#I was right there between them but she ignored me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pbaz7 · 1 day ago

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AGAINST THE TIDE — PART ONE

paige x azzi

trope: enemies to lovers

warnings: language

word count: 4.3k

A/N: I got a lot of request for an enemies to lovers series so here it is! In this one they both grow up in DC/Virginia to give it a better arc and make it more of a slow burn. I'm also going to experiment with POVs more in this series. This first chapter is pretty much just setting the scene on what's caused them to dislike each other so much. Let me know what you think!

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March 2018

The gym was alive with the roar of fans, the bleachers packed to the brim as the Washington D.C. Girls Basketball Championship unfolded. The two teams on the court weren’t just competing for a title; they were locked in a battle of pride and supremacy that had been brewing between the schools for years.

On one side was Gonzaga College High School, led by the blonde, brash point guard Paige Bueckers, the number one player in the class of 2020. Less than 10 miles and a 20-minute drive away was St. John’s College High School, boasting its own star, Azzi Fudd, the number one player in the class of 2021.

The rivalry between their schools ran deep, stemming from heated football clashes that had been going on for decades, but it was quickly spilling over into the girls' basketball programs. Paige made sure of it. She’d been playing with a chip on her shoulder against St. John’s ever since they handed her team a bitter loss in last year’s championship game her freshman year. To her defense, she had been playing on a bum ankle after rushing herself back to help the team in the playoffs, but the sting of the loss had stayed with her. Sp every time she faced St. John’s, Paige was out to prove a point—and tonight was no different.

Azzi, meanwhile, was laser-focused. She didn’t care about last year because she wasn’t there, though she’d heard about it. But what mattered to her was this year, this game and everything going forward. But she couldn’t ignore how insufferable Paige could be. Earlier this season, Gonzaga had handed St. John’s their only loss in conference play, and Paige had been at the center of it, running her mouth the entire game.

“What’s wrong, Fudd? Can’t handle the pressure?” Paige had taunted during their first matchup, grinning as she drained a step-back three. “Don’t worry freshie—I’ll teach you how it’s done.”

Azzi had kept her composure back then as Paige chirped in her ear, but tonight was different. The stakes were higher, the score tied, and Paige was playing like she owned the court.

As Paige brought the ball up the court, her eyes scanned the defense, locking with Azzi’s. That trademark smirk spread across her face.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything since last time,” Paige quipped, her voice loud enough for Azzi to hear.

Azzi rolled her eyes, her hands ready, her feet planted. “Maybe you should focus more on scoring then on talking,”

Paige didn’t answer with words; she let her game speak instead. A possession later her quick crossover sent her defender stumbling, and Paige took the opening, driving hard to the rim. Azzi was there in an instant, meeting her midair and forcing her into a tough layup. The ball clanked off the rim, and Azzi grabbed the rebound, her intensity growing.

As she sprinted back down the court, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. “You should really take my advice, Bueckers, that was pretty bad.”

Paige let out a breathy laugh at finally getting some words out of her, jogging to catch up. “Keep talking, Fudd. You’ll see how it ends.”

The game continued at a blistering pace, the two stars going back and forth, each trying to outshine the other and pull their team to a win. The tension on the court mirrored the years of animosity between their schools, the rivalry growing with every possession.

Azzi hit a pull-up jumper over Paige, earning a roar from the St. John’s crowd as she ran back on defense. Paige came right back, threading a no-look pass for an assist and stopping to blow a kiss to the Gonzaga section of the stands.

Every play, every word exchanged, added fuel to the fire.

For Azzi, it wasn’t just about the championship anymore. It was about shutting Paige up, proving that despite what the media said she was the best player in the DMV. For Paige, it was about reclaiming what she felt was hers—revenge for last year and dominance over St. John’s. It didn’t hurt that she was getting some competition going against the ‘best shooter’ in basketball.

The crowd could feel it: this wasn’t just any game. They were watching two greats go at it and it was rare to see two household talents come from the same area like this.

The gym pulsed with energy as the clock ticked down in the fourth quarter. Neither team could pull away, and the intensity between Paige and Azzi burned brighter with every possession.

Azzi moved with purpose, slicing through Gonzaga’s defense and rising for what looked like an easy layup. But Paige came out of nowhere, her hand swatting the ball as it went soaring into the crowd with authority.

“Get that weak shit outta here!” Paige yelled as she flexed both arms, the sound carrying over the roar of the crowd.

Azzi landed hard, her jaw tightening as Paige ran past her.

Azzi didn’t let it faze her. The next possession, she caught the ball on the wing, her defender sagging just enough to give her space. With a quick dribble, she stepped back, rising for a three-pointer that sailed over Paige’s outstretched hand and splashed through the net.

Azzi held her follow-through for a second longer than necessary, then smirked as she turned to face Paige. “You might wanna put a hand up quicker next time.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed, her grin twisting into something more dangerous. Azzi had no idea how much trash talk fueled Paige's game. “Alright, Fudd. You wanna talk shit now? Bet, watch this.”

The next few plays were a blur of brilliance, all led by Paige. She weaved through defenders with ease, hitting a floater over two St. John’s players. On the next possession, she stripped Azzi at midcourt, sprinting ahead for an uncontested finger roll to add a little extra. The Gonzaga fans erupted, sensing the tide was turning in their favor.

Azzi tried to respond, driving hard into the paint, but Paige was there again, cutting off her angle and forcing a wild layup that missed off the rim.

“Don’t force it, Fudd,” Paige taunted as she grabbed the rebound and passed the ball up the court. “This is my game now.”

Paige called for the ball on the wing, sizing up her defender before nailing a step-back three-pointer that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Gonzaga’s bench jumped to their feet, and Paige being the competitor she is, turned and gave a little shrug to the St. John’s crowd as she put her index finger to her lip showing that she had silenced them.

Azzi clenched her jaw, glaring at the scoreboard as Gonzaga’s lead stretched to eight. She could feel the championship slipping away, and Paige was at the center of it all with a cocky ass smirk.

The final buzzer sounded moments later, sealing Gonzaga’s victory. Paige’s teammates rushed the court, surrounding her as part of the gym erupted in cheers. Paige soaked it all in, her arms raised in triumph, while Azzi stood frozen near midcourt, her hands on her hips.

Azzi’s chest heaved with frustration as she watched Paige celebrate. She hates losing, but losing to Paige made it so much worse for some reason. Paige caught her eye from across the court, giving her a small, smug wave.

The Gonzaga team revealed in their championship victory, while the St. John’s players trudged back to their bench, disappointment etched on their faces.

The teams soon lined up for handshakes, the air between them still a little tense. To the crowd, it was a display of sportsmanship—players exchanging congratulatory words and polite smiles. But when Paige reached Azzi, the energy shifted.

Paige extended her hand, pulling Azzi in close as if to offer words of encouragement. Her voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for Azzi to hear over the noise.

“Get in the gym, Fudd,” Paige said, her lips curving into a smug grin. “That’s what 2-0 now? Better catch up.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened, and her eyes flashed with irritation. Scoffing, she pulled back, brushing her shoulder against Paige’s as she moved past her.

“You’re such a bitch,” Azzi muttered under her breath, not bothering to look back as she continued down the line.

Paige’s grin widened as she watched her Azzi walk away, the satisfaction of the win lingering just a bit longer knowing she proved she was the number one player for a reason today.

December 2018

The rivalry between Gonzaga and St. John’s had only gotten more competitive in Paige's junior year and Azzi’s sophomore season. Every time these two teams met, the tension between Paige and Azzi electrified the gym as the crowd fed off of each of them.

Once again the gym was packed, the crowd deafening as Gonzaga and St. John’s went back and forth in a high-energy conference matchup. Paige, with her trademark poise and undeniable confidence, was on fire tonight. She was hitting everything — pull-up jumpers, threes from deep, tough finishes at the rim. With each basket, her smirk grew, and the energy around her was palpable.

By the time the fourth quarter rolled around, Gonzaga was clinging to a three-point lead. Paige, however, had already racked up 35 points and was showing no signs of slowing down. As the ball was swung to her on the perimeter, Azzi closed out hard, trying to force Paige to drive, but Paige just gave a sly grin and pulled up for a deep three-pointer as Azzi’s hand was down.

Swish.

The crowd erupted, and Paige didn’t even look at the basket as she turned to Azzi, her smirk widening.

“You might as well put on a Gonzaga jersey, Fudd,” Paige taunted, she jogged backwards to get on defense. “I’m scoring on you every time.”

Azzi’s teeth clenched, her jaw tightening as the frustration started to build. She had already been pushed to her limits with Paige’s relentless trash talk the whole game. So the next time Paige got the ball, Azzi was determined to make a play.

Paige drove past her on the right wing, using her speed and quick handle to get to the basket. Azzi did everything she could to keep up, playing great defense, but Paige made the offense look effortless, finishing with a smooth layup through contact. Paige landed on her feet, staring Azzi down as she straightened up.

“I really should start a clinic,” Paige continued, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “on how to defend me... I’ll give you some pointers after the game if you want.”

Azzi’s temper flared, the words cutting through her like a hot knife. Even the calmest person in the world got a little fed up here and there. She was feeling the heat of Paige’s relentless taunts, and the more Paige scored, the more Azzi’s focus shifted from the game to the battle unfolding between them.

When the ball was passed back to Paige, Azzi moved to cut her off, determined not to let Paige get an easy look this time. But as Paige shifted her body to drive past, Azzi made the mistake of reaching out with a little too much aggression. Her hand caught more of Paige’s arm than the ball as she went up for a shot, sending Paige tumbling to the court with a sharp thud.

The whistle blew immediately. Azzi froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn't meant to foul that hard, but the anger that had been building inside her made the contact feel more like a release than a mistake.

As the referee called for the foul, Azzi immediately ran her hands down her face, her face flushed with regret. She hated that she let her emotions get the best of her, especially when it came to a player like Paige. This wasn’t who Azzi was. She was better than this.

Without thinking, Azzi reached down to help Paige up, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But before Azzi could finish, Paige yanked her arm away, her face a mask of anger and disbelief.

“Fuck you,” Paige spat, pushing herself off the floor and standing to her full height. She didn’t look at Azzi, her eyes cold and distant, filled with a harsher fire than what Paige usually plays with.

Azzi stood frozen, the sting of Paige’s words cutting deeper than she expected them to. But she deserves it so she took it in stride. The gym felt like it was holding its breath as the physicality increased, but Azzi didn’t want to dwell on the exchange. She turned away from Paige, heading back to her position as the crowd buzzed with tension.

The game continued, and though Azzi fought to keep her head in the game, it was clear the emotional toll was taking its toll on her. Paige, on the other hand, was unstoppable. She drained another three, her confidence soaring. Gonzaga was up by five, then eight. The scoreboard ticked down, and every time Paige had the ball, it felt like another dagger.

With under a minute left, Paige hit another step-back three, this one over Azzi’s outstretched hand, and it was clear the game was over. The gym erupted as the buzzer sounded — Gonzaga had won 78-66, and Paige had just set a career-high.

As the players lined up for handshakes, Paige felt the weight of the win settle in. But she didn’t feel any empathy for Azzi. No pity. No remorse. The girl couldn’t even handle a little trash talk without purposefully fouling. Paige knew she had silenced the noise, the trash talk, and everything else with a performance that couldn’t be denied by anyone who watched the game.

When she reached Azzi in the handshake line, she extended her hand, but it was more of a formality than anything else. Paige leaned in just enough to murmur, loud enough for Azzi to hear, “Maybe next time you’ll get closer if you don’t piss me off.”

Azzi’s eyes flashed, her entire body tensing as she forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Bueckers,” she muttered, brushing past Paige without another word as she continued down the line.

Paige watched her go, the sense of satisfaction lingering, and though she didn’t say anything, she knew Azzi wouldn’t forget this game.

…

Azzi adjusted the strap of her bag, her knee still a little sore as she limped out of the locker room with Ice packs wrapped on her leg. The sting of the loss was fresh, and the energy in the hallway was a mix of chaos and adrenaline. Reporters lingered around the halls, their voices carrying snippets of postgame chatter as they jostled to capture every quote.

Azzi tried to tune it out, focusing on getting to the bus. She was already replaying the game in her mind, agonizing over missed shots and what-ifs. But as she passed the press conference room, a question snagged her attention.

“Paige, what was it like playing in such a competitive matchup with someone who’s also considered one of the top players in DC if not the entire nation?”

Azzi slowed, her ears pricking at the mention of her name—or, at least, the implication of it. She paused just out of sight, listening.

There was a brief pause, then Paige’s voice cut through the chatter. Calm, confident, and just loud enough for Azzi to hear.

“I always love a competitive matchup,” Paige said, her tone light but unmistakably self-assured. “Games like that are what make basketball fun. It’s why I play. I love when there’s passion in the game like that.”

Azzi felt her shoulders relax slightly. That wasn’t so bad.

But then Paige kept going.

“That being said, I think I showed everyone why I’m the number one player in D.C. tonight and my team was able to come out with the win.”

The words hung in the air, and Azzi’s jaw tightened. Paige’s voice had an edge to it—a playful jab, but one that landed a little too close to home.

Gripping the strap of her bag tighter, Azzi moved down the hallway. She wasn’t going to let Paige’s words get to her, but damn if they didn’t light a fire under her for the next time they met.

March 2019

St. John’s and Gonzaga met once again in the championship game and honestly to Paige and Azzi it felt like deja vu. To everyone else watching this was the matchup they had grown to anticipate. The two guards always putting on a show. It wasn’t just about the title anymore; it was personal. Paige and Azzi both had more to prove than anyone on the court.

Azzi, standing tall at the top of the game and undeniably one of the best in the country, wasn’t about to let herself walk away with an 0-4 record against the cocky blonde. She’d been putting in the work all season, and despite the gnawing frustration of those past losses, she was determined to make this game different. But there was also something else driving her — the weight of being named Gatorade’s National Girls Basketball Player of the Year, as a sophomore. The title had earned her respect across the nation, but not in Paige’s eyes.

For Paige, that honor felt like a slap in the face. She had dominated the court all year, and everyone knew she was the best in her class and had beaten Azzi already this season. For Azzi to get that recognition before her, it stung more than Paige would care to admit to anyone. It was the kind of fire that pushed her to fight harder, to prove that no sophomore was going to overshadow her. She had something to prove — not just to Azzi, but to herself.

As the game tipped off, it was clear that neither of them had any intention of holding back. Azzi, with her perfect shot and effortless off ball movement, seemed to hit shots that defied logic. A step-back three from the corner with a hand in her face? Swish. A deep three from the logo, well beyond NBA range? No problem. The crowd erupted every time her shot dropped, but Paige wasn’t about to let Azzi get too comfortable.

On the other end of the floor, Paige was doing her thing: a mixture of quick ball-handling, aggressive drives to the basket, and, of course, her signature flashy layups that got the crowd involved. One of them, a twisting, acrobatic finish through a crowd of defenders, had the crowd gasping in awe. She flashed a grin as she jogged back on defense, eyes locked on Azzi, who was already making her way down the court.

“You’re not gonna be able to keep up again, Fudd,” Paige taunted, her voice loud enough for Azzi to hear as she took her position. “This is my game, you’re just along for the ride.”

Azzi smirked, not breaking her focus as she got into her shooting stance. “We’ll see when this game’s over,” she shot back, her confidence unwavering.

The back-and-forth continued like that throughout the first half, neither player willing to back down. Every time Paige hit a flashy layup, Azzi came back with a deep three. Every time Azzi sank another impossible shot, Paige answered with a smooth jump shot of her own. The crowd was on its feet the entire time, watching two of the most talented players in the nation go toe-to-toe, each one refusing to give an inch.

But as the game wore on, the pressure started to mount. With the score neck-and-neck, the trash talk grew sharper, each jab cutting deeper. Azzi, with a quick hesitation move, crossed Paige up and drilled another three in her face. The crowd went wild as Azzi celebrated, but it was the words that followed that set Paige off.

“I guess that Gatorade Player of the Year really means something, huh?” Azzi quipped, her smile wide and taunting. “I think I earned that one, Bueckers.”

The words hit Paige like a punch to the gut. That recognition — the one that had bothered her for weeks — was now in Azzi’s hands, and the realization that Azzi had just used it against her was too much to handle.

Paige’s eyes narrowed, the fire inside her intensifying.

“Keep talking, man,” Paige snarled, voice low.

The rest of the game continued and Azzi seemed to be in complete control, hitting another deep three in Paige's face and then hitting a step-back jumper that had the crowd roaring. Paige tried to respond, but something in her game was off — whether it was Azzi’s defense or the mounting frustration of the game and the award Azzi had rubbed in her face, she couldn’t find her rhythm anymore.

With the game winding down, St. John’s had gained a slight but undeniable lead. Paige’s shots weren’t falling as easily as they had earlier, and Azzi wasn’t letting up. Each time Paige tried to make a play, Azzi was right there, forcing her to pass or making her take tough looks.

Finally, with just seconds left, Azzi hit another clutch three, sealing the game for St. John’s and finally giving her a win over Paige. The buzzer went off, and Azzi’s team erupted in celebration, the crowd going wild. Paige, on the other hand, stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving as the weight of the loss hit her a little harder than it did her freshman year.

As the teams lined up for the post-game handshake, Azzi walked toward Paige, her smile wide with triumph. When they shook hands, Azzi didn’t hold back.

“Guess it’s 1-1 when it counts, huh? Looks like POTY went to the right player after all,” Azzi said, the words dripping with satisfaction.

Paige’s heart felt like it sank to her stomach. The Gatorade loss had already stung, but now Azzi was rubbing salt in the wound. Still, Paige held her composure, her eyes narrowing as she shook Azzi’s hand.

“Congratulations,” Paige muttered, forcing a smile. Paige hated losing but she wasn’t a sore loser.

But Azzi wasn’t done. As she walked past Paige, she threw in one final jab.

“Maybe you’ll get it next year.” Azzi’s tone was sweet, but the smirk on her face said it all.

Paige watched Azzi go, her jaw clenched tightly. She wanted to say something, anything, to retort, but she knew the damage had already been done. Azzi had gotten her win — and the bragging rights. For now, Paige would have to swallow this defeat and figure out how to come back stronger and take the jabs that were coming her way.

July 2019 - Azzi POV

I was on top of the world. After winning the championship and being named the Gatorade National Girls Basketball Player of the Year, I felt like nothing could stop me. Playing in the US Under 18 3x3 Tournament was everything I’d worked for, and I was thriving out there. Every move I made felt perfect, every shot dropping like it was scripted. The crowd was eating it up, and I was feeding off the energy.

But just like that, everything changed.

I was driving to the hoop, sizing up my defender, already thinking ahead to my next move to get past them. My first step was quick, explosive like always — exactly how I’d practiced it a thousand times. I planted my foot to make a sharp cut, my body flowing into the motion like it was second nature. But then… something snapped.

It wasn’t the sound of my foot hitting the court. It was a horrible, sickening pop that shot through my leg like it had been on fire. For a split second, everything froze, and I just knew.

My knee. It wasn’t supposed to buckle like that. I didn’t even have time to scream as the pain hit, like a burning wave spreading from my knee up my leg, down to my toes, into my core. I collapsed instantly, my hands going straight to my knee, trying to hold it together as if somehow that would stop the agony.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn’t focus on anything except that searing pain.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, my voice cracking as I tried to breathe through it, my hands gripping my knee as if I could will the pain away. But it only intensified.

I couldn’t move. Every attempt to shift only made it worse. It was like my entire leg was on fire. I barely heard my teammates rushing to my side, their voices muffled as if I was underwater. All I could think was, This isn’t just a twist. This isn’t something I can shake off.

I knew it — deep down, I knew something was wrong. My knee felt swollen already, pulsing with heat. The pop I heard didn’t sound good. Please, please don’t be serious, I thought, even though I knew better.

“Azzi, what hurts,” my coach said, kneeling beside me, but I barely registered it. All I could think about was how unfair this was. I was supposed to be dominating, supposed to keep riding this wave of success. I was invincible, damn it.

But now, here I was, on the ground, clutching my knee like it was my lifeline — and I had no idea what was next.

The pain started to build, and my mind raced. ACL? No, MCL? My head spun with all the worst-case scenarios. This wasn’t how I imagined this tournament going. This wasn’t how I’d imagined anything going this summer.

My chest tightened as I sat there, trying not to lose it in front of everyone. I didn’t want to break down, didn’t want to show them how scared I was. But I could feel the tears threatening to spill. I wiped them away, blinking rapidly, but it didn’t matter. My body was shaking.

I just wanted to be back on the court. I wanted to keep proving myself, keep pushing. But in that moment, all I could do was sit there and hold my knee, hoping like hell this wasn’t the end.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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estellan0vella · 3 days ago

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Never Felt Safer: B.C & H.J Bang Chan x fem!reader x Han Jisung (College AU)

WC: 17.4K

CW: Anxiety, panic attacks, pre-established relationship between Chan and Jisung, implied sex, mxm scenes, Minlix in the background, simp Chansung, pining Chansung, twin!Felix, protective!Felix, Comforting!Minho

The Alpha Phi living room smells like a mix of old pizza, faint cologne, and someone's leftover gym socks, probably Changbin's, based on the guilty glance he shoots toward the corner of the couch. Felix lounges at the centre of the chaos, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle on the coffee table, holding a Red Bull like it’s his life force.

“Alright, listen up, dickheads zero through five,” Felix announces, voice cutting through the buzz of chatter like a knife.

Minho, seated next to him with his arms casually sprawled across the back of the couch, raises an eyebrow. “Not me, though, right?”

Felix tilts his head toward Minho with a smirk. “Not you, Min. You’re an evil angel, and I love having you here.”

Minho grins, sharp and smug, clearly revelling in the attention. Jisung immediately leans forward from his perch on the floor, waving a hand. “What number am I?”

