An this one is just bc I find it quite funny but Mi Gran Noche from Raphael (the spanish singer) is quite iconic ngl.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[tulipe-rose]

Shinichi

Shiho

Yusaku

Yukiko

The brunette to her cherry blonde.

You can not convince me that Shinichi's eyesight is still 20/20 after all that strain (fireworks (where he was so up close I'm surprised he wasn't burnt), flash bombs, and straining to see in the dark then suddenly having huge headlights pointed at you. Did I say bombs?). The explosions that happen in his vicinity –mind you, he's usually at the heart of them–almost daily must have had some sort of aftereffect on his eyes and ears, no matter how small.

In conclusion, I AM AT YOUR DOOR AOYAMA, OPEN UP. YOU CANNOT DO THIS AND THEN PRETEND THESE PARALLELS MEAN NOTHING TO YOU WHILE YOU GO ON ABOUT SO CALLED TRUE LOVE. 'Shinshi is never going to happen-' I WON'T HEAR IT, ESPECIALLY NOT FROM YOU, AOYAMA.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Something real to me immediately post-Voyager is that both Tuvok and Janeway are looking around at their crew like “God...these poor folks are not dealing with this transition well...” in an earnest but also slightly condescending way (as they are prone towards thinking of themselves as examples to be followed and somewhat superior to others, even if that isn’t the language they’d use/how they’d understand themselves) but in reality they are also dealing with it extremely and visibly poorly and are thus unable to help literally anyone and everyone who sees them is like “You guys don’t seem to be doing well” but this flies over their heads or they think to themselves, shaking their heads sadly, ‘this poor bastard...trying to say that I need help when they’re obviously the ones suffering...thank God I don’t have any problems.’

[fairysylveon]

rubbing my temples a little thinking about tim takes

[drivemysoul]

i’m an asshole and i am aware of that but i am literally hoping two of my friends break up just so i don’t have to constantly fucking hear about them together

[solvisun]

011925. cw | slightly suggestive (?) i hate him (affectionate)

if tsukishima kei learns the full extent of you losing your mind over the minuscule of things with everything he does,

babe, you’re done for.

if he learns that removing his glasses while kissing you makes your stomach do saumersaults, or when he fixes your clothes casually; smoothing down your skirt or adjusting your shirt, hand on your waist. or when he cups your face and squeezes both of your cheeks together, when it shows that he loves the physical touch in ways that feel crude if you say it aloud. in ways that no one else can speak about, makes you so mushy with him. to the point that it makes you sick, head throbbing.

if he learns that you find his jealousy kind of attractive, all cutting and ruthless, snappy. that you're totally not weak in the knees. if he learns that whenever he leans in whenever you speak is the cause of why you feel flustered, when he hums softly in question, tilting his head, or when he just hook you in his arms to get closer.

god. he will take absolute pleasure in pushing those buttons even more—actually, he’d press them with the precision of someone who knows exactly how far he can go to leave you reeling, all while pretending it’s no big deal.

and this is exactly what happens, as expected, but no less frustrated.

when he realizes how much removing his glasses during a kiss messes you up, he’d start doing it slow and methodical, taking his time to set them aside while giving you that piercing look, like he knows exactly what’s coming next. “what, nervous?” he’d ask, leaning in just a fraction, his tone laced with mockery, but his lips soft when they finally meet yours.

those casual touches? forget it. his hands—though he would ask first—roam your body and let them linger around your waist dangerously longer than necessary, you're not making it up now, you know you feel the slight squeezes his does on your skin, letting his fingers graze, just enough to send shivers down your spine.

when he holds your face in one hand, there’s something about how his thumb lingers near your jawline or how he leans in just a little too close. it’s playful, sure, but there’s a tenderness beneath it that leaves you spinning. because he knows. he knows all too well.

it's game over when he finally does this—one arm braced above your head, his whole figure towering over you, casting a shadow which makes him look ten times more insufferable. you cannot breathe.

his lips hover just shy of yours, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “do i really make you that nervous?”

"fuck off."

"really? that’s all you’ve got? how original.”

“kei, i swear to—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as his thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, the touch barely there but devastating all the same.

“what? gonna tell me to stop?” the glint in his eyes turns playful, pupils dilated, “you’re all talk, aren’t you?”

your hands twitch at your sides, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer. “i hate you,” you hiss, but it lacks any real bite.

“sure you do,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery, and then—because of course he does—he closes the infinitesimal gap between you, his lips brushing against yours with infuriating slowness.

he kisses you chastely. it feels so wrong with how he already built so much tension. that this all just a stupid game he can easily control.

there’s a distinct edge of smugness to it, like he’s savoring every second of your undoing. when he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, the smirk is still there, lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“still want me to fuck off?” he asks, though he already knows the answer to it.

you can only scoff and roughly smack your lips against his in a solid, and very straightforward reply. your heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

he relents to you just as easily, this is why he simply can't get enough of you.

my stupid writers block is not making me write properly for the hershey’s kisses mini series so i had to pull this stupid drabble outta my sick ass (coughing loudly as we speak)

[harrysfolklore]

but daddy i love him. part two - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc:13.5k. READ PART ONE

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE OTHER PART OF THEIR STORY !!! first of all i want to thank you all for the incredible support on part one, it was so nice to read all of your feedback ! please make sure to leave some feedback on this part as well. let me know ALL of your thoughts, and most importantly, ENJOY!

Monaco, 2021

The two weeks after Abu Dhabi are the longest of your life. Your phone remains silent - no late-night calls, no secret messages, no pictures of the cats that Max knows always make you smile. The space where he used to be feels enormous.

Your father is still dealing with the aftermath, appeals and media statements consuming his days. You watch him move through the house like a storm cloud, muttering about Masi and the FIA, and think about Max's words: "perfect Mercedes daughter."

You've never felt less perfect.

It's late one night when the doorbell rings. You're alone in the apartment - the one that's technically yours but has become a sanctuary for both of you over the past year. When you open the door, Max is standing there, looking as exhausted as you feel.

"Hi," he says softly.

You stand aside to let him in, heart pounding.

"I'm sorry," he says before you can speak. "I was cruel that night. You didn't deserve that."

"No, I didn't."

He runs a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "I was high on winning, angry you weren't there, and I took it out on you. But that's not an excuse."

"I'm sorry too," you move closer. "You were right about some things. I should have been there for your celebration. It was your moment."

"It wasn't just my moment though, was it?" He sits on the couch, looking up at you. "It was your father's worst nightmare. Lewis' heartbreak. The most controversial end to a season ever." He laughs quietly. "Not exactly the best timing to announce we're in love."

You sit beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… you were right. Telling them now, with everything so raw… it would be like throwing fuel on a fire." He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. "I was so focused on finally being able to tell everyone, I didn't think about what that would mean for you. For your relationship with your dad."

"Max…"

"No, let me finish." His thumb traces patterns on your palm - another familiar gesture that makes tears prick at your eyes. "I've spent six years loving you. I can wait a bit longer for the timing to be right. For the wounds to heal a bit."

"What about what you said? About not being my dirty little secret anymore?"

"You're not keeping me a secret because you're ashamed," he says quietly. "You're protecting your family. And mine too, probably. Can you imagine Jos' reaction if we told him now?"

You both wince at the thought.

"So what do we do?" you ask.

He tugs you closer until you're against his chest, where you can hear his heartbeat - steady and strong and familiar. "We love each other. We wait for the right moment. And this time…" he kisses your head, "this time we decide together when that moment is. No ultimatums, no pressure."

"I missed you," you whisper into his shirt.

"I missed you too. These two weeks…" he shudders slightly. "Never again, okay? No matter how angry we get, no silence. We talk it out."

You lift your head to look at him properly. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he kisses you - soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he says. "Mercedes daughter and all."

You laugh through sudden tears. "I love you too. Even when you're being an insufferable World Champion."

"Speaking of…" he grins, that boyish smile you fell in love with all those years ago, "I believe this is the first time I'm kissing you as a World Champion."

"Technically you've already kissed me as a World Champion."

"Ah, but that was angry championship kissing. This is making up championship kissing. Completely different."

You roll your eyes but let him pull you closer. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Much better. Want me to demonstrate the difference?"

Later, curled up in bed together, you talk about the future - not just when to tell everyone, but what comes after. Houses and holidays and maybe someday kids who'll have Wolff determination and Verstappen speed.

"Your dad might actually kill me when we tell him," Max muses, playing with your hair.

"Probably. But at least by then he might have calmed down about Abu Dhabi."

"That's optimistic of you."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Are you okay with waiting? Really okay?"

He considers this, serious now. "Yeah, I am. Because this time it feels different. This time we're deciding together." He touches your face gently. "And because this time I know you're not running away."

"Never again," you promise. "No more running."

As you fall asleep in his arms, you think about timing and choices and love that survives silence. Maybe it's not perfect - sneaking around, hiding from families, loving in the shadows.

But it's yours. And for now, that's enough.

2022

After Abu Dhabi last year, you and Max spent a quiet Christmas apart with your respective families, but managed to escape for New Year's. Away from the media frenzy and family tensions, you found peace in the simple moments - cooking together, watching movies, Max trying (and failing) to teach you sim racing.

On New Year's Eve, standing on your balcony watching fireworks illuminate the harbor, Max held you from behind. "This is how I want every year to start," he murmured against your neck.

"Just us?"

"Just us. No drama, no hiding, no championships on the line."

You turned in his arms. "Well, about that last part…"

"Okay, maybe some championships," he grinned. "But the rest… we'll figure it out, right?"

"We will," you promised, sealing it with a kiss as the clock struck midnight.

The first weeks of 2022 brought exciting changes. Susie announced her plans for the F1 Academy, a project aimed at supporting young female drivers, and immediately asked you to join her team.

"I need someone I can trust completely," she said during one of your planning sessions. "Someone who understands both the technical and human side of racing."

"Are you sure? It's a huge responsibility."

"YN, you're perfect for this. You've grown up in this sport, you understand the challenges these girls will face." Susie squeezed your hand. "Plus, you're the only person besides Toto who can match my caffeine consumption during race weekends."

Working closely with Susie brought you closer than ever. She became more than just your father's wife - she was your confidante, mentor, and friend. You spent long hours together, planning programs, reviewing applications, discussing how to break down barriers in motorsport.

Which made the current breakfast situation even more uncomfortable.

"Andreas has an impressive background in aerodynamics," Toto was saying, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "Oxford educated, worked with Ferrari's junior program…"

"Dad," you interrupted, pushing your eggs around your plate. "Can we maybe not?"

"I'm just saying, YN, you should give him a chance. He's exactly the kind of person who would understand your world."

Lewis and George exchanged knowing looks while Susie watched you carefully.

"The new regulations are keeping me busy enough," you tried. "Between that and the Academy with Susie…"

"There's always time for personal life," Toto persisted. "You're young, successful, beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your time buried in work."

After breakfast, Susie found you in your office, surrounded by Academy paperwork.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, closing the door.

"About Dad's sudden career as a matchmaker?"

"He means well," Susie sat across from you. "He just wants you to be happy."

"Can you maybe… talk to him? Get him to drop it?"

"Why? Andreas seems like a lovely young man. Smart, ambitious…"

You set down your pen, heart racing. This was it - the moment to trust someone else with your secret.

"I… I already have someone."

Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? How did I not know about this?"

"Because…" you took a deep breath. "Because it's complicated. Really complicated."

"YN," Susie leaned forward, "you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"It's Max," you whispered. "Max Verstappen."

Susie's eyes widened, but she didn't immediately speak. She got up, locked your office door, and sat back down.

"How long?"

"Since 2015, on and off, you know that story. But seriously since I came back in 2020."

"Through everything? The championship battle?"

You nodded, tears forming. "It was… difficult. Especially Abu Dhabi."

"Oh, sweetheart," Susie moved to your side, pulling you into a hug. "That must have been awful for you."

