#I-I had a feeling that I belonged I-I had a feeling I could be someone be someone be someone You got a fast car Is it fast enough so you can

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[luna-azzurra]

Story Starters #3

Found Family Starters (for the ones who thought they’d always be alone—until someone stayed)

✧ They said "I got you" like it was no big deal. But no one’s ever said that to me and meant it. ✧ I didn’t know I could belong somewhere until I walked into that kitchen and someone had already set a plate for me. ✧ We fight. We yell. We steal each other’s snacks. And still, they show up every time I need them. That’s love, I think. ✧ I used to flinch when someone raised their voice. Now I roll my eyes and throw a pillow at them. That’s growth. That’s home. ✧ They know what my silence means. They don’t push. They just sit beside me until I’m ready. ✧ I told them the worst parts of me. They stayed. That’s when I knew. ✧ We don’t say “I love you” out loud. We say “text me when you get home.” “Eat something.” “You can crash here.” ✧ I’m still learning how to trust it. How to not brace for abandonment. But they haven’t left. Not once. ✧ I never believed in unconditional love. But now there’s this couch, and this blanket, and this messy group of weirdos who make space for me. ✧ They’re not blood. But they’re mine.

Cold Girls, Soft Hearts Starters (for the sharp-edged girls who love quietly, fiercely, and would rather die than admit it)

✧ I don’t do soft. But they smiled at me like I was worth something, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. ✧ I pretend I don’t care. But I remember their coffee order, their favorite color, the way they hate pickles. ✧ I rolled my eyes at their dumb joke. Then laughed. Then hated how much I meant it. ✧ I pushed them away and they still came back. I hate that. I love that. I don’t know. ✧ I said “I don’t need anyone.” But my voice cracked on the last word and I know they heard it. ✧ I tell them to shut up. I mean “don’t go.” ✧ I’m the tough one. The reliable one. The emotionally constipated one. And I’m so, so tired. ✧ They hugged me and I stood there like a statue. But inside, something broke open. ✧ I made fun of them for being sappy. Then went home and replayed everything they said. Twice. ✧ I’m not scared of being hurt. I’m scared of wanting something I can’t protect myself from.

End-of-the-World Vibes (for stories where something big is ending, and something small, and tender, is beginning)

✧ The world is ending and all I want is to feel their hand in mine one more time. ✧ Everything’s falling apart and they’re still making me laugh. How dare they. How beautiful. ✧ If this is the last sunrise, I want to spend it with them. Quiet. Close. Real. ✧ I thought I’d be afraid. But with them here, I’m just… present. And maybe that’s enough. ✧ They looked at me like I was still worth saving. Even now. Especially now. ✧ We kissed like we were running out of time. Because we were. ✧ I wanted a big moment, but instead it was this—my head on their shoulder, the silence stretching soft around us. ✧ We said goodbye like we’d see each other tomorrow. We both knew that wasn’t true. ✧ Maybe the world doesn’t need a hero. Maybe it just needs someone who won’t leave when things get ugly. ✧ I don’t know what comes after this. But if they’re next to me when the lights go out, I think I’ll be okay.

[cressidagrey]

Garage Time

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Bee Piastri: Two Peas in a Pod

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had always known he wasn’t the smartest person in the house.

It wasn’t a competition. It wasn’t even close.

He could read tire degradation like a second language. He could predict weather shifts by the way wind moved across a track. He could tell you the weight of pressure on his back wheel just by how the steering wheel twitched in his hands.

But true brilliance—the intricate, layered, quietly relentless kind? That belonged to Felicity.

And now, it seemed, to Bee too.

He stood now in the open doorway of what used to be an old stable—transformed by Felicity into a workshop, a garage, and more recently, a sanctuary. It smelled like grease, dust, and something warm—like a life that had been lived in deeply. And it echoed, faintly, with the laughter of his four-year-old daughter and the murmur of her mother’s steady voice.

Bee was sitting on a stacked milk crate in her favorite overalls—dark blue with patches on the knees, one of which she’d sewn on herself with needle-sharp concentration. She was holding a mini flashlight and a torque wrench like they were holy relics. Her goggles were too big and kept sliding down her nose, but she pushed them up without pausing her inspection.

“Mama,” she said, very seriously, “the rust’s gotten worse again. The wire brush isn’t enough. We need the Dremel with the diamond bit.”

Without looking up, Felicity reached over and passed the exact attachment. “Already out. Be careful of the edges.”

Oscar just stood there, quietly floored.

They moved like clockwork—precise, in sync, saying more with glances than most people could manage in full conversations. There was a kind of sacredness to it. A ritual born from repetition, trust, and shared obsession.

The car in front of them—a fire-red ‘67 Alfa Romeo Spider— was half-dead. But he knew that it would run again. Because Felicity always took broken things and fixed them. Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. 

Their shared language wasn’t just tools and tasks. It was detail. Precision. Respect for the process.

Bee had preferences the same way her mother did—strong, specific ones. She didn’t like when the wrenches were out of order. She couldn’t focus if her socks didn’t match. She insisted on a clipboard instead of a notebook and wanted her snacks in “even-numbered bites.” Her world made sense when things were in place. When they followed the rules she understood.

Oscar leaned on the doorframe, watching as Felicity wiped grease off her hands and adjusted her ponytail with the calm confidence of someone who knew how to make something run again.

“Should I take out the bolts on the intake next?” Bee asked, peering over the engine like a surgeon.

“Not yet,” Felicity said, crouching beside her. “We check the seals first. Otherwise we’re redoing work we didn’t have to.”

Bee nodded solemnly. “That’s inefficient.”

Oscar could barely process it. His three-year-old was talking about mechanical inefficiency.

He scratched the back of his neck, a grin tugging at his lips. “I feel like I should be helping.”

Felicity looked up at him, eyes gleaming. “You are helping.”

“By standing here and trying not to mess anything up?”

“Exactly.”

Bee giggled. “Papa, your hands are too big for the screws. And you said last time the engine ‘judged you.’”

“It did!” Oscar protested. “It made a weird noise. I don’t trust it.”

Felicity rolled her eyes fondly. “It was the starter clicking. Because you wired it backward.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “We don’t all come with a degree in car resurrection.”

But he didn’t mind.

 Not even a little.

Because as he watched Felicity patiently show Bee how to handle the dremel, the way she knelt beside her daughter without condescension, the way Bee looked at her like she was a superhero in greasy overalls—it hit him again.

These two?

 They were brilliant.

Felicity, with her steady mind and quieter kind of sharpness. The woman who once redesigned their kitchen shelving because she couldn’t stand inefficient spatial flow.

And Bee, who had probably invented three new tools in her head before snack time.

He was raising a genius. And he’d married one too.

And somehow—by some miracle—they both loved him. 

He stepped closer. Bee didn’t look up. “If you mess up the socket order again, Mama said you’ll be benched.”

Felicity snorted softly. “Fair warning. Last week you rearranged them by size instead of frequency of use.”

“Because that makes sense!”

“Not to us,” Bee said without looking up. “We sort by practicality, not aesthetics.”

Oscar put both hands in the air. “Understood. I’m on thin ice.”

He sat on the edge of the workbench, watching as Felicity guided Bee’s hand on the Dremel with practiced calm. Bee's brows were furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly, the same way Felicity looked when she was threading electrical wire.

They even leaned the same way when they worked—weight over their left hip, elbow tucked in, steady, focused.

God, they were so alike.

Same quiet brilliance. Same way of existing in a world that didn’t always understand how particularity could be a comfort.

Oscar loved them for it.

Even if he sometimes felt like a different species.

Still, he didn’t mind. He’d take the role of “fuel technician” or “guy who messes up the wrench order” any day if it meant getting to watch this.

“Do you want me to get snacks?” he asked eventually.

Bee perked up immediately. “Apple juice, please. Cold. In the bee cup. The one with the yellow straw.”

Felicity added, “And banana bread. No crust. Don’t forget the butter this time.”

Oscar grinned. “See? I have a purpose.”

“You’re our supply chain,” Bee said, solemn and sweet.

He headed for the kitchen, but his thoughts lingered behind.

Because here, in the garage, Bee shone.

But outside of it—at kindergarten, in playgroups, at birthday parties—she dimmed. Just a little. Enough for him to notice. Enough that it ached.

She preferred machines to playgrounds. She corrected her teachers, and she’d rather spend the day with chickens and torque specs than kids her age. She reached for her mama’s hand instinctively at parties, only relaxed when Felicity was near, and she quietly dimmed herself when other children didn’t understand her.

He worried about what the world would do with a girl like her.

With a girl who didn’t shrink for anyone. Who asked questions teachers couldn’t answer. 

Who didn’t just think outside the box—she would take the box apart with a ratchet set, draw schematics for a new one, and filed a request to optimize the corners.

Bee didn’t fit neatly anywhere.

Except here.

Here, in the workshop with her mother—who got it. Who was it. Who had been that same sharp-edged, too-bright child once. The one who asked too many questions and took apart toasters to understand thermodynamics.

And Oscar… didn’t know what to do with that. Not really.

He loved that Bee was uniquely herself. He wouldn’t change her for the world. But part of him worried, about how hard the world could be on girls who didn’t make themselves easier to understand.

So he made snacks.

He carved out spaces for her to be seen. To be known. He bought her every kind of notebook and wrench and Lego motor he could find, and he kept the world soft when it felt too loud for her.

In the kitchen, he poured apple juice for Bee and mango for Felicity. He cut thick slices of banana bread and added three forks—just in case Bee was in one of her “tools for everything” moods.

As he plated everything, he caught his reflection in the darkened microwave door—messy hair, oil smudge on his hoodie from leaning too close to Bee earlier, and a smile he couldn’t quite wipe away.

The kind of smile that came from a life that didn’t need spotlight to shine.

When he returned to the garage, it was quieter now, but only in the way a good story quiets down before the twist.

Bee was kneeling on a foam mat with a serious expression, focused on drawing something on a clipboard— Oscar could see crude sketches: rectangles, labels, what looked like airflow arrows.

Felicity was beside her, wiping down a set of socket wrenches, her ponytail starting to fall loose. There was grease on her jawline and a streak of dirt across her sleeve. She looked radiant.

Oscar set the snacks down on the workbench gently. “Refueling, as requested.”

Bee looked up from her clipboard. “Thank you, Papa.”

Oscar smiled. “You’re welcome, Bumblebee.”

She handed him her sketch. “I redesigned the air filter casing.”

It was crude and hand-drawn, but shockingly insightful.

“She got the concept from my old Haynes manual,” Felicity said, already chewing her bite of bread. “I left it on the shelf by accident. She read the airflow diagrams before bed.”

Oscar blinked. “She’s three.”

Bee held up four fingers. “Almost four.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Almost four and already smarter than me.”

Felicity smirked. “She gets it from me.”

“You both terrify me,” he muttered, but there was no real fear in his voice—only awe.

The three of them sat quietly for a while, Bee content to sketch while Felicity wiped her tools with a meticulous rhythm.

Oscar didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

He just watched—content, in love, and quietly aware that he’d somehow been chosen by the two most remarkable people he’d ever met.

He might not always understand their blueprints, or why grease made them both so happy, or why the wrench order mattered so much—

But he didn’t need to.

They were his. He was theirs.

And that was more than enough.

He couldn’t predict how far Bee’s mind would go. Maybe she’d design cars instead of drive them. Maybe she’d run wind tunnel simulations in her sleep. Maybe she’d abandon it all for marine biology because she liked dolphins more than spark plugs.

He didn’t know.

What he did know was this:

He got to watch it happen. He got to be here. Even if he didn’t understand every detail, every gear, every tiny plan scribbled on scrap paper.

He got to be the one who brought the juice boxes. Who wiped grease off her cheek. Who kissed Felicity on the forehead while she calibrated torque like it was second nature.

He got to build a life alongside them.

He wasn’t the smartest in the house. Not by a long shot.

But he was the one who got to call it home.

And that? That was the best kind of win.

[fastasyoucant]

𐙚⋆.˚ tailor-made lovin’ | annie moore oneshot.

cw | suggestive. black fem!reader. wlw. MEN DNI. she’s not with smoke. tiny mention of homophobia. allusions to cunnilingus. lowk reader act like preacher boy @ the end oops :3 word count: 1.4K

The Mississippi sun had been tucked away in the thick clouds, and a hush rolled over the shop, creating a soft, illuminated look to the room. The familiar scent of sandalwood incense clung to the fabrics surrounding you. Business has been slow this week, ain’t no orders. Ain't a wandering eye in the windows. The scuff marks on the floor reminded you that it would get busy again; time just needed to stretch its legs.

And maybe it heard you.

Because just as you turned your back toward the counter, the bell chimed. “Welcome in.” You nodded, the once furrowed brow lifting with curiosity.

"You the seamstress that I'm always hearing good things about?" Her eyes stayed on yours, letting the calm energy speak words she didn't need to.

“I’m hopin’ I can be that seamstress fo' you! What you need?” A tingle ran through you, realizing your service was essential. You needed the money for sewing materials, food, and a roof over your own head.

“The chest area on this dress here, s’a little tight. I just need it to be expanded or somethin'. You think that could be done?”

“I don't see why not! That’ll be ten.”

“Ten?” The woman laughed, not cruel but knowing. “Naw baby, I ain’t rich.”

Usually, you don’t make deals with clients, but you understood the struggle. She looked like someone who worked hard for every dollar in her pocket— She knew labor.

“Alright, seven fifty?” You tried a lower number, but tried not to play yourself.

“I can make that work.”

A smile had been crafted on her face when you took the deal. The lady unfolded the item that needed altering, a well-sewn, orange, cotton-rayon dress.

"If you don't mind, I need to take a few measurements." You grabbed the measuring tape from the small coffee table that rested behind the register, placing it around your neck.

"I don't mind at all. You gon need me to put it on right? There's a zipper on here that I always tussle wit'. I'm gon' need a bit of help."

You took in a sharp breath, your body beginning to buzz, thinking about helping her slide on that beautiful dress. You remembered the old ladies in the church, whispering about women like you-- folk they said were sinful, unnatural. Folk they pretended didn't belong.

“That’s fine by me.” You nodded your head. “I just need you to sign your name here!” Your hands snatched the loose paper and pen, placing the notepaper facing her, handing the pen to her faithfully.

She leaned onto the counter to write her name. You hoped the gulp wasn't audible. Your eyes gazed down at her chest; you were no better than a man. "Thank you, ma'am." The once blank paper had a soft signature that read 'Annie'. That name sounded familiar, and now that you thought about it, so was her face. You had seen her before. When the mundane smell of incense had been introduced to your senses once again, that's when it clicked.

"You the one wit’ that Hoodoo shop? Down on Terrance Road?" When she heard you realized who she was, those big brown eyes found a sparkle in them.

"Mhm," Her head nodded with the syllables.

"I was waitin’ on you to notice, I ‘member you coming in and buyin’ that sandalwood not too long ago." That nostalgic feel to the way she spoke only made the memory clearer.

"That's right! Usually I’m good wit' rememberin' faces. Everythin’ going well down there?" You started up conversation.

“As well as it could.”

Her shoulders fell after shrugging, she most likely didn’t want to speak about work when she was off. So you didn’t impede. “I ain’t tryna rush you, Miss Annie, but whenever you’re ready, the dressing room is that white door.” You tilted your head in the direction of it.

When Annie turned to see where she needed to go, you stole sinful glances at her. Her frame was perfect, the plaid sundress complimented her complexion. “Alright then.” She nodded and made her way to the dressing room. She didn’t spare any time trying to get the dress on. You didn’t want to ask because quite frankly, you weren’t sure if you could hide the desire to see her undraped. Then you began to hear her grunt, shuffling herself around into the dress.

“Miss Annie, you need help now?”

“Yes please.”

Slowly dragging in air, you headed towards to room. You carefully opened the door. “Zipper always givin’ me sum trouble.”

“S’alright,” Your jaw clenched, that orange against her brown skin could make flowers bloom in the winter. You began to tug at the dress’s zipper. it was almost as if it was glued in place.

“Damn, this zipper ‘bout stubborn as hell.”

“Ain’t it.” Annie huffed as you yanked continuously until it zipped up.

“Okay, let’s hurry up and get your measurements so you won’t be uncomfortable for long.” You held the door open for her. “You can gon ‘head ‘n step on that platform fo' me.”

She got on the podium, standing in front of the mirror. You were too busy staring at her to notice her looking at you through the reflection. Her lips curled as she noticed that lingering look.

“Do you mind liftin’ your arms?”

Without a word she raised her arms, keeping her sight set on you to hold eye contact. You told her what to do but she was in control. The flimsy measuring tape had made a quiet flick as you quickly took it off your neck.

You wrapped it around her bust, and the tape gently stretched around her body. You met the ends of the tape and pulled it snug.

“Thirty-eight and a half.” You muttered under your breath as you went to write her bust measurement right next to her name. “You can go back and change! I got a hanger waitin’”

You tidied up the register, throwing away wrappers and old receipts. You hadn’t heard that much movement from Annie. “Ma’am, you can—”

She was turned to you, one hand perched on her hip.

“Don’t you think I’m gon need some help gettin’ it off?” With one raise of her brow, you were quick to your feet. You followed behind her, acting like the sinful shadow. No mojo bag could keep you from her.

She walked into the dressing room, waiting for you to get yourself situated. Another breath was taken from the atmosphere when your hands found the zipper again. “Lemme know if this hurt, Miss Annie.”

You made sure to not yank the zipper, keeping every moment more gentle than the last. You got it down to where she could pull it on her own, but she wanted you to do it. She led you to the water; she just needed you to drink.

And you did.

You swiftly unzipped the rest for her. “Um— Anythin’ else I can do for ya’?”

“Mm’, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, the sundress slung around her shoulders. Annie kept her modesty in check, holding it by a thread. “You always this sweet?” A chuckle left her lips, and she toyed with the beads on her necklace.

“Um… I dunno ma’am.”

She turned to face you, her stare seductive and dominant. “You’ve been staring at me like that the entire time I done been in here.”

Your throat went dry.

“Annie— I ain’t mean nothin’ by it.” Your eyes widened as she stated the obvious fact: you were staring. More than you should’ve. And if she slapped you across the face right now, you wouldn’t even be surprised.

“Ain’t nobody say I had a problem wit’ it.”

Annie’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your head so your eyes had nothing else to do but meet hers. "You gon' keep starin'," she hummed, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "or you gon' do somethin' 'bout it?"

Your breath hitched. You leaned into her warmth. The kiss was careful, you were getting a feel of the shape of her lips, something that you would never forget. But when she kissed you back, she gave you all the permission you needed.

Soon enough, your hands were resting on her waist. Her mouth opened just slightly and you sighed into it, near dizzy from how sweet she tasted. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish now." Annie rushed her words in between the sentences, hungry to get her lips back onto yours.

"I know the way of a woman." You became bold in a blink, her presence was intoxicating. Then you lowered down onto your knees, you looked up at her through your eyelashes.

"Can I show you?"

[yvesssssssss]

Hellooo :3

Mayhaps could I request Mydei with spouse reader who is just so atrociously down bad for their husband? It's not even about his title or anything, they are just down horrid (totally not projecting)

Even better if it started off as an arranged marriage

𐙚⋆.˚Mydei — honkai star rail

Hellooo!! I kinda had a hard time writing this one💔 but i hope you enjoy!!😽😽😽

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You had been warned about Mydei before the wedding.

That he was quiet. Stoic. That you’d never know what he was thinking. That he was a difficult man to understand, let alone love. That this marriage, arranged for diplomacy and structure, was destined to be little more than cordial distance and shared titles.

They couldn’t have known that you were a disaster.

Not in the political sense. No, in that you were already, hopelessly, horrifyingly infatuated with him by the time you arrived at the capital. Not with his influence. Not with the legacy he carried like armor. But with him—the elegance in how he held himself, the sheer gravity in his silence, the way he could say your name and make it sound like it belonged in a poem.

He met you with courteous bows and an unreadable gaze.

You met him with heart palpitations and a mouth dry enough to parch stars.

The wedding was brief and immaculate. He offered his hand. You took it like a lifeline. The entire time, you wanted to say, My husband is so beautiful I could scream, but you were trying not to combust in public.

Your chambers were adjacent, not shared.

Your roles were parallel, not intertwined.

Your feelings? Definitely not mutual.

You fell first. Fast. Hard. Unreasonably.

He would pass you in the hall, nodding politely, and you'd nearly drop whatever you were holding. Once he said, “You look well,” and you had to sit down for five minutes to recover. You once caught a glimpse of him in the early morning—hair slightly mussed, collar undone—and it haunted your dreams for a week.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. He spoke to you gently, always gently, and kept his distance with care. Like you were precious. Like he was afraid of hurting you.

And yet—despite how cold others claimed he could be, he never looked away from you. He always answered. He always listened.

It was maddening.

You tried being subtle. Which, for someone as disastrously down bad as you were, meant:

Staring.

Standing closer than necessary.

Fumbling compliments like, “Your hands are so elegant— I MEAN efficient—no, wait—beautiful! NO. STRONG??”

You were a walking embarrassment.

And Mydei? Ever composed.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The change happened quietly.

A shoulder offered when you stumbled slightly in public—fingers steadying your elbow, his hand lingering just a moment longer than required.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “I should’ve stood closer.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Later, during a diplomatic dinner, you’d leaned into him more than propriety allowed. His breath hitched—hitched—when you brushed his arm.

“Do you... mind?” you asked, already wanting to dissolve into the carpet.

He looked at you. Not through you. At you. And said, “No. I rather prefer it.”

You nearly passed out.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

And now, tonight.

He had just returned from a series of long negotiations. Hours of speaking in that calm voice of his, delivering strategies and commands like scripture. You were waiting in his study, legs swinging over the edge of the chair like a child too jittery to sit still.

The door opened. He walked in, loosened his coat, and stopped.

“You’re here.”

“Always,” you chirped. “I mean. Not always. Not in a weird way—well, maybe weird, but not creepy. Definitely not—”

His mouth twitched. The smallest smile.

You melted.

“I made tea,” you added, voice pitching embarrassingly high. “If you want. Or need. Or don’t. I just thought you might. Because, you know, you’re—you.”

He walked to you slowly, soundlessly. Took the cup from your hand.

You felt the heat of his fingers even after they left.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“Am I? Oh. Wow. So I am.”

He studied you then, truly studied you. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No!” You answered too fast. Too loud. “Never. You could ruin me with one word and I’d still follow you around like a lost puppy. Wait. Ignore that. That’s insane.”

“It’s honest.”

“...That’s worse.”

He took a breath, then placed the tea down, untouched. “Why do you speak like that around me?”

“Like what?”

“Like I might vanish. Or like you’re ashamed to want me to stay.”

The air cracked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, helplessly, whispered: “Because I’ve never been in love with someone who makes me feel like this.”

Mydei’s gaze softened.

“I thought… I was the only one,” you added, laughing weakly. “People said you’d never care. That I’d always be a name on a contract to you. But I don’t care about the arrangement. Or your rank. Or what we were supposed to be. I just—”

You paused.

“I just really, really love my husband.”

There was silence. You waited for his rejection, his polite dismissal, his cool, distant kindness.

But instead—

He stepped closer.

Then, softly:

“I know.”

You blinked.

“I’ve known for some time,” he continued, voice lower now, more intimate. “I didn’t think you’d stay. Most people in my life do not.”

“Why—why wouldn’t I stay?” you asked, stunned.

“Because I’m not easy to love. I’m not expressive. Or thrilling. I move slowly. Deliberately. I don’t chase.”

“I don’t need you to chase me,” you said, standing. “I’m already here.”

Mydei’s hand reached for yours. Hesitated. Then laced your fingers together with a gentleness that felt like reverence.

“I find you… extraordinary,” he said.

You made a sound halfway between a squeal and a sob.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he added. “But I think I’ve always admired the way you look at me. Like I am more than duty.”

“You are,” you whispered.

His other hand cupped your cheek. “Then allow me to return the favor. Stay with me tonight.”

“Just stay, or—”

“Just stay. For now.”

You nodded, utterly starstruck.

And that night, lying beside him in soft silence, his fingers curled lightly around yours and his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your side, you realized something wonderful:

He might not say much.

But you didn’t need declarations. Not when he held you like this.

Not when he whispered, so faintly you thought you imagined it:

“I love my spouse too.”

[noirscript]

lavender snow

pairing/s: yandere husband x f!reader description: You find the old tape by accident, tucked where no one should’ve known to look—yet somehow, Luca did. As her voice spills softly through the static, you realize you’re not listening to a memory… you’re remembering something you were never meant to forget. warning/s: yandere | hints of memory lost | implied past abuse note/s: I accidentally found out that my mic's fried af and got this idea. I might add this kind of content on my ko-fi for monthly subs? It'll come with complimentary fic of course. Also, I'll add the banner later. p.s. it's unedited audio so it's scuffed as hell.

Masterlist | Dark Roast | Sovereign's Reign Pre-Order | Commission | Tip Jar

You don’t remember the tape.

Not where it came from, not how it ended up inside a box of out-of-season clothes, or why your name is written on the spine in your own handwriting—faint and fading, like it tried to disappear. The box had been buried deep in the attic, hidden beneath moth-eaten sweaters and the sagging ribs of a broken umbrella. You hadn’t even meant to find it. But now it sits in your lap like it’s been waiting for you to come back.

The cassette is warm in your hands. No label, no markings, just a faint impression where something had once been stuck to it. Your stomach tightens. You’re not sure why, but you dig out the old player from the back of a cupboard and feed the tape into its slot. The machine shudders to life with a soft whirr, then static, and then—your voice.

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this... I guess that means he’s kept it safe. Just like he promised.”

Your breath catches. The words settle heavily in the space around you, too tender, too familiar. It’s your voice, no doubt about it, but there's something off in the cadence—like someone rehearsing affection through clenched teeth.

You sit still, your eyes fixed on the aging plastic player as your voice continues.

“I thought maybe one day, when the world feels quieter... you’d want to remember this. Us. The way the light used to fall through the window at 4PM. How the air smelled like sun-warmed sheets and cinnamon. He always made sure everything was just perfect, didn’t he?”

A strange pressure blooms in your chest. You don’t remember making this recording. You don’t remember any of it—the window light, the scent of cinnamon, or whoever he is.

You sound so… happy.

Too happy.

The you on the tape laughs lightly, but even that sounds rehearsed. It’s too round, too smooth, like a laugh meant to soothe someone else. Not you.

“I don’t even know how long it’s been now,” your voice says. “Days feel a little soft around the edges. But every one of them is filled with love. He tells me that all the time. That I’m loved. That I’m safe.”

That last word—safe—wraps around your spine and squeezes. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you say it. Quietly. Soft as a secret. The kind of word you only whisper when the truth is something you’re not allowed to say.

A prickle crawls over the back of your neck.

“Sometimes I dream about the park. That little bench under the jacaranda tree? You remember. I said something silly about the petals looking like lavender snow. You laughed.”

You swallow. Your throat is dry.

“That was before I knew how loud the world could be when you don’t belong to it anymore.”

The air in the room turns cold. You don’t remember that bench. You don’t remember that moment. But your body responds to the sound of it—like it’s chasing something long buried. Your shoulders draw in. Your fingertips twitch. A faint headache blooms at your temples.

“But it’s okay now,” the voice continues. “He says I don’t have to worry about any of that. Not anymore. Not with him.”

The machine clicks faintly as the tape continues to roll. You hear the rustle of fabric in the background. Wood creaking. A low breath, not yours. You pause the tape.

The room is silent.

You press play again, hesitating just long enough to question whether you should.

“I should go. He doesn’t like it when I record too long without him.”

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But it’s there. You can hear your voice hover just a little too long over that sentence, like you're waiting to see if the walls will punish you for saying it aloud.

“But I hope, when you hear this… you smile. Just a little. Just enough to remember me the way he wants me to be remembered.”

Another pause. Your voice drops lower, almost reverent.

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

Then: a click. End of tape.

You sit frozen on the floor. The stillness around you is thick and wrong. You want to dismiss it as a prank. Maybe an old performance, an acting exercise, something you’d recorded and forgotten about. But something in your gut rebels at the thought. This wasn't a character. That was you.

You stand, rubbing your arms, suddenly cold despite the sunlight slanting through the blinds. Your feet move without you telling them to, carrying you to the kitchen where you run cold water over your hands. But when you glance down, something catches your eye.

Your left palm.

Faint black ink, faded by time and skin, clings to the lines of your hand like a warning:

don’t trust him

You blink, heart stuttering. The writing is old. Worn. You scrub at it, but it doesn’t fade. You don't remember writing it, don’t even remember seeing it before today. But it’s your handwriting. And the fear in your chest tells you you wrote it for a reason.

You rush back to the box in the attic, tearing through what’s left. Beneath the collapsed lid of a hollowed-out book, you find a crumpled scrap of paper. Another note, also written by you.

“If you find the tape, go to the basement. There’s more.”

The words don’t make sense. You’ve lived in this house for two years. There is no basement.

But your body moves before your thoughts catch up. Your steps lead you to the hallway where a locked door waits. One you’ve always assumed was just a closet. You’ve never had a key.

Today, it’s open.

The stairs beyond descend into shadow.

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to stop, to turn around. But your hand grips the railing and you descend slowly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The air grows colder with every step. The smell down here is old. Musty. Earthy.

And faintly metallic.

The overhead light flickers to life when you tug the chain, bathing the room in weak, yellow glow. There’s a table against the far wall. And on it—a cassette deck. Surrounding it is a neat stack of tapes. Dozens of them. All unlabeled. All pristine.

You approach slowly, dread sinking like lead into your bones. The deck is already loaded. You press play.

The familiar whir clicks to life. Then:

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this...”

Your knees nearly give. It’s the same recording. Or no—not the same. A different take. You’re talking about a different day. Different sunlight. Different cinnamon. Different bruises, maybe.

You grab the next tape. And the next. One by one, you feed them into the machine and listen.

Each time, your voice greets someone with warmth. Each time, you sound a little more distant. A little more tired. A little more robotic. In one, you sound as if you’re crying through a smile. In another, you start to say something else—“If anyone finds th—” before the tape cuts off with a harsh click.

You begin to shake.

And then you hear something you hadn’t before.

In the background, beneath your voice, there’s breathing.

Yours. But not just yours.

Heavier. Male.

Closer.

Footsteps.

Not on the tape. Behind you.

You turn sharply.

Someone is coming down the stairs.

Your stomach turns. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The light above you flickers. A shadow moves across the wall.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Familiar.

“You always forget, don’t you?”

You can’t breathe.

“That’s why I made the tapes. So you’d remember. So you’d always come back to me.”

He steps into the light. His expression is soft, fond. Too fond.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

The light buzzes overhead, then sputters out.

In the dark, the tape keeps playing.

And from it—your voice whispers one last thing:

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

tbc.

noirscript © 2025

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[moniquill]

@chronichlesofnillory 's tags:

#hey don't use chatgpt because they don't have to link sources and can make#stuff up if they want to#I just had to reblog this because I want to tear my hair out and scream#I belong to a discord server for crafting where you get a lot of people who ask really easy to answer questions if they just did a search#someone asked “how do I glue air dry clay to wood” and within 2 minutes I found the LITERAL website of the brand of the clay they are using#and pasted the section where the company says how to glue their air dry clay to wood#okay that's great that's fine that's perfect#scroll up and someone posts their chatgpt convo where the chatgpt asking how to glue this clay to wood#they thought “hey why bother with a simple 2 minute internet search when I could just ask chatgpt and present it as perfectly good help”#this is literally a server dedicated to helping people with crafting#you aren't being graded for this#you aren't being forced to give people help#there are people using chatgpt to “help” others now because it's just seen as totally cool totally reliable totally okay to do#and after linking the company's website giving directions I say#someone comes on “well you can make chatgpt give sources”#do another 2 minute internet search “duke university article saying chatgpt can make up sources”#like it isn't just about school anymore#it isn't just about kids who feel stressed about doing menial shitty school work anymore#it's about people being unwilling to put effort into anything and believing that “it's ai so it's always right”

[cabotinheels]

— HANDLING EMILY — e.prentiss x female reader

PREMISE: You’ve always teased Emily Prentiss about being older. About how you could handle a woman like her—experienced, commanding, devastating. But when she finally calls your bluff and takes you home, you learn exactly what it means to be at her mercy.

WARNINGS: legal age gap, oral, mentions of spit and swallowing spit, choking, scissoring, pussy slapping (once), dom!Emily, sub!reader, older!Emily, face riding, degradation, possessive behaviour, breast biting/marking, slight aftercare.

WORD COUNT: 3K

𓏲𝄢 find my masterlists

You said you could handle an older woman. Emily’s about to make you prove it.

You never meant for it to actually happen—not at first. The teasing started as harmless flirting, the kind of half-sarcastic sass you knew you could get away with when Emily would sit across from you in the bullpen, sipping her coffee, legs crossed, eyes sharp. You’d always toss something her way. A cheeky smile. A cocked eyebrow. “Sure you’re not too old to keep up with me?” Or, your personal favorite: “Bet you were a wild one in the ‘90s.”

She always gave it back just as hard. “Keep dreaming, rookie.” Or, more recently: “You wouldn’t last a minute with me.”

But god, what she didn’t know—what she probably knew, honestly—was that you weren’t just playing around. You had it bad. Hopeless crush, heart-racing-in-elevators bad. She was everything: the streak of silver in her hair, the worn leather jackets, that unreadable gaze she had when she was pissed off and trying not to show it. You’d lie awake some nights thinking about what it would feel like to belong to someone like her. To have her ruin you, command you. Praise you—or not.

So when she invited you over for “a drink” after the team closed a case, and you said yes with a grin too wide to be innocent… you kind of knew. You both did.

Her house smells like sandalwood and dark wine and something faintly smoky—like old books and danger. You pretend to admire the furniture, all dark woods and soft fabrics, while she watches you over the rim of her glass. Still in her work slacks and button-down, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Hair tied back, but loose enough to say I’ve been thinking about this too.

“You know,” you say, walking your fingers along the edge of her bookshelf, “I always figured you’d taste like scotch and sin.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And what do you taste like?”

You smile. “Come find out.”

That’s what does it.

In two strides she’s in front of you, her glass abandoned. She doesn’t kiss you yet—just presses you against the bookshelf with her body, one hand coming to rest lightly on your throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just there.

Her voice is low and rough. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone who blushes when I so much as look at you.”

Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is heat. “Maybe I blush because I like when you look at me.”

Emily chuckles—dark and amused, like she’s already decided how this night ends. “Is that right?”

Then her hand tightens—not painfully, but with purpose. Her palm wraps around your throat just firm enough that your breath hitches. Her thumb traces up under your jawline. Your knees go weak instantly. She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “You said you could handle an older woman,” she whispers, voice right against your lips. “Prove it.”

She pulls you in by the throat and kisses you like she’s claiming you—slow, deliberate, devastating. Her tongue invades your mouth with the kind of confidence only time and power can give a woman. You melt against her, moaning softly, already undone and still fully clothed.

When she steps back, her hand still holding you, she nods toward the living room.

“Strip for me.”

You hesitate for half a second—more out of awe than fear. Then, you start to move.

The fire’s burning low in the background, casting flickering gold across the walls. You make a show of it for her, because you want to. Because she’s watching you with that amused, unreadable expression like she’s deciding whether to ruin you slowly or all at once. You slide your shirt over your head, letting your fingertips trace your own stomach before unhooking your bra. You peel off your jeans, slow and sensual, keeping your eyes locked on hers.

She licks her bottom lip. “You’ve done this before.”

“Not for anyone like you,” you breathe.

Her smile darkens. “Damn right you haven’t.”

She comes to you again—pressing you down onto the couch, climbing over you like a wolf cornering its prey. Her hands move over your body like she owns it, mapping every inch. She pauses when her fingers slip between your thighs and find you soaked.

“Jesus. Look at you.” She pulls your legs apart with one hand and settles between them, kneeling on the rug. “You’re dripping. Just from a little choking and dirty talk?”

You whimper, embarrassed and turned on beyond words.

She slaps your thigh, just once. “Answer me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She groans at that—whether it’s from the title or the mess between your legs, you can’t tell. “Fuck, you are a good girl,” she mutters. “Let’s see how good.”

Then her mouth is on you.

She licks you like she’s savoring something rare and expensive, tongue slow and flat and devastating. She keeps eye contact as long as she can, even as your hips buck and your fingers dig into the cushions. Her tongue flicks your clit with maddening precision, alternating with deep, slow strokes that make your stomach clench. She moans against you—like you taste like sin. Like she’s been hungry for this.

Your pussy is swollen, glistening, and fully exposed under the flickering light. She spreads you wider, her thumbs keeping you open so she can lap at every part of you. She spits once—deliberately—and drags her tongue through the mess she’s made.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” she says, voice wrecked, breath hot. “So wet and needy. This what you’ve been thinking about while you’re sitting at your desk? Humping your thighs like a needy slut, pretending it wasn’t for me?”