“Two,” Felix says without hesitation, pointing at him with the Red Bull. “Chan’s number one.”

Jisung’s face splits into a shit-eating grin, and he wiggles his eyebrows at Chan, who’s perched in the armchair nearby with his usual relaxed confidence. Without any preamble, Jisung climbs into Chan’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, snuggling against him and fiddling with a fidget cube. Chan chuckles, resting one hand on Jisung’s hip.

“Fine with me,” Jisung mutters, twisting the cube over and over. “I’ll take number two if it means I get first dibs on this guy.”

“Gross,” Seungmin deadpans from the other couch, tossing a pillow in their direction. “We get it, you’re disgustingly in love.”

“Jealous?” Jisung fires back, not missing a beat.

“Hard pass.”

Jeongin, who’s been scrolling on his phone next to Seungmin, pipes up. “So, what’s up? You’re building to something.”

Felix straightens, his expression growing just a little more serious. “My sister’s coming over tomorrow.”

Immediately, a wave of groans rolls through the room, but Felix cuts them off with a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up and listen, okay? She’s coming over to practice some SFX on me and Minho, and you know how anxious she is. So no scaring her, got it? I’m looking at you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin, sprawled dramatically across the other armchair with his long legs dangling over one side, raises both hands in mock surrender. “What the fuck did I do?”

“You almost gave her a stroke last time,” Felix snaps, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Which is why you’re dickhead zero, the eternal source of my disdain, affectionately, of course.”

“I told her she looked pretty!” Hyunjin protests, clearly offended. “How is that a crime?”

“You terrified her with your pretty frat boy bullshit!” Felix throws his hands up. “She has anxiety, you dumbass, and you made her turtle.”

Hyunjin blinks. “Turtle?”

Felix rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. “Disappear inside her shell. Like turtles do, idiot.”

Minho, watching the exchange with a small smirk, finally chimes in. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them reined in.”

Felix blows Minho a kiss, the pink tips of his ears betraying his casual tone. “Thanks, Min.”

The room erupts into groans and exaggerated gagging sounds, but Felix ignores them. He levels the rest of the group with a sharp look. “Best behaviour. You hear me?”

A collective murmur of agreement goes around the room. Changbin nods solemnly. “Got it, chief.”

“Scout’s honour,” Seungmin says, holding up three fingers.

Felix doesn’t even pause before snapping back, “You were never a scout a day in your life. Shut the fuck up.”

Minho chuckles low in his throat, and Felix shoots him a fond glance before continuing. “Minho’s the only one who doesn’t freak her out, so the rest of you better leave her alone. She’s coming here to practice, not to deal with you idiots.”

Jeongin, ever the instigator, smirks. “The only reason Minho doesn’t freak her out is because you and him see her once a week for dinner at her apartment. Brother, sister, and brother’s sort-of-undefined-but-basically-dating boyfriend.”

Felix’s ears turn a brighter shade of pink, and he sputters, “That’s not—”

“It was a process, believe us,” Minho interrupts smoothly, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand. He gives Jeongin a slow, deliberate wink. “But you’re not wrong.”

“See?” Jeongin shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

The room falls into a comfortable rhythm of teasing and chatter, but two pairs of eyes linger on Felix for just a moment longer than the rest. Chan’s and Jisung’s. Chan’s gaze softens as it shifts, landing on the small space between Felix’s explanation and the mention of his sister.

Jisung catches Chan’s look, his lips quirking up into a knowing smile. It’s the same thought, unspoken but clear between them: tomorrow’s visit isn’t just about SFX practice.

It’s about seeing you.

The Alpha Phi house looms in front of you, just as chaotic and intimidating as always. The faint sounds of bass-heavy music thrum from somewhere inside, even though it’s not even noon.

You take a deep breath and clutch the strap of your makeup case tighter. The last time you knocked on this door without a plan, Hyunjin had answered, and your anxiety had spiralled out of control before you’d even crossed the threshold.

Not this time. Felix and Minho are already outside, leaning casually against the porch railing, waiting for you.

“Finally,” Felix calls out as soon as he spots you approaching. His blonde hair gleams in the sunlight, and he’s already wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Took you long enough, slowpoke.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile that creeps onto your face. “Traffic,” you mutter, hefting your makeup case as you reach the steps.

Minho pushes off the railing, straightening up. His red hair is pushed back today, giving him an air of effortless cool that would probably be irritating if it weren’t for the slight curve of his lips that softens the look. Without a word, he takes the case from your hands like it weighs nothing.

“Thanks,”

“No problem,” Minho says, his voice smooth and calm. He gestures toward the front door with a nod. “We’ve cleared the hallway and stairs for you. Path to Felix’s room is officially fuckboy-free.”

You let out a laugh, your shoulders easing a little. “Good. I don’t think I could survive another Hyunjin ambush.”

Felix snorts, opening the door for you. “Yeah, well, he’s banned from being anywhere near the front of the house when you’re coming over. Lesson learned.”

“Damn right,” you mutter, stepping inside. “So, no flirting this time?”

Minho smirks. “Not unless you’re into compliments like ‘you look like you belong in a museum.’ That’s what got you last time, right?”

You groan. “Please don’t remind me.”

Felix waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, he’s not even awake yet. I think he stayed up all night painting or something. Total disaster.”

The three of you make your way up the stairs, Minho carrying your case with ease. “So,” he says, glancing back at you, “what are we doing today? Zombies? Scars? Some gory masterpiece to make my mother proud?”

You chuckle nervously. “Uh, SFX injuries, if that’s okay? I need to work on realistic wounds for my portfolio.”

“Wounds it is,” Minho says without missing a beat. He holds the case up slightly. “You brought all your murder tools, I assume?”

“Always,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

You don’t notice Jisung peeking out from the slightly cracked door of his room as you pass, his silver hair messy and his eyes wide with interest. He stays quiet, though, watching as the three of you disappear down the hall toward Felix’s room.

When you step inside, the familiar chaos of Felix’s room greets you. Posters are plastered across the walls in a chaotic patchwork of vibrant colours, and his gaming setup blinks with multicoloured LEDs in the corner. Felix flops into his gaming chair immediately, spinning in a lazy circle as Minho sets your case down gently on the bed.

“Sorry about… all of this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. Your voice comes out softer, more hesitant. “Making the guys stay out of the way and everything.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Minho says, sitting down beside you on the bed. His tone is casual, but there’s a firmness to it that makes you feel a little less guilty. “The guys are a lot, even on a good day. This is nothing.”

Felix hums in agreement, spinning once more in his chair before planting his feet and leaning forward. “Seriously, you don’t have to apologize. They’re all idiots, but they know better than to mess with you. And if they don’t, Min and I will handle it.”

You glance down at your hands, fiddling with the anxiety rings on your fingers. Felix notices, of course, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he distracts you the only way he knows how by grinning at you like he’s just had the best idea in the world.

“So, murder makeup, huh?” he says. “Think you can make Minho look even hotter with a giant gash across his face?”

“Easily,” you say, a laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it.

Minho raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” you admit, feeling a little less nervous now as you pull out your supplies. “Thanks for, you know being cool about this.”

“Always,” Minho says simply, his tone so genuine that it surprises you.

Felix wheels his gaming chair closer to the bed, the wheels creaking against the hardwood floor. He plants his elbows on the edge of the mattress and leans in, watching you as you sort through your SFX makeup kit.

The little compartments are crammed with pigments, brushes, sponges, and bottles of fake blood in varying shades of grotesque. Minho leans back on the bed next to you, his sharp gaze flicking between your hands and Felix, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Felix says, clapping his hands together like he’s rallying a team. His grin is mischievous, practically glowing with chaotic energy. “I wanna scare the shit out of Jisung and Chan, just like when you did that burns look”

Minho snorts, his laughter low and amused. “We should’ve filmed that for you. The way Jisung screamed when he saw you standing there? Priceless.”

Felix tips his head back and cackles. “He looked like he saw a ghost”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You’re such a menace,” you mutter, pulling a headband out of your bag and holding it up. “Okay, sit still, Lix.”

Felix obeys and lets you push the headband over his head, sweeping his bleach-blonde hair back from his face. The ends stick out in every direction, and you grimace, running a finger through one crunchy strand.

“You need to put a hair mask in this disaster,” you say, holding up a particularly fried piece. “The bleach is murdering it.”

“I’ve been telling him that for weeks,” Minho says, leaning forward to inspect Felix’s hair critically. His tone is playful, but there’s an undercurrent of concern. “Baby boy, you’re gonna go bald by twenty-five at this rate.”

You gag dramatically at the nickname. “Ew. Minho, please. I’m trying to work here.”

Felix rolls his eyes, brushing both of you off. “Whatever, it’s fine. I’ll deal with it later.”

“Later isn’t good enough,” you say, wagging a brush at him like a weapon. “You’ll be doing comb-overs by the time you graduate if you don’t fix this now.”

Felix groans, but there’s no real bite to it. He stays still as you start applying a base layer of makeup to his face, smoothing out the colour to prep for the fake wounds. The rhythmic motion is soothing, and you quickly fall into a comfortable flow.

Minho grabs his phone and starts scrolling. A moment later, the opening notes of a Little Mix song fill the room. He turns the volume up, the beat bouncing off the walls. “Little Mix is undefeated,” Minho says, reclining again with a self-satisfied smile.

“You’re so right,” you reply, adding a streak of red to Felix’s cheekbone. “They’re perfect for this.”

Felix hums along to the song, swaying slightly as you blend out the faux injury. “I feel like a bad bitch already.”

“You are a bad bitch,” Minho chimes in. “You just happen to have the hair care routine of a gremlin.”

Before Felix can retort, the next song starts. The three of you are nodding along to the beat, when a loud voice from the hallway joins in, belting out the chorus with alarming enthusiasm.

Felix’s head snaps toward the door, his expression shifting to murderous in an instant. “Jisung! Go away!” he yells, his voice cutting through the music. “You know not to come near my room when my sister’s here!”

A loud, theatrical whine echoes back. “But it’s Little Mix! You can’t expect me to not sing along!”

You glance at Felix, stifling a laugh as he throws his hands up in frustration. “I swear to God,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair.

Before he can get up, another voice cuts in, Chan’s, calm and soothing. “Come on, babe. Let’s go play Little Mix in your room, yeah?”

There’s a beat of silence, then the unmistakable sound of Jisung perking up. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes,” Chan replies, laughter evident in his voice. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The two of them disappear down the hall, but not before you hear the exaggerated sound of Jisung smooching Chan. It’s so loud and obnoxious that it sends Felix spiralling into a fit of cackles.

“They’re so fucking gross,” Felix mutters, wiping a tear from his eye as he settles back into position. “Alright, where were we?”

“Making you look like you got into a bar fight,” you reply, dipping your brush into the next colour. “Now hold still, or I’ll make it worse.”

“Can’t get much worse than it already is,” Minho teases, and Felix flips him off without missing a beat. “I’m gonna order us food. Any objections?”

Your hands pause mid-blend as you work on Felix’s makeup. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m not really hungry.”

Felix scoffs so hard that he nearly dislodges the headband. “She’ll have the least spicy tteokbokki you can find,” he says, completely ignoring your protest. “She can’t handle spice, just like me. We’re not freaks like you, Min, who eat the spiciest shit they can find for fun. Order her food. She’s just being her little anxious self, panicking about you buying her food.”

“Felix!” you whine as you nudge him hard with your elbow. “Stop calling me out!”

Minho snorts, shaking his head as he pulls up the food delivery app on his phone. “He’s not wrong, though. You’re too polite for your own good. Just let me order you something. You can eat later if you’re not hungry right now.”

Felix grins, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Trust Min. He’s the responsible one here.”

“Debatable,” you mutter, focusing back on the gash you’re painting on Felix’s cheek.

“Rude,” Minho says with mock offence. “I’m only ordering in because I can’t be bothered to cook. Every time I do, it’s like vultures descend on the kitchen. I make one decent meal, and suddenly it’s a free-for-all.”

“That’s because you’re the best cook in this house,” Felix says matter-of-factly. “No one else even comes close. What did you expect?”

“Not to be treated like a five-star restaurant, that’s for sure,” Minho grumbles, scrolling through the menu.

You try again, your voice quieter this time. “Seriously, though, Minho, you don’t have to-”

“Nope,” Minho interrupts, holding up a hand without even looking at you. “Also, no paying me back. End of story.”

“But-”

“Shhhhh.” He cuts you off again, this time with an exaggerated shushing noise, his tone dripping with amusement. “If you keep arguing, we’re settling this on the football field. First one to score a touchdown wins.”

You give him a flat look. “I’d lose in ten seconds.”

“Exactly,” he says with a smug grin, clicking the order confirmation on his phone.

Felix lets out a loud laugh, nearly knocking the makeup sponge out of your hand. “God, he’s so full of himself. I love it.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible, both of you.”

“And you love us for it,” Felix says, winking. “Now hurry up with my face so I can take selfies to scare the shit out of people.”

Minho smirks, leaning back against the headboard as the three of you settle into the easy rhythm of banter and laughter. The lighthearted atmosphere helps ease the tight knot of anxiety in your chest, and for a while, it’s just the three of you, surrounded by the comforting chaos of Felix’s room.

Jisung’s room is a certified disaster zone. Clothes strewn everywhere, half-empty snack bags crumpled on his desk, and a pile of notebooks teetering precariously on the edge of his chair. Despite the chaos, it’s unmistakably Jisung’s space, with posters of indie bands and anime characters covering every inch of the walls.

The air smells faintly of the caramel-scented candle Chan had gifted him a week ago, though it does little to mask the underlying hint of energy drinks.

Jisung sits cross-legged on the bed, bouncing slightly with nervous energy as Sweet Melody blasts from the Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand. He hums along to the chorus, his voice light and airy, but his fingers are picking relentlessly at a loose thread on the corner of the blanket. The thread gets longer with each tug, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Chan, sprawled out on his back next to him, notices. He always notices. His dark eyes flick from Jisung’s hands to his face, taking in the slight furrow of his brow and the way his lips press into a thin line between lyrics.

“I can hear your brain running a million miles a minute,” Chan says finally, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. “What’s up?”

Jisung freezes mid-bounce, the loose thread now wrapped around his finger. He glances at Chan, his silver hair falling into his eyes, and sighs dramatically. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Chan replies without hesitation, sitting up and leaning on one elbow. “You’ve been picking at that blanket for the last five minutes, and you only do that when something’s eating at you. So, spill.”

Jisung hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. He tugs at the thread one more time before finally blurting out, “How the fuck are we supposed to get close to her if Felix is glued to her side every second she’s here?”

Chan blinks, caught off guard by the sudden outburst, but he doesn’t interrupt. Jisung continues, words spilling out in a rush. “Like, I get it, he’s her brother, her twin, her emotional support whatever-the-fuck, and I respect that, okay? I do. But how are we supposed to make any progress if he’s constantly playing guard dog? I mean, we want her to be the third in our relationship, but we can’t even fucking talk to her.”

There it is. The frustration, the longing, the anxiety. It all comes tumbling out in a messy, unfiltered stream. Jisung runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in wild angles, and looks at Chan with wide, pleading eyes. “What do we do, Chan? How do we even start?”

Chan leans back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers his words. “If we spoke to her, like, really tried to make our intentions clear, she’d probably have a panic attack.”

Jisung winces, already halfway through forming a rebuttal, but Chan isn’t finished.

“And then you’d have a panic attack for causing her panic attack,” Chan adds, his tone matter-of-fact.

Jisung gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Okay, so we’re just dropping truth nukes today? That was a personal fucking attack.”

“Yep.” Chan grins, entirely unbothered. “Because I know you, Ji. You overthink everything when it comes to her. You want to protect her and impress her and somehow confess your feelings all at once, but you freeze up every time she’s in the room.”

Jisung groans, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over his face. “You’re not wrong, but do you have to say it out loud?”

“I do,” Chan says, nudging Jisung’s knee with his own. “Because you need to hear it. She’s not like us. She’s got walls up for a reason, and we can’t bulldoze our way through them just because we want to.”

“So what, then?” Jisung mumbles, his voice muffled by his arm. “We just sit here and pine while Felix keeps giving us death glares every time we so much as look at her?”

Chan chuckles, lying back down beside him. “No, dumbass. We take it slow. Be patient. Show her that we’re not just a couple of horny frat boys looking to make her a notch on our belt.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jisung sighs, letting his head roll to the side as Sweet Melody fades into another song. “Fine. We’ll play the long game. But if Felix cockblocks us one more time, I’m going to scream.”

Chan props himself up on his elbows, watching Jisung fidget with the loose thread again. After a moment, he sits up fully, reaching for his backpack that’s been haphazardly tossed onto the floor. “I did find this,” he says, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He smooths it out against his thigh and holds it up for Jisung to see.

“What the fuck is that?” Jisung asks, tilting his head as he squints at the flyer.

“It’s from the cosmetology and SFX department,” Chan explains, his grin widening. “They’re looking for part-time models for the students. Hourly pay, and they feed you.”

Jisung grabs the flyer, scanning the text quickly. His eyes widen as the gears in his head start turning. “You absolute fucking genius, Bang Chan,” he says, smacking Chan’s arm with the paper. “This is why I love you. You’re getting the dick-sucking of your life tonight, and I’ll even do that position you like to fuck me in.”

Chan smirks, leaning back on his hands. “Why not now?”

Jisung rolls his eyes, though his grin is practically glowing. “Because I want to see a peek of her before she leaves. Duh.”

Chan snorts, shaking his head. “You’re such a simp.”

Jisung flops back onto the bed, clutching the flyer dramatically to his chest. “You’re not wrong. I peeked out of my door when she came upstairs with Felix and Minho earlier.”

Chan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, yeah? What’d she look like?”

“She was wearing this cute cropped white sweater, you know, the off-the-shoulder kind? And those mom jeans that make her ass look, like, ugh,” Jisung says, waving his hand like he’s at a loss for words. “Her hair was clipped up all messily, and she had eyeliner so sharp it could cut a bitch.”

Chan groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck. Wish I’d thought about peeking.”

“You missed out,” Jisung says with a sing-song lilt, flipping onto his stomach to look at Chan. “She looked like an angel. Or a menace. Or both.”

“Definitely both,” Chan agrees with a chuckle.

Jisung holds the flyer up again, studying it as if it holds all the answers to their problems. “This is fucking genius. You’re a genius. We can get close to her, right? Like, we sign up, become her models, and bam! We’re friends! She gets less anxious around us, trusts us, and then bam! She falls in love with us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chan says, leaning over to ruffle Jisung’s hair. “And if it doesn’t work, at least we’ll have some cool makeup looks.”

“It’ll work,” Jisung insists, his excitement bubbling over. He giggles, tossing the flyer onto the bed before pouncing on Chan, knocking him back against the pillows. “God, I fucking love you.”

Jisung peppers Chan’s face with kisses, laughing between each one as Chan tries and fails to push him off. Chan’s hands find their way to Jisung’s waist, gripping tightly before sliding down to his ass, squeezing just enough to make Jisung gasp.

“You’re obsessed,” Jisung teases, wiggling his hips in Chan’s hold.

“Can you blame me?” Chan retorts, his fingers tracing over Jisung’s waist like it’s his favourite thing in the world. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“Damn right, I am,” Jisung says, leaning down to kiss him properly this time.

Jisung breaks the kiss with a grin, his forehead pressed against Chan’s. “My genius, sexy boyfriend,” he murmurs, voice dripping with affection as his hands rest on Chan’s chest. Before Chan can reply, the faint creak of a door opening filters through the chaos of Jisung’s room.

Both of them freeze.

“That’s Felix’s room,” Jisung whispers, wide-eyed. He scrambles off Chan in a flurry of movement, almost tripping over a discarded hoodie on the floor as he darts toward the door. Chan follows, his socked feet sliding a little on the hardwood.

They press themselves against the doorframe, carefully peeking through the narrow gap. Sure enough, Felix’s bedroom door is ajar, and you step into the hallway, your makeup case in hand. Felix and Minho trail behind you, chatting to you about something, but neither of them notices the two lurking shadows just down the hall.

Chan’s eyes immediately drop to your figure, taking in the way your jeans hug your curves. His lips part as he lets out a low whistle under his breath. “That ass,” he mutters, barely audible.

Jisung hums in agreement, his gaze just as fixated. “Fucking hell,” he says, practically purring. “Alright, seeing her ass in those jeans has me ready.”

Chan tears his eyes away from you just long enough to glance at Jisung. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jisung says, his grin wicked. “You ready to get your dick sucked?”

“Yes.” Chan’s reply is instant, decisive. Without taking his eyes off you for a moment longer than necessary, he reaches out and kicks the door shut with his foot, the sound reverberating through the room.

Jisung laughs, already grabbing at Chan’s shirt to pull him closer. “God, I fucking love you.”

“Show me,” Chan says, smirking as Jisung shoves him back toward the bed. Whatever comes next is their business, but one thing’s certain: both of them are more determined than ever to turn the object of their admiration into something far more significant.

The classroom is buzzing with energy, chatter bouncing off the walls as students set up their stations for the day. You sit in your usual spot near the back, partially shielded by a tall counter stacked with brushes, pigments, and latex prosthetics.

Your SFX kit is open in front of you, neatly organized but untouched as you twist the anxiety rings on your fingers, trying to drown out the noise. The clipped-up mess of your hair keeps falling in your face, but you don’t have the energy to fix it.

Your teacher strides in, clapping their hands for attention. “Alright, everyone! Models are here. Be respectful, follow the guidelines, and remember to thank them for their time. This is a great opportunity to work with real people instead of mannequins, so make the most of it.”

The door swings open, and a group of about ten models shuffles in, their faces a mix of curiosity and boredom. You glance up, expecting a crowd of strangers. Instead, your breath catches in your throat as two very familiar figures step through the door. Chan and Jisung.

