#She was taken from him while he was Right There. and he was helpless to do anything about it. he can't lose his daughter again. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 1 month ago

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I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

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alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

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You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

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moonstruckme · 2 months ago

Note

hai lovie!!! im not sure of youve written something like this for emt!marauders yet but could you write something where they come home from work to reader lying on the floor on the hallway due to having low blood pressure and shed tried to go get something to eat or something but had started feeling faint and had to lie down? and then when they come up to reader she starts to cry because being unwell makes her anxious (im not fussed if you dont add that last part up to you <3). i had really low blood pressure the other day and bad to lie on the floor for a good two hours and it really stressed me out :< anyway thanks lovie i hope youre doing well !!!!

Thanks for requesting <3

cw: mention of dizziness, nausea, worries about being alone when unwell and also being unwell in general

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You’re half propped up with your elbow on a step when you hear the front door open.

“Hello?”

“Hello!” comes James’ chipper reply, followed by Sirius’ groan and the clunking of shoes as he no doubt kicks them off, beelining for the couch. After a moment of you not appearing to greet them, James asks, “Where are you?”

“I’m—here.” You soften your voice when Sirius walks by the stairs, his step faltering as he locks eyes with you.

His eyebrows bunch, concerned before he really knows why. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m…” You shrug limply, trying on a helpless smile. Tears threaten to spill over from the way your eyes squish up. “I don’t feel right.”

Sirius has only taken his first, slow step toward you, bemusement written across his features, before James and Remus are behind him at the base of the stairs.

“Oh. Hi, angel.” James’ voice matches his expression, all gentleness, and worry hidden beneath counterfeit cheer. “Having a little lie down?”

“Yeah,” you say. Sirius’ touch is a relief as he reaches you. He cups your face and feels your forehead, brows stitched together. You’re happy to be in capable hands. “I started to fall, so I just laid down here. I’m a bit dizzy.”

There’s only so many of you that can fit on the stairs. James makes it to you next, crouching beside Sirius to take your hand in his and press his fingers to your pulse, so Remus is left peering over them both. He frowns, looking conflicted about his inability to help and worried in general. You try another smile for his sake; unfortunately, this time, the tears do spill.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Sirius says, no real chiding in his tone as he knuckles them from your cheeks.

“Sorry.” You force yourself to breathe, but new ones come anyway. It’s a slow sort of cry, the result of a good long while feeling sorry for yourself. “I just, I felt sick, so I tried to go upstairs to the toilet, but then I started to faint and I didn’t think I could make it back down to my phone, and I didn’t know when you would be home, or if anyone would find me…”

“We’re here now, though, sweetheart,” Remus stops you gently. “It all worked out alright. You’re okay.”

“Yeah.” You wipe underneath your eyes. “I think my blood pressure just dropped all of a sudden or something, but I still feel weird. It was scary.”

“I think you’re right,” James says. He runs his thumb over your wrist. “I mean, I’d like to think it’s just because we’re home and you’re pleased to see us, but your heart’s going pretty fast, m’love. How long ago did you lie down here?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, sniffling, feeling silly. “I don’t have my phone. Less than an hour, I think.”

Remus hums. “That’s still a long while.”

Honestly, you feel better just having your boyfriends here with you. Partly because of the security, of course, that you know you won’t faint and hit your head with no one to help you, but also, perhaps, there’s a small part of you that enjoys their fussing. The concerned set of Sirius’ brow, the way Remus’ mouth puckers thoughtfully, how James keeps rubbing his thumb over your wrist like he can soothe your heart back into its regular rhythm.

“Well, then.” Sirius pats your hip, rising from his crouch. “Not much point in figuring it all out here, is there? C’mon, pretty girl, that step has to be killing your side.”

It’s true; you think the edge of the step probably leaves an indent in your waist after you let Sirius haul you up, supporting you down the stairs and over to the couch.

“I don’t feel as dizzy as I was expecting,” you admit. “Maybe I was overreacting.”

“You?” Sirius exclaims, feigning astoundment.

“Better to be safe,” says Remus. He claims a spot next to you quickly, as though seizing his opportunity. It makes your lips tug. “I’m glad you were careful, love.”

You lean your head on his shoulder in a silent plea for coddling; he appeases you, pressing his lips to your hair while Sirius pinches the skin of your forearm gently. You watch him with mild interest.

“When was the last time you drank water?” he asks.

“Um…” You think back.

Sirius lets go of your skin and tuts. “Yeah, seems like it’s been long enough for you not to remember.”

“On it,” James announces, coming back from the kitchen with a large glass of water. He passes it to you over the back of the couch, and it’s so full a tiny bit spills over the rim onto your wrist, making you shiver. “It’s more common than you’d think for dehydration to do that to you. Gotta be careful.”

“Yes,” says Remus drily, though his arm comes around your shoulders. “Rather easily avoidable.”

You shrink, mumbling, “Sorry,” into your glass.

James awws and bends over the back of the couch to plant a kiss on your head, his good cheer restored, genuinely now. “We all forget sometimes, lovie.”

“Don’t enable her,” Sirius tells him. He cradles your arm in his hand, stroking the skin he’d pinched as though in apology for his treatment of it. “Don’t listen to him. It’s a grave oversight and you must repent forever.”

“Forever?” Your smile still feels weak, but you’re coming back to yourself some. “How will I do that?”

“Mm,” Sirius takes to kissing your arm instead, mumbling with a sternness that borders upon silly, “start with filling your water bottle every day before leaving the house, and at least three times after that.”

You go quiet, gaze sliding to Remus skeptically.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Is that…really how much I’m supposed to have?”

His other eyebrow lifts, too. “Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.” Remus laughs, exasperated. “Yes, that’s the water intake your body needs.”

“There’s no way everyone’s doing that.”

“They’re not,” James agrees. “Instead, everyone is getting dizzy and calling us so we can go pick them up from halfway up the stairs.”

You bring the glass back to your lips, muttering, “I didn’t call, you just found me.”

James kisses your head again, fiercely. “And we always will, lucky girl.”

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pricetagged · 4 months ago

Text

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

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

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

#you have a sweet little blossoming romance until tommy starts acting up and simon joins the army #but youre his first love and who knows...there may be a future for you years down the line #when old grizzled simon spots a familiar pretty face walking the streets of manchester while he's on leave #and really，him watching you and looking out for you is a relationship tradition at this point (:#idk im not confident with this and its not great but the idea was lingering and idk self indulgent #simon riley cod #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley/reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod imagine #báirseach writes #cw implied abuse #cw fatphobia

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ceaselesswatchersspecialboy · 8 months ago

Text

Relistening to Checking Out, and I’ve always liked this scene in particular, as it is one that’s very open to interpretation.

I believe, from what I’ve seen personally at least, one or the most common interpretations is that Helen’s observation is either incorrect, or intentionally misleading, and that Jon’s response actually stems from touch aversion, or a degree of it, attributed to his trauma, particularly moments where he’s been left helpless and at the whims of others. E.g. Kidnapped by the Circus, almost killed by Daisy etc. And while I think this interpretation is both interesting and plausible, I don’t think I’ve seen much for the opposite interpretation, which is that Helen’s observation is correct.

It can be difficult to talk about Jon’s humanity sometimes, as there’s a lot of nuance and layers to cover. The fact is, Jon, especially in season five, does not completely think like a human. He is simultaneously a painfully human character such with deep compassion and guilt and self-loathing, while also being a being of immense knowledge who sees and understands the world in a different light, and in a way no one else can possibly comprehend, which has to be very isolating all things considered.

As with everything in TMA, Jon makes a choice, and his choice is to end the apocalypse, to stay with Martin, and to stay as human as he possibly can. We know from Annabelle that had she have taken Martin, who is presumably acting as one of his main anchors to humanity, Jon potentially would have snapped completely, the final push over the edge as she puts it. It has to be a difficult thing for him, to try and balance his existence when he is so fundamentally changed, and when this world naturally feels right to him, and you could argue that him snapping at the mother here is simply his instinct, being what he is.

He is The Archivist, the meant-to-be Pupil of the Eye, one of the most important beings present, and so it makes sense there’s almost an instinctive detachment from the victims. He is meant to Watch them, and Watching means no physical interaction. By touching him, the mother has broken this barrier, and so, instinctually, he reacts — with anger, notably.

I’d say it’s meant to contrast how we see him acting prior to the touch, where he seems genuinely sympathetic with the mother, and he is trying to help in what little way he can. Because before she touches him, that gap between Watched and Watcher is still firm in place, and so he can handle that.

Bearing in mind, I haven’t re-listened to the rest of season five with this, so I may have missed something.

I also think both interpretations can co-exist too, and that could be just as interesting to explore. Either way, I find that, with Jon, it’s important to consider his status in the Eyepocalypse and his nature vs his choices, although, his nature vs his choices goes for the whole series I think, as choice is such a consistent theme in TMA and in the Avatars.

#TMA #the magnus archives #tma analysis #jonathan sims #the archivist

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starmocha · 2 months ago

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ok so I know we're all taken in by colonel caleb and his complexity and i'm enjoying all the smut (🙏🏻💕) but i'm looking at him and thinking about how he'd react if mc got pregnant 'cause in ny head he'd react like I think sylus would as in he'd shower her in kisses while crying but imagine him being scared of holding the baby because of his arm, terrified of hurting that tiny being but the second he holds them the fear goes away and he's planting kisses on the top of the baby's head 🥹😭

CRYING. SOBBING. YEARNING. Anon, if you've been around my blog long enough, I have mentioned numerous times how my 3-part Caleb breeding kink (and pregnancy) series will happen. With the recent revelation about his arm, I was reflecting on how to tackle this series with regards to Caleb's character. I hope his future memories will also deal with this more, so we can get a better understanding of the changes and his own mental state regarding it.

omg ok we all probably know by now I am weak to the Caleb thoughts, so...so...just a little snippet. Just a tiny short snippet...

Sweet Little You

She was safe. They were safe.

Caleb watched with relief as you slept peacefully, exhausted after the grueling 34 hours of labor. He had dedicated his whole life to keeping you safe, protect you from dangers and prevent you from ever feeling pain, but in those long, slow hours, he had felt so utterly helpless as he watched you braved through the tribulations of motherhood.

He knew you were strong, knew that you were more than capable, but it did not deter his innate desire to shelter you.

It had only been a few hours since the baby was born, he realized, as his large hand rested on your head, gently smoothing your hair. He could still see your tears, heard you crying as you poured all of your strength into delivering his baby. You had gripped his hand so tightly, and though that right hand of his could no longer feel anything, his heart still did, torn apart at every scream, every sob that passed your lips. He did his best to encourage you, reassured you that everything was going well, that soon you both would meet your little one.

He wasn’t sure if what he had said helped or not, but you had still held his hand, holding tight to him just like long ago when you two were little. Maybe you still needed him, still wanting to lean on him like you used to.

He bent down and placed a soft kiss on your temple. “Thank you, my darling.”

Caleb’s ears perked up, hearing the sudden quiet fussing of his newborn. He looked to the hospital bassinet placed close to your bed. The baby was starting to stir, waking up from a peaceful slumber.

He quickly moved closer, his paternal instinct kicking in. He bent down lower, his voice softer than normal. “Hey, hey there, little one,” he said, about to reach down for the baby, but he paused, worried.

The baby’s face scrunched up, its cries still soft, but steadily growing just a bit louder. Panic briefly passed Caleb’s features, suddenly unsure of his own ability as a father. He could hear you stirring behind him, but he didn’t want you to wake yet, knowing you still needed more rest. He pushed down his own feeling of anxiety, and he bent down again, gently scooping the baby up.

The baby was so small, he couldn’t help but think, being able to hold the baby within his two hands. He readjusted his hold, cradling the baby within his arms, and his heart felt like it was slowing in time, his breathing almost stilling entirely as it finally seemed to clicked in his mind that he was holding his baby. This little baby, conceived from the love between you and him, was now here, in his arms, and he could barely stifle the sob that almost wanted to escape, his heart suddenly overwhelmed with so many different emotions ranging from disbelief to amazement and finally profound, unconditional love.

The baby’s cries ceased, replaced by soft cooing, and Caleb let out a breathless laughter, his earlier anxiety slowly receding. He still wondered about his capability, but more than that, he wondered how it was possible to love someone you had just met. When his eyes drifted up, settling over your sleeping form, he almost laughed again, realizing he had never found the answer to that question, having always been a willing victim of “love at first sight.”

He shifted his gaze back down to the tiny baby in his arms, his lips resting over the infant’s forehead, the sweet scent of the newborn filling his nostrils, and a warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before filled his chest.

“Welcome to the world, my little one,” he whispered, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

#x — 💌#anonymous #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace x reader #caleb x reader #caleb fluff #lads scenarios #omg i get to add a new ficlet to my baby masterlist #you guys know i have a baby masterlist right lol #how many caleb seeds are you all planning on planting in my head #because #why am i so weak to them ;-;

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libraryofgage · 1 year ago

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Good Vibrations Part One

Hello, it's me, back at it again with another Steddie AU.

Anyway, if I were tagging this AU, these would be the most important ones: Deaf Steve Harrington; Tooth-rotting Fluff; Getting Together

If you wanna be tagged in future parts, just let me know!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

----

Steve has blown through three pairs of hearing aids in the past year. The first pair had lasted a few years and needed replacement because of normal wear and tear. The second pair was sacrificed during that fight with Jonathan. He hadn't been wearing them, but they'd been in Steve's pocket, and he'd landed at just the right angle to feel them shatter. The third pair was taken by the Russians because, despite Robin's shouting and cursing at them for being dumbasses (and this was before she actually knew what they were for), they accused him of recording their kidnapping and torture.

Honestly, he wouldn't recommend fighting Russians and Billy and Mind Flayers and driving while nearly totally deaf.

The funniest part of it all, though, is that Steve doesn't even use hearing aids regularly. He normally only wears them at home. The pair lost to Jonathan were present because, well, that whole day had been a lot for Steve, and he needed the comfort of knowing he could stop reading lips the moment it became too exhausting for him. The pair lost to the Russians was because he'd been getting ready to tell Robin about being deaf. She'd already clocked the weird things he does (well, weird to her, normal to Steve), and he figured letting her in on the big secret would bring them a little closer.

Of course, that didn't go the way he expected. Robin thought he was confessing love and decided to beat him to the punch. That's how he learned Robin is a lesbian, and Steve couldn't let her be the only one admitting to something like that, so he told her about being bi and his long-standing, hopeless crush. And being deaf. But the bi with a crush thing seemed more important in the moment. She took it in stride, it brought them closer, and then Robin asked if Steve could teach her sign language.

Which meant that Steve had to learn sign language because he never had. Between not wanting to feel even more different than he already did and trying to convince his parents that, really, everything was fine and he didn't need to go to a special school for deaf and hard-of-hearing kids, he'd never learned. Learning it had somehow felt like an admission of weakness, and that was the last thing he wanted. But he learned for Robin, and they stumbled through sign language together, creating new signs only they knew.

But that's all in the past now, and Steve is working his ass off at Family Video to afford a new pair because he refuses to ask his parents for money. If he asks them, they'll come back, and that's the last thing he wants. They don't need to have all their worries confirmed that Steve is helpless, and he doesn't want them anywhere near Hawkins "Hellscape" Indiana.

So. Working his ass off, taking extra shifts, and babysitting the kids as much as he can to make up for the whole Friends and Family Discount he gives their parents. He's exhausted, but he gets to recharge somewhat during his lunch break.

About a ten-minute walk from the Family Video is a record store, which Steve has started visiting daily to just breathe. The lone worker in the store is usually too busy listening to her own music to pay Steve any attention, letting him wander and try to determine which records will best serve him.

Steve drifts over to the rock and heavy metal section, hoping to find a new album but unsurprised when he doesn't. He browses through them anyway, moving past Metallica and Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden. He already has all of these albums on his shelf at home. He has the cassette tapes for them, too.

But he really wants something new. He likes the novelty of experiencing unfamiliar vibrations through the speaker, letting them thrum through his fingertips and into his bones. It's fun and relaxing, and after all the bullshit he's been through lately, he probably deserves something relaxing.

After glancing over a few more familiar albums, Steve sighs and glances at the counter by the door. The lone worker is standing there, headphones over her ears, and idly flipping through a magazine. She's chewing gum, and Steve braces himself for the sheer hell of trying to read her lips without making it obvious he's reading her lips while she's got something in her mouth to disrupt the normal shape of words and sounds.

But he has to try. Steve takes one more deep breath before walking over, shoving his hands into his pockets when he comes to a stop at the counter. The girl raises a hand, motioning for him to wait, so he stays quiet as she finishes reading her page. She flips to the next one before looking up, not making any move to pull her headphones off.

"Hi. Do you have any new rock or metal albums coming in soon," Steve asks, feeling the vibrations of speech in his throat and hoping his words aren't too loud.

They don't seem to be. The girl doesn't flinch or pull back. She just looks him up and down, taking in the polo shirt and the nice khakis and the Family Video vest he forgot to take off before leaving. Finally, her neck and shoulders jerk slightly, and Steve knows she's huffed in annoyance. "No," she says, the word clear enough in the shape of her lips for Steve to know it immediately.

He frowns slightly, his fingernails digging into his palms. Steve wouldn't mind just leaving now, but something keeps him there. He just...he really wants new music. He needs something new. "Are there gonna be any shows nearby?" he asks.

The girl rolls her eyes and says something, her mouth distorted by gum-chewing. Steve can barely make out the words "you" and "check" from her response. Thankfully, it's accompanied by a vague gesture at something behind him. Steve looks over his shoulder to see a bulletin board with flyers plastered across it.

"Right. Thanks," he says, nodding to her before walking over. The flyers are all different colors with various fonts that scream for Steve's attention. Some of them are for bands, some are advertisements of garage sales or instruments in need of a new home, and others are just business flyers from stores nearby.

He's seen the bulletin board before, but he's never actually paid attention to it. Steve has always been laser-focused on browsing the records. But now, Steve carefully reviews each flyer advertising shows. Some are for comedy shows, which he immediately dismisses. One seems promising, but then he sees how far it is, and Steve definitely can't do an overnight trip like that.

Finally, Steve sees a flyer advertising a show at the Hideout later that week. It's close enough that he won't be out overnight. The place is kind of seedy, but Steve figures he can find some corner near the stage to hide. Or he can bring Robin and let her help him navigate any potential social situations. He tugs the flyer off the board, gaze lingering on the "Corroded Coffin" emblazoned across the top.

He knows the band. Of course, he knows the band. He's extremely familiar with their singer. From a distance. Honestly, Eddie Munson probably doesn't have the best impression of him, but Steve's heart never really cared about that. Because Eddie is like everything Steve wants to be: he's loud and unafraid of being so, he doesn't care about his image and how others perceive him, and he looks like his laugh sounds beautiful. Steve wouldn't know if he's actually right about that last point, but Eddie throws his head back when he laughs, eyes crinkled and hand over his stomach like his muscles ache.

His mouth suddenly feels dry, but he's also filled with unprecedented courage. Steve has graduated (barely), and that means a significantly lower chance of running into Eddie during the day if watching the show somehow goes wrong.

Steve folds the flyer into quarters and stuffs it into his back pocket. He'll be overly aware of it being there until Robin starts her shift and he can show it to her, but that's okay. He throws a quick thanks over his shoulder as he leaves the shop, glancing up at the bell he can't hear that signals the door's opening. He vaguely remembers what bells are supposed to sound like (he'd heard a few before losing the ability to hear them), but he doesn't let himself dwell on it.

Instead, he focuses on the trip back to Family Video, keeping an eye on the road to watch for any cars he wouldn't notice otherwise.

----

When the final bell rings, Eddie Munson can't get out of class fast enough. He'd been packed for the last five minutes, and he slid out of his seat the moment that first peal rang out. He has a gig to prepare for, and every second counts. At least, each second counts until he notices something (or someone) that could prove entertaining for a while.

He spots Dustin alone near one of the exits, and Eddie decides to relieve the kid of his isolation. He waits until he's behind Dustin to shout, "Henderson!" and throw his arm over the kid's shoulders, ignoring the way he jumps like he'd been expecting an attack.

"Holy shit!" Dustin shrieks, jerking back to look up at Eddie. "Don't do that, man, you're gonna give me a heart attack."

Eddie snorts, waving away Dustin's concern as he continues toward the exit. The general flow of students trying to get out helps him along, and Dustin doesn't seem to realize they're actually moving until they've gotten into direct sunlight. "You're fine," Eddie says, "Anyway, whatcha doing all alone, Henderson? Lose your way?"

"No, I have...stuff to do today," Dustin says, shrugging as he blinks to acclimate to the sunlight.

Oh, yeah, way too cryptic for Eddie to not dig for more. "Stuff? What kinda stuff? Got a hot date? Going shopping with your mom?" he asks, and then he gasps dramatically and moves to stand in Dustin's way. He puts both hands on his shoulders and very seriously says, "Be honest, Henderson, you're seeing another DM, aren't you?"

Dustin stares at him for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and shrugging his hands off. "Who else in this town DMs?" he asks, "Other than Will, I guess, but he's still working on a campaign."

"Fair," Eddie concedes, "so, whatcha really doing?"

After a few seconds of getting nudged by the students around them, Dustin sighs and says, "I have chores, okay? But that doesn't sound cool to say, does it?"

Fair. Eddie nods in agreement and moves out of Dustin's way, continuing to follow him. "So, what, your mom picking you up today?" he asks.

"No, Steve."

"Oh, the famous Steve."

Dustin nods, looking over the parking lot before pointing to one end. "Yeah, he's awesome," Dustin says as Eddie follows the direction of his finger.

And standing there, leaning against the hood of his car and looking to the side where a group of trees is swaying in the breeze, is Steve Harrington. Steve "The Hair" Harrington. King Steve. The worst thing, Eddie thinks, is that Steve looks good. His hair is still perfect, of course, and his stupid little striped shirt is pulling against his biceps and riding up just enough for Eddie to see a tiny sliver of tanned skin above his jeans. He looks a little tense, but Eddie chalks that up to him being back on the campus after already graduating.

"Harrington? You've been talking about Steve Harrington this whole time?" Eddie asks, his voice a little strained, "How the fuck do you know Steve Harrington?"

"He's my babysitter," Dustin says, his voice implying that much should have been obvious, but Eddie wants to grab his shoulders and shake until his head rolls off.

Steve Harrington doesn't babysit. He doesn't know nerds that talk about D&D. He doesn't drive nerds around. At least, he never did in high school. Granted, Eddie never actually talked to Steve, but everybody knew that Steve Harrington was too cool for, well, anything that wasn't the typical jock and popular guy shit.

As he's thinking about the last time he saw Steve Harrington (in the halls, while the guy had bruises and looked worse for wear), they get within shouting distance. And Eddie has zero impulse control when Wayne isn't around, so he doesn't think before shouting, "Hey, Harrington!"

Next to him, Dustin whips his head to glare at Eddie. And Steve Harrington doesn't fucking react. He just keeps staring at that group of trees like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. "Dude," Dustin says, grabbing Eddie's arm and yanking harshly, "don't shout like that."

Eddie frowns, anger beginning to simmer in his stomach at the complete lack of acknowledgment. "Why are you upset with me?" he asks, gesturing at Steve as he continues, "I'm not the one being a douchebag here."

Dustin opens his mouth, about to say something, only to snap it shut once more. He frowns like he's just realized he can't say something, and huffs with frustration. "Just...just don't do that," he finally says, keeping a hand on Eddie's arm and dragging him across the parking lot. And, yeah, something is definitely weird here.

Instead of just walking up to Steve, they make a large arch until they're within Steve's line of sight.

Eddie watches as Steve notices them, seeing Dustin first and pushing off the car. He relaxes for a split second until he sees Eddie and his shoulders tense again.

Great.

Once they're close enough for Eddie to count the moles above the collar of Steve's shirt, Dustin grins and says, "Hey, Steve." But it's odd, because Eddie has never heard Dustin talk this slow or this carefully, like he's doing his best to enunciate his words.

Steve flashes a grin and ruffles Dustin's hair. "Hey, twerp, you're late," he says. He then glances at Eddie, his grin becoming a little smaller, and says, "Hey, Munson."

Wait. Steve Harrington knows Eddie's name? And he called him by it? He said Munson, not Freak. Eddie stares at Steve for a few seconds before nodding. "Harrington," he says, "how the fuck did you become a babysitter?"

Is he just imagining things, or is Steve looking at his mouth? Like, really intensely. He's definitely not, because Steve looks up after a few seconds with a raised eyebrow. "I needed some extra cash. Also, don't swear around Dustin. I'm the one who gets in trouble when he curses in front of his mom."

Something about the words makes Eddie grin. Never in a million years would he have guessed that he'd be talking to Steve Harrington. And he would have laughed you into Mordor itself if you suggested their conversation would be about Dustin Henderson swearing in front of his mother. "What's his mom do when he swears?" he asks.

Because he can feel the conversation veering into something potentially embarrassing for him, Dustin lets go of Eddie and starts pushing Steve toward the driver's side of his car. "Okay, we gotta go. So many chores, so little time," he says, his voice back to that normal speed and enunciation.

Steve frowns slightly, looking down at Dustin and tilting his head just slightly. "What?" he asks. Instead of actually answering, Dustin just makes some vague gesture with his hand and looks at the car. "Oh, right. Go ahead and get in the car. And, uh, see you later, Munson."

"Is that a promise?" Eddie asks before he can think better of it.

Steve pauses, looking at Eddie's mouth with a slight scrunch to his nose. He seems to be considering something as Dustin scrambles into the passenger seat, watching them with narrowed eyes. Honestly, Eddie is surprised he's not blasting the horn to hurry Steve up. Finally, Steve comes to a decision and meets Eddie's eyes again. "Your band has a show tonight, right? At the Hideout? I was planning to go. So, yeah, I'll see you then, I guess."

And with that, like he hasn't just fucking rocked Eddie's world, Steve Harrington gets into his car. He makes sure Dustin is buckled before waving at Eddie and pulling out of the parking spot.

Eddie finds himself waving back, staring dumbly at the car as it pulls onto the street. It only hits him a few seconds later that Steve Harrington is coming to his show. At the Hideout. His metal show. A Corroded Coffin gig at the Hideout.

Holy. Shit.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #deaf steve harrington #Good Vibrations Steddie #that's the tag for this one lmao #it's all fluff i swear #I hope you guys have as much fun reading it that I have writing it!

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tkwrites · 21 days ago

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Hurt & Healing - Quinn Hughes x OFC

(Really, this whole gif set fits the mood for this fic)

Title: Hurt & Healing - Quinn Hughes x ofc

Author: Tory / @tkwrites

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts

Summary: When Quinn loses his temper and snaps at Sarah after a hard loss, she draws a previously discussed boundary. Upon realizing something definitely has to change, Quinn seeks out comfort and advice from his mom. The next morning, he and Sarah talk about why she’s so upset and what they both can do to make the situation better.

Warnings: Highly emotional angst, swearing, slightly suggestive at the end. Quinn going to his parents for advice/help, intense discussions. Though the title makes it feel this way, it’s not really a hurt/comfort fic. It’s more of a hurt/lets talk it out and figure out how we can both be better fic.

Word Count: 6,000

Comments: I live! This piece has been eating at me for almost six months, and I’m so happy to share it with you all. I had it mostly done for quite a while but kept getting pulled into working on other things. Then, life happened.

I know it’s taken me so long to post a new snapshot, but I’m so excited for you to read it.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know by commenting, reblogging, or sending in an ask. Your encouragement and comments truly inspire me to keep writing.

I love Quinn and Sarah, and I’m constantly blown away that so many of you love them, too. More snapshots here.

Asks related to this piece can be found under the Quinn & Sarah Snapshots hashtag (there are too many, and they're too long to include in this post).