You sob. “Yes, yes—Emily, please—”

“Ma’am.” Her voice cuts through the haze like a blade.

“Yes, ma’am,” you gasp, thighs shaking. “Please, I—I’m gonna—”

She pulls away just before you fall.

Cruel.

You whine, reaching for her, but she grips your throat again, pushing you back into the couch cushions.

“You don’t come,” she snarls. “Not until I say. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you whimper, every nerve lit up.

Her fingers replace her tongue—two of them sliding in to the knuckle while her mouth goes back to your clit. She pumps slowly, curling, hitting a spot that has your hips jerking with every thrust.

You're gone. Undone. A mess beneath her.

And you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

Emily watches you squirm—your legs trembling, pussy soaked, your whole body aching for the release she just denied. You’re flushed, panting, lips parted, caught in that blissful place between desperate and obedient.

She doesn’t ease up. Her fingers stay inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling exactly where you need them, while her mouth toys with your clit in lazy, taunting licks. She knows what she’s doing. She’s watching the way your stomach tightens, the way your eyes flutter, how your hips fight to meet every thrust even though you're not allowed to come.

"You close again?" she asks, even though she already knows.

You nod frantically, mouth barely forming words. “Please, please—I can’t—I need to—”

Emily lifts her mouth, licks her lips, and gives you a low, almost mocking smile.

“Then come for me. Now.”

Her voice is like a spell. Your body obeys instantly.

It hits like a wave—sharp and hot and all-consuming. Your back arches off the couch, legs clenching around her shoulders, the pleasure wracking through you in relentless, shuddering pulses. You cry out, a broken, needy sound that makes her groan into you.

She doesn’t stop.

She fucks you through it, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, dragging out your orgasm until it blurs into something even messier, your body twitching from oversensitivity. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your hands are gripping at nothing.

Finally—finally—she pulls back.

You’re left panting, dripping, thighs still twitching. Your pussy’s pink, puffy, still clenching from the aftershocks.

Emily brings her fingers to her mouth—slick and shiny—and licks them clean, one at a time. She moans at the taste, slow and deliberate.

“God,” she mutters, “you taste even better than I imagined.”

Then, without warning, she leans in and pinches your clit—sharp and fast.

You jolt. “F-fuck—Emily!”

Before you can recover, her palm slaps your pussy once—a wet, loud sting that makes your hips jerk and your eyes go wide.

She grins darkly. “Just making sure you remember who made you come like that.”

You’re still catching your breath when she moves up your body, climbing on top of you with the same effortless power that’s been driving you wild all night. Her mouth latches onto your breast without warning—hot, open-mouthed kisses that turn into biting. Her teeth graze your nipple, then she sucks hard, making you arch in a sharp mix of pain and pleasure.

“Sensitive?” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to watch your reaction. “Too fucking bad.”

She does it again. And again. Alternating sides, biting, sucking, marking you as thoroughly as she claimed your cunt. Your nipples throb, swollen and red, but you never ask her to stop. You don’t want her to.

You’re already shaking again when she finally pulls back.

Then she stands up.

And slowly—so slowly—she starts to undress.

The way she peels off her button-down is obscene. Her eyes never leave yours as she slides it from her shoulders, revealing toned arms, a black lace bra, and the kind of quiet confidence that makes your stomach flip. She undoes her belt next, tugging her slacks down over her hips—no underwear beneath.

Her body is stunning. Real. Experienced. Power and sex wrapped in one devastating package.

She unhooks her bra last, letting it fall to the floor, and tosses it aside like she already knows she won’t be needing it again tonight.

“Lie back,” she commands. “And keep your mouth open.”

You do.

She straddles the couch again, but this time it’s your face she’s hovering over.

You don’t even get a warning.

She grinds down onto you—wet, hot, already soaked—and grabs the back of your head, holding you in place. Her scent is intoxicating. You moan into her, tongue immediately finding her clit, licking her like you were born for it.

Emily groans—deep and raw—as she starts to move. Her hips roll against your face, using you like her own personal toy. You flick your tongue faster, sucking her clit when she rocks forward, flattening it when she tilts her hips back.

“Just like that,” she pants. “Fucking god, baby. Don’t stop.”

She leans back slightly, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the armrest for balance. Her thighs are tight around your head. Her moans grow louder, sharper, filthier.

“You love this, don’t you? Love being used like this—face full of my pussy, tongue fucking me like a desperate little whore.”

You moan in response, tongue plunging deeper, licking up every drop she gives you. She tastes incredible—musky, sweet, intense. You press your hands to her ass, pulling her down harder, letting her grind against your tongue however she wants.

Her movements get rougher, more erratic. She’s close.

“So fucking good,” she growls. “Gonna come all over your face, baby. Gonna soak you.”

And then she does.

Emily cries out, voice cracking, thighs trembling. She grinds down hard, riding your mouth through her orgasm, hips jerking with each wave. You drink her in, moaning into her cunt, loving every second of being her personal plaything.

She finally goes still—shaky, flushed, breathless—and looks down at you with a wicked smile.

“Now that’s how you prove you can handle an older woman.”

Emily’s still above you, her body glistening with sweat, her chest rising and falling fast as she catches her breath. Her thighs are still slightly trembling where they straddled your face, but there’s a grin on her lips—feral, proud. You made her come. Hard. But she’s far from done.

She leans down, kissing you deeply, not caring that her own slick is still wet on your chin. If anything, it turns her on more. Her tongue pushes past your lips with purpose, tasting herself on you, groaning when you moan into her mouth. The kiss is messy, needy—more animal than anything else. It’s tongues and teeth and heat.

Then, without a word, she pulls you up into her lap—managing to keep control of the moment even as your legs wrap around her waist. Her hands are firm at your hips, guiding you as she lowers both of you onto the rug in front of the fireplace, the flames throwing flickering amber light across your skin.

She shifts, and suddenly her thigh presses between yours—and you realize what she’s doing. You gasp.

“Oh my god—Emily…”

She hushes you with a kiss to your throat. “You said you could take me,” she murmurs. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

She positions her legs, and yours, until your pussies align—slick, sensitive, bare skin pressed to bare skin. You both inhale sharply at the first touch—hot, swollen, aching.

You grind forward first. Tentative. Exploring.

Emily exhales, slow and low. “There you go. That’s it, baby.”

You keep moving—rubbing yourself against her, your soaked folds sliding against hers, clits brushing and catching, slick noises mixing with your broken gasps. Emily grabs your waist, meeting every grind with one of her own, panting, her eyes locked on yours.

You’re nose to nose. Chest to chest. Wet and wild and completely, deliciously lost in it.

She kisses you again—sloppier now, desperate—and as your moans tangle in each other's mouths, she reaches up and grabs your jaw, tilting your head back.

“Open your mouth.”

You do, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

She leans in, tongue barely out—and lets a thick strand of spit drip from her mouth into yours.

You swallow it without hesitation, moaning like it’s the filthiest, hottest thing in the world.

Emily’s eyes go dark.

“You really are my perfect little slut,” she breathes, before her hand wraps tight around your throat again. This time firmer. Possessive.

The pressure makes your vision blur around the edges, makes every rub of your body against hers so much more intense. She’s grinding up harder now—her hips relentless, chasing that edge again. And you’re right there with her, every nerve ending on fire, soaked and shaking and completely hers.

“Come with me,” she growls, tightening her hand just slightly as her pace quickens. “Let me feel you.”

Your body gives in first—heat rushing through you like a lightning strike, thighs trembling, pussy pulsing, mouth wide open but no sound coming out as you collapse into her. But Emily doesn’t stop. She thrusts against you one more time, lets out a choked groan, and her whole body stiffens beneath you as she comes with a low, breathless moan right into your neck.

You both stay there, tangled, gasping, foreheads pressed together.

Chest to chest.

Pussy to pussy.

Still pulsing.

Still connected.

Eventually, she loosens her grip on your throat and strokes your cheek instead, her thumb brushing gently across your lips.

“That,” she says, still catching her breath, “was only round one.”

And judging by the look in her eyes?

You believe her.

Even though her voice was still rough with dominance—“That was only round one”—her touch changes almost immediately afterward.

You’re still straddling her, still tangled up in heat and heartbeat and sweat, your body soft and pliant against hers, when she lets out a long breath. Her hand slips from your throat to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with surprising gentleness.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

You nod, still dazed. “More than okay…”

Emily kisses your temple, slow and grounding. Then she lifts you carefully off her lap, guiding you down onto the rug beside her. You watch her body move as she stands—graceful, still naked, still so stunning it makes your throat tighten.

But this time, she’s not stalking. She’s not commanding.

She disappears down the hall for a minute. You hear a faucet running. When she comes back, she’s got a warm, damp towel in one hand and a softer look in her eyes.

“Don’t move.”

You don’t.

She kneels between your legs and begins to gently clean you up—slow strokes between your thighs, catching the mess of both your orgasms with careful precision. It should feel embarrassing, being spread out and wiped down like this—but somehow, with her, it doesn’t. It feels intimate. Reverent, even.

“You were incredible,” she says softly, pressing the towel against your inner thigh one last time. “You took everything I gave you.”

You look up at her, eyes hazy, lips parted. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

She smirks, but there’s warmth behind it now. “I know.”

She rises again and tosses the towel into a nearby hamper, then offers you her hand. You take it, and she pulls you up into her arms. She doesn’t bother redressing yet—just walks with you, skin to skin, back to the bedroom, where she peels back the covers and lets you climb in first.

Then she slips in beside you, spooning behind you, her arm wrapped firm and protective around your waist.

You’re sore. Spent. Blissed out. And entirely, completely hers.

As sleep begins to pull you under, you feel her mouth brush against the back of your shoulder, and you hear her whisper:

“Next time, I’m tying you up.”

And god help you—your exhausted body still shivers at the thought.

[theonottsbxtch]

WHEN THE CITY FALLS | OP81/LS2

an: hello! so this is what ive been cooking up behind your backs recently, a 14k logan? oscar? fic i dont exactly know who the love intrest is per say but its a spiderman!oscar au. so enjoy this story as it has taken a long long time to write lol

wc: 14.8k

summary: three close friends drift apart when one disappears for two years and returns with wealth, ambition, and a dangerous invention. as his creation spirals out of control, the city teeters on the edge of destruction. in the chaos, hidden truths emerge, and one of them may be the only hope left to stop it.

NEW YORK IN THE WINTER WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE CRUEL. The wind rolled in off the river with a bitterness that got under your skin, finding the gaps between scarves and sleeves, and the sky sat heavy above the skyline like it had nowhere else to go. Snow hadn't fallen yet, not properly, but there was the threat of it in the air, sharp and metallic, like something unsaid.

She stood at the corner of Delancey and Ridge, boots damp from the puddles left by yesterday’s half-hearted rain, a coffee gone cold in her gloved hands. Across the street, the lights of a bodega buzzed with the familiar, uninviting warmth of too-bright fluorescents. She could hear someone shouting in Spanish two blocks down, the rumble of the subway far beneath her feet, and above it all, the ceaseless, aching pulse of the city.

Logan used to say New York had a heartbeat. That you could feel it if you were quiet enough. But Logan was never quiet for long.

She hadn't seen him in months.

Not properly, anyway.

Logan Sargeant had always been too much. Too sharp, too quick, too beautiful in the kind of way that hurt to look at for too long. He’d grown into a man that mirrored the city. Cold on the outside, burning with something dangerous just beneath the surface. Blond hair, now cut short, framed eyes too blue to be kind. His childhood had carved out pieces of him, taken soft things and turned them to steel. And still, for a long time, he’d been theirs, hers and Oscar’s. Until he wasn’t.

Oscar Piastri was different. Always had been. Quiet, but not shy. He had the sort of presence that didn’t need to announce itself. A boy with calloused fingers from too many sketchbooks and eyes that saw more than they ever let on. He still lived two floors above her in the same battered brownstone they’d all grown up in, still fixed her leaky taps when she asked, still brought her takeout when she forgot to eat. Sweet, reliable Oscar. But even he was changing, these days.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Cuts he didn’t explain. That distant look she caught in the reflection of a window, right before he smiled and asked her how her day had been.

Everything was shifting, and she could feel it, like standing on the edge of something vast, something waiting to fall apart.

She remembered a time when the three of them had belonged to each other. Summers on rooftops with cheap beer and even cheaper laughter. Nights spent stargazing through fire escapes, hands brushing by accident. Secrets shared like promises.

But that was before Logan disappeared for two years. Before he came back stranger than before—richer, smarter, colder. Before Oscar started vanishing into alleyways and coming back with bruises and excuses.

Now, something hung between all of them. Not quite memory, not quite betrayal.

And she was standing in the middle of it, still hoping, naively, foolishly, that maybe she could hold the pieces together.

Even as they splintered around her.

The wind changed, and she caught the distant clang of scaffolding in motion, another high-rise going up on the Lower East Side, another piece of sky eaten by glass and ambition. She turned down a narrow street flanked by graffiti-covered brick and bins overflowing with city decay, the coffee still untouched in her hand.

There were footsteps behind her: light, familiar.

"You're late," she said, without turning.

Oscar fell into step beside her, his jacket dusted with street grime, hood drawn up against the wind. There was something restless in the way he moved, like his skin didn't quite fit anymore.

"Sorry," he murmured, giving her a sheepish glance. "Had to... help someone out."

She didn't press. Not anymore. The last time she’d asked, he’d lied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You look like you've been in a fight," she said instead, eyeing the faint bruise along his jaw.

He gave a quiet laugh. "You should see the other guy."

It was a joke, but it didn’t land. The silence that followed was too familiar. Worn in, like old denim.

She paused at a crosswalk, watching as a cab tore through a red light like the rules didn’t apply. That was the thing about New York. It moved too fast for second chances.

"I ran into Logan yesterday," Oscar said, and the words hit like ice down the spine.

She turned slowly, the name sitting between them like a fault line.

"Where?"

"Midtown. He was just... there. Like he hadn’t disappeared for two years. Wearing some tailored coat and that look he gets when he knows something you don’t."

That look. She knew it too well. The one that made you feel like a puzzle he’d already solved and was just humouring.

Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw clenched. "He said he wanted to talk. Said he was back for good this time."

"Do you believe him?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was soft. Tired.

"I don’t know. He’s not the same."

Neither are you, she thought, but didn’t say it.

They walked the next block in silence. It was colder now, the clouds thickening, and her coffee had definitely gone bad. Still, she didn’t let go of it. Something about the weight of it grounded her.

"He asked about you," Oscar said suddenly, his tone unreadable.

Her throat tightened. "What did you say?"

"That you were still here. Still... you."

She looked away. That word felt fragile these days. Like it didn’t mean what it used to.

They stopped outside her building, the stoop still half-covered in yellow leaves that no one had bothered to sweep. The same chipped door. The same rusted letterbox. A world still standing while everything else was quietly coming undone.

Oscar hesitated, eyes lingering on her face like he was memorising it.

"Be careful, yeah?" he said.

"With Logan?"

He gave a short nod.

She wanted to ask him what he knew. What he suspected. But the city was humming again, loud and unrelenting, and she felt suddenly very small beneath it.

Oscar left her with a quiet goodbye and the echo of footsteps on cracked pavement.

She stood there a while longer, staring up at the sky as the first snow began to fall, soft, almost shy, like the city had remembered how to be gentle.

But she knew better.

Some storms didn’t come with thunder.

They came wearing familiar faces.

The lift in her building had been broken since August. The landlord kept saying it was “on the list,” but she wasn’t sure he even knew what a list was. So she climbed the stairs. Twelve floors, each one creaking like it might finally give in under her boots.

By the tenth, her breath was shallow, and her limbs ached with the kind of fatigue that had nothing to do with the stairs. She reached the twelfth landing, paused to collect herself, and then pushed open the heavy fire door.

He was there.

Leaning against the railing of the communal balcony like he'd never left. Like he hadn't vanished without warning and taken something irreplaceable with him. The skyline was a blurred grey behind him and for a second she almost saw the boy he'd been. Grinning, brilliant, with a laugh that carried across rooftops.

"Thought I heard someone dragging their feet up here," Logan said without turning, his voice still that maddening blend of silk and smirk.

She crossed her arms, wary. "You're not supposed to be up here. They locked this level last year after the whole scaffolding incident."

He looked over his shoulder at her, blue eyes lit with mischief and something darker. "Good to know some things never change. You, playing by the rules."

"And you, breaking them."

He laughed, low and easy, and it stung how much of her still responded to that sound.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the railing and walking towards her, hands in the pockets of a coat that looked expensive, like everything he owned now. "I haven’t seen you in how long, and that’s the greeting I get?"

She tilted her head. "You’re lucky you’re getting anything at all."

He stopped in front of her, closer than comfort allowed, and for a breath she thought he might apologise. But Logan Sargeant had never been good with guilt. He just looked at her like he was still trying to work her out, still trying to stay two steps ahead.

"You look the same," he murmured. "Only sharper. Like the city’s finally caught up with you."

"And you look like you just stepped out of a stock portfolio."

He grinned. "Guilty. I’ve done alright for myself."

She narrowed her eyes. "Doing what, exactly?"

He glanced away, then back, the grin fading into something more deliberate. Calculated.

"That’s actually why I’m here."

"Right. You didn’t just come back to loiter on rooftops and haunt old friends."

He chuckled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ve been working on something. A project. Something big."

She didn’t answer, just waited, still as the concrete beneath them.

"It’s tech," he continued, leaning on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the city. "Osc—well, he wouldn’t get it. He’s got his whole... moral compass thing going. But you always saw things clearer."

"You mean I didn’t try to stop you when you crossed lines."

"No," he said, with a flash of sincerity. "You understood why I crossed them."

That silenced her.

"I need someone who can help me with the neurological interface part," Logan said after a pause. "It’s experimental. Military-adjacent, but I’m reworking the design. Smarter, more elegant. I’ve hit a wall."

"And you thought of me."

He looked at her again. This time, there was no smirk. Just that boy she used to know, hidden somewhere behind too many sleepless nights and bad decisions.

"I never stopped thinking about you."

The lights flickered above them, a thousand pinpricks in the corridor.

"I’ll send you the specs," he said, without much more, heading toward the stairwell. "Just have a look. That’s all I’m asking."

He paused at the door.

"I missed you."

Then he was gone.

And she stood there alone with her cold coffee and thoughts, because the boy she’d loved was still in there somewhere.

But something else was growing in him, too.

Something dangerous.

Her flat still smelled faintly of jasmine and burnt toast. Comfort and chaos in equal measure. She tossed her keys onto the counter, kicked off her boots, and tried not to think about how Logan had sounded when he said I missed you.

She failed, obviously.

The email came in not long after she’d switched on the little lamp by the sofa, its warm glow chasing away the creeping dusk. Subject line: Interface: concept files. No message, just the attachment. Classic Logan. All mystery, no manners.

She hesitated before opening it. Something in her gut twisted, instinct honed over years of knowing when things seemed fine but weren’t. Still, curiosity had always been her fatal flaw, and Logan had always known how to wield it.

The file was... extensive. Schematics, neural maps, prototype visuals. It wasn’t just “tech.” It was weaponry. Not in the conventional sense, but in potential. A sleek glider prototype integrated with AI feedback loops. A cognitive synchronisation helmet that could read and respond to neural signals in real time. And then there were notes in the margins, written in Logan’s exacting hand.

Emotional override needed. Current model reacts too strongly to fear.

Must correct aggression triggers. Still too unpredictable. Or not?

User = control. No limits. No interference.

Her heart beat faster the more she read.

It was brilliant. Unquestionably. Years ahead of what most companies were developing. But there was a coldness to it, a ruthlessness she didn’t recognise. Or maybe she did, and just hadn’t wanted to see it before.

She pushed the laptop away, stood, started pacing. There’d been late-night conversations once, Logan talking about power, about how the world didn’t reward kindness, about how if he had control, things would be different. Better. He’d laughed when she called him dramatic. Said she didn’t get it.

Maybe she hadn't.

Until now.

A knock rattled the door. Sharp. Three taps.

Her heart lurched, she didn’t know why, but she opened it without checking the peephole.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie up. Eyes wide.

“You saw him,” he said.

She nodded.

“He gave you something, didn’t he?”

She stepped back silently, let him in. He stalked to the kitchen like he lived there, which, in some ways, he always had.

“I didn’t open it right away,” she said, like it mattered.

Oscar didn’t look at her. His jaw was tight.

“He’s not just back to catch up,” he said. “He’s working with people. Dangerous ones.”

“How do you know?”

He finally turned, and there it was, that look again. Like he’d seen too much. Like he was balancing on a knife’s edge between exhaustion and something heavier.

“Because I followed him last night,” he admitted. “I saw him meeting with Oscorp defectors. People no one good wants to be seen with. And I found this.”

He pulled something from his jacket, crumpled, faintly singed. A test printout. Identical design language to the file on her screen. Same logo Logan had tried to scrub from the schematics. Only this version had a name scrawled across the top.

“Project Harpy.”

She stared. “Harpy?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “Old military codename. The original model was meant for field destabilisation, crowd control through terror. They scrapped it. Too unstable. Logan’s trying to rebuild it.”

She sat down, hard.

“So what do we do?” she whispered.

Oscar’s expression darkened. “We stop him.”

But she wasn’t sure if he meant to stop the project.

Or stop Logan.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

She just let Oscar talk while he moved around the kitchen like he needed to, like stillness might swallow him whole. He talked of what they could do with liminal information until the sunset. He had poured two mugs of tea even though she hadn’t asked, but at no point did she talk about the file, until she did.

The sun began to set through her small window when she pointed at her screen.

“He’s not building a weapon,” she said eventually. “Not just that. It’s like he’s building himself into it.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” She hesitated. The words were thick in her throat. “He used to talk about it. Control. Power. Not having to be afraid anymore.” Oscar leaned against the side of the sofa, his shoulders taut. “He was afraid. All the time. You know that.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. “I was there.” And suddenly she was back there. Fourteen, rain on the fire escape, Logan shaking with cold and rage after another row with his dad, her arms around him, his whisper against her skin: Don’t let go. Promise you won’t let go.  (By the way the devilish idea i have for this part)

And she hadn’t.

Not until he made her.

Oscar watched her carefully. Like he saw too much and said too little.

“You cared about him.” It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t look at him either.

“It wasn’t just friendship,” she said finally. “But it never became anything, not really. Just moments.”

Oscar nodded slowly, like he was memorising the shape of that hurt. He didn’t push. He never did. 

“You should get some rest,” he said. His voice was gentler now. “You’ve been up since early this morning, and this isn’t something we’ll figure out in one night.”

She didn’t argue. Her limbs were heavy, and the anxiety had started to settle somewhere deep in her chest, too wide to dislodge. Still, when she walked toward the bedroom, Oscar followed, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had happened before. Sleepless nights and old films, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder on the sofa when the city felt too loud. This was just that again. Except it wasn’t.

He hesitated at the door.

"You sure?" he asked, quiet.

She nodded. "Yeah. I don’t want to be alone tonight."

And he didn’t say anything more. Just stepped inside and laid down on the far side of the bed, facing the ceiling. There was space between them. Not enough, not really.

She lay on her side, back to him, staring at the wall.

Her mind was still on Logan.

On the way he’d looked at her, like she was still his. The way he’d said ‘I missed you’ and made it sound like a promise and a warning at once.

He wasn’t just back with a plan. He was back with purpose. And she knew, deep in her bones, that he’d find a way to use what they’d shared. Twist it. Weaponise it, like everything else.

Oscar shifted behind her. She could feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breathing.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to.

But there was something unspoken in the air between them, like maybe he wanted to. Like maybe he had for a long time.

She closed her eyes.

And all she could see was Logan.

The morning came grey and low, clouds pressed against the windows like the city itself couldn’t quite wake up.

She blinked against the dull light, the bedsheets twisted around her legs. The other side of the bed was empty, cold already. Oscar was gone.

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair from her face, the weight of the night before still knotted in her chest. For a moment, she let herself wonder if she’d imagined him being there at all, just another ghost in an apartment full of them.

When she stepped out into the front room, the kettle was cooling down. A cup of tea waited in the microwave, hastily made, eliciting a small chuckle out of her. He’d always done the same thing in the past couple of months.

From the corridor she could hear her neighbour’s cat meowing for access to the balcony. She walked to the front door, turned the bolt then pulled, only to get halted by the chain still being on. 

She frowned.

Oscar couldn’t have left that on from the inside. Not unless…

She stopped herself. Told herself he’d maybe left through the fire escape even though he knew it was dangerous. 

But something about it itched at the edge of her thoughts.

Brushing it off, she let the cat out and walked back into the kitchen, pulling out the cold tea, not bothering to heat it.

Logan’s file still sat open on her laptop, the schematics staring back at her like a dare. She skimmed them again—lines and circuits, symbols she recognised from years of university lectures, annotated with little notes only someone who knew her would write.

You always hated redundancies. Fixed it for you.

Bet you’d tell me this is idiotic. (You’re probably right.)

It was the kind of thing he used to do. Tease. Impress. Show off. It used to make her laugh. Now it made her heart sit wrong in her chest.

She walked up to the laptop and noticed something she hadn’t earlier, then she grabbed her coat.

Fuck looking like a normal human being, she thought.

Then in her head she heard sixteen year old Logan in her head, “Who would even care if I walked out the house in my boxers, we’re in New York!”

The note had an address, the building across town where her and Logan went when Oscar was working. An old sublet on East 19th. Classic Logan.

She told herself she was only going to get answers, that she wasn’t seeking him out. 

The streets were quieter than usual. Maybe the weather had kept people in bed longer. Or maybe the city was holding its breath. 

She reached the building just after eight. Tall, red brick, windows like hollow eyes. The lift here did work, and she took it up to the aforementioned floor, her heart shuddering harader with every number that ticked past. It wasn’t normal for an office this big to be so empty.

When the doors opened, he was already waiting.

Like he’d known she’d come.

“Morning, love,” Logan said, barefoot, tousle haired, mug in hand. He looked too at ease in this makeshift studio. “Miss me already?” She stepped out slowly, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “Where is everyone?”

He tilted his head. “Funny thing about abandoned buildings. They tend to be, well. Abandoned.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, eyebrows lifting. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” He leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing down her like a memory. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, raising a brow. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, completely unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” His gaze flicked over her, slow and deliberate. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

She folded her arms. “You left that address on purpose.”

Logan didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “Wasn’t sure you’d catch it. But I figured if you did, you’d come.”

“I came for answers.”

“No, you came because you’re curious,” he said, stepping back into the open space of the studio. “Same as always. You can’t help yourself.”

She looked to her left where she could hear some whirring. The makeshift lab was cleaner than she expected, industrial, minimal. Wires looped neatly along the floor, diagrams pinned in lines along the concrete wall. In the centre, the table buzzed softly with low-power tech, a prototype glinting in the low light like something half-born.

She walked past him, slowly, keeping her distance. “Oscar said you’ve lost it.”

Logan gave a low laugh. “Oscar’s always needed someone to blame. You know that.”

“He’s not wrong about this.”

He came to stand beside her, not too close, just enough that she could feel the heat off him. His voice lowered.

“But you didn’t turn away either, did you?”

She looked down at the schematics spread across the table. Her fingers itched to move the pieces around, rearrange the formulae like puzzle pieces, solve it before he could ruin it.

“I’m not saying it’s safe,” she murmured. “But if I help you. If I take charge of the framework, maybe it doesn’t have to be dangerous.”

His smile deepened. “There’s the girl I remember.”

She shot him a sharp look, but he only stepped closer.

“I don’t need saving, you know,” he said, voice softening. “You’re not here to fix me. You’re here because part of you gets it. Part of you wants this.”

She swallowed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like we’re on the same side.”

“But we are,” he said, and this time his hand brushed hers as he reached past her, innocent, almost, except for the way his fingers lingered. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She could feel the pull of him then, quiet and dangerous, like gravity had changed its mind about how the world worked. Her skin was humming with it.

“I knew you’d come around,” he whispered.

Her breath caught, just for a second. His face was close now, the warm edge of his smile only inches from hers. Not cocky. Not smug. Something gentler. A softness that wasn’t supposed to be there.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

She should have stepped back.

That would’ve been the smart thing, the right thing. But her feet didn’t move, and neither did his, and between them was a silence that thrummed with everything unsaid.

Logan's eyes searched hers, not in that arrogant way he used to do when he knew he had the upper hand, but quieter. Something unreadable settled behind his lashes. Like he was trying to remember the shape of her from the inside out.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

She wasn’t. Not really. Just, wired. Overcaffeinated without the caffeine. Her nerves pulling taut in ways they hadn’t in years.

"No, I’m not."

"You are," he said, and there was something close to amusement in his voice, but not cruel. Just observant. Just Logan. "You always do, when you’re trying to make a decision too fast."

She looked down. At his hand on the table beside hers. At the blue glow of the screen reflecting off the metal. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

"You don’t get to do that. Pretend like nothing’s changed."

His head tilted slightly. "Who’s pretending?"

"You left." She met his gaze again, steadier now. "You disappeared and let us believe—"

"I didn’t want you part of it," he said quickly, not sharply, but with a force that startled her. "You and Oscar. You still see the world like it’s got rules. I see it for what it really is."

"You think that makes you better?"

"No." He paused. "I think it makes me prepared."

She stared at him. "You’re planning something you can’t undo."

He didn’t argue. Just leaned in slightly, enough that his breath hit the edge of her cheek. “Maybe. But if you’re there to build it with me, then maybe it won’t need undoing.”

The worst part was, a part of her understood. Not agreed. But understood.

And that part of her wanted to reach for the plans. To take the mess he’d made and drag it into something better. Safer. Less like him.

Her throat was tight. “This isn’t fair.”

"What isn’t?"

"You. Doing this." Her hands balled into fists. "Looking at me like that."

He smiled again, soft. Painful. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still sixteen and I’m still stupid enough to believe you'd never hurt me.”

That landed. She saw it flicker through him, fast, behind his eyes.

“I never meant to,” he said quietly.

Silence fell again, sharp-edged and too loud.

Then, softer this time, gentler: “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just don’t walk away.”

She should. She should. But instead she found herself sitting on the edge of the table, just beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

She didn’t look at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure,” he said, a little laugh curling under the word. “Of course not.”

His thigh pressed lightly against hers. The contact was nothing. Barely there.

The distance between them had dissolved without her noticing, and now it was all heat and unspoken things sitting heavy between them.

The blue light of the schematics cast soft shadows across his jaw. He looked almost gentle like this, in the stillness. Almost.

And then her phone buzzed in her pocket, she pulled it out.

They both glanced down at the screen.

Oscar.

She froze.

Logan looked too, and smirked. “Well, well. Speak of the boy scout.”

She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

“You should answer,” Logan said, casual, but something about the way he leaned back slightly told her he was watching very, very closely.

She swiped to pick up, bringing the phone to her ear. Her voice came out thin, too even. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” Oscar’s voice was immediate. Concerned. “I’m at yours, doors open but unless you’re hiding from me I can't find you.”

She glanced sideways, heart pounding. Logan had turned away, giving her space, but not really. His head was tilted just enough to hear every word.

“I’m getting bagels,” she said quickly. “Sorry. Forgot my phone was in my pocket.”

A beat. Oscar didn’t sound suspicious, just soft. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

She hung up before he could say anything else. The quiet in the room returned like a blanket pulled too tight.

Logan turned back to her, expression unreadable.

Then he reached out, slowly, fingertips brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before trailing lightly down to her cheek. The touch was maddeningly soft. Familiar.

“Some things never change,” he murmured, thumb grazing her skin. “You’re still covering for me.”

Her breath caught. She was furious at the way her chest responded to it.

“I used to cover for you when you skipped school or snuck out past curfew,” she said, voice sharp. “Or when your dad came asking where you were and I had to lie to his face.”

“This isn’t that,” he said, quiet now. “I know.”

She looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

His hand dropped, but the air still felt like it was holding its breath.

“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “You’re already here.”

Two weeks passed, just like that.

The city moved around her, traffic and sirens and steam rising from manhole covers, but it all felt quieter somehow. Like her world had shrunk down to two flats, a laptop, and a dozen unsent texts.

She was spending her mornings at Oscar’s, helping him track down fluctuations in the local power grid, strange pulses he swore weren’t natural, though he never quite said what he thought they were. Afternoons were spent in Logan’s repurposed studio, surrounded by circuitry, algorithms, and a headache that wouldn’t quite go away.

She told herself she was keeping both of them from doing something stupid.

Logan’s work had evolved. Rapidly. Too rapidly, if she was honest. The first few days were just sorting through the wreckage of what he’d built alone, poor shielding, over-ambitious neural syncing, feedback loops that would’ve fried the average person’s spine.

She’d streamlined it. Quietly, carefully. Introduced control parameters, adjusted the safety thresholds. He let her, too. Even seemed to enjoy having her close, watching over his shoulder like she was the only one who could keep him steady.

Sometimes he didn’t even say anything, just looked at her like he was memorising the way she moved.

Other times, he flirted like it was breathing.

“I still think the copper’s a bad call,” she muttered one afternoon, squinting at the prototype’s inner casing.

“Still bossy, I see,” Logan replied, crouching beside her. “Haven’t changed since you used to correct my spelling.”

“I was right then, too.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Yeah. You usually are.”

He was close again. He always was. There was always a reason for him to lean in, reach past her, touch her arm or shoulder in a way that felt like an accident and wasn’t.

And she let him. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That this was about control. Keeping him from spiralling.

But when he looked at her, sometimes it felt like the ground wasn’t solid beneath her feet.

Meanwhile, Oscar…

Oscar had started keeping things from her.

She noticed it first in the small things. His laptop slammed shut when she walked in. A folder buried too deep in his hard drive. The time he said he was on a walk but came home bruised and didn’t explain why.

She didn’t push, not yet. But it stuck to her, that unease. Oscar didn’t lie. He never lied.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“You’re working too hard,” he told her one night, curled up on her sofa, hoodie pulled over his head. “You haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I can see it.”

He passed her a takeaway container without a word. She took it. Ate. Didn’t mention the thin layer of grime under his fingernails or the split on his knuckle.

She couldn’t be in two places at once. Couldn’t keep playing translator between two boys who wouldn’t speak to each other, both of them caught in some war she didn’t fully understand.

But she stayed.

Because part of her believed she could still save this—save them.

Even if it cost her something she hadn’t yet named.

The prototype pulsed with light now. Not constant—irregular, like a heartbeat gone wrong.

She sat on the floor of Logan’s studio, cables tangled at her knees, half a dozen failed failsafes spread out in a messy sprawl beside her. The heat off the core was stronger than it had been yesterday. Too strong.

“You pushed it again,” she muttered, pulling off her jumper and tossing it aside. The room felt like a greenhouse.

Logan crouched beside the desk, tools in hand, utterly unbothered. “Tweaked the resonance field. It’s stabilising, relax.”

“No, it isn’t,” she snapped. “You’re running through safeguards faster than I can write them.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, smirking. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

She didn’t answer. She was too busy running diagnostics on the regulator he’d overclocked while she was out yesterday. Again.

“Logan, if this field collapses, you’re not walking away. I won’t be able to stop it next time.”

His smile faltered, just slightly.

“You could always walk,” he said after a beat, soft.

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Because he knew she wouldn’t.

That night at Oscar’s, she barely spoke. She sat at the window while he worked on his computer behind her, typing fast, a faint tremor in his right hand. She stared down at the streetlights blurring in the rain, her thoughts still half in the lab.

Oscar’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then stood.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

She looked over. “Now?”

“Yeah. Just need to check on something near the subway. Weird power spike.” He shrugged on his jacket.

“Want help?”

He hesitated. “No. It’s… not that kind of thing.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

She found the first real clue two days later.

She was at hers, rummaging for the spare charger Oscar kept leaving behind, when she noticed his hoodie hanging on the back of her chair. Not unusual. But when she picked it up, something dropped out of the pocket.

A small, torn scrap of red fabric. Coarse. Like something from a costume.

And blood. Dried.

Her stomach turned.

In Logan’s studio, the tech was louder now. Humming, thrumming. Hungry.

“You need to slow down,” she said firmly, voice hoarse from too many sleepless nights.

He looked at her, really looked, and for a second there was a flicker of something that unsettled her.

“I can’t,” he said. “We’re so close.”

“Close to what?”

He didn’t answer.

She opened the interface, scanning the data. “You adjusted the neuro-link sequence without telling me.”

“I knew you’d try to stop me,” he said simply.

She stared at him. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is now.”

And still she didn’t leave.

The following night she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Between the hum of Logan’s project, now an ever-present pressure at the base of her skull, and Oscar’s half-answers, dodged questions, and suspicious bruises, sleep had become more theory than reality.