Chan looks effortlessly cool, dressed in black cargo trousers and a white t-shirt under a black knit sweater. His silver chain glints under the fluorescent lights, matching the one around Jisung’s neck.

Jisung, for his part, looks like he just stepped out of a fashion editorial. His cropped grey long-sleeved top shows just a hint of his toned stomach, and his baggy blue jeans hang low enough to reveal his white boxers. His sneakers are pristine, white as snow, and somehow, even in this classroom setting, he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

When they spot you, their faces light up. Jisung waves enthusiastically, practically bouncing on his heels, while Chan offers a more subdued but equally warm wave. You hesitate for a second, the overwhelming urge to disappear into your shell creeping up, but you manage a shy wave back.

Their reaction is immediate. Jisung’s grin widens, and Chan nudges him, clearly amused.

The other students notice them almost instantly, the energy in the room shifting. A few of the girls near the front start whispering, throwing glances at Chan and Jisung. It’s no secret that the two of them are infamous for their openness at parties, and now that they’re in the same room, the attention is palpable.

The teacher finishes their brief introduction and waves the models toward the stations. Almost immediately, a cluster of girls swarms Chan and Jisung, practically vying for their attention. Compliments fly left and right.

“Chan, you’d be perfect for my project.”

“Jisung, I love your skin tone. It’d be amazing to work with.”

“Have you modeled before? You totally look like you have.”

Chan and Jisung, however, seem completely unfazed by the attention. They exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between them, and then, without hesitation, they make a beeline for your station at the back of the room.

“Hello!” Jisung chirps as they reach you, his voice as cheerful as ever. He drops into the chair across from you, resting his chin on his hand.

“Hi,” you reply softly, your fingers still fiddling with your rings.

Chan pulls out the chair next to Jisung and sits down smoothly, his gaze warm but focused. “What a coincidence,” he says, his voice lower and steadier than Jisung’s. “We just wanted some extra cash, and here we are.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Well, I’m glad it’s some familiar faces who picked me rather than total strangers,” you say, though the words come out in a rushed tumble. “I mean, I guess you two are strangers with recognizable faces, but, um, still better than total strangers.”

Jisung beams at you, clearly charmed by your rambling. Chan leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Yeah? You’re not nervous about working with us?” His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity behind it.

“No, I-” You stop, realizing you’re about to contradict yourself, and shrug instead. “I’m just glad I won’t have to meet someone completely new. Familiar faces and all that.”

Jisung tilts his head, his silver hair catching the light. “So, how does this work, exactly? What do we do?”

You shrug again, feeling slightly more at ease under their curious but non-judgmental gazes. “It’s pretty simple. I just practice my SFX and different makeup looks on you. You sit still, let me do my thing, and you get paid by the university for your time.”

“That’s it?” Jisung asks, his expression lighting up. “We just get to chill while you turn us into zombies or whatever?”

Chan chuckles, his eyes never leaving your face. “Sounds like the easiest job ever.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” you mumble, already reaching for your brushes. “I can be kind of a perfectionist.”

Jisung nudges Chan with his elbow, his grin widening. “I think we can handle that.”

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadying slightly as you flip through your kit. “I’m going to do bruises for you, Jisung. If that’s okay? It’s the quickest thing to start with, so you can get a feel for what it’s like and how still you’ll have to sit.”

“Okay!” Jisung chirps, his enthusiasm as boundless as ever. He leans forward slightly in his chair, watching you intently.

As you grab the foundation brush and a small compact, your fingers instinctively reach for your anxiety rings, twisting them back and forth in a soothing rhythm. You think you’re being subtle, but both Chan and Jisung notice. They exchange a quick look, just a flicker of understanding passing between them, before Chan leans back in his chair, breaking the tension.

“I’ll grab us some coffee from the table,” Chan says, standing up.

“Oh, don’t,” you reply quickly, looking up from your kit. “It’s gross. Seriously, it's undrinkable.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, amused. “That bad?”

“Worse,” you say, pulling a small coffee sachet from your tote bag and holding it out to him. “Use this. There’s a kettle in the corner.”

Jisung perks up immediately. “Ooh! I love that brand. Their hazelnut flavor is the shit.”

You smile shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before turning your attention back to your kit. “It’s the only coffee I can actually stand,” you admit, pulling out your bruise palette.

Chan takes the sachet with a small nod. “Got it. Fancy coffee it is,” he says, heading toward the kettle.

As he leaves, Jisung rests his elbows on the table, leaning in just enough to stay in your line of sight. “So, you wanna get into the makeup industry?” he asks, his tone casual but genuinely curious.

You nod, focusing on applying a thin base layer of foundation to his temple. “Yeah. That’s the plan. Mostly SFX, though.”

“That’s cool as fuck,” Jisung says, his lips twitching into a grin. “When I become a famous crime reporter, I’ll hire you to make me look good on camera.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up into a small smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You better,” he teases, his tone light and playful. “And when Chan opens his music production company, you can do his makeup for the promo stuff.”

You glance at him, a faint smile still on your face as you swap the foundation brush for a sponge. “The two of you have nice skin. You don’t really need makeup.”

Jisung smirks, his voice dropping slightly. “We’re a sexy couple, huh?”

Your brush falters for half a second, and you laugh softly, not trusting yourself to respond. Instead, you focus on the bruising, using purples and yellows from your palette to create a realistic-looking contusion on his temple.

Jisung doesn’t push. He sits quietly for a moment, letting you work, but his gaze never leaves your face. He notices the way your shoulders relax as you settle into your craft, your hands moving with practised ease. You’re more comfortable here, surrounded by brushes and palettes, than you ever seemed in the unfamiliar chaos of the frat house.

“You’re really good at this,” he says after a while, his voice softer.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your eyes focused on blending the colours seamlessly into his skin.

The kettle clicks off in the corner, and Chan returns a moment later with three steaming cups of coffee. He sets one down next to you with a small smile before sitting back in his chair, watching you work.

Jisung flashes him a quick grin. “Told you she’s good.”

“Yeah,” Chan agrees, his voice warm. “She’s really good.”

You glance at Chan, tapping the end of your brush against your lip in thought. “How good are you at sitting still?”

Chan smirks, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Much better than him,” he says, jerking his chin toward Jisung.

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely. I have the attention span of a squirrel who’s had crack, PCP, and coffee. Sitting still is not in my vocabulary. That was super hard for me.”

You snort, shaking your head as you pull out a small palette and sponge. “I could do scratches or maybe a split lip?”

“Do both,” Chan says. “Whatever you want. We’re here to help you, get free food, and get paid.”

Jisung grins, leaning forward slightly. “Emphasis on the helping you.”

Their casual support makes you smile, a real, unguarded smile, and you turn your attention to Chan, holding up a few shades next to his face to match his skin tone. The colours need to be just right for the scratches to look realistic, and you’re already envisioning the placement.

While you’re focused, Jisung starts poking around in your kit, pulling out sponges and brushes like he’s never seen them before. “What’s this thing for?” he mutters, holding up a stippling sponge.

“Jisung,” Chan says sharply, without even looking at him. “Sit down. Drink your coffee. Be a good boy.”

Jisung snorts, rolling his eyes but obediently sliding back into his chair. “You sound like a dad,” he mutters, taking a sip of his coffee.

Chan doesn’t respond, but the amused glint in his eye says enough.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you position Chan’s face just right, tilting his chin slightly so you can work. Starting with the scratches, you dab the base colour along his cheekbone in thin, jagged lines, layering the colours to create depth. The focus required for the details blocks out the noise of the room, narrowing your world to just the colours, textures, and angles.

Chan stays perfectly still, his gaze never leaving your face. Every so often, his eyes flick to your fingers, watching the way they move with such precision. He notices the way you fiddle with your anxiety rings between steps, your thumb brushing over the grooves as if grounding yourself. It’s subtle, but he catches it every time.

Jisung leans closer, resting his chin in his hand as he watches too. He doesn’t say much, which is rare for him, but he’s captivated by how your concentration transforms you. You’re not the shy, anxious girl who fidgets in uncomfortable spaces here. You’re in your element, confident, steady, and focused. Your smiles, when they appear, are genuine, and they feel like small victories to him and Chan both.

“Does this hurt?” Jisung asks suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.

You blink, looking up from the scratches you’re blending on Chan’s cheek. “What? No, of course not. It’s just makeup.”

“Yeah, but you’re so good it’s making me feel phantom pain,” he says dramatically, and you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

“Sit still and let her work,” Chan says, his tone teasing.

“I’m literally not moving!” Jisung retorts, throwing his hands up.

You roll your eyes but smile as you switch to the split lip. Using a small detailing brush, you draw the initial line across Chan’s lower lip, smudging the edges for realism. You add layers of reds and purples, blending them seamlessly into his skin until the injury looks raw and freshly split.

The room fades away entirely as you work, your focus narrowing to the details of Chan’s face. You don’t notice the way he and Jisung exchange glances, silently communicating as they take note of your little habits, the shifty glance you throw at your rings when the noise gets too loud, the way your shoulders tense and relax in rhythm with your breathing.

They’re careful not to draw attention to it, subtly keeping the energy around you calm and light without you even realizing it.

When the scratches and bruising are complete, you step back, studying your work critically. You add a faint smudge of purple and green around the edges of the scratches, giving them the illusion of swelling, before finally reaching for the mirror.

“Alright,” you say, holding the mirror up for Chan. “What do you think?”

Chan leans in to look, his eyes widening slightly at the realism. “Holy shit,” he murmurs, turning his head from side to side. “This looks incredible.”

“Seriously,” Jisung chimes in, craning his neck to see. “It looks like someone decked you. This is insane.”

You feel a flicker of pride at their reactions, your lips curving into a small smile. “Thanks,” you say quietly, fiddling with your rings again.

“Can’t believe we get paid for this,” Chan says with a grin. “Best gig ever.”

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “We should’ve signed up for this ages ago.”

You laugh softly, your nerves starting to melt away as the three of you fall into an easy rhythm of conversation and quiet admiration.

The room buzzes with its usual energy, students chatting and setting up their kits, but Chan and Jisung sit off to the side, waiting. Jisung taps his boots against the floor rhythmically, glancing toward the door every few seconds. He adjusts the cuffs of his cropped leather jacket, his black vest underneath snug against his torso.

Chan sits next to him, leaning back in his chair, one leg bouncing slightly. His matching leather jacket and vest combo, paired with the loose baggy jeans, gives him an effortless edge, but his eyes flick toward the door just as often as Jisung’s.

“She’s late,” Jisung mutters, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Maybe she got held up,” Chan offers, though his voice carries the same undercurrent of unease.

When the door finally opens, you step inside, your movements stiff and your hands trembling slightly as they clutch your tote bag and makeup kit. You’re dressed in a blue and white tartan mini skirt with a matching cropped blazer, your makeup immaculate despite the visible tension in your posture. The messy clip holding your hair back looks like it’s hanging on by sheer determination.

Jisung immediately notices the trembling. His eyes widen, and he nudges Chan, who follows his gaze. Recognition flashes across Chan’s face, he’s seen this before, too many times with Jisung.

Jisung jumps up first, his wide smile doing little to mask the concern in his eyes. “Hey!” he calls out, his voice bright and warm, though there’s a softness to it meant just for you. He strides over quickly, motioning for you to follow him. “Come on. Let’s go to the other room for a sec. It’s quieter there.”

Chan is already beside you, taking the tote bag and your makeup case from your trembling hands without a word. “Let’s go,” he says gently, his presence steady and grounding as he gestures toward the hallway.

You nod numbly, letting Jisung lead the way. His cropped leather jacket bounces slightly with each step, and you focus on the rhythm of his boots against the floor, using it to anchor yourself.

Once inside the empty classroom, Jisung pulls out a chair and motions for you to sit. Chan places your bags down carefully on the table, then leans against it, his arms crossed but his expression soft.

Jisung crouches in front of you, his voice light and cheerful despite the tension in the room. “You know what I need right now?” he asks, tilting his head.

You blink at him, your breathing still uneven. “What?”

“Embarrassing childhood stories about Felix,” he says, his grin widening. “Come on, you’ve gotta have loads of them. Spill.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “I- I do, but...”

“But nothing,” Chan interrupts, his tone playful but firm. “Give us the dirt. I’m talking full-on Felix humiliation. We need it.”

Jisung pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out to you. A small fidget cube. “Here. This always helps me. Try it.”

Your hands shake as you take the cube, turning it over in your fingers. The clicking and spinning mechanisms give you something to focus on, and you start to feel a faint sense of control creeping back in.

“There has to be something,” Chan says, his tone encouraging as Jisung moves to sit next to you, running a hand gently up and down your back. “Don’t hold out on us.”

You take a deep breath, the fidget cube helping to steady you as you begin. “Okay, um, there was this one time when Felix was sixteen. He had a massive crush on this guy, like, total heart eyes every time he saw him.”

Jisung hums, clearly intrigued. “Go on.”

“So,” you continue, a small smile creeping onto your face, “Felix heard that this guy loved birds. Like, absolutely obsessed with them. So Felix, in his infinite wisdom, decided he was going to catch a dove and give it to him.”

Both Chan and Jisung burst into laughter, but they don’t interrupt. They let you continue, their attention fully on you.

“He spent hours in the park with a net he bought from a fishing store,” you say, your voice growing steadier as the memory takes over. “And when he finally caught one, he brought it home, named it Cupid, and tried to teach it tricks to impress the guy.”

Jisung is practically wheezing at this point. “No fucking way.”

“I swear to God,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping you. “He even bought birdseed that was, like, premium grade or whatever because he thought it would make the dove healthier and shinier.”

Chan shakes his head, his own laugh rumbling low in his chest. “And did it work? Did the guy fall for him?”

“Nope,” you say, giggling. “The guy was allergic to birds.”

Jisung collapses against the back of his chair, clutching his stomach as he laughs. “That’s fucking priceless. Felix trying to be Mr. Romantic and failing spectacularly. I love it.”

Chan grins, his eyes softening as he watches you laugh. “See? That’s exactly the kind of story we needed.”

You fiddle with the fidget cube again, but your breathing is steady now, the tension in your shoulders easing. Jisung nudges you lightly with his elbow, his grin still wide. “Feel a bit better?”

“Yeah,” you admit, glancing between them. “Thanks.”

Chan straightens up, offering you a hand. “Anytime. Now, let’s get back before someone claims your station.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up, and for the first time that day, you feel like the world isn’t spinning quite so fast.

Chan and Jisung step inside the classroom, hand in hand as Jisung grins at whatever Chan whispers in his ear. Chan’s black cargos and fitted compression shirt make him look every bit the confident leader he is, his silver chain glinting under the fluorescent lights.

Jisung, in his black trousers and the striking red-and-black watercolour-style top, walks with a similar self-assurance, the chain around his neck catching the same light. They’re already the centre of attention without even trying, but their eyes immediately scan the room for one person. You.

You’re at your usual station, sitting on a chair, but something’s off. Your shoulders are hunched, practically touching your ears as you try to shrink into yourself. Two girls are standing in front of you, leaning in far too close, their voices carrying just enough for Chan and Jisung to catch snippets of what they’re saying.

“Come on,” one of them purrs. “You know them, right? Set us up, just for one night. That’s all we’re asking.”

“They’re into sharing,” the other adds, her tone smug. “Everyone knows it. It’s not like they’d say no.”

You’re gripping the edge of your chair tightly, your knuckles turning white as you avoid eye contact. The tension radiates off you, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your green cargo trousers and white sleeveless turtleneck are immaculate, your hair clipped up messily but beautifully, and your makeup flawless as always, but the way you’re folding into yourself tells them everything they need to know.

Chan’s jaw tightens, and Jisung’s grip on his hand briefly tightens before he lets go, stepping forward. “Oi,” Chan snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter in the room. “Leave her alone.”

Both girls turn, startled but not deterred. Their faces light up when they see Chan and Jisung approaching, and they immediately shift gears, their tones turning flirtatious.

“Oh, hey, guys,” the first girl says, batting her eyelashes. “We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah,” the second girl chimes in, smiling coyly. “We’ve been dying to get to know you better.”

Jisung rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. “Both of you, piss off,” he says flatly, his voice dripping with irritation.

The girls falter for a moment but recover quickly, leaning into their usual tactics. “Don’t be like that,” the first girl says, pouting. “We know you like adding a girl to your relationship. It’s your thing, right?”

The second girl glances toward you, who’s practically curled into yourself at this point. “You two seriously can’t be considering her,” she says, gesturing toward you with a sneer. “I mean, come on.”

Chan’s glare is immediate and lethal. His dark eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches as he takes a threatening step forward. “Watch your mouth,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

Jisung scoffs, turning his full attention to the girls. “What? You think we’d go for you? Don’t make me fucking laugh.”

The girls’ confidence wavers under the combined weight of their disdain, but they don’t leave right away. Jisung doesn’t wait for them to figure it out. He turns back to you, his expression softening as he crouches slightly to meet your eyes. “Fuck this noise,” he says gently. “You wanna come with us to grab coffee?”

You glance up at him, your hands still trembling slightly, and nod, your relief visible even through your lingering anxiety.

“Good,” Jisung says, standing up. He grabs your tote bag without hesitation while Chan picks up your makeup kit.

As they turn to leave, both of them shoot the girls looks that could kill. “Stay the fuck away from her,” Chan warns, his voice quiet but ice-cold.

Jisung doesn’t bother saying anything else, but the sharp glare he throws over his shoulder speaks volumes. Together, they guide you out of the classroom, their presence on either side of you making you feel safer with every step. The noise and tension of the room fade behind you as the door swings shut.

Once you’re in the hallway, Jisung flashes you a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s go get something sweet”

Chan nods, his expression softening now that you’re away from the chaos. “You’re with us. Don’t worry about anything else.”

The campus café is quiet at this time of day, a soft hum of conversation blending with the low buzz of the espresso machines. Chan leads the way to a corner table in the back, where it’s more secluded. He sets your makeup case down on the floor beside the table as Jisung pulls out a chair for you before plopping into one himself.

“What do you want to drink?” Chan asks, his voice steady and calm as he takes the seat opposite you.

You shake your head quickly, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “I’m fine, really.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow, leaning forward on his elbows. “Nope! Anxiety will not let you dehydrate on my watch,” he declares, his tone light but firm. “How about this, you can pay for the coffee next time. Sound good?”

You hesitate, glancing between them, but their expressions are so genuine, so patient, that you finally nod. “Okay. An iced caramel mocha, please.”

“Good choice,” Jisung says with a grin, leaning back in his chair.

As Chan heads toward the counter to order, Jisung places your tote bag on the table, his eyes lighting up when he notices the corner of a sketchbook sticking out. “You have a sketchbook?” he asks, already tugging it free.

“Yeah,” you reply, feeling a little self-conscious but smiling faintly. “If cosmetology and SFX don’t work out, tattooing is the backup plan.”

Jisung’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Can I peek?” he asks, his voice practically buzzing with excitement.

You nod, and he immediately cracks it open, flipping through the pages with wide eyes. “Ooh, I want that one,” he says, pointing to a minimalist snake design winding around a crescent moon. “And that one.” He gestures to a geometric wolf. “Oh, absolutely that one.” His finger lands on an intricate floral skull.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “If you like them so much, pencil your name next to the ones you want.”

“Done,” Jisung says, digging into your tote bag for a pencil. Instead of a pencil, his hand brushes against a box of tattoo pens, and he pulls it out, eyes sparkling. “Oooh! Can I have one now?”

“Sure,” you say, sliding the box toward him. “Pick a colour.”

Jisung immediately grabs a black pen and places it in your hand instead. “Draw something cool on me.”

There’s a smile on your lips as you grab his hand. His fingers twitch slightly as you adjust his position, your own hand steady as you start outlining a skeletal hand on the back of his. The pen glides smoothly over his skin, and you fall into your rhythm, focusing on each careful line.

Jisung watches you intently, his eyes darting between your concentrated expression and the design appearing on his hand. “This is so fucking cool,” he murmurs, tilting his head to watch you work. “Seriously, how are you this good?”

You shrug, not looking up. “Practice.”

By the time Chan returns with the drinks, Jisung’s hand already resembles a realistic skeleton hand in progress. Chan places your iced caramel mocha in front of you before sitting down with his own coffee. His gaze falls on Jisung’s hand, and his eyebrows raise slightly. “What’s this?”

“She’s giving me the coolest skeleton hand tattoo,” Jisung says proudly, holding his hand up briefly before letting you continue. “It’s semi-permanent. How long will it last?” he asks, glancing at you.

“About two weeks,” you reply, still focused on adding shading to the bones. “If you’re careful.”

“Careful?” Jisung scoffs. “Have you met me?”

Chan chuckles, leaning back in his chair to watch you work. “Guess we’ll see how long it survives. It’s a good look for you, though.”

Jisung grins, wiggling his fingers slightly, earning a small scolding from you as you steady his hand again. “I feel like a badass already.”

“You already are,” Chan says with a smirk, taking a sip of his coffee.

You finish the final details on Jisung’s skeleton hand, stepping back to admire your work. The clean black lines trace over his skin perfectly, each bone detailed with just enough shading to make it look almost real. “There,” you say, setting the pen down for a moment. “Done.”

Jisung twists his hand to get a better look, his grin widening. “Holy shit, this is incredible. You’re a fucking magician.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you reply with a faint smile, wiping your hands on a napkin.

“No, seriously. It’s so good!” Jisung glances at you, his grin turning sly. “So, can I have another?”

You arch an eyebrow but grab the pen again, motioning for him to roll up his sleeve. “What do you want this time?”

He taps his chin, pretending to think. “How about a sword? With a snake wrapped around it. Make it badass.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning over to begin sketching on his forearm. The pen glides smoothly over his skin as you map out the shape of the blade, the hilt, and the curling snake.