Hurt & Healing

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

“I can’t Sarah, okay?” Quinn snapped.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were wrong. It wasn’t even this particular order of them. Strung together in this same way but spoken in a gentler tone, no one would have blinked an eye.

As it was, with his voice so sharp, clipped and loud, she took a step back, expressions of disappointment, hurt and even a brief flash of fear flitted over her face as a sheen of tears pooled in her eyes, reflecting the city lights shining through the windows.

Fuck, they’d talked about this. Why couldn't he get his shit together?

Instantly, regret gnawed at him, and the gusto dropped from his voice, “Sarah, I’m sorry.”

Pursing her lips, she shook her head and turned away.

He watched her ascend the metal and glass stairs, her socked feet hardly making any noise, feeling totally helpless.

When she disappeared from sight, he covered his face with his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” On top of a terrible game, now he’d lost it and shot himself in the foot at home. Again.

Well, there was only one thing for it.

Feeling like his feet were encased in cement, he dragged himself up the stairs. He wasn’t surprised to see the bedroom door closed. What he didn’t expect was to find it locked when he tried the handle.

“Sarah?”

Even though he could hear her moving on the other side, she didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against the cool wood. “Please can I come in?”

“No.” Despite trying to sound convincing, Sarah still heard her voice wobble.

Resigned, Quinn tried to swallow the sudden lump in his throat as he reset his mental expectations to sleeping in the guest room.

She’d told him this would be the consequence. After he’d snapped at her the third time, she’d sat him down to talk. She told him she understood why he was upset, but she didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger.

He’d agreed right away and apologized profusely. He promised her it wouldn’t happen again. She told him she wanted to believe him and then told him what the consequences would be if this particular set of circumstances repeated themselves. Mainly that Sarah would likely pull away from him for a while.

He just hadn’t believed she would have to go through with it. He’d been certain it wouldn’t happen again. He loved Sarah and never wanted to see her hurt. She didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration. Especially when what he was really mad at were the circumstances, and not anyone in particular, especially not her.

“Could you at least hand me some pajamas?”

“There are clean clothes in the laundry.” It was a rude, harsh thing to say, but she didn’t feel much like being nice at the moment. It’s not like he’d tried to be nice to her. Not really. He hadn’t even made it five minutes.

She’d watched the game and saw how dejected he was at the end. How he’d sat at the end of the bench much longer than anyone else, staring at the sheet of ice as if it somehow might tell him what had gone wrong. She’d made her way home and changed, readying herself to comfort him after his grueling media duties — forced to relive the loss and the reality of an unhealthy roster over and over and over again. She planned to meet him with a bottle of gatorade, open arms, and whatever comfort show he wanted to watch as she held him.

Instead he’d snapped at her. And it had felt like a punch to the gut. She’d actually thought he’d been listening, that he’d been taking steps to change.

The reality of his failure twisted like a knife.

Oh, he’d really fucked this one.

“Sarah,” he tried one last time, voice suddenly thick with unshed tears. His hands floated up to press into the door as if she might be on the other side, mimicking his motions, longing to touch him as much as he was longing to touch her. “I'm really sorry. I know you were counting on me, and I let you down.”

She sighed, feeling like they were going around in circles. These were nearly the same words he’d used the week before. “Quinn, we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know.” Her words sent panic spiking in his chest. Please, no. She couldn’t be done. He didn’t know what he’d do if she broke up with him. Life was hard enough right now. He couldn’t lose her on top of everything else. “I can do so much better. I promise I'll be better. Please let me in.”

Please, please, please.

Rooted to her spot several steps back from the door, Sarah put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound of her crying. He sounded so hurt, so disappointed in himself. She never wanted him to be in pain, but that didn’t negate the reality that she needed to stand her ground. They’d talked about this, and still, as soon as the next bad game happened – which, as usual, wasn’t his fault – he was bringing it home with him. Their talks obviously weren’t working. So, like a disobedient child, he needed to be put in time out to think about what he’d done. Even if it broke her heart, too.

Jenny had warned her how hard keeping a boundary would be at first. “In the long run, though,” she’d said at their last session, “it’s the best way to make sure he understands he can’t hurt you like this again.”

Her silence had anxiety taking hold of his mind, and his voice broke when he said her name. “Sarah?”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Q.”

Hands slipping from the door, Quinn stood there, leaning on it for a minute longer until he heard Sarah’s soft footsteps retreat toward the bed. Looking back, he supposed he should have been relieved she was already thinking about the morning, but in the moment, it felt like a punch to the gut. The last thing he wanted right now was to spend the night away from her.

He wanted to punch a wall, he was so stupid. He wanted to run through reps of any exercise until the pain of this went away. He wanted anything to distract himself, but he’d been alive long enough to know that would only prolong the situation. And the last thing he wanted was to make this pain persist any longer. It was time for him to man up about it.

Flopping onto the (not so) lucky couch, he pulled out his phone and called the only person he thought could help.

It was too late to be calling, nearly two in the morning where they were, but she answered anyway, just like he’d hoped she would.

“Hello?” her words were slightly slurred with sleep.

“Hey mom,” he said, emotion flooding his voice at the sound of hers.

“Quinn? what’s wrong?” Though her mind was fuzzy, Ellen immediately sat up, dusting away the last cobwebs of sleep. The panic of being called in the night by a distressed child rung her heart. Even after 25 years, it never got any easier.

“I think I fucked it.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked as she reached over to flip on the bedside lamp. He’d had a rough game, but those weren’t usually grounds for middle of the night phone calls. Especially not to her.

Quinn tipped his head back and blinked, trying not to cry. Fuck it. His mom had seen him cry before. Tears slipped into the hair at his temples. “I think I fucked it,” he repeated, before adding the worst, most painful, gut wrenching part, “with Sarah.”

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” she asked, to mask the gasp that crawled up her throat. It wasn’t that she thought Quinn and Sarah would never fight. She knew all too well what it took to make a relationship work, but she thought this call would be a lot less dramatic when it came.

“We had a fight.”

Jim rolled over and blinked a few times. “It’s Quinn. He and Sarah had a fight,” she whispered before speaking into the phone again, “What kind of a fight?”

Jim blinked himself awake, remembering those first scary arguments with Ellen, when he thought he was going to lose her, and worried he might somehow lose himself, too.

“We –” No, that wasn't right, This was his fault. “I snapped at her,” he confessed.

“Okay,” her voice was hesitant and confused in his ear.

He'd have to confess all of it. She couldn’t help solve the problem if she didn’t know everything. “It's happened before.”

“The snapping?”

Jim pursed his lips. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. He gestured to the phone.

Ellen nodded, reluctantly putting it on speaker so he could hear and offer advice, too. As much as she wanted to be the hero, she knew Jim would have some good insight into the situation.

“Yeah. We talked about it last week. I snapped after that San Jose loss, and she told me she didn't deserve that.”

At least they both could agree on that.

“She told me it couldn't happen anymore. That I…” his voice broke, “that I couldn't take my frustration out on her.”

“I think that's very fair and warranted,” Ellen said, trying to gauge where they were in this story.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But tonight,” his throat constricted with the memory, and he had to clear it. “I snapped again tonight. I was just so frustrated from the loss, and…” he trailed off, knowing it was no excuse.

“Hmm.”

“And she locked me out.”

“Of the house?”

“No. Out of our room.”

“I'm guessing it happened before San Jose, too?” she ventured. Sarah was too level headed for this to be the reaction to it only happening once before.

“Yeah.” It came out a resigned sigh. She knew him too well.

“Quinn,” she admonished, not quite able to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“I know.”

“Quinn?” Jim broke in, his voice far more gentle than he was used to.

“Hey dad.” It felt somehow worse that his dad was hearing this.

“You need to find some way to let that frustration out before you go home. I used to scream on my drive sometimes. I know Bobby used to stop at the gym and run a mile on bad game nights.”

“Your dad snapped at me sometimes,” Ellen said, looking at Jim. He gave her a chagrined, guilty smile. “And I know hockey. I've played. I know that frustration when things don’t go your way, or the team doesn’t play their best first hand. It hurt me, but I knew the reason why and I could talk to him about it. I can't imagine what it's like for Sarah without that background. I know she golfs, but it’s not quite the same when you’re not on a team.”

The more they talked the guiltier and more hopeless he felt. “What do I do?”

“Well, you've got to apologize.”

“I did that.”

“No, I mean really apologize,” Ellen clarified. “An apology is acknowledging exactly what you did wrong and not doing it again.”

“Tell her what you're going to try to make sure you don't bring it home,” Jim suggested

“And don't do any big gestures,” Ellen said. “I know it can feel like a romantic thing, but I don't think Sarah likes things like that.”

He knew she didn't. She wanted real, measurable change and a real, honest conversation. It's a product of the dead parents. Life's too short to not have the conversation.

“What if she…” he broke off, too scared to say it out loud.

“Everything I know about Sarah tells me she’s not a quitter,” Ellen said, reading right through his subtext. “Just explain what you're going to do and then do it.”

“Give her some action items,” Jim added on. “And tell her you’re sorry.”

“Ask her why it's so upsetting to her,” Ellen suggested.

“I know why.”

“Quinn,” she admonished.

He shut up.

“You need to ask her how it made her feel. As much as it may feel like you do, you don’t know everything about her. You haven’t even been dating a whole year, bud.”

“It’s never a good idea to assume you know everything about her,” Jim said. “Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

He and Ellen shared a nostalgic smile, and he knew they were both remembering the first few years of their relationship where he’d really learned the meaning of the phrase, ‘when you assume, it makes an ass out of you and me.’

“Sarah doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl that holds a grudge.”

“No,” Quinn agreed.

“You haven't been calling me on your drives home,” Jim said. He’d been hesitant to bring it up before when he wondered why Quinn had stopped. It seemed so out of character for him.

“Yeah.” He thought talking with Sarah was enough. Maybe he needed both.

“I'm happy to talk it out,” he said. “If you need to get some things off your chest.”

“Thanks dad. I think I do.”

“I’m happy to talk through anything, too,” Ellen added. She knew Quinn didn’t always want to talk shop with her, but they talked about other things. “Relationships are hard, Q. You have to learn and grow together. If you don’t, it’ll never last.”

These were things Quinn knew in the logical part of his brain, but experiencing it first hand was something totally different.

“I know Sarah doesn’t tolerate bullshit,” his mom said, her voice soft as though she was trying to be gentle with the harsh statement, “and I know that’s one of the things you love about her.”

Was he really that transparent?

“But that means she’s not willing to tolerate your bullshit, either.”

It was this - this concise razor of a summary that cut him deepest. He did love that Sarah didn’t tolerate subpar things in her life. She was exceptional, and if someone or something wasn’t meeting the standard she set, she wouldn’t hesitate to turn away from them. He just never thought he’d fall into that category.

“So you’re going to have to grow. Learn how to better communicate your needs. Including if you need some time to yourself to process.”

“Okay.”

A pocket of quiet passed over the phone line, and he heard his mom yawn. A fountain of gratitude gushed in his chest for her and for his dad. He did feel better after confessing and hearing that his parents dealt with these same things and still had a happy life together.

“Thanks for answering, mom,” he said, emotion shaking his voice again.

“Oh, Quinn,” she said, picking up the phone and taking it off speaker. It was a selfish move on her part. She knew that. But it was so rare for her boys to call her, to reach out to her first, that she wanted to savor this one as her own.“I'll help whenever I can. I love you.” It wasn't often that her boys needed her now. She would take the chance whenever it was given.

“I love you, too, mom.” Worry and gratitude were still thick in his chest, but it felt a little easier to bear, a little more like something he could handle.

“Are you going to be okay?”

He sighed a deep breath through his nose, “I think so. I'll talk to Sar in the morning.” At least he had a game plan. Or the start of one.

“I’m glad you called, bud.”

“Thanks mom. I'm glad you answered.”

“Anytime. Love you, Quinn.”

“Love you too, mom. Thanks.”

“Of course. Good night, bud.”

“Night, mom.”

Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, Ellen waited until the line went dead before lowering it back into her lap. Only then did she glance at Jim.

Just as she expected, his arms were crossed over his chest, a slight pout to his lips.

“They hardly ever call me anymore,” she reminded, reaching over to soothe the pad of her thumb over the furrow in his brow.

His shoulders slumped almost immediately. “I know,” he said, resigned as his arms unwound. He knew feeling like she took the conversation away when Quinn had called her in the first place was selfish. He was just so used to being the one Quinn called to solve problems. When he allowed himself to think about it objectively, he knew Ellen was the better of the two of them to give advice on this particular matter.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A chuckle fell from her lips. “That sounded like it hurt. Are you okay?”

Jim laughed good naturedly, “Yeah. Come on, let’s go back to sleep.”

Ellen flipped off the lamp and settled back into bed.

“You’re a good mom,” he said, one of his big hands pressing steadily into her back.

She fell back to sleep, hoping everything would be okay.

The next morning, Sarah cut her routine short, only brushing her teeth instead of doing her usual shower and skincare. She didn’t want to put off talking to Quinn any longer than she had to.

Walking through the upstairs, she wondered where he was. He hadn’t been in the guest bedroom - in fact, it didn’t look like he'd gone in that room at all other than to take a pillow from the bed. He wasn’t on the couch, either. Though the hasty way her favorite blanket was strewn over the back of it suggested that’s where he’d spent the night.

He didn’t have practice until 10. And it was only eight-thirty. She’d been a little harsh the night before, but she didn’t think he’d been upset enough to leave. He hadn't yelled or stormed out in a huff. Plus, Quinn wasn't one to run away from his problems. He usually preferred to face them head on, in the most efficient way possible.

Thoughts were still racing through her mind when her eyes caught on his face. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, holding two mugs of coffee, a hopeful, unsure quirk to his lips.

Heart hammering in his chest, Quinn watched Sarah descend the stairs. God, even right after waking up, she was still beautiful. Her hair was piled in a messy bun atop her head, and she was wearing one of his hoodies. The sight of her in his clothes turned his heart into a delicate, flighty bird, fluttering inside his chest.

Most of his night was spent restlessly tossing and turning on the couch. After he'd dug some clothes out of the laundry and changed, he'd gone into the guest room. It felt too unfriendly with its new sheets and bedding that Sarah had never slept in. There was no way he could sleep in there. Instead, he'd filched one of the pillows and gone back to the lucky couch. That, at least housed good memories, and he'd napped on it more than once. It was practically the size of a bed anyway.

Anytime he'd managed to fall asleep, anxiety over what was going to happen in the morning jolted him awake. It was only after he retrieved her favorite blanket from the gaming room that he managed to fall asleep. Its familiar weight and the lingering ghost of her perfume surrounded him in a comforting cocoon.

“Hey, can we talk?” he asked, willing his voice to be calm and smooth. The words still felt too rushed, too harsh in his mouth. He knew what he had to do, but that didn't make it any easier. The potential for this conversation to end badly swirled in his mind.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly as she stepped off the bottom stair. Quinn was watching her, his expression unreadable. One second he seemed guarded, the next, full of hope. None of them stuck around long enough for her to fully decipher how he was feeling.

Following him to the living room, she took the seat across from him on the leather sofa rather than her customary one in the club chair next to his. The gesture told him more about how she was feeling than anything else.

When she looked down at the mug he slid across the coffee table to her, she kept her expression guarded. A cup of coffee was a sweet gesture, but surely, he didn’t think this would solve their issues.

“Let me know if I put too much creamer in there,” he said, almost wincing at how nervous he sounded. He hadn’t felt this nervous around Sarah in months. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this nervous around Sarah. “I tried to get the right color, but I’m not sure I did.”

The smile that ghosted over her lips made his sappy, hopeful heart slam itself into his ribs.

She took a sip and couldn’t stop the grimace that took over her mouth.

“Too much?” he asked, regret stabbing his stomach. He couldn’t even get her morning coffee right.

He’d woken up long before she did, and upon realizing he was staring longingly at their bedroom door as if it might unlock by the sheer force of his will, he went down to the kitchen. Thirty minutes passed before he heard her moving around. When he heard the water in the bathroom shut off, he knew she was finished washing her face and would be down soon. It was then that he’d brewed them each a cup. Breakfast seemed like it might be too big of a gesture, but her morning cup of coffee felt right.

Seeing the despairing look on his face, she almost didn’t say anything. But there was no way she could force herself into drinking this. “Not quite enough,” she admitted finally. “It’s a little bitter.”

“Oh,” Relief swept through him. At least he didn’t have to brew her another cup. “I’ll get the creamer.”

He jumped to his feet as if his chair had shocked him, and Sarah admired his muscular calves as he jogged to the kitchen. He’d dug some Canucks shorts out of the clean laundry Sandra had returned the day before.

Handing it to her, he sat down again and watched her pour another dollop into her mug.

She took a sip, and the corners of her mouth tipped up in satisfaction.

“So, we can talk?” he asked, leaning to catch her eye.

“Of course.” She was never going to tell him they couldn’t talk. Though now, she worried her reaction last night may have been too strong. Maybe she’d been too harsh on him.

“I —” Quinn paused, not quite sure where to start. He supposed he should start by taking his moms advice. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

Snapping out of her own thoughts, Sarah’s eyes darted from her mug of coffee up to his face. He wore an anguished expression she usually only saw when he misfired a pass or didn’t get a goal he thought he should have.

“I know we talked about me not snapping at you - about not taking my frustration out on you, and I did it anyway, and I’m really sorry.”

Part of her wanted to tell him it was okay just to get that pained look off of his face. But it wasn’t okay.

“Thank you,” she said instead.

“I’m sorry I let you down.”

A weight settled in her chest. What could she say to that? This was always the worst part about having conversations like this. She didn’t want him to be upset, but she also knew she deserved to get her needs met. It was a strange balance to strike, and she felt like she was always missing the mark.

“Quinn,” she said, her voice gentle. It was soothing to his ears, like maybe he hadn’t completely fucked himself over. “I —”

He was looking at her with all this hope in his eyes, and as much as she wanted to nurture it, she knew in the long run, coddling wouldn’t help. If this relationship was going to work, things needed to change.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to find the right balance between firm and loving. She thought about how her mom used to correct her. Even though it had happened often when she was a teen, Sarah had never not felt loved by her.

In the end, she decided truth was the best course of action. “You did let me down.”

The hope crashed from his eyes, and she bit back her instinct to take it back. She hated having to make him feel this way.

He’d known it was the truth, but hearing it from her mouth hurt more. It hit hard, knocking the wind out of him. “I’m sorry.” The words came out flighty, breathy things. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”

“I know you’re sorry, but you really hurt me, Quinn, and I’m not really sure you understand why.”

He gulped and ran a nervous hand through his hair, pushing the curls back. “Can you tell me?”

In past relationships, when her exes asked for her to be honest, it often ended up being thrown back in her face. Her expectations were too high or unrealistic, or “this is just the way I am, Sarah.” As soon as these conversations happened in the past, she knew it was time to move on. Fear of hearing this response again bubbled in her stomach. She really didn’t want to have to move on from Quinn.

“Please. I need to know so I can get better.”

That was new.

Reminding herself that Quinn had proved again and again that he was nothing like her exes, she went ahead, figuring she may as well lay it all out. He’d proved her wrong so many times, she hoped he was about to do it again. “I was ready to listen and cuddle and hold you,” Sarah said, “and instead, you threw it back in my face like you didn’t even care.”

Quinn opened his mouth to argue that he didn’t throw anything in her face, then remembered his moms admonishment. You don’t know everything about her as much as it may feel like you do. “What do you mean?”

Sarah just looked at him.

“I don’t know what you mean by I threw it back in your face,” he admitted.

“I mean that I was trying to comfort you, and you just exploded,” she said. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears. “I understand you might need something different, but I can’t know what you don’t tell me. And getting mad when I do it wrong doesn’t help anything.”

His heart cracked in half. Instinctually, he abandoned his seat, and the coffee that had long gone lukewarm in front of it, to sit next to her on the sofa. He was insanely grateful when she didn’t lean back or move away. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sarah.”

“Then…” she was so confused, “why were you mad?”

His mom was right. She just didn’t understand.

“I was mad about the game.”

“Right, but then you got mad at me.”

“I –” he cut himself off to gather his thoughts. God, how did he explain this? “I was so frustrated about the game, and then I came home and I thought… I thought you wanted me to do more, and I just - I lost my temper, and snapped, and I’m sorry.”

“You thought I wanted you to do more by asking you to cuddle?”

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“No,” she cut that thought off. Him brushing off his feelings to make her more comfortable wouldn’t get them anywhere. “Tell me why you thought I wanted you to do more.”

He closed his eyes. He never wanted to tell Sarah she was wrong. But she was also asking.

“I came in and you started giving orders,” he explained, “you just started going into ‘go get changed, and get us a blanket and pick out something to watch,’ and I just couldn’t.” Now that he was saying it out loud, he realized how much her requests had affected him.

“Oh,” her face fell. “Quinn, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you needed to do those things right then or that you needed to make all those decisions. I just wanted to let you know I was here for you.”

“No, you did, it just…wasn’t what I needed.”

“Quinn, I’m sorry.” Her eyes met his, and he could see guilty tears shining in them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. This was supposed to be him apologizing. “I shouldn’t have brought my frustration home. I was talking with my parents last night and –”

“Is that why your mom texted me this morning asking how I was?”

“I don’t – I mean, I guess so.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, I interrupted.”

“It’s okay,” he couldn’t remember what he’d been saying.

“You were talking with your parents,” she prompted.

“Right. I was talking with them last night, and I realized I haven’t been calling my dad after games.”

“Okay.”

“I used to call him after every game, especially the bad ones, to talk through stuff.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I had you,” he said. “We would talk, and you would hold me, and I'd feel better.” Sarah waited for him to continue, so he did, “but I think I might need both.”

The way he said it made it sound like he shouldn't.

“Quinn”, she said as gently as she could, reaching forward to cup his face. He leaned into her touch. “Of course you need both.”

His gaze shot to hers, surprised.

“I’d never expect to fulfill all of your needs. ‘It takes a village’ isn't just something people say about raising kids. It's for everyone. You need a whole village of people around you. We’re not meant to be islands.”

Her thumb stroked over his cheek, and something in his chest knitted back together.

“I don't understand hockey the way your parents or your brothers do. Of course you should talk to them about it.”

He sighed, nodding. “I realized after we hung up last night that talking with dad really helped me sort through those feelings, and when I stopped, it…” he paused, trying to find the right words, “it’s like they just built up.”

Sarah let out an understanding sigh, “Jenny tells me all the time that when we don’t address our emotions, they come out sideways.”

“I’m sorry my sideways meant all over you.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her mouth, “I’m just glad you figured out what was going on.”

“Me too,” he said, relieved.

An almost comfortable pause settled into their conversation. Her hand was still on his face, and though her fingers were cold, he never wanted her to pull away.

“So, now that you know what’s going on, what are we going to do about it?” she asked.

“We?” he repeated. The use of the word in that statement wasn’t lost on him. It amazed him she was still willing to work with him on their relationship, even when he’d fucked up so bad.

Something in her face softened, “there are two of us in this, Quinn. If it’s going to work, we have to work together.”

“Well, I’m going to talk to my dad after games,” he said. “That might mean I get home a little later.”

“Okay,” she agreed, “that’s not a big deal.”

Having his needs accepted and supported so readily made Quinn’s heart skip in his chest. A feeling of calm spread all the way to his fingers, which he laced with hers.

“Can I ask you to do something for me?”

Quinn’s eyes flicked from their joined hands up to her face, “anything.” He meant it. Sleeping on the couch had been torture when he knew he was there because he’d hurt her. He never wanted to be in that position again.

Even more than from his guilt, though, he wanted to be better because she was responding in a way he’d never experienced before. With June, an argument like this would have ended with her storming out of the house, yelling that it was over, only for her to come back a few days later, wanting to try again. Sarah’s loving, steady response made him want to change, made him want to be better.

“If you want something different than what I’m suggesting, you need to tell me. I’m not a mind reader.”

Cringing at himself internally, he nodded. “I can try.”

It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t the response Sarah had been hoping for.

Her feelings must have shown on her face because he jumped to explain, voice squeaking as his words tumbled over each other, “it’s just that sometimes after games —” he cut himself off. He shouldn’t be asking her for things. This was supposed to be his apology, his commitment to change.

“After games?” she encouraged.

Well, he was in this deep, he might as well just say it. “Sometimes after a rough game, I’m just…tired,” he admitted. She looked confused, so he continued, “when I lived by myself, I usually just got in bed and read whatever book I was in because it meant I didn’t have to make any decisions.”

“I wish you’d told me this before,” she said, raising her head and looking into his eyes. It struck her how green they were. Usually, they looked mostly hazel. Today, they reminded her of the leaves on her grandmas beechwood tree.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed, pulling himself a little closer with their clasped hands.

She shook her head a little, not so much to dismiss the apology as to end the topic. “So should I wait for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“After a bad game, do you want me to wait for you to make that call, or should I just keep doing what I was doing when you get home and you can tell me if you’d rather do something different?”

“I like the second,” he said.

“Okay,” she nodded, feeling more settled. “You talk to your dad or whoever about the game, and when you're ready to just relax, I'll be here.”

“What if I need to burn off some steam?” He meant for it to be a joke, but it came out serious instead.

Her lips pursed, then relaxed. Longing sparked in his stomach. God, he wanted to kiss her every time she did that.

“I don't think it'd be wise of me to say I'll always be down, but when I am, of course I'm happy to help you burn off that steam.” It didn't hurt that when he was riled up like that, it meant he was hellbent on making her orgasm – usually more than once.

“You just have to tell me what you want.”

He nodded. When he was with June, he got so used to pushing his wants and needs aside in an effort to keep her happy. It felt almost strange, even after nine months with Sarah, to express his needs and to have her take them into consideration so readily.

After a few minutes of comfortable quiet, Sarah asked, “don't you have practice?”

He shook his head as his eyes fluttered open, “I messaged Tocc to tell him I couldn’t make it today. Told him I fucked something up at home and needed to make it right.”

“Oh.”

Seeing her bottom lip begin to shake, Quinn’s stomach lurched. Did she not know? He supposed he aught to tell her, just like his mom said. “Sarah, I love you,” he said, his free hand coming up to slide around the back of her neck, “You’re my top priority. I'm sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling emotion choke her voice. This more than anything else they'd talked about that morning told her how he was feeling and where his priorities were.

Leaning closer, he rested his forehead against hers, “I love you so much, Sar,” he said quietly.

“I love you, too, Quinn.”

Hearing it banished the last of his doubt. “I promise I won’t bring my frustration home.”

That wasn’t going to help anything. “You can bring it home, Quinn. You just can’t throw it up all over me. I know you’re going to have bad days. I am, too. This,” she gestured between them to indicate the conversation, “is about what you do with it.”

He nodded, feeling emotion rock through him. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked. It was a question for the broader universe. He really had no idea.

“You’re just you,” she said, a smile gently tipping the corners of her mouth.

He only had to move slightly to slide his lips over hers.

She made a little noise that sounded about as relieved as he felt, and unable to help himself, Quinn pulled her into his lap.

The kiss was slow and loving. It wasn’t until Sarah slid her fingers into his hair and swept her tongue past his parted lips and trailed it along the roof of his mouth that it grew more passionate.

The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was only focused on sex, but he was so relieved, so incredibly relieved that she was even willing to kiss him, let alone be in his lap, that his dick popped right up.

She pulled away and glanced down.

“Sorry,” he said, cheeks blazing, “he's got a mind of his own. I spent the whole night scared you were going to break up with me, so he's just rejoicing over the fact that you didn’t.”

He wanted to bottle the giggle she let out as she leaned in to kiss him again.