The next time she saw Oscar, it was because she followed him.

She hadn’t meant to. She told herself she was just walking the same way. That she was being ridiculous. That the scrap of red in his hoodie pocket meant nothing.

But then he ducked down an alley. Pulled something from under his hoodie.

A mask.

Her heart stopped.

Not metaphorically. Actually, stopped.

She stepped back, too fast, her heel scuffing the concrete. A tiny sound. He heard it.

“Hello?” Oscar turned, eyes narrowing behind the red half-mask. The rest was still bunched in his hand.

She froze.

He stared. She stared back.

Silence swelled.

Then, quietly: “…You followed me?”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe, let alone speak.

Oscar’s shoulders dropped. His hand dragged down his face. “Shit.”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

It wasn’t a question. She already knew. Knew in the pit of her stomach, where every late night and bruised knuckle and sudden disappearance made a sick kind of sense.

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at her, gutted.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Her voice was sharp. “Before or after I found your blood all over my living room?”

Oscar winced. “I didn’t want to put you in danger—”

She laughed. Bitter. “Bit late for that.”

She left before he could explain more. She couldn’t hear it, not then. Not while her phone buzzed again with another update from Logan’s build log, another late-night adjustment she hadn’t signed off on.

When she got back to the studio that night, the air felt wrong. Too charged.

The prototype was alive now. She didn’t know what else to call it. It moved, pulsed, responded.

Logan was there, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, eyes wild with possibility.

“You’re back,” he said, barely glancing away from the display. “Look at it. It’s listening to me now.”

“It’s not supposed to listen to you,” she snapped, storming in. “It’s supposed to run on code, not instinct.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I rewrote the framework.”

“You rewrote the laws of physics, Logan. That wasn’t the deal.”

He finally looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in days, he frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re asking me now?” she snapped. “After pushing this thing to near-collapse? After locking me out of your logs for twelve hours?”

“I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“You don’t get to cut me out and still act like we’re on the same team.”

The lights on the core flared, hot, blue-white. She stepped back.

“This isn’t what we started,” she said, quieter. “You’re not building something. You’re becoming it.”

Logan’s eyes softened, but it didn’t comfort her. It made her skin crawl.

“You sound like him.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Why? He’s the hero now, yeah?” Logan’s voice was almost calm, but it carried teeth. “Little Mr Boy Scout. You going to run to him now? Tell him how to stop me?”

“I didn’t run to anyone. I tried to fix this.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“But you knew. All this time, you knew you’d have to choose.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

And she hated that more than anything.

She didn’t remember getting home.

Her keys had slipped once at the door, hands shaking, and she’d stood in the hall for a full minute before trying again. Inside, the apartment felt alien, like she was walking through someone else’s life. Same chipped mugs in the sink. Same plant in the corner. But her breath wouldn’t steady.

She dropped her bag in the hallway, still half-zipped. Kicked off her shoes. Didn’t even bother with the lights.

She collapsed onto the sofa, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight like she could physically hold herself together.

Then the tears came.

Silent at first. Just that awful stinging behind her eyes, the kind that made you clench your jaw until it ached. But then they spilled—fast and hot, her face buried in the sleeve of her hoodie, sobs breaking loose in sharp bursts.

She cried for Logan. For Oscar. For the version of herself that used to laugh when they bickered and dreamed about changing the world.

She cried because she didn’t know who to save anymore. Or if she could.

And eventually, exhausted, she crawled into bed and let the darkness take her.

Somewhere else in the city, Logan didn’t sleep.

He stood in the centre of his makeshift lab, hands trembling slightly with the excitement. He had done it. He had done it.

The prototype was alive. The neural interface he’d spent weeks perfecting hummed quietly beneath his fingertips. Every line of code he’d written, every sleepless night, all the warnings he’d ignored—he could feel it now, like a rush of euphoria. It was working. It was all working.

The helmet sat next to him, sleek, matte-black, perfect in its design. But that wasn’t the prize. No, the real victory was the neural link, the thing embedded deep into his spine now, fusing with him. The prototype wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was an extension of him. It was him.

He grinned, sliding the helmet onto his head with a steady hand. The system activated almost immediately, a soft pulse across his temples as the neural interface kicked in. He could feel it, like a second mind connecting with his own, feeding him streams of data in a way he'd never known before.

For a moment, there was only clarity. Pure, untainted clarity. He could see everything, every problem, every solution, unfolding right before him like an intricate map.

Logan’s breath was slow and deep, taking it all in.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “I’m better than I’ve ever been.”

But something shifted in that moment. The device, still humming beneath his skin, pulsed again. Stronger. A sharp, sudden sensation rippled through his back as if a small surge of electricity shot through his spine. He flinched, but only briefly. It was... new. But it didn’t hurt. No, it was something else. Something... right. He wanted to feel it again. To keep pushing, to see how far it could go.

He let the neural link go further, feeling it sync even deeper. His movements were faster now, every thought sharper, more precise. His hands moved on their own accord, as if his body had learned a new language, a secret code he hadn’t known existed.

Then, with a sickening click, the mechanism inside him did something unexpected.

It shifted.

He froze as the connection between his mind and the device deepened, spreading like roots beneath his skin. His spine arched involuntarily. The sensation was so strong, like a burning thread threading into the base of his skull and down into his very bones.

“Shit,” Logan breathed, but his voice was strange to him. As if someone else were speaking through him.

The machine responded, not in words, but in need, an urgent pressure building in the back of his mind.

He could feel it now. A presence. Something more than just the tech he’d so carefully crafted. It wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was beginning to take control.

But there was no panic. No fear. Logan didn’t fight it. He welcomed it.

Because this... this was power. True, unbridled power.

The device shifted again. It was deeper now, rooted inside him, crawling into places his mind could no longer reach. He could feel something warm spread under his skin—a new sensation, foreign but thrilling. The neural link was more than he’d ever imagined, connecting him to a world of data, a world of control.

And that was when it happened.

The device, a part of him now, locked in.

A flash of metal. Then, suddenly, his back screamed as the device pressed itself fully into his body, sharp, invasive, but unmistakably his. He felt it—like a part of him had been replaced. A pulse of satisfaction rippled through him, and Logan gasped, arching his back with the sensation.

He laughed then. Giddy. Overjoyed.

“I knew you’d get it right, mate,” he whispered to himself, eyes wide with exhilaration.

Then, with an almost casual ease, he lifted his hand. The suit flickered to life around him, surrounding him like a second skin, sleek and dangerous.

Logan’s grin spread wider.

This was only the beginning.

It wasn’t long before Logan’s chaos began to bleed into the city.

The streets had always been a chaotic tangle of New York life, but now it was... different. A sense of purpose flowed through the air, heavier, more suffocating. The city had no idea what was coming for it.

First, it was the banks. Security systems shorted out, alarms blaring as vaults cracked open. But there was no robbery, just the vault doors hanging open in a strange, silent invitation. Then, the power grids flickered, like the entire city was breathing under his control. The hum of lights and machines warped, flashing erratically as if they were under a spell.

And then came the sky.

Logan hovered just above the city, a dark silhouette against the glow of Manhattan’s skyline. He watched as the skyline bent to his will, grinning, watching the chaos unfold. His body, still bound in that sleek suit, pulsed with the unnatural energy the machine had given him. His back burned with every pulse, but it wasn’t pain—it was power.

And the power tasted sweeter with every second.

Back at her apartment, she jerked awake.

A crash. Her eyes shot open. A sound too loud. Too close.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Just stared into the dark, trying to will the sleepiness out of her bones.

The next crash was louder. A thud against the fire exit door. Her heart skipped a beat.

She shot up, breathing shallow, slipping out of bed. She grabbed her phone for light, but instinct told her exactly what she’d find.

Her bare feet hit the cold floor, and she made her way towards the balcony, hesitating just before the door. The night air pressed against the glass.

She reached for the handle, taking a breath, and then—

The door swung open.

She froze.

There, standing tall and too at ease on the balcony, was Logan.

But he wasn’t the Logan she knew.

The suit he wore was alive with that strange pulse, glowing faintly like it was breathing. It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was part of him.

He turned to her, a flicker of recognition behind his eyes, but it was distant. Cold. Something had shifted.

A slow smile spread across his face, but it wasn’t playful. Not the teasing grin from their past.

“Hello, love,” Logan’s voice was flat, empty. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She swallowed. “Logan...?”

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers with an unsettling focus. Then, without hesitation, he reached up and pulled off the helmet, tossing it aside.

And for a moment, everything was still.

His eyes, empty. Hollow. Not a trace of the boy she used to know. No warmth, no playfulness, just this void.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as the entire suit shifted, shrinking away from his body. It detached slowly, too slowly, as if the suit was resisting coming off. But eventually, the black, sleek material slipped away, revealing his bare chest. His torso was toned, but marked with strange, angular scars, and along his spine, there was a faint glow beneath his skin. The machine inside him, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Logan stood there, chest rising with the faintest of breaths, eyes cold as ice.

“It worked,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper. “You helped me make it work. And now…” He took a slow step forward, closing the space between them.

She took a step back. “What... What are you doing, Logan?”

His lips curled upward into something that was not quite a smile.

“Doing?” He stepped closer again, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. “I’m taking control. Taking what’s mine. This city—hell, the world—it’s mine now. And I’ll do what I want with it.” He gestured to the machine on his back, an almost reverent look in his eyes. “I’ve earned this, haven’t I?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body trembled, unable to contain the sharp, raw sorrow that hit her all at once. “Logan, please, this isn’t you. This isn’t what we wanted.”

Logan chuckled, a dark, cruel sound. “This is exactly what I wanted. This is the future. The one I should’ve had all along.”

The pain in her chest deepened, and she couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She stepped back, clenching her fists as sobs wracked her body. “I—I tried. I tried to stop you...”

Logan’s gaze softened for a moment, just a moment. But it was fleeting. He stepped forward again, closing the distance.

“Sometimes people just need a little... push.” He brushed a hand across her cheek, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coldness in his eyes. “Thanks for helping me get here. I couldn't have done it without you.”

She flinched away from his touch. “Please, Logan... don’t do this. You’re not a monster.”

He didn’t reply. He only stepped back, looking at her one last time, eyes unreadable.

“You’ve got your own path now. And I’ve got mine.”

With that, he turned, stepping into the night putting his helmet back on, the suit forming back around him as he disappeared into the city’s skyline.

She stood there, trembling, heart breaking in her chest. The tears fell freely now, silent, unstoppable.

She collapsed onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, shaking as she let it all out.

And then, almost instinctively, she reached for her phone.

Oscar’s name flashed on the screen, a call already incoming.

She answered before she even thought about it. Her voice was shaky, tear-filled.

“Os... Oscar...” She couldn’t hold it together. “I—I need you.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice sharp with concern. “Where are you?”

“I—I’m at my apartment. But it’s...” She choked on the words. “It’s Logan. He’s... he’s gone too far.”

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t save him, Oscar,” she whispered. “He’s not the boy we knew. He’s something else. And I—I couldn’t stop it.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m coming,” Oscar said, the urgency in his voice clearer now. “I’ll be there. Just hang on.”

But as she hung up, all she could do was sit there, hands trembling, staring at the dark, empty space where Logan had stood.

The city had just gotten darker.

She didn’t move.

The night had cooled, but she didn’t feel it. The city buzzed and breathed beneath her, unaware of the shift that had just taken place. The world looked the same, and yet everything had changed.

She stayed crouched, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the spot where Logan had stood. The faint imprint of his boots was still on the concrete, the last ghost of him. The boy she’d known, laughed with, fought with, loved in some strange, quiet way, was gone. She’d seen it in his eyes. There was nothing left to reach for now.

The machine had taken him.

And worse, she had helped.

She didn’t hear him at first. There was just a breeze, a shift in the air, then the soft sound of the railing above just shifting.

Her breath caught.

She looked up.

There he was, silhouetted against the sky, crouched in that way only he could, black and red suit hugging to every line of him. The mask was off.

Oscar.

His brown hair was messy, eyes wide, searching. 

His expression dropped when he saw her.

“Hey,” he said, soft, like she might shatter.

She didn’t respond.

He stepped off the railing and landed with barely a sound, moving toward her like he wasn’t sure if she’d let him close. She watched him the whole time, as if she was trying to reconcile the boy next door with the man in the suit. She hadn’t let herself picture him like this, not really. But now, here he was.

Not a rumour. Not a hunch.

Spider-Man.

She blinked at him. “It’s really you.”

He nodded, a bit helpless. “Yeah.”

She let out a quiet breath, something bitter on her tongue. “God, of course it is.”

Oscar crouched beside her, close enough that their knees nearly touched. “I wanted to tell you so many times. I just, I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

She let out a small laugh, raw and humourless. “Oscar, I’ve just watched someone I love walk off my balcony with a machine in his spine and a war in his eyes. You actually being Spider-Man barely makes the top three things ruining my week.”

His face faltered, and she saw the guilt tighten around his eyes. She hated that it made her want to comfort him, when she was the one falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Oscar hesitated, then reached out slowly, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the cold concrete. She didn’t pull away.

“Was it really that bad?” he asked.

She turned to look at him then, really looked at him.

“It wasn’t Logan anymore,” she said. “He took off his mask and there was just… nothing. Like he’s not even in there. Just this thing. This machine. And he thanked me. He thanked me, Oscar, like I was the final piece he needed to destroy everything.”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He just took her hand properly now, fingers curling around hers. She let him. It was warm. Grounding.

“I tried to save him,” she whispered. “I thought if I stayed close, if I made the plan safer, I could stop it getting this far. I really thought I could pull him back.”

Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You don’t give up on people. That’s what makes you... you.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’ve finally lost him.”

Oscar looked away, jaw tense. “Then we’ll stop what’s left of him.”

She glanced down at their joined hands, then back at his face—open, earnest, a little scared. She saw everything now. The boy she grew up with. The man he was becoming. Spider-Man. Oscar. All of it.

“I didn’t want you to be this,” she murmured, more to herself. “Didn’t want you to have to carry this, too.”

His voice was soft. “I don’t have to. Not alone.”

The tears came again, but quieter this time. She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his. He didn’t move. Just stayed there with her, in the quiet, in the heartbreak.

The city roared on below.

But for a moment, there was only the two of them.

Still.

Together.

Waiting for the dawn.

Logan was quiet for a few days.

Too quiet.

The news blamed the citywide power outage on a transformer fault in Queens. A minor fire, a bit of faulty wiring, easily fixed. No casualties. Nothing to worry about.

She didn’t believe it for a second.

She’d seen the look in his eyes that night. The machine in his back hadn’t just bonded, it had chosen him. The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the kind of stillness just before the storm breaks.

She went through the motions. Helped Oscar with patch-ups, tracked minor disturbances around the city, and pretended, poorly, that she was sleeping at night. But the weight in her chest never lifted. It sat there, heavy and constant, like something had already begun to rot.

It was the fourth morning after Logan had crashed onto her balcony when she woke up with that feeling.

It wasn’t panic. Not quite. It was deeper. Older. Something primitive, instinctual. Like the way birds knew when to fly south. She blinked at the ceiling, her body still, her skin prickling.

She knew where she needed to go.

She didn’t shower. Didn’t dress properly. Just jeans, a hoodie, old trainers. The studio on East had been left untouched since Logan vanished into the sky, but the thought of it sat stubbornly in her gut.

She walked. No cab, no train. Just her and the cold spring wind, biting through her sleeves and keeping her sharp. The city was halfway between sleep and wakefulness, too early for full chaos, too late for quiet.

When she got to the building, the doors were jammed with a piece of scrap metal Logan had clearly wedged there. It took effort to get inside, but eventually, she slipped past the creaking frame and stepped into the hushed stillness of the lobby and up the stairs.

Dust floated in the light like falling ash.

The desk was as he’d left it. Blueprints scattered, wires half-soldered, bits of tech that buzzed faintly with residual charge. She moved carefully, like disturbing anything might trigger some dormant trap.

She pulled the schematics towards her, different from the ones he’d left on her laptop. These were earlier. Cruder. Full of aggressive red ink. One line circled in particular, over and over again: Adaptive neural integration interface.

She stared at it. Below, a note in his handwriting: If it bonds properly, it learns. Improves. Evolves.

She felt cold all over.

Then she noticed something else, a flash drive tucked beneath a paperweight. No label. Just a scratch down one side like it had been jammed into too many ports too fast.

She slipped it into her coat pocket.

That night, the city began to burn.

She didn’t see the first explosion, she felt it. The tremor in the air. The faint hum through the soles of her feet. Then came the sirens, the lights, the swell of panic rising like a tide.

People pointed at the sky. Phones were raised. Social media lit up.

A shadow swept across midtown, unnatural, too fast to be a drone, too erratic to be human. Police scanners scrambled to keep up. A laboratory in Tribeca collapsed in on itself. A substation in Brooklyn sparked, then died.

And then, at 1:07 a.m., she opened her window and saw him.

Logan.

Hovering, back arched with the pulse of the suit. The device on his spine glowed like an exposed heart, veins of light crawling up his neck, down his arms. He moved like liquid shadow, graceful, terrifying, wrong.

A building behind him erupted in a blossom of fire.

She gripped the window ledge, breath caught in her throat.

This was no test run. This was war.

She stayed by the window for too long.

Too long to pretend she wasn’t watching. Too long to convince herself she wasn’t hoping, praying, that he’d turn around and look at her. But Logan didn’t glance her way. He just soared higher, then dipped low toward the skyline, fast and sleek like a blade. The machine moved with him, or maybe he moved with it. It was impossible to tell where the man ended and the weapon began.

By the time the screaming sirens reached her block, she had already stepped back inside.

She didn’t turn on the light. Just the television.

Every channel was the same, static, noise, hysteria in different tones. Fires. Blackouts. Emergency services overwhelmed. Civilians told to shelter indoors. Then, on one of the live feeds, the camera caught it.

Spider-Man.

Oscar.

She sat on the arm of the sofa, staring at the screen like it might offer answers. He swung down from a rooftop, landed in the middle of a crumbling intersection, and caught a falling girder mid-air like it weighed nothing. There were shouts, flashes of red and blue. More drones, or things, shot past overhead. He flung himself after them without hesitation.

He looked small on the screen. Fragile, even. But she knew better. Knew how strong he really was. How he fought like it mattered.

Because it did.

Because it always had.

Her fingers twitched.

She stood up suddenly, heart racing now for an entirely different reason, and crossed the room to her coat. She pulled out the flash drive and stared at it, the scratch on its side catching the light.

Whatever Logan had left behind, whatever he hadn’t wanted her to see, it was on this.

She booted up her laptop on the kitchen table, fingers trembling slightly as the machine hummed to life. The screen blinked awake with a quiet whirr. She hesitated only a moment longer, then slotted the drive in.

It didn’t load immediately.

There was a pause. Like it had to think. Then the screen flickered, and a window opened on its own.

NEURAL LOG SEQUENCES – LOCKED

[Enter override credentials]

She stared at the prompt, breath held.

It was protected. Of course it was.

She tried the obvious first, his birthday, their old lab login, his mum’s name. All rejected. But then she remembered the sketchpad he'd carried around at university, the one he'd covered in graffiti-level drawings and handwritten equations.

There’d been a name on the back, in big crooked letters.

PYTHIA.

She typed it in.

The screen shivered, then shifted.

Override accepted. Begin sequence.

And then it began to unfold, video, files, half-recorded logs. Logan, speaking into a mic, wild-eyed, frantic, rambling. Diagrams of the neural link. Schematics she hadn’t seen before. And beneath it all, buried in subfolders, something labelled:

Secondary Protocol: Autonomous Control – ENABLED

Her heart dropped.

Autonomous?

She clicked into it, pulse quickening.

The code was dense, written in loops she couldn’t untangle on sight. But the gist was clear enough: the device was more than just a conduit. It was learning. Growing. Thinking. And if it ever deemed its host compromised...

Her hand flew to her mouth.

It could override him.

She stared at the screen, stomach twisting. Somewhere outside, the sky lit up again. The TV blared with the sound of sirens and glass breaking. Spider-Man’s suit flashed red across the screen as he leapt from another collapsing building.

She looked at him.

Then at the code.

Then back again.

Logan wasn’t the only one in danger now.

The whole city was.

She barely noticed the sun come up.

The screen cast her in blue light, soft and cold, as line after line of code scrolled past her tired eyes. Her fingers hovered above the keys, pausing only to scribble something down on a notepad already crowded with frantic, looping handwriting. There were equations she hadn’t touched since university, frameworks that were half-Latin, half-madness. Logan hadn’t just built this system, he’d buried it beneath ten layers of arrogance and desperation.

Some of it she recognised. Neural feedback loops. Power modulation. Synthetic stability thresholds. The kind of tech that could map a mind in real time and reroute its impulses. And then—

That secondary protocol again. Buried deeper than before, like it knew it shouldn’t be found.

Failsafe active. Host override requires dual-auth.

Failsafe. Dual-auth.

She exhaled shakily, raking a hand through her hair.

He’d written a backdoor. Somewhere, hidden in this madness, Logan had coded a way out, but it needed two keys.

Hers… and his.

A laugh escaped her, dry and bitter. Of course. Even in his descent, he’d tethered himself to her. Even now, when he was burning the city to the ground, he’d built the lock with the hope. No, the assumption, that she’d come looking for it.

That she’d come for him.

Outside, the chaos was escalating.

More sirens. The screech of tyres. At one point, a distant blast shook the windows in their frames, and dust from the ceiling rained down onto the table. She barely flinched. The TV was still on, the volume low, but the footage was relentless.

Buildings damaged. Streets overrun.

Spider-Man caught on every screen, swinging, diving, shielding people with his body, his suit scuffed and singed. And always trailing behind him, a blur of green and black and red, fast as hell and twice as cruel.

Logan.

Or what was left of him.

She pulled her focus back to the code. She couldn’t think about Oscar now, couldn’t think about the way his voice had trembled the last time they’d spoken. Couldn’t think about the ache in her chest when Logan had said her name like it still meant something.

All she could do was work.

She didn’t have a suit. Or powers. Or a symbol to rally behind. All she had were her hands, her brain, and the blueprint of a boy she’d once known, before the noise, before the machine, before the world shifted beneath their feet.

So she dug deeper.

Piece by piece, she traced the architecture. Tried to isolate the command lines. She could see where it had learned him, mirrored his rhythms, his instincts, his anger. It didn’t just amplify Logan.

It became him.

But it was still code.

And code, at the end of the day, could be broken.

She scribbled a new set of instructions. A loop. Something rudimentary. Crude. It wouldn’t dismantle the suit, but it might delay it. Mute the feedback for just long enough to slip in a second override. If she could get close enough.

If Logan hadn’t already been consumed entirely.

Her hands stilled.

And for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to feel something.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Resolve.

She snapped the laptop shut, tucked the flash drive into the pocket of her jacket, and grabbed the notebook.

There was still time.

Not much.

But maybe, just maybe, enough.

She ran.

Half of Manhattan was still gridlocked from the chaos, so she took side streets, back alleys, her boots slick from rain and city grime. The wind had picked up, warm and electric, the kind that came just before another storm. By the time she reached the gates of the old university lab, dusk had begun to stretch long fingers across the skyline.

The side door was still jammed the way she remembered, too old to lock properly. She slipped inside.

It was all exactly as they’d left it years ago. Dust on the shelves. Faint smell of solder and burnt coffee. A poster on the far wall still read “Innovation Starts With Curiosity”, curling at the edges from time and apathy. She moved quickly, muscle memory taking over. Lights on. Equipment powered up. She opened her laptop, connected the drive, started reworking the patch code.

The room filled with the hum of machines, old fans stirring warm air as night fell thick outside the narrow windows. It was like stepping back in time, except everything was burning now, and she didn’t have Logan at the next station over making jokes under his breath.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps behind her.

Not until the door creaked.

She turned, already knowing.

Oscar stood there, mask in hand, hair sweat-dampened, face drawn tight with exhaustion and something close to fear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low.

She didn’t look up from the code. “And you shouldn’t be out there alone.”

He stepped inside, glancing once around the room like it was foreign to him. “I was at the dockyard. He’s not slowing down.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” he said, more firmly now. “That thing, it’s not Logan anymore.”

She paused. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, just for a second.

“I can fix it.”

Oscar’s silence filled the space like smoke. She finally looked at him.

“I can,” she repeated, quiet but certain. “He built it with an override. I found it. I just need time.”

Oscar came closer. “He almost levelled a power grid and threw a firetruck into the East River.”

“I know,” she said. “But I can’t just, leave him. Not like this.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous. You get close to him again and he won’t let you walk away.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, her mind flicked, uninvited, to a memory.

Summer. They were nineteen. Still cocky, still stupid, still full of fire.

She’d fallen asleep on the floor of this very lab, cheek against her notebook, and woken to find Logan sat beside her, hoodie half-off, legs stretched long in front of him. He’d scribbled something into her notes in his messy handwriting.

Don’t drool on the equations. It’s not cute.

She’d punched him in the arm. He’d grinned like he always did—sharp, dangerous, charming.

But then he’d looked at her.

Really looked at her.

“D’you think we’ll still be here in ten years?” he asked, quiet, for once. “Changing the world and that?”

She’d snorted. “We’ll be lucky if we haven’t blown up the chemistry block.”

He’d gone quiet again. Then: “If I ever do something stupid. Proper stupid. You’d stop me, right?”

She’d blinked at him, half-asleep. “Course I would.”

He’d smiled.

“Good. Then I won’t need to be scared.”

The memory faded, ripped away by the whirr of her laptop and the weight of the moment.

“I promised him,” she said softly, eyes burning now.

Oscar stood frozen for a long moment, then exhaled. “You’re not sleeping. You haven’t eaten. You can’t carry this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp now, but not cruel. Just scared. “Because it feels like you’re walking into fire and locking the door behind you.”

She didn’t reply. She just turned back to the screen and started typing again, faster this time. She felt, more than heard, Oscar step back. The sound of the door closing behind him was softer than expected.

She didn’t cry.

Not this time.

There wasn’t time for that.

The hours bled together.

She barely felt them pass.

The world outside could’ve stopped spinning and she wouldn’t have noticed, except it hadn’t. It was spinning faster, spiralling downward, chaos growing in concentric rings. And every minute she didn’t find it, Logan moved further out of reach.

He was losing control.

She could feel it, see it in the footage that looped endlessly in the corner of her screen. At first, there’d been a strange precision to his destruction, almost deliberate. Now it was messier. Unpredictable. The drones no longer moved like extensions of him; they twitched erratically, glitching mid-air before launching into full attack. Bridges crumbled, rooftops sparked and smoked. People fled from shadows they didn’t understand.

He wasn’t just hurting the city anymore.

He was unravelling with it.

The code showed the same thing. She saw it in the neural sync logs, spikes and crashes in the feedback loop. Moments where Logan fought the system and lost, over and over again. The machine was still learning, evolving, tightening around him like a vice. Every time he lashed out, it pulled tighter.

God, Logan…

She didn’t sleep.

Didn’t eat.

She drank cold coffee from the faculty fridge and paced the lab like a caged thing, the override protocol always just out of reach.

And then, just past four in the morning, it surfaced.

Buried beneath three false folders, nested in what looked like corrupted code. A failsafe, just like she’d suspected, but not for stopping the machine entirely. That would’ve been too clean. Too merciful.

No, this was something else.

SYNC INTERRUPTION: Host Reboot

Her pulse kicked.

She opened the code and began skimming, fast, desperate. If she could isolate the connection for even twenty seconds, she might be able to destabilise the link between Logan and the core AI. That would give him time, her time, to force the manual override and reset the system.

It wouldn’t destroy the suit.

But it would give her a window.

She was shaking now. With relief. With adrenaline. With something dangerously close to hope.

She hit compile, shoved her hair out of her face, and turned to the TV as she reached for her phone.

The channel blinked into view.

Breaking news. Live feed.

Midtown skyline. Fires glowing like veins through the dark. Smoke curling into the morning light. Cameras struggled to keep up with the movement, drones dipping and swerving above a cluster of skyscrapers. Then—

A flash of red.

A figure swinging in low, catching the edge of a crumbling crane and launching upward again.

Oscar.

She stepped closer.

The camera jerked suddenly, and then, there he was. Logan.

Hovering like a shadow against the buildings, wind flattening his hair, the exposed machine in his back pulsing with frantic light. He wasn’t wearing the full suit now. His shirt was gone, and the interface curled like metallic vines across his spine, lit from within. His face was twisted, something between euphoria and rage, and for a second, even on screen, it looked like he was screaming.

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

The skyscrapers. It had to be downtown. She could get there.

She could end this.

She grabbed her drive, stuffed it into her jacket pocket, and ran from the lab without even shutting the door behind her.

The city was on fire.

Not literally, though close enough. Sirens howled through the dawn, lights ricocheted off glass towers, and somewhere above it all, two shapes danced a deadly arc across the skyline.

She sprinted through the last blocked-off street, breath ragged, shoes pounding against the pavement. Her lungs burned. Her head was ringing. But she could see them now, Oscar and Logan, silhouetted against the breaking light. The drone-suit glinted with a mind of its own, flaring whenever Logan lifted his arms, the neural plates at his back twitching like muscle.

He was slipping, completely.

She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the yells from NYPD, ducking a toppled barricade and scrambling over the scorched bonnet of a car. A figure swung low—Spider-Man—webbing across a collapsing crane, then launching himself up again.

Then he saw her.

He landed in front of her so fast the wind nearly knocked her over.

“You shouldn’t be here!” Oscar’s voice was muffled by the mask, but his posture was tight, shoulders hunched, heart in his throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve got it, Oscar, I’ve got the override, I can stop it!” she said, pulling the flash drive from her pocket, her hand trembling.

“You don’t understand,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not him anymore, he’ll kill you.”

She shoved past him. “Then let me die trying to save what’s left of him!”

Oscar hesitated, but it was enough time for her to break into a run, heading towards the fire escape of a nearby tower.

“I’m serious!” he shouted. “You need to get back, now!”

Then: thwip.

A line of web shot past her, too fast to dodge, and stuck to her wrist, yanking her sideways. She screamed as her hand was slammed against a metal bollard, locked in place with a quick twist of white tensile silk.

Her chest heaved.

“Oscar!” she yelled, her voice shattering the air. “You didn’t—you can't—!”

He froze at the sound of his name.

It hung between them like smoke.

She realised too late what she’d done, called him that, here, in front of everyone.

His masked head tilted, almost slowly, like the moment itself had hiccuped. Then he backed away, leapt upwards into the fight again, vanishing behind clouds of debris and twisted scaffolding.

Her arm pulled at the webbing. It wouldn’t give.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck’s sake!” she muttered, kicking at the post.

A man nearby, mid-forties, in a delivery jacket, hovered awkwardly. “Uh—d’you want help with that?”

She looked at him, wild-eyed. “Yeah—yes—get it off!”

He reached into his satchel, pulled out a penknife. “Mate of mine works NYPD. Says these webs dissolve in acetone, but, don’t have any, so…”

“Just cut it!” she snapped.

With a few frantic scrapes, the fibres began to tear, and her wrist came free, red-raw but usable.

She was already running.

The rooftops. She needed height. A direct line of sight to Logan’s core. She dodged a toppled pylon, shoved open a cracked door, and started up the emergency stairwell of the nearest skyscraper.

Ten floors. Fifteen.

Her legs screamed.

But she had to get to him.

Had to make him hear her.

Because if she didn’t, he’d be gone forever.

The door to the rooftop flew open with a slam that echoed off the concrete.

Wind slapped her in the face, hot with smoke and static.

Below, the city churned like something alive, sirens and screams, the low thrum of failing power grids, the crackle of burning air. But up here, it was clearer. She could see everything. The skyline was broken in half, and above it, like a god gone rogue, Logan hovered.

The machine in his back pulsed, erratic now, convulsing in jagged beats. It glowed an unnatural blue, veins of energy crawling up his spine like lightning caught mid-strike.

She dropped to her knees near the roof’s edge, tugged her laptop out of her bag, jammed the flash drive into the side. Her fingers flew.

The code opened like a wound.

Override sequence. Neural interrupt.

Come on. Come on.

Far above, Logan turned mid-air.

The suit twitched.

Her screen glitched. Static burst across her files, like interference from a signal too close, too aware.

She gasped as her laptop jolted in her hands.

The machine had noticed her.

“Oh, shit.”

A whine built in the air, low and sharp like feedback from a speaker. Logan’s silhouette flickered, just for a second, and then he dived.

Straight for her.

She scrambled to her feet, laptop tucked against her chest, backing towards the roof’s water tank. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might break through her ribs.

He landed like a thunderclap, skidding across the concrete.

The metal across his body sparked and shuddered, the plates shifting of their own accord, iridescent and alien. But his eyes, when she dared meet them, were still blue. Still his.

Almost.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice came out raw. Filtered. Like the machine was speaking through him.

She gritted her teeth. “Finishing what I started.”

The interface on his spine whirred, and without warning, a drone peeled off from his shoulder, slicing the air between them. She ducked, just as it fired, blasting a chunk from the water tank behind her.

The shockwave threw her sideways, her laptop skidding across the gravel.

She reached the device just as Logan’s boots crunched against the roof behind her.

“You’re clever,” he said. “Always were. That’s what I liked about you.”

His voice faltered for half a second—glitched again.

She clicked into the override field, half-blind with panic. “You still like me, Logan?” she whispered, not looking up. “Or is that just the parasite talking?”

A pause.

Then a guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl.

Another drone rose beside him.

She had seconds.

Fingers flying, she bypassed the firewall. The override sequence popped into place—final confirmation blinking red.

“Don’t,” Logan said, stepping forward. “You do this… I might not be able to stop what comes next.”

She looked up. Her face was streaked with tears, hair whipped wild by the wind.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to try.”

And she hit enter.

The override hit like a jolt, Logan staggered, a distorted scream tearing from his throat as the neural plates along his back sparked violently. One of the drones spun out mid-air, crashing into the neighbouring rooftop in a shower of metal and flame.

She crawled forward, watching in breathless horror as the machine writhed against him. It was peeling, slowly, like something alive being torn from flesh. Wires sparked where metal met spine, smoke curling upwards into the dawn.

And for the first time in weeks, she saw him.

His chest heaved. His eyes flickered—blue, clear, human.

“Logan?” she breathed.

He looked at her. And for a second, just a second, it was him. Her Logan. The boy with the bright smile and sarcastic mouth and stupid drawings in her notebooks.

Then another drone swooped low overhead and she ducked, heart hammering. Across the sky, Oscar was still fighting, swinging between cranes and girders, webs snapping taut as he tore drones apart mid-flight.

The machine shrieked through Logan’s mouth, and suddenly he turned on her again.

She scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over loose cabling. Her laptop was fried, screen cracked down the middle, override incomplete. He stumbled after her, his movements disjointed, like the machine was losing control but still fighting to keep him moving.

Her hand hit something cold.

A metal pipe. Bent and rusted at the end.

She didn’t hesitate.

With a cry, she swung it, hard. It caught him across the side, knocking him sideways. Sparks flew from the exposed tech in his back as he dropped to one knee, groaning.

“You have to fight it!” she screamed. “Logan, please, you have to fight it!”

His face twisted, not rage, not pain. Fear.

Then the parasite’s voice came, warped and layered, more hiss than speech. “You should’ve let him die.”

He stood, half-dragging his limbs, half-possessed by the thing trying to survive.

And then, it happened.

The edge.

The roof was crumbling under the chaos. A drone hit one of the girders supporting the fire escape, and Logan, caught in the aftershock, stumbled backwards, right to the ledge.

His heel slid.

He tried to steady himself, but the machine spasmed, twisting his body the wrong way, making it worse.

She bolted forward without thinking.

He slipped.

“No, Logan!”

Her hand snatched his wrist just as he went over the edge.

They teetered there, weight balanced on the brink of nothing.

His eyes locked on hers.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, voice cracking.

He was trembling. The machine twitched violently across his spine, cables whipping against the wind. For a terrifying second, it looked like it might rip him out of her grip.

Then, in the quiet, broken like a breathless memory, he said it.

“Don’t let go,” he choked. “Promise you won’t let go.”

Tears streamed down her face. “I won’t,” she said. “I never would.”

Her fingers ached with the strain, the sharp bones of his wrist slipping against her grip. The metal was hot, burning hot, sparking and writhing as the machine fought back, twisting Logan’s body unnaturally, trying to pull him down.

“No—no, I’ve got you—Logan, hold on!”

He was trying. God, he was trying. His free hand clawed at the ledge, feet scrambling against thin air. But the parasite wanted free, it wanted to fall, to vanish into the wreckage, to consume him entirely.

And he was so tired. She could see it in his face.

He looked up at her, lip bloodied, eyes filled with a kind of quiet terror. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” she sobbed, whole body shaking. “You’re not going to die down there! Not like this!”