"You're not… mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Because he's Red Bull, because of everything with Dad…"

"Listen to me," Susie pulled back to look at you. "Love doesn't care about team colors. God knows this sport has enough rivalry without policing people's hearts too."

"I don't know what to do," you admitted. "We want to tell everyone, but after Abu Dhabi…"

"The timing's not great," Susie agreed. "But YN, you can't hide forever. It'll only get harder."

"I know. But Papa…"

"Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than Mercedes, more than championships." She squeezed your hands. "Will he be shocked? Absolutely. Probably throw something expensive. But he'll come around."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've seen how he looks at you - like you're still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the garage. He might not like your choice, but he'll respect it. Eventually."

"He was furious back then, said Max was too young, too reckless, that it would end in disaster. He threatened to send me back to boarding school."

"That explains a lot," Susie said softly. "Why he's been so pushy about these 'suitable' men lately."

"He thinks he protected me back then. Maybe he did - we were young, and things got messy. But now…"

"Now you're both different people," Susie finished. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what the real issue was back then?"

"That Max was the enemy?" you said dryly.

"No. That Toto couldn't control it. He's used to managing everything, planning ten steps ahead. But this…" she gestured vaguely, "this wasn't in his carefully constructed plan for you."

"I never wanted to disappoint him."

"Hey," Susie's voice was firm. "Loving someone isn't disappointing. It's probably the bravest thing we do."

"Thanks," you whisper, hugging Susie tightly. "For understanding. For not judging."

"Just... be careful, okay? And know that I'm here if you need to talk."

The conversation with Susie lifts a weight you didn't realize you were carrying. Having someone know, someone in your corner, makes everything feel more manageable.

Bahrain, 2022

The morning of the Bahrain Grand Prix buzzed with the familiar nervous energy of a season opener. You were in one of the back offices of the F1 Academy, triple-checking schedules and programs for the upcoming season, when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

"Shouldn't you be in pre-race prep?" you asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide your smile.

"I have fifteen minutes," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Wanted to wish you luck. Big day for you too."

You turned in his arms. "Nervous?"

"About the race? Nah." He grinned. "About you stealing the spotlight with the Academy launch? Terrified."

"Idiot," you laughed, playing with the collar of his race suit. "As if anything could overshadow the great Max Verstappen."

"Hey," his expression turned serious. "What you're doing here… it's important. You're going to change lives."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"I mean it," he insisted. "You remember what it was like, being the only girl in karting? These kids won't have to feel that way because of you and Susie."

"Well... I quit karting after a year," you joke and Max rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, just kiss me before you have to go all defending world champion on track."

And he does, but before you can go any further the door opened.

"YN, have you seen the timing sheets from- OH SHIT!"

George Russell stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers. You and Max jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents.

"I… um… I should…" George stammered, pointing vaguely behind him.

"George, wait!" You rushed to close the door before he could escape. "Please…"

"This is literally my first day as a Mercedes driver and I'm already caught in..." he gestures wildly between you and Max.

"George," you step forward, "you CANNOT tell my dad."

"I... what... how long..." he stammers.

"Please," Max speaks up, "We'll explain everything, just... keep this between us?"

George looks between you and Max, then sighs dramatically. "Well, I guess this is one way to start my Mercedes career - harboring my team principal's daughter's secret relationship with our biggest rival."

"Welcome to Mercedes?" you offer weakly.

"Right," George shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "I'm going to leave, pretend I never saw this, and maybe drink enough tonight to forget it entirely."

As he turns to go, he pauses. "But for what it's worth? Your secret's safe with me."

The door closes behind him, and you collapse against Max, half laughing, half panicking.

"Well," Max says dryly, "that's one more person who knows. At this rate, the only person who won't know will be your father."

You looked up at him. "You should go. GP will be looking for you."

"Yeah," he sighed, but made no move to leave. "Good luck today. Show them what the Wolff women can do."

"Good luck to you too. Try not to make Dad throw anything at the TV?"

He laughed, kissing you quickly. "No promises. But hey," he paused at the door, "for what it's worth, George's reaction wasn't terrible. Maybe there's hope for the others too."

As you watched him leave, you couldn't help but smile. One more person in their corner, one more step toward not hiding. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was trying to tell you something.

Singapore, 2022

The humidity of Singapore still clung to the air as most of the paddock crowded into Marquee, celebrating another street circuit spectacle. The bass pulsed through the exclusive VIP section where drivers and key personnel gathered.

You were at the bar with Lewis when Andreas appeared, looking particularly polished.

"YN Wolff," he smiled, a bit too confidently. "I was hoping to find you here."

You caught Lewis' subtle eye roll as he conveniently spotted someone he "needed to talk to."

"Andreas, hi," you tried to sound polite but distant, very aware of Max watching from across the room where he sat with Lando and Charles.

"You looked beautiful today in the paddock," he moved closer. "That dress you wore to the team dinner…"

"Thanks," you cut him off, scanning for an escape route. You found none.

"Your father mentions you're still single," he continued, either oblivious to or ignoring your discomfort. "I find that hard to believe."

At the other end of the VIP section, Max's jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold.

"Mate, you're going to break that glass," Lando noted, watching Max's white-knuckled grip on his drink.

"Who is that guy?" Charles asked, following Max's gaze.

"Some engineer Toto's trying to set YN up with," Lando explained, then froze, realizing what he'd revealed.

Charles' eyes widened. "Wait, why do you know that? And why does Max look like he's about to commit murder?"

Before Lando could deflect, Max stood abruptly as Andreas placed his hand on your lower back.

"Oh shit," Lando muttered.

"I don't understand," Charles said, watching Max stride across the room. "Why is he- oh. OH."

Back at the bar, you were trying to subtly remove Andreas hand when you felt a familiar presence behind you.

"Everything okay here?" Max's voice was controlled, but you could hear the edge in it.

Andreas looked annoyed at the interruption. "We're fine, thank you."

"I wasn't asking you," Max said coldly, then softer: "YN?"

You turned toward him gratefully. "Actually, Max, would you mind helping me with something?"

"Of course," he placed his hand where Andreas' had been, but this touch was different - protective, familiar, right.

Andreas looked between you two, confusion turning to understanding. "Wait, are you…"

"She's not interested," Max said simply. "Never was."

You let Max guide you away from the bar, very aware of the eyes following you. Lando and Charles weren't even trying to hide their interest now, and you noticed Carlos and Pierre joining them, speaking in hushed tones.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly.

"Yes, I did." Max's hand hadn't left your back. "I'm tired of watching guys hit on my girlfriend because they think she's available."

You reached the relative privacy of a corner booth. "Max…"

"I know, I know. We're being careful. But YN," he turned to face you, "half the paddock already suspects something. Charles and Carlos are literally taking bets right now."

You glanced over - sure enough, money was being exchanged. "Great."

"Would it be so terrible?" Max asked. "If people knew?"

"No," you admitted. "But Dad…"

"Will find out eventually. Wouldn't you rather he heard it from us than through paddock gossip?"

You were about to respond when George appeared, slightly out of breath.

"You two need to be more subtle," he hissed. "Lando just asked me if there was something going on between you."

"What did you say?" you asked anxiously.

"I'm a terrible liar! I just made a noise and ran away!"

Max couldn't help laughing. "Smooth, Russell."

"This isn't funny," George insisted. "Look!"

You followed his gesture. The other drivers were gathered together, all of them looking your way occasionally.

"Oh god," you groaned. "They all know, don't they?"

"If they didn't before, they do now," George confirmed. "Max's little knight-in-shining-armor act wasn't exactly subtle."

"He had his hands all over you," Max defended.

"His hand was on my back for two seconds!"

"Two seconds too long."

George looked between you, amused. "You two are ridiculous. Also, heads up - Lando is coming over."

Sure enough, Lando was making his way through the crowd. He slid into your booth without invitation, expression unreadable.

"So," he said calmly, "how long?"

You glanced at Max, who squeezed your hand under the table. "Since 2020."

"Through the championship battle?" When you nodded, Lando let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. That must have been…"

"Horrible," you finished. "But we managed."

Lando studied Max for a moment. "You better be sure about this. Because when Toto finds out…"

"I am," Max said firmly. "We both are."

"Good." Lando smiled finally. "Because I'm pretty sure Daniel just started a betting pool on how Toto's going to react, and I've got money on him throwing his headphones."

"Lando!" you exclaimed.

"What? Might as well profit from the drama." He stood up. "For what it's worth, I think it's kind of perfect. In a weird, Romeo and Juliet way."

"They both died in that story," George pointed out.

"Details," Lando waved him off. "Come on, George. Let's go see what odds Daniel's offering."

As they left, you buried your face in Max's shoulder. "This is a disaster."

"Is it?" he asked, running his hand up your arm. "Look around - no one seems shocked or angry. Well, except maybe Andreas."

You peaked up - he was right. The drivers were all still watching, but their expressions were mostly amused or knowing. Carlos gave you a thumbs up when he caught your eye.

"I guess the secret's out," you sighed. "At least in this room."

"Good." Max tilted your chin up. "Because I really want to kiss you right now."

"Max! Everyone's watching."

"Let them watch."

And before you could protest, he kissed you. When you pulled back, Max was grinning. "See? World didn't end."

"No," you said softly, "It really didn't."

The night continued, but differently now. No more hiding in corners or pretending not to know each other. Just you and Max, surrounded by friends who were apparently more supportive than you'd imagined.

Now you just had to figure out how to tell your father that his entire team - including his wife - had known about your relationship before him.

A late afternoon in Monaco, in Toto's office overlooking the harbor. What had started as a routine pre-race weekend meeting had quickly derailed when Andreas' name came up again.

"He asked about you again," Toto said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "He's a good man, YN. Smart, ambitious…"

"Dad," you cut in, "I've told you, I'm not interested in Andreas."

"You haven't even given him a chance," he insisted. "One dinner…"

"No."

Toto sighed, that familiar mix of frustration and concern crossing his face. "Liebling, I worry about you. Ever since that rebellious phase with Verstappen when you were eighteen…"

You tensed, feeling your heart rate spike. In the corner, you saw Lewis shift uncomfortably - he'd been quietly reviewing race strategies, but now he was fully alert.

"Dad…"

"You haven't been serious about anyone," Toto continued. "I know that boy hurt you, but you can't let one teenage romance…"

"You don't know anything about it," you said quietly, dangerously.

"I know enough. I know he was reckless, impulsive. I know ending it was the right decision."

Lewis cleared his throat. "Toto, maybe we should focus on qualifying…"

But Toto was on a roll now. "Andreas is different. He understands our world, he's stable…"

"He's boring," you snapped. "And you don't get to decide who I date."

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"From what?" You stood up. "From making my own choices? From being with someone who actually makes me happy?"

"Max Verstappen did not make you happy!" Toto's voice rose. "He was a distraction, a rebellion…"

"He was everything!" The words exploded out before you could stop them.

The office went deadly quiet. Lewis had his head in his hands.

"What?" Toto asked softly, dangerously.

You swallowed hard, years of secrets sitting heavy on your tongue. "You didn't protect me back then, Dad. You forced us apart. But you want to know something? He was never just a rebellion."

Toto stands slowly, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying, YN?"

You take a deep breath, catching Lewis' subtle head shake in your peripheral vision. The words are there, the whole truth ready to spill out, but... not like this. Not in anger.

"I'm saying I'm not eighteen anymore," you say finally, your voice steady. "I'm a grown woman who runs part of this team, who's helping build the F1 Academy with Susie. I make my own choices - about my career, about my life, about who I date."

"I only want what's best for you," Toto says, softer now.

"Then trust me to know what that is." You move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "And please, stop trying to set me up with Andreas. Or anyone else."

Zandvoort, 2022

The Dutch air mingles with the lingering scent of champagne in Max's private motorhome. The celebrations outside are still going strong - Dutch fans painting Zandvoort orange in honor of their hero's home win - but here, in this quiet space, it's just the two of you.