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princessbrunette · 7 months ago

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⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … COINCIDENCE ♡

track six of the short n’sweet series. pairing: toxic!jj x reader. based loosely on the song coincidence by sabrina carpenter. enjoy! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

you and kiara carerra were not similar in the slightest.

both beautiful in your own right, sure — but just… different. she was tomboyish, a natural beauty with the ‘cool girl’ charm. she knew makes of cars, how to play pool and actually be good at it. she got competitive and passionate at sports events. she could make a plain tank top and denim shorts look effortlessly gorgeous. she was kiara — and you were well, you. a real girly girl, nails were always done, not the biggest sports fan and you’d always make sure your bikini matched your flip flops even if you were going to be taking them off the second you reached the beach. you were two people that probably wouldn’t cross paths otherwise, but you can see why she had her eye on you and likewise.

infact, you remember the first time you saw jj maybank — and he’d done a double take to watch you go by while she was still at his side.

granted, it was the very end of their relationship. you’re talking — break up the next day end. but still, it was grounds for you to raise an eyebrow. doubt strikes your chest each time you remember it. what should have been flattering was actually waving red flags in your face.

it wasn’t just a glance either, if you were being totally honest. it was a greedy stare — one that travelled from your face to your feet, every ex girlfriends nightmare when he ended up at your side just a few weeks later.

just like that, kiara started to show up everywhere the two of you were. haunting you like a ghost. she didn’t seem like she loved parties before, much preferring to surf and grab food on a saturday evening — but since you coupled up with the maybank boy you’d think she was hunting for the next Project X — around each turn all dressed up with a drink in her hand, chatting happily away to all of jj’s friends that you didn’t know how to talk to. it set you on edge.

a revenge plot, sure — and you couldn’t blame the girl. you’d be scalded too. you knew to stay out of her way, despite the situation bothering you. you knew jj noticed her scheming, infact she’d occasionally find reasons to talk to him and you’d swallow it down. she was confrontational, you were not — and perhaps guilt was involved, because you’d pathetically glue your eyes to your shoes whenever she’d smugly approach. you daren’t start anything.

you felt paralysed when she approached the blonde at your side at the next party you were at. “dude, can we talk in private?” she stresses solemnly, even glancing your way in reference as if to say ‘without her.’ you look helpless, bless your heart— looking over to jj and just praying her tells her to fuck off finally. but he didn’t, and wouldn’t. he might have been a little toxic in his decision making, but you’d like to think on the inside he was too good of a guy to let her down like that. which is why he presses his lips together awkwardly and nods, giving you a reassuring little pat on your lower back before strolling off with her towards an empty room, running a hand through his hair. you watched him go, you watched her take him away.

you walk to the drinks table and pour way too much liquor into your cup. pope watches, standing nearby having definitely scoped out the situation and sends you this… look. he meant well, but the gaze of sympathy did nothing to reassure you. what did he know? why would he be sorry?

you down the drink, and next thing you know it’s been fifteen minutes and they’re still behind a closed door. you shove your cup into john b’s hand, who looks taken aback but guards it nonetheless, and you storm right up there without thinking. you’re done being the sweet, lenient girlfriend. he wants crazy? you can match that too.

“times up, you can get the fuck ou—” your voice trails off after you swing the door open with such a force. it’s not exactly the sight you were expecting to see, shocked that you weren’t witnessing a head of blonde hair between her spread legs. instead, she paces infront of him in tears, all while he sits on the edge of the bed awkwardly, brow creased. whatever was happening, it didn’t look like cheating.

“of fucking course.” kiara gestures to you before pushing past, wiping her eyes and leaving the room. you clear your throat awkwardly.

“wanna leave?” your voice comes softer this time and he blinks at you.

“‘ya.”

the drive home is weird and suspenseful. he’s gripping the steering wheel and you’re fidgeting and itching, dying to ask what happened. what you saw.

“i just don’t understand why she won’t leave you alone.” your voice decides on a solemn tone as you stare ahead at the dark road ahead of you. jj’s jaw ticks in irritation and his eyes flutter as if resisting an eye roll. you just about catch the expression when you turn your head, and no — it’s not what you were expecting.

“its not really like, up for discussion right now? so can we just—” his hand lurches forward to press the on button to the radio, music ringing out for not even a second before you shut it off just as fast, frowning now.

“no, that’s — don’t be unfair. i’ve been so fucking tolerant jj. you know i have. i have never asked— but— but can you not see how this might concern me?” you feel your face getting hot and your voice raising.

“alright we’re goin’ there— okay! look, babe — she’s my friend. i’ve known that chick since i was like fourteen so this whole issue is kinda bigger than you, i’ll be honest—”

“you’re in a relationship. you left her! why do i feel like i have to hold you so tight or you’re gonna run off to her!”

“i’on know maybe you should be lookin’ at your own trust issues ‘stead of pointing the finger at me.” he pulls into your drive, haphazardly parking the car but neither of you make a move to get out, turning your bodies to face one another.

“trust issues? jj do you really think it’s a coincidence that she shows up everywhere that we’re at? she’s trying to get you back and i don’t know what hold she has over you but you need to stop letting her run you if you wanna stay with me.” you assert, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. he rolls his eyes practically into space, leaning back in his seat as he runs a hand over his face.

“look. she got the wrong idea. last time me n’you had that big fight i… i went over to see her. nothin’ happened i just talked about…us, and i guess she just — she got her hopes up— that’s it, okay—”

“are you serious? jj are you fucking serious?” your voice shakes, and your feet move. you open the car door, being sure to slam it shut before marching to your door, trembling hands fumbling for the keys in your purse. he’s quick to follow, sighing at his own choice of words as he tries to block you from getting inside, continuing to ramble.

“dont be like that, mama. c’mon, you know i wouldn’t go there. you really don’t trust me— like at all?”

“the first time i saw you, you checked me out while you were still with her. you’re not above it.” you sniff angrily as you finally find your keys, shoving past to slot them in the keyhole. he grabs your arm as you pass him, stopping you in your tracks. you always forget how strong he is.

“it ain’t right. i know.” he defends, eyes wide and urgent as he stares down at you. he softens, trying to pull you toward him. “i know.”

“no you don’t. so what, when you lose feelings for me you’ll just toss me to the side when a hotter girl comes along? no thank you.” you shove him off you, storming into the living room and he curses, shutting your front door and chasing you in.

“i’on know what you want from me but i’mma guess it’s some kinda sick reassurance. i told you time and time again that me n’her just weren’t right. we outgrew eachother. end of freakin’ story. you know what? you know what babe? i’mma show you what you do to me.” you feel him on you, manhandling you like some kind of brute, a kidnapper of sorts and roughly lowering you to the ground so he can hold you down on your front no matter how hard you squirm.

nothing in your body is saying no despite your violent wriggling from his grip. infact, on instinct your back arches and you groan, petulantly.

“yeah, tha’s what i thought. all this ‘cos you wanted papa to show you how much he cares? that it? god damn you piss me off.” he grits his teeth, fighting your skirt off your body as he holds your body down with his knees, practically straddling you.

it doesn’t take long for you to get wet, not with the way he’s handling you, with the way he’s talking to you, a hand on your throat pulling your face off the carpet to listen good.

“i was in the room tellin’ her to stop playin’ in my girls face and she was cryin’. that what you wanted to hear? huh? that it’s you over anyone? ‘cus if that’s what you want i can drill it right into that brain all night. pull your panties to the side n’don’t lemme tell you twice.”

your glossy folds part for him when you arch harder, tears on your cheeks that you don’t remember falling as you reach back and peel the panties away from your cunt. you hear him belt buckle and you mewl from habit. it felt so good. it felt so good to be chosen.

“mhm. if i’m so bad, and such a pig, why am i holdin’ you down gettin�� ready to pound your shit right now and not with her? huh?”

you couldn’t answer. maybe this was bigger than you, maybe it wasn’t — but for now you’ll believe his every word. hard not to listen when he’s pushing his tip in.

#short n sweet series 🧁#toxic!jj #jj maybank prompt #and no this isn’t kiara shade it’s just a story

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roosterforme · 6 months ago

Text

Aim for the Sky Part 23 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley is hoping a new role with the Navy will give him the opportunity to spend more time at home with his family. You offer up the ultimate gift for his birthday.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, lactation kink, body image, oral sex, mentions anal, DILF Roo

Length: 4500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

"What should we do for Daddy's birthday?" you asked your daughter while she nursed. Bradley was working late again. If he didn't actually get this new position at Top Gun when the time arrived, you weren't sure how he was going to take it. He was working so hard right now to try to cut his deployments down by training younger recruits to fly missions instead of actually flying all of them himself. He wanted to be home more, and you wanted him to spend as much time with Rose as he could.

In the meantime, he always felt like a ticking time bomb. Like at any moment he would be taken away again. His most recent special mission ended months ago while you were still pregnant, and it felt surreal at times that he hadn't been called away again.

"We'll do something special," you whispered to Rose. "Daddy always makes my birthday special. He'll always make yours special, too."

Her eyes were bright and alert as she released herself from your breast to yawn while you ran the pad of your thumb gently along her cheek. She had the softest skin and most adorable features. She was going to look just like Bradley, you could already tell. And you had to agree with him when he said he thought she was whip-smart. She always looked around for Tramp and seemed to point to him when she wanted to be licked.

"You're absolutely perfect," you told her, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. Rose's yawns were coming more frequently as you changed her diaper and placed her in her crib. "I'll send Daddy in to say goodnight when he gets home," you promised. Once her sound machine was playing a lullaby, you crept out of the nursery and went to clean up the meager dinner you made for yourself.

Looking in the mirror was still currently your least favorite activity. You were tired, and it was reflected on your face. Your body still seemed to belong to Rose, and you felt a little helpless by the width of your hips and the size of your butt. Your belly was riddled with stretch marks, and every time Bradley saw you in any manner of undress, you couldn't understand how he could get turned on. When you and he had sex, it was almost like he tricked you into believing he was excited to be with you.

The front door shut and you jumped, spinning on the spot to see your husband heading your way. "What a fucking day," he groaned, boots squeaking on the floor. He was still in his flight suit, messy hair threaded with a bit of gray. "I didn't think I would be this late."

He didn't stop until you were wrapped up in his arms. "Why are you still in your boots and flight suit?"

"Wanted to get home faster," he murmured. "I missed you."

The way he ran his big hand down the middle of your back and gave your butt a little squeeze while he kissed you left you breathless. Then he knocked the air clean out of your lungs as he nibbled gently on your lips before whispering, "I'm late for my husband and daddy duties. Is the Nugget already asleep?"

"I think so," you told him, melting into his touch. He was already the best dad in the world for Rose, and his hands up the back of his ratty UVA shirt that you were wearing reminded you how good he was at those husband duties, too. "She seemed tired after I fed her."

Bradley's brown eyes flicked down toward your chest as his stomach growled.

"I can feed you, too," you said with a laugh. "All I had for dinner was some toast and jelly, but I can make you something else."

You didn't even mention the part where you were trying to cut calories so you could lose weight, because he was looking at you like he always did. And his hands were warm on your skin like they always were.

"Don't worry about me. I'll get something after I give Rose a good night kiss and we take a shower together."

You raised one eyebrow. "We're taking a shower together?"

He nodded slowly. "We are, Baby Girl. I'm so worn out, it's probably the only thing that's going to make me feel better."

His right hand strayed to your breast, and your lips parted on a soft sound as his rough fingers found your nipple beneath the shirt. You forgot to feel self conscious as you let your hands slide up his chest until your arms were draped over his shoulders. Your lips were on his like a magnet, and you whimpered at the feel of his rough mustache. Then his tongue was in your mouth, and you were ready to climb him like a tree.

Somehow, you worked him up. It didn't make any sense. He was literally touching your stretch marks now as he rutted against you and grunted your name. "Oh, fuck," he said between kisses. You felt overstimulated, and your breasts were leaking onto your shirt, but it just made his cock harder. "Go get in the shower? I need to take a little peek at Rose, and then I'll be in to do absolutely anything you want. Anything." He started to pull your shirt over your head. "Just let me taste you."

"Jesus Christ, Roo," you moaned, pushing him away. "Hurry up. I'll be in the bathroom."

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

Bradley ducked his head inside the baby's nursery. Her music was playing softly, and she was clearly sound asleep in her crib with Tramp snoozing on the floor. He had to take a few deep breaths when he heard the shower turn on across the hallway, and he ran his hand over his face.

"Rosie, I'll be back in a little bit to check on you, okay?" he whispered. "I need Mommy for a few minutes."

He was already unzipping his flight suit and wrenching it down his arms as he walked through the bedroom and into the bathroom. It smelled like your body wash, and he could practically taste your breast milk as he watched you climb in the shower. He was tired, like actually exhausted. There was so much to learn from Maverick and the admirals. There was paperwork and guidelines and things to memorize. There was so much more going on behind the scenes than he realized, and it took all of his focus to keep up. But he wanted a job where he'd be home more and on a carrier less. That way he could see your silhouette through the foggy glass shower door every night.

"Sweetheart." His voice was deep and needy, and you turned to face him.

"What was fast." Your voice echoed beautifully in the enclosed space as he bent to undo his boot laces.

"I'll sneak back in later to see Rose," he rasped, climbing in and closing the door behind him. "I can't wait another minute for you."

He was serious, but you looked a little hesitant and maybe unconvinced as you stood with your back against the tile wall, water hitting your legs and feet. You were rounder in places now, and your body felt like heaven in the palms of his hand. When he considered whether or not an obnoxiously long, hard day of work was worth it, all he had to do was look at your face or hear your voice, and he was convinced it was. But getting to have you like this? It didn't even seem fair.

"My god, you are absolutely fucking perfect."

Maybe you were going to say something to him as you parted your lips, but he leaned in to kiss you before you could. Your warmth and your fingers in his hair could fix any problem he had, he was certain. And he always wanted to be that way for you, too. He wanted to be the reason you knew you had something better to look forward to at the end of the day.

"Bradley," you whined when his cock pressed against your soft belly. Your fingers made their way down to his biceps, and your thumb traced his new tattoo as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

The level of intimacy he felt with you was unparalleled, whether it was sex or just being around you. But he couldn't help but want everything right now when your milk was beading up on your nipples and sliding down the undersides of your tits.

"Will you let me taste you?"

The feral noise you made had him bending slightly to get his mouth on you. None of this should be wasted right now. It was too sweet. You were too fucking warm. Even the steamy air and the water hitting his calves couldn't compete with your breasts. He got down on his knees for better access.

"I'm not going to lie, Roo," you whispered, pushing his hair back from his forehead, "watching you do that is so hot."

He looked up at you as he ran his tongue lazily back and forth. "Watching you do anything is hot, Sweetheart." You whimpered, and he could feel you squeeze your thighs together. "Just be patient. I'll take care of it. I just can't let this go to waste."

You grabbed at his hair and his shoulders as he licked and sucked you dry. Your nipples were furled tight, no longer dripping with that beautiful milk before he stopped. Every time you made a noise, you were rubbing your pussy against him, and Bradley knew he made you wait long enough.

His cock was aching as he sat down and ran his nose along the length of your slit, coaxing your thighs apart with the softest touch. You didn't disappoint, letting him see and smell and taste you to his heart's content. He sucked on your clit before moving his lips to your rooster tattoo, smiling as you moaned impatiently while he kissed you there.

"Please, Bradley." Your voice took on a tone of overstimulation, nipples still tight peaks as you wiggled your hips. "I need it."

He let you have his mouth all over your pussy. Every soaking wet, silky inch if you. He worked his tongue in circles just how he knew you liked it, and he listened to every cue you gave him with your voice. The louder you got, the harder he sucked until your legs shook. Then he backed off and enjoyed the keening sound of your orgasm as you rode his face.

"Please," he begged softly, getting to his feet while you were still coming for him. But you nodded and turned to face the wall, letting him fuck you from behind with both of his hands planted on the tiles. "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, Sweetheart!"

Barely a dozen good thrusts, and he came as he watched you kiss his hand. He was out of breath and yet still over excited as he nuzzled your neck. "My wife is actually perfect," he whispered.

Even cleaning you up was fun. Every time he ran his hand between your legs, your eyes fluttered closed, and you bit your lip. Then you washed his hair which always turned him into an even bigger mess for you. By the time you turned off the water, he was so sated and still needy for your attention, he followed you everywhere.

Bradley watched you get changed into pajamas before pulling you into bed with him. "I still need to make you dinner," you whispered as he peppered your nose with kisses.

"I can find something myself," he promised. "It's pretty late, and I want you to get enough sleep. I need to go check on the Nugget anyway." He paused when your stomach growled loudly. "What do you want? I'll make something for both of us."

"I already had dinner."

"You had toast. That's not dinner. What do you want?"

You looked up at him and whispered, "A sandwich."

"Done." He kissed your lips and climbed out of bed, pulling on clean boxer briefs. "Give me a five minute head start so I can kiss Rosie, and I'll meet you in the kitchen."

Bradley had to fight the urge to wake his daughter up just to watch her be adorable while he held her, because he felt like he missed the entire day with her. "Still better than being deployed," he whispered, making Tramp leave the nursery with him.

He sent the dog out to the backyard as he tried not to worry about when his next mission might come. Then he made two identical sandwiches and opened a bag of potato chips and a can of beer. And then you were there with him again.

"What do you want to do for your birthday on Friday?" you asked, tucking yourself against his body as you reached for one of the sandwiches. "And don't you dare say you want to spend a day with just the three of us and try to bail to get another tattoo."

He kissed your temple and said, "Nothing else is important enough for me to want to get it tattooed besides you and Rosie, so what I'm about to say is the absolute truth. As soon as we get out of work on Friday, all I want to do is spend the evening with my girls."

"Well, I was thinking...." you started, nibbling at your sandwich. "You know how for my birthday, you reserved the lounge where we went to the silent disco? But then I fell at work and kind of killed that plan?"

"How could I forget?" he replied, downing the rest of his beer. "Reenacting our first date is never going to not be fun for me. Music and hot sauce and falling the fuck in love."

You smiled up at him. "What if I call the bar and see if they'll let us have a little silent disco with Rosie on Friday night? To make up for the one we missed?"

Bradley swore his heart skipped a beat. "I would love that, Baby Girl."

"Then I'll try to make it happen."

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

Bradley woke up on Friday morning with your hand wrapped around his cock and your giggling lips next to his ear. "Happy birthday, Roo," you whispered. Your breath was warm and tickled him as he opened his eyes and grunted.

"It's already pretty happy."

He pulled down the covers and watched you jerk him off while your bare breasts were mashed against him. There was a pretty droplet of your milk in his chest hair, and you were telling him all the things you wanted to do to him later. Even when you really gripped him, your fingers didn't quite reach all the way around his cock, and he tucked his arm behind his head to get a better view.

"I was thinking," you whispered, lips brushing his ear, "we could do what we did last year on your birthday. If you want."

Instantly he envisioned the way you let him fuck you in the ass, and he gasped. "Anal?" he asked softly, holding his breath for the answer as you dragged your hand up to the tip of his cock and squeezed.

"Yes."

He instantly came all over himself, white ribbons coating his abs as you kissed his neck. "Fuuuuck," he croaked, already excited for later tonight.

"Damn, Roo. You couldn't even wait until I got my mouth down there?"

He tucked his other arm behind his head as well and watched you kiss your way down his body. "You just promised me your ass, Sweetheart. I don't know what you expected." He went silent again as you ran your tongue around his belly button and started lapping up his cum. You had him on your lips, dragging your tongue through the mess when Rose started crying in her nursery. "Hang on, Nugget! Daddy's enjoying his birthday!"

You smiled up at him and kissed his hip before nudging him toward the edge of the bed. "Go get her ready, and I'll be in shortly."

He leaned down and kissed you before pulling on his underwear and heading to the nursery. He actually loved it when Rose started wailing like this, because he got to enjoy the way she immediately calmed down when he picked her up and gave her a little snuggle.

"You're loud today. Are you saying happy birthday?" he asked, tickling her tummy before changing her wet diaper. She was three months old and absolutely perfect. She could hold her head up on her own, and her eyes seemed to be a slightly different color every day. Bradley was fascinated by his daughter and would have gladly spent the entire day hanging out with her instead of going to work.

He was bouncing her gently in his arms, turning her hunger cries into little giggles when you joined them. "Is she ready for the silent disco tonight?" you asked, settling into the glider chair with your tits on display. He couldn't wait to get you in bed again later, but he was just as excited about going to Del Mar.

"I think so," he crooned, covering his daughter's face in kisses before handing her over so she could eat. "I love you both." Then he kissed her fuzzy hair and your lips before heading back down the hallway to get dressed for work.

Dropping Rose off at the daycare on base every day was still hard, but at least she was with Jeremiah. And Bradley was planning on skipping out early today to take her home and get ready to go out. Not only had you talked the rooftop bar into an hour-long private silent disco, you also made a reservation at the hot sauce restaurant. He was convinced Rose would love both places as much as he did.

As soon as he walked out onto the tarmac, he felt an arm around his shoulders. "Happy birthday, Soul Sister. I can't believe you're forty-eight."

"I'm thirty-eight, Nat."

"Whatever. Still old as fuck."

"I love you, too."

She smirked. "Are you enjoying your new job? All locked away with the admirals up in the tower like you're Rapunzel or something?"

Bradley stopped and swiped a hand along his back. "Did someone tape a sign on me that says It's my birthday, please pick on me?"

"Nah," she replied. "Doesn't need to be your birthday for that. Happy to do it any day of the year."

He followed along at her side again. "I don't actually have a new position yet," he muttered. "I'm just... I don't like being away from them now. It was bad enough before, but I think if someone gave me deployment papers today, I'd probably throw up."

"You're such a dad," his best friend replied, reaching for his hand and giving him a squeeze. "I completely understand why you want to turn into Rapunzel in the tower, Rooster. I probably would as well if I had a daughter. Speaking of, let me know when I can stop by with all the new toys and outfits I got for my goddaughter."

Bradley's imagination drifted to the bedroom activity he was looking forward to later this evening. "Uh, maybe tomorrow or Sunday? Not tonight."

"You got it."

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

The ride to Del Mar was familiar now. Bradley's Motown playlist filled the interior of the blue Bronco along with his voice while he drove and played with your wedding rings. The late June sunlight was bright and warm even as it approached 6:30, and you could tell by how relaxed your husband was that he was having a good day.

"I can't believe you're thirty-eight years old."

He gave you side eye. "Listen, Sweetheart, I've still got all the moves, okay? I was just excited this morning, that's all."

You burst into laughter. "That's not what I meant!"

With a playful glare, he parallel parked in front of the hot sauce restaurant. "I feel like you're contractually obligated to be nice to me today, especially after how much Nat picked on me."

You kissed his cheek and whispered, "I'm letting you have my ass. How much nicer could I possibly get."

"Great. Now I have to get my erection under control," he groaned, killing the engine and letting his head tip back. But he was smiling. "I actually think that makes you the nicest."

Honestly, you were a bit nervous. Last year, he barely thrusted before he came, and it still felt like you were being stretched to your limit. More than anything, you wanted him to still find pleasure in your body, but you didn't want him to hurt you.

As if you'd spoken your thoughts out loud, he whispered in your ear, "I'll make it feel good for you, too." Then he was out on the sidewalk, lifting Rose in her car carrier out of the backseat like the most attentive father in the world. She was wearing a little dress covered in flowers. You were also wearing a dress with your boat shoes. "Just look at my beautiful girls," he crooned, draping his right arm over your shoulders and carrying the car seat like it was nothing.

"I can't wait until she's old enough to enjoy some hot sauce," you mused.

"Her first solid food can be a chili pepper."

You snorted. "Rose, I will not let that happen."

You spent dinner coating your food in a rainbow of different hot sauces while Bradley stole bites of your meal and offered up some of his own. Rose kept trying to reach for the bottles with all of the pretty labels, and you watched her cry until Bradley let her play with a plastic one that was brand new and still sealed up tight.

"She's your fucking kid, alright. Won't leave the restaurant without some hot sauce," he told you, signaling for the waiter to add it onto the bill at the end of the meal.

"Stop swearing in front of the baby." You were unable to contain your laughter as you added, "She picked out a good one, too. Excellent taste."

Bradley reached for your hand. "Now to determine if she has good taste in music, too."

After stopping back at the Bronco so Bradley could strap Rose in her carrier against his chest, the three of you walked at a leisurely pace along the main street toward the beachfront lounge. When you approached the pier where you spent plenty of time getting to know each other on your first date, Bradley turned so Rose could look at the setting sun.

"You see that long fishing pier, Nugget?" he murmured, smiling at you. "I took Mommy on the best date of her life, and we made out on that pier until I was on the verge of embarrassing myself."

"Accurate," you added immediately. "It was the best date of my life, but there was nothing you could have done to embarrass yourself."

"I beg to differ. I could have told you I loved you. On our first date."

His eyes were sincere. You knew he fell in love with you fast. He'd already told you as much. But hearing him say the words while he had his big hand wrapped around yours and Rose cradled to his chest left you breathless. "When you tell me now that you were already in love with me on our first date, it's just romantic, Roo."

His smile grew, and you thought all about how much had changed in the past three years as you led him toward the lounge which was lit with string lights. You rode the elevator to the rooftop with your head resting on his shoulder, face to face with your sleepy daughter. She had her little fist up next to her face, rubbing her eye.

"She's going to fall asleep, Roo."

"Nah, she'll last for a few songs. I want a picture of her wearing the headphones."

You forgot how pretty the rooftop was with all the lights and the bar. This time, instead of two sets of headphones, you were handed three, and the woman who was working made a fuss over how cute Rose was.

"I swear she looks just like my wife," Bradley said, showing her off proudly.

The other woman smiled and said, "You have an hour before we open to the public for the night. The DJ will start playing as soon as you're ready."

"Perfect," you told her, and then she was gone, and your husband was giving the DJ a thumbs up. You slid your headphones into place and turned them on to the pink channel. Once Bradley had his on, you changed his channel to match yours and laughed when one of his Motown songs came on.

"Yes," he said with a grin, lowering the volume all the way on the third pair before putting them on Rose. They were of course huge, and he had to hold them in place with one hand, but she smiled when she heard the song. "She likes it!"

"Of course she does. She's your daughter," you said over the music.

Bradley's lips landed on yours, and his free hand gently wrapped around the back of your neck. You stayed like that with Rose between you, getting kiss after kiss from your husband as you danced, occasionally changing the channel on your headphones to blue or green.

The DJ seemed to know what Bradley was going to like best, his face lighting up for almost every song like he was delighted to get to hear it. Rose, on the other hand, was asleep after ten minutes with her cheek squished against him. At least you managed to take one selfie of the three of you before her eyes closed, but now she was napping while you danced and lip synced with Bradley until the music came to a stop. The hour was too short. You wanted it to last longer.

Carefully, you removed Rose's headphones and then your own, handing them over on your way back to the elevator. "Time to go home and get your cake and birthday presents," you whispered as you were taken back down to the first level.

His hand settled on your lower back before drifting down a few inches more. His expression was completely serious as he said, "Baby Girl, I thought this cake was my birthday present."

"If you play your cards right, you can have two kinds of cake tonight."

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

Bradley is so ridiculously spoiled. Sweet Rosie already likes hot sauce. BG is struggling so much and can't quite see herself the way her husband does. Stay tuned. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 24

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4linos · 4 months ago

Text

the apology in crayon

bang chan x fem!reader

synopsis: after a silent anniversary, chan makes a small but meaningful gesture, and their daughter’s drawings help restore love and understanding.

wc: 884

Silence weighed heavily on the night. It was the kind of silence that, despite the fact that neither of you had said much, spoke volumes. Despite all of your attempts to keep yourself calm, you had that usual feeling of regret when your phone alerted you to your fifth wedding anniversary and you realized that Chan had once again been distracted with work. Every time, even if it wasn't the first time, it hurt. Unable to ignore the pain that was rising in your chest, you had softly crept into bed. The coldness of the pillow next to you spoke louder than words tonight, and you lacked the energy for a confrontation.