But the slick of oil and blood and smoke was too much. Her grip slipped.

“No—no, no, no—”

And then he fell.

“LOGAN!”

The scream tore from her like it ripped something inside her open. Raw and ragged, it echoed across the rooftops, down the streets below, every inch of heartbreak threaded through the sound of her losing him.

Oscar, mid-air, froze.

He turned toward the sound, toward her scream, and saw Logan drop like a stone through smoke and broken glass.

No hesitation.

Oscar dived.

He twisted through the air, webs snapping out towards building edges, traffic lights, anything he could latch onto.

The wind howled in his ears.

He reached out, arms outstretched—

Come on, come on—

And just before Logan vanished into the chaos below, Oscar caught him.

The impact jostled them both hard, nearly yanking Oscar’s shoulder out of its socket, but he held on, webbing them into the side of the nearest tower, both of them swinging low before slamming into a scaffold.

Above, she collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, hands still out like she was trying to grab him back from the edge.

She didn't realise she was still crying until the salt hit her lips.

Her voice was hoarse now, the scream still lodged in her chest.

But he was alive. Somehow.

They were both alive.

She didn’t remember how she made it down. She flew through the stairwell, lungs burning, knees nearly buckling with each turn. Her ears rang with the sound of her own blood rushing, feet slipping on concrete, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might give out altogether.

The scaffolding came into view at last, twisted and dented where they’d landed.

And there—

Oscar was kneeling beside Logan, the mask torn halfway off his face, chest heaving. His hands were slick with blood and oil, arms braced around Logan’s body as he leaned in and yanked.

A wet, sickening crack echoed out as the machine tore free from Logan’s back, an unholy thing of metal and wire and exposed circuitry, screeching as it detached. Logan let out a strangled cry, barely conscious.

“Jesus—” Oscar swore, tossing the machine away like it burned him. “I need a medic! We need, someone call an ambulance!”

She sprinted the last few steps, nearly falling onto her knees beside them.

Logan was sprawled out, blood spreading beneath him. His chest rose in shallow, stuttering breaths, skin pale, eyes fluttering.

She reached for him, cradling his face in shaking hands. “Logan—Logan, stay with me, yeah? It’s me, I’m here—just stay with me, please—”

Her voice cracked, a sob breaking free as she pulled him against her, his blood soaking into her sleeves. He didn’t move much, just the faintest turn of his head toward her, like he knew.

“I couldn’t save you,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m still here.”

Behind her, Oscar stood frozen.

He watched as she held Logan, rocking him gently like they were sixteen again, back before any of this, back before wires and drones and masks.

His hands, still trembling from the fight, curled into fists at his sides.

This was the girl he’d grown up with. The girl he’d loved quietly, patiently, always from the corner of the room. The girl he thought, maybe, one day.

But here she was. Crying into Logan’s chest like the world had just fallen through her hands.

Oscar looked away.

The sirens wailed in the distance now, growing closer.

And all he could do was stand there, watching her stay for someone else.

Oscar didn’t wait for the medics.

Didn’t wait for her to say anything, or even glance back.

He just pulled his mask down over his face again, jaw tight, breath sharp. The webline hissed as it latched to the edge of the building. And then, he was gone. One smooth motion, vanishing into the skyline with a thud of wind and fabric.

She didn’t even see him go.

One week later:

The hospital smelt like antiseptic and regret.

Late afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, striping the floor in gold and grey. Machines beeped steadily, too steadily, and the occasional murmur of nurses bled in from the corridor beyond.

Logan lay still in the bed, tubes in his arm, bandages pressed tight across his ribs. The scars down his spine were fresh and angry, burnt-in reminders of the thing that had burrowed into him. He hadn’t said much since they’d pulled it out. Mostly, he just stared.

The door creaked.

Oscar stepped in.

No mask now. Just him. Shoulders tense beneath his hoodie, one hand still faintly grazed and bandaged. His eyes flicked to Logan’s, but neither of them spoke straight away.

It was the first time they’d been alone in weeks. Maybe months.

Logan gave a faint smirk, dry as dust. “Thought you’d swing in through the window.”

Oscar didn’t smile.

“I wanted to look you in the eye when I asked why.”

A beat. The machine beeped in the silence between them.

Logan’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Oscar stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Try me.”

For a long time, Logan didn’t speak. He looked… small. Not physically, Logan was still tall, still built like he could hold the weight of the world, but there was something hollow behind his eyes now. As if the parasite hadn’t just burrowed into his body, but had found the last untouched bit of him and snuffed it out.

“I was tired,” he said eventually. “Of being nothing. You remember what it was like. Always someone better, always someone smarter. I thought… I thought if I made it mine, I could control it. The chaos. My name would mean something.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “So you built a machine that nearly levelled the city. Brilliant.”

“She was trying to help me.” Logan’s voice was quiet, bitter. “She believed in me. Even when I didn’t.”

Oscar looked away at that, just for a second.

Then he stepped closer to the bed, eyes hard.

“You used her.”

“I loved her,” Logan snapped, voice cracking like brittle glass. “And maybe that makes me worse. But don’t stand there pretending you didn’t want her to choose you.”

Silence. Electric. Sharp.

Oscar’s fists were tight at his sides now, but he didn’t move.

“You broke her heart,” he said, softly. “And you’re not the only one who has to live with that.”

He turned toward the door, one hand already reaching for it, before pausing.

“She’s not here,” he said without looking back. “Because she’s tired, Logan. Because she nearly died trying to save you.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Staring at nothing.

The door clicked shut.

And Logan was alone again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132 @mercurymaxine

[better-setterv2]

hiii is it okay if i request a Lewis x Reader where they got into a fight then the reader went out to cool her head and got stalked and followed by some creepy guy around and she decides to call lewis to come get and save her! u decide how it ends but i guess it's okay to end in fluffxcomfort hehe thank youuu!

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Here’s a quick one-shot someone requested. Lots of love xx

Summary: After an argument, you walk out to clear your head only to be followed, forcing Lewis to step in and prove his love when it matters most.

Warnings: angst, stalking, arguments

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Setting LA: During F1 Season

You didn’t want to fight.

God, that was the frustrating part.

You hadn’t come into the evening with a chip on your shoulder or some grand, silent plan to guilt him into a confrontation. If anything, you’d tiptoed around the tension like it was glass on the floor hoping it wouldn’t crack under your feet.

For weeks now, you’d been telling yourself this was normal. That it came with the territory of dating someone like Lewis - someone who lived in milliseconds and margins. Someone who could dissect a race down to a single turn but hadn’t noticed how distant he’d become with you.

You had rationalised the late replies, the way he’d kiss your temple with that distracted look still in his eyes, like he was only half here — the other half in Monaco, or Maranello, or buried in a simulator. You told yourself it was okay. That this part was just temporary.

But tonight, something inside you cracked.

You stood in the kitchen, arms folded tightly across your chest, the soft flicker of candlelight casting shadows along the tile. The takeout sat unopened on the counter, still warm.

You had ordered his favourite Thai from that place he liked in Silver Lake. He always said their green curry reminded him of the off-season in Bali.

You even set the table. Real plates, not the plastic ones from the containers. A small vase with a single daisy you’d picked up from the farmer’s market on a whim. Music hummed low from the speaker a playlist he’d made for you back when things felt lighter.

Back when he used to send voice notes just to say he missed your face. Back when he looked at you.

But it was nearly ten, and he still hadn’t come down.

The food was probably going cold. The candles had melted into soft wax puddles. And you were still standing there like you were waiting for something to change.

You leaned back against the counter, biting the inside of your cheek as you glanced at the clock again. Your arms tightened around yourself, a self-made brace against the ache building behind your ribs.

Upstairs, his voice carried through the walls in muffled tones of calm, steady, professional. Another strategy meeting. Another Zoom call. Another moment where he was somewhere else.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it burned going down.

You didn’t want much. Not really.

Just a night together. An hour, maybe. Time to just exist in the same space. To feel like you still belonged in the world he’d built around himself. Like he hadn’t forgotten how to love you.

You exhaled sharply and pushed off the counter, your feet carrying you upstairs before your brain caught up.

You weren’t even sure what you planned to say -if you were going to cry, or beg, or just sit outside his door like a ghost.

But then he stepped into the hallway, and you froze.

He was wearing that soft black hoodie you always stole when he wasn’t looking, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, jawline shadowed with the beginnings of stubble.

He still looked beautiful maddeningly so. Exhausted, but beautiful.

His phone was in his hand, screen lit. “Ohhey,” he said, like he was surprised to see you.

That stung. Like you were the unexpected part of his own home.

“Did you eat?” he asked, casual. Distant.

Your heart twisted painfully. “I was waiting for you.”

He blinked, his eyes drifting from you to the phone. Just for a second. But it was enough. “Babe, I told you I had calls tonight.”

“I know,” you said, quietly. “I just thought maybe you’d want to spend some time together after.”

Silence.

A silence that stretched just long enough to make your stomach turn.

Then his jaw tensed, a subtle but familiar flicker of frustration tightening the line of his mouth.

“You know this part of the season is heavy,” he said, not unkindly but tired, like a thread being pulled too tight. “I’ve got the team on me, press stuff every day, workouts…”

You nodded; lips pressed into a thin line. You were trying really trying not to let your hurt show. But it was there, peeking out through the cracks.

“Yeah. I know. But I just thought one dinner together wasn’t too much to ask.”

He sighed. Not in anger, exactly. But in that way people do when they’re already tired and feel another burden settling on their shoulders. “This again?”

The words hit you like cold water.

You stared at him. “This again?” you echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m just saying,” he replied, dragging a hand down his face. “Every time I’m swamped, it turns into a thing. I’m doing the best I can, alright?”

You felt your eyes sting. “Lewis, I’m not asking for a full vacation. I’m asking you to look at me when your home. Talk to me like I’m here. Not like I’m another thing on your list.”

His phone buzzed in his hand.

He didn’t answer it. But his gaze flicked to the screen.

And that, God did that cause the crack of what broke you.

Your voice shook. “Is it that hard to make space for me in your life right now?”

His head snapped up. His eyes sharpened instantly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I don’t care. That’s not fair.”

You took a shaky breath. “Well, it doesn’t feel like you do.”

His entire body went still.

For a beat, he looked like you’d slapped him.

Then something shuttered behind his eyes, and his jaw locked. His voice dropped a register. “You know what? I can’t have this argument right now. Not with the schedule I’m on.”

You blinked, stunned. “Right. Because your job matters more than I do.”

“That’s not what I said,” he snapped, sharper than before.

“No,” you whispered, “but it’s what you showed me.”

Silence.

Thick. Hot. Loud in your ears.

And then, without a word, he turned. His footsteps hit the stairs with sharp, clipped precision as he moved past the kitchen, past the table you’d set, past the candles you’d lit, past the food you’d ordered just for him.

You heard the door to the office open.

Then the hard slam as it shut.

And then, cruelest of all the click of the lock.

You stood frozen on the staircase, staring at the place where he’d been just moments ago, your breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream.

He’d shut you out.

Literally. Physically. Emotionally.

And somehow, that hurt more than any fight ever could.

You sat alone for almost an hour.

The living room, once softly lit with warm, flickering candlelight, now felt cavernous and cold.

The untouched takeout sat in front of you on the coffee table noodles limp, sauce congealing, condensation long gone from the containers.

You twirled some onto your fork, more out of obligation than hunger, and forced a bite past the tight ache in your throat.

It was lukewarm now. Tasteless. Comfort food that didn’t comfort.

The TV was off. Your phone was silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the house settling a quiet that pressed against your eardrums until it felt like loneliness itself had taken shape in the room with you.

You weren’t angry. Not really.

You were just exhausted. Bone-deep tired. Of hoping. Of reaching. Of being the one to always understand, always wait, always forgive.

Of feeling like a ghost in the home you shared, haunting the same halls as someone who once held you like a lifeline and now barely looked up when you entered a room.

So, you stood. Slowly. Quietly. You left the noodles and curry behind, left the candles burning low and grabbed the first hoodie by the door one of his, soft with wear and pulled it over your head.

Your fingers fumbled for your keys. You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t need to. You weren’t storming out. You just needed space to think. To breathe.

To remember who you were before your heart felt like background noise in someone else’s life.

The Los Angeles night wrapped around you like a balm cool and soft, the kind of gentle chill that pricked your skin through the fabric but didn’t quite make you shiver.

The streetlights spilled gold onto the pavement in uneven halos. Cars passed in the distance, distant murmurs of a city that never quite slept. You walked with your hands buried in the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, your earbuds in but no music playing just static silence, blocking the world without giving you anything in return.

You turned corners without purpose. Your sneakers whispered against the pavement. It was a walk without a destination only a quiet, aching hope that maybe the movement would clear your head, shake the fog from your chest.

Maybe, if you walked long enough, you’d stop missing someone who hadn’t even left not physically, anyway.

But then you noticed him.

A man. On the opposite side of the street. Hoodie up. Tall. His gait unhurried, like he had nowhere particular to be. You only spared him a glance at first the city was full of people, after all. Nothing unusual. You turned left toward the park, your pace unchanging, and told yourself not to be dramatic.

But twenty feet later, he was still there. Still walking. Still matching your pace subtly, but unmistakably.

Your skin prickled.

You stopped to pretend-check your phone, standing under the glow of a streetlamp like it was a safety net. You scrolled aimlessly, eyes flicking to the reflection in the screen. He turned too. Same angle. Same stride. Still behind you.

A drop of sweat beaded at the base of your spine, despite the chill.

You crossed the street. So did he.

Now your heart wasn’t just beating it was hammering. Loud. Hot. A thud-thud-thud that drowned out the city sounds.

You swallowed hard and took a sharp right, into a residential street lined with silent houses and trimmed hedges. Your breath came a little faster now. You knew what your instincts were telling you.

This wasn’t nothing.

You glanced behind again. He was closer. Twenty feet? Fifteen?

That’s when you ran.

You didn’t plan it. You didn’t give yourself time to second-guess. You bolted your legs pumping, lungs burning, your breath ragged as your shoes smacked the pavement. The air ripped past your cheeks. The houses blurred.

You turned left, then right a jagged escape route through a neighbourhood that had always felt safe. Not tonight. Not with this stranger moving like a shadow behind you. Not with fear clawing up your throat like a scream you wouldn’t let out.

You risked a glance back.

Still there. Steady. Calculated.

He didn’t run and somehow that was worse. Like he didn’t need to rush. Like he knew he’d catch up eventually.

You fumbled for your phone with shaking fingers, nearly dropping it as you struggled to unlock the screen. Your fingerprints weren’t registering right. Sweat and fear made your touch erratic. Finally, finally, the home screen lit up. You hit Lewis’s name.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Please pick up.

Three times. Four.

Tears threatened, hot and sharp.

Then -

“Hello?”

You nearly collapsed with relief.

“Lewis -”

His tone sharpened in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

“I - there’s a guy” you gasped, ducking behind a low brick wall surrounding a stranger’s front yard. Your knees hit cement. “He’s following me. He’s been…he won’t stop - he’s still behind me, I think, but I ran, I’m hiding, I don’t know what to…”

“Where are you?”

That voice. That familiar, steady voice. Suddenly it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“I turned off Mulberry,” you stammered. “I’m near Sycamore. I didn’t mean to go this far, I just needed air and -”

“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up.”

Your breath hitched. “I shouldn’t have left. I just…”

“Babe,” he said, and the word cracked something open in you. “Don’t do that. Just stay on the line. Talk to me, alright? You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You crouched lower. The wall felt rough beneath your palms. Your scraped knee throbbed, but you barely noticed. “I don’t see him. I think he’s trying to figure out where I went.”

“Stay hidden,” he said. You heard him moving the low jangle of keys, the rev of his car. “I’m almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered again. “I just needed air.”

“You’re not wrong for needing anything,” he said softly. “You’re allowed to need space. You’re allowed to feel.”

The sound of tires screeching made your heart leap.

Then, low and cold: “I see him.”

A beat of silence passed.

“He’s looking around. Crossing the street. He doesn’t know where you went. But I’ve got him.”

Your heart seized. “Lewis please don’t—”

“I’m pulling up now. Don’t move. Not until I say.”

You clung to the phone. Your breathing was ragged, shallow. And then a door slam. Footsteps. Rapid, heavy. Familiar.

Then his voice, like thunder: “Hey!”

It was a voice you’d never heard like that. All steel and fury and edge.

The man paused. Turned slightly. A flicker of recognition or maybe fear.

“I know what you’re doing,” Lewis said, stalking forward. His voice was low and lethal. “One more step and I call LAPD. You think I won’t?”

“I wasn’t -” the man stammered, hands barely raised.

“Don’t lie to me,” Lewis snapped. “You’ve been tailing her for blocks. I saw you. Now get the fuck out of here.”

The man hesitated.

Then he turned. Walked off. Fast. Not running but leaving. Gone.

Lewis didn’t even watch him disappear. His eyes were already searching scanning the sidewalk, the houses, the shadows. And when he found you, everything in him shifted.

He rushed across the driveway, crouched low in front of you. His hands cradled your face like it was made of glass.

“Are you okay?” he breathed. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head, and that was all it took he pulled you into his chest, arms closing around you like a shield. He was warm and real and trembling slightly beneath his hoodie. You inhaled the scent of him faint cologne, car leather, safety.

“I was so scared,” you sobbed, voice breaking against his neck.

“I know, baby.” He kissed the side of your head, breath hot against your temple. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve never let you leave. I should’ve come down. I should’ve fuck—”

“Don’t,” you choked. “Please don’t blame yourself. I just…I felt like I didn’t matter tonight.”

His body stiffened. Then softened completely.

“You matter more than anything,” he said, forehead pressing against yours. “God, I was so caught up I couldn’t see it, and I hate that. I hate that I made you feel alone. I never want you to feel that way again.”

You stood like that for a long time wrapped in each other in a stranger’s driveway, under the wide sky of Los Angeles, beneath porch lights and flickering stars.

Eventually, when your breathing had evened out and his hands had stopped shaking, he whispered, “Let’s go home.”

And this time, when he said “home,” it sounded like a promise.

The drive home was quiet.

Lewis didn’t speak. He didn’t ask if you were okay maybe because he already knew you weren’t. Maybe because he knew that silence, for once, wasn’t distance. It was recovery. The kind you only share with someone who feels the same burn in their chest.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other drifting across the centre console until it found yours.

His fingers curled gently around your trembling ones, the warmth of his skin grounding you like an anchor in the storm. You hadn’t even realised how badly you were shaking until he touched you.

You didn’t let go.

Not even once.

Even when the car rolled to a stop in front of the house. Even when he killed the engine and just sat there for a second, staring at the garage door like it might give him the right words. It didn’t. But he squeezed your hand again before finally speaking.

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly, like his voice was made of thread.

You nodded.

Inside, the house was dim and still, the leftovers from dinner untouched on the counter. The scent of soy sauce and sesame oil still lingered faintly in the air, almost mocking in its normalcy.

Lewis locked the door behind you with a click, then leaned back against it, arms crossed over his chest. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable, a thousand emotions caught in the space between his ribs.

You hovered near the base of the stairs, half-turning like maybe you should go up give him space, give yourself space but your feet didn’t move.

Neither did his.

“I thought you just needed space,” he said finally, voice low, almost hoarse. “I thought you’d walk it off, come back and we’d talk. I didn’t think -”

“That I’d be in danger,” you finished, not accusing just stating what had become terrifyingly clear.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I can’t stop seeing it. You, crouched behind that wall. Scared. Alone.” He exhaled shakily, like it hurt to even say it. “And I was in the office. With the door shut. While you were out there.”

You crossed the room slowly, quietly, until you were standing in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. “You didn’t know,” you whispered. “Neither of us did.”

His eyes met yours, glassy now. “I should’ve known. I should’ve opened that fucking door. I should’ve chased after you the second you left. I let my ego win. I let it get louder than the part of me that knew something was off.”

“You were hurt,” you said gently.

“So were you,” he murmured.

That silence again. Heavy, but different now. It felt like a bridge, not a wall.

Then, without another word, you reached for him sliding your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against his chest. He folded into you instantly, arms curling tight around your back, holding you like he never wanted to let go again.

“I miss you,” you whispered. “Even when you’re here. I feel like I’ve been loving you through glass lately like I’m always reaching, and you’re just somewhere else.”

His arms tightened. His voice cracked when he said, “I know. I feel it too.”

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Then let’s fix it. Let’s stop drifting. Let’s stop shutting each other out every time things get hard.”

Lewis looked at you like you’d just handed him the sun.

“I’ll do better,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even in season. Even when I’m drained. I won’t disappear on you. You’re not background noise, baby. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel real.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile. “I don’t need fireworks. I just need you. Here. With me.”

“I’m here,” he promised. “Fully. Always.”

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, as if he could erase the remnants of your fear with a single touch.

You leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “I think I just needed to know you still saw me.”

“I see you,” he breathed. “Even when I’m blind to everything else.”

Then he kissed you slowly, reverently, like he was trying to make up for every second he’d made you feel invisible. It wasn’t a kiss of urgency or lust. It was one of promise. Of apology. Of aching, undiluted love.

When your lips finally parted, you didn’t let go. You stayed tucked into the warmth of him, forehead resting against his, breaths syncing like the rhythm of something ancient and familiar.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His reply came with no hesitation. “I love you more than anything. And I’m never letting you walk out that door alone again. Not unless I’m right there with you.”

A small laugh bubbled from your chest gentle, watery, but real. He chuckled too, and for the first time in what felt like days, the weight between you lightened.

Later, you curled up together on the couch. Your legs sprawled across his lap, a thick knit blanket cocooning the two of you in quiet warmth. Some old movie played on the TV, but neither of you were really watching. His hand rested on your hip, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded circles softly, grounding.

At one point, he leaned down to press a kiss to your hair.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured.

You nestled closer, tucking your face into his hoodie. “You found me.”

“Always,” he said.

And that night despite the lingering fear, despite the phantom echo of footsteps on a dark street you felt safe again. Because you weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence.

Not in the storm.

Not in the love that, even bruised and frayed, still held.

Still held you.

[biteyoubiteme]

hiiiiiiii serene ><

People change for the stupidest of reasons. At least Beomgyu thinks so. He’s been told that his view of the world is narrow, that change is something good, something that everyone goes through. That change is important. What a load of bullshit. Look what change had done to his best friend. — Ever since Yeonjun had gotten together with that stupid nerd he’d changed. Changed for the worse. And it seemed as if Beomgyu was the only one who could see it. EEEEEEKKKKKK im so excited for this and already the way it starts im dragged in, right back to with yeonjun and the chois lol- i already love how beomgyu is different from yeonjuns internal monologue like yeonjun we didnt see much or even at all in his head but he was so nonchalant but beomgyu is pushing back against the feeling so obviously not nonchalant lol  

“Hey! Watch where you’re going freak!” He seethes as a small boy crashes into his chest, a freshman probably. Beomgyu’s eyes narrow as he seizes the kid. The younger male swallows as he scrambles to gather his belongings, clearing his throat awkwardly as he pushes his glasses further up on his nose. — “I-I’m so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going and I..” oooo hes this kinda bully and you know what….ive come to know i like bully fics a bit whoops but i love it- 

Blood rushes within his body like never before, anger soaring through him at the mere sight of your pestering face. “Pick on someone my own size? And that would be what, you?” He scoffs, eyeing you with disdain. The grin on your lips only widened further and he refused another grimace. Then it clicks, and Beomgyu has to hold himself back as he feels his jaw twitch. — “You.” The acknowledgement is a short huff of air, it hits your face and you squint as your eyes pierces his. “You’re the one who’s been running their mouth about me all week.” Suppose you had been mentioning his name a little here and there. A few comments, nothing crazy, nothing that wasn’t true. It wasn’t exactly unwarranted either. Choi Beomgyu was a nuisance. And without his friends to protect him, you were finally able to sharpen the knife that had been so diligently resting behind your back for three years. — You had longed for an opportunity to get back at him for all the shit he caused you through freshman and junior year; and finally, the universe presented you with one. WAIT I LOVE THEM- LIKE ACTUALLY I LOVE THE BACK AND FORTH-  you can not take this away from me something about enemies that use to be friends is just so perfect like this speaks to me like the underling angry will just always feel so much better to read just knowing they kinda hate each other already for different things- AND READER KINDA BEING A BULLY BACK TO BEOMGYU yes yes yes what was needed and “you were finally able to sharpen the knife that had been so diligently resting behind your back for three year.” no i love your writing this is so good i'm going crazy- 

He was predictable, and without his friends, he was an easy target for someone who’d been studying him for so long. Oh i love this sm- 

“And what does Mr. Class President presume I should do then?” You sarcastically wonder; though the question makes him raise a disbelieving brow as he glances toward you. MY BABY EEEEEEKKKKKK

“Now I know you aren’t too acquainted with the other class, so I’ve taken the liberty of pre-arranging partners for you.” well of course my fav forced proximity 

“You got my essay?” Beomgyu asks as he quirks a brow in the shorter male's direction. His essay? Taehyun nods as he reaches for the bag swung over his shoulder, undoing the zipper as he rummages through its contents. Beomgyu watches him with a look of nonchalance, seemingly unaware of your presence as he focuses on your friend before him. — “Here”, Taehyun murmurs as he hands him at least four pages worth of paper, neatly stapled together. LMAO NO WHY DID I GIGGLE- but stop beomgyu no no 

It makes you blink as you tear your gaze from the small pile of nail polish that had accumulated on your desk, your nervous habit of picking at the paint evident. Wait shes just like me- i do this like its no ones business- 

True to his word, he paid for your meal, not hearing you out on trying to pay him back in the near future. — “Spending time with you is more than enough”, he says as a matter-of-factly, arm wrapping around your shoulders as you walk down the empty streets. No i love this and just even knowing that she helped him with his work and now he just takes it from people is wild and makes sense because he cant ask his cool friends for help so might as well just take it you know but this spending time is wild like what do you mean i love them both sm so fast- 

Ah yes, Mimi hiiii queen no cry 

Upon passing that one peculiar little red door, your ears are met with the muffled sounds of what could only be someone getting their guts absolutely plowed. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, ‘room 291’, you could only imagine how many girls had lost their virginity in there.  This is actually wild lmao- not room 291- 

and the scent of his cologne invades your senses; it was the same one he’d worn for all of college, at least that hadn’t changed. Oh thats evil i love tho when smells are added into fics because it really does call back sm i dont know and her remembering what he smelled like uuuugggh i love it i dont care i love it sm- 

Was he talking about Taehyun? Your Taehyun. The same Taehyun that he’d made write his essay. HE IS MY TAEHYUN- 

“Get your fucking hands off of me”, he spits, yanking you from his chest with a force that was near bruising. — “Why? Scared that I’ll dirty your expensive attire with my grimy hands?” You retort as you gesture toward his clothes. Beomgyu sneers as he shakes his head, his long hair falling in front of his face before he pushes it back again. “You’ve already tarnished my reputation with that dirty mouth of yours”, he barks, eyes flickering with malice, “got nothin’ better to do than spreading shit about me, do you?” wait why am i biting my lip and giggling like eeeekkkk he spat ‘get your fucking hands off of me,” and yanked her in a near bruising manner omfg i love him- im so obsessed with him its unhealthy- 

How did he know about that? Just how much had Taehyun told him when doing his essay? Damn what did he say- also maybe he was listening but eh maybe no- taehyun shut your mouth i love you but TALKING WITH THE ENEMY??? 

That night left you in a flammable state. Anger gnawed at your very being as you paced the small space of your dormitory. Who was he to speak to you like that? Okay shakespeare these lines so are so good wtf- 

But something had obviously happened, a small rift in an otherwise unbreakable circle. And you’re not late to pick up on the way Beomgyu continues to glance their way, even when surrounded by at least a dozen others. You recognize the look in his eyes, the longing. It was the same way you’d been looking at him for the past two years. THE LONGING MY POOR BOY- like i said he gets to see what it was like when he left reader and you know what i love a little bit of poetic justice- 

“You’re late.”  Beomgyu scoffs, his eyes darting down the hall either side of him before pushing past you as he steps inside. “You’re gonna nag me about that too?” He drawls pls i love him i dont care let him be mean i love it it makes me blush 

Shoving the pen he was previously twirling between his fingers back into its container, Beomgyu turns to you with a sneer. Keep twirling it i love you 

The smell of his expensive cologne, usually sickly strong as it tickles your nose, now only feels nostalgic as you breathe in. He’s so close that your hands are on the verge of touching, his pinky inches from yours. Again with the smells i love it sm- and the pinky THE PINKY HE BRUSHES HIS HAIR BACK WITH MY FAV PART OF THIS FIC IS YOU ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT HIS DAMN PINKY- 

“Fuck, you kept this?” Beomgyu’s almost taunting voice snaps you from the text you were so close to giving up on, and you turn to him with a confused frown. Though your eyes quickly widened as they landed on the bracelet Beomgyu was holding between two fingers. Suddenly your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in short. The already thick air feels even heavier and you emit a shaky exhale. The way this feels so evil and exposing like its not even funny anymore like i love him i do but this im squirming around cause you dont know how he feels about what happened to them, especially when he just seemingly dropped reader like it was nothing and moved on without a word- 

“When you put it like that it sounds childish”, he mutters, the tip of his ears radiating a warm pink and you feel your lips tug into a grin at the sight. — “It’s more like..” He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze strays by the bracelet in your hands: “Like a piece of me.” Your eyes widen when he suddenly takes a step forward, reaching for the accessory as he plucks it from your fingers. “So that, in a way, I’ll always be with you”, he says as he wraps the leather around your wrist. — It’s impossible to refrain from smiling and your cheeks heat up as he carefully fastens the bracelet around your arm. — Then your curious eyes suddenly fall on the leather around his own wrist, a darker and cooler brown intertwined with a warm red. NO FUCK YOU FUCK THIS FIC AND FUCK MY FEELINGS CAUSE WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT - AND TO HAVE THIS LIKE RIGHT IN MY FACE AFTER HES JUST MADE IT SEEM SILLY THAT SHE EVEN KEPT IT SILLY IN A LIKE ‘YOURE A FUCKING FREAK’ WAY LIKE NO THATS SO EVIL HES A LITTLE SHIT AND I LOVE HIM BUT LIKE FUCK- 

“I love it.” And you do, you really do. You love it so much that you keep it even when he stops wearing his. Even when he no longer represented your other half. You keep it for two years, tucked inside the top drawer of your bedside table where it resides, waiting for the day where you might finally be able to look at it without bursting into tears.  No this is too much for me im just a girl who loves beomgyu and this is too much- 

And as the door slams shut behind him, you’re left in an unbearable silence. Carefully you reach for the bracelet, only to find it torn in half. THAT AWFUL PIECE OF SHIT YOU EVIL BOY WHY AND JUST CLOSING THE DOOR LOOKING BACK WITH THAT SICK LITTLE SMILE GTFO LEAVE MY LIFE (but dont i love you) 

“What friends?” He then says, and this time he actually sounds tired. Your stomach twists in an uncomfortable way, a way that was nowhere near satisfying. “What about the ones from the cafeteri..” — “Don’t be daft”, he cuts you off, his voice gaining a sudden sting. “You’re not stupid. Don’t pretend that you are. It’s unattractive.” He jeers, fingers twisting against one another, as if he was trying to crawl out of his own skin. oooooohowilovehimsm

You tell yourself that it’s the cold air. That it’s the already depressing surroundings of the dying nature around you. But Beomgyu looks just as malnourished as the trees, as pale as the sky and as beat as the frozen grass you walk on. It was easy to take pity on him like that. It was almost like he was begging for it. Begging for someone to sympathize with him. You can’t imagine that anyone ever did. “That’s not why I’m here”, and your statement is true. You don’t know why you’d come here, but you knew that it wasn’t out of malice. Because even if you did hate Choi Beomgyu, you don’t think you could ever say it to his face. — He didn’t know that of course. Part of you wished he did. Beomgyu scoffs, his gaze returning to the frosty ground as he bites the inside of his cheek. You’re scared that you might pity him forever. That things might never change. That the two of you might just be stuck in an eternal loop of hatred and unspoken feelings. — You don’t know what you want, but you know that it is not that no because my heart is feeling things i love them i know its small and i just love the winter setting its my fav but the intimacy in the small moments even if its a huge thing for her to be there in the first place but just as well its so UGH- AND TO PITY HIM- 

Beomgyu finally seems to catch on, his brows rising on his forehead when he does. He looks like he’s about to burst into laughter, you think that he might. “Oh that’s right”, he muses, “You think you’re special because I was nice to you back then, because I took pity on you.” He pushes a strand of dark hair from his face with the help of his pinky, “Bet it was the first time something like that happened.” You didn’t want to admit that he was right, that it had been the first time someone had ever gone out of their way for you. That it had been the first time someone had ever gifted you something, apart from your own family, that it was the first time someone willingly sat with you during lunch. But your mind gets caught on that one word he’d used. Pity. AND NOW HIS PITY ON HER LKE A KNIFE IN THE BACK YOU ASS, AND HIS PINKY AGAIN I CANT EVEN HATE HIM BECAUSE I LOVE HIM WITH NOTHING BUT A BRUSH OF A KNUCKLE LIKE WTF- 

It was easy to blame Yeonjun, you didn't like him, you never had. But you could never bring yourself to actually blame Beomgyu himself, because that would mean he was a bad person, and you didn’t want him to be. You wanted him to remain the perfect version you had created in your head, the version you thought you liked. It became clear now, that he wasn’t. Sobs because i love him and i know it wasnt all yeonjun it must not have been but it also could have been because it was easy to be friends with yeonjun more so than reader if that makes sense- 

He continues to list reasons, reasons to hate you, reasons to hate him, reasons to hate everything. You weren't listening. All you see is his eyes, burning with rage, with life. It’s unexplainable, the feeling that surged in your chest, that pounds against your ribcage and pulls on your lungs as it sucks the air from them. And you don’t know why you took a step forward, why you let your hands brush against his, why you didn’t stop when you saw the bewilderment on his face. You don’t know why you leaned in closer, when you should be pulling back. — And you don’t know why you couldn’t look away, why you couldn’t tear your gaze from the flames dancing across his eyes. You don’t know why you kissed him. But you did. IM OUT OF BREATH OMFG YYAAYAYAYAYAYA WE ALL CHEERED AND THRASHED AROUDN ON THE FLOOR BC I LOVE THSI I LOVE A JUMPSCARE OF A KISS LMAO- 

When you peer up at him, you find him already watching you. The flames in his eyes seemed to burn even brighter now. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists by his sides as he struggles to keep his composure. — Your lips part, but no words come out. What was there to say? Sorry? But you weren’t. I hate you? But you didn’t.  Beomgyu speaks before you get the chance to, his nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath. “You’re fucking insane.” It’s all he says, not waiting for a response as he turns back to your desk. He shoves his laptop in his bag with such force that you thought its seams might break. AWWWWW when he calls you insane <3333 and leaves im not even kidding when im saying im giggling like i love this sm like its not funny like i know it was crazy i get that and i know he muct be mad, it wasnt the time to kiss him but like im kicking  my feet and giggling while biting my fist rn lmao- 

“I’m sorry…I just”, you bite your lip, hesitating for a moment. It wasn’t like you didn’t trust Taehyun, it was just different. You and Taehyun were different. Part of you thinks he won’t understand, that he might judge you, no you know he will. Still, he was the only one you could turn to. — “Taehyun, I think I messed up.” He doesn’t answer right away, but you know he’s still there. You sit in silence for a while, just listening to his breaths, and for a moment you wonder if he’s fallen back asleep. But then he speaks, this time he sounds more awake. — “How bad?” He asks, and somewhere in the background, you think you can make out a light being flicked on. “Really bad..”  i love taehyun in this sm dont play this is perfection i love him and him being there and just cozy soft smart vibes lol- 

He shared the small flat with one of the juniors, you think his name might be Kai. hiiiii baby 

He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of checkered sweatpants and a black t-shirt, the glasses he always wore nowhere to be seen. He looked far different like this, it takes you a moment to even recognize him. Your silence must’ve been unusual, because he soon cocks an eyebrow, stepping aside as he motions for you to get in.  Taehyun’s place looks nothing like you’d imagined it. It was far messier. With clothes hanging off the kitchen chairs, lecture material spread over the round table and piles of books crowding the already small countertop. Still, he doesn't seem to mind the slight chaos as he reaches up to fetch two glasses from the cabinet, not saying anything as he fills them both with water from the tap. Sttttttoooooopppppp sexy sleepy taehyun like its nothing just dropped in the fic and im supposed to be normal? 