"Happy birthday," Max says softly, pulling a small wrapped package from behind his back. You're curled up on his couch, still wearing his Red Bull team jacket that you'd snuck on after everyone else had left.

"You already said that this morning," you smile, but take the package. "And before the race. And after you won."

"Well, it's not every day you turn twenty-five. And it's not every day I win at home on your birthday."

The package reveals a delicate gold necklace with a tiny racing helmet charm. But when you look closer, you notice something engraved on the back of the helmet - 15.03.15.

"The day we met," you whisper, running your finger over the date.

"I thought about getting something more obvious, but since we're still keeping us quiet…" He takes the necklace, moving behind you to clasp it around your neck. "This way you can wear it without anyone asking questions."

You touch the charm resting against your collarbone. "It's perfect."

"Unlike the cake situation," he grins, glancing at the remains of what was supposed to be a homemade birthday cake on the counter. "I really did try."

You laugh, remembering walking in to find Max covered in flour, frustration etched on his face as he stared at the somewhat lopsided creation. "The thought counts. Though maybe stick to driving?"

"Hey, I won today! I deserve some respect."

"You always win here," you tease. "It's your home race."

"True." He pulls you closer, until you're practically in his lap. "But winning on your birthday makes it special. Even if I couldn't kiss you in parc ferme."

"Dad would have had a heart attack right there in the garage."

"Speaking of Toto…" Max's voice turns serious. "How was the birthday lunch with him?"

You think back to the awkward meal, where your father had once again tried to subtly mention Andreas. "Same as usual. He means well."

"Still pushing the Andreas agenda?"

"Mhmm. Though Susie shut it down pretty quickly this time." You play with the helmet charm. "Can we not talk about it tho?

Max kisses your temple. "Whatever you want. It's your birthday - you make the rules."

"In that case…" you turn to face him properly. "I want to dance."

He groans. "YN…"

"Birthday rules," you remind him, already standing and pulling out your phone. When the first notes of a slow song fill the motorhome, you hold out your hand. "Dance with your birthday girl, World Champion."

He takes your hand, pulling you close as you sway together. Outside, you can still hear the distant sounds of celebrating fans, but in here it's just the music, Max's heartbeat under your ear, and the weight of a tiny gold helmet against your skin.

"This is nice," Max murmurs into your hair. "Though if anyone sees the mighty Max Verstappen slow dancing…"

"Your reputation will survive." You lift your head to look at him. "Thank you for making my birthday special, even if we had to celebrate in secret."

"Next year," he promises, "we'll do it properly. Big party, everyone we love, no hiding."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He spins you gently. "But for now…" He dips you dramatically, making you laugh. "I kind of like having birthday girl all to myself."

You kiss him then, tasting chocolate and victory champagne and love that's grown from teenage rebellion into something unshakeable.

"Best birthday ever," you whisper against his lips.

Outside, Zandvoort celebrates its champion. Inside, in this quiet space that belongs just to you, you celebrate something else - another year of loving each other, of building a life in the spaces between public and private, of planning for a future where you won't have to choose between family and love.

For now, though, you're content to dance in a motorhome, wearing his team jacket and a gold helmet that carries your history, celebrating not just your birthday but everything you've built together.

Monaco, Summer 2023

The sleek car glides through Monaco's winding streets, but you can barely focus on the stunning views. Max's mysterious smile has you intrigued and slightly nervous - he's been unusually secretive all day.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" you ask for probably the tenth time, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sundress.

"Patience," he says, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze yours. "We're almost there."

"You know I hate surprises."

He laughs. "No, you love surprises. You just hate not being in control."

He turns onto a quiet street lined with elegant villas, each one more beautiful than the last. The Mediterranean stretches out below, a perfect azure canvas. Your heart starts racing when he pulls into a driveway. The house is stunning - modern yet classic, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.

"Max…" you start, but he's already out of the car and opening your door.

"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His excitement is palpable as he leads you to the front door. "Close your eyes."

"Really?"

"Trust me."

You do as he asks, letting him guide you forward. You hear keys jingling, a door opening, then his soft "Okay, open them."

The interior takes your breath away - open and airy, with natural light streaming in from every angle. But it's not just the architecture that catches your attention - there are small touches that feel incredibly personal. Racing memorabilia tastefully displayed, a few framed photos you recognize from your own collection.

"I bought it," Max says softly, watching your reaction. "For us."

You turn to face him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I want this to be our home," he continues, his voice full of emotion. He takes both your hands in his. "Where we can grow old together, maybe raise a family someday. No more sneaking around, no more hiding. Just us."

"But… when? How?"

"I've been working with a realtor for months. Remember all those 'simulator sessions' I had to do?" He grins sheepishly. "I was actually house hunting."

"You sneaky…" You trail off, speechless.

"Want to see the rest?" He's practically bouncing with excitement now. "There's a home gym downstairs, and the kitchen is amazing - I know how much you love to cook. And wait until you see the master bedroom…"

Tears start falling before you can stop them. Max reaches up to wipe them away, but you catch his hand.

"You bought us a house," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "You planned this whole future for us, and I can't even tell my dad about us."

"Hey," he pulls you close, one hand cradling the back of your head. "It's okay. We'll figure it out together, like we always do."

"No, it's not okay." You pull back to look at him. "You've been so patient, Max. For years. And I've been such a coward."

"You're not a coward," he says firmly. "Our relationship is complicated. I understand that."

"Still." You shake your head, suddenly determined. "I'm telling him tomorrow."

"YN, you don't have to—"

"I want to." You look around at this beautiful space he's created for your future. "You've given us a home. The least I can do is be brave enough to fight for us."

"Are you sure?" His eyes search yours. "Because if you're not ready…"

"I'm sure." You walk to the windows, taking in the view. "Besides, can you imagine trying to explain why I'm suddenly moving to a new house without telling him why?"

Max comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "We could tell him you've developed a sudden passion for real estate investment."

You laugh despite your tears. "Yes, because that would totally explain why half my clothes are already in that closet I spotted upstairs."

"You noticed that, huh?"

"The Dior dress from the FIA gala was a bit of a giveaway." You turn in his arms. "How long have you been moving my things in?"

"A while," he admits. "Susie helped."

"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly. "Any other conspirators I should know about?"

"Well, Lewis might have helped coordinate the furniture delivery…"

"Lewis?!" You pull back to stare at him. "Lewis Hamilton helped you furnish our secret love nest?"

Max winces. "Please never call it that again. And yes - turns out he has great taste in interior design."

You laugh, really laugh, and it feels like releasing years of tension. "This is insane. We're insane."

"Maybe," he agrees, pulling you close again. "But it's a good kind of insane, right?"

You look around at this beautiful house - your house - taking in all the thoughtful details. The photos telling your story, the mix of both your tastes in the décor, the way the space already feels like home.

"The best kind," you whisper, and kiss him.

Max kisses you back, soft and sweet, and you can feel his smile against your lips. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.

"So," he says, "want to see our bedroom?"

"Our bedroom," you repeat, testing the words. "I like how that sounds."

"Me too." He takes your hand, leading you toward the stairs. "Though fair warning - I let Lando help with the media room setup, so that might need some adjustments."

"Oh god."

"Yeah, there may be more gaming consoles than strictly necessary…"

In this moment, in your new home, tomorrow's confrontation feels less daunting. After all, you've built something real and lasting here - something worth fighting for. And as Max leads you through your future together, room by room, you can't help but think that maybe it's time for everyone to know.

You've been standing outside your father's office at Mercedes for what feels like hours, but the watch on your wrist says it's only been ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, you finally knock.

"Come in," his familiar voice calls out.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face brightening when he sees you. "Schatz! What a lovely surprise." He stands to greet you, but pauses when he notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Papa, I need to tell you something." Your voice trembles slightly. "And I need you to listen. Really listen."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, concern etching his features. "Of course. You can tell me anything."

You sit, hands clasped tightly in your lap. "I'm in love."

His face relaxes into a smile. "Is that all? Liebling, you had me worried. Who's the lucky—"

"It's Max." The words come out in a rush. "It's always been Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch as confusion crosses his face, followed by understanding, and then something darker.

"Max… Verstappen?" He says the name like it tastes bitter. "This is a joke."

"No, it's not." You straighten your spine. "We've been together for two years. Actually, we never really stopped loving each other after… after what happened when we were eighteen."

Toto stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible. You can't be serious."

"I am. And there's more." You take another deep breath. "We're moving in together. He bough a house for us, because he wants us to build a future together."

"No." His voice is sharp. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"I'm not asking for permission, Papa. I'm telling you."

He turns to face you, and the hurt in his eyes makes your heart ache. "How long have you been lying to me?"

"Since 2020," you admit quietly. "When I came back… we tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn't."

"So what, you've been sneaking around behind my back all these years?" His accent grows thicker with emotion. "Meeting in secret like teenagers?"

"We didn't have a choice."

He's quiet after that, and you can almost see the storm inside his head.

"Who knows?" The question is sharp, hurt evident in his tone.

"I told Susie last year. Lewis has known almost from the beginning. George found out in Bahrain. Some of the other drivers..."

"So everyone but me?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My own wife, my drivers, half the paddock knew my daughter was in a relationship with Max Verstappen, and no one thought to tell me?"

"They were respecting our privacy. Our choice."

"Our choice?" He stands again, agitated. "He's Red Bull, YN! Our biggest rival! The same team that's been fighting us for years, the same driver who—"

"Who makes me happier than I've ever been," you interrupt. "Who loves me for who I am, not whose daughter I am. Who's supported my career, my dreams, everything I want to do."

"And the team rivalry? The competition?"

"We've managed it for years, Dad. We know how to separate personal and professional."

"All those times I tried to set you up with other people..."

"I know you meant well."

"And Susie?" His voice catches. "She knew and didn't tell me?"

"She said it wasn't her story to tell. That I needed to be the one to tell you when I was ready."

Toto runs a hand over his face. "And now you're ready because...?"

"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because Max and I have built something real and beautiful, and I want you to be part of it." You stand, moving around his desk to touch his arm. "Because you're my father, and despite everything, I want you to know me. All of me."

"And if I can't accept it?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. You feel tears threatening but force them back.

"Then that's your choice. But I won't give him up. Not again. Not for anyone."

Toto is quiet for a long moment, staring out at the factory below. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. "You really love him?"

"More than anything."

He turns to look at you, really look at you, maybe for the first time seeing not his little girl but the woman you've become. "And he makes you happy?"

"Yes." Your voice is firm, certain.

Another long pause. "I need time."

It's not acceptance, but it's not rejection either. You nod, wiping away a stray tear. "Okay."

"Does he…" Toto clears his throat. "Does he treat you well?"

"Better than I deserve sometimes."

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No one could ever deserve better than you, Schatz."

You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. After a moment, his arms come around you too, holding you like he did when you were small.

"I'm still angry," he murmurs into your hair.

"I know."

"And hurt."

"I know that too."

He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. "But you are my daughter. My precious girl. Nothing will ever change that."

Fresh tears spill over. "Papa…"

"I can't promise to like this. Or him. But…" He sighs deeply. "I will try. For you."

It's more than you dared hope for. "Thank you."

As you leave his office later, you know this isn't the end of it. There will be more conversations, more tensions to navigate. But for the first time in years, you feel truly free.

The Monaco sunset paints the dining room in warm hues as you clear the plates from dinner, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Lewis lounges in his chair, gesturing with his glass as he speaks.

"Still can't believe Toto didn't notice for two years, honestly," he chuckles. "I mean, you two weren't exactly subtle at the Saudi GP last year."

Max groans. "That was YN's fault. She's the one who kissed me in the paddock."

"After you won! Away from everyone," you defend yourself from across the table. "Besides, Papa was too busy arguing with Christian to notice."