Chan hadn’t said anything either. No "Happy Anniversary," no sweet words, no recognition. As the hours passed, there was only the slight sound of him tapping on his laptop in the living room. Although it was more painful than you had anticipated, it wasn't as if you hadn't anticipated it. You had tried to be patient, but work had taken up all of his attention for weeks. However, that didn't make things any simpler. So you turned your back on him and went to bed without saying anything, falling into a heavy, hollow sleep.

You woke up the following morning to the sound of gentle laughter. You opened your eyes to find your 4-year-old daughter standing next to the bed, her tiny face gleaming with delight. She had a stack of carefully drawn art that had been scratched with crayons. "Mommy! Look, look!” She gave you a drawing and exclaimed in a cheerful voice. "This is for you!" Still feeling a little dazed, you sat up and rubbed your eyes. They were only stick figures of her, Chan, and you. There were smiley pictures and hearts, and you could barely make out the words, "Daddy is sorry," in her still shaky handwriting.

You blinked as you became aware of what was happening, the haze of sleep fading. With a guilty expression on his face and sleep-puffed eyes, Chan peeked at the doorway. "Hey," he said quietly as he moved closer, his hands twitching at his sides. "I—"

Your daughter pulled at your sleeve before he could continue. "Mommy!” She smiled up at him and chirped, "Daddy says sorry!" He lowered himself to her level and ran his fingers through her disheveled hair as Chan's eyes softened.

"I do," he murmured in a hushed tone that was full of the remorse you hadn't heard the previous evening. "Baby, I truly apologize for forgetting. I didn't even understand how badly I had hurt Mommy because I was so busy with my work.” For the first time in a long time, there was no sign of worry or preoccupation when his eyes met yours. Just being genuine. Even though the disappointment from the previous night was still heavy, you could feel your heart lighten. Even if it wasn't the extravagant gesture you had hoped for, it was impossible to remain upset when you saw your daughter's helpless face and the drawings she had created.

Just then, you noticed the soft flickering light coming from the dining room. Chan had set up a candlelit breakfast on the table—a simple but thoughtful attempt to make up for his mistake. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was clear that he’d put in effort, just as much as your daughter had with her drawings. He held out his hand toward you.

"Will you join us for breakfast?" His eyes were filled with hope and remorse as he asked quietly. You inhaled while suppressing a smile. You tried to seem serious when you added, "You really should've remembered last night," but it was difficult to maintain the act because of the warmth in your chest. “But thank you for this. Yes, I will.” Eager to follow, your daughter pulled at your hand once more. "Mommy, hurry up! Come have some food!

You nod and get to your feet, kissing her on top of her head. You said, "All right, let's go," after following her and turning to face Chan. "We'll talk about it later." Your favorite food—nothing excessive, just the kind of hearty meal that made you feel at home—was on the table when you walked into the dining room.

The room was softly lit by the candles, and your daughter's big eyes were dancing with the light. Sitting across from you as you started to eat, Chan repeated again in a firm voice, "I'm really sorry." "I'll make sure I don't let this kind of thing happen again."

You looked at him for a while, the memories of the night before still vivid, but you realized that sometimes apologies take unexpected shapes after witnessing the effort he made this morning and your daughter's sincere attempts to make things right.

"Thank you," you replied quietly as you looked him in the eye. "We're alright."

And the tension of the previous evening started to fade as the three of you sat together and laughed at your daughter's silly stories about her attempts at drawing. The fact that it wasn't about lavish celebrations or flawless anniversaries was more important now. As usual, it was about the small things that restored the sense of balance and the straightforward affection that filled the space.

—

nini’s notes 111724

happy sunday! i hope you’re having a good weekend 😊👍 here’s some dad!skz ..

asks are always open if you have a question, concern, or request!

-🎀

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purplecoffee13 · 7 months ago

Note

Size kink! “Just the tip”, “do you think you can handle it” or a slight mocking tone from Harry. Anything around those lines?

AAAHHHH IM SCREAMING!!!! I LOVE SIZE KINK!!!!!!!!!

Here ya go🤭

Wc: 1.5k

Warnings: SMUT, size kink, degradation, daddy kink

“C’mon! Please!” She whined, a couple of tears rolling down your face as she nudged your hips forward, hoping to come in contact with the one thing she’d been craving for the past fifty minutes.

When Harry said Y/N was ‘fucked’ on the way to the car after she had been a tease all night, she didn’t think he was being this serious.

They had been dating for a couple of months now, the two, and everything was still exciting. Including things in the bedroom. Harry was a kinky guy, and while Y/N had experimented here and there, she had never done as much as she had with Harry. Being a dom, Harry took pride in that; knowing he was the only one to have done such dirty, unspeakable things to his girl.

Experimenting and orienting with Harry had also led Y/N to the discovery of how skilled her boyfriend truly was. He noticed her kinks faster than she did, and would throw her for a loop every time he played into a new one.

She liked to be degraded, humiliated—to a certain extent—and treated like a ragdoll. Harry took all of this in consideration when he dragged her to the bedroom tonight and began torturing her.

First, he had tied her up to the headboard so she couldn’t move her arms. Then, he had taken off her pants, ripped her panties and shoved them in her mouth. He proceeded by clamping his mouth against her nipple and working from one to the other, until finally kissing his way down to her heat.

He’d began fingering her, keeping her edge until she felt like she was going to explode, and then pulled away, entirely. Y/N had cried out desperately, words muffled by the panties still stuffed in her mouth. Eventually, he removed them, and went back to work on her clit, with his tongue this time.

Y/N was trembling, her orgasm ready to explode in her lower belly. Harry had been eating her out for the past fifteen minutes and she’d fought herself from coming the moment he’d put his lips on her clit. But right as she was about to come, Harry pulled away, again.

“What is it, pet?” He asked, feigning innocence while his mouth was pulled into a devious smirk.

“Stop teasing me.” She huffed as she lifted her hips again, tugging on her restrained arms. Harry looked down at her, his head tilted slightly as he tutted her, his fingers tracing over her jaw.

“Teasing you? I was just getting you ready. Getting you nice and wet for my cock.” He purred, his thumb rubbing a few circles on her clit. A pained moan left Y/N’s mouth, sounding more like a cry than anything else. “You know why I do that, don’t you?”

“Please, I’m ready!”

Y/N shot upwards as she felt the sting of the slap against her clit. Her jaw went slack and she threw her head back, a pathetic whine leaving her lips.

“I asked you a question.” Harry growled. “You better fucking listen when I’m talking to you.”

She softly fluttered her eyes open, finding her boyfriend staring at her with his brows knitted and a tense jaw. She hated displeasing him, but he looked so fucking hot when he was frustrated.

“M’sorry daddy.” You answered, like you had been taught by Harry. “You get me nice and wet so it’s easier to slide into me.”

A hint of smirk painted Harry’s face as he nodded at your answer.

“That’s right.” He hummed. “If I don’t get you soaking for me I won’t be able to sink my cock in that little pussy of yours. You’re so tight, never know whether it will fit.”

She looked up at him. The tall frame of a man who was on his knees towering over her as she lay there helpless, just waiting for him to fuck her into oblivion. Her gaze fell to his cock, so close to her entrance and yet so far away. If he could just… put it in.

“Please, daddy, I promise it’ll fit. I’m so wet for you.” She begged, biting her lip in desperation. Harry shook his head.

“I don’t know, pet… don’t think it’s enough. Don’t want to hurt you.” He was dragging this on for way too long but he loved how she’d get all whiny for him, rambling on and on about how badly she wanted it. It made him feel so wanted and it only increased the urge to try and split her in two with his lengthy cock.

“No, please! I can handle it, I promise!” She was crying again. She’d always get like this when it took a bit too long, but Harry loved bringing out this side of her. It did something to him, watching her go a bit crazy for him.

“You think you can handle it?” He gave her that sliver of hope, and she took it with all she had, nodding furiously.

“Yes! Yes! Please, just— put it in. Even if it’s just the tip. I want to be full of you.” She pleaded, knowing she was getting her way when the bed shifted a bit and Harry leaned his hips forward.

“Alright… just the tip.”

He did as promised, entering her pussy with solely the tip of his cock. Y/N still sighed with relief. Even if it wasn’t all the way, she loved it. She loved having him inside her, no matter how much she was allowed to get. It’s why her whine was extra loud when he pulled out of her again.

Her complaint was muffled with a moan when Harry dragged his tip up and down her overly sensitive clit. Y/N’s legs began to shake, this was so much for someone who’d been edged for the past hour.

“Ah, daddy! F— fuck…” she babbled as he kept stimulating her clit with the tip of his cock. He sank into her again, the tiniest bit further this time, and Y/N felt like she was going insane.

“O—oh… I think I’m—”

“What? Think you’re gonna come? Dirty fucking slut…” Harry finished her sentence for her, pulling out and stroking his dick over her clit again. “Probably for the best. Might be the only way this pathetic cunt will be wet enough to take my cock.”

That sent her over the edge. Her legs trembled as she came with a cry of Harry’s name— well nickname. He talked her through her orgasm, telling her what a good whore she was for him.

He didn’t let her come down from her orgasm when he began the intrusion of his cock in her tight pussy. Harry’s girth and length was unmatched. She’d never experienced something like that before and she was quite positive she never would again.

Harry groaned at the feel of his girlfriend’s warm, slick cunt, fueled by the scream that left her as he entered her. “You said you could handle it? Prove it to me, pet. Lay there like the fucking cock slut you are and. just. take. it.”

He spoke the last words slowly and accompanied each one with a harsh trust. Y/N felt her walls stretching, having to get used to Harry’s cock. Even though they fucked nearly every day, she still had to get used to his size.

“S— so big, daddy! It feels so good!” She cried out as he kept on pounding into her, and she laid there—like he instructed—and took it like a good girl.

“Stretch you out each time, hmm? Need to get you ready every fuck time.” He growled.

Nothing but moans left her mouth as Harry fucked her. It felt like he was screwing her right into the mattress. Although that was impossible, right now it felt like he was very capable of such a thing.

Harry leaned forward, arms leaning onto the bed next to her head as his lips trailed near your ears.

“One day, I’m gonna make good on that promise of yours.” He said lowly, the huskiness of his voice having her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Give it to you without foreplay. Just ramming my cock into you, see if you can truly handle it. Would you like that?”

When a strained, fucked out ‘yes’ escaped her, Harry just chuckled, evilly almost.

“Of course you would like that. You’re such a desperate cock dumb whore for me. You’d do anything for my cock.”

Y/N whined in agreement. “Yes, yes I would.”

“Come, then. Soak my cock and let me fuck that cum back into you until you forget your own name, sweetheart.”

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joelsrose · 5 months ago

Text

Guns and Roses: Chapter 6

masterlist

Guys this is my favourite chapter so far PLS ENJOYYY AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK plsss

TW: physical recovery, PTSD, trauma, blood, mentions of death

Summary: you confront the challenges of recovering from the attack, dealing with a broken leg and the necessity of relying on others for care. An unexpected figure emerges to support you.

please listen to this song as you listennnn fits the vibe perfectly

The last thing you remembered was pain—excruciating and unrelenting, tearing through your leg and radiating up your spine. It was all a blur of chaos—those men, the feeling of being overpowered, the crushing weight of helplessness. Then there was Tommy’s voice, the desperate shouts, and… Joel.

You jolted awake with a sharp gasp, your breath catching in your throat. The world came back in fragments—the lights above were dim, casting a hazy glow over the room, and there were voices, soft and distant, just beyond your understanding.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” a gentle voice cut through the haze, drawing you back to the present. It was Maria, leaning over you, her expression a mixture of concern and relief. She was by your side, a cool rag in hand, gently dabbing your forehead. “You’re safe. You’re okay now.”

Your eyes darted around the room, wide and unfocused, trying to make sense of where you were. The space was cluttered with old medical books, shelves stocked with bandages and other supplies, and the faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. “What… what happened?” you croaked, your voice weak, throat raw from disuse.

Maria’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, anchoring you as she spoke. "You got hurt, but you're going to be okay. We've got you, and you're safe here, I promise." Her voice was calm and steady, laced with a warmth meant to soothe, yet the worry in her eyes betrayed her. It was a quiet, lingering fear, as though things could have taken a far darker turn.

Your thoughts spun in a frantic blur, grasping desperately for fragments of memory. “Is Tommy… is everyone okay?” The words tumbled out, urgent and unbidden, as the chaos replayed in your mind. All you could remember were the screams—Joel collapsing, clutching a stab wound in his leg, crimson pooling beneath him, spreading like a relentless tide.

Was he still alive?

The thought left you cold, a chill sinking deep into your bones, twisting in your gut like a knife. Nausea clawed at your throat, a sickening dread that threatened to swallow you whole.

“Yeah, everyone’s fine,” Maria reassured you, her voice a soothing balm over the raw edges of your fear. Relief washed over you in a rush, loosening the tightness in your chest. You could breathe again—deep, shaky breaths that seemed to draw you back from the brink, grounding you in the present.

“Tommy just stepped out,” she said, her tone gentle, trying to fill the space with reassurance. “He’ll be right back. He’s been here a lot and… so has—” She stopped abruptly, the pause heavy, as if you were too fragile to hear what came next.

“Who?” you asked, your voice quiet and rough, oblivious to what she was about to say.

Maria’s gaze met yours, hesitant for a heartbeat before she continued, “Joel.”

His name hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with meaning. “He’s been here every day,” she went on, her voice gentle. “Sleeping in that chair, even with his bad back. He only left about an hour ago—I practically had to force him to go home and rest.”

“Oh,” you breathed, the sound barely audible. The thought of Joel being here, keeping vigil while you lay unconscious, was almost impossible to fathom.

Why?

Was it guilt that kept him close?

You blinked, struggling to absorb the reality of her words. “Days?” The question tasted unfamiliar, heavy as it fell from your lips, the weight of it settling in your chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a deep, dark lake.

How long had you been out?

“Yeah, honey,” Maria nodded, her hand smoothing over the blanket covering you, as if to reassure you with the small gesture. “But you’re okay now, I promise. The worst is over.”

With that, you nodded, surrendering to the pull of sleep as it reached out like an old, familiar embrace. You drifted away, slipping back into its depths with Maria by your side.

•••

People had come and gone, each one offering their reassurances and relief that you were okay. Tommy, Ellie, even a few of the patrolmen had stopped by, voices mixing together in a blur of well-wishes and murmured conversations.

But he hadn’t been here—not since you’d woken up. It gnawed at you, that empty space where Joel should have been. Your gaze drifted to the chair, its emptiness almost taunting, as though it knew who was missing. You could picture him there, sprawled out, his familiar form slouched back, the hardness of his jaw catching the dim light, as if sleep might take him at any moment. But the chair remained vacant, a silent reminder of his absence.

You lay propped against a stack of pillows, just as the doctor had instructed, your leg elevated in a makeshift splint. The “cast” was a patchwork of salvaged materials—wooden splints, thick strips of cloth, and pieces of an old brace, all bound together with whatever scraps could be scavenged. Vague flashes of pain flickered in your memory, the white-hot agony as they’d set the bone while you were only half-conscious. Even now, the thought of it sent a shudder down your spine. Everything blurred together—you must have blacked out from the pain. You had no recollection of how you’d made it back to Jackson. Perhaps they’d explain it all once you were stronger, but for now, the mystery lingered, hovering just out of reach.

Now, Tommy and Maria sat beside you, their presence a quiet comfort. The doctor—a woman in her late fifties, her graying hair pulled back in a loose braid—handed you a small bundle of pills wrapped in cloth. “Alright, here are your pain meds,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “Take these every day, okay? And don’t overdo it. If the pain gets too bad, you let someone know.”

You nodded, the instructions making you feel small and helpless, like a child being told what to do.

You nodded, barely listening as the doctor went on.

“Do you live alone, or…?”

“Yeah,” you replied, the word slipping out almost automatically. The reminder hit you like hard, the starkness of it unwelcome.

“Okay,” she continued, her gaze shifting to Tommy and Maria with a practiced look of concern. “You’re going to need someone to look after you for the next few weeks, at least. You’ll be on crutches, and getting around won’t be easy. The fracture was pretty nasty.” She glanced at the injury, her glasses perched low on her nose as she inspected it. “We did our best to set it, but you’ll have to take it slow for a while. The bone needs time to heal—and it’s not like we have proper casts and X-rays anymore.”

Maria's voice broke the silence, reassuring and no-nonsense. "We’ll take care of her, Doc. Don’t worry about that.”

The doctor gave a final nod before leaving, and Tommy and Maria helped you ease out of the bed, every small movement sending a jolt of soreness through your leg. It was a painstaking process getting you dressed and bundled into Tommy’s truck. The ride back was bumpy, every jostle a reminder of just how fragile your body felt right now.

•••

The house was quiet when you arrived, the air cool and still, carrying that unmistakable sense of emptiness that lingers when you return from a long absence. The familiar scent stirred something inside you, a reminder of what was left behind. It took both Tommy and Maria to help you inside, steadying the crutches under your arms and guiding you carefully through your home. Once you were settled on the worn couch, Maria draped a blanket over you.

“We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tommy and I will check in every day. Ok?”

You offered a small, grateful smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. The emptiness gnawed at you again, that absence like a weight pressing on your chest. And even though you didn’t say it, you couldn’t help but wonder why Joel hadn’t come to see you—why he hadn’t been there when you opened your eyes.

The question hung unasked in the silence, drifting in the air like dust suspended in the afternoon light.

•••

It was harder than you’d anticipated. True to their word, Tommy and Maria stopped by every day, but it was clear that Maria was struggling. Her pregnancy symptoms had worsened—nausea and vomiting so severe that some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, much less come over to help. Tommy did his best, but he was stretched thin, torn between caring for Maria and trying to be there for you.

When he showed up alone one morning, his face etched with worry as he helped you down the stairs, you knew something was off.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, his voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing a smile even as you leaned heavily on the crutch, each step sending a dull throb through your leg. It had only been a few days, and you were still getting used to it—the pain meds took most of the edge off, but a deep, relentless ache lingered, a constant reminder of how far you had to go.

“I got some bad news,” Tommy said once you were settled on the couch, his expression hesitant.

A pit formed in your stomach. “What is it?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. You couldn’t help but think of Maria and the baby. “Is it… is it Maria?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, she’s okay. As okay as she can be, anyway. The nausea’s been pretty rough lately.” His voice trailed off, and you could see the guilt etched on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, which looked more disheveled than usual. The dark circles under his eyes told the rest of the story—he probably hadn’t slept in days.

“I know I promised to be here every day, help out with whatever you needed, but… it’s been harder than I expected. She needs me more than I thought, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it here as often.”

“Tommy, don’t be ridiculous,” you said, your voice a little too sharp. The lie came easily, out of habit more than anything. “I can take care of myself.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true.

You could barely manage to get out of bed on your own, let alone keep up with the daily tasks piling up around you. “Take care of Maria. I understand, trust me,” you said, offering him a reassuring smile, though it felt a bit strained at the edges.

Still, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling that crept up inside you, a sense of being a burden that you couldn’t quite shake.

Tommy frowned, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Darlin’, you’re in no shape to be alone,” he said gently. “But don’t worry—there are plenty of folks who can come by to check on you.”

“Who?” The word came out sharper than you intended, a hint of bitterness cutting through. It wasn’t really anger, just a raw insecurity that twisted inside you. You didn’t have anyone—not like Tommy and Maria had each other.

“Well, there’s Ellie… and Joel,” Tommy began, his tone almost cautious, as if even saying Joel’s name might be too much. “He’s… well, he hasn’t come by to see you yet, but—” He hesitated, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

“He hasn’t come to see me,” you repeated, the words falling flat in the quiet room.

It wasn’t a question; it was an unspoken hurt that hung in the air.

“Why not?” you asked, even though a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to hear the answer. Joel didn’t owe you anything; the past few months you’d spent together had been anything but friendly. So why did you expect him to be here? Why did his absence sting more than it should?

Tommy hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as though searching for the right words, his gaze skirting away from yours. “He’s been… around,” he began slowly. “Been checkin’ in with Maria and me, makin’ sure you had everything you needed. But he…” Tommy hesitated, his voice dropping as he searched for the right words. “He just wanted to give you some space while you adjusted. Thought it might be what you needed.”

It was clear Tommy was struggling with the conversation, likely because of the awkward position he was in—Joel being his brother, after all. But there was something else behind his reluctance, something unspoken. After the attack, Tommy had seen firsthand just how far Joel was willing to go to save you. He’d watched his brother fight with a desperation that bordered on reckless, doing whatever it took to keep you alive.

Now, Tommy saw the truth clearly, piercing through Joel’s carefully maintained indifference toward you. He chastised himself for not seeing it sooner, for how thinly veiled Joel’s façade had always been. The reality of it all came to light after the attack, when Joel’s restraint shattered—he fought for you with a fierce, unyielding desperation, never once leaving your side. In those moments, his cold detachment dissolved, and the depth of his feelings bled through, unmistakable in the way he tended to you, as though keeping you safe was the only thing that mattered.

But it wasn’t his place to say anything; that was a conversation Joel needed to have with you. Tommy could only hope his brother would find the courage to speak sooner rather than later, though a part of him doubted it. He knew Joel too well—knew how stubbornly he kept his guard up, even when his heart was on the line.

“Oh,” you said softly, nodding as if the explanation made sense. “Okay.” You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that it was just Joel’s way of being cautious, of giving you the space you needed. But as it always did, doubt crept in, clawing its way up from some dark place inside. Old wounds had a way of reopening, their whispers cutting through the fragile comfort you tried to build.

What if he doesn’t really care? The thought sank its teeth in, a quiet voice reminding you of every time you’d been left behind, every promise that had turned to dust. The doubt was relentless, clawing at the edges of your mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you were fooling yourself. That Joel's absence was a choice—a choice to keep his distance, to keep you at arm's length, even now.

You looked away, swallowing against the tightness in your throat, wishing you could silence the voices that told you to expect the worst. Because sometimes, it was easier to accept doubt than to hope for something different.

After all, wasn’t it always the same? People keeping their distance, claiming they were doing it for your own good? It was a wound that hadn’t healed, a scar from years of being left behind. You told yourself not to think like that, not to read too much into it—but the hurt had a way of seeping in, even when you tried to hold it back.

If only you knew how much he did care—if only you remembered the lengths he had gone to, the sacrifices he made without a second thought. The men he had killed to save you, his hands stained with blood that wasn’t his own. The miles he trudged, his body battered and broken, fighting exhaustion and pain as he pushed forward because stopping meant losing you. How he had almost bled out for you, a deep wound gushing crimson, his vision blurring as he clung to consciousness with sheer stubbornness, all for the chance to see you breathe again.

If only you knew the hours he spent by your bedside, his rough hand wrapped gently around yours when he thought no one was watching. How he would sit there in the dark, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin, his quiet vigil a testament to the depths of his worry. You didn’t see the way his shoulders sagged with relief whenever your chest rose and fell steadily, nor did you hear the whispered words he spoke when the night was at its darkest—words he could never bring himself to say when you were awake.

If only you knew how his heart shattered the moment he saw you kiss Sam. How the sight of it hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He had to step outside just to breathe, to force himself to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat. The jealousy burned hot and fierce, a mix of anger and hurt that tore through him as he watched Sam linger too long, his hands on you against your will, and Joel could’ve killed him right then and there.

If only you knew how his heart stopped the very first time he saw you, that instant when his gaze fell on you and the world seemed to quiet around him. It was a feeling that terrified him, a pull he didn’t understand, as though he’d been struck by something he hadn’t even realized he was missing.

“So, you’d be alright with him coming around?” Tommy asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters. “He’d just help you up and down the stairs, morning and night, like I’ve been doing. He wouldn’t have to stay a second longer than you’re comfortable with.”

You hesitated, the thought of Joel being here, in your home—your sanctuary—sending a jolt of unease through you. The idea of him seeing you this vulnerable, laid bare, made your stomach twist. It would only confirm what he already thought about you—that you were clumsy, helpless, always in need of saving. And now, because you were his brother’s friend, he was stuck picking up the pieces.

“Tommy, I don’t want him to go out of his way,” you said, forcing your voice to sound steady, though uncertainty laced your words. “I can handle myself,—”

The words had barely left your mouth when your hand slipped, knocking the glass of water off the edge of the table. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, the water spilling out in a widening puddle, and you winced at how your body tensed, too slow to catch it.

Tommy raised an eyebrow, giving you a look that said more than words ever could.

You sighed, slumping back against the cushions. “Fine,” you muttered.

“Good,” Tommy said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He’ll be here tonight, then. And Maria and I will still drop by once she’s feeling a bit better.” He flashed you a grin, his eyes warm with relief. “But listen, kid,” he added, his tone growing playfully stern, “if you ever die on me, I’ll kill you myself.”

You returned a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes; your mind was preoccupied with the thoughts swirling in your head. Deep down, you knew you couldn’t keep refusing help, no matter how much you hated the feeling of being a burden.

•••

That afternoon, you did anything and everything you could to distract yourself. You read the same page of a book over and over, the words slipping away before they could take root. You scribbled in an old notebook, your handwriting growing messier with each line, the sentences trailing off into nothing. You even watched the people passing by your window, their faces unfamiliar, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the day.

But no matter how hard you tried to push it away, the thought of him coming around tonight lingered in the back of your mind—persistent and unwelcome. It gnawed at you, that quiet anticipation twisting itself into anxiety.

What would he say? Would he say anything at all? How would he act?

You wondered if his touch would linger, like it sometimes did in those fleeting moments when you weren’t sure if you had imagined it or if it had been real. The uncertainty wrapped around you like a thick fog, leaving you on edge, caught between hope and fear. Would he bring warmth or distance? The question hung heavily in the air, refusing to let you find any semblance of calm.

You shifted restlessly, your leg aching from the hours spent sitting still, but you didn’t know what else to do. Nothing seemed to quiet the thoughts racing through your head, the uneasy flutter in your chest. All you could do was wait, counting down the hours and distracting yourself with anything that kept you from thinking about the fact that, soon, he would be here. And you weren’t sure you were ready to face him, to face whatever came next.

•••

You hobbled over to the mirror, the crutches clicking on the worn floorboards with every step. The reflection staring back at you made your breath catch in your throat. You looked awful—scratches and bruises marred your face, a dark purple mottling your cheekbone. Your hair was a mess, barely held together by a loose braid, and your eyes were shadowed with deep, dark circles. You didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, bruised and battered, looking like a stranger you’d crossed paths with in another lifetime.

You suddenly felt a stab of self-consciousness that took you by surprise, the thought prickling at the edges of your mind. Why did it matter what you looked like right now? You shouldn’t care—but still, the feeling lingered, a quiet discomfort crawling under your skin.

You hadn’t expected to be seen like this, so vulnerable and broken. There was a time when you’d been self-reliant, stubbornly independent, but here you were again, needing someone… needing Joel.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door, breaking the stillness of the room. You glanced at the clock—7:00 p.m on the dot.

It was Joel.

“Come in,” you called out, your voice catching in your throat as you angled your body toward the door.

The door creaked open, and there he was, filling the doorway. Joel stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over you with a quick, assessing look. His eyes flicked to the crutches, the bruises on your face, and then back to your own eyes. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if weighing what to say.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, as though the word itself carried more than just a greeting.

You nodded in response, unsure of what to say, the silence between you heavy with unspoken things. There was an unease that hung in the air, not quite tension but something close to it— And yet, seeing him standing there, his expression guarded but not unkind, stirred something in you - deep and unsettling

“Didn’t mean to keep you waitin’,” Joel added, his eyes lingering on the scratches along your jaw.