But had Taehyun always looked this… Good wasn’t the right word… At least you didn’t think it was. HE IS MINE BACK TF OFF 

Taehyun doesn’t look surprised. In fact he looks almost amused. As if he was betting with himself, ultimately ending up winning as you said what he’d already expected you to. Lmao we all saw it coming- 

Books. Your lip twitches at the sight of pages worth of study material. But as you survey the shelves closely, you find that they’re neatly organised, unlike the chaos that spread through the rest of the house. From different subjects, all neatly categorized, yet one book remained alone, separated from the rest. You didn’t recognize its cover. “Latin.” Taehyun’s thoughts seem to align perfectly with yours as he, too, eyes the lonesome book. “I didn’t know you took latin..” You murmur, still not tearing your gaze from the shelf. Beside you, Taehyun hums before going silent once more. That silence lingers for another thick and heavy minute. The darkness of his living room closing in on you, the sounds of your quiet breaths remaining the only signs of life. “Hardly anyone picks latin”, he then adds, nodding toward the book on the very edge of the shelf. You nod, even though you don’t exactly understand where he’s going with this. Taehyun sighs, and he sounds tired, “Picked it ‘cause I felt bad.” — “The professor would hardly have a class to teach this semester if it wasn’t for me.” i took latin for six years lmao and it was my smallest class we never had more than five kids a class it was very secret history vibes but whatever but like i love this also like i know he took pity on beomgyu and everything but like bb you didnt have to let him talk to you like that come on- 

Latin… He picked it out of pity? Not because he enjoyed it but because he felt bad? GIRL pls its so obvious- 

Yeonjun scoffs, it sounds almost like laughter. “Oh, so I get a girlfriend and suddenly can’t hang anymore?” — “Yes.” Beomgyu immediately responds. “You and that fucking good for nothing ner-” Thud. It sounds almost as if one of them had shoved the other against the wall and your eyes widened as you resist the urge to take just a single step forward, to round the corner and see for yourself. — Yeonjun is the first to speak. “You fucking watch your mouth!” He snarls and you can make out Beomgyu’s low groan as he splutters against what you presumed to be Yeonjun’s chokehold on him.“Or what?” He counters in a strained voice, the teasing edge evident, the one he used to mask how hurt he was.The sound of Yeonjun’s fist connecting with what could only be Beomgyu’s face echoes through the otherwise empty hallway and your heart drops to your stomach. But Beomgyu merely chuckles. “She ruined everything”, he grumbles, merely adding fuel to the fire. AND HES LAUGHING AS HE GETS HIT BITCH NO NO NO ILL DIE I LOVE IT SM ITS MY FAV IN A FIC PLS THIS IS PERFECT I LOVE IT SM- MORE MORE MORE BEAT HIS ASS! 

Its blue and purple hues were a stark contrast to his honey-like skin. Hhhheeeeyyy sexy 

He is not the Beomgyu you know. Because the Beomgyu you know would never kiss you. But this one does, and it’s without hesitating that his hands reach for your face, cupping both cheeks in his blazing hot palms as he brings your face to his. OH! OH! OH! 

This time Beomgyu was acting on his desires, not yours. And that scared you. OMFG

“Shut up.” It’s all he says, but there’s no malice in the way he does. It sounds almost like a plea. And the fire within his eyes seems to burn even brighter as his gaze meets yours. “Please just shut up.” i love him sm i dont care- 

He just about bothers to shove your laptop to the floor, muttering something incoherent about being able to get you a new one if it broke.  Okay i want the 15in macbook air with 3m in space gray plz! 

He’s rough, surprisingly so. You’d always taken him for a little bitch. And you know what this is a fic by serene i would have known even blindfolded if you read me this line- 

you blink up at him expectantly. He doesn’t return your gaze. That hurt. OUCH- CRITICAL DAMAGE- 

“I love you.” BITCH WTF WHY TF WOULD YOU ACTUALLY DO THIS TO ME LIKE IM HERE HAVING A GOOD ASS FUCKING TIME AND THIS IS WHAT IM HANDED THIS SECONDHAND EMBARRASSING PIECE OF SHIT THAT I ACTUALLY LOVE CAUSE I LOVE THE EMOTIONS BUT LIEK WTF SERENE YOU DID THIS TO FUCKING HURT ME LIKE WHY WOULD SHE DO THAT AT THIS TIME? THEY ARE LIKE NOT EVEN READY GIRL COULD NOT EVEN KISS HIMWITHOUT HIM PUSHING HER AWAY LIKE SO HARD LMAO LIKE HUH THEY HAVE NOT TALKED NOT ANYTHING LIEK WTF- wait but if beomgyu was looking at me all busted up from a fight…. Maybe she was on to something cause i would also prob say it the second he came over in the ripped shirt but like NOT THE POINT THE POINT IS WHY AND WHY DO I LOVE IT EVEN WHEN I HATE TI- 

Beomgyu stills inside of you, his dark eyes immediately landing on yours as they narrow. — Fuck. You shouldn’t have said that. Did you even mean it? Or had you let your flimsy emotions get the better of you once again. But this wasn’t just a small peck on the lips. Something you could pull back from, something you could wipe off your mouth and forget about. This was you baring your heart to him. This was you showing your most vulnerable self. — This was you being selfish. Beomgyu’s face twists into a scowl, the way it did whenever he tried to mask how hurt he was. Because that’s what he was tonight. Hurt. It’s why he’d come here. To use you. To let himself forget. He’d begged you to be quiet. — And you had done the exact opposite. GIIIIIRRRL ENOUGH IS ENOUGH also its so funny to me to think he just stops mid thrust and side eyes her lmao- 

“I know what I’m..” — “I said you don’t know anything!” Beomgyu’s voice cuts you off, it sounds like a scream. Ear-piercing and deafening. Beomgyu was yelling at you. And it scared you.  You know when this was tagged with rough sex i didnt think it would be mentally tolling lmao but also….when he screams at you during sex <33 lmao- 

​​“You’re confused”, he jeers, LMAO “Lot of girls get confused when they’re stuffed with cock”, he scoffs, “And you’re no different.” — Beomgyu was back to his old self, the cruel and menacing one. The Beomgyu that fronted whenever he tried to hide his true feelings, when the real him was feeling weak. You should’ve seen it coming, really. But his words still hurt, they always did. OH! unexpected turn- 

The bed was empty that following morning. The only trace of Beomgyu were the rustled sheets where he’d slept. Wait him sleeping over says so much wtf - 

With a quick spin of your heel, you come face to face with the person you’d least expected to see. — His dark hair is nicely done, and his eyes glimmer with a kindness that two months ago would have had you doing a double take. Snow had melted on the shoulders of his jacket, and the tip of his nose was a bright red. An almost gentle smile is splayed across his rosy lips, and he gives a nervous chuckle. You almost didn’t recognize Choi Yeonjun. HEEEEEYYY BABY 

“Do you not miss him?” The question takes him by surprise, and Yeonjun pauses as he glances back at you. For a moment he looks offended, taken aback by your bluntness. His lips curl into a small scowl, the one he used to wear in the halls, not anymore though, now it was reserved for only one person, Beomgyu. — “Don’t think that’s any of your business, no? – I mean you guys aren’t even..” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a disappointing manner. “Just stay in your own lane”, he then adds, giving you a quick one over. “You’re better off without him anyway. – He’ll only bring you down with him.” Without another word, Yeonjun walks away. And you don’t stop him. For some reason, his words hurt. They were never directly targeted your way, so why did it hurt to hear him talk bad about Beomgyu? — Why did you feel the need to take on his pain as well, why did you feel the need to carry a burden that was never yours. Do you not miss him’ is like such a perfect question- like she knows what its like to lose beomgyu as a friend and what does it mean if the ones who replaced you dont feel it when hes gone like did he really change or was he doing things to just get hurt by people he wanted to be around more than her you know like thats wild- and yeonjun just going on about him bringing her down like evil evil evil 

“I’m not much better”, he murmurs when pulling out a small box. It fit perfectly in his palm, enveloped in silver wrapping with a tiny bow on top. You eye the tiny present with intrigue, your stomach flipping at the sight. — He inhales sharply as he twists the box between his fingers. “Reflecting, repenting all that bullshit..” He mumbles as his brown eyes meet yours, “Suppose that’s what I’m trying to do here.” Confused, you open your mouth to speak but before you can get as much as a word out, he hands you the gift. His eyes look near pleading as he silently begs for you to accept it, as if it would mean you accepted his apology. Sttttttooooppp i love them sm this is wild- 

“This is wrong.. — I mean, you can’t just-” Biting back a frustrated groan, you twist uncomfortably in your seat as you avoid his reluctant gaze. You can sense his confusion, and it only fuels your frustration. Did he not understand that he couldn’t just undo everything with a simple ‘sorry’ and a gift. But what if his love language is gift giving- 

“You act like I’m the biggest asshole to walk this earth and next thing I know you’re kissing me. It confuses me and it angers me. But even when you’re mean you’re nice, and I hate how it makes me feel. — I hate that it’s you I want to go to when shit goes wrong, and I hate that I did. I hate how you let me use you that night.”  He’s barely taking breaks to breathe in between sentences, and you catch the subtle flush to his cheeks as he speaks. “I fucking hate the fact that you’re always on my mind, much more do I hate that I never even try to will those thoughts away.” Beomgyu bites his bottom lip, chewing on it for a good five seconds before letting it go as he sneaks a glance your way. “But I…” He sighs as he finally comes to a conclusion after his long battle with himself. — “I don’t hate you. I want to, but I can’t” you know what hes right lmao they both acted up ALSO I LOVE A CONFESSION WITH THE WORD HATE IN IT SO MANY TIMES ITS JUST PERFECTION- 

In the pale winter air it became clear. Beomgyu was lonely, just as lonely as you. The slump of his shoulders and the defeated look on his face surely matched your own. You imagine how the two of you must look from afar. It would have to be quite a pitiful sight. How could one be lonely in the presence of someone else? Only two jackasses must manage something like that. But you didn’t want to be a jackass anymore, and neither did he. — So you shift on the bench, ignoring the squeaking noise it makes as you turn to Beomgyu. “Do you want to watch a movie?”  ugh the winter setting and the casual question like i love it sm its not even funny anymore- 

“This is..” He begins, one of his hands reaching into the bag as he pulls out the small bracelet. Beomgyu’s jaw slacks as he turns the cool and brown leather in his fingers, thumb caressing the warm and red embroidery. “You…” He cuts himself off, whether that was because he did not know what to say next or did not dare to. STOP IT STOP IT THE GIFTS BEING THE SAME BUT NOT LIEK HER GETTING THE RED ONE FOR HERSELF THINKING SHE LOST HIM LIKE NO AND STILL GETTING HIM BACK AND HIM BRINGING HER THE ONE HE BROKE NO- 

“Why did you…” He swallows, and though he never finished his sentence, the question swirling within his eyes was obvious. — You shrug, nibbling on your bottom lip as you regard the bracelet in his hand. “It just… felt right.” There was no other way to explain it. For as you had trudged forward on tired feet, with heavy and droopy eyes, you had stumbled upon the very thing that had haunted you for so long. It has been a small stand, hardly making itself known amongst its competitors. The handmade jewelry however, immediately caught your eye. You recognized the leather, eyes widening even further as they caught glimpse of the warm red braided into it. Your stomach had dropped, just the way it would on a rollercoaster before its drop. That was undoubtedly the very same bracelet he’d worn, the one that had wrapped around his wrist so delicately, a constant reminder of what you had once lost. Them having a piece of each other im going to jump rn my heart ;-;-;-

he nervously fiddles with the seams of his jeans. He can’t help but notice the oddly familiar bracelet around his wrist. It takes him a good minute, but soon the pieces fall into place. His lip twitches as his eyes stray by the bracelet. — “I’m sorry”, Beomgyu quietly adds. It seems apologies were becoming a new habit of his. It took Yeonjun by surprise, making his eyebrows rise on his forehead, all the while Beomgyu avoided his gaze. STOP HIM KNOWING AND WEARING THE BRACELET AND YEONJUN NOTICING UGH- 

“I missed you man”, he says, his words light and filled with sincerity. Beomgyu finally finds himself looking at his friend, his eyes widening just a fraction. “Yeah?” He asks, the ghost of a grin playing across his lips. Yeonjun scoffs as he leans further into the couch, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” But it’s already too late, for Beomgyu was smirking as he leaned over to grab the discarded controller.  I actually love the way that this ended with their friendship in a full circle way- we know that one of beomgyus main troubles is friendship obviously like he goes in and out of them and for the first time i think even of his own doing of staying away he got to see what it was like for reader a bit :p but this coming back and everything to him just chilling with yeonjun is so perfect like i love this like you dont get it- thank you sm serene for this fic i know it wasnt for me lol but i mean thank you for sharing it i love it sm!!! I felt so many things and ill never forgive you for the i love you part like thats crazy youre crazy- but you know what i love angsty stuff so this was perfect- 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ And you don’t know why you took a step forward, why you let your hands brush against his, why you didn’t stop when you saw the bewilderment on his face. You don’t know why you leaned in closer, when you should be pulling back. — And you don’t know why you couldn’t look away, why you couldn’t tear your gaze from the flames dancing across his eyes. 

You don’t know why you kissed him. ⸝⸝

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ wc, 25.5k ་༘࿐

𝓹airing bully!beomgyu x fed-up!reader (f) 𝔀arning friends to enemies to lovers, bullying, implied violence, violence, beomgyu's a dick, reader's also mean at times, college au, kissing, fingering, mutual masturbation, unprotected sex + pullout, angsty confessions, hmm um um what else, I have no clue..

#serene adds ✎... HAPPY BEOMGYU DAY !! (because it's still the 13th here) ⎯ and oh my god have you guys been waiting for this fic... how long has it been, 6/7 months? maybe even more... I have no words. I feel like this fic is a little all over the place, you might notice the inner monologue changing and so on, but that's because I've been writing it over 6 months roughly, my view on the story has changed with each month... I hope it'll still be worth your while >.< happy gyu day, my love <33 - rain says I need to mention her

This story is a sequel to, The Redemption of Choi Yeonjun ⎯ It's advised that you read said fic beforehand !

People change for the stupidest of reasons. At least Beomgyu thinks so. He’s been told that his view of the world is narrow, that change is something good, something that everyone goes through. That change is important. What a load of bullshit. Look what change had done to his best friend. — Ever since Yeonjun had gotten together with that stupid nerd he’d changed. Changed for the worse. And it seemed as if Beomgyu was the only one who could see it. 

He glares at his classmates, but his once sharp gaze seems to have lost its touch. They whisper, talk, murmur, gossip, they speculate about him. Because everyone knew that something had happened between The Choi’s, that something was no longer the same. — But why him? Beomgyu wasn’t the one who’d changed, they changed, not him. Yeonjun was the one who…He was the one who became infatuated with that good for nothing nerd, and Soobin he…he just accepted it? 

Beomgyu almost snorts at the thought. Fine. If they wanted to give everything up just like that, they could, why should he care? But the lingering glances he receives as he pushes through the crowded hallways are near impossible to shake off. So what if he was walking alone? He didn’t need his friends, they weren’t his friends anymore, they were just side pieces in a much bigger pictur– 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going freak!” He seethes as a small boy crashes into his chest, a freshman probably. Beomgyu’s eyes narrow as he seizes the kid. The younger male swallows as he scrambles to gather his belongings, clearing his throat awkwardly as he pushes his glasses further up on his nose. — “I-I’m so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going and I..” 

What a pathetic being. Beomgyu grimaces at his petty apology, “stay out of my way next time, alright? You weak piece of–” 

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” 

The voice is familiar as it pierces through the crowded hallway and suddenly the previous buzz of students surrounding him diminishes as Beomgyu’s gaze flickers past the small boy in front of him. — You. 

His teeth grind together at the sight of your cocky figure, that smug grin you always wore, as if you were better than everyone else, as if you were better than him. What a joke. Ever since him and his friends broke apart, you seemed to have been actively plotting against him, singling him out now that he was alone. — Beomgyu would die before admitting that your schemes ever proved successful. Because if there was one thing he hated, it was people who meddled in his business. And you seemed to know nothing else. 

The young freshman scurries off before Beomgyu has the chance to grab him and he bites back a frustrated groan. Instead his attention shifts to your approaching frame. With the small squeak of your sneakers against the floor, you stop inches from him, your eyes near level with his. — Blood rushes within his body like never before, anger soaring through him at the mere sight of your pestering face. 

“Pick on someone my own size? And that would be what, you?” He scoffs, eyeing you with disdain. The grin on your lips only widened further and he refused another grimace. Then it clicks, and Beomgyu has to hold himself back as he feels his jaw twitch. — “You.” The acknowledgement is a short huff of air, it hits your face and you squint as your eyes pierces his. “You’re the one who’s been running their mouth about me all week.” 

Suppose you had been mentioning his name a little here and there. A few comments, nothing crazy, nothing that wasn’t true. It wasn’t exactly unwarranted either. Choi Beomgyu was a nuisance. And without his friends to protect him, you were finally able to sharpen the knife that had been so diligently resting behind your back for three years. — You had longed for an opportunity to get back at him for all the shit he caused you through freshman and junior year; and finally, the universe presented you with one. 

You glance over at him, it would merely take a small raise of your heel for your eyes to become leveled perfectly with his. Without that tall friend of his, looming behind his back, or Yeonjun’s authoritative status, Choi Beomgyu was really nothing. — That didn’t change the fact that you absolutely loathed him. And you would be sure to have him know. 

“Why, has something interesting caught your ears?” You drawl, feeling the grin on your lips threatening to bloom into a smirk. Beomgyu’s face morphs into a scowl, undoubtedly familiar with the rumors of him you’d conducted during the past weeks. — “You must think you’re so smart, sitting on your ass all day and spewing nonsense”, he grits as he takes a charging step forward, chest colliding with yours and you almost stumble backward. 

It takes some effort but you manage to remain fairly unfazed as you eye him with indifference. It only serves to make him angrier. Beomgyu was like an open book, a book in which you only had to read the paragraph on the very back to understand exactly how it would end. He was predictable, and without his friends, he was an easy target for someone who’d been studying him for so long. 

“I do”, you chirp, hands clasping behind your back as you sway on the spot. Beomgyu scoffs, giving a small roll of his eyes before his firing gaze centers on you again. “Just stay out of my way.” — His attention drops to the uniform you wore, the one school handed out at the beginning of each year, much different from the designer one he had tailored each semester. It was subtle, but different, and Beomgyu’s grin widened as his eyes raked across your worn out shoes and old bag. “Think you’ve got other things to worry ‘bout.” 

Without another word, he continues down the hallway, though not before giving your shoulder a harsh shove. — Your lip twitches into an uncomfortable grimace and with a small huff you readjust your backpack. Fucking asshole. Your tongue prods against your teeth, tsking slightly as you watch him disappear. 

⸝⸝ 

“Oh come on, do you really think it’s that bad of an idea?” You whine as your cheek rests against your forearm, eyes trained on the words being written out on the paper before you. — “I do”, Taehyun states without lifting his pencil from the sheet, brows slightly furrowed as he focuses on his work. 

With a small huff you peer up at him, the glasses on the bridge of his nose are crooked and you resist the urge to snatch them from his face. “And what does Mr. Class President presume I should do then?” You sarcastically wonder; though the question makes him raise a disbelieving brow as he glances toward you. “I suggest you stay out of trouble.” — Just as you open your mouth in objection, does he cut you off; “and not spread rumors about him.” 

Your expression contorts into one of disagreement but you remain silent. In a way, you suppose you should feel thankful for him. Taehyun was your only friend, if friends were even what one could call you. — The mutual acquaintanceship consisted of you sharing the latest events of your quite dull life, recapping the drama you’d picked up on your way to the school cafeteria, and most importantly; Choi Beomgyu. 

Though he was originally opposed to the friendship, Taehyun had begrudgingly come to accept your persistent presence as you lingered by his desk between classes. And by your senior year, he knew everything that was to know about Beomgyu and why you so loathed him. — “Shouldn’t you let go of him? We’re about to graduate next year”, he states, his voice monotone as always but you could clearly decipher a hint of pleading as he urged for you to stop fawning over the guy. 

“Let go?” You scoff, sitting up a bit straighter as you eye him with a frown, “I do not need to ‘let go’, I need revenge, besides, Christmas break is coming up, I need to act fast.” — Seemingly unimpressed by your enthusiasm, Taehyun merely shakes his head as his focus returns to the piece of paper in front of him, scribbling down a few lines before he sighs; “and how exactly do you plan on doing that?” 

The way your face lit up was unmistakable and you could practically see him regret his words as you shuffled closer. “Well, I happen to have a plan–” But before you can finish, the classroom door swings open and your professor enters. With a small scowl, you lean back in your chair as Taehyun immediately disregards you, turning his full attention to the lecture about to take place. Jeez, what a try-hard.

History was far from your favorite, but the mention of a group project sparked your interest. Your professor was old, a tall and lanky man, and as he announced the presentation you were to hold regarding a historic event, the class groaned. — Immediately turning to Taehyun with hopeful eyes, you’re met with a small glare before he sighs and nods, announcing that the two of you could partner up. With delight you open your mouth to thank him when your history teacher’s raspy voice suddenly interrupts you. 

“Though seeing as your parallel class is taking the very same course, I thought it’d be a good idea to merge the two of you. – It’ll save me some time when grading as well”, he huffs as a small grin tugs at his wrinkled lips. — It doesn’t take long for the room to be drowned in a chaotic murmur. Your brows pull together in a confused frown and you twist in your seat, “what’s that supposed to mean?” — Taehyun merely shrugs as his eyes flicker between you and your professor by the board, and for once he seemed equally lost. 

A quiet cough makes your gaze snap back to your old teacher as he rummages through his bag for a small piece of paper. “Now I know you aren’t too acquainted with the other class, so I’ve taken the liberty of pre-arranging partners for you.” His statement is met with another wave of complaints and displeased groans as students leaned back in their chairs and shook their heads. 

“Wait, does this mean we won’t get to work together?” You wonder to which Taehyun gives a small nod, “most likely.” — You felt your heart drop at least ten floors as you watched your old teacher fasten the small piece of paper to the board. The sound of chairs scraping against the hard floor fills the classroom as everyone scurries toward the front, eager to see who they’d been partnered up with. 

Without thinking you, too, rise from your desk as you pull Taehyun by his arm, yanking him toward the board. It takes a few shoves to get through the crowd that had formed, but soon enough, you’re standing in front of the list. — Your eyes fervently scan the names, going over the rows at least twice before you find yours. It was as if all air had been sucked from your lungs, your throat uncomfortably dry as you eye the jagged scribbles. Next to your own name was ‘Choi Beomgyu’. 

Behind you, Taehyun lets out a short huff, his lips pulling into a menacing smirk as he eyes your expression. — “Was this also part of your ‘plan’?” 

⸝⸝

“I’m doomed!” You exclaim, hands feverishly tugging at your hair as you cling onto Taehyun’s shoulder. Met with a shrug from your friend who trudges forward, you pout, jutting your chin out as you whine in his ear. “What do I do?” — Taehyun sighs, pushing his glasses further up on his nose as his eyes scan the nearly empty hallway. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t have gotten on his bad side”, he scolds and you huff. 

“Come on now”, you mutter as you release your grip on him, “a rumor here and there has never hurt anyone.” — “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be taking my side?” You finish with a small frown, the crease on your forehead only deepening when he doesn’t say anything. “You told everyone that he threw up in one of the school bathrooms”, he then states and you snort, a small grin seeping onto your face. “So? He might’ve.” 

Taehyun shakes his head, “my point is, you’re already off to a bad start.” — His statement makes you slow down, the shift in your pace causing him to nearly stop as Taehyun turns to you with a confused look. “You’re talking as if I’m the one who should watch myself. – Tae, he’s an asshole, if anything, he should feel ashamed.” 

Your friend bites his lip as his gaze flits between the floor to the books in his hands, and you wondered if you had said something wrong. Choi Beomgyu had earned himself quite the infamous reputation at your college along with the other Choi’s, everyone knew that they were bad news, so why did no one speak against it? — Why did Taehyun cower at the name? 

You couldn’t possibly understand their unreasonable fear. 

But you don’t have to ponder for long, because mere moments later, an all too familiar voice calls out. — “Hey, class president!” Beomgyu’s nasty drawl echoes off the desolate walls as he nears you. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his expensive uniform, and he walks with an allude of confidence. 

Upon hearing his name called, Taehyun freezes beside you as he hesitantly turns to face the source of the voice. Stopping mere inches from your friend, Beomgyu leans forward with a smug smirk and Taehyun hastily blinks under his glasses. You watch their small exchange with a puzzled expression. — “You got my essay?” Beomgyu asks as he quirks a brow in the shorter male's direction. His essay? 

Taehyun nods as he reaches for the bag swung over his shoulder, undoing the zipper as he rummages through its contents. Beomgyu watches him with a look of nonchalance, seemingly unaware of your presence as he focuses on your friend before him. — “Here”, Taehyun murmurs as he hands him at least four pages worth of paper, neatly stapled together. 

Beomgyu scans through it leisurely before giving Taehyun’s shoulder a harsh pat, making the shorter wince. “What’s the meaning of this?” You spit, unable to help yourself as you witnessed the person you so loathed go after your only friend like that. Finally, he seems to acknowledge you as Beomgyu’s eyes snap in your direction, his hand falling from Taehyun’s shoulder as his face contorts into a small scowl. 

Despite the lack of his friends, he still made do with the reputation he had left. Your rumors seemed to have made an insignificant dent in the power he held. But…Taehyun? Of all people, he wouldn’t possibly… Your gaze flits down to the essay in Beomgyu’s hand and over to your friend who avoided your gaze as he urged for you to come with him without causing a bigger scene. 

“Why don’t you stay out of my business.” Beomgyu sneers as he eyes you with distaste. “Business? You call this business?” You frown as you shrug Taehyun’s hands from your arm, stepping between your friend and the menace before him. — Your nose could practically graze his as you let out a short breath of air, meeting his furious gaze with one of your own. 

“Bullying people into doing your work? How do you expect to make it outside of college?” The comment makes his already angered expression flare up and you catch his hands curling into fists by his sides. — “Worry ‘bout yourself won’t you?” he scoffs, ready to push past you.. until your next words catch him off guard. 

“Well that’s going to be difficult, seeing as we’re partners now.” 

He stops, dark eyes snapping back to yours within milliseconds and you feel Taehyun’s hand urgently tug at your arm as he silently pleads for you to back down. — “What?” The word comes out as a mere hiss and you can’t help but feel a triumphant grin pull at the corner of your lips. Ah, so he didn’t know yet. 

“Haven’t you heard?” — You let your head fall to the side, an amused expression flashing across your features as you take in his puzzled and angered state, so predictable. “Mr. Brown’s class, the history project, we’re partners, you and me.” The dread that had previously consumed you seemed minimal when you with satisfaction watched Beomgyu’s face practically explode in a multitude of enraged questions; none of which you were planning on answering. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He spits, a look of disbelief presenting itself across his otherwise arrogant face. You shrug, letting Taehyun pull you back as you send him a small wave, “that we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other I suppose.” — Before you can get another word out, your friend has pulled you down the hall in a most hurried manner; scurrying to get away from Beomgyu's piercing gaze as he leans against the wall with a small huff, eyeing you with a mixture of fury and intrigue. 

“What the hell was that?” Taehyun grumbles as he drags you along, walking with determined strides. You merely roll your eyes as you let yourself be swayed down the long corridors. — “I should be asking you that”, you counter, still not over the fact that he had written an entire essay for the scumbag. 

Not late to catch on, Taehyun bites the inside of his cheek as he fiddles with the glasses on his nose. “Nothing you should worry about”, he mutters, intent on disregarding any further questions. “Nothing I should worry about? What are you, his slave?” — “Don’t say it like that”, he groans and you frown, stopping completely as you break yourself free from his grasp. 

With an exasperated sigh, Taehyun turns to you as he runs a hand through his short hair. “Listen, it was a one time thing and..” — “That’s how it always starts”, you huff, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. “Soon he’ll be asking you to write his exams for him as well”, you exclaim, throwing an accusing finger down the hall. 

But Taehyun only shakes his head as he waves his hands in front of him in denial. “I’m just helping him out..!” — Your gaze narrows down on your friend, helping him out? Sure Taehyun was many things, friendly? – was not one of them. And to think that he was willingly helping one of the Choi’s with something so trivial… 

“Does he have something on you?” You ask, watching as Taehyun’s eyes widened, “is that why you’re slaving away like this?” — “No I..” He begins but quickly seals his lips in a tight grimace, “you don’t understand.” Like hell you didn’t. Why on earth would anyone stoop to such a level. For over two years you had watched as the Choi’s ruled your school, and to say that you were sick of it would be an understatement. 

Perhaps your hatred for the small trio was rooted deeper than your peers. Especially your hatred for Choi Beomgyu. — Because you hadn’t always hated him, in fact, at one point, you think you might’ve even liked him. 

⸝⸝ 

“Hey, is this seat taken?” 

The voice is warm, kind and friendly. It makes you blink as you tear your gaze from the small pile of nail polish that had accumulated on your desk, your nervous habit of picking at the paint evident. — First day of freshman year, first day of college, that had been the day. 

With a small nod, you motion toward the chair next to your own. He takes the seat, grinning from ear to ear as he studies you with curiosity. “Nervous?” He wonders as he tilts his head to the side. “Yeah..” Your quiet whisper is near inaudible but he still seems to pick up on it as his lips stretch further. “Me too”, he says and you can’t help but frown, he didn’t look nervous in the slightest as he comfortably leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the collar of his shirt leisurely. 

He was way out of your league. — Yet he reaches a hand out, eyes darting from yours and down to your own intertwined fingers. His palm is soft and warm against yours, his grip unwavering as he shakes your hand. “I’m Beomgyu, Choi Beomgyu”, he smiles, it’s a kind smile, and your heart flutters at the sight. 

Choi Beomgyu. What a pretty name. 

You spend your first week with him, it was nice to have someone you could call a friend. Someone who made you feel less alone, and Beomgyu did, the two of you were friends, you think. 

You ate lunch together… 

“Tofu’s the best when grilled”, Beomgyu hums as he shoves a forkful in his mouth, barely swallowing as he loads yet another one. You giggled as your gaze returned to your own plate, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. The cafeteria was both crowded and loud, you had dreaded the days you would spend alone in here. 

But as Beomgyu found a nice and secluded table for the two of you, even pulling your chair out with an over exaggerated bow to which you rolled your eyes, you felt hopeful. — Perhaps college wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

And you studied after school…

“If 9 is the value of ‘x’ then all we have to do is replace the variables with such”, you say as you scribble across his notebook. Beomgyu’s frown was nearly dented into his forehead, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration. “But how does nine become ‘x’? Isn’t nine a number and ‘x’ a letter?”He wonders to which you shake your head. 

“Not in this case”, you state before drawing a small ‘x = 9’. Scratching the back of his neck dumbfoundedly, Beomgyu gives a deflated sigh as he slumps against his chair. — “I’m never graduating.” 

You even saw one another outside of school…though only once.. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been here..” You quietly mumble, eyes flitting across the expensive looking furniture. The restaurant was small but reeked of wealth, the meals here were surely out of your budget but Beomgyu had insisted on you joining him one friday evening. — “What?” He exclaims in bewilderment, “Are you kidding? This is the best place in town!” 

True to his word, he paid for your meal, not hearing you out on trying to pay him back in the near future. — “Spending time with you is more than enough”, he says as a matter-of-factly, arm wrapping around your shoulders as you walk down the empty streets. 

Not to forget that one time he’d asked for your number… 

“I mean it’s just… I think you’re cool and..” He clears his throat, sending you a sheepish smile before continuing. “Just y’know, for staying in touch and things..” — The timidness of his request made your heart flutter as a grin spread across your lips. 

“Of course I’ll give you my number, silly!” 

The relief immediately flooding his face was palpable as he sighs, eagerly fishing his phone up for you to put the digits in. He made sure to add a pink heart next to your name, promising to be at your every beck and call should you ever need him. 

It was friendship, right? 

Doing stuff together, noticing things about each other, like the cute little mole on his left cheek, accentuating his already endearing grin. Or his habit of pushing his hair from his face with the help of his pinky, carefully touching up the dark strands, almost absentmindedly. 

You wondered if Beomgyu noticed things about you too. Did he see things you didn’t, and did he like them? Did he like you? Perhaps you would’ve gotten answers to all of those questions, had things turned out differently. 

It was inevitable, of course, you were all enrolled in the same class after all, they were bound to bump into one another soon enough. But things changed when Beomgyu met Choi Yeonjun, changed for the worse. And it didn’t take long for him to become someone completely different, someone unrecognizable. 

Slowly he stopped showing up to your study sessions. More often he’d make excuses to not walk you to class. You began eating lunch alone, and before you knew it, Beomgyu was no longer part of your life. — Except he was, just as someone else. Someone cruel, someone who didn't care about what others felt, someone who only lived to make others suffer. 

His new friends were no different, and together they earned themselves an infamous reputation as the school’s bullies. It hurt. Seeing them act so nonchalantly when toying with others, with people who’d done nothing to upset them. — And as you catch him in the hallway one day, a much smaller student hoisted up by the collar of his shirt, Beomgyu’s grip unwavering as he spits insults in the younger’s face. 

It was then you grew to loathe Choi Beomgyu. 

⸝⸝ 

Your finger hovers over the block button as you lay in bed that night. Back then, just as you applied to switch classes, as you tried to get as far away from him as possible, you had rid yourself of his number too. Part of you thinks you should’ve deleted the old chats along with blocking him, but something held you back. It felt…oddly comforting, re-reading the old messages between the two of you, a glimmer of what you’d once had, of what he’d once been. How pathetic. 

With a small groan you let your phone fall down onto the mattress next to you, shifting to lay on your side as you prepare to let sleep overtake you. He would have to bring it up, because there was no way in hell that you were unblocking and texting first. — “Fucking piece of shit”, you tiredly murmur, letting yourself fall into a very uncomfortable slumber, plagued by the thoughts of your upcoming weeks. 

Beomgyu did not text you first. In fact he didn’t text you at all. The whole weekend goes by, and not a single word. Taehyun on the other hand, had been paired up with some stuck up bitch, he’d told you her name, something on M…M, M, M… Ah yes, Mimi. She’d dated one of the Choi’s, until he left her for that shy nerd, served her right. — But even the two of them had already gotten together to get working on their presentation. 

You had until Christmas break, but that was a mere three weeks away, and at this rate, you’d be lucky to get done by graduation. — Finally, your gloomy reality sets in, and you heave a loud sigh as you drag yourself down the hallway. History classes had become optional, and without your partner, there was little to be done. You spend the hour roaming the third and second floor, sneakers squeaking against the uneven tiles. 

Upon passing that one peculiar little red door, your ears are met with the muffled sounds of what could only be someone getting their guts absolutely plowed. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, ‘room 291’, you could only imagine how many girls had lost their virginity in there. — Shaking your head, your gaze returns forward, but instead of continuing your eternal journey down the long corridors, you freeze. 

The object of your affection was standing right there. You thought he’d skipped. Anything to avoid the project at hand you’d supposed. But Beomgyu’s eyes meet yours, and though he’s all the way down the hall, you still catch the disgust lingering in them. His lip twitches, jaw clenching for a split second, and then he’s turned on his heel, marching down the hallway faster than you could blink. 

You scramble to catch up, upping your pace to a light jog as you call for him. “Hey asshole!” But he isn’t listening, nor is he stopping. In fact…Was he walking even faster? What a dick. “Hey wait up!” Fuck, was he really going to make you chase after him? How immature. — Thankfully having made the girl’s football team in seventh grade seemed to have paid off, and you managed to reach him soon enough. 

Fingers clasping around his forearm, you yank him backward, making him spin around on the spot as he collides with you. The crash makes you wince and you retreat, blinking to regain focus before turning your attention to him. Beomgyu was already watching you, his lips curled into a nasty scowl as his brows furrowed. “What?” He spits, his voice barely above a hiss.

Suddenly, you realize just how close the two of you were standing, chests nearly grazing one another, and the scent of his cologne invades your senses; it was the same one he’d worn for all of college, at least that hadn’t changed. — You clear your throat, quickly scanning the empty hallway before you turn to him, plastering on the sternest of expression you could muster. “The project”, you say, subtly straightening your back. Beomgyu raises a questioning brow as his hands dig into the pockets of his uniform.

You frown, and only when you add the word “history” does he seem to catch on. “Oh yeah, that one”, his features relax, lips pulling into a small grin, “how’s it coming along?” Your mouth opens and closes again. “Excuse me?” You huff, the anger in your words palpable. Still running with his act of obliviousness, Beomgyu shrugs, it was clear that he enjoyed the easy rise he was getting out of you. How you would practically explode over his mere existence. You think he liked making you like that, perhaps it made him feel in control. 

Well he wasn’t. Not anymore. 