"Lucky for us," Max mutters, but he's smiling.

"How is he taking it now?" Lewis asks, his expression growing serious. "It's been what, two weeks?"

You exchange a look with Max. "Better, I think. He's… processing."

"He called me yesterday," Max adds quietly. "First time ever."

Both you and Lewis straighten up. "What? You didn't tell me that!" you exclaim.

Max shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you can see the tension in his shoulders. "It was brief. He just said that if I ever hurt you, they'll never find my body."

Lewis nearly chokes on his wine. "Classic Toto."

"I'll get the dessert," you announce, standing. "And Max, we're talking about that phone call later."

As you head to the kitchen, you can hear their voices carrying through the open-plan space.

"Seriously though," Lewis' voice drops lower, but not low enough. "You need to be prepared. Toto might try to…"

"Separate us again?" Max's voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I'd like to see him try."

"I'm just saying, be ready. He did it once before."

"We were kids then. It's different now." A pause. "I'm different now."

"I know you are, mate. That's why I helped with the house. But Toto… he can be protective."

"Lewis." Max's voice is deadly serious now. "I would rather end my career tomorrow than lose her again. She's… she's everything."

You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, tiramisu forgotten in your hands.

"I know what it did to her last time," Max continues, unaware of your presence. "What it did to both of us. But I'm not that scared teenager anymore, and she's not that girl who was afraid to stand up to her father. We fought too hard to get here."

"Good." Lewis' voice is warm with approval. "Because if you hurt her, Toto won't have to hide your body. I'll do it myself."

Max laughs. "Get in line. Susie already called dibs."

"Speaking of Susie, how's she handling being in the middle?"

"Better than any of us deserve," Max sighs. "She's been amazing. Especially with YN. When Toto first found out…"

"That bad?"

"YN cried for hours after telling him. I've never felt so helpless." Max's voice cracks slightly. "All I could do was hold her."

"Sometimes that's enough," Lewis says softly. "Sometimes that's everything."

You wipe away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. The tiramisu trembles slightly in your hands.

"I'm going to marry her someday," Max says suddenly. "I already have the ring."

The tiramisu nearly slips from your grasp.

"Does she know?" Lewis asks.

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until things settled with Toto. She deserves a proper proposal, not one overshadowed by family drama."

"Smart man." Lewis pauses. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"

"Had to. She deserves the best version of me."

You can't take it anymore. You walk back in, pretending you haven't heard a word. "Who wants dessert?"

Both men straighten up, but you catch the knowing look Lewis gives Max. As you serve the tiramisu, Max's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

"Everything okay, liefje?" he asks softly.

You look at him - this man who's grown and changed and loved you through everything - and feel your heart swell. "Perfect," you whisper, and mean it.

Lewis watches you both with a soft smile. "You know," he says, "I think Toto will come around eventually. He may be stubborn, but he's not blind. Anyone can see what you two have is real."

"Real enough to redecorate my gaming room?" Max asks hopefully.

You laugh, the emotional moment breaking. "Nice try. But Lando's RGB setup stays."

"It gives me a headache!"

"Should have thought of that before letting him design it," Lewis points out.

As they fall into friendly bickering about proper gaming room aesthetics, you sit back and take it all in - this beautiful home, these people you love, this life you've built. It hasn't been easy, but everything has been worth it.

Your phone rings just as you're finishing up some work in your home office. Seeing your father's name on the screen makes your heart skip.

"Papa?"

"Schatz." His voice is carefully neutral. "Are you free tonight?"

"I… yes?"

"Good. You and Max will come to dinner. Eight o'clock."

It's not a question. You glance at the clock - it's already 4 PM. "Tonight?"

"Unless you have other plans?"

"No, no plans." You swallow hard. "We'll be there."

"Good." A pause. "And YN?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Max to breathe. It's just dinner."

The line goes dead before you can respond. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, before rushing downstairs to find Max.

He's in the gym, finishing up his workout. One look at your face and he's pulling off his headphones.

"What's wrong?"

"Papa called. He wants us for dinner. Tonight."

Max freezes mid-stretch. "Tonight? As in… tonight tonight?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Fuck." He starts pacing. "Fuck fuck fuck. This is it. He's going to murder me. He's probably got a plan to make it look like an accident. Lewis will help him hide the body—"

"Max."

"—probably already has an alibi arranged. Susie will vouch for him, of course—"

"Max!"

He stops pacing. "What?"

"He actually said to tell you to breathe. His exact words were 'it's just dinner.'"

Max stares at you. "That's worse. That's so much worse. He's lulling me into a false sense of security."

You can't help but laugh, even as anxiety churns in your own stomach. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "The last time I was in the same room as your father, he looked at me like he was calculating how many pieces he could cut me into."

"That was three weeks ago, right after he found out. Things are… better now."

"Are they? Because that phone call he made last week about hiding my body didn't feel like 'better.'"

You cross the room to him, placing your hands on his chest. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes meet yours, and you can see the genuine worry there.

"Whatever happens tonight, we face it together. Okay?"

He takes a deep breath, covering your hands with his. "Okay."

"Good. Now go shower, because you stink."

"Charming," he mutters, but he's smiling now. "What should I wear?"

"Something bulletproof?" you suggest innocently.

"Not helping!"

The drive to your parents' house is tense. Susie opens the door, her warm smile immediately putting you both at ease. "Come in, come in. Toto's just opening the wine."

"We brought some too," you say, holding up the bottle you'd carefully selected.

"Ah, his favorite." Susie winks. "Good choice."

The dining room is set beautifully, candles flickering on the table. Your father stands as you enter, and for a moment, everyone freezes.

Then Toto steps forward, kissing your cheek. "You look beautiful, Schatz."

He turns to Max, who looks like he's trying very hard not to bolt. They regard each other for a long moment before Toto extends his hand.

Max shakes it, and you breathe again.

Dinner starts surprisingly well. The conversation stays safe - racing, weather, Susie's latest projects. Max gradually relaxes enough to actually eat, though you notice he keeps looking at your father like he's expecting an ambush.

It comes after the plates are cleared.

"So," Toto says, setting down his wine glass. "We need to talk."

Max's hand finds yours under the table.

"Max." Your father's voice is measured. "I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say."

"Yes, sir."

"When YN was born, I made a promise to protect her from anything that could hurt her. When she was eighteen, I thought I was doing that by keeping her away from you."

You feel Max tense beside you.

"I was wrong."

The admission hangs in the air. Even Susie looks surprised.

"You were angry then. Volatile. Too much like your father." Toto continues. "But you've grown. Changed. I see that now."

He leans forward, eyes intense. "But understand this: that girl sitting next to you? She is my world. My greatest joy, my greatest pride. And if you ever - ever - give me reason to think you don't deserve her…"

"I don't," Max interrupts quietly. "Deserve her, I mean. I know that. I try every day to be worthy of her love, and I'll keep trying for the rest of my life."

Something shifts in Toto's expression.

"And you," he turns to you. "My strong, stubborn daughter. You've grown too. Standing up to me… it showed me you're not my little girl anymore. You're a woman who knows her own mind, her own heart."

Tears prick at your eyes. "Papa…"

"I trust your judgment," he says softly. "Even when it differs from mine."

Susie reaches over to squeeze his hand, pride shining in her eyes.

"Now," Toto straightens, his expression growing serious again. "We need to discuss the media situation. Your relationship will be public knowledge soon, if it isn't already."

"We've been careful," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"Careful isn't enough. The press will be relentless. They'll try to create drama, stir up controversy. Everything you do, every interaction, will be scrutinized."

"We know," Max says. "We've talked about it."

"Good. But you need to be prepared. They'll drag up the past, try to create tension between the teams. Your relationship will become clickbait."

"We can handle it," you say firmly.

"Perhaps. But you'll need support." Toto looks between you both. "Which is why… which is why I'm offering mine."

Max's grip on your hand tightens.

"When the story breaks, there will be questions. Speculation. I will make it clear that you have my blessing." The words seem to cost him something, but his voice is steady. "It won't stop the circus, but it might help control the narrative."

You're crying openly now. Max looks shellshocked.

"Thank you," he manages finally. "That… that means everything."

Toto nods once, then reaches for his wine. "Now, who wants dessert? Susie made Sachertorte."

As Susie bustles off to the kitchen, you catch your father's eye. The love there, the acceptance, makes your heart full.

Max leans over to whisper in your ear. "I think I just aged ten years."

You squeeze his hand. "Worth it?"

He looks at you, then at your father who's pretending not to watch you both, then back to you.

"Every second," he says, and kisses your temple.

And just like that, your worlds align.

Saint-Tropez, 2024

The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your villa, casting warm patterns across the rumpled sheets. Max's fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder as you lie there, both reluctant to acknowledge that real life awaits.

"Do we have to go back?" you mumble into his chest.

"Mmm, eventually." He drops a kiss on your head. "Though I could get used to this."

"What, me using you as a human pillow?"

"You do that at home too, liefje."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the way his hair is sticking up wildly. "True, but here you're not constantly checking the time for sim racing with Lando."

"That was one time!"

"It was three times last week alone."

He tugs you back down, rolling so you're trapped beneath him. "You're just jealous because I'm better at it than you."

"Excuse me?" You poke his ribs. "Who won last time?"

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"You distracted me!"

"Not my fault you can't focus when I kiss your neck."

His eyes darken. "Want to test that theory?"

"We'll be late for our flight," you warn, but you're already tilting your head as his lips find that spot behind your ear.

"Worth it," he murmurs against your skin.

Later, tangled in sheets again, you check your phone while Max dozes beside you. A frown crosses your face.

"That's weird."

"Hmm?" Max doesn't open his eyes.

"Lewis still hasn't answered my texts from yesterday. Or the day before."

You feel him tense slightly. "Maybe he's busy."

"During holidays? And he always answers eventually." You sit up, noticing how Max suddenly seems very interested in the ceiling. "Max…"

"What?"

"You know something."

"I don't."

"You're doing that thing with your jaw."

His hand flies to his face. "What thing?"

"That clenching thing you do when you're hiding something." You narrow your eyes. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill." He sits up too quickly. "We should start packing."

"Max Emilian Verstappen."

"YN Wolff," he mimics, but there's an edge of nervousness to his teasing.

"Is Lewis okay?"

"He's fine! Totally fine. Completely fine. Never been better."

You stare at him. "You are the worst liar ever."

"I'm not—" He cuts himself off with a groan. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it's nothing bad. Just… something that's not public yet."

Your stomach drops. "Is he sick?"

"What? No! No, nothing like that." He catches your hands. "I promise, he's okay. It's just… complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"The kind of complicated I really can't tell you about yet." His eyes are pleading. "Please don't ask me to. I promised."

You study his face, seeing the genuine conflict there. "But he's okay?"

"Yes."

"And it's not bad news?"

He hesitates. "That… depends on how you look at it."

"Max!"

"I've already said too much." He kisses your forehead. "You'll know soon enough."

You flop back onto the pillows with a huff. "I hate secrets."

"Says the woman who kept our relationship secret for two years."

"That was different!"

"Sure it was." He stretches out beside you, pulling you close. "Can we go back to the part where we were enjoying our last morning in paradise?"

You want to protest, to push for more information, but his hand is sliding up your thigh and his lips are at your neck again and suddenly Lewis' mysterious silence seems less important.

"Fine," you concede, already breathless. "But this isn't over."

"Never is with you," he murmurs fondly. "It's why I love you."

"Because I'm stubborn?"

"Because you never give up on the people you care about."

Something in his voice makes you pause. "Max…"

"Let me love you," he whispers. "Just for now, let that be enough."

The world and its complications can wait. For now, there's just this - the sun on your skin, Max's heartbeat under your palm, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

Even if he is terrible at keeping secrets.