As you work, Jisung leans back slightly, looking over at Chan with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey, Chan. Baby. Sexy man.”

Chan gives him a flat look. “What.”

“How do you feel about Jisung’s bitch on your forehead with the tattoo pen?”

“No.”

Jisung pouts dramatically. “No hesitation? Not even a little consideration?”

“Not even a little,” Chan replies, sipping his coffee calmly.

You shake your head, biting back a smile as you continue detailing the snake coiling around the sword. The tip of the blade points toward Jisung’s wrist, and the snake’s head curves menacingly near the hilt, its fangs bared.

“Could we count this as a date?” Jisung asks suddenly, his voice casual but his grin anything but.

Your hand falters slightly, and you cough, your head snapping up to look at him. Before you can respond, Chan kicks him under the table, the dull thud making Jisung wince.

“Kidding! Kidding!” Jisung says quickly, throwing up his free hand in surrender. “Totally joking.”

You narrow your eyes slightly but don’t say anything, your focus snapping back to his arm as you continue detailing the snake’s scales with delicate precision.

While your attention is on the drawing, Chan leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing at Jisung and he mouths, What are you doing?

Jisung shrugs dramatically, mouthing back, What?! It was worth a shot!

Chan rolls his eyes and mouths, Idiot.

Jisung grins, leaning closer to mouth back, At least now she might realise we’re interested.

Chan glares, his lips pressing into a tight line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his gaze softening as he watches you work.

You finish detailing the snake’s body, adding a hint of depth to its scales, before leaning back to examine your work. “Done,” you say. “What do you think?”

Jisung lifts his arm, turning it this way and that to admire the sword-and-snake design. His grin stretches from ear to ear. “It’s fucking perfect. You’re a genius.”

Chan nods in agreement, his voice warm. “It looks incredible.”

You glance between them, your cheeks warming slightly at their praise. “Thanks.”

As Jisung continues marvelling at his arm, you finally allow yourself a small smile, feeling a strange but welcome sense of ease in their company.

The Alpha Phi frat house is quieter than usual, a rare lull in the usual chaos. You make your way up the stairs, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the worn wood. Felix is at a culinary practical class, which means you have a golden window of opportunity to talk to Minho without your overprotective twin hovering nearby.

Reaching Minho’s room, you hesitate for a second before knocking twice and pushing the door open. The familiar scent of his room, clean laundry mixed with a faint hint of cologne, greets you as you step inside.

“Hey there, anxiety bundle,” Minho greets from his bed, where he’s lying with his phone in hand, scrolling lazily. He glances up, a small smirk playing on his lips.

You can’t help but grin, hopping onto the bed beside him. “Hi, Min.”

He sets his phone down, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you more closely. “So, what’s up? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

You take a deep breath, fiddling with the hem of your cropped turtleneck. “I wanted to talk to you about Chan and Jisung.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening slightly. “Chan and Jisung, huh? Have you ever even spoken to them?”

You bite your lip, nodding. “Yeah, they’re, uh, my models for my cosmetology and SFX extra credit stuff.”

“Interesting,” Minho says, his tone light but curious. He leans back against his pillows, giving you his full attention. “Go on.”

“They’re actually super cool to hang out with,” you admit, your voice softening as you pick at an invisible thread on the blanket. “But, we went to a café a couple of days ago, and Jisung asked if it was a date.”

Minho’s other eyebrow joins the first, his expression shifting to something more knowing. “You can’t tell they’re both into you?”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Huh?”

Minho rolls his eyes, sitting up fully. “Come on, everyone in the frat but Lix knows. They’re not subtle. They like you and want you as a third in their relationship. A little polyamorous trio.”

You freeze, the words sinking in like a stone dropping into a still pond. “No. No way. No, I can’t- Nope. Nuh-uh. I am not relationship material. Nope. No way.”

Minho stares at you for a moment before letting out a low chuckle. “Okay, no breakdowns here. Deep breaths. You’re spiralling.”

“I’m not spiralling,” you protest weakly, even as your chest tightens.

“Right.” Minho reaches for the edge of his blanket, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to blanket burrito you and then cuddle you until your stresses flow out of you. Arms free, of course, so you don’t feel too restricted.”

Before you can argue, he’s already wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it securely but leaving your arms free just as he promised. “There we go,” he says, satisfied with his work. “Comfy?”

You hum softly, leaning into his side as he pulls you closer. “Yeah. Surprisingly.”

Minho shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket around you as he tucks you closer into his side. His warmth seeps into you, and for the first time today, the tension in your shoulders starts to ease.

“So,” Minho begins, his tone light but teasing, “what do you wanna talk about? We cannot under any circumstances talk about black-haired football captains and silver-haired journalism students who wanna fuck you in what could possibly be the hottest threesome and three-way relationship to walk the earth. Anything but that horror, which I am wildly jealous of but we can’t discuss because you’re in an anxiety burrito.”

“Shut up!” you exclaim, smacking his arm lightly, though you can’t help the small laugh that escapes.

Minho gasps dramatically. “Excuse me. Everything I say is a blessing. Don’t silence the gospel.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing further against him. “Fine. Let’s talk about you and Lix. What’s going on there?”

Minho groans, tilting his head back against the headboard. “We’re, like, together. Without the labels.”

“Loser,” you mutter, smirking as you nudge his side.

His head snaps back down, and he glares at you playfully. “Listen here, brat. It’s your brother’s fault, alright? One minute he’s all over me, sucking my dick like it’s the cure to cancer, and the next, he’s chatting up and fucking every Theta Tau asshole who so much as glances in his direction.”

You grimace but can’t stop yourself from laughing. “Oh my God, Minho.”

“It’s true!” Minho insists, throwing up his hands. “Do you know how fucking confusing that is?”

You sit up slightly, resting your chin on your hand as you consider him. “Have you ever considered that Felix wants you to make the move?”

Minho pauses, his brow furrowing. “Huh. No. No, I did not. That actually makes sense.”

“You’re welcome,” you say with a smug smile. “I give sound relationship advice. Can’t follow it myself, but hey, it’s called anxiety.”

Minho snorts, ruffling your hair affectionately. “Fucking nerd. Alright, Yoda, explain this wisdom to me.”

“It’s simple,” you say, leaning back against him. “Felix probably doesn’t want to make things official because he’s scared of messing it up. He’s waiting for you to say something.”

Minho hums thoughtfully, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders. “Okay. Fair point. I’ll think about it.”

There’s a beat of silence before Minho glances down at you, his smirk creeping back onto his face. “Now, back to you.”

“Nope,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “We’re done talking about me.”

“Look,” Minho begins, ignoring you completely. “You’re hot. Chan’s hot. Jisung’s hot. And those two have got it bad for you, sweetcheeks. I’m talking down horrendously bad. Me mooning over your brother? Nothing on those two.”

You groan, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Minho, stop.”

“Not a chance,” he says, his voice growing more serious. “You think you’re not relationship material, but I’ve seen the way they look at you. They’d bend over backwards to make you happy. You deserve that. You really do.”

You don’t respond, your fingers absently twisting the blanket’s edge. Minho doesn’t push further, letting his words sink in as he pulls you closer to his side, his presence steady and comforting.

“Anyway,” Minho says after a moment, his teasing tone returning, “I’m pretty sure Felix and I are the blueprint for dysfunctional relationships, so if I can make it work, you’ve got no excuse.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he replies, grinning. For now, the weight of his words lingers, but it feels less like a burden and more like a possibility you can slowly start to consider.

The classroom hums with the usual pre-class energy. Students chatting, tools clinking against palettes, and brushes being sorted. Chan and Jisung are already seated at your station when you walk in, your steps hesitant. You’re dressed in green cargo trousers, black Converse, and a black cropped turtleneck, your hair messily clipped up as always. Your makeup is, as usual, flawless, the sharpness of your eyeliner contrasting starkly with the apprehension in your eyes.

But today, something’s off.

Chan notices it first. You don’t greet them like usual, instead setting your tote bag and kit on the table with trembling hands. Jisung picks up on it seconds later when you don’t return his grin or meet his gaze. You sit down silently, immediately busying yourself with unpacking your materials, your movements stiff and hurried.

“Hey,” Jisung says softly, leaning forward slightly. “You good?”

You don’t answer, pretending to focus on your brushes as if they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Your fingers fumble as you arrange them, the clinking sound drawing Chan’s attention. He exchanges a quick glance with Jisung, his brow furrowing.

“Y/N,” Chan tries, his tone low and gentle. “What’s going on?”

Still, you don’t respond. Instead, you grab your palette and turn to Jisung, gesturing for his arm. “I’m starting with the scarring,” you mumble, your voice so soft they almost miss it.

Jisung hesitates but holds out his arm, watching as you grab a brush and start applying a base layer. Your focus is razor-sharp, but something about the way your hands move feels mechanical, like you’re running on autopilot. You won’t look at him, your gaze glued to your work.

Jisung glances at Chan again, his worry evident. “Okay,” he says cautiously, trying to keep the mood light. “Guess we’re skipping the chit-chat today.”

No reaction.

As you work on creating realistic scarring up his forearm, Jisung tries again. “You know, I was thinking, maybe I should start a petition for you to do our makeup at frat parties. You’d probably get us a shit ton of attention.”

Still nothing. You don’t even crack a smile, your brush moving methodically as you blend shades of red and brown into his skin. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable.

Chan leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as he studies you. He doesn’t say anything, but his dark eyes flicker with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line.

When you finish Jisung’s arm, you finally glance up, just to grab another tool, before quickly averting your gaze again. “Switching to facial injuries,” you mumble, turning toward Chan without waiting for a response.

Chan shifts in his chair slightly, his posture relaxing as he nods. “Go ahead.”

You step closer, your movements still stiff as you start creating a gash on his cheekbone. Your hands remain steady, but your avoidance is glaringly obvious. You don’t meet his eyes, even when you have to angle his face toward the light. Instead, you keep your focus strictly on your work, avoiding any interaction.

Jisung leans his chin on his hand, watching you carefully. “You know, we’re here, right?” he says softly, his usual playful tone replaced with genuine concern.

Your hand falters slightly, but you quickly recover, your expression unreadable. “I know,” you mutter, still not looking at either of them.

Chan tilts his head as you add depth to the injury, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to say what’s bothering you if you’re not ready. But you can. We’re not going anywhere.”

Your hands are trembling so violently now that you can barely hold the brush. The classroom feels too loud, too bright, too crowded, like the walls are closing in around you. The edges of your vision blur as you inhale sharply, your breaths coming too fast and too shallow.

“I- Excuse me,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling as much as your hands.

Without waiting for a response, you push back from the table, nearly knocking over your chair in your haste to leave. You don’t even think to grab your tote bag or kit as you rush out the door, the classroom’s noise fading into an overwhelming silence.

Chan and Jisung are on their feet immediately, exchanging a single, knowing look. They don’t need to speak to understand what’s happening. Jisung recognizes the signs, he’s been there too many times himself, and Chan has seen this far too often when helping Jisung through his panic attacks.

“We’re going after her,” Jisung says, already heading for the door.

Chan nods as he follows. “Of course.”

They move quickly through the hallway, scanning for any sign of you. It doesn’t take long for Jisung to notice the slightly ajar door to the empty classroom they’d taken you to before. He pushes it open gently, the hinges creaking faintly, and the sight inside makes both of them freeze.

You’re crouched down near the far wall, your head in your hands as you tug on your hair with trembling fingers. Your whole body is trembling, and your breaths come in short, ragged gasps that hitch and catch painfully in your throat. It’s clear you’re spiralling fast.

Jisung and Chan exchange another glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. Chan steps forward first, closing the door quietly behind them while Jisung pulls the blinds down to block out the outside world. They’re careful, their movements measured and deliberate, as if any sudden motion might make things worse.

Jisung crouches down in front of you, his voice soft but steady. “Hey, what do you need? I know it’s hard to answer right now, but I’ve been here before. For me, a hug helps, a tight one. It compresses my nervous system and calms me down. You’ll fight it at first, but it’s just me and Chan. You’re safe with us, okay?”

You nod faintly, your fingers twitching as you try to loosen your grip on your hair. Your breaths are still shallow, but you’re trying, and Jisung can see it in the way your shoulders rise and fall unevenly.

“Good,” Jisung says gently, shifting to sit behind you. He carefully takes your hands, pulling them away from your hair and holding them in his own for a moment before guiding your body to rest against his. “I’m gonna hug you now, alright? Just let me help.”

He wraps his arms tightly around your chest, holding you firmly but not uncomfortably, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head. “Just me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Chan crouches in front of you, his eyes soft with concern. “My turn,” he says quietly, leaning in to wrap his arms around both you and Jisung, enveloping you in a warm, grounding embrace. You’re sandwiched between them, their bodies a protective barrier against the storm raging inside you.

“Just breathe,” Chan murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Jisung presses his cheek against the back of your head, his voice equally calm. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady.”

It’s hard. Your chest feels tight, and the panic claws at you, but their warmth and steady presence start to chip away at the edges of the fear. Jisung’s hold is grounding, his arms firm and secure, while Chan’s presence in front of you feels like a shield against the world.

“You’re doing so good,” Jisung says softly, his fingers lightly brushing against your forearms. “Just keep going. We’ve got you.”

Chan’s hands rub gentle circles on your back, his movements synchronized with Jisung’s reassurances. “That’s it. Keep going. One breath at a time.”

Slowly, the tension in your body begins to ease. Your breaths become a little less ragged, a little more controlled. The trembling subsides bit by bit, though your body still feels exhausted from the panic.

“You’re okay,” Jisung whispers, his voice soft as he rests his forehead against the back of your head. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Chan pulls back slightly to meet your eyes, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “Better?” he asks, his voice warm and patient.

You nod weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Jisung presses a light, reassuring kiss to the top of your head before helping you sit up straighter. “No need to thank us. We’re here for you. Always.”

“Want to talk about why you’re an anxious bundle of nerves today?” Chan asks gently, his eyes locked on yours. There’s no judgment in his tone, just patience and concern.

You hesitate for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, but the warmth of their presence gives you enough courage to speak. Once you start, though, the words spill out in a frantic, barely coherent rush.

“It’s—it’s Minho,” you stammer, your voice shaky and fast. “He said you two like me, and not just like me, like like me like me, and then he said something about polyamory and a three-way relationship, and I-look, I can’t do that. I don’t want to come between you two, you’re perfect together, and I don’t even know how to be in a regular relationship, let alone something like that! I mean, I’m definitely not relationship material. I overthink everything-”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Chan says, his lips twitching in an effort to suppress a smile as he tries to keep up with your rapid-fire rambling.

Jisung giggles, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Silly girl,” he says, his tone playful and affectionate. “You wouldn’t be coming between us. There’d be three of us in the relationship. That’s kind of the point.”

You pause, your brain short-circuiting at the simplicity of his words. “I… what?”

Jisung squeezes you tighter, his grin widening. “Three of us. Not you versus me or Chan. All of us together. Team effort.”

“Exactly,” Chan chimes in, his voice steady and calm. He leans in slightly, his dark eyes warm as they meet yours. “Tell you what. Jisung and I will take you on one date. Just one. No pressure, no expectations. If you decide polyamory isn’t for you, we’ll stay just friends. No hard feelings.”

You blink at them, your heart racing as you try to process everything. “One date?” you echo, your voice almost disbelieving.

“One date,” Chan confirms, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Just to see how it feels. No strings attached.”

Jisung nods eagerly. “And if it’s not your thing, that’s fine. We still get to hang out with you and be your friends, which is already pretty fucking great.”

You look between them, the sincerity in their expressions making your chest tighten in a way that’s equal parts terrifying and comforting. Finally, you nod, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. “Okay. One date.”

Jisung cheers softly, his arms tightening around you. “Yes! I’m calling this a win.”

Chan chuckles, resting a hand on Jisung’s back as he looks at you. “Thank you for trusting us.”

As you sit there, sandwiched between them, the panic that had consumed you earlier feels like it’s beginning to fade, replaced by a tentative sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this could work.

The low rumble of a sleek black convertible echoes through the quiet street as Chan pulls up outside your apartment building, the hood already down. The car gleams under the dim glow of the streetlights, a perfect reflection of its owner’s effortless confidence. Jisung sits in the backseat, his cropped leather blazer catching the light as he leans against the side of the car, a casual grin on his face.

Chan, in black trousers and boots with a white half-buttoned shirt over a black turtleneck, rests one arm on the steering wheel as he glances up at your building. He checks the time briefly before looking at Jisung. “You think Minho’s keeping Felix distracted long enough?”

Jisung snickers, adjusting his silver chain. “Please. If anyone can manage Felix, it’s Minho. The man dragged him to a love hotel. They’re probably too busy fucking to even think about anything else right now.”

The sound of the building’s front door opening pulls both their attention, and their conversation stops. You step outside, your beige flares swishing slightly with each step, white sneakers bright against the pavement. Your white bandeau crop top hugs your figure, and your half-up, half-down hair style gives you a polished but relaxed look, the little bun at the back bouncing slightly as you walk.

Jisung’s grin widens as he scrambles out of the backseat and around to the sidewalk, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow. “Your chariot awaits, milady.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” you reply with a teasing smile, sliding into the backseat next to him. Your movements are smooth, but there’s a flicker of nervous energy in your hands as you buckle in.

Chan glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You like fast driving?”

You nod, settling into your seat. “Yeah, why not?”

Chan doesn’t need any more encouragement. He slams his foot on the gas, and the car roars to life, speeding down the street. The wind whips through your hair, and your laughter spills out, unrestrained and genuine. You throw your hands up, tipping your head back as the city lights blur into streaks of colour.

Jisung wraps an arm around your shoulders, his touch light enough to give you space to pull away if you want. Instead, you lean into him, your laughter bubbling over as the wind rushes past. Chan watches the two of you through the rearview mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he navigates the empty streets with ease.

“Disclaimer,” you say between giggles, “I had an edible brownie to help my anxiety, so I’m kind of stoned right now.”

Jisung’s eyes widen with delight. “Oh my God. When I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.” He nudges Chan with his free hand. “She’s one of us, Chan! A stoner!”

Chan snorts, his eyes flicking to the mirror again. “I’m sober, don’t worry. I wouldn’t drive stoned.”

“Obviously,” Jisung says, grinning. “I had a joint earlier, though, so we’re vibing, Y/N. You and me? Stoner solidarity.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Good to know I’m in good company.”

Chan hums thoughtfully. “I will steal one of those brownies later, though, if you’re offering.”

“Sure,” you say easily, your gaze softening. “I’ve seen your place already. You can come over and meet my dog. He’s a golden retriever. His name’s Simba.”

“Dream woman,” Chan says, his voice warm and genuine. “Dog lover, brownie maker, and she likes fast cars. What’s not to love?”

You laugh again, feeling the edges of your nerves melt away in the company of their easy banter. The car speeds forward into the night, the three of you riding the high of the moment, figuratively and, in your case, literally. It feels like freedom, like something new and exciting, and for once, you’re more eager than anxious about what comes next.

The sleek black convertible pulls up to the brightly lit bowling alley, its neon sign casting a kaleidoscope of colours on the pavement. Jisung hops out first, his black trousers swishing as he moves, and he offers you a hand with a playful grin, and you take it, sliding out of the car.

Before you can step away, Jisung wraps an arm around your waist, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your beige flares. “You ready for this?” he asks, his tone warm and teasing.

You glance at him, your nerves bubbling up again, but before you can respond, you feel Chan’s gaze on you. His dark eyes are soft but questioning, waiting for permission. You nod shyly, and he steps closer, draping his arm over your shoulders with a casual ease that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Now we’re ready,” Chan says with a small smirk, steering you toward the entrance as Jisung keeps his arm snugly around your waist.

The trio walks through the glass doors, greeted by the bustling atmosphere of the bowling alley. The place smells like popcorn and pizza, and the sound of bowling balls crashing into pins echoes around you. Chan leads the way to the counter, where a guy in a red-and-white uniform greets him with a friendly smile.

“Got a booking under Bang,” Chan says smoothly, his tone low and confident.

The employee nods, checking the screen and handing him a set of shoes. Meanwhile, Jisung leans closer to you, his voice conspiratorial. “Must be nice, huh?”

You giggle, glancing at Chan as he talks to the guy like it’s second nature. “I’d be half passed out by this point talking to another human like that.”

Jisung snorts, his laugh low and infectious. “Right? Meanwhile, Mr. Smooth over here acts like he owns the place.”

Chan turns back to you both, raising an eyebrow. “You two gossiping about me?”

“Always,” Jisung replies without missing a beat, his grin cheeky as Chan rolls his eyes and leads you down a side hallway.

At the end of the hallway is a door marked Private Lane. Chan opens it with a flourish, stepping aside to let you and Jisung walk in first. The private lane is sleek and modern, with plush seating and mood lighting that makes it feel more like a lounge than a bowling alley.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Smooth,” Jisung says, plopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

Chan ignores him, instead turning his attention to you. “So, have you ever bowled before?”

You hesitate for a split second before shaking your head. “No,” you say, your voice soft.

Chan quirks an eyebrow, and Jisung’s grin widens. “Never?” Chan asks, his tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, hoping they won’t catch on.

“Well then,” Chan says, grabbing a bowling ball from the rack and holding it out to you, “we’ll have to teach you.”

“Absolutely,” Jisung chimes in, standing up and grabbing another ball. He rests it on his hip as he walks over to you. “This is gonna be fun.”

You smile, biting back your nerves as they both step closer, their expressions eager and intent. You might not be a complete novice at bowling, but right now, the idea of their hands guiding yours and their attention entirely on you feels worth a little white lie.

Chan rolls up his sleeves and grabs a bowling ball from the rack, his silver chain catching the light as he steps to the lane. “Alright, Y/N,” he says, holding the ball out to you. “Let’s start simple. Just grip it here and here.”