“It’s a group project”, you state, folding your arms across your chest, “there’s no way I’m doing this alone.” — Beomgyu looks almost as if he's considering your words, his lips pursed and head tilted to the side. “So ask your little friend to tag along, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to”, he jeers, flashing you a nasty smirk. Was he talking about Taehyun? Your Taehyun. The same Taehyun that he’d made write his essay. 

Your feet move on their own as you take a quick step forward, jabbing an accusing finger to his chest and Beomgyu’s face contorts into a small scowl at the action. “You’re hilarious if you honestly think I’d let you off the hook this easy, that I’d just let you sit back and take credit for my hard work.” You move to shove him backward but his hand is already clasped around your wrist, restraining any movement. 

“Get your fucking hands off of me”, he spits, yanking you from his chest with a force that was near bruising. — “Why? Scared that I’ll dirty your expensive attire with my grimy hands?” You retort as you gesture toward his clothes. Beomgyu sneers as he shakes his head, his long hair falling in front of his face before he pushes it back again. “You’ve already tarnished my reputation with that dirty mouth of yours”, he barks, eyes flickering with malice, “got nothin’ better to do than spreading shit about me, do you?” 

He shifts on the spot, his gaze wandering down the hall briefly, as if checking for witnesses before his attention returns to you. “I’m not stupid, I know it’s you, and I know you’re behind this whole group project too.” — Woah there, way to get ahead of himself. You scoff, arms falling to your sides as you regard him with disbelief. “You think I set this up on purpose? As if I’d want to be anywhere near you-”

 “Well you sure act like it”, he cuts you off, gesturing toward the two of you and the empty hallway you were currently occupying. “Chasing after me like this, trying to get me alone, and the rumors”, his face flashes with something akin to contempt, a spark of his usually crude and mean demeanor simmering through his facade of hate. “I mean come on, it’s obvious.” 

Your jaw could practically sweep the floor at this rate and you almost wanted to laugh at the near comical situation. “Whatever it is you’re implying, I can assure you, you’re way off”, you huff, quick to defend yourself. His fingers are still locked around your wrist, an almost tingling sensation spreading through your arm. Upon trying to tug yourself free from his grasp, Beomgyu’s hand only tightens around yours, dark eyes boring into your own as he scoffs: “Cut the crap. You’ve been chasing after me for years.” 

The blunt accusation makes you pause, and for a moment every single comprehensive thought completely evaporates from your head. Chasing after him? No. You’d been trying to make his life a living hell, so what if that included knowing his entire schedule and who he hung out with? It was all part of a much bigger picture, a picture his tiny brain failed to comprehend. — But then again, Beomgyu had always had an ego made out of steel. It wouldn’t be the first time he would twist and turn a situation entirely in his favor. 

“What’s it that loser friend of yours said? To let me go?” He chuckles, warm breath hitting your already flaring face. How did he know about that? Just how much had Taehyun told him when doing his essay? — Your usually sharp mind can’t seem to conjure a single witty remark, and you’re left biting the inside of your cheek as you send him a bitter glare. 

His hand lets go of your wrist, and Beomgyu takes a step back. “Perhaps you should listen to Mr. Class Pres, it might do you good.” With a final cruel smirk, he shoves past you, shoulder slamming against yours as he ventures down the hallway with his hands leisurely stuffed into his pockets. 

You want to scream, throw something at him, possibly advocate for murder, but you do nothing, nothing but watch his retreating figure as he disappears down the corridor. Fucking asshole. 

⸝⸝

That night left you in a flammable state. Anger gnawed at your very being as you paced the small space of your dormitory. Who was he to speak to you like that? And how would you ever make this project work? Talking to him was useless, a complete and utter waste of time. — Then it hits you. Like a small lightbulb being turned on over your head. Talking to him was pointless, you knew that. But what if you just didn’t speak? 

The cafeteria is as packed as it could get that following Tuesday, and you have to paddle through the large ocean of students, all eager to find an empty seat. You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less for today’s plain lunch menu, and instead of searching a clear table, your eyes scan for the most crowded one. 

It doesn’t take long for you to spot him. Surrounded by a heap of what you could only assume to be acquaintances, Beomgyu sits perched on a table in the center of the room. Conversation flows around him but his gaze is glued to his phone in his hand, mindlessly swiping across the screen in a bored manner. You wondered if he even knew the names of those surrounding him. You guessed not. Beomgyu had a.. unique way of making friends, if friends were even what they were. They looked more like tokens, perhaps he used them to appear less alone. 

His attention suddenly shifts from the device in his hands and you follow its direction, eventually landing on a table not far from his. — Occupied sparsely by a mere three students, three students whom you easily recognized. Choi Yeonjun leans forward, his arm wrapped around a girl you recognized as his girlfriend. He looks to be in deep conversation with the third of their small party, Choi Soobin. 

They used to be friends, Beomgyu and them. You remember it clearly. The harsh words, the glares, the distaste on their faces whenever they passed you by in the hallway. But something had obviously happened, a small rift in an otherwise unbreakable circle. And you’re not late to pick up on the way Beomgyu continues to glance their way, even when surrounded by at least a dozen others. You recognize the look in his eyes, the longing. It was the same way you’d been looking at him for the past two years. 

Perhaps he had a weakness after all. 

Your fist slams against the firm surface of his table, making everyone around you snap their heads in your direction. Their eyes boring into you suddenly made you waver, but you shake it off, turning your attention to your target, now only inches from yourself. — Beomgyu glances up from his phone, brows immediately furrowing as his lips part. Surely he had an insult waiting on his tongue, but you cut to the chase by shoving a small piece of paper in his free hand. 

His confused gaze flickers down to the note as he begins unwrapping it, only to be stopped by your hand on his as you shake your head. You mouth the words “not here”, and he scoffs, though shoving the paper in his pocket. — His token friends all burst out into “oooo”s as they wiggle their eyebrows suggestively. 

Beomgyu pays them little mind as he rolls his eyes, instead he watches your retreating figure as you push past the crowd in which you had emerged from. A subtle smirk playing on his lips as he mindlessly fiddles with the note in his pocket. 

⸝⸝

You had no idea if your plan was even going to work. Would he show up? Or had he thrown the paper in the trash at the first opportunity he got? — Running a frustrated hand through your hair, you sigh, casting a quick glance at the time on your phone, 5:27 pm. He still had three minutes. 

Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, you start to reconsider the choice of bringing him to your dorm room, was it really such a good idea? Though it was hardly like he’d show up anywhere in public with you. This was your best bet, you think.. 

The minutes tick by and your anxiety levels only rise, heart hammering in your chest as you pace the small space of your dormitory. By 5:47 you realized that he was a no-show. A weird mixture of disappointed relief floods you, it’s strange, you had expected the disappointment but why did you feel relieved? Did the idea of spending time alone with him scare you? No. That was impossible. 

Flopping down onto your bed, you emit a small sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed as you replay today’s scenario in your head. Scared? What a joke, Beomgyu didn’t scare you, he was nothing but an immature, selfish, rude piece of–

Knock knock. 

Your body jolts forward, flying off the bed like a deer in headlight as your head snaps in the direction of your door. He came? He actually came. You didn’t know whether to cry or laugh as you gingerly got up. — As you head for the door, you stop by the small mirror by your clothes drawer to check your reflection. Quickly running a hand through your hair, your eyes scan for a lip balm. You catch yourself mid-act, almost cringing at the way you tried to appear presentable. What the fuck were you doing?

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you twist the handle as the door glides open, revealing no other than Choi Beomgyu on the other side. He’s still wearing his school uniform, and his gaze quickly lands on the loose t-shirt and plain sweatpants you’re dressed in, a glimmer of distaste overshadowing his otherwise expressionless face. You ignore the silent insult as you clear your throat, “You’re late.” 

Beomgyu scoffs, his eyes darting down the hall either side of him before pushing past you as he steps inside. “You’re gonna nag me about that too?” He drawls, hands digging into his pockets as he saunters about, taking in the small space you resided in. You notice that he hasn’t brought along any study materials, and you internally groan. “Yes, I am. If this is going to work out then we’re going to have to work together”, you state, folding your arms across your chest as if to prove your point. 

Your partner merely hums as he fiddles with the papers scattered across your desk. “Cute room you’ve got”, he comments as he points to the entirety of your dorm. Your jaw slacks as you blink dumbfoundedly. Did he just give you a compliment? No, you catch the smugness in his voice, and the small glimpse of a smirk as he turns back to your desk. Asshole. 

“I’m serious”, you huff, “this project is important to me, we need to do well on it.” One thing you couldn’t afford to screw up were your grades. Not that they were anything spectacular of the sort, in fact you were flunking French. But as long as you did well in a few of your best subjects… History being one of them. 

Shoving the pen he was previously twirling between his fingers back into its container, Beomgyu turns to you with a sneer. “If it’s so important then I reckon you’d do better by yourself, I might just slow you down.” He regards you with an apathetic expression, almost as if he was waiting for you to snap, to lash out on him and to yell. You suppose it must surprise him when you instead only shake your head, dragging yourself over to your bed as you flop down with a heavy thud. 

“Let’s just get started”, you mutter, pulling your computer out as you power it on. Beomgyu cocks an eyebrow in your direction but doesn’t say anything as he leans onto your desk, hands returning to their default position in his pockets. — “How about one of us gathers information and the other one writes it down onto a powerpoint?” you suggest. He looks to be considering your words as he scratches his chin thoughtfully. 

“Fairs.” He shrugs as he pushes himself off the table and before you know it, the mattress dips next to you as he sits down. Your whole body tenses up, your eyes remaining glued to the computer screen in front of you as you avoid as much as peeking his way. You weren’t scared of him. But a part of you felt so oddly on-edge whenever he was around, you couldn’t quite place the feeling. 

His body radiates warmth, a warmth that spreads over to your own, a bead of sweat accumulating on your forehead as you swallow. You weren’t scared of him so why did your heart feel like it was going to beat out of your chest? — The smell of his expensive cologne, usually sickly strong as it tickles your nose, now only feels nostalgic as you breathe in. He’s so close that your hands are on the verge of touching, his pinky inches from yours. 

Beomgyu on the other hand seems unfazed as he peers over at your screen. “I’ll do the research part”, he states as he leans back against the headboard, “sounds less demanding.” You silently exhale in relief as he creates a safe radius of distance between the two of you, nodding as you hum in response. 

The two of you work like that, side by side in silence for a good while. At first you’re so engrossed in your work, doing anything to distract yourself from the fact that Beomgyu was quite literally less than three inches away, on your bed, in your dorm. But as time goes by, you finally dare to tear your gaze from the screen in front of you, and sneak a small peek at him. 

It felt almost surreal. Two years of being strangers in the halls, two years of constant insults, two years of hatred. Yet here he was, so close to you, just like he had been before everything changed, before he changed. 

But now, the two of you were doing something so mundane together. 

Your gaze lingers on him, even though it probably shouldn’t. But you can’t help the way your eyes trail across his seemingly relaxed expression. From the small, almost unnoticeable, furrow of his brows, the subtle pout of his bottom lip and the natural flush of his cheeks. Your attention strays by his dark eyes as they move along the words on his screen when reads. If you tried really hard, you might’ve been able to forget about everything that had happened, if only for a few minutes. 

Maybe. Just maybe. 

Suddenly, you want to reach out and touch him. To run your fingers through his long and unkempt hair, feel the skin of his hand in yours. And you almost do. Until you remember. — Things weren’t like that anymore, they hadn’t been for over two years. You almost recoil at the slip of your thoughts; for having allowed yourself to fantasize like that when reality was far from it. The Beomgyu before you wasn’t the Beomgyu you knew back then. No. You didn’t know this Beomgyu, and it’s with a bittersweet taste in your mouth that you accept said fact. 

You think half an hour might’ve passed when you notice that something’s off. Thirty minutes of radio silence from his otherwise enthusiastic mouth. And as you peer over your shoulder, you find him leisurely swiping across his screen, eyes glued to something that looked far from the information he was supposed to gather. — “What’re you doing?” The question slips from your lips without you actually thinking it through. Beomgyu’s head turns in your direction and he watches you with an expression that said, ‘what the fuck does it look like I’m doing?’

“I thought we agreed on working on the project”, you say as you point a finger toward your open laptop. Beomgyu merely shrugs, his eyes flitting back to the phone in his hand. “I’ve done my part”, he sighs and your brows knit together in confusion. A small tap of your finger leads you to the first slide of your powerpoint, in which he’d copied and pasted in what could only be pages worth of information. 

Seemingly noting your flabbergast expression, Beomgyu huffs, “Why, you can’t expect me to seriously read all of that?” — “So you’re saying we should just cheat our way through it?” The disbelief in your voice is palpable but he doesn’t seem to pick up on it as he gives a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “It’s not cheating. The information is out there to be used, doesn’t say how to use it”, he states. You have to bite your tongue in order to not let your words slip as you stare back at the computer screen with a puzzled face. 

He did have somewhat of a point. But you’d rather die than admit that. Besides, his ways would surely land you a ‘barely passed’ at most. And you wouldn’t have that. — Grumbling out a quiet, “whatever”, you turn back to the powerpoint as you begin sorting through the paragraphs pasted in there. You quickly become immersed in your work, and fail to notice how Beomgyu discards his phone on the bed as he glances around your room with curious eyes. 

You swallow a groan as you re-read the same paragraph for a third time, seemingly unable to focus with him around. Perhaps he was right, perhaps you should’ve just bit into the lemon and done this project on your own. — “Fuck, you kept this?” Beomgyu’s almost taunting voice snaps you from the text you were so close to giving up on, and you turn to him with a confused frown. 

Though your eyes quickly widened as they landed on the bracelet Beomgyu was holding between two fingers. Suddenly your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in short. The already thick air feels even heavier and you emit a shaky exhale. The brown leather, interlaced with streaks of blue, immediately sends your mind to places you hadn’t allowed it to wander for nearly two years..

⸝⸝

“A friendship bracelet?” you question as you eye the small piece Beomgyu had just handed you. The fine leather felt expensive and you wondered just how much he’d spent on this. It was braided together with a thinner blue thread, the cold shade a stark contrast to the warm brown leather, and your thumb slowly traces its outline as you bring it to your face. 

Beomgyu coughs into his hand, shaking his head as he rocks back and forth on the sole of his shoes. “When you put it like that it sounds childish”, he mutters, the tip of his ears radiating a warm pink and you feel your lips tug into a grin at the sight. — “It’s more like..” He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze strays by the bracelet in your hands: 

“Like a piece of me.” 

Your eyes widen when he suddenly takes a step forward, reaching for the accessory as he plucks it from your fingers. “So that, in a way, I’ll always be with you”, he says as he wraps the leather around your wrist. — It’s impossible to refrain from smiling and your cheeks heat up as he carefully fastens the bracelet around your arm. — Then your curious eyes suddenly fall on the leather around his own wrist, a darker and cooler brown intertwined with a warm red. 

A weird and tingly sensation spreads throughout your stomach as you swallow. And before Beomgyu can withdraw his hand again, do you stop him, fingers clasping around his wrists as you bring them together. — The blues and the reds, they remind you of the friendship necklaces you wore back in elementary school. Two halves of a heart, a childish but sweet promise to be what makes the other one whole. 

Was it childish? Probably. But it was Beomgyu, and you found that you did not care for such matters when he was around. In fact, you think you might even like it. — No, you did like it. You liked everything Beomgyu did, you liked everything about him. And though you were too shy to even admit it to yourself, you probably liked him too. 

“It’s okay right?” 

His sudden question snaps you from your train of thought and you blink as your gaze returns to his warm eyes. He looks…nervous? You’d never seen him like that. Beomgyu was always so adamantly prideful, and you don’t think you’d ever seen him waver. But you decide that you like this side of him too, the bashful and almost cute one. 

“I love it.” And you do, you really do. You love it so much that you keep it even when he stops wearing his. Even when he no longer represented your other half. You keep it for two years, tucked inside the top drawer of your bedside table where it resides, waiting for the day where you might finally be able to look at it without bursting into tears. 

⸝⸝

“Where did you get that?” Your tone is harsh and snappy but it barely makes him flinch as Beomgyu leisurely twirls the bracelet between two fingers. — You reach for it, but you’re too slow, and can only helplessly watch as his whole fist envelops the leather. “I expected a lot from you, granted that you’re still running your mouth about me and all”, Beomgyu drawls as he leans back against the pillows. “But you even kept this piece of shit?” — “I mean come on, it’s pathetic.” 

His words stung. Pathetic? Did he really think of your time together as that? Did he think of you as that? Of course he did, you idiot, get that through your thick skull. You hate Beomgyu. One half-successful study session in the privacy of your dorm didn’t change that and it never would. 

He probably threw his out, it would make the most sense if he did. Perhaps you should’ve too. You switched classes, blocked his number, and avoided him as best as you could in the halls. So why had you kept that? Why did you cling to something so insignificant? Why did it bring you comfort to feel the cool leather against your palm? 

“Just give it back”, you groan as you meekly try and pry his closed fist open. Beomgyu looks as if he’s going to put up a fight, say something nasty back, but he doesn’t. Instead he lets you untangle the bracelet from his fingers, watching as you snatch it back before throwing it on your bedside table once more.  — An uncomfortable silence falls over the two of you, weighing down like dark clouds on a previously sunny day. You wait for him to say something, but he never does. He only watches you with that nearly permanent half-smirk of his, brows tugged slightly upward as his eyes flicker across your flustered frame. 

“I think we’ve done enough for today.” The statement sounds monotone and gray as it falls from your lips. And even now, you expect a reply. Foolishly so, for Beomgyu merely shrugs, swinging his legs over the mattress as he gets up from your bed. — You don’t dare look up as he rounds your bed, your gaze stays by your discarded laptop. The sounds of his footsteps suddenly vanish and you carefully crank your head in the direction of your door. 

With one hand on the handle, Beomgyu looks back at you, his eyes glimmering with something you can’t quite decipher. His lips twitch into a full smirk, and for a moment, you think he might spit another insult on you. He doesn’t. — “See you in class, yeah?” Is all he says before twisting the doorknob and vanishing down the hall. 

And as the door slams shut behind him, you’re left in an unbearable silence. Carefully you reach for the bracelet, only to find it torn in half.  

⸝⸝

Beomgyu shows up to class after that. It takes you by surprise, and apparently everyone else too as heads turn in his direction when he pulls out the chair next to you. And though his work effort is minimal, he’s still there. You hate the satisfied feeling that blooms in your chest at the accomplishment. And you hate the fact that a small part of you has started looking forward to history class. But you would never tell him that, you would never tell anyone that, not even Taehyun… 

“Come on, it’s just one tiny little essay!” You complain in a distraught tone, dramatically kicking at a few stones on the road in front of you. The small rocks clash together as they roll down the gravel pathway that takes you around campus. — Taehyun squints against the bright sun that shone despite the cold December air. He shakes his head, exhaling a small cloud of condensation.  

“It’s less than fourteen days until Christmas break”, he argues as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of the large coat he wore. “Well that’s exactly why I need your help!” You whine, throwing your frozen hands in the air. — “With everything going on, you know the history project and all, I’m going to seriously flunk French at this point Tae..” You sigh, turning to him with the biggest eyes you could muster as you stick your bottom lip out into a pathetic pout. 

“Please Tae, isn’t that what friends do?” 

Taehyun merely spares you a quick side glance before his focus returns ahead. “You can’t pull the ‘friend card’ whenever you’re falling behind”, he huffs. Biting the inside of your cheek, you think of another way to persuade him. “But if we study together? Then I’m bound to learn!” You suddenly exclaim, causing Taehyun to flinch due to your unanticipated outburst. 

“Fine..” He begrudgingly agrees, though quickly groaning as you wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. “I knew I could count on you!” You cheer before carefully letting him go again. — It’s when you pull back that you notice the figure by the benches a few paces away. You frown, gaze narrowing down on its hunched posture. It was odd for any student to be outside between classes during the cold and harsh winter months, let alone sit perched on one of the usual summer hangout spots. 

“Who’s that?” You question, your footsteps coming to an abrupt halt on the rough gravel. Taehyun groans as he turns to see where you might be looking, a small noise of disapproval passing his lips. “No one important, let’s go back inside”, he says as he pulls you along once more. — But in the bright light of the early afternoon-sun, the black hair atop the lonesome shadow’s head seemed awfully familiar. 

“Is that…Beomgyu?” Your inquiry is met by yet another groan from your friend. Taehyun tsk’s as he shoots a sneer in the direction of the lonely figure. “Wouldn’t that be even more reason to go back inside?” — Despite his greatest efforts, you ignore him as you venture off the small path and over the grass. Taehyun calls out for you, conflicted as his gaze flits between you and the entrance not far away. 

With a small roll of your eyes, you stop to wave him over. But Taehyun promptly shakes his head. “Fine, then go on inside, I’ll be right with you”, you say as you readjust the bag on your shoulder. He looks puzzled for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line as he regards you with a concerned frown. “What are you going to do?” He asks, albeit somewhat hesitant. You merely smile, and though it didn’t quite reach your eyes, Taehyun chooses not to pry further when you say: “I’m just going to ask about the project.” — He gives a curt nod before disappearing down the graveled path, hands still stuffed deep in his pockets.

Your footsteps crunch against the frosty grass and they fill the crisp winter air. The closer you get the more certain you become. It was Beomgyu. Sitting on the wooden table, his feet rest on the accompanied bench. He’s not wearing a jacket, only the blazer he had gotten personally tailored. If he was freezing, he didn’t let on to it as he remained still, his eyes focused on the ground below him. 

The real question was, why was he out here alone? Surely he should be spending the lunch break in the cafeteria with his friends, and not on a cold bench outside in the middle of the winter. — You stop in front of him, so close that your worn out shoes break the circuit of his limited vision. He knows that you’re there, you can tell by the subtle twitch of his jaw, and the way his fingers curl against one another as his hands mold together. 

“Hey.” 

You greet him. It’s polite, and when you think about it, you can’t recall ever uttering the word ‘hello’ to him, not for the past two years at least. It takes him a moment to finally look up, and when he does you immediately notice how sunken his eyes are, the almost grayish color of his cheeks and the pink tint to his nose. — He looked like shit. 

Part of you wants to say something about it, to finally jab back at him for all the crude comments he’d made about you. But you can’t. And suddenly, you don’t know what to say at all. Why had you even approached him in the first place? The two of you hadn’t spoken in private since… Well since the bracelet incident. Thankfully he had yet to bring it up again, but you didn’t know if you could trust him not to. It was already awkward between the two of you. 

Had you just made things worse? 

Beomgyu looks too tired to bite back himself as he lets his gaze leisurely drift across your frame. “What are you doing out here?” — Fuck, that wasn’t the question you were supposed to ask. Fucking idiot. But you couldn’t deny the curiosity that lingered around you. What was he doing out here? 

“That’s none of your business.” He spits, lips curling into a small scowl, but you can tell that it’s taking him a great deal of effort. And for some reason, you care. You hate that you do. Because you should feel anything but concern. You should be celebrating his downfall. This was what you had been waiting for. So why did it feel so bittersweet? 

You think it must have something to do with the afternoon spent on your bed. Almost an hour of complete silence, no bickering, no insults thrown. You blame yourself for getting too caught up in the moment. For letting yourself view him in a different light. — You hate Choi Beomgyu. And he hates you. That’s how it was supposed to be. 

When you don’t reply, he lifts his head once more. His eyes are dark, lifeless. He frowns, and for a second he looks almost irritated. “Why do you even care?” He grunts, a flicker of disgust tracing his features, as if the mere thought of sympathy from you was enough to have him gagging. It was nice. It felt familiar. It felt like the Beomgyu you knew. 

“I don’t.” You simply shrug, letting your bag fall from your shoulder as you heave yourself onto the bench next to him. He doesn’t move, but you can feel his gaze on you as he studies you intently. — You don’t dare look at him, instead you keep your eyes set forward. Despite the cold and chilly temperatures, snow had yet to fall. And the naked trees now only looked dystopian as you glance around the campus grounds. 

“Where are your friends?” You suddenly ask, the question coming out light, just like any other. You don’t expect an answer, not from him. In fact you’d prepared yourself for him to get up and leave. But he doesn’t. — Beomgyu is silent for a second, you hear him draw in a slow breath, holding it for a moment before letting go. “What friends?” He then says, and this time he actually sounds tired. 

Your stomach twists in an uncomfortable way, a way that was nowhere near satisfying. “What about the ones from the cafeteri..” — “Don’t be daft”, he cuts you off, his voice gaining a sudden sting. “You’re not stupid. Don’t pretend that you are. It’s unattractive.” He jeers, fingers twisting against one another, as if he was trying to crawl out of his own skin. 

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He huffs, shuffling to the side as he creates a cold metaphorical wall of distance between the two of you. “To poke fun at me? To shove it in my face?” He sounds almost distressed, and before you can reply, he turns to you. “You think it hasn’t been already?” — For the first time since you approached, he’s looking entirely at you. And when you return his wide gaze, it feels like you’re looking at a shell of who he used to be. 

You tell yourself that it’s the cold air. That it’s the already depressing surroundings of the dying nature around you. But Beomgyu looks just as malnourished as the trees, as pale as the sky and as beat as the frozen grass you walk on. It was easy to take pity on him like that. It was almost like he was begging for it. Begging for someone to sympathize with him. You can’t imagine that anyone ever did. 

“That’s not why I’m here”, and your statement is true. You don’t know why you’d come here, but you knew that it wasn’t out of malice. Because even if you did hate Choi Beomgyu, you don’t think you could ever say it to his face. — He didn’t know that of course. Part of you wished he did. Beomgyu scoffs, his gaze returning to the frosty ground as he bites the inside of his cheek.

You’re scared that you might pity him forever. That things might never change. That the two of you might just be stuck in an eternal loop of hatred and unspoken feelings. — You don’t know what you want, but you know that it is not that. Perhaps this history project was the start you had been looking for. Maybe… 

“Are you free friday?” 

⸝⸝

Your study sessions became regular after that. Beomgyu appeared to have nothing better to do with his time, and to be frank, neither did you. And though you were far from friendly with one another, none of the insults lingered. You studied in silence, him by your desk and you on your bed, as far away from each other as you could get. It was quiet, so quiet that you sometimes forgot that he was even there, save for the occasional sigh or click of his tongue. 

At first, he would bring his phone, checking it every other second, like he hoped for something, for someone, to be there. But after four days, he stopped. And your curiosity only grew. 

Now a mere week remained until christmas break. You and Beomgyu had been studying together for the past six days, without fail. Your presentation was nearly completed, and part of you thinks this might be amongst your last sessions together, if not your very last. — It felt strange, almost melancholic. Would you miss him? Or would you miss the company? Taehyun was your friend, sure, at least that's what you called him. But as soon as the bell rang, as soon as class ended, it was only you again. 

So was it really so wrong to look forward to a bit of company after school? Even if said company was a grumpy and quiet Beomgyu who did his best in ignoring you whilst he was there. Maybe. — Maybe it was the slight urgency of losing the temporary comfort these quiet hours had provided you that led to the act of stupidity you were about to perform next. 

The sun had set hours ago, casting your room in a dim glow provided by the small lamps on your bedside table and desk. You and Beomgyu had been working quietly for the past while. Now that the information was gathered and all that remained was for you to edit the last paragraphs, he used his time to decorate the powerpoint, adding relevant pictures and messing with the fonts. It wasn’t hard work, but the fact that he did something, made your stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way. 

“Are you busy next week?” You wanted to ask him if he would like to practice the presentation together. But Beomgyu kills your last glimmer of hope with a small huff, “Yeah.” He doesn’t turn to look at you, his eyes steadily fixed on the computer screen in front of him despite the fact that he was now only aimlessly flipping through the slides. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refrain from asking if he was busy all week. You would most likely only receive a half-hearted ‘yes’ anyway. Instead your gaze flickers down to your keyboard, your nails quietly tapping against the keys as you think of something to say. Every second spent in his presence only seemed to pull even more questions from your already curious mind. There was so much you wanted to ask him about, even though you knew it wasn’t your place. 

Just let him go. 

You can hear Taehyun’s voice in the back of your head, pleading for you to not pry, to keep your eyes down and mind your business. It wasn’t that easy. He didn’t understand. He didn't know. He didn’t know Beomgyu like you did, like you thought you did. 

“Are you sure you don’t have time to come by and practice?” You can’t stop yourself, the question slips out anyway, and you watch as Beomgyu’s shoulders tense before relaxing again. “I told you I’m busy”, he repeats in the same monotone and tired voice he’d been using for the past week. — “Right…” You hold your tongue, fingers brushing over the keys on your keyboard, hovering above the space button. Your lips part, then they close, and then they part again. 

“Are you meeting Yeonjun?” 

You shouldn’t have asked that, you know it. Yet you did. Perhaps you wanted a reaction from him, perhaps you wanted to hear him raise his voice for the first time in over a week, perhaps you wanted him to get angry, to insult you, because it was the Beomgyu you knew. 

His shoulders go rigid this time, and though you can’t see his expression, you can still catch the twitch of his jaw. He’s stopped swiping through the presentation slides, now stuck on the first one as he gazes ahead. For a minute, everything’s quiet, you think he might not say anything at all. But when he speaks up, he doesn’t raise his voice, instead he lowers it, until it’s nothing but a low drawl of his tongue. 

“You think this is funny?” The cold words send a shiver down your spine, and even though he isn’t looking at you, you felt as if you were being judged under a microscope. “I… I’m sorry..?” You squeak, your voice nearly inaudible but Beomgyu catches it. — He chuckles, pushing his chair back as he turns to you. 

The fiery brown in his eyes is long gone, replaced with an ashy looking color, like he was drained of all life. His lips, usually pulled into either a scowl or a menacing smirk, remain just as unreadable as the rest of his face. — “Do you enjoy this?” He asks, but it hardly sounds like a question. 

You gulp, fingers pressing so hard against the keyboard that you have managed to insert a whole paragraph of nonsense onto the powerpoint. Quietly shaking your head, you think of a way to salvage the toes you’d accidentally stepped on. “No I, I’m sorry…” You swallow once more, “I just…I don’t know what happened between you…I..” 

Beomgyu’s loud scoff cuts you off, and you watch as he gets up from the chair, kicking it back against the desk. With two long strides he reaches you by the edge of the bed. Though he was barely an inch or two taller than yourself, he somehow managed to appear menacing as he loomed over you. “Has it ever crossed your mind that it might not be any of your fucking business?” He says, his tone remaining indifferent as he glares down at you with those empty and dying eyes. 

You bite your tongue, refraining from intervening and saying that practically everyone at school knew it. Though you were sure he already knew that too. — Beomgyu huffs out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “Every single fucking day”, he mutters, his eyes narrowing as they linger by your slightly sheepish expression. “Every day, people like you, stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

The way he spoke, grouping you together with the other students, it shouldn’t have made your chest churn the way it did. “People like me?” You repeat the words, tasting them on your tongue, and finding that you don’t like them. Beomgyu, on the other hand, merely sends you a small look of distaste, the only emotion that had managed to pass his features in a whole week. 

“What? You think you’re something else?” He jeers, frowning when you get up from the bed, straightening your back as you come face to face with him. — “I know I am”, you say, forcing your voice to remain steady. You knew that you weren’t the only one who’s thoughts lingered in the past. You knew that he must still think of the two of you from time to time, even if only for a brief moment. 

Beomgyu finally seems to catch on, his brows rising on his forehead when he does. He looks like he’s about to burst into laughter, you think that he might. “Oh that’s right”, he muses, “You think you’re special because I was nice to you back then, because I took pity on you.” He pushes a strand of dark hair from his face with the help of his pinky, “Bet it was the first time something like that happened.” 

You didn’t want to admit that he was right, that it had been the first time someone had ever gone out of their way for you. That it had been the first time someone had ever gifted you something, apart from your own family, that it was the first time someone willingly sat with you during lunch. But your mind gets caught on that one word he’d used. Pity. 

Was that all it was to him? A game of play-pretend, a chance for him to play hero? You shake your head, it couldn’t be, it wasn’t. — For two years, you had blamed Choi Yeonjun. You had blamed him for taking Beomgyu away from you, for turning him into someone you couldn’t recognize, for ruining your only chance at an actual friendship, perhaps even something else. 

It was easy to blame Yeonjun, you didn't like him, you never had. But you could never bring yourself to actually blame Beomgyu himself, because that would mean he was a bad person, and you didn’t want him to be. You wanted him to remain the perfect version you had created in your head, the version you thought you liked. It became clear now, that he wasn’t. 

“You’re a liar.” 

You state, fingers twitching by your sides as you resist the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. Beomgyu’s expression morphs into one of confusion, then he scoffs. “A liar?” He asks, his voice hollow: “Do you hear yourself talk? You sound fucking crazy.” — “If you think for a second that what we have is different from any other piece of shit person in this school, you’re wrong.” He spits, eyes flaring up for the first time in so long, a small fire igniting within them. 

He continues to list reasons, reasons to hate you, reasons to hate him, reasons to hate everything. You weren't listening. All you see is his eyes, burning with rage, with life. 

It’s unexplainable, the feeling that surged in your chest, that pounds against your ribcage and pulls on your lungs as it sucks the air from them. And you don’t know why you took a step forward, why you let your hands brush against his, why you didn’t stop when you saw the bewilderment on his face. You don’t know why you leaned in closer, when you should be pulling back. — And you don’t know why you couldn’t look away, why you couldn’t tear your gaze from the flames dancing across his eyes. 

You don’t know why you kissed him. 

But you did. 

And now it was too late to ever go back. — Though you're not sure you want to. 

His lips feel soft against yours, not that you had ever stopped to think about how it would ever feel. Yet this somehow seemed right. You don’t open your eyes to look at him, you don’t think you could bear that. Still, you’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately jerk backward, when he doesn’t push you away. — Beomgyu hesitates. You think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him do.  

The moment lasts forever, and somehow it seems to have vanished within the blink of an eye. The bed squeaks when you crash against the mattress, you can still feel the flat of his palms on your shoulders as the force he’d used to shove you away from him lingered. 

When you peer up at him, you find him already watching you. The flames in his eyes seemed to burn even brighter now. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists by his sides as he struggles to keep his composure. — Your lips part, but no words come out. What was there to say? Sorry? But you weren’t. I hate you? But you didn’t. 

Beomgyu speaks before you get the chance to, his nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath. “You’re fucking insane.” It’s all he says, not waiting for a response as he turns back to your desk. He shoves his laptop in his bag with such force that you thought its seams might break.

Then he heads for the door, reaching it in four long strides. He doesn’t turn to look at you, not like he had that day. He rips it open, ignoring the squeaking sound it made when he slammed it shut behind him. 

The silence that follows echoes through your small dorm. And you remain on your bed, motionless, staring ahead as your fingers reach up to touch your lips. — Still burning with the fire he’d igninited. 

⸝⸝

That night was a quiet one, your dorm room basked in the eerie glow of the moon. Nothing but the soft sounds of your hushed sobs filling the confined space. Your pillow is wet, stained with your tears as you cry into the cotton. It was pathetic, really. In fact, you didn’t even know why you were crying. — But as soon as the door had slammed shut, and you had been left alone with nothing but your lingering thoughts, everything had become too much to bear. 

The events of the past few weeks finally catching up to you, breaking the dam of pent of tears you’d been so carefully keeping at bay. It felt as if it would never stop. You didn’t know whether you felt humiliated, rejected or just straight up insulted. Part of you just felt stupid. What the fuck were you even thinking? Kissing him like that. The image itself makes you grimace, and with a heavy sigh you pull yourself into a sitting position. 

After fumbling in the dark for a few moments, your fingers manage to grasp your phone. The bright light of its screen blinds you, and you squint as you scroll through your ridiculously short contact list. — The line rings for almost a whole minute, all the while you anxiously bite on your short nails, chopping the last bits of green polish from your nail beds. And when he finally picks up, it’s silent, save for the deep breaths he emits as he waits for you to speak.

“Taehyun?” 

Your voice comes out a lot more hoarse and strained than you had anticipated, causing you to immediately clear your throat. Taehyun groans, and you hear him shift slightly as he mutters something incoherent. “Do you know what time it is?” He finally asks in a groggy, sleep-laced tone. A spark of guilt blooms in your chest, and you throw a quick glance toward the time on your phone, showing that it was well past midnight. 

“I’m sorry…I just”, you bite your lip, hesitating for a moment. It wasn’t like you didn’t trust Taehyun, it was just different. You and Taehyun were different. Part of you thinks he won’t understand, that he might judge you, no you know he will. Still, he was the only one you could turn to. — “Taehyun, I think I messed up.” 

He doesn’t answer right away, but you know he’s still there. You sit in silence for a while, just listening to his breaths, and for a moment you wonder if he’s fallen back asleep. But then he speaks, this time he sounds more awake. — “How bad?” He asks, and somewhere in the background, you think you can make out a light being flicked on. 

“Really bad..” 