The gentle hum of your computer fills your office at Mercedes HQ as you review the latest F1 Academy reports. A notification pops up on your phone - Instagram, probably another post from Max complaining about his training session.

Your coffee cup freezes halfway to your mouth.

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Ferrari in 2025

The cup clatters onto your desk, coffee spilling across papers you can't bring yourself to care about. Your hands shake as you scroll through post after post confirming it.

Lewis is leaving.

Lewis is going to Ferrari.

Lewis didn't tell you.

Max knew and didn't tell you.

Your father…

You're on your feet before you realize it, striding through the corridors. People step out of your way, perhaps recognizing the storm in your expression. You barely register Susie calling your name as you pass her office.

The door to your father's office bangs open. He looks up, unsurprised.

"What is going on?" Your voice trembles.

"YN—"

"No." You hold up your phone, the Ferrari announcement glaring at you. "What is this?"

Toto sighs, removing his glasses. "Come in and close the door."

"You knew." It's not a question. "You all knew. That's why Lewis wasn't answering my messages. That's why Max was acting strange in Saint-Tropez."

"We couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" The words come out sharp, hurt. "I'm not just your daughter anymore, Papa. I'm co-director of F1 Academy. I work here. This affects me professionally as well as personally."

"Which is exactly why we couldn't tell you." He stands, coming around his desk. "The announcement had to be handled carefully. Any leak could have—"

"Leak?" You step back when he reaches for you. "Is that what I am to you? A potential leak?"

"Schatz, no—"

"Lewis is family!" Your voice cracks. "He's been here my entire life. He watched me grow up. He helped Max and me when…" You swallow hard. "I had to find out from Instagram. Instagram, Papa!"

"I know."

"Did everyone know except me? Was there some big meeting where you all decided poor YN can't be trusted?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Tears spill over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like nobody trusted me enough to tell me that one of the most important people in my life is leaving."

Toto moves forward again, and this time you let him pull you into a hug. "Lewis wanted to tell you himself," he says softly. "He was going to come see you today, after the announcement. He didn't want you to have to carry the secret."

"I could have handled it."

"I know you could have." His hand smooths over your hair like when you were small. "But he didn't want to put you in that position. Neither did Max."

You stiffen. "Max knew for how long?"

"YN…"

"How long?"

"Since before New Year's."

The betrayal hits fresh. "That's why he was so weird about Lewis not texting back. He let me worry instead of just telling me."

"He was protecting you."

"I don't need protection!" You pull away. "I need honesty. I need the people I love to trust me. I need—" Your voice breaks. "I need to not feel like an outsider in my own family."

"Oh, Schatz." Toto's face crumples. "You have never been an outsider. Lewis insisted on keeping it quiet precisely because he cares so much. He knew how hard it would be for you."

"It's harder finding out like this."

A soft knock interrupts. You turn to see Lewis in the doorway, still in his Mercedes gear - for one of the last times, you realize with a pang.

"Little Wolff," he starts, but you hold up a hand.

"Don't." You brush past him, ignoring his attempt to catch your arm. "I have work to do."

"Please—"

"Congratulations on Ferrari," you say stiffly, not looking back. "I'm sure you'll do great things there."

You make it back to your office before the tears really start. Your phone buzzes - Max calling. Then Lewis. Then Susie.

You silence it, staring out your window at the Mercedes logo shining in the winter sun. It looks different now, knowing Lewis won't be racing under it anymore soon.

Everything looks different.

Your phone lights up again - a text from Max.

"I'm sorry. I hated keeping this from you. I love you"

You turn the phone face down.

Later. You'll deal with all of it later.

By the time you make it home that evening, your eyes are red and puffy from crying. Max is already there - of course he is - waiting in the kitchen with that worried look you've come to know so well.

"Baby…" he starts, but you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter with trembling hands.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Just… don't."

But Max has never been good at leaving you alone when you're hurting. His arms wrap around you from behind, and despite your anger, you find yourself leaning back into his warmth.

"I wanted to tell you," he whispers against your hair. "Every day, I wanted to tell you."

The dam breaks. You turn in his arms, burying your face in his chest as sobs wrack your body. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs soothing circles on your back.

"He's leaving," you choke out. "Lewis is actually leaving. How can he leave? He's… he's my brother, Max. He's been there my whole life. The garage won't be the same without him. The team won't be the same."

"I know, baby. I know."

"He didn't tell me. None of you told me." You pull back enough to look up at him, tears still streaming. "You all just decided I couldn't handle it."

Max wipes your tears with his thumbs, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Lewis wanted to protect you. We all did. You've been working so hard with F1 Academy, with the team… he didn't want you carrying this weight."

"But I could have handled it! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting anymore."

"No," Max agrees softly, "you're the strongest person I know. But Lewis loves you like a sister. He wanted to tell you himself, properly. Not through some leaked rumor or whispered secret."

You collapse against him again, letting out a shuddering breath. "I can't imagine Mercedes without him. Every memory I have there, he's part of it. Even when we were hiding us, he was there, watching out for us, covering for us…"

Max leads you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You curl into him, feeling drained.

"Talk to him," he murmurs. "Not today, not tomorrow if you're not ready. But don't let this distance grow. You'll regret it."

"When did you get so wise?" you ask weakly.

"Around the same time I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them be angry at you for trying to protect them." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Even if you'd do it again."

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in Max's arms as the sun sets outside. Your phone buzzes occasionally - more messages from Lewis, probably - but you ignore it. Tomorrow you'll deal with it all. Tomorrow you'll be strong again.

But tonight, you let yourself be held and comforted, mourning the end of an era while knowing, deep down, that family is family - even when they're wearing red instead of silver.

Bahrain, 2024

The Bahrain paddock buzzes with its usual first-race energy, but everything feels off-kilter. You've been masterfully avoiding proper conversations with Lewis all weekend, keeping interactions professional and brief. The pit wall feels different already, knowing it's his last season here.

You're reviewing data sheets in the garage when his shadow falls across your tablet.

"Little Wolff," Lewis says softly, using the nickname that usually makes you smile but now just makes your chest ache. "Can we talk?"

"I'm quite busy," you reply, not looking up. "Qualifying strategy needs finalizing."

"YN." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please."

You finally meet his eyes, seeing the concern there, the sadness. He looks older somehow, or maybe that's just your perception shifting with everything else.

"What's left to say?" You keep your voice low, mindful of the mechanics nearby. "You made your decision. You kept it from me. We move forward."

"That's not fair and you know it." Lewis steps closer. "I've tried calling, texting…"

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me." He sighs. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Well, you did." The words come out sharper than intended. "Did you think finding out from social media wouldn't hurt? That watching Max and Papa dance around it for weeks wouldn't hurt?"

"I wanted to protect you—"

"Stop saying that!" You catch yourself, lowering your voice again. "Everyone keeps saying they were protecting me. I'm not a child anymore, Lewis. I run part of this team. I handle confidential information every day. I've kept secrets bigger than this."

Understanding crosses his face. "Like Max."

"Yes, like Max." You swallow hard. "You trusted me then. You helped us. Why couldn't you trust me with this?"

"Because this wasn't just my secret to keep." Lewis runs a hand over his face. "There were contracts, negotiations, timing issues. And yes, I wanted to tell you myself, properly. Not have you carry it around for weeks knowing you couldn't talk to anyone about it."

"So instead you let me worry when you weren't responding to messages? Let me think something was wrong? Let Max lie to me?"

"I asked him not to tell you." Lewis reaches for your hand but you pull back. "He wanted to. He hated keeping it from you."

"But he did anyway."

"Because he understands sometimes protecting the people we love means letting them be angry with us." Lewis's voice softens. "You're my family, YN. You're the little sister I never had. Leaving Mercedes… leaving you… it's one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."

You blink back tears, refusing to cry in the garage. "Then why are you?"

"Because sometimes we need to chase new dreams, even when it means leaving safe harbors." He smiles sadly. "You taught me that, actually. When you chose Max despite everything, despite what it could cost you. You taught me that sometimes the scariest choices are the right ones."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Lewis raises an eyebrow. "You took a risk for love. For growth. For what you believed was right for you, even knowing it would hurt people you care about."

You look away, his words hitting too close to home.

"I'm not asking you not to be hurt," he continues. "I'm just asking you not to let that hurt break us. I'm still your Lewis. That doesn't change just because I'm wearing red."

"It feels like everything's changing," you whisper.

"Some things never will." He opens his arms. "Come here, Little Wolff."

This time you don't resist, letting him pull you into a hug. The familiar smell of his cologne brings fresh tears to your eyes.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his chest.

"I know."

"And you better not beat us too badly in that Ferrari."

You feel his laugh rumble. "I'll do my best."

"Lewis?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to miss you so much."

His arms tighten. "I'm not gone yet. We've got a whole season ahead of us. And after… I'm still your big brother. That doesn't change with the color of my race suit."

Over his shoulder, you catch Max watching from the Red Bull garage, a soft smile on his face. He gives you a small nod before turning back to his engineers.

Some things change. Some things stay the same. And sometimes, you realize, holding onto anger hurts more than letting it go.

Miami, 2024

The sun beats down mercilessly as you pace your hotel room, phone clutched in your hand. The notifications won't stop - Instagram, Twitter, all exploding with the same photos. You and Max on his boat in Monaco last weekend, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, both of you clearly lost in each other.

You'd been so careful for so long. One moment of letting your guard down, and now…

The door opens and Max rushes in, still in his Red Bull gear from practice. "Baby?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Have you seen them?" You hold up your phone, hands trembling. "They're everywhere. Everyone knows. Papa is going to have to address it in the press conference and—"

Max crosses the room in three long strides, taking your face in his hands - just like in the photos, you realize with a jolt. "Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe with me."

"But—"

"Breathe first." His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."

You follow his lead, matching your breathing to his until the panic starts to recede. Only then does he lead you to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping one arm around you.

"Now," he says, "tell me what you're really afraid of."

"Everything!" You gesture wildly with your free hand. "The media circus, the speculation, the questions about favoritism in the sport, Papa having to defend us publicly, the board's reaction…"

"YN." Max turns you to face him fully. "We knew this would happen eventually. We talked about it."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." His blue eyes are intense, earnest. "We're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults who love each other. Yes, there will be talk. Yes, there will be questions. But we can handle it." His lips quirk. "We've handled worse."

You lean into him, letting his steady presence ground you. "Papa's press conference is in twenty minutes."

"And he'll handle it like he handles everything - with that terrifying Wolff composure." Max's hand runs soothingly up and down your back. "He loves you, baby. He's not going to let anyone suggest anything improper about us."

"I should be there," you whisper. "I should face it with him."

"No." Max's voice is firm. "Let him handle this part. That's what fathers do - they protect their children, even when their children are grown up and running F1 programs."

Your phone buzzes again - another news alert. Max gently takes it from your hand and sets it aside.

"Remember what you told me?" he asks softly. "That night in Monaco when I was worried about how people would react to us being together again?"

You smile slightly. "I told you that what other people think doesn't matter."

"Exactly." He presses his forehead to yours. "You said that we've earned the right to be happy, that we're not teenagers anymore trying to sneak around. You said we're stronger together than apart."

"Using my own words against me?"

"Always." He kisses you softly. "Because you were right then, and you're still right now. Let them talk. Let them speculate. We know the truth."

Your phone lights up with a livestream notification - the press conference is starting. Max reaches for the remote, turning on the hotel room's TV where it's already being broadcast.

"We can turn it off," he offers, but you shake your head.

"No. I need to see."

You curl into Max's side as the questions start. Your father sits there, calm and collected as ever, fielding questions about strategy and performance. Then:

"Toto, there are photos circulating of your daughter YN with Max Verstappen. Given the rivalry between Mercedes and Red Bull, and Max's history with both Mercedes and your family, do you have any comment?"

The room goes silent. You hold your breath, feeling Max tense beside you.