He stayed near the doorway at first, the corridor stretching between you like a gulf neither of you knew how to cross. “It’s okay,” you whispered, trying to sound casual, but the tension in your voice betrayed you, your hands gripping the crutches for support. There was too much unsaid, too much hanging in the air between you both.

Joel took a few steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. That’s when you noticed the limp, the subtle hitch in his stride that he tried to shrug off. Your eyes flickered down to his leg, and your eyebrows furrowed with concern. He was hurt—there was no mistaking the way he winced as he moved, a slight grimace crossing his features that he tried to mask with a tough exterior.

“Just a graze,” he said, catching your gaze before you could look away, his voice dismissive. But the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw clenched with each step, betrayed him. It wasn’t just a graze, and you both knew it. Did he forget you’d seen him get stabbed? The memory of it was still vivid—how he’d staggered, the blood soaking through his jeans.

You didn’t know what to say. The air between you felt thick and stifling, almost hot, like there was too much pressure building and nowhere for it to go. His presence filled the room, and the space between you seemed to shrink and stretch all at once, charged with everything you weren’t saying.

Joel’s gaze swept over you again, taking in the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion etched into your face. It made his chest ache in a way that was almost physical, like someone had squeezed his heart and wouldn’t let go.

When Tommy had told him you’d woken up, the relief had been overwhelming, nearly knocking the breath out of him. But it was quickly followed by a familiar pang of worry—worry that he wasn’t ready to face you, that the things he had said to push you away still lingered too heavily in the air. The memory of his last words to you was a constant knot in his chest, a reminder of how his fear had driven him to build walls between you… and of the bitter regret that came afterward, unyielding and sharp.

That was why he hadn’t come to see you. Every day, he found himself at your door, his hand hovering just inches from knocking, but doubt tightened its grip, pulling him back each time. It wasn’t until Tommy asked him to step in that he finally crossed the threshold. Joel knew the truth had dawned on his brother—the way things had unfolded left little room for secrets. But Tommy had kept his silence, letting the unspoken truth linger between them, and for that, Joel was grateful.

He took another step closer, and you noticed his gaze softening just a fraction. “How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked, his voice quiet and hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure you wanted him to ask. There was a vulnerability in his tone that made your heart race.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that, unbeknownst to you, was a silent act of restraint—as if by folding himself inward, he could physically prevent his hands from reaching out to trace the bruise on your cheek or gently comb his fingers through your hair. It was a protective barrier, not against you, but against his own unruly impulse to close the distance between you.

You met his eyes, trying to read the expression in them—trying to make sense of the storm brewing in your own chest. “I’m managing,” you replied, though the waver in your voice told a different story.

“Good,” Joel said, but the word came out rough, like it hurt him to say it. He took one more step, as if testing the waters, trying to bridge the distance between you. But even with the few feet that still separated you, it felt like there was an entire world keeping you apart.

“You ready for bed?” Joel asked, his voice low, but softer than you remembered.

“Yeah,” you replied, your stomach tightening as you remembered why he was here. The weight of his gaze felt heavy on your back as you began the slow journey toward the stairs.

The climb was harder than usual, each step sending a dull throb through your leg, and the silence between you seemed to grow thicker with every inch. Joel was close behind, his hand hovering near your back, as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or let you handle it on your own.

You were almost halfway up when your crutch slipped on the edge of the stair, your balance giving way beneath you. You let out a small gasp as you stumbled forward, and in an instant, Joel’s hands were on you—strong, steady, catching you before you could hit the ground.

“Sorry,” you breathed, the word slipping out almost inaudibly as he held you. Embarrassment washed over you, a warm flush rising to your cheeks as his touch made you feel exposed, vulnerable. His grip was firm, his fingers pressing into your arm with a quiet desperation, as though he was afraid to let go. You were close now—closer than you had been that day at the lake, when the water blurred the lines between you. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and heady, pulling you back into a moment you weren’t sure you wanted to escape.

“You’re fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly as though he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t, instead he helped you regain your footing, guiding you up the rest of the stairs with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

When you finally reached your bedroom, you hesitated in the doorway, a strange sense of vulnerability washing over you. Joel’s presence here, in this space that had always been yours alone, made the room feel smaller somehow, more intimate. It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside your sanctuary, and you could see him taking in the details of your world—the faded quilt draped over your bed, the stack of books teetering on the nightstand, their covers worn and pages dog-eared from countless readings. His gaze lingered on the half-open drawer, where a few shirts had spilled out, as if it were a glimpse into your life, a life he had only touched from a distance. You felt a flutter in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more meaningful.

He turned to you, helping you sit on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist before he stepped back. You watched him as he took another glance around the room, his gaze moving from the old, threadbare rug to the small collection of trinkets on the dresser—little things you’d kept over the years, reminders of the life you’d built even in this broken world.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him—the way his jaw tightened, as if he was struggling to hold something back, the way a few strands of hair fell over his forehead, unkempt and tempting your fingers to brush them away. Your head throbbed, and you wondered why you were thinking these things—was it the medication clouding your mind, or was it something deeper, something you’d been avoiding for far too long? There was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness to his stance, as though he was carrying a weight that wasn’t his alone, but yours as well.

“You take your meds yet?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence, “Doc said two at night.”

Your brow furrowed, a small frown forming as you looked at him. “How do you know what the doctor said?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Joel’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he glanced away, his jaw tightening again. “Tommy told me,” he said after a beat, but there was something about the way he said it—too casual, too quick—that made you wonder if that was the whole truth.

The silence stretched out between you, thick with things neither of you knew how to say.

“Yeah, they’re in that drawer over there,” you said, motioning with your hand. Joel walked over, pulling open the old wooden drawer, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he groaned softly as he bent down. The sound made something tighten in your chest—a sudden urge to help him, or to do something, though you weren’t sure what.

He straightened up with a slight wince, returning to you with the two pills in his hand. Just as he reached your side, your stomach betrayed you, grumbling loudly in the quiet room.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Have you eaten dinner?” he asked, his tone almost challenging.

“Not hungry,” you muttered, brushing off the question, reaching for the pills.

“That sound says otherwise,” he shot back, his eyes narrowing. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Too tired to cook,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’ve had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food,” he retorted, the frustration slipping into his voice. He didn’t seem to notice how close he’d gotten, his presence filling the space between you.

“Joel, it’s fine. Just gimme the meds,” you insisted, reaching for the pills. But he pulled his hand back slightly, just out of your reach.

“No,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Not lettin’ you starve to death. I’ll be back in a bit. You okay here?”

You stared at him, a protest forming on your lips, but the look in his eyes made it die before you could speak. There was a stubbornness there, a refusal to back down. It was the same look he always had when he was dead set on something, and you knew you weren’t going to change his mind.

“Fine,” you muttered, sinking back against the pillows. “But don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t,” he said, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. And with that, he turned and headed for the door, leaving you in the quiet of your room with a strange warmth curling in your chest that you didn’t quite know what to do with. As you listened to his footsteps fade down the stairs, you found yourself staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the thought of him coming back made you a tinge nervous.

You lay in bed, the quiet ticking of the clock blending with the distant sounds of pans clattering downstairs. The noise echoed faintly through the house, and you couldn’t help but think of Joel, moving around down there. The thought of him in your kitchen—cooking, of all things—felt oddly domestic, almost jarringly so. You stared at the ceiling, your mind wandering back to the last few hours, trying to piece together why he was being so… nice.

It wasn’t that you doubted his capacity to care; you had glimpsed his protective nature before, you had seen it in the way he interacted with Tommy and Ellie.

But this—him going out of his way to make you dinner, staying when he could have easily kept his distance, when he could have helped you up to bed and left within minutes—felt different.

You couldn’t help but question his motives. Was it guilt that drove him? A sense of duty? Or was it something far more complicated, something unspoken that seemed to pulse in the silence between you?

You shook your head, trying to dismiss the spiraling thoughts. After all, Tommy had asked Joel to look after you; it wasn’t like he could have said no. But even that explanation didn’t fully quell the uncertainty brewing inside you. The nagging feeling lingered, urging you to confront the reality that maybe, just maybe, his care went beyond brotherly duty.

The smell of cooking began to drift up the stairs, pulling you out of your thoughts. It started as a faint hint of spices, then grew stronger, filling the room with the warm, savory aroma of whatever he was making. Your stomach twisted with a mix of hunger and something you couldn’t quite name, a flutter of nervous anticipation that made you shift restlessly against the pillows.

A few minutes later, you heard the sound of the stairs creaking under Joel’s weight as he made his way up, and your pulse quickened. When he appeared in the doorway, you could see the steam rising from the bowl he carried.

“Here,” Joel said, his voice low as he stepped closer, placing the bowl carefully on your lap. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the kind of care that sent a quiet ache through your chest. You felt the warmth of the bowl seep into your skin, a small comfort against the chill that always seemed to linger.

“Joel, you didn’t really need to do this,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. There was something vulnerable in the way you spoke, almost as if you were trying to deflect the tenderness behind his gesture.

It was no big deal right?

“It’s nothing,” he replied, brushing off your thanks as he turned to find a seat. “Just eat.”

You didn’t expect him to stay, but he pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sank into it, his gaze fixed on you. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched, a kind of tension that coiled tightly between you both. As you took your first bite, you became painfully aware of the bruises on your face, the dark circles under your eyes, and the tangled mess of your hair. You felt exposed under his gaze, the awareness prickling across your skin.

“Is it alright?” he asked, his voice laced with a softness you’d never heard from him before.

You swallowed, the flavors rich and satisfying, better than you could have hoped for. “Yeah, it’s perfect,” you said, and though the words were simple, they carried a weight you hadn’t expected. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He gave a half-shrug, his eyes drifting away for a moment, lingering on the worn floorboards beneath his feet. “You kinda have to learn when you’re not just feedin’ yourself,” he said quietly, his voice shifting into a tone that hinted at a past he rarely spoke of. The words hung in the air, delicate yet weighty, creating an invisible thread between you that tugged at something deeper, something unspoken.

You could sense the layers beneath his casual remark, the unguarded glimpse into a life filled with responsibilities and sacrifices. It made your heart race, drawing you closer to the vulnerability he often kept hidden. In that moment, the silence between you felt charged with meaning, echoing the unsaid stories you had yearned to hear.

You saw a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of a life that felt far away and unreachable. He was talking about before, about a time when he wasn’t alone. When he had someone to take care of, someone who depended on him.

“You used to cook for someone else?” you asked, your voice quiet and almost hesitant. “Your… wife?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and a pang of anxiety gripped you. For a brief moment, you feared you had overstepped, that you’d messed up the one time Joel had allowed himself to share even a small piece of his past.

Joel’s expression shifted, a flicker of something deep and raw passing over his features. He shook his head, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself against the words. “No,” he said, the word coming out low and rough. “My daughter.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing down on you both. You hadn’t expected that answer, hadn’t expected the weight it would carry. There was a depth in his voice, a quiet pain that spoke of a love that had been lost, and the hurt that came with it. It hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken, like a wound that had never quite healed.

Your chest tightened, a swell of emotion rising within you—part sympathy, part quiet understanding. It explained so much—the way he kept a watchful eye on those around him, the way he cared for Ellie with a fierce yet unspoken tenderness, the protective instinct that lingered even when he kept his distance. You saw it clearly now, the echo of the father he used to be.

“I didn’t know…” you started, the words faltering as you tried to find something, anything, that wouldn’t sound hollow or empty. But what could you say to a man who had already lost so much?

Joel just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he didn’t expect you to say anything. “A long time ago,” he murmured, the edge of his voice roughened by the years. “Feels like a different life.”

And with that, the silence settled in again, but this time it felt different—more like an understanding shared in the quiet spaces than a chasm between you.

The rest of the meal unfolded in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need words to fill the space. You were both absorbed in your own thoughts, though neither of you realized that they kept circling back to each other. Joel’s gaze flickered toward you now and then, watching with a quiet intensity as you ate. He noticed the slight tremor in your hand as you lifted the spoon, the way your brow furrowed with each careful bite. There was a vulnerability in those small, deliberate movements—in you—that tugged at something deep within him.

When you finally finished, you set the bowl aside and offered him a small smile. “Can you…?” You hesitated, feeling the weight of the request, even though it was a simple one. “I need some help getting to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, of course,” Joel replied, practically leaping to his feet, his eagerness almost surprising you. He moved quickly to your side, his hand steadying you as you stood. There was a tenderness in the way he supported your weight, his grip firm but not overpowering.

“Thanks,” you murmured as he helped you down the hall, your voice quiet against the stillness. After brushing your teeth, you leaned on him again as you made your way back to bed, each step a little easier with him by your side.

Back in your room, you sank beneath the blankets, the day’s fatigue and the weight of the medications settling over you like a heavy fog. It was time for Joel to leave, and you could feel the air shift—an almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere now that his task was complete.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, concern lacing his words.

“Yeah,” you replied, nodding slightly. “Thanks again, Joel.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his tone almost dismissive, but there was something softer in his eyes. As he turned to go, his hand reached for the small lamp that cast a warm glow across the room.

“Can you… keep it on?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a quiet admission that made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Just… for tonight.”

Joel’s hand froze mid-motion, and when he looked back at you, his gaze softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.” There was a faint ache in his chest, the idea of you lying here in the dark, alone and scared. It stirred something fierce in him, an urge to stay—to sit by your bedside, to wrap his arms around you and promise that you’d be safe. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and gruff again. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” you murmured, leaning back and resting your head on the pillow. “Goodnight.” Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, drifting through the quiet room.

He nodded and turned, the soft creak of the floorboards marking his departure. You listened to his footsteps as he walked down the stairs, each one growing fainter. The house felt colder without him in it, the warmth he’d brought with him fading into the night.

Your thoughts drifted back to what had just happened. The way Joel had opened up, even if only for a moment. The glimpse into a past he kept guarded, the vulnerability he’d shown in sharing that part of himself with you. It was rare, and it was real, and you could sense that something had shifted between you.

As you stared at the dim glow of the lamp, a quiet ache settled deep in your chest—a longing for something unspoken, still taking shape in the silence you shared. It lingered in the spaces where words had failed, in the glances that spoke more than you dared to acknowledge. But beneath that yearning, there was also a wall—a familiar fear tightening around your heart, warning you against letting him in again, only to be hurt all over again. The possibility of reopening old wounds kept you guarded, even as the ache for something more refused to fade.

•••

The next few days passed in a quiet, unexpected rhythm—something that felt almost like domestic bliss, though you hardly dared to call it that. Joel came by every morning and evening, helping you with the mundane tasks that had somehow become monumental—getting you out of bed, steadying you on your crutches, making sure you didn’t push yourself too hard. He never said much, never offered any explanations for why he was being this way. But his actions spoke louder than words, a silent devotion that was as confusing as it was comforting.

He made you breakfast and dinner without a word, the smell of sizzling eggs or simmering stew becoming a familiar, almost soothing part of your day. There was a quiet care in the way he placed the plate in front of you, the way he made sure you ate before he’d allow himself to sit down. It was in the little things, the quiet gestures that spoke of a protectiveness you hadn’t expected, but found yourself welcoming all the same.

You noticed how easily you had grown accustomed to it all—the sound of the door turning, signaling his arrival; the faint scent of his shampoo that lingered in the air when he leaned close to help you; the warmth of his hands, rough but steady, as he guided you out of bed in the morning and back into it at night. You found yourself looking forward to the soft murmur of his voice, the way his presence seemed to fill the room without overwhelming it.

And it scared you, just a little—how you had almost become too comfortable, too used to this new normal. There was a part of you that knew it couldn’t last, that eventually, things would have to go back to how they were before. But for now, you allowed yourself to savor it, to sink into the simple pleasure of having someone there, of not feeling so alone.

It was easy to pretend, in those moments when he was near, that the world wasn’t as broken as it was. Easy to forget, if only for a while, that this wasn’t really yours to keep.

Little did you know, Joel felt the same. Each time he came over, it was as if he was easing into a life he hadn’t known he still yearned for—a life where caring for someone wasn’t just a burden but a choice he made every day. In the quiet moments spent helping you up the stairs or preparing a simple meal, he found a strange kind of solace. It was a way for him to show how much he cared without having to say the words aloud, words that felt too heavy, too close to the heart he kept so tightly guarded.

He poured his feelings into the little things—into the way he made sure your coffee was just the way you liked it, the way he lingered an extra moment to tuck the blankets around you at night, or the way his hand would steady your shoulder as you wobbled on the crutches. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, his gaze softening with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he had any right to feel.

Joel had never been good with words, especially when it came to emotions. But this—this quiet care—was something he could offer, a way to be close to you without crossing the unspoken lines that had kept him at a distance for so long. It was as if, in these simple acts, he could bridge the gap between you, express everything he couldn’t say in a way that felt real, solid.

With each passing day, he found himself wanting more—wanting to linger a little longer, to find more reasons to be near you, to close the distance between you inch by inch, to press his lips against your wounds and soothe the ache beneath them. But even as the lines between you began to blur, he couldn’t help but wonder if you felt it too—the subtle shift, the quiet understanding that had nestled itself in the spaces between the familiar routines. Sometimes, he thought he saw it in your eyes, a flicker of recognition, as though you sensed the change but weren’t yet ready to name it.

•••

Just like the nights before, Joel had helped you into bed after making you dinner. He had left your room a while ago, and now you lay there, your mind racing. The memory of his touch lingered—the way his fingers had brushed against your arm as he steadied you, the warmth of his hand lingering even after he’d pulled away.

The lamp still cast its soft glow across the room, a gesture you’d grown to appreciate. Joel hadn’t tried to turn it off since that first night; it was a quiet kindness, one he hadn’t spoken of, but it said more than words ever could.

You tossed and turned, struggling to find a position that didn’t worsen the dull ache in your leg. You’d only taken one pain pill tonight, ignoring Joel’s gentle reminder to take two, as the doctor had instructed. It had been a mistake. You told yourself you could start cutting down, but the pain pulsed deep in your bones, each throb growing sharper and harder to ignore. Reaching toward the side table, you fumbled for the second pill, but your fingers froze when you realized the glass of water was all the way across the room, just out of reach.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, frustration flaring within you. With a burst of determination, you threw off the covers and opted to hop across the room on one leg, leaving the crutches behind. But the instability of your injured foot and the darkness of the room conspired against you. Suddenly, the floor slipped out from under you, and you fell hard, the impact twisting your leg in a way that sent a shockwave of pain coursing through your body. A sharp cry escaped your lips, the intensity of the agony so overwhelming that tears sprang to your eyes, blurring your vision as the world around you tilted dangerously.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, and when it did, you realized Joel was suddenly beside you, his arms wrapping around you before you could fully process what had happened. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he said, his voice steady yet edged with panic. “What were you doing?”

His eyebrows were furrowed, worry unmistakable in his brown eyes as they searched your face for signs of injury. His hands moved to cradle your shoulders, his grip both firm and gentle, as if he was afraid you might shatter at any moment.

“Joel, you’re still here?” you gasped, your voice strained as you tried to focus through the pain.

“Here, let me get you up, slowly,” he said, already lifting you, his movements careful and deliberate. He helped you back onto the bed, then quickly fetched the water and pain pill, bringing them to your trembling hands. You took the pill, grimacing as you swallowed.

Joel’s questions came in rapid succession, his worry evident in every word.

“Are you okay? Do I need to get you to the doc? What the hell happened? Why were you out of bed?”

His voice shifted between concern and frustration, each syllable laced with an urgency that made your heart race.

“It’s nothing, Joel,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction. “I just needed water, and it would’ve only taken a second.” You glanced at him, your brow furrowing. “But… why were you still here?”

His expression faltered, a hint of flustered uncertainty passing over his face. “I—well, I stay,” he admitted, almost reluctantly, his words tumbling out in a way that revealed more than he intended. “Just for a while. Till I know you’re asleep.”

There was a vulnerability in his admission, a softness that contrasted sharply with the tough exterior he usually maintained.

You blinked, taken aback by the confession. “You… wait for me to fall asleep?”

The thought of Joel—gruff, guarded Joel—sitting quietly for hours, just to be sure you were safe, sent something rippling through your chest.

“When I hear you snoring, I know you’re asleep, and I can step out—”

“I do not snore!” you shot back, despite the way your heart quickened at the thought. But the hint of a smile tugged at his lips, softening the hard lines of his face.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice gentler now, almost teasing.

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the warmth of his words lingered. “Well, thank you… but you don’t need to stay.”

Joel’s eyes darkened with something serious, something almost vulnerable as he said your name softly. “Imagine if I hadn’t been here tonight. You’d have been on that floor till morning.”

The reality of it sank in, the thought of lying there, helpless and in pain, with no one to hear you. You swallowed, the tension in the air thickening, the weight of his concern pressing down on you.

“I think I should stay over,” he continued, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of resolve. “At least for a bit, until you’re more stable on your feet. Only if you’re okay with it.”

There was no denying the sincerity in his eyes, the way his gaze held yours, unflinching and unguarded. The quiet worry etched into his features told you everything you needed to know—Joel wasn’t just offering to help; he needed to be here, to be sure you were safe.

Was this also part of his brotherly duty to Tommy? Or was this something more?

You just nodded, taking another sip of water, the tension still crackling softly in the air between you. “Okay,” you murmured.

“I’ll be on the couch,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if he were offering you reassurance rather than just stating a fact. “You need anything, you just holler, alright?”

“Goodnight,” he said, lingering in the doorway for a heartbeat longer, as if making sure you were truly settled.

“Goodnight,” you whispered back, the word barely more than a breath, but it felt like it carried more weight than usual. You watched him turn and walk out, his footsteps fading as he headed down the hall.

As the house fell into a familiar stillness, you lay back against the pillows, letting your eyes close. The sound of Joel settling on the couch echoed faintly through the walls, and you took a small comfort in knowing he was still there, just a shout away. It made the darkness seem a little less daunting, the ache in your leg a little more bearable.

•••

The next morning, as you sat in the kitchen, something caught your eye—a splash of color at the center of the table. Turning your head, you saw a vase filled with roses, their petals a rich, velvety shade of deep red, almost brown, offering a gentle contrast to the morning light streaming through the window. A smile tugged at your lips—a sincere, unguarded smile, the kind you hadn’t felt in a long while.

“Look,” you called softly, glancing toward the stove where Joel was busy cooking. The familiar sight of his broad back moving about the kitchen had become a comfort, a routine you had come to cherish. “Someone brought roses—my favorite.”

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression carefully neutral. “Yeah?” he said, though he was well aware of the flowers.

He had been the one to bring them, after all.

“They’re so pretty,” you continued, reaching out to brush your fingers over the soft petals, inhaling the sweet, delicate fragrance. “And they smell amazing. I’ll have to thank Tommy and Maria the next time I see them. They really brighten up the room.” You smiled to yourself, the thought of their kindness warming you. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant, a reminder that even in this harsh world, moments of beauty could still exist.

Joel just nodded, his back turned to you as he poured your coffee. “Mmhmm,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“They’re real pretty,” Joel said, but as the words left his mouth, his eyes weren’t on the roses—they were on you. There was a softness in his gaze, a warmth that made something flutter in your chest. You didn’t notice it at first, too focused on the delicate petals and the sweet scent that filled the air. You just nodded, your smile widening as you breathed in the fragrance again.

“They really are,” you murmured.

Joel didn’t say anything, merely offering a quiet grunt of acknowledgment as he handed you your coffee. You wrapped your hands around the cup, relishing the familiar comfort of its warmth, blissfully unaware that he had gone out of his way to find those roses for you. He had spent months listening to Tommy talk about you, absorbing all the little details—your favorite things—and carefully keeping them tucked away in his mind.

•••

The day passed in a blur of familiar routines. Joel was out on patrol, as he often was when he wasn’t at your place, leaving you to settle into the rhythm of the day. Tommy and Maria dropped by in the afternoon, filling the house with a brief burst of warmth and lively chatter. You noticed how Maria’s baby bump had grown, her hand instinctively resting on it with each movement. There was a radiant glow about her that made the future feel almost hopeful. You tried to soak in the comfort of their visit, letting thoughts of a future baby wash over you. It stirred a yearning deep within for the dreams you once held—of a husband, a family, and a home filled with love.

That evening, after dinner, you and Joel lingered downstairs longer than usual. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls as you found yourselves drawn into conversation. Joel had become more talkative lately, his gruff demeanor easing into something softer, almost companionable.

You’d asked him about patrol, and he’d shared more than you expected—details of the day, the quietness that hung over the forest, the way the world felt almost too still. There was an openness in the way he spoke, a willingness to let you into his world, even if only a little. It made the space between you feel smaller, more intimate.

But when the night grew late, you finally retreated to your room, slipping under the covers with a lingering sense of unease, one that would often creep up on the dead of night. But tonight, as you lay there, the dark seemed to press in closer than usual.

The memories came back with a vengeance—visceral and hauntint, vivid flashes of pain and terror. You could see the look on their faces, those men who had tied you up, the glint of cruelty in their eyes, the sound of their mocking voices. The memory of your leg snapping, the sharp, blinding agony, and the sight of your own blood pooling beneath you—all of it rushed back in fragments, relentless and suffocating.

You were caught in the grip of a night terror, your heart racing like a drum against your ribs. Sweat soaked through your clothes, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you thrashed against the sheets. You felt trapped, unable to wake yourself from the nightmare, your body locked in the awful, helpless fear that had consumed you then.

In the dream, you were calling out for help, your voice echoing in the darkness, but no one could hear you. It was like screaming into a void, each cry swallowed up by an unforgiving silence. The world around you was twisted and wrong—faces you recognized lay lifeless on the ground, unmoving. Tommy, Maria… Joel. They were all gone, and the sight of them sprawled out in the dirt, blood pooling beneath their bodies, filled you with a terror so deep it felt like you were drowning.

You kept screaming, clawing at the darkness, but there was no one left to answer. The emptiness swallowed you whole, pulling you down, down, until—

Suddenly, a jolt of sensation ripped through the nightmare. Someone was shaking you, pulling you back from the abyss. The darkness shattered into a blur of movement and sound as you struggled to orient yourself. The nightmare's suffocating grip began to loosen, and you gasped for air, blinking furiously to clear the lingering terror from your mind.

“Hey, hey! You’re okay—wake up,” a voice urged, rough and panicked. You blinked up at Joel, his hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently but urgently, his face etched with a fear that was all too real. “It’s just a dream,” he said, his voice low and steady as he tried to calm you.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, as if all the fear and pain of the nightmare were pouring out in a flood you couldn’t control. Your chest heaved with each breath, the sobs wracking your body as you struggled to come back to reality. It was like the terror had followed you, clinging to your skin, and no matter how hard you tried to blink it away, the images still burned behind your eyes.

Joel’s grip on your shoulders tightened, his touch grounding you, anchoring you in the here and now. “Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You’re safe. It was just a dream. I’ve got you.” He reached up to brush the tears from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, his movements gentle, as though afraid you might shatter.

The tenderness in his gaze felt almost too much to bear, the concern etched into the lines of his face stirring something deep inside you—something raw and vulnerable that you weren’t sure how to face. You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t find the words to explain the depth of the fear that still clung to you. All you could do was cling to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the quiet strength that held you together even as you fell apart.

“You were all…” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a broken, frantic rush. “You were all gone… and they—they had me tied up…” The rest of the sentence fell away, your voice faltering as the horror of the dream clung to you, its shadow still lingering in your mind. The words didn’t make sense even to you, but they spilled out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, his voice a soothing rumble that felt like a balm against the jagged edges of your fear. If you had been more conscious and less consumed by terror, you might have realized the weight of the endearment he used—how sweetheart fell from his lips so naturally, as if the word itself had been created just for you.