You take the ball, the weight of it heavier than you expected, and Chan steps behind you, close but not overwhelming. His hands rest lightly on your elbows as he adjusts your stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees a little.”

Jisung lounges on the nearby couch, a smug grin on his face. “Don’t drop it on your foot.”

“Helpful,” Chan mutters, shooting him a look before turning back to you. “Ignore him. Now, swing it back gently, then forward. Let it roll off your fingers when it feels right.”

His voice is low and patient, and you nod, following his instructions. With Chan’s hands steadying your arms, you swing the ball forward. It rolls down the lane with a satisfying thud, wobbling slightly before knocking over a few pins.

“Not bad,” Chan says, his voice warm with approval. “Let’s try that again.”

The game continues, and for the first few rounds, either Chan or Jisung is always there, standing behind you, guiding your movements. Jisung’s approach is less methodical than Chan’s, he’s more playful, cracking jokes and deliberately leaning close enough to make you laugh as he adjusts your grip.

“Alright, superstar,” Jisung says during your next turn, resting his chin on your shoulder for a moment as he lines up the shot with you. “This time, aim for the left side. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes but follow his advice, and the ball takes out a solid chunk of pins. Jisung cheers loudly, throwing his hands up like you’ve just won a championship. “See? I’m a genius!”

Chan laughs from his spot on the couch, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

The real chaos begins each time it’s Jisung’s turn. Instead of bowling normally, he walks up to the lane, turns his back to the pins, and bends over, rolling the ball between his legs. It glides perfectly down the centre of the lane, knocking down every pin in a clean strike.

“Fuck yeah!” Jisung yells, spinning around with his arms raised in victory. “Did you see that?”

“That shouldn’t even count,” Chan calls out, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t even look!”

Jisung shrugs dramatically, grabbing another ball. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

His next turn, he lies flat on his stomach at the start of the lane, pushing the ball forward with both hands. Once again, it rolls perfectly down the lane and crashes into the pins, scattering them everywhere.

“This is bullshit,” Chan mutters, standing up and grabbing a ball. “There’s no way you’re this lucky.”

“It’s not luck!” Jisung insists, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s raw talent.”

You can’t stop laughing, your sides aching as Jisung continues his streak of absurd bowling techniques. He tries spinning the ball while crouched like a frog, rolling it while hopping backwards, and even attempting to launch it from his lap while sitting. Somehow, every ridiculous method he tries results in a strike.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, shaking your head as you watch him collapse onto the couch, arms raised in mock exhaustion.

“Unbelievably good,” Jisung corrects, winking at you.

“Annoying is more like it,” Chan quips, his smirk softening the words.

The second game kicks off, and you decide it’s time to step up. Chan and Jisung exchange a glance as you grab a ball, their eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

“You got this,” Chan says, leaning casually against the scoring console.

Jisung smirks from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his silver rings glinting as he gestures toward the lane. “Show us what you’ve learned, superstar.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. With confidence, you line up your shot, swing the ball back, and release it. It glides perfectly down the lane, straight into the pins, scattering them in a deafening crash. A clean strike.

The room falls silent for a split second before Jisung shoots up from the couch, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “We’ve been fucking hustled!”

You turn to him, feigning innocence as you shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jisung’s jaw drops dramatically. “Oh, you’re good. Real good. You just wanted us to feel you up, didn’t you?”

You duck your head, biting your lip to hide the shy smile that betrays you and Chan laughs as he steps forward, ruffling Jisung’s hair as he passes. “Oh, she did,” he says, his voice warm and teasing. “But don’t tease her too much, Ji. Look, you’ve made her all shy.”

Jisung grins, unbothered, and strides up behind you. Before you can step away, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against him. “Be honest,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “You’ve bowled before, haven’t you?”

You nod once, still too shy to speak, and his nose brushes lightly against the side of your neck as he chuckles. “Little liar,” he whispers, his tone playful and affectionate.

Chan takes his turn at the lane, his throw smooth and precise, though he leaves two pins standing. He shakes his head as he turns back toward you, grinning as Jisung presses a kiss to the top of your head before letting you go.

While Chan preps for his spare, Jisung leans over to the control pad on the table and presses a few buttons. “You drink?” he asks, glancing at you.

You tilt your head curiously. “They have cocktails?”

Jisung nods, scrolling through the menu on the screen. “Yep. What’s your poison?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your lip as you consider. “Hmm. Sex on the Beach.”

Jisung freezes for half a second before turning to you with a grin so wicked it makes your heart skip. “We could have sex on the bowling lane.”

Your jaw drops as you stare at him in shock, your eyes wide. “Jisung!”

He bursts out laughing, his arms wrapping around you again as he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’m kidding! You’re so easy to mess with, it’s adorable.”

You huff, though you can’t fight the laugh bubbling up as you swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like it,” he quips, his grin softening as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

Chan returns to the table, his spare successfully picked up, and raises an eyebrow at the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shooting Jisung a look as he chuckles under his breath.

“Sure,” Chan says, his eyes narrowing slightly but the smile on his lips giving him away. “Whatever you say.”

Jisung, still grinning, reaches for the pad to confirm the drink order, adding a mock toast under his breath. “To bowling hustlers and adorable liars.”

The sleek convertible pulls up in front of your apartment building, its engine purring softly before Chan cuts it off. The night air is cool, brushing against your skin as you step out of the car andJisung hops out after you, his cropped leather blazer catching the streetlight as he stretches.

“This is the part where we find out if you’re a hoarder or if you’ve got some hidden skeletons in your closet,” he teases, falling into step beside you.

Chan chuckles, locking the car as he joins you both. “Don’t scare her off, Ji.”

You lead them up the stairs, your sneakers tapping lightly against the concrete as the three of you climb to your floor. At your door, you unlock it with a faint click and push it open, flipping on the lights. The warm, lived-in space comes into view, shelves lined with books and figurines, Attack on Titan posters framing one wall, and a collection of Harry Potter merch spread across various surfaces.

Jisung steps in first, his eyes immediately scanning the room. His mouth falls open slightly as he takes in the decor. “Anime and Harry Potter?” he says, his voice filled with awe. He turns to you with a playful grin. “You’ve officially made me fall in love.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you kick off your shoes. “It’s not that impressive.”

“It’s fucking heaven,” Jisung declares, his eyes darting from the Levi Ackerman figurine on your shelf to the Hufflepuff throw blanket draped over your couch.

Chan is about to respond when the soft patter of paws echoes through the apartment. Simba, your golden retriever, pads out from the hallway, his tail wagging lazily as he stops in front of Chan, sniffing curiously.

“Oh my God,” Chan breathes, crouching down immediately to pet the dog. His hand brushes over Simba’s soft fur, his face lighting up with pure joy. “He's adorable"

You watch Chan coo at Simba, scratching behind his ears. The dog leans into his touch, clearly pleased.

Jisung flops onto your couch, letting out a dramatic sigh and you sit next to him. “No, seriously. This apartment is heaven. Anime, Harry Potter, and now a golden retriever?” He looks at you, his grin softening into something more genuine. “You’re perfect.”

Before you can respond, Jisung leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your lips. His touch is fleeting, like he’s testing the waters, and his eyes widen immediately as he pulls back. “Uh, shit, sorry, I-”

You cut him off by leaning in and kissing him again, your hands lightly brushing against his chest. His surprise melts into a quiet groan as he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling gently in your hair while his other hand finds its way to the small of your back.

Behind you, Chan stands up slowly, his dark eyes locked on the two of you. There’s a heat in his gaze, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches, his hands slipping casually into his pockets.

Jisung pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, a grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Only to you,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan steps forward, his boots clicking softly against the floor before he leans down and cups your face in his hands. His touch is gentle but firm as he tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours for permission.

When you don’t pull away, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slower, deeper, and filled with intent. His thumbs brush against your jawline as he holds you steady, the kiss sending a shiver down your spine.

As Chan kisses you, Jisung doesn’t move far. Instead, he wraps his arms around you from behind, his lips finding the curve of your neck. He presses a series of soft, lingering kisses along your skin, his breath warm and his touch featherlight.

Chan pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he glances at Jisung over your shoulder. “You good back there?” he asks, his voice rough with a mix of humor and something darker.

Jisung grins against your neck, his hands tightening around your waist. “Oh, I’m very good,” he replies, his voice muffled as he presses another kiss to your neck.

Chan brushes his thumb gently against your cheek, his gaze steady and soft despite the heat simmering in his dark eyes. “If you don’t want to go any further, let us know,” he says quietly, his voice low and reassuring. “There’s no pressure.”

You take a deep breath, the tension in your shoulders easing at his words. Meeting his gaze, you manage a small, shy smile. “My bedroom is the door at the end of the hall.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Chan’s face before it’s replaced with a warm, knowing smile. He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and starts leading you toward the hallway. Behind you, Jisung remains attached to your back, his arms draped loosely around your waist as he follows your movements step for step.

The short walk feels longer than it is, your heart racing with anticipation. When you reach the door, Chan opens it for you, stepping inside first to take in the space before turning back to you and Jisung. The room is cosy and well-kept, the bed neatly made with soft, neutral tones, and fairy lights strung up around the walls giving it a warm glow.

Jisung’s eyes sparkle with excitement as he steps inside, still clinging to you. “Oooh! I get to dom! I haven’t done that in a while. Chan doesn’t let me dom him!”

You let out a shy giggle as he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. “Is that so?”

Chan snorts, closing the door behind him. “That’s because you’re a menace, Ji.”

“And you love it,” Jisung retorts, grinning as he tugs lightly on the strand of hair before letting it fall back into place.

Chan steps closer, his gaze dropping to meet yours, his voice taking on a teasing edge. “You ready for all other men to be ruined for you?”

You nod, biting your lip nervously but unable to suppress the small, eager smile that tugs at your mouth.

Jisung’s grin softens as he gently cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You know this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?” His voice is quieter now, almost tentative, as if he needs to be sure.

You nod again, your hands lightly resting on his chest. “I know.”

Something shifts in Jisung’s expression, a mix of relief and exhilaration, before he leans in and kisses you, his lips warm and eager against yours. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he deepens the kiss. In one swift motion, he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he presses you back against the wall.

Chan steps closer, his hands brushing against Jisung’s shoulders as he tilts his head to kiss the side of Jisung’s neck. His lips trail up slowly, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses along Jisung’s skin, making him shiver slightly even as he keeps his focus on you.

Jisung pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his breathing uneven but his grin still intact. “Ready for this, baby?”

You nod, your hands curling around the back of his neck as your chest presses against his. With both of them here, surrounding you with their attention and warmth, you’ve never felt safer or more wanted.

Three Months Later

The Alpha Phi frat house is as chaotic as ever, laughter and the faint hum of music filling the space as you step inside with Chan and Jisung. You’re wearing black cargo trousers, a lilac cropped lace camisole, and black Converse. Your hair is clipped up messily, stray strands framing your face, and your makeup is flawless as usual.

Jisung struts beside you, his black baggy jeans slung low enough to reveal the waistband of his black boxers. His cropped black long-sleeved top and silver chain make him look effortlessly edgy, and Chan, on your other side, is the perfect counterpoint with his black cargo trousers, sleek black t-shirt, leather jacket, and matching chain.

The three of you are greeted by the sight of Minho lounging on the couch with Felix perched in his lap, their positions far too cosy for anything innocent. Felix is giggling about something, his blonde hair tousled as Minho’s arms keep him firmly in place.

“What’s going on?” Felix asks, his bright eyes darting between the three of you as you hesitate near the doorway. There’s a curious tilt to his head, but his smile is easy and warm.

You open your mouth to speak but quickly close it again, glancing at Minho with wide eyes. At the same time, Jisung nudges Chan, who scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Minho’s grip tightens on Felix’s waist as if bracing himself for impact. His knowing smirk is the only indication that he’s been expecting this moment for weeks.

Felix frowns slightly, leaning back against Minho. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jisung says, dragging out the words with a nervous laugh. “You could say that.”

Before Felix can ask anything else, you and Jisung simultaneously push Chan forward, using him as a shield as you step behind him. “You tell him,” Jisung whispers urgently, peeking over Chan’s shoulder.

Chan sighs, giving both of you a side-eye before turning to Felix. “Okay. Felix,” he starts, his tone careful but firm. “You know Jisung and I are together, right?”

Felix blinks, his expression turning incredulous. “Obviously. I’ve heard you two fuck in every part of the house.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath before continuing. “Right. Well, we added a third to our relationship.”

Felix’s face lights up with excitement. “That’s great! Who is it?!”

Minho stares at Felix in disbelief, his lips parting slightly before he mutters, “Oh, Lix. You’re so pretty. So, so pretty.”

Jisung, still partially hidden behind Chan, snickers. “But dumb. Even compared to me.”

Felix’s head snaps toward Minho, his frown deepening. “Well?! Who is it?”

Minho sighs, rolling his eyes like he’s explaining something painfully obvious. “It’s Y/N.”

Felix tilts his head further, the frown deepening into confusion. “My sister Y/N?”

Chan, deadpan, replies, “No, another Y/N on campus.”

Felix’s eyes widen, looking between all of you. “Really?”

Minho groans, his hand dragging down his face. “So, so pretty.”

Everyone goes quiet, waiting for Felix to piece it together. Jisung and you peek over Chan’s shoulders, your expressions nervous but slightly amused as you watch the gears turning in Felix’s brain.

But nothing happens. Felix’s brow furrows, his mouth opening and closing like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words. Minho watches him for another few seconds before shaking his head in resignation.

“It’s not computing, is it?” Jisung whispers to you, his voice barely audible as he stifles a laugh.

You shake your head, biting your lip to hold back your own giggles. “Not at all.”

Felix finally bursts out, “Wait, so you’re telling me-”

Everyone leans in slightly, hopeful.

“-you, Jisung and Y/N are… like, all three of you?” His eyes dart between you, Jisung, and Chan, still visibly processing.

Minho buries his face in Felix’s shoulder with a groan. “Yes, baby. Yes, that’s exactly what we’ve been saying. God, you’re gorgeous, but your brain…”

Felix’s eyes narrow at Minho’s tone. “Shut up. I get it. I’m just surprised!” He turns to you, his voice higher-pitched now. “You? Really?”

Jisung pats Chan on the back. “We might be here a while.”

It’s been twenty minutes, and Felix is still sitting in Minho’s lap, staring blankly at the floor. His mouth occasionally opens as if he’s about to say something, only to snap shut again. Meanwhile, you and Jisung remain firmly behind Chan, who’s started tapping his foot against the hardwood floor, his arms crossed as his patience wears thin.

Minho gently strokes Felix’s arm, his voice soft but laced with teasing. “I know your little brain has processed it by now, baby. Come on, some emotion. Anything. You can do it.”

Felix blinks a few times before his gaze slowly shifts to you, his expression finally breaking out of the fog of shock. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, his tone incredulous as he points at you. “You’ve never had a serious boyfriend in your life. Ever. Just random hookups! And now you come back with two boyfriends?”

Your eyes widen, and you glance at Jisung, who’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. Chan sighs heavily but stays silent as Felix continues his rant.

“What the fuck is this bullshittery?” Felix exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “It took me twenty fucking years to lock down one man! One! She meets these guys and bam! Two boyfriends! Just like that! The universe is sexist and homophobic!”

Jisung finally bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach as he leans on Chan for support. “It wasn’t like bam!” he protests between giggles. “There was a buildup, okay? Like two months of it. And now we’ve been happily dating for three months.”

Felix’s head snaps toward him, his jaw dropping. “Three months?! How the fuck did I not notice?”

Minho, who’s been quietly holding back his own laughter, smirks. “You didn’t notice because I was deployed as your distraction.” He leans closer to Felix’s ear, his voice dropping slightly. “Every time Chan and Jisung left to see Y/N, I railed you into next week.”

Felix makes a choking noise, his cheeks going bright red. “Minho!”

Minho grins shamelessly, brushing a strand of Felix’s hair back. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Felix glares at him for a moment before sighing dramatically and turning back to you, Jisung, and Chan. He points at you, his expression serious. “Okay! Fine! But if either of you hurt her,” he says, directing his attention to Jisung and Chan, “I did taekwondo for twelve years, and I’ll fuck you up.”

Jisung salutes him, his grin wide. “Noted.”

Chan nods solemnly. “Fair warning. Got it.”

Felix leans back against Minho, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Now, Minho, take me somewhere where I can cry, scream, and throw up to process this bullshit. Because now I have the knowledge that my friends are Eiffel towering my sister!”

He gags dramatically, covering his face with both hands as Minho finally loses his composure and laughs openly. “Alright, baby,” Minho says, standing up and hoisting Felix with him like he weighs nothing. “Let’s get you somewhere private to let it all out.”

As Minho carries Felix toward the stairs, Felix shoots you one last look, his hand flailing in mock accusation. “This isn’t over, Y/N! I need therapy!”

As Felix and Minho disappear up the stairs, you let out a heavy sigh. “Booze,” you say firmly, your tone decisive. “I need booze.”

Jisung perks up immediately, grinning like the devil himself. “The kitchen is more of a bar than a place we store food. Let’s go.” He takes your hand, leading you toward the kitchen as Chan follows, shaking his head fondly. “And hey, if you’re nice, I’ll roll us some joints.”

You raise an eyebrow at him as you step into the spacious but chaotic kitchen. “Am I not always nice?”

Jisung freezes for a second before turning to you with wide eyes and an apologetic grin. “Kidding! Kidding, baby!” He tugs you closer and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Tell you what, we can even use my cherry papers.”

That earns a smile from you, the edges of your tension softening. “Deal.”

Chan rolls his eyes, already moving toward the counter to pull down glasses. “You two are impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words.

Jisung skips over to a cupboard and pulls out a tin labelled Jisung’s Shit in bold, slightly crooked letters. He pops it open on the counter, revealing a neatly arranged collection of rolling papers, a grinder, and a stash that smells distinctly skunky and sweet. “What’ll it be?” he asks over his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows. “Straight joints, spliffs, or my famous two-layer combo?”

“Famous?” Chan interjects as he pours three hefty servings of whiskey into the glasses. “Last time you made that, you couldn’t get off the couch for six hours.”

“Which means it worked,” Jisung retorts, sticking his tongue out before turning back to you. “Your call, baby.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you lean against the counter. “Keep it simple tonight.”

Jisung mock-salutes you, grabbing the papers and his grinder with an exaggerated flourish. As he works, Chan slides a glass into your hand, his own already in his other. “Here,” he says, his tone warm.

You take a sip, the burn of the whiskey grounding you almost immediately. Jisung hums softly to himself as he rolls, his hands deft and practised. It’s a strangely comforting sight, the three of you falling into this rhythm together, the chaos of earlier fading into the background.

Jisung finishes quickly, holding up the joint with a grin. “And voilà. Cherry perfection.” He lights it with a flourish, taking a quick puff before passing it to you.

You take it carefully, the sweet smoke curling into the air as you take a slow, cautious drag. The tension in your chest eases a little more, replaced by a warmth that’s equal parts the whiskey, the weed, and the presence of the two men beside you.

Chan clinks his glass against yours, his smile soft but teasing. “So, what’s the verdict? Does this make up for your brother’s meltdown?”

You snort, shaking your head. “It helps. He’s going to be a drama queen about this for weeks, though.”

Jisung leans against your side, draping an arm over your shoulders. “Good thing you’ve got us, huh? We’ll keep you sane.”

“You say that like you two aren’t half my stress,” you tease, earning a loud laugh from both of them.

As the night wears on, the three of you settle into easy conversation, the kitchen filled with laughter and the faint haze of smoke. It’s not perfect, and the chaos of the day still lingers at the edges, but for now, it feels enough. You’re surrounded by warmth, care, and a sense of belonging that you hadn’t expected to find but now that you have it, you’re not letting it go.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

Requested By: @omgsquee2001

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earlysunshines · 2 days ago

Text

secret rhymes - 18. is this a prank (half-written)

a/n: lol sorry this took so long to get out but SHITS GETTING REALL!!!!! edit: if u saw the lil mistake w the room number ignore that… fixed now Lol oh AND another image i took out bc i had a diff idea initially and wow i need to proofread..

initially, you were just going to type in the company address and pray that it was the right one—yunjin had insisted, actually. but it's better to be safe than sorry.

you walk into hybe, your phone is tight in your hand as you read the address yunjin had sent you after you repeatedly asked her for it minutes before you left the dorm.

the hallways are sleek and polished, but confusing as hell. and after a few minutes of wandering around and looking for any map or sign that would lead to room 12c, you came to the conclusion that you would not be able to find it in less than twenty minutes.

it's a few seconds after your realization that you notice a girl walking toward you. she looks shorter than you, maybe your age—if not then most likely younger than yunjin. she's dressed in dark baggy jeans and a loose fit graphic white t-shirt that gives her a sense of approachability and the hint that maybe she's someone who can navigate the place.

"excuse me," you say, stepping closer. "sorry to bother you, but i think i'm lost. do you know where room 12c is?"

the girl hums at your first two words. then she looks up, and as soon as her eyes meet you, she stops in her tracks and stares at you like you've just stepped out of a dream. her eyes widen, and for a moment, she doesn't respond.

"uh—" she stammers, her brows furrow just a bit and the look on her face screaming is this real? a warmth starts to spread to her cheeks as she tries to respond, "3c? yeah, uh, yeah. sure. i—i can show you."

"thank you," you reply with a polite smile, but she still seems... off? you glance at her nervously. "are you alright? you look a little pale." you pause, noticing that maybe that's not the right choice of words after noticing the hue of pink on the tips of her ears and cheeks. maybe she's an idol too? she could be winded from practice. "—sorry! not to be rude or anything, i'm just—i'm just worried, that's all."

her blush deepens, and she shakes her head quickly. "no! i'm fine. really." she clears her throat, avoiding your gaze. "thank you for worrying. sorry to worry you, i just had... a really tiring practice."