Your father adjusts his glasses, that familiar gesture that usually precedes something important. "Yes, I do have a comment." His voice is measured but firm. "My daughter is a highly respected professional in this sport, running our F1 Academy program and working tirelessly to create opportunities for young women in motorsport. Her personal life is her own, and she has my full support in all her choices."

"But given the competitive nature of F1—"

"Let me be very clear," Toto interrupts, and you recognize that steel in his voice. "YN has proven herself time and time again. She has earned her position through hard work and dedication. Max Verstappen is one of the most talented drivers of his generation. They are both adults who conduct themselves with integrity and professionalism. Any suggestion otherwise is not only disrespectful but reveals more about the person asking than about them."

Tears blur your vision. Max's arm tightens around you.

"See?" he whispers. "Terrifying Wolff composure."

On screen, your father continues: "My daughter and Max have my blessing and my respect. They have shown wisdom and maturity in handling their relationship alongside their professional responsibilities. Now, unless there are questions about this weekend's race…"

You bury your face in Max's chest, overwhelmed. His hands stroke your hair as he murmurs soft Dutch endearments.

"He defended us," you say wonderingly. "He really defended us."

"Of course he did." Max kisses the top of your head. "He's your father. And…" he hesitates, "I think maybe he's starting to like, a little bit."

You look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "You know he likes you."

"Yeah." Max smiles softly. "He called me yesterday, you know. Said if any reporters gave me trouble about the photos, to refer them to him. Said he'd handle it."

Fresh tears spill over. "He did?"

"Mmhmm." Max wipes your tears with his thumb."Does this mean I can finally kiss you in the paddock?"

You laugh through your tears. "Maybe let's ease them into it?"

"Fine." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm holding your hand in public. No negotiation on that."

"Deal." You curl back into him, feeling the panic from earlier dissolve into something warmer, more certain. "Thank you for being here. For being you."

"Always, baby." Max kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Now, what do you say we give them something else to talk about and go absolutely dominate this race weekend?"

You smile against his lips. "Now that sounds like a plan."

Las Vegas, 2024

The neon lights blur through your tears as you watch the podium ceremony. George and Lewis stand there together, silver suits gleaming under the artificial lights, Mercedes' last 1-2 with this particular lineup.

Your heart feels like it might burst - pride, joy, and melancholy all tangled together. Max clinched his fourth title today, and you couldn't be prouder.

"Look at them," Susie whispers, squeezing your hand. "Our boys."

You can barely speak around the lump in your throat. George looks radiant, his second win of the season perhaps the sweetest. And Lewis… Lewis is beaming with genuine joy for his teammate, even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. His last podium in Vegas as a Mercedes driver.

Your father stands tall beside you, his usual stoic expression softened by emotion. As the champagne starts flowing, you catch sight of Max making his way toward the Red Bull garage, where you know the championship celebrations are about to begin.

"Go," your father says suddenly.

You turn to him, surprised. "What?"

"Go celebrate with Max." His voice is gentle. "It's his fourth championship. You should be there."

"But…" you glance at the podium, at your Mercedes family celebrating.

"We've shared every celebration with you," Susie says softly. "Let him have this one."

"Are you sure?" You look at your father. "Papa?"

Toto's eyes are warm as he cups your face in his hands. "For three years, you couldn't celebrate with him. Couldn't share his victories. Couldn't be by his side when he achieved his dreams." He kisses your forehead. "Go make up for lost time, Schatz."

"But Lewis and George…"

"Will understand." Toto smiles. "Besides, I think Lewis would be disappointed if you didn't go congratulate your boyfriend on his championship."

As if on cue, Lewis catches your eye from the podium and nods toward the Red Bull garage, mouthing "Go!"

Tears spill over as you hug your parents. "I love you both so much."

"We know," Susie strokes your hair. "Now go. Make your man's celebration complete."

You run through the paddock, your heart pounding. The Red Bull garage is already in full celebration mode when you arrive. Christian sees you first, and instead of any awkwardness, he just smiles and points toward the back room.

You find Max there, surrounded by his team but somehow looking like he's waiting for something - or someone. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.

"Baby," he breathes, and then you're in his arms, his race suit damp with champagne, his heart beating fast against yours.

"Congratulations, four-time world champion," you whisper against his neck.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. "You came."

"Of course I came." You touch his face, memorizing this moment. "Papa and Susie practically pushed me out the door."

Max's eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You smile through your tears. "Papa said we had three years of celebrations to make up for."

Something vulnerable crosses Max's face. "I used to dream about this," he admits quietly, despite the noise around you. "Every championship, every win… I'd imagine you here, celebrating with me. But I never thought…"

"That my father would be the one sending me to you?"

"Yeah." Max laughs softly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"

"For the better." You kiss him softly, not caring who sees. "I'm so proud of you, Max. So incredibly proud."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Stay? Celebrate with us?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

"Good." His smile turns mischievous. "Because I have three years of championship celebrations to make up for, and I plan to make this one count."

From somewhere behind you, you hear Jos' voice: "Max! The championship photo!"

"Coming!" Max calls back, then looks at you. "Join us?"

You blink. "In the Red Bull championship photo?"

"Why not?" His eyes are bright with joy and love. "You're part of this story too. Always have been."

The photographer arranges everyone, and Max pulls you close to his side. Here, under the neon lights of Vegas, surrounded by celebrations both here and in the garage next door, you feel the weight of the moment. The past - three years of separation, of watching from afar. The present - standing proudly by his side as he achieves another dream. And the future - stretching out before you both, full of possibilities.

"Ready?" Max whispers in your ear.

You look up at him, this man who never stopped loving you even when the world tried to keep you apart, and smile. "Ready."

The camera flashes, capturing the moment forever - the four-time world champion and the girl who crossed rival lines to love him, surrounded by celebration and joy, making up for all the moments they missed and creating new ones all their own.

In the distance, you hear the Mercedes celebration continuing, George and Lewis' laughter carrying through the night. Two families, two celebrations, and you finally allowed to be part of both.

Melbourne, 2025

"YN, we need to check something at the track," Max says casually as you're getting ready for bed.

"At this hour? It's past midnight."

"Trust me?" He gives you that same boyish grin that still makes your heart skip, even after a decade.

You're both jet-lagged anyway, so you agree. But instead of heading to Albert Park, Max drives to a familiar hotel. Your breath catches when you realize where you are.

"Max…"

"Come on," he takes your hand, leading you through the quiet lobby to the coffee shop where it all began. The lights are dimmed, but it's clearly open - though completely empty.

"How did you…?"

"Being a four-time world champion has some perks," he grins. "Plus, the owner remembered us. Said she never forgot the night the youngest F1 driver and Toto Wolff's daughter had their secret meeting here."

The same table is there, the one where you shared your hot chocolate ten years ago. There's even a steaming mug waiting.

"You were so smug," Max laughs, pulling out your chair. "Letting me ramble about being a driver when you knew exactly who I was."

"You were cute when you were flustered," you tease. "Especially when I dropped my last name."

"I couldn't believe it. Here I was, trying to impress this beautiful girl, and she turned out to be my biggest rival's daughter."

You take a sip from the mug - hot chocolate, just like that night. "Papa wouldn't stop talking about you."

"And now he's my biggest defender," Max shakes his head in wonder. "Remember how scared we were to tell him about us?"

"Worth it though," you squeeze his hand. "Every secret meeting, every careful distance in the paddock, every time we had to pretend we were just friendly acquaintances."

Max's eyes go soft. "You know what I remember most about that first night? You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was either Jos's son or some record-breaking novelty. You just… saw me."

"I still do," you whisper.

He stands suddenly, pulling you up with him. "That night, I was terrified about my first race. Everyone had opinions about whether I deserved to be here. But then there was this girl, sharing her hot chocolate and making me feel like maybe I could actually do this."

"Max…"

He drops to one knee, and your heart stops. "Ten years ago, in this exact spot, I met the love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that girl who kept her name secret until the last possible moment would become my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home."

Through your tears, you see him pull out a ring. "You've been there through everything, YN. Every victory, every defeat. When the pressure got too much, when the critics were too loud - you were my safe place. Just like you were that first night."

"Remember what you told me then? That your intuition said I'd do great?" He laughs softly. "You believed in me before anyone else did. And I want to spend the rest of my life believing in you, supporting you, loving you."

"YN Wolff," his voice cracks slightly. "Will you marry me? Will you keep being my safe place, my biggest supporter, my best friend? Will you let me spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me?"

Through your tears, you see the same boy from that late-night coffee shop - still determined, still passionate, still looking at you like you're his whole world. But now he's also the man who's grown with you, fought for you, loved you through everything.

"Yes," you manage, pulling him up to kiss him. "Yes to everything."

As he slides the ring onto your finger, Max pulls you close, and you can smell the same coffee shop scent that surrounded you ten years ago. "Thank you for sharing your hot chocolate that night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Thank you for making me believe in intuition," you reply, feeling the weight of the ring - a promise of all the years to come.

Outside, Melbourne sleeps, just like it did that first night. But now, instead of two strangers sharing a drink and their fears, there's you and Max, sharing a future.

And it feels like coming home.

tags: @mimiteller712 @lydia-demarek, @rory-cakes, @swaggymadi, @chriskevinevans @p7-otterton, @cherrystars81, @whokilledmarlene @lilymaleshka @kodeelynn @formoola1fan @pausmoon @lalala28 @baby-alien11 @allthings-fandoms @downsideup1989 @urbaebarnes @ivegotparticulartaste @liethatyouloveme @codymthepenguin @finn-dot-com @rayaskoalaland @angelluv16 @pourmercymercy0nme @tweetledeedumb @osclerc @scientifichufflepuff @cometpiastri @hobiismyhopeu @monsterdesandia @amyelevenn @damonsalvatorelikessex @rmvb @virtualperfectioncat @emma-chiara @chelle1306 @idontknow0704 @lilypat @elieanana @nothaqks @1800-love-me

[studioeisa]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[chuluoyi]

the secret wife

- nanami kento x reader

follow the first years’ misadventures as they find out that apparently, the infamous 7:3 sorcerer is also a dutiful and loving husband in private!

genre/warnings: crack, fluff, the first years are simply chaotic, an attempt at humor, gojo cameo (he’s so insufferable), mentions of pregnancy, nanami being the best husband there is

note: based on an anon's suggestion, this is a spin-off to love entries' wife (so gojo is married to love entries reader naturally!) this is full chaos and crack omg so sorry and isn't proofread bc i’m kinda tired so pls forgive any mistakes and my dry humor :')

general masterlist

On one fine, sunny day, which was supposed to be a calm and relaxing afternoon...

“Hello? Yuji—”

Megumi could've sworn, they weren't usually this nosy.

“Gojo-sensei! It's urgent!”

Call it indulgence, because Nobara's curiosity just got the better of her.

“Oh? What's—”

“Does Nanamin have a wife!?”

And Yuji... well, he just needed answers, because the three of them were now in the ‘Mom and Baby’ section of department store, having just witnessed a monumental sight of their esteemed mentor, Nanami Kento—

—with a remarkably stunning woman hanging onto his arm.

“Huh?” Gojo's confusion was evident from the other line. Oh, yeah. Yuji had decided to cut to the chase and call him too, hoping for a swift clarification.

Okay, so why were the trio—plus Gojo on the speakerphone—hiding behind a pillar just to spy on Nanami and his very possible wife? Let us rewind 30 minutes before...

Yuji considers himself to have an exceptional eye and taste for women.

And 30 minutes ago, when he fell on his butt on the rough, hard asphalt in the jammed Shibuya crossing after accidentally getting shoved by the crowd, and encountered a kind, vivacious older woman—you, who extended a hand to help him up, he was even more convinced of that.

“Are you alright, Itadori-kun?” your soft voice entered his ears, catching him off-guard, and Yuji was certain of two things then.

One, that you were just like a literal angel descended from skies above, all dolled up and pretty with your flowy sundress.