⸝⸝

You had never been to Taehyun’s house before. Two years of so called friendship and you would think that you’d progressed further. But as you heave the last step leading up from the subway, you stop in order to relocate yourself. The neighbourhood looked average, yet inviting. Its quaint little houses, lined up along the dimly lit street, all reflected one another. 

Number 14, that was the one you were looking for. Your worn out sneakers hit the asphalt with heavy thuds, and a small cloud forms when you exhale out into the cold December air. With your fingers stuffed deep in the pockets of your duvet jacket, you make a slight turn, coming face to face with house number 14. 

It looked just like the rest, a small mailbox by the fence gate, its white paint chipped in places. You push it open, stepping up the small graveled path taking you to the doorsteps. Taehyun told you not to ring the bell, but to quietly knock. He didn’t live alone, you knew that much. — He shared the small flat with one of the juniors, you think his name might be Kai. 

You knock once, proceeding to wrap your arms around yourself as you wait anxiously for him to open. It takes him a mere thirty seconds, and when the door swings aside, you're met with the still sleep-laced figure of Kang Taehyun. — He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of checkered sweatpants and a black t-shirt, the glasses he always wore nowhere to be seen. He looked far different like this, it takes you a moment to even recognize him. 

Your silence must’ve been unusual, because he soon cocks an eyebrow, stepping aside as he motions for you to get in.  

Taehyun’s place looks nothing like you’d imagined it. It was far messier. With clothes hanging off the kitchen chairs, lecture material spread over the round table and piles of books crowding the already small countertop. Still, he doesn't seem to mind the slight chaos as he reaches up to fetch two glasses from the cabinet, not saying anything as he fills them both with water from the tap. 

This eternal silence covers you both like a thick blanket, enveloping you in a false sense of ignorance, like the fact that you were currently in his kitchen, at 3am no less, was completely normal. — Taehyun remains quiet as he walks past you and into the joint living room, you trail behind him, eyes lingering on the discarded guitar that rested against the wall. 

The large green sofa takes up a good third of the room, and Taehyun sets your glasses down on the wooden coffee table in front of it as you take a seat. — “Do you play?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, not a ‘Hello, sorry for bothering you so late at night and barging into your home.” But you can’t help yourself, somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear Beomgyu, clearly remembering the day he’d told you about his love for music, no less the guitar. 

But Taehyun merely shrugs, and when he speaks, his voice is groggy. “Kai does.” The statement doesn’t leave room for further questions, and you thought it was probably wise to not bother him with more small talk. 

Reaching for the glass, your fingers wrap around its cold surface as you bring it to your lips. You sip slowly, prolonging the inevitable confession you were to make. And as the refreshing water slides down your incredibly dry throat, you sneak a glance in his direction. It felt odd, seeing Taehyun outside of school like this. 

Your gaze lingers on his bare arms, something his uniform never allowed even as much as a glimpse of. He leans against the soft cushion of the couch, mindlessly fiddling with a small string which you had no idea where he’d gotten it from. — It might’ve been the late hour, or the change of scenery, hell it might’ve even been the fact that you’d probably made the biggest mistake of your life not even eight hours ago. But had Taehyun always looked this… Good wasn’t the right word… At least you didn’t think it was. 

You suppose he looked… Ordinary. He looked far more relaxed than he ever did at campus, in class or in the cafeteria. This Taehyun resembles little of your class president, right now he just looks like, well him. 

“Why are you here?” His sudden question snaps you from your trance and your eyes immediately snap toward the water in your glass, the clear liquid swirling around slowly. Why were you here? Because you were alone, because you were scared, because you didn’t have anyone else to turn to. — “I… I messed up”, your deflated sigh rings out in the living room. 

Taehyun continues to fiddle with the small string, twisting it around his thumb. “The presentation?” He asks, but you can tell that was not what he’d actually meant. Still, you nod. “Well that one too, that’s for sure..” You didn’t even want to think about having to face him next Tuesday, much less going through with that presentation together, in front of everyone. 

“It’s about him, isn’t it?” 

The question was hardly needed, and you mumble out a quiet ‘yes’ as you set your glass down. Taehyun hums, his eyes trained to his hand. You wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Biting the inside of your cheek, you inhaled slowly. It was better to get it out right away, wasn’t it? Besides, there was no way you could sugarcoat it, no way for you to lie yourself out of this. You wanted to be honest with Taehyun, because it was easier to be honest with him than with yourself. 

“I kissed him.” 

There. You said it. So why didn’t the lump in your throat ease? Why did your chest still feel tight and your palms sweaty? Why couldn’t it all just go away, you did what you were supposed to, you confessed. Was that not enough? — Taehyun doesn’t look surprised. In fact he looks almost amused. As if he was betting with himself, ultimately ending up winning as you said what he’d already expected you to. 

“I think he hates me even more now. No - I know he does.” You can’t stop the words from flowing, all your pent up emotions rolling off your tongue in one swift motion. “I don’t think he’s ever going to talk to me again. And I’ll probably have to do the presentation alone. But I don’t reckon he’ll tell anybody, I’m sure he’s embarrassed about being associated with me. Fucking entitled asshole.” The last part comes out with slight distaste. 

“Don’t you agree?” You turn to Taehyun who’s been listening quietly. Finally, he glances up from the string he’s fiddling with. He sighs, “I think you should’ve stayed away from him just like I told you to.” — His words made your chest tighten even further, but they were not surprising. You knew what his response would be, you had known before you even picked up the phone to call him. Still, you did it. Because even if he told you what you’d already heard so many times before, it was something, and something was better than nothing. 

“Why did you do it?” You quietly ask him, your question coming out nearly inaudible. “Hm?” His dark eyes, the ones you used to watch behind the thick lens of his glasses, shift over to you. — “Why did you write his essay?” Your sudden change makes him pause, his fingers stilling around the thin thread he’d been twirling for the past minutes. Taehyun looks at you, but you can tell he’s not actually looking at you. 

“What do you mean?” It takes him almost a whole minute to reply. That had never happened before. Holding your tongue, you consider your next words carefully. You’d been wanting to ask him about that day in the hallway for so long now, it had been pestering you for weeks, like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. Because if it was one thing you couldn’t understand, it was why someone like Taehyun, would do something like that, for someone like Beomgyu. 

“Does he have something on you? Is he bullying you?” 

Taehyun shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he discards the thread between his fingers. “No”, he finally states, his voice firm. He was lying. He had to be, right? — “Then why?” You knew you were pushing far, too far, but you wanted, no, needed answers. But he only averts his gaze, his attention fixed on something far ahead. You try to follow his line of sight, your own eyes landing on the crowded bookshelves. 

Books. Your lip twitches at the sight of pages worth of study material. But as you survey the shelves closely, you find that they’re neatly organised, unlike the chaos that spread through the rest of the house. From different subjects, all neatly categorized, yet one book remained alone, separated from the rest. You didn’t recognize its cover. 

“Latin.” 

Taehyun’s thoughts seem to align perfectly with yours as he, too, eyes the lonesome book. “I didn’t know you took latin..” You murmur, still not tearing your gaze from the shelf. Beside you, Taehyun hums before going silent once more. That silence lingers for another thick and heavy minute. The darkness of his living room closing in on you, the sounds of your quiet breaths remaining the only signs of life. 

“Hardly anyone picks latin”, he then adds, nodding toward the book on the very edge of the shelf. You nod, even though you don’t exactly understand where he’s going with this. Taehyun sighs, and he sounds tired, “Picked it ‘cause I felt bad.” — “The professor would hardly have a class to teach this semester if it wasn’t for me.” 

You frown, shifting back to him as your lips part in an unspoken question. But Taehyun doesn’t need to look at you to know what goes on inside your head. — He shrugs, “You asked me why.” 

The silence that follows his last words did not feel as heavy as the others. It merely felt…confusing. Your gaze drops to your hands, placed neatly on your lap. Exhaling through your nose, you begin picking away at your already chipped nail polish, watching as the red flakes fell to your knees. Latin… He picked it out of pity? Not because he enjoyed it but because he felt bad? 

But what did Latin have to do with… 

“Did you want to do it?” Taehyun suddenly asks, and it felt weird, because he hardly asked questions about you, and especially not about Beomgyu. — The lump in your throat bounces back twice as big this time, and your fingers still. “Yes.” If there was one thing you were sure of, it was that. You wanted to kiss Choi Beomgyu, and you had.

“I don’t…” You begin but quickly trail off. Taehyun is patient. He waits for you to continue, he waits for two whole minutes, until finally, you say: “I don’t regret it.” — “And I wish I could tell him that.” 

Taehyun shifts on the green cushion, turning so that he’s now facing you. His gaze isn’t the narrowed and sharp one you’d grown so accustomed to. This one’s gentle, almost soft. — “So why haven’t you?” 

⸝⸝

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

The voice is sharp, and you think you might recognize it. It makes you halt, stopping just as you were about to round the corner taking you to the dormitories. With your back now pressed against the cool wall, you freeze, listening to the conversation taking place. You had mindlessly been returning to the place you called home after a long day of classes, when suddenly two arguing voices caught your attention. 

“My problem?”, Beomgyu spits, his tone harsh and defensive, “Fucking hell man, have you even seen yourself lately?” 

The other voice, which you now recognize as Yeonjun's, cuts back with an equal bite. “Oh come on, just admit that you have something against her. – It’s not like you’ve ever tried to hide it.”

Beomgyu remains quiet, the air feeling dense and heavy with unspoken feelings. “I don’t have anything against her.” He pauses and you wonder what his face might look like right now, furious, deflated? He exhales, “It’s you, okay? You’re the issue here.” 

You could almost hear the surprise as it radiated off of Yeonjun, and you manage to get a glimpse of one of his arms as he shifts on the spot. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He sounds confused, agitated almost. 

“It means..” Beomgyu begins, though quickly cutting himself short as he inhales. “It means you’ve changed, alright. — And I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you but you..” He trails off, the frustration at not being able to say what he wants, what he feels, is palpable and you shift uncomfortably against the wall as you hold your breath. 

Yeonjun scoffs, it sounds almost like laughter. “Oh, so I get a girlfriend and suddenly can’t hang anymore?” — “Yes.” Beomgyu immediately responds. “You and that fucking good for nothing ner-” 

Thud. 

It sounds almost as if one of them had shoved the other against the wall and your eyes widened as you resist the urge to take just a single step forward, to round the corner and see for yourself. — Yeonjun is the first to speak. “You fucking watch your mouth!” He snarls and you can make out Beomgyu’s low groan as he splutters against what you presumed to be Yeonjun’s chokehold on him.

“Or what?” He counters in a strained voice, the teasing edge evident, the one he used to mask how hurt he was.

The sound of Yeonjun’s fist connecting with what could only be Beomgyu’s face echoes through the otherwise empty hallway and your heart drops to your stomach. But Beomgyu merely chuckles. “She ruined everything”, he grumbles, merely adding fuel to the fire. 

“Shut your mouth.” 

Beomgyu snickers, and Yeonjun’s frustration bounces off the walls. You’d heard enough, and you certainly weren’t going to risk staying and ending up in the middle of it. So you turn around, and just as quickly as you had come, you retreat again. 

⸝⸝ 

You nervously pace your room, mumbling the words to yourself over and over, trying your hardest to memorize them. It had dawned on you that you would be doing this alone, and now what remained was to learn everything. But no matter how many times you circled your bed, you always found yourself off track, needing to double check your laptop over and over. 

You were slowly becoming desperate. Nothing seemed to work in your favor. — You curse yourself for letting your feelings get the better of you. For being naive, for thinking that he actually felt something, anything for you. Had you just restrained yourself, had you just held back… You wouldn’t be in this situation right now. 

Anxiously gnawing on your nails, your teeth scrape their beds as you re-read the paragraphs written on the powerpoint for the fifthteenth time. The sentences had started to blur, the words merging with one another slowly. — You shake your head, willing yourself to stay focused, to not let your emotions get the better of you, again. 

But then there it is. A loud, almost frantic, knock at your door. — Knock! Knock! 

Your head jerks in its direction, the presentation long forgotten about as your eyes narrow on the dark oak. You throw a glance at the time, 8:29 pm, what could anyone possibly want you at this hour? — But the knocking persists. 

Knock! Knock! Knock! 

It’s loud, flaring like thunder through your dormitory and it makes you jump. Naturally, you do the only thing that comes to mind; you approach, with both curious and wary steps. Your hesitant hand reaches for the handle, the other one twisting the lock as you pull the door open. — The sight that greets you on the other side is nothing you could’ve ever imagined. 

Beomgyu looks even worse than he had a week ago. The bags under his eyes were a permanent look now, dark and sunken in. His long hair falls in uneven sections down the sides of his face, a few strands sticking to his forehead, covered in a sheen layer of sweat. Even his expensive uniform was messed up, tie hanging loosely around his neck and his white shirt torn by the seams. 

You can only make out half his face, the rest shielded by his unkempt and dark hair. But what stood out was the large and angry bruise covering his cheek. Its blue and purple hues were a stark contrast to his honey-like skin. You knew where he’d gotten that. His breaths come out ragged, shallow, like he’d ran here. Perhaps he had. Your lips part, but before you can get the question out, he’s barging inside, slamming the door shut behind him. — “Beomgyu what..” Your words fall short as he pushes his hair from his face, revealing his dark eyes to you. 

They were burning with the same fire they had been that night, the night you kissed him. The flames dance across his bottomless irises. You think that if you got too close, you’d end up burning yourself. Another part of you thinks it’s too late to take cover. That you had already walked inside and sealed the door shut behind you, and now you would burn with him. 

He takes a step forward, the fire drawing in closer and you squint against its flames. His chest heaves, it clouds your narrowed vision as he backs you up against the nearest wall. Something had happened, something had made him like this, because this was not the Beomgyu you knew. The Beomgyu you knew would be repulsed to even as much as near you, to even breathe the same circuit of air as you. 

He is not the Beomgyu you know. Because the Beomgyu you know would never kiss you. 

But this one does, and it’s without hesitating that his hands reach for your face, cupping both cheeks in his blazing hot palms as he brings your face to his. — Your eyes widen, alarm bells going off in your mind, screaming for you to push him back, to demand answers from him. So why don’t you? Why do you let him kiss you, why do you let him toy with you like this? 

Beomgyu did not like you. He hated you. That was a fact. Not because he’d said so himself, or because he treated you like he did. But because it was the reality you had been feeding yourself for so long. It put you at ease, knowing that he hated you, because if he did, then he at least felt something for you. You weren’t just another face in the halls, your time together wasn’t just a figment of his or your imagination, it had been real. The two of you were real, and the resentment and hate was a confirmation of just that. 

So when his lips press against yours, warm and wet, his tongue slips inside your mouth without waiting to hear your startled yelp.. The reality you had built for yourself suddenly starts to crumble. Everything was wrong, this was not how it was supposed to be. — You had allowed yourself a slip up last week, a moment of weakness. You had kissed him. For a brief, short and awfully painful moment you had let your own desires consume you. And you had paid the price. 

This time Beomgyu was acting on his desires, not yours. And that scared you. 

His chest is flush against yours, his grip on your face unwavering as he forces your lips to meet in a searing kiss. You don’t understand. You thought you had him all figured out, this wasn’t supposed to happen, why is he… — “Beomgyu, stop!” Your nails dig into his shoulders, tearing him off of you with all your might. He separates from you, if only an inch, the kiss coming to an abrupt stop as you’re left panting. 

His lips are coated in saliva, a small string connecting the two of you before it breaks just a second later. You barely recognize him. “What’s going on?” The question is accusing, your voice laced with confusion and anger. 

Beomgyu remains silent, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he exhales a final heavy breath. His jaw clenches when he swallows, and his dark eyes flicker down to your lips once more. — “Shut up.” It’s all he says, but there’s no malice in the way he does. It sounds almost like a plea. And the fire within his eyes seems to burn even brighter as his gaze meets yours. “Please just shut up.” 

You did not want to shut up. You wanted to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing. You wanted to show him just how it felt when he rejected you just days prior. You wanted to tell him that he was ‘fucking insane’ and slam the door shut in his own face. — You did none of that. 

The next kiss is initiated by you, not him. It’s soft, and it reminds you of the one you’d given him last week. Slow, hesitant, but tender. And Beomgyu’s hands reluctantly drop from your face, gently sliding down your arms and sides before settling on your waist. — You had known for a long time now that you felt empathy for him. That you pitied him. Perhaps it was why you let him use you. 

Tomorrow he would not speak of this. He would act as if it never happened, he would bury it as deep as he could. He might think that this is his only solution today, that this will be his solace for whatever might’ve set him off. But it isn’t, and when this night morphs into dawn, he will realize that. — You don’t want him to. 

You should tell him to stop right now. He’ll only end up hurting you, not that he cares, he never had. But you, you should care. So why don’t you? 

Your fingers tug his already loose tie off, letting it slip from his neck before you work on his shirt, hastily unbuttoning it. Beomgyu follows in your tracks, letting you shrug the torn garment from his shoulders before he reaches for the pajama pants you wore. — You stop him, your hand on his wrist. “On the bed, please”, you whisper against his lips. 

His nod is barely noticeable before he hoists you into his arms. The sudden action startles you and you cling to him in shock as he gently places you down onto the mattress. He just about bothers to shove your laptop to the floor, muttering something incoherent about being able to get you a new one if it broke. You can’t find it in you to care, not when he climbs on top of you, the bed squeaking beneath his weight as he does. 

You feel warm, fuzzy, intoxicated even. Bleary eyes finding his as he hurriedly presses his lips against yours again. It was almost as if he was trying to drown out whatever thoughts plagued his mind as his hands grabbed at whatever part of you he could access. — His fingers hook around the waistline of your pajama pants, attempting to tug them off once more, and this time he succeeds. 

The air of your dormitory is cool against your naked skin, causing goosebumps to flare across it as Beomgyu slides your clothes down your body. He was moving fast, almost too fast. For some reason you let him, even though you know you probably shouldn’t. He was being selfish right now, wasn’t he? Using you like this, only to quiet his own worries, to soothe his own pain. He didn’t care for your feelings and he never would, not even now as his hands hover above your panties, fingers tracing their lining with eagerness. 

Or perhaps you were the selfish one? He clearly wasn’t thinking straight. The Beomgyu you knew would never stoop to this level, he would never go for someone like you, and you would never allow it.. Right? — Were you selfish for using him in this state, for egging him on even when you knew that the two of you were to regret this in the morning? 

Maybe. 

You don’t care. 

His fingers slide beneath the fabric of your pantines, running between your folds, circling your clit once as he pulls a shaky gasp from you. Your hands are still gripping his shoulders, nails digging into the skin there, leaving crescent like shapes in their wake. — He doesn’t wait, doesn’t drag the process out. You can tell that his mind is set on one thing. That’s okay, so were yours. Right? 

You cry out when he pushes two fingers inside of your aching cunt, curling them meticulously as his lips trail down your jaw. Your hips arch off the bed, meeting his movements as you wordlessly beg for more. — “Beomgyu, we… we should..” You didn’t even know what you wanted to say, the feelings swirling within your chest were difficult to convey. 

But he won’t have a word of it. “Shut up”, he grunts, the palm of his free hand pressing against your pelvis as he shoves you back against the mattress. He’s rough, surprisingly so. You’d always taken him for a little bitch. But his strength startles you, as well as sending a shot of heat through your stomach, making you clench around his fingers. 

If he notices it, he doesn’t bother to comment, which is unusual for him. Something bad must’ve happened, that’s all you can think. Something so bad had happened that his only resolve was you. The thought of him using you to get over whatever had hurt, it should upset you. It should make you feel small and insignificant, but it never did. 

Beomgyu tugs your panties down, throwing them over his shoulder as he parts your already spread legs. — Your hands glide over the apex of his shoulders, and you blink up at him expectantly. He doesn’t return your gaze. That hurt. 

Instead he focuses on the zipper of his uniform pants, undoing it with a harsh tug before slipping hand down his pants. His low groan pierces the thick and hot air, the sound is one so sinful, one you could have never imagined coming from his lips. — Your eyes dart down to his cock when he pulls it free, tongue subconsciously darting out to wet your lips as you regard the way he languidly strokes himself.

“Touch yourself”, he says, his voice low and gruff as he eyes your dripping cunt. — Surprised, you hesitantly comply as you reach a hand down between your thighs, fingers experimentally dragging across your core. The small moan that slips off your tongue makes your face heat up as you avoid his gaze. 

You push two fingers inside of your pleading cunt, not even bothering to put on a show for him as you let yourself become immersed in how it feels, how good it feels. In fact everything felt good, a little too good, when you know it shouldn’t. — You watch him through the corner of your eye, catching the bead of precum that slid down his veiny shaft. And your stomach flutters uncontrollably when he squeezes around himself, letting his head tip back with a strained moan.

When he’s evidently had enough, he pushes your hand away, ignoring your cries as you lose any semblance of pleasure. Though your loss is soon replaced by the head of his cock as he slides it between your folds. It bumps against your clit, making you shudder as your fingers twist in the bed sheets. — Your lips part, but Beomgyu’s hand covers them again. 

“Don’t.” He grunts, his attention focused on the way his thick cock gently eases itself inside your warm cunt. Your eyes widen, a small and muffled noise of pleasure leaving you as you squirm beneath him. — “Don’t say anything”, he nearly pleads, his dark and burning gaze flickering to your face for a brief moment. 

Your chest contracts, you didn’t understand.. Yet you complied, sealing your lips off to anything that wasn’t a cry or a moan. — Beomgyu’s pace is rough, leaving no room for you to argue as he snaps his hips against yours. The bed frame rattles against your wall, and you briefly worried that the sound would carry into the next room. Beomgyu doesn’t seem to care. 

His hand slides off of your lips, resting on the mattress just inches from your face as he hovers above you. — Stifling a small whimper, you reach up to touch him, any part of him that you could. This was your chance, no? 

You can feel every twitch of muscle as you drag your fingertips along his arms, letting your hands glide across his tense shoulders. Beomgyu shudders when you reach the nape of his neck. — He complies when you pull him down for another kiss. This one starts out slower, but quickly morphs into something that could easily match the pace he was keeping. His teeth pull your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down with a force that startles you, a surprised moan ripping from your throat. 

He made you feel nearly delirious, like you didn’t exist, nothing felt real. But at the same time, you could feel everything at once. He was so close, closer than he'd ever been to you. Not even back then, back when you considered him your friend. Not even then did it feel like this.. Raw, scorching hot, burning and most importantly, alive. 

Your chest is already hurting, already mourning the loss of him that was to come. Why couldn’t you just allow yourself to live in the moment, to give in to your desires completely, even if they were beyond what you knew to be possible. This was real, he was here, with you. For now, for tonight, everything was different, and you should let it be just that. 

“I love you.” 

The confession slips past your lips. It carries out into the dim room, bouncing off the walls, ringing in your ears and pounding against your ribcage. Beomgyu stills inside of you, his dark eyes immediately landing on yours as they narrow. — Fuck. You shouldn’t have said that. Did you even mean it? Or had you let your flimsy emotions get the better of you once again. 

But this wasn’t just a small peck on the lips. Something you could pull back from, something you could wipe off your mouth and forget about. This was you baring your heart to him. This was you showing your most vulnerable self. — This was you being selfish. 

Beomgyu’s face twists into a scowl, the way it did whenever he tried to mask how hurt he was. Because that’s what he was tonight. Hurt. It’s why he’d come here. To use you. To let himself forget. He’d begged you to be quiet. — And you had done the exact opposite. 

“You don’t.” His statement is cold, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “You don’t know what you’re saying”, he grunts. And his expression hardens when you insistently shake your head. 

“I do”, your lips press into a thin line, determination flickering across your features. That was a lie. You did not know if you loved him. But you knew that you pitied him, that your heart ached for him. It was like every punch to his gut went straight to your heart. — Perhaps the hurt was so strong that you had confused it with love. Maybe your empathy for him got mistaken for real feelings in your mind.  

How should you know? It wasn’t like you’d ever felt it before. 

And he hadn’t either. You were sure of it. 

“I know what I’m..” — “I said you don’t know anything!” Beomgyu’s voice cuts you off, it sounds like a scream. Ear-piercing and deafening. Beomgyu was yelling at you. And it scared you. 

He shifts above you, elbows digging into the mattress and you suddenly remember that his throbbing cock is nestled within your cunt. You think he might pull back, that he will get up and leave. That’s what he should do. But he doesn’t. — Instead he jolts back into action, snapping his hips against yours with newfound force, his jaw clenching as his dark eyes bore into you. 

“You’re confused”, he jeers, and you choke back a wanton moan when his thumb circles your clit. “Lot of girls get confused when they’re stuffed with cock”, he scoffs, “And you’re no different.” — Beomgyu was back to his old self, the cruel and menacing one. The Beomgyu that fronted whenever he tried to hide his true feelings, when the real him was feeling weak. You should’ve seen it coming, really. But his words still hurt, they always did. 

He rams himself into you, making your thighs quiver as they meekly wrap around his chest, drawing him even closer. You screw your eyes shut, not wanting to see him for as much as another second. He doesn’t seem to care, in fact he hardly seems to care about anything at the very moment. 

His fingers are harsh against your clit as he drinks in every moan you emit. And when you finally finish around his cock, your cunt fluttering around him, he doesn’t say anything. You pant, still refusing to look at him as you catch your breath. His thick cock makes you wince as it continues to push into you with demand. 

Beomgyu pulls out wordlessly. Hissing out into the quiet air as he cums all over your spread thighs, his sharp intake of air pounding in your ears. His release is warm, a sickening contrast to the cold sweats that had broken out on your body. It nearly makes you shiver. 

A new kind of silence follows after that. One full of knowing. Because you both knew that what had transpired tonight, was not something you would ever talk about again. The unanswered questions would never be brought to discussion. And you were supposed to be okay with that. You were supposed to be okay with this. 

You don’t know if you ever will be. 

⸝⸝ 

The bed was empty that following morning. The only trace of Beomgyu were the rustled sheets where he’d slept. And you spent nearly an hour tracing their patterns with the tips of your fingers, following every crease of duvet carefully as you memorized the shape of him. 

You knew that this was how it was going to end, as nothing more but yet another mistake. Another reason for him to hate you, and you him. Which is why you shouldn’t feel this melancholic. He sure as hell wasn’t. So why should you suffer? Yet it takes everything in you to drag yourself out of bed that day. 

The water is scorching hot against your skin, and you lean against the cool tiles as you close your eyes. But no matter how hard you scrubbed, how many layers of soap you covered yourself beneath. The feeling of his hands never went away. You almost thought you could see them, the faint outlines of his hands, all over your body. And as soon as you let your mind wander, even for just a second, you could feel him on you again. 

With a shudder you shake your head, promptly turning the water from flaming hot to an icy cold. The warmth reminded you of him, of the fire in his eyes and the burn of his touch. Cold water did not remind you of anything, that was better. 

Part of you had thought, almost hoped, that he would come to you, that he would beg of you to keep quiet, to not utter a single word about the night that had been. But he never did. Presentation day comes, and it passes again. It wasn’t very dramatic, in fact, it was like nothing had changed at all. 

Beomgyu showed up. He didn’t look you in the eyes when he took his papers from you. He didn’t look at you during the presentation, he kept his gaze ahead, fixated on the rest of your joint classes. He didn’t speak to you before, during, or after it. Not even a simple, ‘well done’ or even a ‘thanks’ when you’d offered to take his papers and throw them away for him. 

His indifference hurt the most. Perhaps the night had meant nothing to him. It had been just as you suspected, a way for him to forget. Forget whatever it was that had happened with Yeonjun that afternoon. — It had worked. Beomgyu seemed to have forgotten, but you remembered, you remembered far too much. 

Winter break began a mere three days later. 

A different kind of excitement lingered in the air. No matter how old you got, the joy of Christmas never seemed to dull people’s spirits. Almost three weeks to spend with family and friends, three weeks away from the tortuous hell that was college. Except you would stay right where you were. 

This would be the third Christmas you spent on campus. And while the school offered the remaining students to gather in the cafeteria for present unwrapping and long movie marathons, it was never the same as the warm embrace of home. — But home has long since lost its meaning to you. And Christmas no longer felt like a holiday. 

Taehyun had left as well, leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts to reconcile with. Suppose it was during the holidays you realized just how lonely you were. That hurt, of course. — You would spend your days doing mundane things, like reading, writing, drawing… Anything to get your mind off of the almost depressing reality you faced. It usually only worked for an hour or so. It was like a constant loop of distraction, one where you chased the comfort that slowly slipped from your fingers. 

But you were tired of chasing. 

⸝⸝

Your worn out sneakers make an awful squeaking noise against the polished floors and the sound rings in your ears. It’s all you can hear, which serves to quiet your thoughts for a moment, proving to be quite the distraction. 

The long hallways are eerily empty and quiet, it gives them an almost uncanny feeling. Campus no longer felt like campus, more like a shell of its former self. You knew that it would change as soon as break was over of course, but for now you were forced to make your way down the vacant halls all alone in order to get to the cafeteria and have dinner. 

It was for these exact reasons that the sudden tap to your shoulder made your heart drop. 

With a quick spin of your heel, you come face to face with the person you’d least expected to see. — His dark hair is nicely done, and his eyes glimmer with a kindness that two months ago would have had you doing a double take. Snow had melted on the shoulders of his jacket, and the tip of his nose was a bright red. An almost gentle smile is splayed across his rosy lips, and he gives a nervous chuckle. You almost didn’t recognize Choi Yeonjun. 

“Hey uh..” He scratches the back of his neck rather awkwardly, his eyes darting around the empty hallway. “You don’t happen to know if there’s someone with keys to classroom 017? - My girl forgot one of her books in there before the break you see..”  — You remain silent. You don’t think you’d ever had a decent conversation with Yeonjun, ever. It had all been mean and crude comments, nasty smirks and awfully childish pranks where you became a laughing stock. 

So to say that it felt a little weird to be approached by him like this, well that would certainly classify as an understatement. Your first instinct was to walk away, to leave him hanging like he deserved or perhaps you should belittle him on his obliviousness, did he not know all keys were held in the lobby? You refused an eye roll. — For the first time since your night with Beomgyu, a different kind of emotion blossoms within your chest. 

Anger. 

Your mind easily recognizes Yeonjun as the one who’d taken Beomgyu from you two years ago. It was him who you’d blamed for the way Beomgyu turned out, it was him who was at fault. It was him… He… 

You swallow, giving him a small nod, “Think there should be someone up by the lobby.” The polite words sting on your tongue, your fingers itching as they clenched and unclened. Yeonjun on the other hand, smiles, his grin stretching wide as he thanks you. What had changed? 

“I best head there then.” With his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans, he turns and begins his journey down the lifeless corridor. You watch him, eyes trailing over his figure for a moment before you call out. — “Hey, wait!” 

He pauses, turning back to you with raised brows. You march forward without giving yourself the chance to think it over once more. The sounds of you sneakers squeaking against the floors becomes almost deafening but you disregard it as you come to a halt before him. Straightening yourself up, you hold his confused but intrigued gaze. 

“You were friends with Beomgyu, right?” It wasn’t a question, but you phrased it like one anyway. The smile immediately falls from his face upon hearing your words, and for a split second, the old Yeonjun, the face you recognized in the halls fronted. His lips twist into a small scowl and his dark brows furrow. “What’s it to you?” His voice had grown sharp, almost snappy, perhaps you’d hit a sore spot. 

Something had happened. 

Yeonjun studies you for a moment longer, his brown eyes drinking in your frame. His tongue prods against the inside of his cheek, and he looks almost thoughtful. Then he huffs a short breath, it sounded almost like a laugh. — “Oh, yeah that’s right. I know who you are.” He stated it like it was an insult, like your name weighed heavy, and for all the wrong reasons. 

You can feel the confusion evolve on your face, he can too. “Why, I bet he’s told you everything. Bet he came running to you like a bitch.” Yeonjun’s menacing sneer is far from unfamiliar and your chest twists at his words. What was that supposed to mean? — “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was true. You had no idea what had happened between the two of them. 

It’s silent for a moment, and Yeonjun studies you closely, as if searching for lies. When he finds none his shoulders visibly relax. He lets out a short breath, averting his gaze, as if the confrontation of the subject made him uncomfortable. — “He’s an immature bitch, what do you want me to say?” He doesn’t hesitate as his eyes snap back to you, this time with something akin to fury. 

“Couldn’t accept my girl so why should I accept him. – But come on now, he’s told you that already.” 

You don’t answer. Your fingers nervously fiddles with one another as your hands rest by your sides. What was he talking about? What was there for you to know. — Your silence seems to make the pieces fall together in his mind, finally assembling a large puzzle and Yeonjun’s face lights up. “Oh shit”, he huffs, “He hasn’t told you anything at all.” It’s a statement, one that makes your heart drop. 

He runs a hand through his dark hair, a near sinister grin playing on his lips. “Fucking hell.” — He glances down the hall, which was ironic considering how blatantly vacant it was, then he turns back to you. “I thought– I mean I”, interrupting himself only to clear his throat, Yeonjun looks to be fighting back yet another laugh. “I mean I thought you guys were…” 

Shaking his head, he drags the flat of his palm across half his face. “Fuck, I guess not. That’s sad. Really.” — You want to object, tell him that whatever assumption he was currently making was wrong. You wanted to tell him that you and Beomgyu were exactly that. But that would be a lie. And you’d had enough of those. 

“Do you not miss him?” 

The question takes him by surprise, and Yeonjun pauses as he glances back at you. For a moment he looks offended, taken aback by your bluntness. His lips curl into a small scowl, the one he used to wear in the halls, not anymore though, now it was reserved for only one person, Beomgyu. — “Don’t think that’s any of your business, no? – I mean you guys aren’t even..” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a disappointing manner. 

“Just stay in your own lane”, he then adds, giving you a quick one over. “You’re better off without him anyway. – He’ll only bring you down with him.” 

Without another word, Yeonjun walks away. And you don’t stop him. For some reason, his words hurt. They were never directly targeted your way, so why did it hurt to hear him talk bad about Beomgyu? — Why did you feel the need to take on his pain as well, why did you feel the need to carry a burden that was never yours. 

The walk to the cafeteria feels even heavier than usual, and you barely get any food down that evening. 

⸝⸝

The days sort of blend together when you have nothing to do. They’re rolling on a loop, one after the other, and each one would follow the same mundane pattern. With only a day to spare before Christmas, you finally drag yourself off campus grounds, determined to at least make an attempt at lifting your spirits. 

Stores are beyond crowded, and you get shoved left and right as you swim your way through the large masses. God, had none of these people done their Christmas shopping with at least a little margin? — Supposedly not. 

You didn’t know what you wanted, hardly anything seemed to catch your eye. Still, you scour the near empty racks, even when nothing appeals. A small cry to your right diverts your attention in said direction where a young girl clings to her mom. — “I want this one!” She whines, her tiny feet stomping against the hard ground. Her mom sighs but eventually complies, shoving yet another toy in their already full cart. She looked exhausted.   

Your gaze lingers on the tired moms who rushed about with bags stuffed full, on the dads who checked off lists, on the workers who wiped sweat from their forehead as they tried to get through the long line of customers waiting to pay. 

All this commotion for a single day of the year. As much as the thought itself made you want to snort, there was also an undeniable sense of longing that filled your chest. You, too, wanted to rush about, you wanted to have to worry about what to get people for Christmas. You wanted to stay up late and wrap presents, you wanted to see the joy on their faces, hear their laughs. 

You didn't want to be alone. 

Walking was nice. But it becomes tiresome after a while. With your coat wrapped snugly around your body, you stroll the campus grounds absentmindedly. The cold air made your nose freeze and your cheeks sting, but you refused to return to your dorm just yet. There was something so comforting about being swallowed by the shivers running down your spine, or perhaps it was just numbing, like medicine, only it would never cure you. 

The frosty grass crunches beneath the sole of your shoes, and you trudge forward with heavy steps. There was but a thin and crisp layer of snow, one that could be erased with the swipe of your foot. So much for a white Christmas, you thought with a bitter scoff. — Your fingers are on the verge of falling off, but you clutch the small bag in your hand anyway, swinging it back and forth in tune with your casual strides. 

You pass a most familiar bench, now coated in a thin blanket of white but undoubtedly the same. Without thinking twice you come to a halt, feet melting into the ground as they force you in place. Furrowed brows press against your narrowed eyes as you peer over at the very same spot where you had seen Beomgyu sitting not long ago, all by himself. 

Everything seemed to remind you of him, even when all you wanted was to forget his mere existence. You look away, blinking the hurt from your eyes as you glance toward the entrance leading back inside, leading to warmth and to safety. You should go, you should go there now. But it’s impossible to get yourself to move forward, your legs refuse to carry you and you feel your knees buckle. 