He shifted closer, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that took you by surprise. His thumb gently wiped away the tears that continued to streak down your cheeks, the contact grounding you in the moment. “I’m here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise.”

His gaze was steady and unwavering, holding you in the present, as if willing you to believe him. In that moment, the world felt small, contained within the warmth of his touch and the low, steady cadence of his voice. It was enough to make you feel anchored, as though the terror that had gripped you was beginning to ebb away, leaving only the thrum of your heartbeat and the safety of Joel’s presence in its wake.

Little did you know, that night haunted Joel just as deeply. It wasn’t just your cries that lingered in his mind—it was the echoes of the past, bleeding into the present. The screams of Sarah, the look of terror in your eyes, even Tess's pained expressions—they all mixed together in the haze of his own nightmares. The memories twisted and blurred into a chaotic swirl of pain, death, sorrow, and loss, each one clawing at him in the darkness.

He’d often wake up in a cold sweat, his heart racing, the remnants of those horrors gripping him tight. But there was one thing that kept him grounded, something that offered him a small measure of comfort: the sound of your soft, rhythmic breathing drifting through the quiet house. It wasn’t just a reminder that you were safe—it was a reminder that he hadn’t failed this time.

The past still weighed heavy on his soul, but the knowledge that you were there, alive and still fighting, was enough to keep the darkness at bay… at least for a little while.

Your breathing had finally begun to steady, each inhale less ragged than the last. Joel stayed by the edge of your bed, his hand still resting on your shoulder, waiting for you to give some sign that you were okay, that he could go back to the couch downstairs. But instead, your gaze met his, the tears still glistening in your eyes, unspoken words trembling on your lips.

“Could you…” you began, your voice wavering as you struggled to get the rest out. “Could you stay?”

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I’m already downstairs,” he said softly, as though reminding you of his usual spot. “You know that.”

“No, I mean…” You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid to say the words out loud. “Here. With me.”

The request hung in the air, fragile and tentative, but the meaning was clear. Joel’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the surprise flickering there as if he hadn’t expected you to ask.

You caught the hesitation in his eyes, and suddenly, all the harsh words he’d ever thrown at you seemed to come crashing down at once—burden, useless—echoes of moments when you’d felt like nothing more than an inconvenience. Your cheeks burned with shame, and you dropped your gaze, stumbling over your words. “I mean… sorry, that was stupid,” you muttered, the regret already tightening in your throat. “It’s just my meds talking.”

“No.” His voice was firm, cutting through the fragile air between you. You looked up, and the expression in his eyes had changed—there was no trace of doubt left, only a quiet resolve. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, his tone gentler this time. “If you want me to.”

You nodded, and Joel didn’t hesitate this time. He moved around to the other side of the bed, his features softened in the glow of the lamp and the pale wash of moonlight that spilled in through the window. He dipped into the bed, settling carefully beside you. Even as he gave you space, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a steady comfort that made your chest tighten.

You turned toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Joel. I know I can be… a lot. I—”

“Hey.” He cut you off gently, his voice firm but soft, as though he was willing away the words before they could take hold. “Don’t do that.” His eyes found yours in the dim light, steady and unyielding, and the way he looked at you made your breath hitch, like he saw past all the broken pieces you tried to hide.

“You’re not a lot. You’re—” He paused, the words catching in his throat as if he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. “You’re someone worth looking after.”

His voice was low, roughened by the weight of things unsaid, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. There was no pity in his gaze, no trace of frustration or burden—just a quiet sincerity that sank deep into your bones.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and gave a small nod, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Okay.”

He reached out through the darkness, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch warm against your skin.

“Now try to get some rest,” he murmured, his tone soft and almost tender, like a promise wrapped in warmth.

As you closed your eyes, you felt the quiet reassurance of his presence, the way he stayed close enough for you to hear his steady breathing—the rise and fall grounding you, a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Not tonight. Not with him here.

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@dugiioh @ginsan-eyes @smoochispoof @off-dreaming-again @cynicalbunny @dendulinka6 @w-w-a-n-d-r-l-u-s-t-t @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @spacemamax @lizzie-cakes @off-dreaming-again

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1ntaks · 2 months ago

Text

we overlap.

☆ lee hyunjae x fem!reader — warnings: fluff; fem!reader who wears makeup, more feminine clothing, and has implied long hair that can have fingers run through it; mild miscommunication; drinking; cursing; unspecified small age gap; use of sunbae, hyung (sorry); hyunjae (deserves a warning of his own); flirting; kissing; a lil cringe ☆ 16.6k words, not proofread — author's note: writing style probably changes a lot, this took me a while to write and i am writing academically once more so that affects my writing. it also just took three months, i'm very slow. this is a stand alone work and the only expansion i'm willing to do is what i choose to write and publish, or small asks about their dynamic! thank you so much to my icon and savior @heedeungism for hyping me up and beta-reading. and also obligatory shout out to @cloudykyu sorry i sent you the draft and posted before you replied i love u so bad

You’d always known of Lee Hyunjae.

Not personally. He was popular, a distant figure you’d heard about via whispers in the comms department, a cool upperclassman that people looked up to. Smart. Handsome. You’d heard some people call him friendly and sweet. (Namely, your own friend, Sangyeon, who shared a friend group with the man. You’d never run into Hyunjae yourself despite this, preferring one-on-one hangouts with your, self-proclaimed, older brother.)

Most commonly, you heard that he was unapproachable. He didn’t go out much.

Which is why it was so surprising to see him walk into the math lab, holding a huge box of materials. It must’ve been heavy, his forearm muscles clearly straining as he maneuvered it on top of one of the linoleum tables against the wall.

“Hey, Sangyeon,” Hyunjae pokes his head out in the hall, and you perk up at the mention of him. “Where am I putting the books?” You can’t hear the muffled reply, but you watch him walk back to the table, only to unpack textbook on top of textbook and slide them onto shelves.

You only regain your focus when a pencil jabs your side. “Ow!” You whine, whipping around to glare at Jimin.

She smiles at you sweetly before responding, voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re drooling. Focus on pre-calc.” You huff, looking back over at Hyunjae. He is handsome, you decide, admiring the tight black shirt and his arm muscles. You can’t see much of his face, just a furrowed brow as he tries to organize the materials.

“I’m not drooling,” you reply finally, lamely, to your friend as you twist back towards the table. “I’m… admiring.”

She scoffs. “Right. Well, you can admire after you pass your exam,” she points the pencil at you before shaking her head and sighing. Rude. “Besides, we’re meeting Ryu in like an hour. Hurry up.”

Right. Ryujin had dance practice this morning and demanded to be taken out for lunch after. And you didn’t want to argue with her, ever, but especially not when she was hangry — you swore up and down that your life flashed before your eyes the one time you made that mistake in high school. You still had nightmares.

“I don’t understand any of this,” you whine, looking at the jumble of print on your worksheet. “Can I give up?” You pout at her. She shakes her head ‘no’ and keeps scribbling on her own paper, so you ignore her to lay your head down on the table and watch as Hyunjae breaks down the box. Sangyeon pops his head in and waves at you before checking the time.

“We gotta go, Jae,”

Hyunjae hums, following Sangyeon’s eyes to where you rest. You smile, the small corners up one for strangers, and he gives a small smile back before turning back around. “Then c’mon.”

After a few beats of silence and the faint ding of the elevator, you turn back to Jimin. “So, um, what… what department is he in?”

She laughs, bright and genuine. “You, my friend,” she ruffles your hair and you whine, trying to smooth back the strands as you lean away from her. “Are helpless.”

“I can’t be curious?” She smiles at you. Smugly. Knowingly. Damn her. “Jimin!”

“Alright, alright,” she raises her hand in surrender. “He’s in comms, just like you.”

You hum, smiling softly. He was your upperclassman, technically, more than he was hers. Every department had one of those, right? It didn’t matter. He seemed to live up to the hype you’d heard — helpful, handsome… damn, what other ‘h’ adjective could you tack on?

“You already knew that.” Her words cut off your train of thought and you give a shy nod. “I know just as much about him as you do. If you want to know more about him, why don’t you just ask Sangyeon? They’re in the same friend group.”

“It’s not that easy,” you sulk, doodling roses in the upper right corner of your worksheet. In an ideal world, you’d get extra credit points for making the math prettier. “Sangy will think I’m into him.”

She levels an unimpressed stare at you and sighs, packing up quickly. “Then suffer. I don’t know.” You scrunch up your face in distaste at her words, but hold her water bottle without complaint as she finishes cleaning off your table. “Let’s go. I would kill for some pho right now.”

Her words spur you to scramble after her towards the elevator. Worries about Sangyeon’s nosiness aside, you hadn’t eaten since seven-thirty and you were almost positive that you were starting to see noises as the hunger got to you.

Jimin told you that you were insane. You took it as a compliment.

Sangyeon invited you to his birthday party with his closest friend group. They had planned it, apparently as a surprise but he told you they were god awful at hiding it.

You were a bit hesitant, since you were awkward around new people, but you wanted to be able to celebrate his birthday with him for the first time since you’d become friends. You’d met in late November last year, when you were crying over finals. He’d never let you live it down, but you were glad it happened, as embarrassing as it was. When you’d confirmed, he’d grinned and made you pinky-promise that you wouldn’t flake on him.

So, here you were, the day before his birthday (unfortunately for him, it fell on a Monday), staring at your closet like it had personally offended you. Everything seemed too dressy or way too casual, and despite his reassurances that you could show up in pajamas and be fine, you were worried about what you were going to wear. You wanted to make a good impression on the people he cared about.

You settle on jeans and a black shirt you had definitely bought for a job interview at some point. You slip your lip tint into your bag and study yourself in the mirror. Was your eyeliner uneven? Before you can fix it, you get a text from Sangyeon lighting up your screen — telling you that the “surprise” went well and it’s at his friend’s place.

The address comes in seconds later and you sigh. No going back now.

When you show up, you wish you had brought a jacket, the wind having bit your arms on the way over. You ring the doorbell, rocking back and forth on your feet until it swings open to a smiley face and then — “Sangyeon, your girl is here!”

“She’s like my sister!” He doesn’t even miss a beat in shutting down that teasing, appearing in the doorway a few seconds later. “Hi, Y/N-ie.”

You smile and hug him. “Hi, Sangy,” you shift closer to his side as they shut the door. “Nice to meet you…” you trail off and look at the guy who answered the door. You should know his name. Why don’t you remember? (You’d had Sangyeon give you a crash course over text last night, after you practically begged him to send you pictures with their names. But you didn’t remember seeing anyone with long, wavy black hair, so you realize the pictures must be old and practically useless.)

“Kevin!” He doesn’t seem to mind you not knowing. That eases the tightness in your chest. “You can put anything you got him over here on the table—” and with that, you’re dragged away from your friend, helplessly shooting him a wide-eyed look. “Or if it’s something we can’t see, in a closed room…”

The wiggle of his eyebrows offends you.

“Oh, god, no. He really is like my brother,” you laugh. “He found me crying over finals last year and took me under his wing.”

Kevin hums. “I knew he couldn’t pull!”

You let out a startled laugh before you can help yourself, and look over your shoulder to make sure Sangyeon didn’t hear. “Well, nice to meet you, Kevin,” you smile at him softly. “He wanted to introduce me so…” Kevin waves you away with a good-natured smile as you make your way back over to Sangyeon, where he’s talking to Hyunjae.

It stops you in your tracks. Yes, you knew they were friends, but it was different seeing him in front of you. (And that definitely wasn’t because you were shy, knowing you spent like ten minutes looking at the picture of him Sangyeon had sent, where he’s all bundled up in a winter coat and when you hold down on the live, you can hear him laughing, boyish and sweet. And it wasn’t because he was handsome either!)

It was just weird to see a senior your whole department practically adored in a more casual setting. And everyone said he never went out, so it was just like you’d spotted a rare creature.

That was all.

And, well, despite the rumors, Hyunjae didn’t look like he never went out. There’s a small necklace dangling on his neck and it leads your eyes down to a distressingly low V-neck, showing smooth planes of skin and muscle. His jeans fit him well, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up perfectly. It looked like he had his going-out outfit down to a T, and you feel your face burn when he looks up from his cup and waves you over.

You hoped he didn’t see your stare.

“Hi, Y/N, right?” He smiles at you and you nod, looking at Sangyeon curiously. “He talks about you a lot. Nice to meet you, I’m Hyunjae!”

“I know,” you squeak out, wincing at how high your voice pitches and the awkwardness of it. “I mean — well, I’m also in comms… everyone looks up to you, sunbae…”

He shakes his head. “Ah, don’t call me that. I feel old.”

You nod shyly, fidgeting with your fingers. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay,” his smile is warm and you relax slightly.

“Well, nice to meet you, Hyunjae,” you try out his name on your tongue. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” His brows raise. “Good things! A lot of people talk about how handsome you are…” You trail off, frowning and furrowing your brows. “Sorry, that was weird.”

Hyunjae laughs. “I don’t mind being called handsome. I think it’d be weirder if I did mind.”

Sangyeon comes back and you startle, not having realized he even left. He hands you a can of Milkis, and you realize it’s your favorite flavor. “Did you buy these for me?”

Sangyeon smiles. “I have to have something other than coffee for you when we hang out. C’mon, you’ve got to meet everyone else.”

After a dizzying round of introductions and some chatter, you all end up sitting in a deformed circle. Eric — a math major and comms minor, he’d told you just a bit before. It was curious how you’d never run into him before — wanted to play truth or dare, and you perch anxiously on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with a pillow’s cover.

It’s hard to keep up with the laughter and noise, eyes darting back and forth as jokes and teasing jabs fly over your head, clearly based upon years of friendship and memories. When you’re finally asked, it takes a second to register that it’s directed towards you. “Um…” you look at Sangyeon and then to the guy asking you, Sunwoo, whose eyes have a devilish glint that makes you nervous. “Truth?”

“Is that a question?” he asks and you shake your head. He sighs. “I got it! Who do you think is the hottest in the room?”

You frown. You have a feeling picking dare would’ve been the same question — but with the caveat you had to kiss them. Sangyeon hands you the soju shot wordlessly, seeing how you tense up. With one last glare at Sunwoo, you take it, shuddering and wincing at the burn.

Sangyeon gestures over at Jacob (you think it’s Jacob) and leans over to whisper a question for him into your ear. “Ask him if he actually asked his crush out for lunch like he said he would.” Your eyes widen but he urges you on.

“Jacob, truth or dare?”

He stares at you before picking truth, which everyone must have expected by the chorus of sighs that the group lets out. “Did you actually ask out your crush like you said you would?”

His face falls. “Hyung!” He whines. It is an unfair question, you realize belatedly. If he drinks, it’s a ‘no.’ If he answers, he’ll get grilled regardless of the response.

Sorry! You mouth at him. He smiles at you, then not your fault before downing the shot.

Sangyeon cackles next to you, pleased with his orchestration of events. The game crumbles for a bit as everyone turns on a now beet-red Jacob, sinking behind the pillow he’d been holding like it can hide the blush high on his cheekbones.

“It’s not that I didn’t ask her, I just—”

They seem used to his dodging though, with Juyeon going “like you didn’t accidentally run into her after her lectures for weeks?”

A chorus of rowdy laughter. He really waited for her lecture to end? That’s cute. “Okay, so, maybe I didn’t ask her yet. Someone else drink, I didn’t have to take a shot if you’re going to press anyway.” He whines.

Sangyeon takes the penalty with a grin.

The next person that has you in their sights is Changmin. “Truth or dare, Y/N?”

You feel like it’s risky, but you want to seem a little cool. At least, until they get to know you better. “Dare.” Changmin’s brows raise, pleased, and he whispers back and forth with Chanhee for a bit.

“Dare you to send a risky text to someone.”

You groan. “I don’t even have anyone to send a risky text to. I know like three people.”

Changmin grins. He looks a little evil and you wonder if he’s always like this. “You can send a risky text to a friend.”

You roll your eyes. “Can I send it to Sangyeon?” He’s ruled out quickly because he’s there and knows it’s not real. (Which sucks, because he wouldn’t care anyways. He knows you’re not into him and he’s not into you.) You could send it to Jimin, but you think she’d show up at your house, worried about you. And Ryujin was busy, you didn’t want to send her a weird text and confuse her when she has a big project coming up. “Give me the soju.”

They give you a bigger penalty glass and you look at the amount, a little worried. You weren’t huge on hard liquor (or any liquor, really. Only fruity cocktails were tolerable). But before you can steel your nerves, a hand brushes against yours and the glass is whisked away. Your head follows the movement before you can register what’s going on, and you watch Hyunjae down it smoothly.

His brows don’t even furrow, and he gives you a lazy smile, eyes sparkling with humor, as he sets it down on the table. “You know you owe me a favor for each one, right?” You nod. “Ask your question.”

There’s a round of cat calls and you squirm under the attention, asking Eric for a lame dare. You know his question for whoever he picks will take the eyes off you.

You turn to Hyunjae. “Why’d you take it?”

“You looked like you might throw up just from the idea of it,” he deadpans, and you frown. “Kidding. You just didn’t seem okay with it. I’ll take them if you don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He smiles. “You do owe me a favor each time.”

Your head bobs in a nod, eyes silently tracing his features. “What kind of favor?”

He shrugs. “I’ll figure something out. Nothing weird. I’m not a creep.”

You giggle. “I didn’t imply you were. You’re awfully defensive.”

“Hey!” he exclaims, and you watch a blush crawl slowly up the back of his neck. “This is what I get for being your knight in shining armor? The first time we’ve met and you already call me weird?”

Chuckling, you shake your head. “I didn’t call you anything.”

“You implied it,” he huffs, childish and petulant.

After a few more rounds of questions, you’re exhausted. Everyone is getting more drunk — and, somehow, louder, with the exception of Sunwoo, who crashed like twenty minutes ago onto Younghoon.

“Hey, Sangy, I think I’m gonna head out.” You whisper to your friend, drawing his attention from the new game of Jenga (where they got it from, you’re not sure).

“Okay. You think you can get home safe?”

“Mhm!” You chirp, smiling sleepily at him. “Happy birthday.”

You run into Hyunjae coming back out of one of the bedrooms. He’s changed clothes into a nice sweater, a little worn. It looks soft.

“Heading out?” You nod. “Hey, before you go—” his voice stops your hand on the doorknob. “You don't actually think I’m weird, do you?”

Snorting, you shake your head. “No. Definitely not.” You study him a little longer, the slightly parted lips and hopeful glint in his dark eyes. “Can I get your number..? For help with school, you know. Just in case I need a really cool sunbae to be my knight in shining armor again.”

Hyunjae grins. “You got it.”

You and Hyunjae don’t talk again after Sangyeon’s party.

Both of you were busy with exams and final projects, and, well, he never asked you for the favors you owed him. You thought you’d run back into him at some point and remind him then. It felt weird to text him out of the blue — the only message you’d sent being you saying, hi, this is Y/N! that you’d sent after the party so he could save your contact.

With a new quarter comes new classes, where you likely don’t know anyone in it and dread the inevitability of a group project with strangers.

When you walk into the classroom for your three p.m, you’re hesitant. You’d heard great things about the professor, and it was marked as a multicultural class focusing on world religions (an actual variety of religions, using texts written by scholars and actual practitioners. No long sections just discussing Christianity, which was exciting). But you didn’t know anyone there, and some of the seats were already taken fifteen minutes before it was meant to start. You didn’t want to just sit down next to someone you didn’t know, instead scanning for the emptiest section of the room before walking across the threshold.

You find an empty chair near the end of a row at the back, away from the dotting of people who’d already found their seats. It had a decent enough view of the podium and projector so you claim it, putting your bag down as you fold the pull-out desk over your knees.

“Mind if I sit here?”

You really try not to jump at the sudden noise, but the smile you see on Hyunjae’s face as you bolt up and turn around tells you that you failed. “Yeah— I mean, no. No. I don’t mind. You can…” you sigh and slap your cheeks, trying to slap some sense back into yourself. “Sorry. Yes, you can sit there.”

Hyunjae chuckles softly and sets his backpack on the ground. “How have you been, Y/N? It’s been a bit.”

It takes a bit for you to respond, focusing on lining up your pens how you want. “Um, okay… you know, same old. Just existing.” You don’t have any fun stories to regale him with. Really, you just studied, spent time with Jimin, Ryujin, or Sangyeon — or with classmates you had become kind-of acquaintances with in preparation for a hard exam. You liked to cook for yourself and your roommate, Lily, who was nice enough and easy to live with, so you did that too.

The only thing you could remember going to solo (for fun, not for school) even semi-recently had been a play the theater department was putting on, because you didn’t have the heart to tell one of the girls you sometimes studied with that you hated Shakespeare adaptations. (She had made the props and wanted to show them off.)

Hyunjae tilts his head. “Nothing for fun?”

“Not much.” You mumble, suddenly embarrassed. ”’m a homebody.”

There’s a clamor up front as a group of friends stumble in and try to find seats together. You sigh as you watch them, a little envious. “Nothing wrong with that.” Hyunjae chuckles. “Remember those favors you owe me?”

You sit up. “Yeah!”

“I know what I want.”

“Okay..?” you trail off curiously, turning your head to look at the sparkle in his eyes.

“You have to study with me and Eric. No backing out. All semester.” He grins at you like he didn’t just completely claim a huge part of your schedule as his own. Before you can even open your mouth to whine, he shakes his head and does a shushing motion. “You owe me like five favors. This will count for all of them.”

He jerks to attention as the professor comes in and you chew on your lip. Fine. He was smart, so it couldn’t be too bad. Maybe he could give you answers for classes that he’d already taken.

“Okay, well… I guess we need to figure out when and where we’ll meet, right?”

Hyunjae nods. “It’ll be fun.”

The three of you were free from four to six on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so that became your dedicated study time. The location? Wherever worked, in Eric’s own words.

That Thursday, the first time you all meet, you end up at a small square table in the corner of an on campus coffee shop connected to the library. It’s always super busy, which is how you find yourself crammed against the wall and struggling to even hear what’s being said.

Eric and Hyunjae are working on homework for some math class they’re both in. You wouldn’t be of any help, even if you were in the same class, so you quietly put due dates in your planner and start on a longer reading.

You don’t know exactly how long it takes you to get through half of the article and take notes, but when you take a break to straighten your posture because of the ache in your shoulders and lower back, you find yourself getting distracted by Hyunjae and Eric bickering about the best flavors of Pepero and Pocky.

Hyunjae is defending the honor of Pepero coated in white chocolate against Eric’s matcha green tea Pocky. Your eyes drift up to the snack stand where, sure enough, there is a box of classic Pocky right in your line of sight.

You figure that’s how they got to the topic.

“Ready to work on comms, guys?” You ask softly, brows raising as they get more heated. Eric coughs and Hyunjae gives you a sheepish smile, head bobbing in a small nod as he pulls back out his binder. (He keeps all his classes in the same multi-subject one, and, honestly, the folder sections are stuffed comically with papers. You wonder how he can even find what he needs in there, seeing as most of the pages are dog-eared and crumpled against each other.)

“Did you finish the reading you were doing?” Hyunjae asks as he tugs out his printed lecture notes. “We can wait.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on Buddhism when there’s a riveting debate about Pocky in front of me,” you drawl, a teasing smile playing across your lips. “I’ll finish it later.”

Eric takes the lead on the study session, and you’re trying your best to follow along. (Really, you are! It’s not your fault your coffee cup is empty. Well, actually, it is, but you don’t want to go get a third one for the day when it’s five p.m.) You’re a little distracted, though, when Eric delves into coerced admissions, their legality, and the confessions of innocent people.

It was a class on legal communications. But you were tired and confused, putting your head down on the table with a whine as the two men seemingly have no difficulty parsing the laws and imagined scenarios in front of them.

“Y/N—” Hyunjae’s voice, oddly close to you. And then, a hand on your thigh. “Want help?”

You nod and sit up straight, probably a bit too quickly, looking down at the worksheet in front of you. Hyunjae’s explaining it — you’re sure he is, from the way Eric is taking notes while he talks and Hyunjae drags his pen across the words and scribbles notes in the margins for you — but you don’t even hear the words. He’s so close to you, hand warm where it rests on your leg, and he smells really good.

Why does he smell so good?

And then, with a brief glance out of the corner of your eyes, you feel your breath being taken away. He’s gorgeous, with his hair falling gently into his brows and eyes, and your throat dries as he delicately flicks it away and furrows his brows.

He’s warm, even if his hand wasn’t on your thigh, like a heater in your personal space. Not that you mind.

“Got it?”

You nod dumbly. “Um, yeah. Got it! Thanks, Hyunjae.” You smile sweetly at him and his eyes crinkle as he smiles back before sliding back to where his stuff is. Suddenly, you’re cold.

“Hyung, can we please go get food—”

“We have thirty minutes left, Eric.”

“Please?” He drags out the ‘e’, whiny and endearing. “I’ll pay.”

Hyunjae laughs loudly. “I’m holding you to that. Y/N, you coming?”

You shake your head. You had dinner plans with Ryujin. And you think that’d be good for your sanity, to hear her talk about her dance classes. “Maybe next time.”

Hyunjae was a lot more social than you expected, given his reputation within the department. On top of your study sessions twice a week, he often texted you about homework (the one time you got a frantic text from him at one a.m. asking if you saw the essay requirements posted for religions, you felt your heart stop beating for a moment. If he was struggling, how were you going to survive?).

You weren’t necessarily close, but apparently he considered the two of you close enough that he invited you to parties sometimes as a way to get you out and meeting people (that was surprising too. You didn’t know he was into that scene, but you supposed his and Sangyeon’s friend group was big enough for everything to turn into a party).

It was sweet he didn’t want you to rot in your dorm all the time, though.

He’d sulk some when you turned down the invite, sending “so you hate me?” with a string of frowny faces and crying copypastas. If you disliked more than three, he’d stop whining and move on like nothing happened.

Tonight was different. You were more than tired of looking at homework, and everyone you knew was busy. So when Hyunjae messages around seven asking if you want to go to a party (“smaller, this time! just me and sangyeon’s friends. and some girls the other guys are into and their friends. some of them are in comms, and you know all of us…”)

You don’t tell him that’s still a lot of people. Instead, why should i?

please please please please please please please fills your screen. i’ll take you home the second you’re bored. You heart that message. Barely a second later, he’s calling you.

“Are you going to come? Please say yes. I’m not above begging.”

“I don’t know you like that, Hyunjae. Keep that to the bedroom,” you tease lightly. “I’m holding you to your promise to be my chauffeur though.”

You hear him sigh softly before laughing. “Okay, okay. But seriously, are you coming?”

You hum and look at a skirt hanging on a rack in your closet — Jimin got it for you when you went shopping last time after you eyed it for a bit. It still had the tag on since you’d never had an occasion to wear it. “I guess I could make an appearance.”

“Guess?” Hyunjae drawls, and you can practically hear the pout on his face. “Or know?”

“Pick me up and it’ll be a yes.”

“Deal.” He answers before you can even try to figure out plans. “See you in twenty.”

He showed up in exactly twenty minutes, and you were beyond grateful you hadn’t removed your makeup from the day yet. Your hair was still a little messy and you were fixing your eyeliner to be heavier when the doorbell rang.

At the house (you’re not even sure whose), Hyunjae grabs you a cocktail. You tilt your head at him curiously but accept it, wondering if the fact you’re not into other alcohol is written somewhere on your face.

After a few awkward introductions and fifteen minutes stuck to Hyunjae’s side like a leech, you start to relax a little. Maybe it’s the cocktail, perfectly sweet, or maybe it’s the way the party really does seem small and chill compared to most on campus. You’re not really sure, but it doesn’t matter anyways, as Sunwoo ropes you into a game of beer pong with a promise he’ll drink whatever cups you two lose.