"aw, you should definitely rest up and drink some water after this then." you say, understanding her reaction now.

"anyway, l—let me show you the way."

she starts walking, motioning for you to follow. you notice how her steps are a little too quick, like she's trying to get this over with before she combusts. meanwhile, you're trying to piece together why she seems so nervous. it can't just be the practice that has her like this, can it?

when you finally reach the studio, you thank her, and before she can slip away, the door swings open. yunjin steps out, her face lighting up when she sees you.

"oh my god, y/n!" she exclaims, pulling you into a tight hug. "i was literally about to go looking for you! i know you suck with directions."

"i'm not that bad."

"remember that time in new jersey—"

"okay, okay. i get it." you cut her off, scoffing playfully.

yunjin pulls away, then pouts. "it's been foreeevver."

you laugh. "it's been a few weeks, jen."

behind you, the girl—hanni—freezes. her wide eyes dart between you and yunjin.

"oh, hanni!" yunjin notices her and smiles brightly. "did you help y/n out with directions?"

hanni nods. "oh, yeah."

"aw, thanks so much." yunjin says gratefully.

hanni shrugs, trying to look casual as if she isn't experiencing all too many emotions at once. "it was no problem."

"wait," you say, glancing at hanni. "you two know each other?"

yunjin grins, resting a hand on hanni's shoulder. "yeah, this is hanni. she's a part of newjeans. remember that group i told you about? you said you were listening to them on the plane—the bunny looking album."

your eyes widen as realization dawns. "ohhh. no way... that's you?"

hanni nods shyly, her face heating up even more. "yeah, that's... that's me. and my other members, of course."

"i didn't know, oh my gosh, i'm so sorry. i listened to all the songs on the plane and immediately added them to my liked songs as soon as i got off. i really like ‘hurt’ and ‘attention’ and—i'm rambling, oh my god." you chuckle, "sorry."

hanni waves her hands, laughing softly along with you. "no, no. it's fine, really, haha."

you give her a genuine smile now. "well, it's nice to officially meet you. i've got to get into your group more."

"aw, that's so sweet. you're so sweet." and so striking and lovely and cute now that you're in front of her and alive and real and wow. hanni wants to say it all, but she refrains. "thank you."

yunjin looks between the two of you, chuckling at how much you're rambling and how flustered hanni looks. hanni looks at the ground, then back at you and your best friend. she gives you one last smile, nodding and clasping her hands together.

"right, i have to go back to the members." hanni lies, knowing she just left them. "it was nice meeting you, y/n—right?" hanni says as if she hasn't known about you since you had less than a hundred subscribers—she's going to keep that a secret for now.

"yeah. it was really nice meeting you hanni. thank you for helping me out." you smile back at her and feel yunjin's gaze burning through you.

hanni nods, then waves at yunjin. "bye! see you around yunjin, and maybe you too y/n?" hanni adds, hiding the fact that she would love to see you around more.

"hopefully."

"yeah." hanni looks like she can't get out of there fast enough. she waves once more before turning around and walking quickly down the hall, turning even quicker at the corner.

yunjin nudges your shoulder and you two walk in the other direction of the hall. you turn to yunjin with a curious look.

"hanni seems... shy."

"nah," yunjin shrugs, waving it off. "she's cool. i guess she's winded form practice, i mean, i'd be shy too if i met someone as gorgeous as you~"

a groan slips from your lips and you shove your shoulder into hers. "corny... but keep going my biggest fan."

yunjin rolls her eyes, then continues, "anyway, i honestly think you and hanni would get along really well. you two are really alike, i can't lie."

"really?"

your best friend nods. "she's funny and you two just have the same vibe. maybe this won't be the last time you run into her with me around."

"pftt, are you're going to introduce me to every idol here at this point. sakura, chaewon, kazuha, eunchae—you—and now newjeans?"

she shrugs again, laughing. "you never know."

you hum in respond, letting yunjin steer the conversation toward catching up on you—how university life has been treating you, the chaos of balancing your music goals and studies. but as you talk, you can't help but zone out now and then, hanni still lingering in your mind.

maybe it's the shock. a literal idol had just helped you find your way, and you hadn't even realized it at first. embarrassing, really, considering how often you'd been playing newjeans during your study sessions. you should probably do a little research on them now—at least to avoid a repeat of this.

and okay, sure—it's not just that.

hanni is really pretty, which, yeah, is kind of a given since she's an idol. a fact that you still can't get over. but there's something about her that stands out—features that stick with you even when you're not trying to hold onto them. maybe it's the flushed cheeks, the way her voice wavered slightly, or how she seemed almost... tense around you. whatever it is, it's lodged in your head, replaying like a scene from a movie you can't quite shake.

meanwhile, hanni is still leaning against the wall around the corner, trying to compose herself. her heart's racing, and her face is burning from the interaction. she presses a hand to her cheeks, breathing deeply, but it doesn't help much.

you, the y/n. y/n l/n.

she replays every moment of your brief encounter—how soft your voice was (just as pretty as your singing) and how worried you seemed when you asked if she was okay. but mostly, she keeps thinking about how you're even more gorgeous up close and in person. she already knew you were beautiful; everytime you posted a picture, she found herself starting longer than she'd admit. but seeing you up close? that was a whole experience itself.

hanni exhales sharply, closing her eyes as she shakes her head. minji would tease me relentlessly, hanni thinks. still, the thought lingers, the question hanging heavy in her mind—if she ever sees you again, will she even survive it?

—

masterlist ; previous - next

taglist ! @namojoon @ly-gushka @layonaiguess @sonotcopingatall @artrizzler19 @yerimbrit @sixflame438 @nwjnsloona @saysirhc @nimnia @somedaydream @trovao-penguins @modanisgf @c-yerim @starstruckgoateepuppy @tzuyusdoughnut @kaypanaq @peranoo @haerinkisser @electronicluminarycoffee @yoohtonyy @secretcessy @keiji-jin @awkwardtoafault @syronns @linnnsworld

#kpop x reader #newjeans x reader #newjeans smau #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #hanni pham

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cuubism · 2 days ago

Text

Do It Scared

While he's in the middle of being overstimulated and miserable at a wedding, Dream's meager attempt at finding peace is disturbed by the intrusion of a drunk man from the party across the way. But what first seems like a curse might actually be a blessing, as his new companion is inordinately charmed by Dream, anxiety and all. [Explicit]

Dream cradles his glass of wine between his knees, scrunched up as small as possible on the bench outside the venue door. He should have brought his coat. He is freezing. But he can’t go back in. It’s too loud.

He takes another sip of wine. It doesn’t help him feel less fried. It doesn’t help him feel like less of a drag, less of a burden, any less than the worst company in the entire world.

He takes another sip.

It’s very cold. The music at the reception pounds through the doors behind him. He grimaces.

Sometimes, Dream wishes he could be the person who could enjoy it. And not the person he is.

He takes another sip.

The doors across the way crash open. There is another wedding going on this same night, Dream remembers. A man stumbles through the doors, jacket and tie askew, trips, spilling half his glass of wine, but rights himself just before falling.

Dream watches warily. He came out here to avoid interacting with others.

The man shakes himself, straightening his tie. He must be very drunk. Dream wishes he were, too.

Then the man catches sight of Dream moping on his bench. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry. Didn’t realize someone was already sobering up in this courtyard.” He tries to go back inside, but the door’s locked automatically behind him. “Fuck.”

Despite himself, Dream laughs. At least he is not the only one who feels an utter mess.

“Well, was a shit party anyway,” the man says to himself, before slumping down onto the bench across from Dream. “Can I share your courtyard?”

“If you don’t mind me ignoring you,” Dream says.

The man laughs. “Fair enough.”

He sips his wine, what’s left of it. Closer, now, Dream takes in the dishevelment of his hair, and the red tinge to his eyes that suggests he might have been crying. Dream is curious, but doesn’t ask.

“Feels like weddings are supposed to be happy,” the man muses, more to himself than to Dream. He wipes at his eyes. “But.”

“I primarily find them overstimulating,” Dream says. He really should be better company at his own brother’s wedding. But he’s never been very good at it.

“That why you’re outside?”

“When I’m overstimulated, I begin ‘behaving like a cunt’,” Dream says, and the other man laughs, startled. “So, yes.”

Dream can barely manage his social graces at the best of times. And the best of times these are not. The mask has been filed away.

“Alright,” says the other man. “Fair enough. I can’t judge. When I’m sad I start behaving like a narcissistic dickhead. Look, I’m even making someone else’s wedding about myself.”

“Why are you sad?” Dream asks. Weddings make him feel sad, too, but he thinks not for the same reasons.

“Was supposed to get married,” the man says. “Last year. She died. Sorry, don’t think I have the story in me tonight.”

Probably for the best, as Dream would hardly know how to go about responding to it. “I can see why weddings could be traumatic,” he says sagely.

The man smiles, though it’s sad. “Yup.”

He finishes his wine, then says, “It’s Hob, by the way.”

“Oh. Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob muses. “You don’t like weddings either?”

“My complaining will be far less justified than yours,” Dream warns.

“Let’s hear it, I could use any distraction.”

“It is not just weddings,” Dream says. “Social events. They remind me. Of all the ways I am deficient.” Conversation. Interaction. Posture. Occupying a physical space. Coping with stimuli. Relaxing enough to be normal. He cannot do any of it. “I ought to dance, and. Celebrate? Should I not? But. I cannot. I. I cannot do any of it.”

How many times has he been told that he should, and now it is like a one hundred foot wall that he cannot surmount, the years of compounded expectations too great to tackle.

“Do you want to?” Hob asks.

“I don’t know.” Dream can no longer disentangle who he is from who he was told to be. From who he should be. He is trying. But. “I want to… be a person who wants to. Who can. I wish that… I was a person who could dance freely but I. I cannot. I do not know why.”

He waits for Hob to tell him he should just do it. It doesn’t come. Instead he says, “Well, if you don’t dance, at least you can sleep easy knowing your Great Aunt Ethel didn’t watch you shaking it to ‘WAP’.”

Dream bursts out laughing, clutching his wine as the liquid sloshes in his glass.

“I’m just saying,” Hob says, grinning. “I mean, I’m shameless, but I don’t blame you for wanting to keep the twerking away from family eyes.”

“There has not been any TWERKING.”

“Maybe not from you, didn’t see what I was up to.”

“I see,” Dream says, trying to regain his dignity. “You are projecting on me.”

“Would feel better if it wasn’t just me who’s a slut, but oh well.” He takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and a lighter. “Fag?”

“Sometimes.”

Hob stares at him. Dream stares back. Hob holds out a cigarette to him.

Dream looks down at it. “Oh.”

Hob snorts. “I like you.” He lights his own cigarette, sticking it between his teeth, then lights Dream’s.

“I’m poor company,” Dream says stiffly, embarrassed.

Hob shrugs. “Good company’s boring as fuck.”

Dream doesn’t smoke, so he just watches Hob. His hands tucking the lighter away, then taking the cigarette from between his teeth, blowing a stream of smoke away into the night.

“Why do you smoke?” he asks.

Hob shrugs again. “Get restless. Settles my hands.”

“You ought to try fidget toys instead to avoid the risk of lung cancer,” Dream says, and Hob laughs so loud that he doubles over coughing after inhaling too much smoke.

Dream takes a tangle toy out of his bag and hands it to him. Hob stares at it incredulously. Then takes it.

He immediately starts fidgeting with it, though, so Dream considers it a win.

“What else you got in there?” Hob asks, gesturing to Dream’s bag.

Altogether too much, according to everyone he has spoken to. “Medication. Headphones. A book, though I’ve felt it might be considered rude to read it.”

Hob laughs. “Maybe. But who cares. Go on and read it if you want, I won’t judge.”

“I—“ Dream realizes abruptly that he had been about to say he was enjoying talking to Hob instead. When did that happen? That is not like him, normally he is so paralyzed by fear and confusion that every social interaction is draining in the extreme.

“I. I like. Talking to you,” he admits, grateful that the darkness hides his blush.

Hob smiles. “Me, too. Hey. Will you be missed if we get the fuck out of here?”

“So you know how long you have to dispose of my corpse?”

“My young life is too promising to be spent in prison,” Hob says, winking. “Got to make sure there’s no witnesses.”

“I doubt my absence would be noted while the bar remains open,” Dream says wearily.

Hob stands, swaying slightly, leaving his empty wine glass aside. He holds out a gallant hand to Dream.

“Come along, darling.”

So often when Dream has been called things like Darling, Sweetheart by others it has felt patronizing. But with Hob it’s… nice. Somehow. Then again, he feels Hob may be quite drunk still and may very well regret his choice of company later.

Still, Dream takes his hand.

“I do hope you don’t simply plan to take us to another bar,” he says as they make their way through the venue, retrieving Dream’s coat. “I do not think my stomach could take it.”

“Nah. Drinking doesn’t help with the sadness,” says Hob with a wan smile, helping Dream into his coat. “No. You said you were overstimulated, so a bar doesn’t really feel like the atmosphere anyway, does it?”

Dream stares at him, speechless. Hob had… actually listened to that. And not simply discounted it as nonsense.

“Am I wrong?” Hob says, when Dream is silent.

Dream clears his throat, feeling overcome. “No,” he says, at length. “Not at all.”

Hob smiles and takes his arm. And they leave the noise and merriment behind them.

They end up just walking along the riverside in the dark. Hob lights another cigarette—Dream will have to keep trying with the fidget toys—and Dream watches the embers flare in the dark.

“I didn’t dance much at that wedding either,” Hob says, looping back around to their previous conversation topic. “Eleanor—that’s my fiancee who died—used to love it. Just makes me sad now.”

“Would you have had a big wedding?” Dream asks.

“Small one. She wanted to use the money to go on an extravagant honeymoon instead. Said she wasn’t spending thousands of pounds feeding distant relatives mediocre steak when we could be in the Maldives instead.” He laughs.

Dream dislikes parties, and thinks this is an eminently reasonable position. “I can’t help but agree.”

Hob bumps their shoulders together, but says, “Never did get to go.”

Dream does not ask what happened, though he is curious. He does not think Hob wishes to discuss it.

“Guessing your reasons are different,” Hob says.

Dream thinks it through. “Dancing feels. Emotionally exposing. I don’t wish... to show so much of myself.” He feels tight and uncomfortable thinking about it, and wraps his arms around himself. “I know that may be foolish. And that no one cares as much as I do. I have heard it all before.”

The arguments, the convincing, the pressure, even well-meaning, serves only to make him feel more self-conscious.

He has thought, many times during their conversation, that Hob might do the same.

Hob shrugs. “Don’t have to convince me of your own feelings.”

Dream so often does have to that it has become an automatic impulse.

“I wish that it were easier,” he says, quieter. Every day, the same wish. I wish it was all easier. I wish I could just do it all normally. I wish I could. Exist. Without it being a constant trial. “That it was not all. So uncomfortable.”

“You’re not uncomfortable now, are you?”

“I am always uncomfortable,” Dream says. “But not because of you, specifically.”

“I can pretend you’re not here if it helps,” Hob says. “I don’t even see you.”

“Hob.”

Hob whirls around. “Who said that?”

Dream doubles over laughing. Hob is truly ridiculous. Dream still feels uncomfortable in his skin. But less so than he did at the reception, and that’s a start.

“Tell me honestly,” he says, when he’s straightened up. “Did you bring me out on this walk because you wanted to take me home and have sex with me?”

“Um. Would you be into it if I did?”

Dream thinks about it. It is extremely out of character for him to go home with a veritable stranger. But he likes Hob, and that is equally rare. “Maybe.”

Hob raises his hands in victory. “Not kicked to the curb yet! Thank God, I’m too emotionally fragile to be brutally rejected by you.”

“I do not think you are fragile.” In fact, he is quite charmed by Hob.

“You’d be surprised.” He seems content now, though. “Didn’t actually go to the wedding intending to pick up a cute boy. Just so you know. But I’m happy I have.”

Dream is finding himself happy about it, too, strangely enough. “Where do you live?”

“Oh, not too far. We’re heading that way. There’s a bus stop there, too, if you change your mind.”

Dream huffs a laugh, hands shoved in his coat pockets. He feels nervous at the prospect of going up to Hob’s flat. But excited, too. “You’re very considerate.”

“Just hedging my bets, really.”

Dream decides then that he will go home with Hob. He doesn’t know what will happen, if anything. But he wants to try. To be open to possibility, which he so often fails to be.

“I would like to see it,” he says.

“The bus stop?”

“Your home, Hob.”

“Oh.” Hob grins. “Good. Great. Um. Just around here.”

They eventually do make it to Hob’s building, and up the stairs to his third floor flat. Nerves ping and spin all through Dream’s body as Hob unlocks the door and lets them in. He has never been in this position before. He feels like he might be in a scene from a film, a stereotypical moment, except Dream has never been very good at knowing what comes next in the script. It’s hard to know what he is supposed to do.

He follows Hob into his flat. Lets Hob take his coat and hang it by the door, slips off his shoes. He’s wearing more formal clothes than he normally likes to, in deference to the dress code of the wedding, and feels uncomfortable, but to take anything else off would likely convey something he isn’t certain he’d like to convey. Or. Doesn’t know how to convey?

Hob takes off his own shoes, too, and leads him into the kitchen. Dream takes in everything about his flat, lived in and cozy, soft warm lighting that Dream appreciates. He never feels quite comfortable in other people’s spaces, but he likes it, he thinks.

“Do you want some tea or something?” Hob asks. Now, for the first time, he looks uncertain. He has the fidget toy in his hands again—he must have had it in his coat pocket—and is fiddling with it unconsciously.

“I—” Dream starts. Swallows hard, his throat dry. He takes a hesitant step closer to Hob. Heart pounding.

He doesn’t know why it is always so hard. It is not as though he is afraid of Hob. But he is afraid of… this moment. Of sharing it. Of Hob’s touch reminding him that he is here.

He tries so, so hard, every moment of his life, to forget that he is here, that he is part of things, tries to melt into the shadows, tries not to feel anything lest it all swallow him. People always try to draw him out and it only makes Dream want to cling to the shadows tighter to avoid being seen.

Hob didn’t try to pull him out. He just sat with him there, in the dark courtyard. He hasn’t even turned the lights on in the kitchen yet. There is only the pale yellow one on over the stove. There are still shadows. It feels safer.

“I. I don’t want. Tea,” Dream manages. He steps in closer to Hob, and Hob lets him come, doesn’t lure him in, but lets him lure himself. Dream gets close enough that he can make out the rich brown of Hob’s eyes, the stubble starting to come in on his cheeks, his hair, messed and fallen from its low bun. He wonders what Hob sees in return, and then tries not to focus on it too much lest he get overwhelmed.

Hob’s hand comes to rest on his cheek, just above his pulse racing in his throat. “Are you afraid?” he asks, brow pinching in concern.

“Always,” Dream says, and rides the wave of it into a kiss.

If he’s going to feel like he’s shaking apart from adrenaline either way, then he might as well do so while kissing Hob. Hob makes a surprised sound against his mouth, but then takes Dream’s face between his hands and starts kissing him back.

His kiss is. Desperate. Hungry. Dream does not know how to be wanted like that. It’s terrifying. But his heart leaps. He wants. It’s so scary how much he wants. He doesn’t know how to be the one who wants.

He grabs hold of Hob’s wrists. Grounds himself, braces himself on Hob. Gasps for breath against Hob’s mouth. Leans into the burning touch of Hob’s hands. It’s all so much. It’s so much.

“I need to—” he gasps, pulling back, lips brushing Hob’s, “I need to. Relax.” A constant refrain for himself. Relax. Relax. You need to relax.

“Why?” says Hob. Dream is utterly overwhelmed and still Hob’s look upon him is all want. “I can handle a live wire.”

Is that what he is? Dream always thinks he is nothing. A ghost. A whisper. A thing consuming itself. But to Hob, he is light and danger and wild unpredictable energy. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. But he likes it better than being a ghost.

Hob’s hands fall to his hips. His thumbs stroke under Dream’s waistband, tug his shirt free, press warm to his skin. Dream shudders, heat rushing through him, starting to grow hard in his trousers, which do very little to conceal his arousal. Hob draws him close, presses their bodies together, and now he can feel Hob’s own erection against his hip.

It’s too much. Hob’s touch. Hob’s body. The air that crackles hot between them. How much he wants. Dream is actually physically shaking. His hands are trembling. The world is spinning. He actually might pass out, and he hates his mind so much.

Normally Dream would stop whatever he’s doing when he gets like this. But now the thought of having to stop is making him angry. And maybe he just needs to have it out with himself. If he needs to have a panic attack, if he needs to have a dizzy spell and faint, so be it, he’s tired of it.

“Easy,” Hob says, pulling back, taking his hands and squeezing. “God, you’re actually shaking.”

“I know.” He tries to calm the surge of anger. He knows better than to try to muscle himself into submission. He knows that fighting that electricity isn’t going to end well.

He tries to breathe. Imagines himself composed of frightened sparks. They aren’t going to go away, not tonight. But Dream knows how to survive them. He’s constructed his whole life into an elaborate grid to keep them from bursting. To keep from blowing the fragile circuit.

Just don’t be anxious. But they are a part of him. They are him. One can’t just switch off a bulb and still have its light. Just don’t be anxious. Just stop it. Just do it.

He thinks of Hob instead. I can handle a live wire.

Dream feels so tense he might start fracturing out of his body. He squeezes Hob’s hands to remind himself that he’s here.

“Can we. Take this somewhere,” he says, words measured, “that doesn’t require standing?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hob asks. It is, Dream thinks, the first time tonight that Hob has questioned him on his feelings. Normally he gets pushback on everything he says, but from Hob, only this.