“Ah, uh��” he stammered, eyes darting everywhere and anywhere at once as his palm started sweating after clasping your hand. “I-I am…”

And two, for the life of him, he had no idea who you were.

But it registered late in his mind to ask as he was busy controlling his ragged breathing and instant crush, and before Yuji knew it, you graced him with another kind smile and went on your way.

And did he feel so miserable afterwards.

. . .

“She’s sooo hella pretty, Fushiguro! And she knows me! Me!”

Megumi sighed, eyeing his friend in disgust. Truthfully, all he wanted was to return to the dorms and collapse onto his bed, and not listen to his friend’s incoherent ramblings.

"You sure you weren't imagining things?" Nobara questioned with slight irritation. "After you embarrassed us in front of Gojo-sensei's wife a while back, please think more before you act."

"I'm not, I swear! She said my name!"

"Itadori, can you please just not?" Megumi grumbled, having enough of this ruckus. "I want to walk back in peace."

And so tucking away his pout, Yuji walked in silence just as his best friend asked, and he was really going to leave it at that when suddenly he caught the sight of a familiar pristine coat and the sundress from earlier. “Oh?”

"Isn't that Nanami-san?" Nobara also spotted him, her eyes widening when she saw you, who was happily beaming as well as Nanami's light chuckle. "And wait, who is—?"

"That's her!" Yuji burst out, pointing decisively in your direction. "That's who I was talking about!"

Oh, no. Megumi dreaded it already. He could already see the utter catastrophe—

"I'm going after them!"

"Wait, Itadori! Me too!"

Too late. Before he could stop them, Nobara and Yuji had followed the pair. Reluctantly, Megumi trailed behind them too, albeit wearing a vexed scowl. Yet despite his misgivings, he couldn't deny that the things he saw over the next 30 minutes were genuinely unexpected.

Nanami consistently led you to a quieter spot away from the bustling crowd, his hand holding yours firmly. He would occasionally throw you a smile, or when you didn’t hold hands, then he’d wrap an arm around your waist. And to the trio's bewilderment, they also saw him tenderly brushing his lips against your head while on the escalator.

Soft and gentle. It was a side of Nanami Kento they had never witnessed—either with anyone else or even himself.

The two of you ventured through home appliances, visited food stalls, and eventually... the ‘Mom and Baby’ section.

"Do you want to rest for a bit?" Nanami's voice held a touch of concern as his hand settled on the small of your back, and seeing that, Nobara positively swooned.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," you responded with a reassuring smile. "Let's head over there. I'd like to see that next!"

Watching you and Nanami meticulously going through strollers and cribs like a pair of would-be parents was apparently too mind-blowing for Yuji and Nobara, leading to the decision to call Gojo right then and there. And, as they say, the rest was history.

"Last I heard, Nanami wasn't married," Gojo answered resolutely. "If he is, then it's the ultimate betrayal because he never told me!"

"But we see him with a woman! At mother and baby care section!"

Gojo hummed in thoughtful manner. "Okay, students. Now I'm tasking you to see this to the very end! Keep me on the line!"

With that, Operation: Uncover Nanami's Wife was officially underway, and frankly, the way the three of them were clumsily tailing the 7:3 sorcerer made Megumi want to facepalm. How was it that Nanami hadn't noticed their rather conspicuous attempts at all?

Now you were fawning over baby clothes, cutely trying not to squeal as you picked a little blue and yellow overalls. "Kento! Kento! Look, how cute!"

And all of them were floored once again when the expression on his face softened, as a warm smile adorned his lips. "Yeah, they are."

"Is she pregnant? She doesn't look it..." Nobara remarked, squinting and frowning, still watching the two of you like a hawk.

"Or maybe they're shopping for someone else?" Megumi suggested, earning teasing grins from Yuji and Nobara, to which he quickly rolled his eyes, as they chorused, "Looks like you're curious too!"

After a while, you moved from the clothes to sections stocked with mother's necessities. Yuji leaned against one of the racks, pressing his ear against it, with Nobara and Megumi crowding behind him, attempting to catch a snippet of your conversation with Nanami.

"I think we should get some heat packs and these pillows—"

"Oh, Kento! You're such a worrywart, I still won't need them for a few more months—"

"Wait, what?" Yuji whipped his head around in surprise, causing Nobara, who was leaning on him, to stumble and inadvertently collide with the racks.

"Eh? Huh!?"

Unfortunately, the racks weren't sturdy enough, and the force caused them to sway dangerously. Nobara, sensing her imminent fall, instinctively grabbed Yuji's arm to steady herself. However, he got tugged instead and their combined weight exacerbated the situation, leading to the racks quickly toppling over and a deafening commotion ensued—

Crash!

"Careful!" Nanami immediately pulled you behind him, a protective arm around your shoulder, sensing your shock from the sudden crash. He was on high alert, expecting some sort of attack of cursed spirits, but instead, he was met with the most astounding sight of the bickering culprits amidst the fallen racks.

"Kugisaki! What are you doing!"

"You dumbass! Why didn't you stop me from falling?!"

"Itadori-kun...?" Nanami called out in utter disbelief, his mind couldn't fathom as to why the first years were here. However, his attention quickly shifted to Megumi, who was seething and sending his friends a glare so hard it could drill a hole into them.

Then, the boy swiftly fixed himself into a low bow in front of him, ashamed, disregarding Yuji and Nobara's groans altogether. "Nanami-san, I'm very, very sorry on their behalf."

"What are the three of you doing here?" he inquired, and poor Megumi seemed at a loss, huffing as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of where to even start.

Meanwhile you were full of worry for the fallen kids. "Oh my gosh, are you alright?"

For the second time today, you tried to help Yuji to stand on his feet, and this time, he really had a good look over you.

It wasn't exactly noticeable due to how loose your dress was, but now he could see that under it, your belly was slightly rounded—an unmistakable baby bump.

Amidst his shock and pain, Yuji couldn't bring himself to take your hand as he inadvertently let this slip, "N-Nanamin! You knocked her up!"

Nanami blinked. You gaped. Megumi and Nobara went pale in sheer horror, ready to murder their friend on the spot for his extreme height of rudeness.

“Itadori-kun,” Nanami cleared his throat then, and if he was offended, then he chose not to show it. “First of all, I’m sorry for not introducing you sooner. This is Y/N, my wife, and yes,” his tone hardened slightly, “She’s carrying our first child.”

“S-so you are married!”

“Yes, that was what I—”

“What the hell?! NANAMIIII!”

Oh, the freaking phone. After his fall, Yuji’s phone ended up on the floor, and of course, Gojo did hear all of the entire madness, evident from how his voice blared from the phone.

Nanami frowned, unwittingly reaching out towards the phone. “Who—?”

“NA-NA-MI!" Gojo screeched in righteous exasperation, and the former immediately pulled away from the phone with a cringe. “How could you?! I invited you to my wedding! Are you a hermit or something—how could not tell anyone!? Didn’t you say I can officiate—”

“I said no such thing. Please refrain from saying outrageous things, it’s both annoying and misleading,” Nanami stressed, growing more irritated by the mere sound of Gojo's whining voice and feeling his patience waning rapidly.

"Aren't we friends?! How—!"

"Should I find you instigate one more of this... shenanigans with the kids, I won't hesitate to report you to Yaga and your wife," he interjected then with clear irritation, and right that second, Gojo shut himself up.

Yuji, Nobara and Megumi couldn't help drawing that one conclusion in wonder: So, that's what Gojo-sensei is afraid of.

Nanami swiftly ended the call with a flick of his finger, returning the phone to the still mystified Yuji. Turning back to the trio, Nanami's irritation simmered as he glanced at the mess of broken goods on the floor, as well as noticing the approaching clerks.

"You three..." Nanami started, his voice rising slightly, unfaltering even as the three of them flinched. "Do you realize what you've done? Are you so idle that you can ditch your assignments?"

"Kento, don't be too harsh," you rebuked, placing a hand on his arm with a frown on your face. Nanami sighed, looking over the situation once again. It was a whole rack of baby necessities destroyed; plates, glasses, and whatnot scattered across the floor.

Nobara bit her lip in anxiety. “Oh my god, who's going to pay for all this damage?” She could already imagine the staggering amount this mess would cost. This is worth millions, anyone can go bankrupt.

There was only one person who can and will. Immediately, both Nanami and Megumi turned to her with a shared resolve.

"Gojo," Megumi blurted.

"He will be charged for everything," Nanami added with spite.

Epilogue

"You just love those kids, don't you, Kento?"

That night, when both of you were ready for sleep, Nanami had one hand caressing your still growing belly, and you teased him with a chuckle.

"Huh?" your husband looked at you in mild confusion as he stopped stroking you. "What do you mean?"

You giggled again. "You said to put it on Gojo's name, but in the end, you were the one who covered the damages first."

Nanami huffed lightly. "That's because I can't get the kids in trouble. But mark my words, I'll make sure Gojo pays up later, by force if I need to." He made a face when he remembered just what a massive bill it was. "That's too much money to be spent carelessly. We have our child and our future to consider."

"You're always like that," you sighed fondly, taking his hand and placing it back to the swell of your belly. "Always on the first line of defense for the students." Your smile widened. "It makes me think... just how lucky our kid will be with you as their father."

"On the contrary, I'm counting my blessings that they'll have someone as soft as you for their mother," your husband retorted with a smile, kissing your temple. And your heart melted into a puddle by his affectionate gesture.

"That's too sweet... ah, yeah," suddenly, you were reminded of a critical thing. “Kento, have you ever considered telling everyone else that we're married? At least to people at school?”

Nanami always wanted privacy for safety reasons most of the time, and you understood that, but seeing that Gojo and the first years knew already, you thought it might be the best time to let everyone know.

"I honestly don’t see the need to, why?"

"People like Gojo are confused—"

Your husband rolled his eyes then. "Don’t worry, dear. People like Gojo exist to spread the word so we don't have to."

[aajjks]

D&D (m)

synopsis. There is a lot to deal with whenever your horny roommate ends up drunk as fuck.

pairings. roomate!jk x fem!reader.

genre: 18+, cringe, smut, crack & comedy.

warnings. 18+, explícït längüägë, vëry gräphïc änd fïlthÿ dïälögüë, drünk Jüngkook, H Ô R N Y JK, ïntënsë sëxüäl tënsïön, rïdïcülöüsly bôld flïrtätïön, händ pläçëmënts gëttïng ä lïttlë tóó clösë, dïrty hümör, änd füll-ön läck öf fïltër, brò ís hórny.

note. I just can’t get enough of him. You know like he’s so cringe it it’s almost adorable and I think I am highly attracted to him but like if this flops that’s completely OK but you know you kind of want him too! BESTIE ENJOY AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR FEEDBACK AND THOUGHTS!!! also like don’t think about what d&d stands for… it just stands for some thing I thought of, but you can guess what it is. 🥰👁️💞

•••

It all started innocently enough.

You were minding your business, well, trying to, anyway, sitting in the living room with your favorite movie on.

You were practically drowning in popcorn, the TV blaring in the background, when you heard it:

the unmistakable sound of Jungkook’s loud, obnoxious laugh echoing from the kitchen.

That was your first warning sign.

He was clearly already drunk. It was barely past 9 PM.

You sighed dramatically, already knowing what was about to unfold.

He had been with the guys all afternoon, and they’d clearly made it their mission to get him obliterated tonight.

You were certain they were probably still laughing about how he’d tried to dance earlier and somehow got his foot caught in the rug, nearly faceplanting in front of all of them.

“EUNWOO SHUT THE FUCK UP BRO.”

Dude, you hate him and his equally insufferable friend eunwoo.

When he stumbles into the living room five minutes later, you’re greeted with the glorious sight of Jungkook in all his messy, drunk glory.

His hair was even messier than usual, his hoodie half off one shoulder like he didn’t know how to dress himself anymore, and his eyes were all glazed over in that half-drunk haze.