With one harsh shake of your head you pull yourself from the small trance. And finally you move, but it is not the entrance you approach. — The old bench squeaks under your weight, and with the help of a gloved hand you dust the worst snow off. 

Sigh. Everything looked different now, yet it was as though nothing had changed. You close your eyes, and for a second you could almost imagine him as he sat beside you, sharing a laugh and perhaps even melting the cold away with your hand in his. The image pains you just as much as it warms you. 

Had it not been for the cold, the moment out on the bench might have even been tranquil. But the harsh winds soared through your body, chilling you to your core as it forced you to huddle in on yourself. You suck in a sharp breath, the cold air slicing down your throat as you force your almost numb lips together. 

Arms wrapped around yourself and fingers digging into your forearms, you’re so busy keeping the cold out that it takes you almost a whole minute to recognize the soft patter of frozen grass crunching beneath feet. But when the sound does reach your ears, your head jerks in its direction. 

There, on the other side of the once grassy field, without as much as a uniform or school bag in sight, is Beomgyu. You’re taken aback by his casual appearance, much so that you almost completely disregard his even more unusual visit. But only almost. — What was he doing here? He had a lot of people to spend Christmas with, no? What business did he have on campus? 

You shift on the old bench, the squeaking noise of the wood however, catches his attention. You swallow when his dark eyes find yours, even from across the field. For a split second you think that he might just keep on walking, to continue his act of nonchalance, as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you, and that you were crazy for even suggesting such a thing. 

But Beomgyu’s gaze doesn’t harden, nor does it lessen. In fact his expression remains completely impassive, though his actions speak for him. He puts one foot before the other, and it’s not until he’s gotten about halfway across the field that you realize where he’s headed. Your stomach drops as you watch him push his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slumped as he approaches. Your gaze flickers to the bag in your hands, swallowing nervously as you tune in to the sound of his footsteps nearing. 

Beomgyu doesn’t say anything when he sits down beside you, and you listen to the squeaking noise the bench makes in protest to yet another element of weight. You peer at him through the corner of your eye. His hair was shorter, the dark strands no longer reached the nape of his neck but stopped just below his ear. Even the bruise on his face had begun to fade, now it was a mere light purple, with splotches of red coating its edges. Lastly, the tip of his nose, which was an uncharacteristic shade of pink, one you found to be almost endearing. 

Your attention travels to the clothes he wore, the jacket looked expensive, undoubtedly more than you could afford even if you saved all your money’s worth. Funnily enough, he doesn’t seem to care for it as his fingers lazily pick at its seams. Beomgyu took a lot of things for granted, you could tell. — Things you could only dream about. 

The silence surrounding you is thick, hugging you tight and keeping you from moving. Your lips part as you attempt to break said silence, despite how dry your throat feels. Beomgyu however, is quicker than you as he heaves a sigh. 

“Why are you out here?” He asks, his gaze still fixed far ahead as his fingers give his jacket a small break. You had expected a ‘hello’ perhaps even a ‘how are you?’, maybe you would even have been content with a sharp glare or a ‘fuck off’. But Beomgyu leads the conversation in a completely different direction. 

When your silence becomes deafening he turns to you. His eyes are filled with something you can’t quite place, something unlike his usual self. He searches your face, as though looking for clues with the help of a magnifying glass. “It’s cold”, he then adds, as if the obvious could not have been made any clearer. 

You scoff, shaking your head as you fiddle with the bag in your hands. “I’m dressed for it”, you mutter without looking at him. Beomgyu hums, and for a second it sounds as though he’s about to say something else, only to stop himself. — The thick silence returns, this time it feels almost claustrophobic. You wanted to ask him about that night, you wanted to ask him about Yeonjun, you wanted to ask him about the two of you, you wanted to ask him…

“Why are you out here?” Your quiet whisper is nearly swallowed by the whirling wind but Beomgyu manages to catch it as his attention jumps from the naked trees and back to you. There were a thousand thoughts swimming within his eyes, things that were just waiting to be said. So why didn’t he? 

“It’s Christmas”, you add, watching as his lip twitches in amusement. — You could not remember the last time you’d made Beomgyu laugh. He shakes his head, tongue prodding against his cheek. “It is”, he nods in agreement, his gaze dropping to the bag clutched in your hands. “Present?” He asks to which you slowly nod. 

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you exhale a deflated sigh, “A stupid one.” You didn’t want to admit that you had bought it for yourself, considering the fact that it would be the only gift you were to receive this year, again. It’s quiet after that and you desperately hoped he would drop the subject again. 

Beomgyu shrugs, “Isn’t that the whole point of Christmas?” When you only frown, he continues, “I mean, wrapping things up and giving them away.” He scoffs as he runs a hand through his dark hair, “Using gifts as condolences, it’s quite materialistic don’t you think?” 

You wanted to argue that it was not, but as your gaze flickers over the expensive clothes he wore, you realized that he didn't seem even a tad grateful for them. Perhaps they had been just that, condolences. — Your thoughts are interrupted by Beomgyu as he shifts on the bench and his hand reaches into the pocket of his coat. 

“I’m not much better”, he murmurs when pulling out a small box. It fit perfectly in his palm, enveloped in silver wrapping with a tiny bow on top. You eye the tiny present with intrigue, your stomach flipping at the sight. — He inhales sharply as he twists the box between his fingers. “Reflecting, repenting all that bullshit..” He mumbles as his brown eyes meet yours, “Suppose that’s what I’m trying to do here.”

Confused, you open your mouth to speak but before you can get as much as a word out, he hands you the gift. His eyes look near pleading as he silently begs for you to accept it, as if it would mean you accepted his apology. Perhaps it would take the guilt off his shoulders if you did. — The frown on your face only grows, but you set your own bag down before reaching a hesitant hand out to grasp the present. 

It feels light in your palm, almost weightless. “Open it”, Beomgyu encourages beside you, his warm breath ghosts across your cheek and you hadn’t even realized just how close he was. — Shrugging your mitten off, your free hand carefully plucks the lid from its container. You can feel his gaze on you, watching intently as you gently tug the rustling paper aside. 

Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes widen tenfold when they fall on the familiar piece of leather. It was the same warm brown, and the contrastingly dark navy blue. The bracelet which you had cherished for so long, the one you had clung onto in the hopes that his matching part would still exist somewhere. 

“I…” You breathlessly begin but Beomgyu quickly cuts you off. “I.. I’m sorry, yeah, that’s what I was…”, he trails off, shrugging as he averts his gaze sheepishly. It’s weird to see him like that, it reminds you of a time long ago, a time before everything. 

The reality of his words slowly sank in, Beomgyu was apologizing. 

You had spent countless sleepless nights, tossing and turning in bed as you prayed and hoped for a time like this. Was it selfish for you to wish for things to be the way they had been? You wanted to bring back someone who no longer existed, a version of him that was but a mere memory, remembered and kept alive only by you. 

Yet here he is, doing just as you had hoped, and for so long. But you hate Choi Beomgyu now. That was a fact. And he hated you too. So this didn’t make sense, no, it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be apologizing. He should have brushed it off, acted as if nothing had ever happened and given you a shoulder cold enough to bring back the ice age. 

“This is wrong.. — I mean, you can’t just-” Biting back a frustrated groan, you twist uncomfortably in your seat as you avoid his reluctant gaze. You can sense his confusion, and it only fuels your frustration. Did he not understand that he couldn’t just undo everything with a simple ‘sorry’ and a gift. 

Beomgyu swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing against his throat. “What?” He asks, his gaze dropping to the untouched gift still in your hands, “Do you not like it? — I can get you something else.” 

You shake your head, “It’s not about the gift, Beomgyu.” — He frowns, “Then what is it?” 

“Everything.” 

You’re looking at him now, your heart hammering in your chest as you fight your nerves. “It’s everything, okay? You, me–” You motion between the two of you, “Yeonjun, the presentation, us.” It wasn’t just something you drew a line over, something you blurred and pushed back in the depths of your mind as you tried to forget it. 

“But, why does any of that matter?” He wonders with a confused frown, his bottom lip slightly jutted out as he regards you with caution. You have to hold back a scoff, your fingers curl around the small box, knuckles turning white as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Because it does! You might not get that, but it hurt me.” 

Beomgyu groans as he runs a hand through his short hair. “Fuck, I already apologized what more do you want from me?” His anger matches yours in a way that instantly reminds you of just how bad you could be together, of how deeply he made you feel. — “What difference does it make?” You snap, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. 

“Everything.” 

“It changes everything, alright?” His chest heaves when he exhales, his eyes flaring with the same fire they had that night, the night when he wasn’t thinking straight. He probably wasn’t right now either. — “Because”, he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he regains his composure. “Because I don’t know how else to change things.” 

He drags a hand across his face, like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “You act like I’m the biggest asshole to walk this earth and next thing I know you’re kissing me. It confuses me and it angers me. But even when you’re mean you’re nice, and I hate how it makes me feel. — I hate that it’s you I want to go to when shit goes wrong, and I hate that I did. I hate how you let me use you that night.” 

He’s barely taking breaks to breathe in between sentences, and you catch the subtle flush to his cheeks as he speaks. “I fucking hate the fact that you’re always on my mind, much more do I hate that I never even try to will those thoughts away.” Beomgyu bites his bottom lip, chewing on it for a good five seconds before letting it go as he sneaks a glance your way. “But I…” He sighs as he finally comes to a conclusion after his long battle with himself. — “I don’t hate you. I want to, but I can’t” 

You swallow, your hand still hugged by the mitten feels clammy and sweaty. Your heart races and your mind jumps between his jumbled words with little coherence. You don’t think you’d ever heard him say so many things at once, and certainly not like that. His usual mean and crude self had completely drained from his system and left was a shell of the Beomgyu you thought you knew. 

It was then, you think, that you realized Choi Beomgyu wasn’t so different from you after all. Your gaze drops to the small gift still in your hands. What had once weighed so little now felt heavy in your grasp, like you were holding all of him, all at once. The bracelet fills you with hope, something you’d long since given up on entirely. 

You glance toward him. His jaw is clenched tightly as his narrowed eyes peer ahead, intent on avoiding you it seemed. His apology was complete and total shit, his reasoning even worse. But Beomgyu was quite shit at most things. So were you. — Your gaze lingers on his pink nose, bitten by the cold. Your own nose stings too, for the both of you had been out here far too long. 

In the pale winter air it became clear. Beomgyu was lonely, just as lonely as you. The slump of his shoulders and the defeated look on his face surely matched your own. You imagine how the two of you must look from afar. It would have to be quite a pitiful sight. How could one be lonely in the presence of someone else? Only two jackasses must manage something like that. 

But you didn’t want to be a jackass anymore, and neither did he. — So you shift on the bench, ignoring the squeaking noise it makes as you turn to Beomgyu. “Do you want to watch a movie?” 

⸝⸝

It’s awkward at first. 

The soft rustle of bed sheets, the untouched bowl of popcorn between you, the flimmer coming from the Tv screen as a cheesy romcom movie plays. Beomgyu, who was usually more than at home in your dorm, was now stiffly sitting on his side of the bed, his back straight as he pressed against the headboard. He appeared almost nervous. 

You weren’t faring much better, in fact your hands were dripping sweat as they remained tightly clasped together. Neither of you had touched the large bowl of popcorn, and they had long since gone cold. — Despite the freezing temperatures outside, your small dormitory seemed to be burning up. 

None of you had said a word since the movie began playing, and before that you had been communicating with fast and hushed murmurs as you avoided each other’s gaze. — Never had you imagined that you would be spending Christmas with Beomgyu, much less on the small and squeaking bed in your dorm. 

Did this mean that things were starting to look up between the two of you? 

Your heart practically leaps to your throat when you feel him shift on the mattress. Everytime he moved, even if it was just a mere centimeter, you tensed up. But the dramatic beating of your fluttering heart was only increased when he suddenly appeared even closer to you. His body feels warm, scorching hot inside the already airless room. 

He doesn’t say anything, and when you steal a glance his way, you find him watching the Tv. His expression would be relaxed if it weren't for the subtle twitch of his jaw when he felt your eyes on him. — Your attention drops to his hands, they were placed on the bed either side of him, his fingers moving absentmindedly against the sheets as he fiddled with them. 

Your lips pulled into a small smile, and oh how you had missed smiling. 

Beomgyu frowns when you suddenly climb off the bed, leaving behind an empty spot that radiates your sweet scent. He looked as though he was about to say something, one of his hands reaching out before stopping himself again. — He watches as you reach for the same bag you’d been clutching so tightly out on the bench, the one that had been completely disregarded in the end. 

You clear your throat, standing awkwardly by the edge of the bed as you hold it in two hands. “I…” Your throat feels parched and your lips dry as your tongue wets them, “I want you to have this.” You reach the bag out toward him and Beomgyu's frown only deepens. — “But it’s yours..” He murmurs as his eyes flit between you and the bag in your hands. 

“I want you to have it. — Besides”, you shrug, “You’re not the only one who’s been an idiot here.” 

His brow raises at your words, a small grin tugging at his lips as he gratefully accepts the token of an apology from you. You take the moment of him peering inside the bag to retake your position next to him on the mattress. Eagerly you watch as his frown deepens, only for it to ease up as he realizes what he was looking at. 

“This is..” He begins, one of his hands reaching into the bag as he pulls out the small bracelet. Beomgyu’s jaw slacks as he turns the cool and brown leather in his fingers, thumb caressing the warm and red embroidery. “You…” He cuts himself off, whether that was because he did not know what to say next or did not dare to. 

Your gaze flickers to the small box placed on your bedside table, perhaps you weren’t complete jackasses after all. 

“Why did you…” He swallows, and though he never finished his sentence, the question swirling within his eyes was obvious. — You shrug, nibbling on your bottom lip as you regard the bracelet in his hand. “It just… felt right.” 

There was no other way to explain it. For as you had trudged forward on tired feet, with heavy and droopy eyes, you had stumbled upon the very thing that had haunted you for so long. 

It has been a small stand, hardly making itself known amongst its competitors. The handmade jewelry however, immediately caught your eye. You recognized the leather, eyes widening even further as they caught glimpse of the warm red braided into it. 

Your stomach had dropped, just the way it would on a rollercoaster before its drop. That was undoubtedly the very same bracelet he’d worn, the one that had wrapped around his wrist so delicately, a constant reminder of what you had once lost. 

“That one,” You had said as you pointed to the accessory. Why? Because it felt right. Words would never even come close to describing the pull you felt, the immense need to have it. — But now, as you watch it lay in Beomgyu’s open palm, his lips parted as he regards the very bracelet, you understand perfectly. 

Things were exactly how they were supposed to be. 

Beomgyu’s hand suddenly drops, and he twists in his seat as he turns to you. The touch of his fingers against your cheek makes your eyes widen, the subtle reaction not passing him by unnoticed as a sly grin pulls across his lips. “What are you doing?” Your brows knit together, the soft confusion on your face only amusing him further. 

His breath is warm against your lips as his own hover above them. The tip of his round nose brushes against yours, the small contact sending a jolt of electricity through you. “What I should have done from the start”, he murmurs before pressing his lips to yours. 

⸝⸝

The agonizing noise of violent video games fill the open spaced living room. Continuous shots are fired, easily drowning out the sound of the doorbell. Completely immersed in his game, Yeonjun doesn’t look up until he feels the cushion beneath him shift as somebody takes the seat next to him. He doesn’t turn his head and look, he already knows who it is. 

“How did you get in?” He asks in a somewhat monotone voice, his eyes still glued to the Tv screen in front of him as he taps the controller in his hands. Beomgyu, who occupies the other half of the cough, shrugs as he spreads himself out on the soft furniture, just like he had so many times before. — As though nothing had changed. 

“Your girlfriend let me in”, he simply states as he, too, tunes in on the violent game. Yeonjun on the other hand frowns, his face morphing into confusion as his thumbs slow down on the buttons. At last, the game comes to an end and he tears the headset from his ears. — “Oh, so you talk to her now?” He retorts, his tone snappy and sharp as he tosses the control onto the coffee table. 

Beomgyu bites the inside of his cheek, his gaze still fixed to the ‘New Game’ flashing on the screen. “I do”, he hums, fingers absentmindedly toying with one another. Yeonjun scoffs as he throws a glance in the direction of his supposed friend. — “Any particular reason?” He queries to which Beomgyu swallows. 

There’s a momenteral silence following his question as the two of them remain quietly seated on the couch. Neither of them move, the air feeling heavy yet filled with a sense of anticipation. Finally, he clears his throat as his anxious fingers come to a halt. “I’ve been acting like an asshole..” Beomgyu murmurs as he pushes a hand through his now short hair. 

Yeonjun looked as though he was biting back a snarky remark, his gaze flickering between the other and his own hands. “No shit”, he mumbles under his breath, unable to hold the comment back as he sucked in a sharp breath. His gaze jumps from his hands and over to Beomgyu’s as he nervously fiddles with the seams of his jeans. He can’t help but notice the oddly familiar bracelet around his wrist. 

It takes him a good minute, but soon the pieces fall into place. His lip twitches as his eyes stray by the bracelet. — “I’m sorry”, Beomgyu quietly adds. It seems apologies were becoming a new habit of his. It took Yeonjun by surprise, making his eyebrows rise on his forehead, all the while Beomgyu avoided his gaze. 

“I haven’t been too good either, I suppose.” Yeonjun reluctantly admits as he gives a small shrug. Beomgyu doesn’t reply but still nods as he purses his lips. Another thick silence follows, it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not one either of them want to linger in. Yeonjun is the first to break it when he clears his throat. 

“I missed you man”, he says, his words light and filled with sincerity. 

Beomgyu finally finds himself looking at his friend, his eyes widening just a fraction. “Yeah?” He asks, the ghost of a grin playing across his lips. Yeonjun scoffs as he leans further into the couch, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” But it’s already too late, for Beomgyu was smirking as he leaned over to grab the discarded controller. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it”, he drawls as he presses ‘New Game’. 

taglist ✎... @yeonggum @tubatu-lovie @woofie-nctzen-fanarts @shuporanporang @naoristerling @lickingan0rchid @viciousdarlings @multifictionx @akiiurr @immelissaaa @gyuhaze @liaatiny @Izzyy-stuff @Saejinniestar @Hyunelixbun @lunesdesire @n0-thisispatrick @lickingan0rchid @tyunderella @fancypeacepersona @hyunj00 @hwang-choon @soohashits @xylatox @lilbrorufr @ezeert @blossommi @beestvng@minji-willstay @sunoolver @g0r3wh0rre @luvsicktyun @buttrry @buttercreamerie @bangtanuniversa @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire

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[pazzi5351]

Ivy

Paige x Azzi

Pt 1: i thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me

AN: Ok so someone said this and I immediately had to get to work. ALSO THE BEGINNING IN ITALICS IS PAIGES DREAM IF IT DOESNT MAKE SENSE!!! ALSO ALSO, the beginning is timed in Covid when Paige stayed with the fudd’s!

Word count: 1.2k

————————————————————————————

Paige and Azzi were walking around the Minnesota state fair. A little tradition they’d picked up during their first year being friends.

Unlike the first time they visited the fair, where their hands brushed as they walked side by side, they held hands. Interlocked. A silent vow..

While they walked, Paige noticed a “pop a shot” game booth. In the booth, the thing that caught her eye the most was the big unicorn plush that just screamed Azzi. She rushed over to it, pulling Azzi’s arm with her in the process.

“Hey Az, play me in pop a shot! If I win, I’ll get you the big unicorn.” Paige said, excited knowing this is a time where she could be extra competitive if it meant Azzi gets something out of it.

“Fine, but if I win I’m still getting the unicorn. You just won’t have the satisfaction of winning it for me.” Azzi replied, smirking at Paige, squeezing her hand once.

Their game flowed. Their trash talk fueled. But eventually, Paige won.

As soon as her final ball went through the hoop, she was pointing the game worker to the unicorn. As soon as the worker handed her the unicorn, she handed it off to Azzi.

“For you m’lady.” Paige laughed, as she bowed dramatically, handing over the plush.

Azzi rolled her eyes as she reached for the unicorn. “My knight in shining armor! How can I ever repay you?”

Paige laughed and smiled softly. Only looking at Azzi, trying to burn her image in her brain. “Hm, maybe a ride on the Ferris wheel will suffice.”

Azzi reached for Paige’s hand. “Let’s go then bighead!”

Letting herself be pulled along, Paige could only smile. She had Azzi. Her best friend. Her ride or die. The love of her life.

On the way to the top of the Ferris wheel, Paige and Azzi talked about everything and nothing at the same time. Paige loved learning Azzi.

The way she loves to read. The way she grins a little when she’s excited. How in the quiet moments, the way she looks at Paige like she’s the best thing in the world.

When they stopped at the top, Azzi looked over at the sunset. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Paige was already looking at Azzi. Not the sunset the brunette was referring to.

“Yeah, it is.”

Azzi turned around, seeing Paige already looking her, and smiled. She gently cupped the side of Paige’s face, leaning in just enough so their noses were slightly brushing.

“Have I ever told you I love you? I feel like I haven’t.” Azzi said, her voice just above a whisper.

Paige gasped, lips parting slightly. Breathlessly. It’s not like she didn’t know Azzi loved her. It was in all the lingering moments. The late night one on one. Talking until the sun came up. And everything good between them.

“I love you too Az.”

Azzi leaned in, fully closing the gap between them and—

Paige’s eyes shot open as she woke up.

She blinked a few times then sat up slowly, trying not to wake Azzi, her heartbeat still racing from the dream.

It had felt too real. The fair, the unicorn, the Ferris wheel. The way Azzi said I love you like she meant it with every part of her.

And the *almost* kiss.

That part nearly broke her.

Paige blinked hard, wiping a hand across her face. She turned to her side and saw Azzi—peaceful, tucked into the comforter, one arm slung over Paige’s waist like she belonged there.

And that just made it worse.

Because she did belong there. At least in Paige’s head. In her dreams. In that secret place where everything was soft and honest and safe. Where Paige didn’t have to pretend this wasn’t the most important relationship she’d ever had.

But here? Now? In the real world?

Azzi was her best friend. Nothing more. Nothing ever.

Paige grabbed her phone off the nightstand, trying to breathe around the pressure in her chest..

Don’t be weird. Don’t make it weird, she told herself. You guys are just best friends.

She scrolled mindlessly, refreshing Instagram, switching to Twitter, trying to drown out her thoughts. But it was too quiet. Too present.

Behind her, Azzi stirred. Then groaned dramatically.

“Why are you up? It’s too early for you.” Azzi mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. She rolled over, flopping her entire body on top of Paige with zero hesitation, her weight familiar and grounding.

Paige stiffened under her. Then softened a bit, guilt pooling in her stomach.

Don’t make it weird, she told herself again.

Azzi lifted her head just enough to meet Paige’s eyes.

For one second, everything froze. The eye contact—barefaced, close, intimate—felt too much like her dream. Paige could feel the heat rise in her neck.

Azzi blinked, the corners of her mouth tugging up in a lazy grin and a face Paige didn’t recognize.

And then—

“YO!” Katie’s voice rang from downstairs. “Breakfast! Eggs are getting cold!”

Azzi jolted up. “Let’s gooo, I’m starving,” she said,hopping out of bed like she hadn’t just laid on top of Paige with her whole chest.

Paige stayed still. She listened to Azzi’s footsteps fade down the hallway, then let her head fall back against the pillow.

Her chest ached in that strange, quiet way. They way she couldn’t quite put a name on. The way it always did when she remembered that loving Azzi the way she really wanted to? Wasn’t something that was allowed.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already buzzing. Jose was finishing his first plate of pancakes. Tim and Jon were talking over each other about a TikTok they were trying to recreate. Katie was humming at the stove.

Azzi was already sitting, scooping eggs onto her plate and stealing a piece of bacon off Tim’s.

Paige walked in a minute later, slower, trying to calm herself. She offered a sleepy “morning,” then sat in her seat. The open seat next to Azzi.

The moment she sat down, Azzi lightly hit her knee under the table.

“What’s up with you?” She asked. “You’re like brooding.”

Paige forced a laugh. “Nothin’s up. I’m good.”

Azzi tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at Paige like she didn’t fully believe her, but she didn’t press. “Ok. Anywhoo—” she perked up, excited to change the topic, “Michael invited me to a party tonight and I think he might like me!”

Paige nearly choked on her bacon. “Michael?”

“Yeah,” Azzi said casually, still picking at her food. “He’s cool, I mean I have a few classes with him. But yeah, I think I might go, if I’m allowed.”

Paige’s throat dried. She focused on her plate, not really eating off of it anymore, tried not to let her face show anything. “Cool.”

Paige’s throat dried. She focused on her plate, tried not to let her face show anything. “Cool.”

“I mean, I don’t like him-like him,” Azzi added quickly, then shrugged. “But he’s kinda cute, and it’ll be fun.”

“Totally,” Paige said, voice too flat. “You should go.”

Azzi smiled, already moving on to some story about how Michael complimented her shoes in the hallway like it was the biggest news of the day.

And Paige just nodded along, trying to pretend her heart hadn’t just fallen out of her chest and got stomped on.

Because it didn’t matter how real the dream felt.

Azzi didn’t love her like that.

And Paige would never be the one Azzi woke up dreaming about.

[word-woven]

After the Mold

18 Plus+ 🔞

Ethan Winters x Male!Reader

After surviving the worst days of his life, Ethan Winters finds quiet solace in the arms of someone who sees him for more than what he’s lost—someone who holds him like he still belongs to the world.

I just think Ethan deserves to be kissed stupid, held like a lifeline, and railed lovingly by a very patient man, okay? I don’t make the rules—I just write the smut

You met Ethan in the kind of silence that followed horror. Not the peaceful kind. The ringing kind—the kind that lives in your bones long after the screaming stops.

He was already back from Louisiana when you found him, if “back” was even the right word. He looked like he’d crawled out of hell on his hands and knees and didn’t trust the light anymore.

And who could blame him?

He didn’t talk about what happened at first. You knew the headlines. You knew what wasn’t in the reports too—the rumors, the whispers about a girl and a swamp and something that shouldn’t have existed. The mold. The Baker family. His wife. All dead, except her.

You never asked.

At first, you just fixed his injuries. Cleaned up the places no one else would. The scar across his hand that never quite healed, even with REACT tech. The jagged shrapnel wound near his ribs. The nightmares he tried to pretend didn’t happen.

“I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” you’d reply.

But you never pushed harder than that.

You learned to recognise the signs—when he needed space, when he needed silence, when he needed you to sit on the floor beside him and just be there. Sometimes he’d press the heel of his palm to his eye like he was trying to wipe something out from behind it. Sometimes he’d flinch at the creak of a floorboard, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there anymore.

He moved in with you after two months. Said it was temporary. Said he couldn’t be in that empty apartment. Too clean. Too sterile.

He slept on the couch. Then on your bed. Then beside you.

Neither of you talked about that either.

Until the night you found him on the bathroom floor, his back against the tub, sweat-soaked and shaking. Eyes blown wide. Breathing like the air was drowning him.

He didn’t say your name. Just, “She was there.”

You crouched beside him. Pressed a hand to his chest, over his racing heart. “Who?”

“Eveline. The girl.” His voice cracked. “But not really. I know she’s dead. I know she’s—I know—” His hands curled into his hair. “But it’s like I feel her sometimes. Like she’s still in my goddamn head.”

You didn’t say it would be okay. You knew better. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “You’re not alone.”

He started crying.

He didn’t sob. Just went so quiet that you almost missed it—the way his breath hitched, the tears falling soundlessly onto your collarbone as you pulled him into your arms. He clung like a man broken open, like your touch was the only thing keeping him from dissolving back into the mold.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, and it gutted you. “I don’t know how to be human anymore.”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice low and fierce. “You just have to be. And I’ll be here.”

That was the first time he kissed you.

It was clumsy. Desperate. Teeth clacking and fingers trembling. But it was real. You kissed him back with everything you had—because he needed it, and because you wanted it. Wanted him. Not as a broken man or a haunted survivor, but as Ethan. The man who still carried groceries with both hands even if one of them ached. The man who told awful jokes at 3am and cooked breakfast like it was the only sacred act left in the world.

The man who finally let himself live.

That night, you didn’t fuck. You just held each other. You undressed slowly, reverently—like every scar he’d earned was holy, like every piece of him was something to worship. You kissed his wrists. His stomach. His throat. You laid him out across the sheets and laid your hands across his heart like a benediction.

“Do you want this?” you asked him, breath shaking.

He nodded. “More than anything.”

And so you gave him everything.

He moaned under your touch—soft, needy, unguarded. Every sound he made was real. No performance. No walls. Just Ethan, raw and open, letting himself feel. You took your time. You didn’t rush. You ran your tongue along the curve of his hip and watched him fall apart, whispering your name like it was the only thing grounding him.

When you were finally inside him—slow, deep, tender—he clung to you like you were salvation. His legs wrapped around your waist. His arms wound around your shoulders. His mouth on yours, again and again, as if kissing you could save him.

And maybe it did. A little.

After, he cried again. Quieter this time. You kissed the tears from his cheeks and held him until he fell asleep, his head over your heart.

In the morning, he reached for your hand under the covers and laced your fingers together.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay,” he said.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “That’s fine. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to be here.”

He turned to face you. Eyes red. Voice steady. “Then I’ll stay.”

[soeyekonic]

— ✩♬ ₊˚. i'm not that girl ⭑ M.B

˚⟡˖⋆ synopsis you were never the girl who got noticed, but loving manon in silence still felt like something beautiful—until it started to hurt.

disclaimer: popular!collage student!manon bannerman x collage student!fem!reader. slight fluff?? not really…maybe. slight angst. reader is down bad for manon. lowkey hating on herself bad…

currently playing: not that girl - cynthia erivo (wicked)

the music pulsed through the house, the bass thrumming under your skin as you lingered near the edge of the crowded living room. people swayed and laughed, drinks sloshing over the rims of red cups, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and too many bodies pressed together.

you shouldn’t have come.

but she was here.

manon bannerman— the kind of girl people told stories about. the kind who made heads turn just by existing, who had an entire campus wrapped around her finger without even trying.

she sat on the arm of a couch, dark eyes flickering with amusement as she sipped her drink, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. her dark curls, framing the sharp angles of her face, and she moved with the kind of effortless confidence that made her seem untouchable.

and you? you were just the girl standing in the corner, watching.

you should stop watching.

you should stop wanting.

but it was impossible not to, not when she was right there, not when you could still remember the one time—just once—when her eyes had met yours.

it had been a week ago. maybe less. you had been leaving class, shoving your notes into your bag, when you nearly collided with her in the hallway. for one impossible, heart-stopping second, she had looked at you.

not through you. not past you.

at you.

"careful, sweetheart."

sweetheart.

it had probably meant nothing. it had probably meant everything.

but now, as you stood on the outskirts of this party, you knew how foolish it had been to let yourself believe—even for a second—that you were someone to her.

because now, her gaze was locked onto someone else.

you swallowed hard, fingers tightening around your cup as you watched her lean in, her lips brushing against the shell of another girl’s ear. the girl—perfect, radiant, someone who mattered—laughed, tilting her head just so, and manon reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

it was intimate. thoughtless, maybe, but full of a warmth you had never been on the receiving end of.

and it made something inside you ache.

you had spent too many nights indulging in stupid, hopeless thoughts. imagining a different world, a different version of yourself—one that fit into her orbit instead of orbiting around it.

in that world, she looked at you like that. in that world, she leaned in close, her voice low and teasing just for you.

in that world, you were enough.

you exhaled sharply, shaking your head at yourself.

this wasn’t some fairytale. you weren’t that girl. the one who got noticed, the one who belonged at her side.

no matter how much you wished otherwise.

the moment between them stretched longer, and you knew you couldn’t stand here watching anymore.

you set your drink down on the nearest table, barely hearing the music anymore over the sound of your own heartbeat. the walls felt too close, the air too thick, the weight of your own foolishness too heavy.

you turned toward the door, slipping through the crowd unnoticed. it wasn’t hard to disappear when you had always been invisible.

the night air was sharp against your skin as you stepped outside, and you inhaled deeply, trying to steady yourself.

maybe tomorrow, this feeling would fade. maybe tomorrow, you’d stop looking for her in every crowded room.

maybe tomorrow, you’d stop wishing you were someone else.

but not tonight.

because tonight, she was still everything.

and you were just a girl who had never stood a chance.

a/n: first manon apperence on here 🙀. also??? not that girl??? my fav song from wicked. i love it sm. i had to do a wicked song for manon, it only felt right yk???

[matts-hersheys-kisses]

"you're really leaving?"

-chris sturniolo

warnings: just lowk depressing sad asf angst,

cry-cigarettes after sex

Chris hated the cold.

Always had. The way it sank into your bones, numbed your fingers, turned your breath into smoke. He hated the way it made him feel brittle, like if someone said the wrong thing, he’d snap in half.

But she loved it.

Said it made everything feel clearer. Said it was honest. Cold didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t.

So when she texted him, Meet me at the field?, he pulled on his thickest hoodie, shoved his hands in his pockets, and went anyway.

She was already there when he arrived, curled up on the top row of the bleachers like she belonged to the sky. Her hair whipped around her face in the wind, and her cheeks were pink from the cold air.

Chris shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie and climbed the steps to sit beside her, hating the way the metal felt like ice beneath him.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered.

She smiled faintly. “I like it.”

“I know,” he said.

That was the problem.

She liked things that didn’t stay warm. Things that bit back. Things like leaving.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the empty football field stretch out beneath them. The wind howled through the chain-link fence, and Chris pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

She spoke first. “I’m leaving next week.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “I figured.”

She looked down at her hands, pale against her jeans. “You’re not gonna ask me to stay?”

“I could,” he said quietly. “But you wouldn’t.”

She didn’t deny it.

A gust of wind tore through the bleachers. Chris winced.

She breathed in deep like she couldn’t get enough of the cold. “I don’t know why I always ruin good things.”

Chris swallowed. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

She turned her face to him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying—not really. She never did. She just carried sadness like a second skin.

“You’re good,” she whispered. “That’s the worst part.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and felt something crack in his chest.

“You make it really hard to hate you, you know that?” he said, voice low.

She gave him a sad sort of smile. “That’s not what I want.”

“I know.” His voice broke a little. “But it would be easier.”

A pause. Then:

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Of what?”

“That I’ll leave, and you’ll be okay.”

He turned toward the field again, jaw tight. “I won’t.”

That made her eyes squeeze shut. Like it hurt to hear it. Like it hurt more to believe it.

“I think I’ll still look for you in crowds,” she said. “Even when I know you’re not there.”

He nodded slowly. “I think I’ll still keep a hoodie in my backseat. Just in case.”

“I love the cold,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said again. “I hate it.”

A pause.

“But I’ll miss it anyway.”

That was the thing that broke her.

She leaned into him suddenly, face pressed to his shoulder, and for a second it felt like nothing was ending. Just wind and metal and hearts too full for the moment they were in.

“You’ll forget me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I’ll forget to eat before practice. I’ll forget to charge my phone. I’ll forget birthdays, probably. But not you.”

She pulled back slowly, her hands cold as they cupped his face.

Then she kissed his forehead.

And stood.

And walked down the bleachers without looking back.

The wind kicked up again, sharper now. Cruel.

Chris sat there until the sky turned the color of bruises, and the bleachers froze beneath the cold.

He hated the cold.

But he stayed.

Because she had loved it.

And he had loved her.

And maybe that was the same thing.

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[beyondthisdarkhouse]

Okay okay so. I have a theory about Anne and Wentworth's initial engagement about Persuasion, and it drives me very nearly feral. Especially when you tie it to later conversations she has with Benwick and Harville.

But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.

The special legal privilege a woman had in an engagement, which her fiance technically didn't, was the ability to back out.

(Yes, it was not without social consequences; and yes, if her fiance backed out, she'd have to actually publicly take him to court for breach of promise to receive compensation, which many girls (and more importantly, their families) were not eager to do.)

But imagine Lady Russell telling Anne: He's a sailor. If you stay engaged to him, the Admiralty could order him to sail to the end of the earth and map the coast of Antarctica if they wanted. He could be sent anywhere. He could be marooned, shipwrecked, deserted, made a prisoner of war, for years. Imagine him, in that distant situation, meeting some other woman and falling deeply in love with her. Wanting to marry her. And not being able to... because of you.

You would blight that happiness. You would chain him to an uncertain promise forever. You would drag him away from that new life, because of some silly, foolish, stupid decision you made when you were nineteen. If he still loves you, let him come back and say it then; but don't force him to come back if he doesn't.

(Given her family, she's probably very used to the sensation of being offered the outward forms of belonging and affection and knowing that she would be an idiot to hope for anything solid underneath.)

So then when she breaks the news to Frederick, the actual reason down at the core of it is, "You're probably going to forget about me and fall in love with someone else anyway, so we're just making it all easier on ourselves." Which he is wildly unimpressed by.