He’s laughing, boyish and charming, as you sink a cup against Eric and tell him to “suck it!” when he tries to protest his fate. Sunwoo’s arms wrap around your shoulders, clinging onto you as he gets more and more drunk (outside of the game, not just the beer in the cups. Chanhee kept mysteriously appearing with KGB and shots of soju every so often and goading Sunwoo into drinking. You have a feeling he has an ulterior motive for the night).

You don’t mind, though, relaxing into his hold and cheering as the two of you defeat Eric (and a girl you think he might be into, from the way he smiles and comforts her. Unfortunately, you didn’t catch her name).

“We make a good team, Sunwoo,” you giggle softly, and you feel a little warm from the alcohol. He smiles back at you, face wrinkling up happily. You squish his cheek firmly until he yelps. “Do you wanna go find Sangyeon? I think he was setting up something.”

Sunwoo starts dragging you towards the living room before the words even finish leaving your mouth, both of you giggling as you stumble down the hall. “Guys—” he announces before you’re even across the threshold, tripping over the next words as he stumbles into the room. “This is my new game buddy, Y/N.”

You nod solemnly. “We have a pact.”

It takes only a second or two of unimpressed stares for you both to start laughing again, falling into open seats in front of one of the couches, right in front of Sangyeon and a girl from comms — you think her name is Hyeri. Sangyeon helps you balance on the way down, smiling fondly when you try to whisper that “Sunwoo’s fun!” to him.

“Is he?” Sangyeon asks, smoothing out your hair. You nod eagerly and he seems content that you’re having a good time. “Well, we’re going to watch a movie. That’s also fun.”

You nod, leaning into his knee as the group bickers and figures out what to play. You’re tired now, energy drained from the amount of people around you. The blanket that hangs by your side is interesting enough, and you find yourself picking at the fluffy fibers as the noise dies down enough for the movie to be audible.

Your eyes drift to Hyunjae, sitting by a girl named Soobin. You’ve had a class with her before, and a god-awful group project to boot. She was smart and nice, and you appreciated her being a voice of reason when your other members dragged their feet on every aspect of what was due. She’s looking at Hyunjae, too, you realize, looking at the way her expression softens as she shifts a little closer to him.

A ball forms in your stomach, brows furrowing as you take in the sight. Maybe the alcohol was getting to you and that’s why you felt something turning over in your stomach, but you’re not quite sure that’s the cause as she leans and whispers something — a joke, you assume, about the scene flickering across the TV — in his ear.

Hyunjae smiles, laughs, charming as ever and nods, leans over to whisper something back before turning his attention back to the glowing screen. Sangyeon’s hand on your shoulder snaps your focus away and you sigh, a little embarrassed.

“You okay, Y/N-ie?” He asks softly, and you tilt your head up to see his eyes, soft with concern. “You can go home if you want, I know you’re not huge on parties.”

Nodding, you swallow the sudden lump in your throat before croaking out. “Yeah, Hyunjae’s my ride. I’ll ask him when we take a break for snacks or something.”

He doesn’t seem content with your answer but nods, hand sliding off you. You appreciated the way he read your tense shoulders and backed off, reading your overstimulation and reducing it.

Sangyeon calls for a break maybe ten minutes later and whispers that you should go as he stands. You rise, eyes finding Soobin and Hyunjae again as you gather your things.

People are quiet, asleep or filtering into the kitchen to get snacks and drinks, and you hear her — soft spoken and easy to miss, but sweet as can be — ask if “he’d like to go out sometime?” and that she thinks they get along well. You pause in your tracks, and the way Hyunjae’s smile drops, expression cold and disinterested as he rejects her, with no ambiguity, has you feeling more sick than the drinks or seeing her lean on him earlier.

Soobin looks like she might cry, but she takes it with more grace than you think you could manage — a nod, a smile, and thanking him for being honest with his rejection.

When she walks off, Hyunjae’s eyes flit to you and he raises his brows. “What’s up?”

“Just ready to go home.” You mumble, hearing the ring of him saying there’s no chance, and I’m sorry if I made you think there was. I wish you well but don’t contact me again, if this is the intent in your ears. “Did you drink?”

Hyunjae shakes his head. “Want a ride?”

“Um…” you pause. “It’s fine, actually. You were liking the movie, right?” Hyunjae nods slowly. “I’ll get an Uber. Just wanted to say bye and make sure you knew I left — I didn’t want you to worry. I’m tired.”

Hyunjae smiles at you, the normal boyish grin that you’re used to seeing. “Okay, rest well, Y/N!” and, then, you make your way out, with a wave to Sunwoo and not one more look behind you.

A girl’s day was long overdue, so when your schedule aligns with Jimin’s and Ryujin’s for lunch, you’re dragged to a nearby Greek place that Jimin’s friend, Yizhuo, had mentioned. They were beyond excited that you didn’t back out of lunch (not that you had a tendency to do that. They just knew you had gone to a party and would be tired, hungover, or both and less willing to come because of that).

Once you’ve placed your orders, Ryujin squints at you from where she sits across the table. “How was the party?” The ‘you look tired’ is unsaid, but you don’t feel hurt. It’s true, you were tired, having tossed and turned trying to understand Hyunjae’s sudden switch up with Soobin when he seemed so receptive to her jokes and closeness. (When you did fall asleep, it was restless, and your head was throbbing now despite taking hangover cures.)

“Fine.” Your voice is softer than normal, and somehow wavers on just one word. Jimin’s eyes narrow as you fiddle with the corner of a napkin. “I made a friend.”

You’re talking about Sunwoo. Of course, you already knew him, but it felt nice to be closer to another person in the group. You don’t say more. (Mainly because you didn’t want to think about why you were so bothered by Hyunjae rejecting Soobin — you didn’t really know her, you weren’t privy to Hyunjae’s romantic life, understandably, and he wasn’t necessarily mean, just… too firm for your tastes).

“What’s bothering you then?” Ryujin asks pointedly, and you scowl at her. “Don’t frown at me! You’re sulking.”

With a long sigh, you shake your head. “It’s nothing. Stupid.”

Jimin pats your hand, an attempt at soothing contact without pressing too far into your space. “Babe, it’s bothering you. That’s not stupid.”

Damn her.

“It’s just — you all know Hyunjae. And how we’re friends? He took me to the party, which was really nice, and this girl — Soobin, she’s super pretty and sweet, I had a project with her last semester. They were flirting, or at least being close? I guess. All night. But when she did actually ask him out, he was suddenly super cold and it just… it was weird, you know? Not how he normally is.” You pause, a little embarrassed by your rambling. “I took an Uber home.”

Silence.

“He invited me.”

Then, a knowing ohh from Ryujin and a frown on Jimin’s face.

“You like him.” Jimin hums after a few more seconds of silence, taking a sip of her water like she didn’t just say something world-changing and earth-shattering. “And you’re worried he’d do that to you.”

“No?” Your voice is high and strained, stunned. You can’t even begin to track how she got to that conclusion, and you can’t believe she’s saying it so confidently either. “It’s just out of character for him!”

“You don’t know his character that well yet,” Ryujin cuts in, fighting back a smile. “We know you think he’s hot. Jimin told me about when you were studying in the math lab…”

You think your face might catch on fire with how hot it feels. “That doesn’t mean I like him!”

“Sure…” she laughs, and she’s so lucky you’re not at your apartment because she deserved a pillow to the face to wipe the smug smile off.

Jimin rescues you. “If you don’t like him, that’s fine. But would you be weirded out if… I don’t know, Younghoon did that to a girl?”

Shaking your head, you lean back against the chair and stretch. “But I don’t know him, really. I study with Hyunjae all the time, and I feel like I’m actually friends with him and Eric. Like, yes, it’s mainly based on school, but we’re close… for my standards. I guess it’s just weird because he seems so warm and bubbly that seeing such a quick and complete rejection was unusual.”

Ryujin hums. “Well, at least he didn’t lead her on?”

“Yeah, because making a girl almost cry is better!”

“It is…” Jimin says softly. “I mean, it’s not great, but it’s better than her getting more attached and him using her and keeping her around just for the attention.”

You hated when she was right.

She normally was. You think you’d be used to it by now, but you still sulk and pout at her clear and concise understanding of situations.

“I hate making friends,” you whine. “Can’t I just keep you two and Sangyeon, that’s it, forever?”

Both respond with variations on no quickly, and you pout more. “So you hate me. And you don’t want to be friends.” You’re being dramatic, but you have to be. It’s somewhere in your DNA.

“You’re stuck with us,” Jimin soothes. “But you like having friends, even if getting close is hard. You’ll be happier.” She pauses, thanks the waiter as they put down your food. “Besides, hot guys always have something wrong with them. This must be his — he’s an iron wall man.”

“What the hell is an iron wall man?” Ryujin asks through a mouthful, and you throw a napkin at her for it. She sticks her tongue out at you after she’s done chewing, but you know she’ll finish her next bites before talking again.

“Guys who put up clear and obvious walls and are super hard to get close to and have the attention of,” Jimin shrugs. “Seems like he gets a lot of attention but doesn’t want it. If he rejects girls like that, it stops.”

You sigh. “Hot men do always have something wrong with them.”

“Why do you sound like you’re in mourning?”

“I’m mourning the concept of a decent boyfriend,” you whine back without a moment of pause. “Is it too much to ask for a hot and normal guy?”

Ryujin nods. “Also, Hyunjae isn’t normal.”

“You don’t even know him!” You protest quickly.

“He’s friends with Sangyeon,” Jimin points out. “He has to be a little weird.”

You end up with Ryujin and Jimin at your place, setting up an honestly ridiculous amount of blankets on the couch and floor to watch the classic Barbie movies. The three of you had raided the nearby convenience store and set up your coffee table with snacks and drinks to last the whole marathon. (The convenience store was your favorite nearby. The woman who owned it loved you, and often gave a small bag of chips or some other snack, on the house even if you said she didn’t have to and shouldn’t. Sometimes, you brought her extra food from making dinner in a Tupperware as thanks).

After rifling through your skincare, you’d found face masks that suited all three of your needs (even if you did scold Jimin for saying her skin looked dull recently, since she was literally glowing). Ryujin had found nail polish you forgot you owned, buried at the bottom of the small closet in your bathroom. She’d triumphantly showed the forest green bottle and shoved it towards you. It was what your nails would have to end up as now.

You’re maybe halfway into Princess and the Pauper when your nails finally feel dry enough to do anything without the polish shifting or chipping, so you carefully make your way to your room.

Somewhere in your desk, you’d shoved a bunch of charms and trinkets you’d bought for the two and forgotten to give to them for months. It was one of your bigger flaws, being forgetful of small things like that. You’d gotten some for Sangyeon too, but remembered to add them to his birthday present.

Triumphantly, after five minutes of searching, you emerge and find them in their face masks. You snap a photo of them quickly despite the complaints that they “look awful!” and the threat that “if you post that, I’m blocking you.”

When you toss them at them, their threats and jokes soften.

“But I don’t have anything to give you…” Jimin pouts, spinning the cute black cat keychain around in her fingers as she investigates the details painted on. “I feel bad.”

“You two are always here for me.” You shrug. The silent reference to lunch goes unsaid — the ‘thank you for dealing with my whining, thank you for reassuring me, and for putting up with my codependency as I try to be more social and improve’. (Of course, it wasn’t just because of the gossiping about Hyunjae. It was that they, as much as they teased and joked, wanted the best for you and knew when to stop or change their approach.)

Ryujin finally looks up from the sticker sheets you gave her, muttering curses under her breath as she struggles to pick off the smallest ones to put on her phone case. “Love you, Y/N.”

It’s weird. She doesn’t say it often. A good weird, though, sparking a warmth in your chest. “I love you, too,” you grin, pulling out your phone and swiping to the camera app. “Can you say it again?”

“I’m not giving you evidence against me.”

(By this point, as Jimin excitedly puts on Barbie in the Twelve Dancing Princesses, you’d pretty much forgotten about the Hyunjae thing. Besides, it’s not like you’d ever been asked out or done anything with a guy —maybe his approach really was the best one to reject people you were into. You didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, ultimately, and you knew he’d still be your friend just as he was before the party.)

The temperature had dropped starkly in the past few weeks, taking with it the sun. By five-thirty, it’s dark out. You’re cold and tired, and honestly, grumpy. You’d stayed up until three. Most of that was sneaking out of the dance building at two a.m. with Ryujin after helping her for a few hours, just workshopping awkward parts of a routine she had to choreograph.

The other hour was spent getting ready for bed and scrolling through Instagram until your eyes couldn’t stay awake. No one could fault you for ending up in Hyunjae’s tagged photos — he didn’t post much anyways, and a lot of them had Sangyeon. And your other new friends too. It was only natural.

By the evening, you’re tired. But you didn’t want to leave Hyunjae hanging (Eric had some club meeting), so it’s just you two, working quietly in one of the study rooms in the library. It’s cozy, with lamps newly added this semester (and thank god they were, with the room feeling so dark, cold, and unwelcoming in semesters prior without any windows), and a nice warmth compared to the way wind bit your skin when you walked over to the library.

Warm light washes over your notes and you sigh, resting your head down on the table. Your hand hurts, and this professor required handwritten assignments. It’s intended to be a short break, but the way your chin nestles and your shoulders relax is so comfortable you can’t bring yourself to get back to work, even after five minutes of silently staring at nothing. With a sigh, you shift to slump further in the chair and let your eyes drift to Hyunjae.

He’s studiously working on one of his classes — you’re not in it, and thankful for it. The printed letters on his assignment sheet alone hurt your head. His dark green sweater looks comfortable, a little large on him, and around the same color as the chipped nail polish that remains from your last girl’s night with Ryujin and Karina. His hair is darker than it was when you first met, with less sunlight adding warm blonde tones. It also seems curlier, but you’re not sure if your eyes are playing a trick on you, narrowing your focus on a stray strand that he keeps flicking out of his eyes.

“Why are you staring at me?” Hyunjae asks without a pause in his writing. “Is there something on my clothes?”

You shoot up and slam your knee into the underside of the table, whining in pain.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjae laughs softly, fondness taking over his gaze as he leans over and moves your drink from the edge towards the center. “That sounded painful.”

“It was,” you whine. “And I wasn’t staring.” The second part is weak. You don’t even believe yourself, eyes darting away from the way the golden lamplight shimmers in his eyes now that he’s turned to face you.

His hum is disapproving. “Liar.”

You shake your head stubbornly. “I wasn’t staring at you. It was your hair.”

“Which is part of me.” Hyunjae deadpans. “Why? Does it look weird?”

“No, just… is it curly now?”

Hyunjae tilts his head. “Yeah. My hair is naturally curly.”

“Huh.” It does suit him, you decide. Not that you’d tell him. “We, um, we should finish our work.”

While you say that, Hyunjae packs up his things haphazardly in his criminally organized binder. “You look exhausted, Y/N-ie. We can call it for the night.”

YN-ie. Sangyeon called you that. And it felt good coming from him, but the familiarity and softness of Hyunjae’s voice makes your stomach turn.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You mumble, looking at the small smile on his face. Did he see you how Sangyeon did?

It comes up again when you’re walking through street food stalls with Sangyeon.

You’re holding both of your dalgona by the wooden stick as he chats to the stall owner, picking out new flavors of jeon for you to try. Somehow, the conversation drifts to the man’s kids, and Sangyeon coos at the grainy film camera pictures in the man’s camera roll.

The fondness in both their voices is cute. How Sangyeon talks to you. How Hyunjae spoke to you in the study room.

“Hey, Y/N-ie, come on,” Sangyeon urges and you look up, accepting the rolled pancake in the small cardboard container. “What’s on your mind?”

You hum, skipping over the lines of the cobbled street, keeping count of how many you pass in eights. “Fondness.”

There’s so much of it around you. Families walking by, attempting to keep their little children in line as they scamper from sweet food stall to sweet food stall, amazed by the colors and smells of each dessert. Couples, hands locked together, wrapped in a small bubble of intimacy separating them from the throngs of people hustling and bustling by. Sangyeon, concerned about your silence.

“Are you a philosopher?”

“I try to be,” you smile softly. “Just thinking.”

“That’s what they do, isn’t it?” Sangyeon tears a piece of his jeon and hands it to you. “Think.”

“They also talk a lot.” You mumble before finishing the bite. “Ooh, what flavor is this?”

“Fondness,” Sangyeon laughs at his own joke and you scowl.

“How do you know when a guy thinks you’re like a sibling? Like you see me?”

He pauses and falters in his step before rematching his stride to yours. “Suddenly?”

“Not that suddenly.”

Sangyeon’s eyebrows raise. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Your turn to pause. With a frown, you shake your head and look away pointedly. “There isn’t one. I just want to know. You know I have no experience with any of that.”

“Keep walking.” He doesn’t even need to look at you to know, and that annoys you even more. With a huff, you catch up to him. “I can’t believe you like a guy. They grow up so fast.”

“I’ve been an adult since you met me.”

Sangyeon hums. “And you’re still a baby.”

“Can you at least answer my question?”

He ruffles your hair. “Well, you see, when a guy likes a girl—”

“Okay.” You sigh. “You’re not helpful, you know that? I’m going to keep this dalgona.” You wave his in front of his face, twirling it around. “Stop teasing me.”

“But it’s so fun, can you blame me, Y/N-ie?”

He takes pity on you, eventually.

“If he likes you, you’ll be able to tell. It might not be certain, but his behavior will change from how it was. If he views you like I do — a little sister, a little annoying—” he yelps as you smack his shoulder. “It’s true! And as I was saying, you’d know if he saw you like that.” Sangyeon snatches his dalgona from you. “The fondness you’re thinking about would be a little exasperated.”

“So you’re sick of me.”

“No, don’t put words in my mouth and hurt your own feelings,” he cuts you off quickly. “I love you very much. But you annoy me in many ways. None of them make me want to kiss you. A guy who really likes you would want to kiss you anyways.”

You hum. “So if I want to see if he’s into me?”

“Be more open about your feelings and ease up around him. If you hint at it, he’ll probably give himself away.”

You think you’ll take his advice, falling into contemplative silence as you snap the edges around the triangle stamp in your candy.

Ryujin had been antsy for weeks. Maybe even months.

You think her nerves paid off, if your shaky video of her performance drowned out by you cheering so loudly you can’t hear half the instrumental is anything to go by. Your throat is hoarse by the time you manage to slip backstage and jump to hug her, whisper-yelling that ‘I have flowers in my car for you!’ so she can hear you over the thrum of noise as staff and students prepare for the next set of performances.

When you spot Intak, her dance partner for the night, you compliment him too. He blushes shyly and bows, clearly delighted with the outcome of the night.

“Seriously, Ryu, I can’t believe you’re not famous,” you lament from where you’re cuddled into her side, clinging to her waist as you rest your chin on her shoulder. “Everyone should know you.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Then you’d have to be in line to be my number one fan.”

“I already fight Karina and your other friends for the spot,” you mumble. “I can handle a little more competition if it means you succeed.”

Her giggle is so comforting, pure joy and relief as she can finally stop worrying about this performance. She’d bitched about it enough that you felt like you were preparing to dance on stage with her (not that you could’ve held a candle to her or matched Intak’s skill level). She’d complained mostly about the fact it was a duet, scowling as she realized her grades weren’t dependent on her own performance and skill, but you were able to see the respect that she had for Intak.

He’d always been a good dancer and you’d known that — having seen him on a few other performing nights, and a few dance practices Ryujin snuck you into — but the way she spoke was different.

It was probably because they were done working together, and her frustration with the assignment stopped projecting onto him.

Intak lights up as the door creaks open and you look up, tilting your head curiously as Hyunjae comes into view under a, frankly, ridiculous amount of flowers.

“Did you buy out a florist?” You ask softly and he chuckles.

“It’s for both of them. They all have tags with letters from who they’re from. I got used as a pack mule.”

“Poor baby,” you coo sarcastically, a fond smile taking over your face despite your tone. You detach from Ryujin while she and Intak look through the bouquets, watching as the smile grows on their faces until both their eyes crinkle. They deserved it.

Intak perks up after reading a message and then, suddenly, “Y/N, you should come with us as Ryu’s plus one! We were going to have a celebratory dinner.”

You try to shake your head and back away, but Hyunjae’s hand behind your back keeps you from getting to the door. You glare at him before smiling at Intak. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m nervous around people I don’t know that well. I’m not that fun.”

“That’s okay, this is how you can get to know them!”

With the way he’s so eager and his eyes light up, something tells you he won’t take no for an answer. You begrudgingly nod, relaxing slightly as Hyunjae adds he’ll come and Ryujin mentions Jimin meeting you all at the restaurant they chose. Intak’s friends were apparently coming, too, so you mentally brace for the amount of conversation that will inevitably go on.

Most of the time you’re in the diner, you’re flattened to the booth chair and listening to the conversation around you. A lot of it is spent praising the performers of the hour, but as it dissolves into inside jokes, you feel more and more exhausted with trying to keep up.

Hyunjae feeds you a fry at one point, dipped sneakily in Ryujin’s milkshake. That’s a highlight of your night.

When everyone finally starts to scatter, Hyunjae walks you home. It was nice that he lived nearby, but he promised you (with his pinky and everything!) that he’d walk you home anyways, because a girl shouldn’t be walking home alone late at night, especially if she’s tired.

“Yeah, so, the project is going okay—” he’s talking about a math class. How there’s a group project in a math class, when there’s barely even numbers in the math he’s in is beyond you, but you nod anyway. “I think we’ll be able to turn it in early, which is nice. I’ll have time to do stuff.”

“It’s always nice to finish early,” you sigh, stretching your back. That booth had been stiff as a board. “I’d use it to hibernate.”

“You’re always hibernating,” he teases softly. “It’ll give me more time to talk to this girl before we go on a date, so that’s nice. I think we get along well. We’ll see.”

You perk up. “Date? I thought you didn’t like dating?”

Hyunjae laughs. “I never said that? I don’t do it often, but it’s nice to talk to a pretty girl.” You deflate a little, hoping he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t seem to, checking his phone before swiping away a notification with a small smile. “What gave you that idea?”

“Must’ve been the voices.” You hum, voice deceptively light. “They tell me things.”

“Weirdo.” Hyunjae chuckles, ruffling your hair.

“Meanie,” you poke your tongue out at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Mm.” Hyunjae smiles at you, obviously sleepy himself. “I’ll see you soon?”

“When do you not?”

Sangyeon figured you out. Somehow.

You almost choke on a noodle in your pho when he brings it up randomly during lunch.

“How long have you liked Hyunjae?”

It takes a second to breathe right and you hold your palm out to him, a silent plea for him to stop. “What are you talking about?”

He smiles at you and the sparkle in his eye sends a shiver down your spine. “Well, a little birdie told me that you thought Hyunjae didn’t date anyone… and when you pair that with you whining about wanting guys to not see you like I do…”

The thing he is implying with how he trails off is, honestly, offensive.

“I don’t like him like that?” You scoff, setting down your spoon and chopsticks. “I genuinely thought he didn’t date — I mean, we all saw how he shut down Soobin when we watched movies that one time.”

Sangyeon scoffs. “Who is we?”

You frown. “Me? And Sunwoo? And everyone else there?”

“No one was paying attention to them like that, Y/N-ie. I think you were jealous.”

With a huff, you grab your phone and check your schedule. You didn’t have any excuse to leave, but you could come up with one. “I have an assignment I forgot about…”

“Liar.” Sangyeon doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s okay if you like him. Even if you don’t. That one day — that fondness shit, where you were possessed by a philosopher. Was that about him?”

With a small sigh, you nod. “Yeah. I want to be seen as an equal and a friend. Not like a baby sister. How he treats all of his friends.”

“Well, then you’ve failed already. He’s extra nice to you.”

Your shoulders drop, rounding in. “Yeah. I’m the annoying kid sister type, huh?”

Sangyeon’s smile is weirdly knowing. “I don’t think it’s like that. But I mean, hey, he doesn’t hate you. That’s enough, isn’t it?” You nod. “Just don’t get your hopes up about dating him.”

“I don’t want to date him!” You grumble and he just laughs.

Asshole.

Hyunjae did, in fact, like you — like he did all his friends, not like a little sister.

You had gotten closer to him and his friends (Sangyeon’s friends, too), enough that you would occasionally go out with Kevin and Jacob or spend time chatting with Haknyeon on the phone. It was… overwhelming, to have gone from having a small circle to so many more.

But it was nice.

Hyunjae was nice, too, as finals crept closer. At study sessions, he’d buy your coffee (since you predictably got the same order every time) before you even arrived, and tell Eric to shut up if he laughed at it.

You even wore his hoodie a few nights, when the two of you were staying until the library closed. They were large and comfortable, and you had been tempted to keep them when you saw them in your room the next morning, still smelling of his cologne.

It took great effort to wash and return them, but you did it with a smile (and when Hyunjae said you didn’t have to wash them, you’d jokingly called him a creep for wanting to wear something you had worn without cleaning it. The wide-eyed, red-cheeked look he had after was priceless).

Even more nice was how much more often you talked. It felt like you had graduated from school friend to real friend, often seeing texts from random hours (one time, a heinous 4:52 a.m.) sending you memes and Tiktoks and whatever thought happened to cross his mind he thought you’d enjoy.

Apparently, you seemed like a girl who enjoyed the dad jokes he found and screenshotted from the depths of the internet, grainy and hard to read. You didn’t enjoy them. But you hearted each one he sent you and would take the fact you hated them to your grave.

The one that got your hopes up — that maybe, somehow, you are special to him, like Sangyeon implied, when he said Hyunjae was extra nice to you — was after a hard test you’d been dreading and complaining about.

Hyunjae showed up with your favorite coffee and a hug, letting you vent and complain, voice muffled into the fabric of his sweater. The embarrassment you felt seeing a hint of makeup on his shoulder was quickly squashed when he laughed and said “huh, a mini Y/N for my day. Score!” with a voice so light, you thought you misheard him.

“I’m sure you did great,” he whispers, more sincerely and sweetly, moving a stray hair away from and off your temples. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“Not compared to you,” you mumble, chest still tight with anxiety.

“Yes, compared to me,” Hyunjae hums, grabbing your bag and walking you towards the dining hall. “In many ways I am not.”

It’s so real and you know he means it. “You don’t need to comfort me, I’m not a baby…”

“I want to.”

God, he was so sweet.

“Thank you,” your voice is soft and genuine, a little awed by his kindness.

“Don’t thank me for the bare minimum,” he scolds. “You should thank me for being really hot and sexy.”

You scoff. “Please shut up.”

And there was normal Hyunjae again, the you-specific extra kindness melting away.

It’s when you realize you don’t want anyone else getting that sweetness that you get that you realize you do, in fact, like Hyunjae. One could even say you have a crush.

You’re in a cute little black dress, makeup and hair done, wearing some jewelry that Ryujin just got you, and you’re tipsy.

Chanhee had been feeding you KGB and soju shots like he had to Sunwoo when the two of you were beer pong buddies and got close, and your face is warm, and everything is a little blurry and the world spins a little around you.

Or maybe the world is spinning around Hyunjae.

You think it should. He’s so stunning, and you spend some time looking at his dark curly hair — worn natural, for once, pretty where it lands on his brow, eyes sparkling and bright as he laughs and chats with the people he stands with. Even the way he holds the red solo cup is pretty, and you stare at the new bracelet on his wrist curiously — where did he get it? you wonder, but the thought vanishes as quickly as you had it when he smiles and waves at you.

You wave back, smiling too. And then your eyes drop to the rest of his outfit, and the amount of skin his shirt showing is, honestly, criminal. It’s like you took another shot, the way heat pours through you as you study the necklace that leads your eyes to his collarbones perfectly.

How planned. How scandalous.