“I am just. Very anxious,” Dream admits. Hob looks as though he might say something concerned, so Dream says, “Can you trust when I say that none of this is your doing? This is simply how I am.”

“Okay,” Hob says, and Dream sighs at the easy acceptance. Hob runs his hand through Dream’s hair, down his neck and back to land low again on his waist. Dream’s skin prickles in an entirely different way. “I believe you.”

It is so easy for him. To not try to fix Dream before allowing him to want this. Hob doesn’t try to bring Dream down from his anxious peak, something that wouldn’t work anyway. He lets the current run through him.

It’s so easy Dream almost feels he doesn’t have to fix himself.

Hob brings him over to the couch, sits down and draws Dream into his lap. Dream straddles his thighs, breath shaking. He’s still trembling, but he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get up. He wants this, this singular, terrifying moment.

Hob unbuttons his shirt with steady hands. Helps him out of it. Dream undoes Hob’s tie, setting it aside, then unbuttons his dress shirt, gradually revealing the shape of his body, strong shoulders, broad chest, coarse hair. He presses his hands to Hob’s skin, mesmerized.

When he gets nervous, he starts to disappear, starts to distance himself from everything around him, but this time he tries very, very hard to stay present. “Touch me?” he asks.

Hob does, hands stroking up and down his sides; kisses the side of Dream’s neck, and his shoulder, and Dream tips his head back, shivering. He is still shaking, god damn him, but Hob seems to trust him, and doesn’t stop.

His hands go to Dream’s trousers, undo the button and zipper, and Dream freezes. It’s so much, to be seen, to be touched, all his senses flying around him in a whirlwind.

He’s hidden his face in Hob’s shoulder. Hob draws him back, kisses him lightly, says, “Try something?” and Dream nods, yes, yes anything, if anyone could direct the chaos of him, he thinks it would be Hob.

Hob takes his tie from where they’d left it aside on the couch, wraps it over Dream’s eyes, tying it at the back of his head. Dream ought to feel more nervous at having his senses blocked but instead everything goes quieter. He lets out a long breath of relief.

“Better?” Hob asks.

“Yes.” Somehow. Someway. It makes him feel less seen. Even though logically, he knows this does nothing to Hob’s ability to see him. Nevertheless. The panic of his body is quieter.

Perhaps when he trusts Hob more, if Hob even wants to see him again after this, he might ask Hob to block his hearing, too, let him forget about all of it and zero in on just the sensation of Hob touching him. For now, he hovers in the middling dark of being temporarily blinded, and listens to Hob’s voice in his ear.

Hob kisses his jaw, up along his neck, biting kisses that will leave marks. Dream clutches to him. He feels he can do little but hang on. Hob’s hands to go his trousers again, and he takes Dream out, holding him carefully. Dream’s breath catches. Hob’s hand is warm and sure as he starts to stroke him, just easy and slow, letting him warm up to the feeling of being touched.

It’s so much easier with his vision gone. It’s like he’s imagining all of this in his own mind, freed of the terrifying, brilliant knowledge of its reality. He can lean into Hob’s touch, gasp against Hob’s cheek as Hob strokes him. He may be starting to dissociate but it doesn’t feel scary, this time. It feels floaty and peaceful.

Hob doesn’t seem to mind taking the lead. He brings Dream’s body higher and higher. Dream hangs on, in the pleasant darkness, overwhelmed. Eventually he hears Hob undoing his own zipper, and his breath catches. Hob takes his hand, brings it down, wraps Dream’s fingers around his length.

Dream holds him gently, cheek pressed against Hob’s, breathing shallowly. Everything is heightened without his sight, every detail of Hob’s body, the precise weight of him in Dream’s hand, the heat of him, the slickness of pre-come at the tip. His heart thunders in his throat as he strokes Hob, as Hob’s hand wraps around his, shows him the rhythm at which he likes to be touched.

“You are so beautiful,” Hob says in his ear.

“I would say the same, but,” Dream says, and Hob laughs, delighted.

“Don’t have to say anything at all.”

He presses Dream closer by the small of his back, arching Dream’s spine, so Dream’s cock is rubbing against him. Wraps his hand around them both at once. Dream moans at the touch, the slide of his body against Hob’s stoking fire within him, so much more vivid than when he touches himself. He’d thought Hob would want… more of him, but this is good, this is comfortable, and safe.

Hob slips his hand under the waistband of Dream’s trousers, palming his ass, bringing him closer, closer. His grip is sure and possessive. Dream falls into his touch, his knowledge, his acceptance.

He’s getting close. He tucks his face into Hob’s shoulder, breathing hard. Hob must sense it, he strokes them harder, faster, crushing their bodies together.

Dream bites down hard on Hob’s shoulder as heat rushes through him, hips jerking into Hob’s hand, utterly overcome as his orgasm races through him. Hob yelps at the press of his teeth, but then laughs. He laughs so easily.

Dream is still floating but feels when Hob’s hips stutter and he comes, spend spilling over their hands. His chest heaves under Dream. Dream takes peace in the rhythm of his body. The strength, sweat, surety of him.

Dream comes back to himself, slowly. And immediate is the rush of embarrassment. How could he—

He kisses Hob’s shoulder where he’d pressed his teeth. “Sorry.”

Hob’s chest rumbles with laughter. He pets Dream’s hair. It feels delightful. Dream wants to lay his head down in his lap and have it never stop. “Don’t worry about it. Just surprised me, is all.” He whispers in Dream’s ear. “I’m more into it than you know.”

“Oh?” Dream is… intrigued.

“Mmhmm.” He nuzzles Dream’s cheek. “You liked the blindfold.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Dream wonders what’s going through his mind, though he expects, if he sticks around long enough, he will find out.

“Feel better?” Hob asks.

Dream is not so shivery now. Not so utterly keyed up. Electricity spent. “Yes.”

“Good.” He touches Dream’s belly, where his come had landed. “This is going to get uncomfortable quick. Come on.”

He helps Dream up. Unties the tie from around his eyes. Dream almost wishes he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to walk into a wall, so he allows it.

When it’s gone he’s met with Hob’s gaze on him, and it’s so indulgent and adoring that he immediately wants to hide away again, take back the blindfold, put on his shirt, before his heart races itself into a early grave. But Hob takes his face between his hands before he can turn away.

Words tumble from Dream’s lips before he can think them through. “Have you... been with anyone since your fiancee passed away?”

Hob’s expression turns sad, and Dream feels bad for asking. “Few one night stands here and there. Nothing that really mattered. But this.” He leans his forehead against Dream’s. “I don’t know, Dream. It feels like it matters.”

The words are like pure restoration washing through him. “I feel the same,” Dream says, with a breath of relief. Of course, he does not have one night stands to compare it to. This is not a thing he has historically done. But still, it feels significant. That he even wanted to feels significant. The way Hob handles him feels significant.

Hob smiles, and kisses him, soft, shallow, but sweet. Far too adoring, Dream thinks, for what he understands a one night stand to be. It utterly terrifies him. He leans into it anyway.

“Come on,” Hob says when they part. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dream follows him, hand in hand, messy, exposed, ever-nervous, but strangely, at peace.

#this one's personal guys 😳 uhh. dont mind it #dreamling #my writing #anxiety #started writing this when - can you guess? - i was overstimulated at a wedding reception 😂

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waitforyrlove · 2 days ago

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the aftermath with slytherin ! matt leaves you conflicted.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

the week after your last encounter with Matt was nothing short of maddening. His presence had always been unnerving, but now it was consuming.

every interaction—every glance across the Great Hall, every smirk thrown your way in the corridors—felt charged. It was as if he’d marked you in some invisible way, and you hated that you couldn’t shake the feeling.

the memory of that night in his dorm, the way his lips had brushed against your skin, lingered far longer than you wanted it to. You replayed it against your will, analyzing every word, every movement, trying to decipher what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

but Matt was infuriatingly unaffected. If anything, he seemed to enjoy watching you squirm.

on Monday morning, you caught him at breakfast, lounging lazily at the Slytherin table, his tie undone and his gaze sharp. When he noticed you looking, he raised an eyebrow and smirked, as if he knew exactly what was on your mind.

by Tuesday, he had escalated to casual teasing. You were in the library, hunched over a Transfiguration essay, when his shadow fell over your desk.

“Still playing it safe, are we?” he murmured, leaning in just close enough to make your breath hitch. “Thought you’d learned how to take risks by now.”

you glared up at him, determined not to let him win this round, “I have. That’s why I’m ignoring you.”

he laughed, low and amused, before plucking the quill from your hand and twirling it between his fingers. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

and then he was gone, like a light, leaving you fuming and more distracted than ever.

by Wednesday, it was worse. You were on your way to Potions when he appeared beside you as if out of nowhere, his stride matching yours.

“Morning,” he drawled, his voice far too casual for your liking.

you didn’t reply, hoping silence would deter him. It didn’t, it never does.

“Aw, come on,” he teased, leaning in slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about our little… arrangement.”

“Upset?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I’m not upset. I just don’t have time for your games.”

his smirk widened, “Oh, but you make time for them anyway, don’t you?”

and you hated how right he was.

by Thursday it was the breaking point. You were sitting in the common room, trying and failing to focus on a Charms assignment, when one of your friends, Anabella, plopped down beside you.

“You’ve been distracted all week,” she said, her tone light but probing. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, avoiding her gaze.

she tilted her head, unconvinced, “Is this about that bet?”

you froze, the memory of the dare flashing through your mind, “No,” you said too quickly.

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You were acting weird the moment you got back that night. Did something happen?”

your silence was answer enough.

her eyes widened in realization, and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper., “Wait… did Matt catch you? What did he do?”

“Nothing,” you said again, though your cheeks betrayed you, heating under her scrutiny.

she smirked, clearly not buying it, “Right. Because Matt is the picture of mercy.”

“Just drop it, okay?”

“Fine,” she said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. But her grin told you she wasn’t done prying.

by Friday, you were at your wit’s end. Every encounter with Matt, every sly comment, every stolen glance, had worn you down. You hated how much space he occupied in your mind, how effortlessly he got under your skin.

but what frustrated you the most was that you couldn’t figure out what he wanted. What game was he playing? And why did it feel like you were already losing?

but you weren’t gonna stay distracted, you need to finish out a essay by tonight, and you still had to sneak at the library.

the castle was eerily quiet at this hour, the stone corridors bathed in pale moonlight streaming through the high, arched windows. You clutched the library book tightly to your chest, your footsteps light on the cold floor as you made your way back to the your common room.

sneaking out for this wasn’t your brightest idea, but the nagging feeling of needing to finish your essay had outweighed the risk.

the quiet comfort of the night was shattered the moment you rounded a corner and nearly collided with someone.

“Careful there,” a familiar, lazy voice drawled.

your heart plummeted, of all the people in this vast castle to run into, it had to be Matt.

he was leaning casually against the wall, his tie undone and his green-and-silver robes hanging off one shoulder. His hair was slightly messy, and his lips were curved into that infuriating smirk that seemed to haunt you.

but there was something different about him tonight—his usually crisp, composed demeanor was frayed, and his expression carried a smugness that made your stomach twist.

“Out for a midnight stroll?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. His eyes flicked to the book in your hands, but he didn’t linger there. No, his gaze raked over you, sharp and piercing.

you straightened your shoulders, trying to hide the flutter of nerves his presence always seemed to spark. “I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you’d hoped. “What are you doing out this late?”

His smirk deepened, and he took a slow step toward you, “I’ve been busy.”

the way he said it, the way his voice dipped, made your breath hitch. There was no mistaking his meaning.

you suddenly noticed the faint trace of lipstick smudged on the collar of his shirt, the hickies im his neck, the slightly disheveled state of his clothes, and the air of satisfaction radiating off him.

your stomach churned, you didn’t want to think about what—or who—he’d been doing. But the thought planted itself firmly in your mind.

“Busy,” you repeated flatly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “With what? Being an insufferable rat?”

his laugh was low and warm, but there was something dark in it, “You’re jealous, and y’ know yourself that and you don’t have the ability to hide it.”

“Jealous?” you scoffed, your cheeks burning. “Of what? Whatever poor girl had to discover how bad you are at fucking someone?”

Matt tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intimate, “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart, I think you are just waiting for your turn.”

your breath caught in your throat. You hated the way he could unravel you with a single look, a single word. It wasn’t fair. He had you wrapped around his finger, and you weren’t even sure when it had happened.

“Anyway,” he continued, brushing past you so close that his shoulder grazed yours. “Don’t let me stop you from sneaking back to your dorm, unless…” He paused, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes glinting in the low light. “You’d rather join me for a proper distraction.”

your pulse spiked, a mix of indignation and something you didn’t want to name flaring in your chest. You spun around to face him, your grip tightening on the book. “I think I’ll pass.”

the brunette chuckled, the sound low, as though he knew something you didn’t. “Suit yourself. But if you keep crossing my path like this, we might just have to start calling it fate.”

“More like bad luck,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. But it only seemed to amuse him further

he gave you one last lingering look, his smirk firmly in place, before turning and walking away, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

you stood there for a long moment, your heart still racing. As much as you hated to admit it, his presence had a way of getting under your skin. You hated the smugness, the teasing, the games—and yet you couldn’t deny the strange, inexplicable pull he had on you.

with a frustrated sigh, you turned and continued your way back to the your common room, but no matter how far you walked, the echo of his words lingered in your mind.

fate, that’s what he called it.

˙ . ꒷ 🪽 notes from author ˙— send reqs about him pleasee :)

taglist: @secretlocket @pearlzier @et6rnalsun @mattscoquette @carvedtits @sirenedeslily @mattslolita @flouvela @bella-loveschris @lovingregulusblack @sarosfilms @annsx03 @eliana-4200 @wakeupitschrizz @emely9274 @sturniolossss @sturnioloangell @sturnslutz

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commandermonalisa · 4 hours ago

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Casey poured the wine with practiced ease, the deep red liquid catching the light as she swirled it in the glass. She handed it to Alex, their fingers brushing for a split second, a touch that sent a small jolt of electricity through her. The victory of the case should have been enough to keep her mind occupied—after all, they’d just won, securing a future for Alex, justice for herself—but the tension in the air between them was impossible to ignore.

“Cheers,” Alex said softly, her voice low and edged with something Casey couldn’t quite place.

“Cheers,” Casey replied, but her throat was dry, her nerves firing at every little thing that Alex did. The way she held the glass, the way her eyes lingered on Casey a fraction too long—it was too much, too close, and Casey could already feel herself teetering on the edge.

Alex leaned back slightly against the kitchen counter, her eyes never leaving Casey. There was a sense of urgency in her gaze, something hungry and raw that Casey had never seen before. It made her pulse race.

“We did it,” Alex said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Casey nodded, forcing a smile as she leaned against the counter, too, to keep some distance—though it did nothing to stop the heat building between them. “Yeah. We did. We won.”

Alex’s eyes darkened for a moment as she stepped closer, her presence taking over the room. “So why does it feel like we’ve won something else?” she asked, her voice low, teasing, but with an undertone of something heavier.

Casey swallowed, her heart thudding in her chest. “Alex…” she started, trying to keep her voice steady, but even her name sounded like an invitation in her mouth. The tension, thick as it was, filled every crack between them, and she hated how much she wanted it to snap.

Alex took another step closer, closing the distance, and Casey felt her breath catch. She could feel the heat radiating from Alex, the scent of her—spicy cologne mixed with the faintest trace of sweat from the long trial day. It hit Casey like a drug she hadn’t realized she needed, and before she could stop herself, she stepped closer as well.

“I know what you’re thinking, Case,” Alex murmured, her lips almost grazing Casey’s ear. “But we both know we shouldn’t. It’s wrong.”

Casey closed her eyes, fighting the urge to pull Alex into her, to feel her pressed against her. The raw want pulsed in her veins, but her brain screamed at her to hold back, to stop. “Yeah, but I don’t care,” Casey whispered, her voice rough. She turned to face Alex fully now, eyes locking. “I can’t pretend I don’t feel it. Can you?”

Alex’s jaw tightened, her lips parting slightly, the sound of her breath too heavy to ignore. She wanted this. Casey could see it, feel it in every step she took, every word that fell between them. She reached out, her hand finding Casey’s arm, pulling her closer, just enough to make Casey’s pulse spike.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” Alex rasped, her voice almost a growl.

Casey couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her lips, a little shaky. “Killing you? You don’t have a damn clue, do you?”

The tension snapped then. Alex’s lips crashed to Casey’s, hungry and fierce, as if the moment had finally come, and neither of them could stop it anymore. The kiss was urgent, demanding, and filled with everything they hadn’t said but had always known. Every brush of skin, every sharp breath taken between them, only seemed to deepen the hunger.

But even in the middle of it, a voice at the back of Casey’s mind screamed that this wasn’t right, that they were about to cross a line they couldn’t uncross. But the way Alex’s hands slid around her back, pulling her closer until they were chest to chest, made it impossible to listen.

“I—Alex, we…”

Alex cut her off, her hands sliding to Casey’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “We can’t,” she breathed, her lips still grazing Casey’s skin.

Casey closed her eyes, feeling the softness of Alex’s breath on her face, their bodies close, so close. “I know,” she said, voice thick with the weight of it. “But I don’t know how much longer I can hold back.”

Alex’s fingers tightened in Casey’s hair, pulling her into another searing kiss. This was the thing they both had been denying—the thing that had been growing between them every minute they spent together. And now, in the aftermath of their victory, in the stillness of the room, they both knew that neither of them could stop.

But realization hit Alex too quickly.

This wasn't right. She absolutely could not start something with the redhead knowing that there was a possibility they'd never see each other again.

Alex pulled away, her breath ragged, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, inches apart, sharing the same air. The tension was still there, thick and charged, lingering between them like a promise unfulfilled.

“I have to go,” Alex muttered, voice hoarse, like she was trying to convince herself more than Casey. She ran a hand through her hair, an unconscious gesture of frustration, of wanting to be anywhere but in this moment.

Casey’s heart clenched at the thought of Alex leaving. She couldn’t do this—not yet. Not after all the time spent apart, after the trial, after everything they’d just been through. She wanted Alex—needed her—right here, right now. But she knew Alex had responsibilities. She understood, deep down, that this wasn’t the right time, no matter how much it felt like it should be.

Still, the thought of watching Alex walk out that door, into the night, knowing she was about to disappear from her life again… it made Casey’s chest tighten, and her mouth go dry.

“I don’t want you to go,” Casey admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as though the words alone were enough to make Alex stay.

Alex hesitated, her hand hovering near the door, her gaze lingering on Casey’s face. The city felt cold suddenly, even though the apartment was warm. She could hear the hum of the street outside, the soft murmur of distant traffic, but nothing felt as important as Casey right then.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Alex said quietly, her voice cracking just a little, betraying her emotions, even if she was trying to keep them hidden. She felt a knot form in her stomach at the thought of leaving, but the clock was ticking. Her flight was already scheduled, her hotel waiting for her. She had to go.

Casey’s eyes followed Alex’s every movement, her breath still unsteady, her body aching with the need for Alex’s touch, for the closeness that felt just out of reach. “Then don’t go,” she said, her words more forceful now, desperate even. “Stay.”

The plea hung in the air between them, thick and full of meaning, and for a heartbeat, Alex was frozen, torn between the desire to stay and the reality of her life pulling her away. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to collect herself. But Casey’s voice, Casey’s eyes… they made it harder to leave. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to stay, to let go of the duty and just give in to what she felt for the redhead.

But duty, and the fear of what staying could mean, were powerful forces. Alex stepped back, her heart heavy with regret, her fingers brushing the door handle. “I can’t, Case. You know I can’t.”

Casey’s chest tightened with each word, and she had to fight the impulse to reach out and stop Alex. She knew she couldn’t make her stay—not like this, not when Alex was so determined to go. But the hurt, the frustration, burned in her eyes, even though she fought to keep it contained.

“Yeah… I know,” Casey whispered, her voice shaky. She bit her lip, feeling that familiar ache of longing, of yearning that would have to wait. “I just wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish I didn’t have to be here, alone, with just the taste of you on my lips.”

The words hung in the air, raw and desperate, and Alex’s resolve cracked just a little more. Her fingers flexed against the door, the weight of the moment heavy between them.

“I’ll be back,” Alex said softly, her gaze flickering to Casey. “Just not yet. But I’ll come back to you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Casey replied, her voice soft but firm, like she knew that no matter how much time passed, she would be waiting for Alex to return to her.

Alex took a final step back, then turned, her body aching with the desire to turn around, to go back to Casey. But she forced herself to step out into the night, the cool air immediately hitting her skin, but it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like another kind of emptiness, a hollow feeling that only grew as she walked away from the apartment that had felt so full just moments before. The city buzzed around her, but all she could think about was Casey—and how hard it was to leave her behind.

Inside, Casey leaned against the door, her breath still catching in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the silence that Alex left behind, but knowing that the night wasn’t over. And maybe, just maybe, she could still get the closure she needed—when Alex came back.

But for now, she waited.

#yes, they only shared one scene #yes, they are wives

#svuedit #alex cabot #casey novak #law and order svu #calex #casey novak x alex cabot #fanfic #ficlet #headcannon

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ladysharmaa · 7 hours ago

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Different worlds

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Y/n and Anthony are from different worlds, but can they ignore the growing connection between them?

requested: yes

The Bridgerton mansion was cloaked in stillness, the kind of silence that settles only in the deep hours of the night. Yet, Y/n couldn't sleep. Restless and uneasy, she found herself padding down the servant's staircase to the kitchen. A warm cup of tea might help her finally quiet her overactive mind.

The kitchen was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lantern. She moved quietly, mindful of the creaky floorboards as she prepared the kettle. Her thoughts wandered, as they often did these days, to Anthony Bridgerton.