“Yn,” he slurs, trying to look serious but his giggling ruins it.

“I need you to listen to me. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You squint at him, debating if you should even entertain this or just leave the room.

But, of course, you’re never one to back down from Jungkook’s nonsense, so you throw the popcorn in your lap and cross your arms.

“Is that so?” you ask, deadpan.

He stumbles closer, his breath reeking of alcohol as he points at you like he’s discovered the meaning of life.

“Yes,” he says, looking at you like you just shook his whole existence.

“You’re, like, the Beyoncé of my life right now. I can’t even deal.”

“Beyoncé, huh?” you reply, trying your best to keep the sarcasm out of your voice, but failing miserably.

“Then why are you acting like you just discovered the concept of a woman?”

Jungkook freezes for a second, blinking at you like you’ve just slapped him. Then, his face lights up like he’s found the perfect solution to prove his point.

“I’m telling you,” he slurs again, taking a slow step toward you.

“You’re a fucking goddess, and you don’t even know it. I just wanna fuck you on this couch.”

There it is. The moment you both crossed the line.

He’s so shamelessly drunk that he doesn’t even notice the shock on your face.

In fact, he seems pleased with his words. He tries to sit down next to you, only to miss the couch entirely and slightly fall onto the floor.

But, like a true chaotic drunk, he makes it look like it was intentional.

You can’t even deal. “You’re an actual disaster,” you mutter, already facepalming because you know what’s coming next.

He’s going to be relentless.

He sits up with a lopsided grin, completely unbothered by his near-fall, and slaps his knee.

“Nah, I’m just being honest. I mean,”

he raises a finger like he’s giving a TED talk now, “morning sex, shower sex, couch sex… you name it. I’ll fuck you in every room of this house, baby girl.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little too close for comfort. “I’m a man of many talents, you know? I’ll even help you out with… whatever you need.”

You can feel your face burning, a mixture of embarrassment and irritation swirling inside you.

“Jungkook,” you say, trying to sound calm, but your voice comes out in a weird squeak. “You need to go to bed. Now.”

His eyes narrow as he leans in, completely disregarding your protests.

“Oh, so you’re gonna act like you don’t want me? Come on, babe. You love the attention. I can see it in your eyes,”

he says with a smirk that could kill.

“You want me to fuck you just as bad as I want to fuck you.”

“Ugh, can’t you be normal for like, five minutes?” you groan, turning your face away from him.

His voice is starting to grate on you, but it’s also doing something else. Something that you’re really trying to ignore.

But Jungkook is relentless.

“Normal?” he repeats with a mock pout. “Babe, I was normal until you came into my life, and now I’m just a fucking disaster.”

He gestures to himself dramatically, somehow knocking over his half-drunk beer in the process.

“See? This is what happens when you look this fucking good, everyone gets obsessed.”

Before you can even respond, he pulls himself upright again, now making it his personal mission to annoy you as much as possible.

“You know,” he continues, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness,

“the thing about morning sex… it’s not just about the sex, you know? It’s about waking up next to someone who’s so fucking sexy they make your brain short-circuit in the best way possible.”

“I’m not waking up next to you,” you snap, even though the idea is starting to sound a little… tempting.

His lips curl up into a wicked grin as he leans closer. “Why? You’re scared my dick’s gonna be too much for you?” he teases, his voice a deep growl.

“I get it, babe. I know my size can be a little overwhelming.”

“You are so annoying,” you say, your voice shaking as you try to push him away, but his damn body language is strong—

he’s definitely not moving anywhere.

Jungkook grabs your wrist gently, his thumb rubbing over your pulse like he knows exactly how to get you flustered.

“I’ll show you later, baby,” he whispers, his breath tickling your skin.

“Just wait ‘til I’m sober. I promise, you’ll beg for it.”

You don’t even know why you’re still sitting here with him. But, apparently, your own body betrays you when you notice the way he’s looking at you.

And, yeah, that’s it.

You’re definitely fucked.

“Jungkook if you don’t shut the fuck up in the next two seconds, I think I’m gonna throw the fucking pan on your head.”

He has the audacity to look at you and then he laughs out loud, and it’s an ugly laugh that has your ears ringing.

Goodness, he can be so fucking insufferable.

But at least he’s cute.

Although you will never tell him that because then he’s gonna eat your head.

[specialgradefckr]

Satoru Gojo who thinks you're only with him for the money.

He's pretty insufferable, after all. And a shitty boyfriend to boot - always bailing on dates, showing up at weird times, telling you vague stories about his work that don't make sense.

Honestly he's surprised you've stuck around this long.

That you still read every message he spams you when he's bored and lonely fighting special grade curses.

(after all, he always has to go on those missions alone. there's no one who can go with him.)

You still text him back. Open the door to let him in. Smile when you see him, like it's the very first time and he can tell you're just so star-struck by his eyes as he tugs down his blindfold with a grin, "Do I look blind to you?" "Blindingly handsome!"

He'd laughed at that. You're shocked by his appearance, but you're earnest, and so obviously smitten, and he loves a woman with a little humor.

Satoru Gojo who didn't expect you to text him back after the first night, but you did.

cutie pie: omg, those look so good! what flavor? satoru: my favorite, the edamame and cream~ cutie pie: bring some for me next time you visit <3 i'll feed them to you ;)

On a lesser man, that might have sounded presumptuous. To Satoru, it's the perfect come-on. Casual, flirty, and easy to do - all the makings of a great hookup.

He hadn't expected to spend half the night on his knees like a dog, licking at your fingers. Watering over a thumb pressed down against his tongue while you drooled your mochi-sweet saliva straight into his open mouth.

Unexpected, but amazing! Satoru knew then that you were going to be a treat worth savoring.

It was just a shame that he could only enjoy you for one night.

Not even that much, really. He'd been called away in bed; one arm wrapped around your darling naked form, holding you pressed against him.

Left while you were asleep without a word. He'd texted you on the way, a blase little "sowwyyyyy smth came up! u were gr8 last night." and no real expectations of a return.

If you were (reasonably) upset with him, he'd block you - his one act of kindness to a woman he couldn't treat right.

Instead he gets "thanks! you weren't so bad yourself haha" and your enthusiasm is obviously a bit defused, but he can work with this.

He lays it out to you, next chance he gets. Tries to text you often enough to make sure you don't think he's ghosted you.

"I know this might sound like the kind of thing married men say," He says with a big, sardonic smile, "But I have a very demanding job. I don't have time for a relationship. And for personal reasons, I can't agree to be exclusive, either."

There's a look you give him that makes him wonder what exactly you think of his job. Satoru vaguely wonders if you think he's a sex worker.

He hopes you try to find him on porn websites later. Maybe he should film himself jerking off real quick sometime so you can watch it.

"That makes sense," Is what you say, instead of any of the ridiculous thinks he'd imagined.

You don't seem thrilled about it, but you don't look immeasurably disappointed, either. You're a smart girl. You'd probably already figured he couldn't commit.

"But!" He chirps, "I am very very interested in seeing you again. Multiple agains. And I'd like to come to an arrangement that makes that easier for you, since my schedule is so tight..."

For a moment, you stay quiet, and Satoru wonders if he should just offer you cash upfront. But you're receptive, and things go well.

Worryingly well, to be honest. What type of girl are you, exactly? Naughty thing. Get money from a lot of men, do you?

You laugh when he tries to bring it up in bed, "You're one to talk, Mr. can't-promise-exclusivity," you tease, running a hand through his hair while you smile at him.

He likes it when you do that. He likes a lot of things you do.

The real wonder is - although he is absolutely spectacular in bed of course - how much do you like it?

The whole relationship has to happen on his shitty, inconsistent schedule. He can't commit to a relationship or tell you about his job - you're better off that way. Even if you don't know.

Satoru Gojo who pretends to go on dates with other girls sometimes just so that no one watching him thinks he's serious about you. He can't have the Higher Ups thinking of you as a tool to use against him.

He can't even offer you exclusivity. Even if he wants to. Even if he struggles to get it up with those girls - his heart just isn't it in - when he's making sure everyone who's watching him knows you're just one of several people he's having sex with.

After all, the only thing that could be worse than people thinking you were the strongest sorcerer's weakness, was if they thought you might be pregnant with the strongest sorcerer's child.

But if he's fucking around, if he's the whore his so-called superiors make him out to be - then you're safe. Just another girl.

And god, does he take advantage of it.

Texting you late at night. Early in the morning. Times don't mean a lot to him these days.

The most sleep he ever gets is the rare night he spends with you, maybe once or twice a month, five hours in your arms before he pulls himself away and slinks out of bed while you're still asleep like a guilty dog.

He doesn't deserve your warmth or your bed. But he'll take it while you're offering. Eat it all up and beg shamelessly for seconds.

He makes up for it with money, or tries to. Leaves you treats and sweets and other gifts. Spam texts you and facetimes you constantly - when he can.

To be perfectly honest, he's kind of expecting to be dumped any day. He'll take whatever he can get.

If paying your rent or buying you a house makes you feel guilty enough to stay a few days longer with him, that's a good use of his money.

He arranges for you to receive an offer for a remote job, something flexible that will let you meet him whenever he comes calling.

His gifts get more lavish. He's always generous in bed, makes sure you have a good time.

He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sometimes he just stares at you when you're asleep. It feels like a waste to spend his precious few hours with you sleeping.

Look at you. All peaceful in his arms. Cuddling up to him.

He can admit, in the dead of night, with no witnesses but himself; the sight makes his heart tug.

If he could, he'd stay. Wake up next to you in the morning. Make breakfast, flirt, joke, maybe even take a little ~morning shower~ and have some fun in there.

It's so clear in his head. How you'd joke back. Smile and giggle and playfully bump against him. Give him a little kiss, a little hug before he leaves for work.

You would kiss his forehead when he got migraines. Hug him when he talks about his difficulties at work.

Your soft smile, your warm lips, your tight hug. It's all so vivid in his head. How you'd look in the morning light, staring at him while you think he's asleep.

Would you stare? What would show on your face, then?

He tries, very hard, not to imagine what your face must look like when you wake up alone every time you sleep with him.

What you think about when he's not there.

Do you wonder if he's with other women? Do you see his flirty texts - "sorry kitten daddy's gotta work late" "babygirl you're not my dad, he goes to bed at 9." - and wonder if he's said that to a hundred other girls?

Because he has. And that's what hurts, really. He could message a hundred girls and get a hundred vapid responses, all those notifications could build up in his phone and he wouldn't care.

But when it's you messaging him?

When you tell him about your day, or text him a picture, or pick up on the rare phone call he gets to make - Satoru's heart skips a beat.

What about you? He thinks about you checking your phone constantly to see anything from him, and it hurts.

You don't show any unhappiness about the arrangement. Every gift, every little arrangement or donation he makes, you accept it all with grace. Everything money can buy is yours, he makes that clear.

As long as you're with him, he'll spoil you rotten. And you were starstruck in the beginning, he could tell.

Expensive hotels, exclusive restaurants. First class flights everywhere, even a private jet if you want it. He brings you custom made jewelry worth more than people make in a year, pulls it out of his pocket and clasps it around your wrist like a passing trinket.

You get used to the constant spa days, the shopping trips. Ordering food for every meal. Living in a city center in a beautiful penthouse with brilliant fixtures. And you're happy like that. At least you look like you are.

But every time he sees you, you're with him. He can't tell if you miss him, if you're sad when he's not there.

He... he sort of doesn't want to know.

Satoru Gojo who loves you. And he hopes to god you don't love him back.

After all, if you did, then you'd want things from him he can't give. Shouldn't give.

But if all you love is his money? He's got tons of it. You can have as much as you want. He can make you happy. He can buy the love he can't afford to earn. He'll never run out of funds.

As long as it's only his money you love, he can have you forever.