Jimin finds you maybe ten minutes later, glued to your spot and swaying, staring at Hyunjae and the conversation across the room with big, wide eyes. “Babe, how much did you have?” She asks softly, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Dunno, ask Chanhee,” you mumble, words slurred as you smile at her.

She grabs your arm and you stumble, letting yourself be dragged outside. The night air is cold and welcome on your heated skin. “Stay here. I’ll find Ryujin and we’ll go back to yours, okay? No more drinks.”

You pout at her but nod, sitting down on the stair to the deck. The sky is pretty, stars twinkling overhead. It doesn’t take long before your eyes flutter shut, though, letting all the overwhelming things around you fade away.

It’s cold now that you’ve been outside for a few minutes, your dress too thin for respite, and your jacket draped on your chair back at home (because “I don’t need it, Ryu, I’ll be fine!”).

You jump when Hyunjae calls your name and settles next to you, but the warmth he radiates is comforting. His thigh rests against yours and even through his pants, it warms where you have goosebumps.

Shuddering, you tilt your head at him. “Hi.” Your voice is soft and small, a little giggle slipping out as you look at him.

“Hi,” he echoes, squinting. “Are you getting sick? You’re shivering.” The concern in his voice is cute, but you wish he was drunk enough to be staring at you like you hung the moon up next to the stars overhead.

You think you’re probably looking at him like that.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, smile playing on your lips for no reason. “I feel great, honestly.”

Hyunjae’s brows furrow. “How much did you have to drink?”

You hum, looking at your fingers as if they’ll tell you. “Chanhee gave them to me. So a lot, I think.” You wonder if Hyunjae even heard you from the silence that follows, but you just settle against him, leaning into his side. He’s big and firm next to you, and he blocks the wind, and god, he smells good.

But he stiffens how he never has before from your proximity.

Oh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, belatedly realizing you complimented his cologne out loud. Your hand slips off his leg — you’re not sure when it ended up there, honestly. “I’m out of it.”

“I know,” his voice is a little tense and your eyes sting suddenly. “I’ll call you an uber. You’re really drunk, Y/N-ie.”

It’s like someone poured ice water over you. “No, ‘s okay,” you can’t bear to look at him, suddenly terrified his eyes will be like they were when he rejected Soobin. “Jimin is getting me home.”

Hyunjae doesn’t move. But you don’t speak and neither does he.

The only goodbye you get is a small and stiff smile and a nod to Jimin as she loops your arm over her shoulder and brings you to the front.

For a week and a half, you manage to avoid Hyunjae and sulk.

It really does feel like the world is ending, having realized you have a crush on him and he, clearly, did not reciprocate. But he was your friend and you couldn’t avoid him forever, as much as it stung to see him while you were nursing your feelings.

Case in point, when he and Eric show up on your doorstep unannounced on a Tuesday.

“Why are you here?” You grumble, arms crossed. Thankfully, Lily was out so you wouldn’t have to worry about them disturbing her.

”To study,” Eric grins at you, boyish and charming. “You haven’t been coming! So we came to you.”

You sigh heavily. “Come on in, then.”

Honestly, you are a little miffed. But you’re touched, too, knowing they care and were worried enough to show up and pull you out of whatever sulky mood you were in. Hyunjae mouths ‘you okay?’ at you, so you know the main reason was concern if you were okay, not studying for the legal communications final.

But it’s perfectly fine, and Eric makes ramen (you’d have to buy more for your pantry, since using six packets for the three of you was, in your opinion, excessive).

Hyunjae doesn’t seem to remember the party. Or if he does, he has the decency to not embarrass you. You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

After that day and how awkward you felt, you stopped avoiding them and everything seemed… normal.

Studying, hang-outs with their friend group (yours, now, too you supposed), conversations that were just you and Hyunjae on the quad — studying, doom scrolling, eating, really whatever struck your fancy that day.

The most memorable one was an oddly warm day for the fact it was November, with the sun out and not behind clouds. The two of you were capitalizing on the small bit of warmth and vitamin D, lounging on a far too small towel and chatting.

Hyunjae was done with his work, so he was scrolling Tiktok while you lamented over the article you were reading. He had the answers too, having done this class the semester prior, but your pride refused his help.

Instead, he settled for resting with his head next to your knee, sprawled out as he watched (what you hoped were) animal videos. Your train of thought is interrupted when he shows you one — his screen blocking your vision of your messily annotated print-out and you focus instead on the pout on his face.

“Watch!”

So you do, giving the appropriate horrified gasp when the cat in the video (Waffle) smacked the dog of the house (Maple) for daring to lay down in its own bed.

“Isn’t it so mean?” Hyunjae laments as the video loops, and he mutes it quickly. “What did the poor doggie do?”

You hum. “Exist, probably. Cats are assholes.”

“Cute assholes,” Hyunjae nods sagely, the pout still stuck on his face. “Why are they like that?”

You chuckle, shoving your work to the side and stretching out slowly. “We let ‘em get away with it.”

“Who is we?”

“People who have them. And who are liked by their family dog.”

His offended gasp makes you chuckle. “Take that back!” Hyunjae whines, jostling your shoulder. “I am so nice to him.”

“And he still doesn’t like you…” you trail off, trying to hide your grin and failing. “It’s okay. Everyone has something wrong with them.”

Hyunjae shakes his head. “I’m perfect.”

“Add big ego to the cons list.”

Work forgotten, the two of you bantered and laughed until it got too cold to stay outside, and your heart was so fond and you were so into him. It was enough to be his friend, though, to bask in some of the light and love he had.

The weather is too cold for studying on the quad, and the library coffee shop is always packed to a level that is claustrophobic. Naturally, without any real discussion, the study group moved to Hyunjae (and Haknyeon)’s apartment.

It was a nice place, and you realize it’s where Sangyeon’s surprise birthday party was held. Hyunjae mentions another roommate, but apparently he doesn’t care if people are over and spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s place.

It’s how you find yourself, a week before winter break, stressed out of your mind as you sit cross legged on Hyunjae’s bed. Eric had left for some dinner plans a few hours ago and Haknyeon needed the living room.

Hyunjae’s room is nice, and shockingly clean. He has pictures of friends and family scattered about, a neutral and green color scheme, and an expensive looking gaming setup he now sits at while you work. He had finished all his work already, so you’re left struggling with your math homework alone.

Your eyes are tired and his comforter is soft. You don’t even remember falling asleep (it’s impressive you did, since he had been bickering with whoever he was playing with on the mic). When you wake up, it’s dark. Your homework and pens are scattered next to you and you hear Hyunjae humming along to soft music.

When a wet wipe touches your cheek, it wakes you up enough to look at him and try to sit up. “Sorry,” you mumble, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand curiously. You don’t think you want to know why he has them. His touch is gentle and soft, and he carefully wipes off your base makeup. “What time is it?”

Hyunjae smiles, booping your nose as he wipes off the last of your foundation. “One,” and then he’s quiet again, wiping away your eye makeup carefully, only speaking to tell you to open or close your eyes.

You sit up quickly and try to gather your things clumsily, crumpling the worksheet some as you do. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I’ll head home.”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjae soothes, one hand grabbing your shoulder as he holds you down. “Just stay for the night, I don’t feel okay letting you walk home at this hour.” He brushes your hair back and smiles again, and the flickering fondness and light in his eyes has your heart racing.

His proximity is nerve-wracking, and you wonder if he might kiss you, this close, this fucking pretty, smelling as good as he does. He doesn’t. “Are you hungry?”

You nod shyly.

“I’ll make something. You can pack your things but don’t you dare slip out and go home,” his tone is light but you know he means it so you agree and quietly gather your things while you hear movement in their kitchen.

He comes back a bit later with chapagetti, and your stomach rumbles at the sight. Once you’re finished eating, he hands you his unlocked laptop and says “pick any of the ghibli movies I have saved.” Then gone again, to do the dishes.

You settle on Princess Mononoke and really try not to stare while Hyunjae tugs off his shirt and changes into a different one. You fail miserably, burning the sight of his back muscles flexing and rippling into your brain. He gives you a toothbrush and you get ready quickly before awkwardly perching on the side of his bed, suddenly nervous when he’s dressed down and laying there.

It’s too domestic, for you to be friends and do this.

“I don’t bite. Come on.” He pats the bed and you quietly crawl in, holding your breath every time his hand or arm brushes against you as he settles the screen where you can both see it.

Light from the window wakes you in the morning. Somehow, you curled into him in your sleep, coming to with a steady heartbeat thrumming under your head and your limbs curling around him.

Fuck, you were screwed, heart skipping a beat from the proximity. You study the gentleness to his features, the fluttering of his eyelashes as the light shifts higher, and you know your time is limited.

But god, you wanted to stay like this.

Over winter break, you were practically always on a call with Hyunjae or texting. You feared how your phone bill was going to look, but the financial repercussions couldn’t tear you off — it wasn’t even that interesting, mostly silence or small jokes and conversations as you two went about your day, too far apart to spend it together.

You wouldn’t trade it for the world, heart fluttering any time he changed it to a facetime, or when he sent a picture of a snowman he made, saying it was you. (When you asked why it was you, he said it was because it was cute, as if it was obvious as the weather that that was the reason. You might’ve screenshotted it and saved it to a folder, simply titled with the blue heart emoji, which is just dedicated to Hyunjae. It’s filled with texts, facetime photos, and that one photo Sangyeon had sent you so many months back — the live photo of him in the snow, laughing. Who could blame you?)

Back in person, it feels like your dynamic has shifted. It's weird, a good weird, with you more on his side than Sangyeon, Ryujin, or Jimin’s — where the first person you think to tell news to is him, and vice versa, where he shares updates with you before anyone.

Part of you wonders if he likes you back, but you don’t dare press it or test the waters in case you lose his friendship. Selfishly, you liked him too much to picture a life without him in it and would have him any way you could get him.

Halfway through the first week of the next quarter, when everyone is back on campus, you all have a get together at Kevin’s. Initially, it was meant to be you helping him learn how to bake, but with everyone trying to make plans, it just became a drop-in and hangout.

You spend most of it in the kitchen with Kevin.

“Kev, oh my god,” you gasp, a little stunned. “That is so much sugar.”

“They’re meant to be sweet!”

“Yeah, but they’re not meant to use four cups of sugar…” the mountain of plain granulated sugar on top of the butter in the mixer hurts your heart. “Do we have more butter?”

Kevin pouts. “Yeah. Did I fuck up?”

“Not enough that we can’t fix it,”

Haknyeon pipes up from where he sits at the island, spinning on the bar stool. “Do not bring those cookies near me when they’re done.”

“I’ll force feed them to you,” Kevin scoffs grumpily, handing you two more sticks of butter per your request. “Shut up.” Haknyeon raises his hands in surrender but mouths ‘crazy’ to you once Kevin turns his back to him.

You snicker and help Kevin fix the dough, praying it will turn out alright despite his “measuring sucks” approach and the fear it instills in your heart.

Hyunjae shows up at some point — you think it might’ve been when Kevin asked if you had to hit ‘start’ for the oven to start preheating. In his own apartment. He’s quiet for the most part, chatting quietly with Younghoon and Changmin.

The first time he speaks up is when the cookies are finally baking and you have a break. “Hi, Y/N-ie,” you hear him croon and you make your way over, smiling at him. It’s tired but genuine, and he hugs you quickly. “Free?”

“For now,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “Who knew it was such a chore to bake?”

Hyunjae shrugs, keeping his hand by yours. The brush of his fingers on your wrist startles you slightly, and you look over to Sangyeon on the couch — he must feel your eyes on him, because he turns around and studies you two suspiciously. Your phone buzzes.

‘You two seem close’ is what you manage to read, eyes flicking back up in time to see Sangyeon wiggle his brows. You scowl and turn your attention back to Younghoon and Changmin’s stories until Kevin drags you away when the timer goes off.

They’re surprisingly tasty. A little bit bitter from a heavy-handed pour of vanilla extract, but you drizzle some melted chocolate over top and deem them “good enough!” for Kevin to call everyone who wanted some in.

Hyunjae doesn’t move so you go to him with a cookie, and he studies it carefully, hesitantly. “Are you poisoning me?”

“If anyone is, it’s Kevin,” you laugh. “And no. I tried them first. They’re pretty good.”

He scrunches up his nose. “I don’t believe you.”

“Damn. Got so close to killing you by cookie,” you play up a sigh. “Time for Plan E.”

“What were the other four?” Hyunjae laughs, and he takes a bite of the cookie anyways.

“Well, the cookie was Plan D but I’m too good at baking,” you giggle, leaning your head on top of his. “The others are secrets.”

“I’ll have to keep my guard up then.”It’s not until later you check your messages, and see one from Hak — Hyunjae hates cookies. What did you threaten to get him to eat one? — that you think he may like you back.

And, of course, you have to test your theory. Haknyeon’s theory. God’s?

It doesn’t matter, not really. Hyunjae has an exam early in the semester, and he’d been stressed about it for days (“It’s going to ruin my GPA! What if I can’t call myself an academic weapon anymore?” and then: “Hyung, you aren’t one anyways.” You never knew Eric was a liar).

You make a picnic basket that morning, and your face burns with heat when Lily asks you what it’s for. You stumble over a high-pitched “nothing!” and her laughter had been ringing in your head since.

Sandwiches, cookies (of course. This was Plan E — the E stood for ‘eating this means he likes me, because I want to think he does’), his favorite Milkis since you had gotten him hooked on them, and a bunch of cut up fruit.

He looks exhausted when he walks out of the building, sighing and eyes heavy. He does his best to match your energy when you run up, but he can’t. It’s alright.

“Hyunjae!” you smile, and he smiles back, bemused, looking at the basket. “I made lunch.”

Hyunjae’s smile becomes a genuine grin. “For lil’ ol’ me?”

“Yeah,” you hum, and walk slowly towards the willow tree on the quad, making sure he’s following you. “You had a hard exam. Why not?”

“You’re sweet,” Hyunjae chuckles, and you watch the way he stumbles over his own feet when he speeds up seeing that you set up a blanket too. “Can we watch movies?”

You sigh, knowing exactly what he’ll pick. “Get your laptop out.”

His giddiness is childish and adorable, and your heart races watching how at home he gets in your presence, how quickly he does so, as he pulls up Howl’s Moving Castle for what must be the thirtieth time.

He enjoys the food, and you quietly observe him — you’re sure it’s creepy, how your eyes dart around his face and watch him, but you will write it off as making sure he’s not too out of it from the all-nighter he did. If he asks.

And you do notice that he avoids the cookies.

“Jae?”

“Yeah?” He asks, after a startled pause. You wonder what caused it.

“Are the cookies any good? I tried a new recipe.”

He takes the bait, eating one. “They’re delicious.” He sounds genuine, but the way he tries to gulp water when you pointedly look away tells you everything you need to know.

Jimin was right. There is something wrong with every hot guy — how on earth could someone hate cookies?

“Don’t you hate cookies?”

He hums, looking up from where he’s pillowed his head on his sweatshirt. “Just—” he clears his throat. “Just bad ones.” The lie falls flat, and he knows it too.

“So mine are an exception?”

Without missing a beat — “always.”

Nothing really happens after that picnic.

You still think he’s one of the most beautiful people on the planet, so handsome your heart aches when you look at him. But you think you might end up moving on from your crush — not because you don’t want him, you do, but because you think he’ll never make a move. And you know you won’t.

But your resolve is destroyed at a pool party (one he convinced you to go to by begging on call for thirty minutes while you failed to make progress on an essay).

He’s shirtless. That alone is enough for your skin to feel hot when you look at him, but any thoughts of ‘do I actually have a crush or do I just like his attention?’ are dissolved when (and, yes, you do definitely have a crush on him still) you see him laughing and smiling when a girl named Dahyun talks to him.

He’s in the pool, hair curly and dripping water he keeps wiping away, and god, that makes his muscles flex. He looks beautiful in the golden hour light. You know Dahyun notices too, by the way her lashes flutter and she wades a little closer. It makes you feel sick.

Trying to distract yourself from the jealousy that twists and churns in your stomach, you go inside and raid the cooler for a shitty beer. It’s disgusting and cheap, but the alcohol is something else to focus on. You grab a second to hand Sunwoo, who had been setting up at the table next to yours.

“Damn,” he whistles playfully, a small smirk on his lips when you hand him the beer. “A pretty girl getting me a beer? I must be in heaven.”

“Maybe if you saved all your game for the girl you actually liked,” you laugh when he scowls at you. “But thank you, you’re not too bad yourself.”

It’s a silly bit that started a few parties back (you honestly don’t remember when), where you’d hype one another up. Juyeon had asked one time — you think he was concerned — if you actually had a crush on Sunwoo. You didn’t, but apparently it seemed real.

Which is why it was all the weirder when you feel a wet hand grab your shoulder. You glance up and sideways, trying to meet Hyunjae’s gaze. It’s trained on Sunwoo and he squints, frowns, before smiling at you and murmuring a quiet “hi.”

The air feels charged. Sunwoo shifts anxiously and eyes the two of you, and you think you see him sigh in relief when Eric calls him over for something.

“Hi, Jae,” you whisper softly, turning to fully face him. His expression is unreadable. “You okay? Headed out?”

Hyunjae shakes his head, and you flinch back at the small bit of water landing on you with a playful pout. “We’re gonna play Marco Polo. Wanna join?” It takes one glance at Dahyun, whose attention is still trained on Hyunjae, before you nod in agreement.

You hold onto his arm for balance as you pull off your cover up. “Let’s go,”

Hyunjae slips on the wet tile in his hurry to follow you, and you giggle at the shock on his face as he catches himself. The water is cold, but you dip under and get your hair wet to acclimate and twirl to face him, beaming.

“C’mon, Jae, we gotta win,”

Sunwoo and Changmin keep bringing you drinks in between rounds, and you definitely have a buzz by the time the sun has finished setting and the game fizzles out as people head home.

You’re shivering while you pack up your things, and your teeth chatter when you try to say something to Hyunjae — your ride this time.

He laughs and wraps your towel around you tightly, using the fabric to tug you towards him. He’s too strong for his own good, and the warmth of his bare chest against you has you speechless. “Want help drying your hair?”

You nod dumbly, and let him spin you to face away. Your back is against his chest, and you shiver again as he tugs the towel away again. You really hope he’ll think it’s from the wind, and not every nerve of yours lighting up as his back presses against you and he carefully towel dries your hair with a touch so gentle it feels practiced.

It’s quiet, with just the buzz of bugs and chatter somewhere inside to fill the air. It feels heavier and more intimate without noise, and you’re hyper aware of every brush of his hand or skin against yours.

“Jae?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

The toweling pauses. “Yeah?”

You don’t have the courage to ask him what you want, and you don’t want to lose the warmth of him behind you, basking in his attention and the buzz you have going. “Nothing,” you mumble, letting him spin you around to check if your hairline is dry enough. Your eyes flutter open when his hands pull away, and you know your gaze lingers on his lips for several beats too long.

Hyunjae puts up your towel, hands you your cover up, and smiles. “Homeward?”

“Homeward.”

‘help with hyunjae sos’ is what Haknyeon’s message reads when you look at it at eight p.m. on a Monday. You reply, simply, with ‘???’

‘he’s forcing me to do math :( make him stop.’ You react with haha, and head over to their apartment after gathering your homework — you figured you could study with Hyunjae and that’s what Haknyeon was getting at.

You don’t find Hyunjae chasing Haknyeon with a packet of his terrible math class homework. When Haknyeon answers the door alone, he says “in his room” before you can even ask the question.

Frowning, you make your way over and knock on his open door. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands, and he jumps at the sound. There’s tear stains on his cheeks and you can feel your heart break a little looking at how he’s curled in on himself.

And you feel like a shitty friend. You’ve always thought he had everything together and never really struggled, and you never questioned that perception. “Oh, Jae, sweetheart,” you coo softly, the pet name barely registering before it slips out. He welcomes your hug, melting into your arms with soft, broken sobs and shaky breaths as all he can get out.

You trail your fingers over his back and soothingly rub over the fabric of his t-shirt until his breathing slows and gets more normal. When you try to pull back, his fingers clutch at you and you stop in your tracks.

“Let’s work on it together, okay?” You offer softly. You know you’re not much help with math, but it’s at least something to offer it. Even if you end up just being a good distraction.

Hyunjae shakes his head. “‘M done. I… I can’t.”

“Okay,” you soothe, brushing a hand through his hair and tilting his head up so you can meet his eyes, glassy and tired. “Then let’s watch some movies. You get ready for bed, I’ll set it up.”

And he smiles for the first time since you got there.

By the time he feels better, it’s too late for you to get home, and he doesn’t need to say much to convince you to stay over (you like being near him, but this also doubles as making sure he’s truly and genuinely okay).

“Is it okay if I shower and use your shampoo and stuff?” You ask softly.

Hyunjae smiles. “Yeah. Here, you can have some clothes too.” He tosses sweats and a shirt and you pull at the fabric.

“I don’t know if it’ll fit, Jae,”

“It’s big on me. It’ll fit.”

He was right. Honestly, you look ridiculous in it, drowning in fabric. You should’ve expected that, considering how muscular he is.

When you finally begin drifting off, his arms are wrapped around your waist and his breath tickles the skin of your neck. It’s that way when you wake up, too, and it takes Herculean effort to climb out of his embrace (instead of remaining snuggled into him).

After waking up enough, you decide to start making breakfast for you, him, and Haknyeon — french toast, thank god they had ingredients in their fridge and pantry (Eric’s still haunts you). You make coffee as well, humming songs stuck in your head as you work.

The clink of a mug catches your attention, and then your mouth is dry.

Hyunjae. Shirtless. It takes a few seconds for you to even register that he’s showered, curls having droplets trail down his toned torso. You stare shamelessly at one that rolls down into his sweats, looking at the light that catches on his bare skin.

“Um,” you clear your throat and take a big sip of coffee, face on fire. “What classes do you have today?”

Hyunjae sighs softly, happily. “Just a senior seminar. My other one got cancelled.” If he noticed how pitchy and weird you sounded asking the question, he doesn’t say anything.

Haknyeon seems too tired to comment on the way you stare at Hyunjae all morning. Or maybe he’s grateful enough for the food that he chooses to be kind and keep his mouth shut.

It feels like it’s been years since you hung out with just Ryujin and Jimin. And with the somersaults your heart does every time you see Hyunjae, it was also far overdue. It takes well over an hour to explain your crush and every little thing you’ve read into (and hoped meant him liking you too), because you kept getting derailed and telling mini-stories.

Neither of them mind, though Ryujin does comment that she needed popcorn to get into your rant (honestly, you think it would’ve added to the experience if she had it).

“I’m… I don’t know, it just feels like I’m in limbo, you know?” You finally start wrapping it up. “I like him so much. But I’m terrified of ruining what we already have, and I don’t know how to read him. I can’t.”

Jimin nods. “There is something wrong with every hot man.”

“I know!” you whine. “You’ve said. He doesn’t like cookies. Surely he’s not afraid of commitment too.”

Ryujin snorts. “He could so be afraid of commitment.”

“Not helpful,” Jimin chides. Then, to you, “she’s joking.”

After being jabbed in the side, Ryujin sighs and nods. “I mean, it sounds like he likes you, yeah. Why else would he glare at Sunwoo?”

“Because he thought his friend was being weird and hitting on me?”

“And why would a friend care about that?” Jimin asks.

“Because he’s a good person?”

Ryujin groans. “Because he’s jealous. Girl, please open your eyes.”

You blink at her. “They’re open.” You can feel the cussing out she wants to give you bubbling up, so you quickly apologize. “Okay, I’m sorry. I just… do I go for it?”

“Yes.” and, then, “if you feel ready for it.”

Ryujin snatches your phone off the couch and you see her screen light up with a message from you: Y/N shared a contact: jae 💙🪻. “Thank me later,”

You watch her quickly type a text, and you feel your heart sink. “Ryujin!”

She grins. “Trust me.”

“What did you say? Seriously, this is so not cool.”

Jimin watches the two of you like a tennis match as you pick up a pillow and whack the other girl, chasing her around and around your living room until the two of you topple over, breathless. And she still refuses to tell you what she said.

But it gets defused and forgotten about by the time you all make Ghirardelli box brownies, eating them with a scoop of vanilla ice cream as you begin gossiping about their crushes and life updates.

By midnight, all the brownies are gone and you’re practically starving. You hadn’t refilled your pantry since Eric’s latest raid, so with several reassurances that “yes, I’ll be safe” and a resharing of your location with Ryujin and Jimin, you go to the nearby convenience store.

The one owned by the woman who loved you (and you, her).

You’re pondering what Selection ice cream to get for you and Lily to have in the freezer when you hear the door chime and running footsteps.

“Is it true?” Hyunjae asks, forgoing even a ‘hi.’ He’s breathless, sounding and looking almost frantic. His bag is half unzipped, clutched in his right hand. “Is it true?” He asks again, softly, hand grabbing your wrist.

“Is what true? Elaborate, Jae.” You zip up his bag and look at him curiously, watch his heaving chest as he catches his breath. “I thought you were studying in the library for another hour.”

“I was. I…” Hyunjae takes a moment. “Do you not know what Ryujin sent?”

Your heart skips a beat. “No, just that she texted you. She refused to let me see it.”

Hyunjae takes a deep breath and — his hands are shaking as he draws his phone out of his pocket. Your frown deepens, and you watch him unlock it and navigate to the two messages in the conversation.

‘Y/N has a crush on you, do something about it’ and ‘she’s at the convenience store a block away now, you can catch her if you hurry’.

You swallow, suddenly wanting to look anywhere but at him. But you can’t help it, can’t help yourself as you look at him and the softness to his lips and eyes, the sharpness of his bone structure, the delicacy of his features. Even the mole on his nose catches and hooks your attention.

You couldn’t say you didn’t have a crush on him. You did. God, you did. But it’s so hard to just say it. “Depends,” you chuckle, forcing bravado and a confident front. “What are you gonna do about it, if it is?”

Don’t reject me runs through your head like a prayer.

“Y/N,” Hyunjae says, eyes softening. His voice is equally soft, warm and gentle. There’s a desperation and rawness to it too, and your heart speeds up in anticipation despite your fears. “Is it true?”

You swallow. No turning back. A soft nod.

Hyunjae’s entire body relaxes. “Say it.”

“It’s true,” you whisper.

“Good,” he steps closer, and your pulse thrums with excitement as his hand slides up the back of your neck and his thumb rubs over your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

His bag falls — and then his mouth is on yours, and his other hand holds your hip as he tugs you into him. His head tilts and matches your rhythm as if it was his own, as natural as breathing. The world spins as you lean into him, gently curling your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He smells good, and he’s warm, and he’s soft, and he’s kind, and he’s kissing you until you have to pull back slightly, breathless. You leave your forehead against his, and you swear you could count stars in his eyes as he drinks in the sight of you.

“Y/N,” he whispers softly and you nod, “I like you too. So much.”

You initiate this time, softer and slower. He melts into you, weakens against you — sighing when you pull away as he quietly chases your lips for a beat longer before his eyes flutter open again.

His hand laces with yours, wordless. It’s like he can’t find them, mouth still slightly parted as he studies you — and you, him, admiring the red flush high on his cheekbones and the slight sheen on your lipgloss on his mouth.

“I think I’m done studying for the night,” is what he manages after a few minutes.

“Yeah?” It comes out as a small, amused huff.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I have something much more important to do.”

“Care to share?”

Hyunjae blushes. “I have to ask the girl I like to be mine.”

— thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, consider replying, reblogging, sending an ask, or in some way telling me your fav parts!

#the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #the boyz imagines #tbz imagines #the boyz fic #tbz fic #the boyz fluff #tbz fluff #lee hyunjae x reader #hyunjae x reader #lee hyunjae fluff #hyunjae fluff

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