The viscount had been kind to her after his mother brought her to join the other workers of the family. Before, she was living in the streets, sleeping on the cold floor and always alert due to the drunk men who sometimes crossed her path. She knew it was dangerous and was grateful that Violet Bridgerton appeared in her life before something bad and traumatic happened. She lived all her life in fear, but now, she felt for the first time in the Bridgerton house.

Therefore, she never participated in the gossip of the other workers out of respect for the opportunity they gave her. Most of the time, it was about the failed court that happened between him and Edwina Sharma.

Anthony was far kinder to her than someone with his power needed to be toward a servant. But his kindness had begun to feel... complicated. His lingering glances, the way his voice softened when he spoke her name, the way her heart raced whenever he entered the room—none of it was proper. Y/n tried her best to ignore it, to keep her distance, but every day the bond between them seemed to grow stronger.

With a sigh, she took an apple from the basket on the counter and began slicing it, hoping the rhythmic task might distract her.

"Couldn’t sleep either?"

Y/n jumped, startled by the voice of the man occupying her mind. Whirling around in surprise, she found Anthony standing in the doorway, his shirt untucked, and his hair slightly disheveled. He looked like he had wandered down on impulse, as restless as you were.

"My lord," Y/n greeted, quickly dipping into a curtsy. "I—I didn’t expect anyone else to be awake."

"I could say the same of you," he replied, stepping into the kitchen. His tone was casual, but there was something in his gaze that pinned her in place. "What’s troubling you?"

"Nothing, my lord," she quicly lied, turning back to her task, continuing to slice the apple, despite not being hungry anymore. However, she couldn’t let him see how his presence alone made her hands tremble. "I simply couldn't sleep."

There was a pause, the sound of his footsteps drawing closer. "You don’t have to call me 'my lord' when it’s just the two of us, you know."

"I do," Y/n said firmly, keeping her eyes solely on the knife. "Because it’s the truth. You are my lord, and I am your servant. It wouldn’t be right to pretend otherwise."

"Who says it wouldn’t be right?" he asked, his voice quieter now, closer. The feeling of his breath on the back of her neck made her straighten her spine.

Y/n remained silent. Instead, she looked ahead, trying to calm herself. However, she forgot about the knife in her hands until it slipped through her fingers. A sharp sting shot through her hand, and she hissed in pain, dropping the blade with a gasp.

"Let me see," Anthony said immediately, his hand reaching for yours.

"It’s nothing, my lord," the servant protested, trying to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.

"Stop arguing and let me help," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

He held her hand gently, turning it over to inspect the cut. He was solely focused on the wound, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. His reaction, even though it was a small cut, warmed Y/n's heart.

It wasn’t deep, but a small bead of blood welled up, and he reached for a cloth to press against it. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared hurting her further.

"You should be more careful," he murmured. "I can’t bear to see you hurt."

The words made your heart skip, but it was the way he was looking at her, full of adoration, that made Y/n speechless.

"My lord," she began, but her voice faltered when his thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles.

"You call me 'my lord,' but you look at me as if you feel something more," he said softly. "Am I wrong?"

Her breath caught in her throat. "It doesn’t matter how I feel," Y/n whispered. "It can’t matter."

"But it does," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted her hand, still wrapped in the cloth, and pressed it to his chest, just over his heart. "You matter."

Y/n knew she should pull away, that she should remind him of the impossibility of what he was saying. But in that moment, with his hand cradling yours and his eyes locked on her, all her resolve crumbled.

"Anthony," The name slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

He closed the distance between them, his free hand rising to cup her cheek hesitantly, giving her time to pull away. Slowly, and analyzing her expression to make sure this was exactly what she wanted, Anthony began to bring their faces closer. With Y/n's nod, he finally connected their lips. It was gentle at first, but once he tasted her, he quickly deepened the passionate kiss.

For a moment, the world fell away. There was no viscount and servant, no rules or expectations. Just the two of them, tangled in something that felt achingly real.

When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

"Tell me this isn’t impossible," he said quietly. "Tell me there’s a chance for us."

Y/n didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to deny him—or herself.

"Maybe," she whispered. "Maybe there is. But we have to keep it a secret. I don't want you to get into trouble."

"We can keep it for now, whatever you want. But believe me, I'm going to marry you and everyone will know you're mine." Anthony vowed. But in that moment, he let himself simply enjoy her touch.

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x you #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #collin bridgerton #daphne bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x y/n

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pinkmoontaco · 1 day ago

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It all started at a Set || KMG Pt.3

Pairing: Actor-Idol Mingyu x Actress-Idol Reader Genre: Fluff, Idol romance Summary: This story is a heartwarming slow-burn romance between Mingyu and Y/N, a senior idol. It begins with them being cast as co-stars in a drama where their contrasting personalities—Mingyu’s vibrant, outgoing nature and Y/N’s reserved, composed demeanor—become the catalyst for an unexpected connection. Throughout their journey, they face professional challenges, emotional conflicts, and growing feelings for one another.

Author's note: Please, if possible, leave a small comment it really helps me to write more Part one _ Part two _ Part three

The drama’s success was undeniable, and the cast was invited to a grand success party to celebrate the show's achievements. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and shared memories of the intense but rewarding filming process. Mingyu arrived with his usual charm, his members teasing him about how this was as much a celebration of his growth as an actor as it was for the drama’s success.

Y/N, meanwhile, was standing across the room, engaged in an animated conversation with the second lead, who had also won over fans with his portrayal. Her rare laugh rang out, catching Mingyu’s attention. He found himself watching her, a strange pang in his chest as he noticed how effortlessly the second lead made her smile.

“She looks like she’s enjoying herself,” one of Mingyu’s members commented teasingly, nudging him. “You okay there?”

“I’m fine,” Mingyu replied quickly, though his clenched jaw told a different story. He tried to focus on the celebration, but his gaze kept drifting back to Y/N. The sight of her laughing at another man’s jokes, the ease with which she seemed to connect with him—it was enough to make jealousy bubble up inside him.

Unable to hold himself back, Mingyu walked over, his steps purposeful. “Y/N,” he said, interrupting their conversation. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Y/N looked at him, surprised by the sudden interruption. “Uh, sure,” she said, excusing herself from the second lead.

He led her to a quieter corner of the venue, his heart racing. Before she could ask what was wrong, Mingyu did something completely out of character—he leaned down and kissed her. It was quick, almost fleeting, but it was enough to leave them both breathless. Realizing what he’d done, Mingyu pulled back, his eyes wide with panic.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, his cheeks burning. Without waiting for her reaction, he turned and bolted, leaving Y/N standing there, stunned.

Y/N found him later that night on the rooftop of the venue, leaning against the railing, his shoulders tense. She walked up to him, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through her. “Mingyu, what was that?”

He didn’t turn to face her, keeping his gaze fixed on the city lights. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.

“Why did you, then?” she pressed, stepping closer. “You don’t get to just kiss me and then run away, Mingyu. Talk to me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Because I couldn’t help myself, okay?” he admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but every time I see you, every time you smile, I—I just can’t.”

Y/N’s breath hitched at his confession, but before she could say anything, he continued, his tone turning somber. “But it doesn’t matter. I can’t... I can’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Because my group is at its peak,” he said, finally turning to face her. His eyes were filled with a mixture of longing and regret. “Everything we’ve worked for—it’s all happening now. I can’t let anything distract me from that, not even you.”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. “So you’re saying I’m a distraction?”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said quickly. “You’re amazing, Y/N. But I have responsibilities—my members, our fans, our future. I can’t be selfish right now.”

Silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Y/N nodded, her expression unreadable. “I understand,” she said, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “But you don’t get to push me away like this and expect me to wait forever, Mingyu.”

He looked at her, his eyes pleading. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just... I can’t.”

Without another word, Y/N turned and walked away, leaving Mingyu alone on the rooftop, the city lights blurring as he blinked back tears.

The weeks following the success party were filled with promotional activities, interviews, and variety show appearances. Mingyu and Y/N were often paired together, their on-screen chemistry a major draw for fans. Despite their personal tension, they maintained a professional front, though their group members couldn’t help but notice the subtle shifts in their behavior.

During a joint guesting on a popular variety show, the host couldn’t resist teasing them. “So, Mingyu and Y/N, the nation’s favorite drama couple! Tell us, how did you two manage such incredible chemistry?”

Y/N smiled politely, giving a practiced response. “We both worked hard to bring our characters to life. It was all about understanding each other’s strengths as actors.”

Mingyu nodded, echoing her sentiment. “Y/N’s professionalism made it easy. She’s amazing to work with.”

Their co-stars smirked knowingly, while the host leaned closer. “Come on, there’s got to be more to it than that. Did you two practice those romantic scenes a lot off-camera?”

Mingyu laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Not really. We just... trusted each other.”

Y/N added, “And the director guided us a lot. It’s all thanks to the team.”

Despite their composed answers, the knowing glances exchanged between the cast and their group members didn’t go unnoticed by fans. Social media buzzed with theories about their relationship, with hashtags like #MingyuYNRomance trending worldwide.

When award season rolled around, the drama received multiple nominations, and the cast attended the ceremonies together. Mingyu and Y/N walked the red carpet side by side, their elegant outfits complementing each other perfectly. Fans cheered loudly, holding up signs and chanting their names.

Inside the venue, the tension between them was palpable. Seated next to each other, they exchanged polite smiles and small talk, but their group members noticed the lingering glances and subtle hesitations.

During one of the breaks, Mingyu’s fellow members cornered him. “Okay, spill it,” one of them said. “What’s going on with you and Y/N? You’re acting weird.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Mingyu insisted, though his flushed cheeks betrayed him.

“Yeah, right,” another member chimed in. “You’ve been acting like a lovesick puppy since the drama started.”

Meanwhile, Y/N’s groupmates weren’t letting her off the hook either. “You’ve been so distracted lately,” one of them remarked. “Does it have anything to do with a certain tall, charming co-star?”

Y/N sighed, shaking her head. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure, and I’m not a singer,” another member teased. “Come on, Y/N. We’re your friends. You can tell us.”

Despite their denials, the truth was becoming harder to hide. As they continued to navigate the whirlwind of promotions and public appearances, Mingyu and Y/N found themselves drawn to each other more than ever, their unresolved feelings simmering just beneath the surface.

The culmination of the award season came with the announcement of the Best Drama Couple award. As the presenter read their names, Mingyu and Y/N exchanged a surprised glance before standing up to accept the trophy together. The crowd erupted in applause, their fans going wild as they walked to the stage.

Standing under the bright lights, Mingyu took the microphone first. “Thank you so much for this honor. Working on this drama has been an incredible experience, and I’m grateful to have shared it with such an amazing team.”

He handed the microphone to Y/N, who smiled warmly. “This award belongs to everyone who worked tirelessly to make this drama a success. Thank you to the fans for supporting us and believing in our story.”

As they walked offstage, the host quipped, “Looks like the chemistry isn’t just on-screen!” prompting laughter from the audience and a shared, embarrassed smile from Mingyu and Y/N. Backstage, their group members were waiting, their teasing remarks only adding to the flurry of emotions the two were struggling to contain.

During one of Seventeen’s concerts, Mingyu found himself overwhelmed with emotion. As the group performed a heartfelt song dedicated to their fans, he felt the weight of everything he had been carrying—the success, the expectations, the unspoken feelings for Y/N. Tears streamed down his face as he sang, his voice trembling with raw emotion. The fans in the audience cheered louder, their love and support palpable.

The video of Mingyu crying during the performance quickly went viral, touching fans and even reaching Y/N’s group. One of her members showed her the clip during their downtime. “Look at him,” they said, smiling softly. “He’s always so composed, but this... this is different.”

Y/N watched the video, her heart aching as she saw the vulnerability in Mingyu’s expression. She didn’t say anything, but the sight of him like that stayed with her, a reminder of just how much he had been holding back.

Not long after, Y/N had her own moment of vulnerability during a live performance. Her group performed a ballad about heartbreak, and as Y/N sang the emotional climax, tears welled up in her eyes. The lyrics hit too close to home, and for a moment, she let her guard down, her voice quivering with the weight of her emotions. The audience was moved, their cheers a mix of admiration and sympathy.

Backstage, her members comforted her, while fans took to social media to express their support. Mingyu saw the performance later that night, and as he watched Y/N pour her heart out on stage, he felt a surge of longing and regret. She had always been so strong, but seeing her break down reminded him of how much she had been holding back as well.

Despite their best efforts to move forward, it was clear to everyone around Mingyu and Y/N that they were suffering. Mingyu was distracted during practices, his usual playful demeanor replaced with a subdued, distant energy. Meanwhile, Y/N, always composed and professional, was retreating into herself more than ever, her laughs sounding hollow even to her group members.

The tension didn’t go unnoticed by either group. During a shared music show appearance, Seventeen and Y/N’s group found themselves in the same waiting room. Between performances, Seungkwan finally spoke up, addressing both groups.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he said dramatically, earning a few chuckles. “Mingyu’s like a zombie lately, and I don’t think Y/N’s doing much better. They’re miserable.”

Y/N’s leader nodded in agreement. “It’s true. She’s been off since all of this started, even though she’s pretending she’s fine. Something has to give.”

Hoshi clapped his hands together, his eyes lighting up. “Then let’s make them talk!”

“Exactly,” Seungkwan agreed, his eyes gleaming with determination. “They’re clearly in love but too stubborn to admit it.”

The group members exchanged knowing glances, quickly forming a plan.

A few days later, Mingyu received a cryptic text from Joshua, asking him to meet at a quiet café in Seoul. Mingyu was confused but figured it was nothing unusual. At the same time, Y/N’s leader convinced her to visit the same café, claiming they had an errand to run.

When Mingyu arrived, he looked around, confused to find no sign of Joshua. Moments later, the bell above the door chimed, and Mingyu turned to see Y/N stepping in.

She froze when she spotted him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Mingyu replied, standing up. “Joshua told me to meet him here.”

“My leader said the same thing,” Y/N muttered, crossing her arms.

It didn’t take long for them to realize what was happening. Turning toward the window, they spotted their group members sitting in a nearby van, grinning and waving. Hoshi held up a sign that read: "TALK IT OUT!"

Mingyu let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Looks like we’ve been set up.”

Y/N crossed her arms, but her lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

Inside the café, they sat across from each other in a corner booth. The silence was deafening, with Mingyu nervously tapping his fingers against his coffee cup while Y/N stared out the window.

Finally, Mingyu broke the silence. “I’ve missed you.”

Y/N turned to him, her expression softening but guarded. “Mingyu…”

“No, let me say this,” he interrupted, his voice filled with urgency. “I thought I was doing the right thing by pushing you away. I told myself it was for your sake, but all I’ve done is hurt both of us. And I hate it, Y/N. I hate being without you.”

Her lips parted as if to say something, but she stopped, letting him continue.

“I was scared,” Mingyu admitted. “Scared of what this would mean for you, for me, for our careers. But now I know that I was just making excuses. I don’t care about any of that anymore. All I care about is you.”

Y/N blinked back tears, her voice trembling as she responded. “I was scared too, Mingyu. But I never wanted you to go through this alone. I wanted to be there for you, but you wouldn’t let me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I’m sorry. I’m done running away. I’m ready if you are.”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, and she nodded. “Okay. But we have to face this together, Mingyu. No more shutting each other out.”

“Together,” he promised, reaching across the table to take her hand.

From the van outside, their group members erupted into cheers, causing curious passersby to glance their way. “Mission accomplished!” Seungkwan declared triumphantly.

“Finally,” Y/N’s leader said, grinning. “Now maybe we can have some peace.”

When Mingyu and Y/N stepped out of the café hand in hand, their groupmates burst into applause. Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile, while Mingyu laughed, his ears turning red. Their friends quickly pulled them into a playful group hug, sealing the moment with their shared excitement

Their relationship brought new dynamics to both groups. Mingyu and Y/N started dating discreetly, often sneaking out for late-night walks or quick café visits between their busy schedules. However, their group members were far from subtle about their budding romance.

During one practice session, Woozi casually remarked, “So, did you two have a good date last night?” Mingyu choked on his water, while Y/N shot him a warning look. The room erupted into laughter.

Another time, Y/N’s group members cornered her during a makeup session. “Did Mingyu really buy you that bracelet?” one of them teased, pointing at the delicate chain on her wrist. Y/N tried to deny it, but her flushed cheeks gave her away.

Months into their relationship, after much discussion and deliberation, Mingyu and Y/N decided to make their relationship public. They wanted to share their happiness with fans who had supported them through every step of their journey.

One quiet evening, both posted matching statements on their respective social media accounts. The posts included a candid photo of them holding hands during a sunset walk, along with heartfelt messages thanking their fans and promising to continue their careers with the same dedication and love.

The reactions were immediate and overwhelming. Fans flooded the comments with messages of support, some even recalling the sparks they had noticed during the drama’s promotions. Within minutes, their names trended worldwide, with hashtags like #MingyuYNRomance and #SupportLove gaining traction.

Their group members, of course, couldn’t resist chiming in. Seungkwan posted a screenshot of the announcement with the caption, “Finally!” followed by several heart emojis. Y/N’s leader commented, “About time! Proud of you both.”

In the days that followed, they appeared on a variety show to address the news. When asked how it felt to go public, Mingyu joked, “I feel lighter now. No more sneaking around!” Y/N laughed, adding, “And no more teasing from our members…hopefully.”

The hosts congratulated them, and the episode was filled with lighthearted banter about their romance, including a reenactment of their first on-screen kiss, much to their embarrassment. Their members, seated in the audience, cheered loudly and made exaggerated heart signs, causing the couple to dissolve into laughter.

Despite the initial nerves, the public response was overwhelmingly positive. Fans praised their courage and celebrated the love story that had unfolded before their eyes. With the support of their loved ones and fans, Mingyu and Y/N embraced their relationship openly, proving that love and career could coexist beautifully.

While promoting on separate shows, the teasing didn’t stop. During an episode of a cooking show where Y/N was a guest, the host brought up Mingyu. “So, does your boyfriend cook for you?” he asked with a sly smile. Y/N nearly dropped the bowl she was holding, her flustered reaction earning laughs from the crew.

Meanwhile, on a talk show with Seventeen, the host slyly mentioned Y/N’s name while discussing Mingyu’s favorite co-stars. The members immediately jumped in, with Seungkwan exclaiming, “You mean his favorite person in general!” Mingyu buried his face in his hands, mumbling, “Why do I even talk to you guys?”

As the teasing continued on the talk show, the host couldn't resist digging a little deeper. "So, Mingyu, does Y/N have a favorite dish of yours? Or maybe something you cooked that she pretended to like?"

Mingyu, still blushing from Seungkwan's antics, looked up with a sheepish grin. "Well... she says she likes my kimchi stew, but I think she’s just being nice. She’s a really good cook herself, so it’s a little intimidating."

The members, of course, weren’t about to let that go. DK leaned forward with mock seriousness. "Mingyu, are you saying that your love language is cooking, but you’re worried you’ll never win against hers?"

The audience burst into laughter, and Mingyu groaned, "You guys are the worst!" But the fond smile on his face betrayed him.

Meanwhile, Y/N faced her own set of playful jabs. During another variety show appearance with her group, the topic of dating naturally came up. The host smirked and said, "So, Y/N, is it true that someone has been giving you pointers on acting lately?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard, but one of her members jumped in with a laugh. "Oh, she’s had lots of inspiration lately. Isn’t that right, Y/N?"

Y/N shot her a look but couldn’t hide the small smile forming on her lips. "Maybe," she replied, trying to keep it vague, but the knowing chuckles from the audience told her it was no use.

As time passed, their relationship grew even stronger. Their fans, though initially surprised by the announcement, were incredibly supportive. Fan projects celebrating their relationship popped up worldwide, ranging from fan art and video edits to organized donation drives in their names.

Even during promotions, fans showed their love. At a fan signing event, Mingyu received a note from a fan that read, "Thank you for being brave enough to share your happiness with us. We're rooting for you and Y/N!" He couldn’t help but beam, and later, when Y/N was shown a photo of the note by her own fans, she smiled fondly.

Their groups also made light of their relationship during joint appearances. During a game segment on a music show, Y/N’s leader and Seungkwan ended up on the same team. At one point, Y/N's leader turned to him and said, "We should work together more often. Maybe we’ll pick up some of Mingyu and Y/N’s chemistry."

Seungkwan clapped dramatically. "Exactly! Let’s call it inspiration. They’ve raised the bar for all of us!"

The playful exchanges were always met with laughter, and though Mingyu and Y/N often rolled their eyes at the teasing, it was clear they appreciated the love and support surrounding them.

One memorable moment came during Seventeen’s encore stage at an awards show where Y/N’s group was also present. Fans had been hoping for some interaction, and they weren’t disappointed. During the song, Mingyu subtly glanced toward Y/N’s group, catching her gaze for just a moment. The fans screamed as Y/N, always composed, broke into a shy smile.

Later that night, as they sat together at the after-party, Mingyu whispered, "You smiled at me on stage."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, pretending to be unimpressed. "And? You’re acting like it’s the first time."

He grinned. "It’s different when millions of people are watching."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You’re impossible."

Their love story, now openly celebrated, became a symbol of balance and determination. Fans admired how they managed their busy lives while supporting each other. Their interviews began to touch on the theme of love and career, with both of them often emphasizing the importance of trust and mutual respect.

"People think it’s hard to date when you’re in the spotlight," Mingyu said during an interview. "And it is. But when you find the right person, it feels worth it."

Y/N, in a separate interview, shared similar sentiments. "It’s about understanding each other’s worlds and growing together. I’m lucky to have someone who does that."

As the years passed, their relationship only grew stronger, weathering the ups and downs of fame together. Their story wasn’t just about two idols in love—it became an enduring tale of growth, courage, and the power of love to thrive, even in the most extraordinary circumstances.