#THE WAY HE STOPPED EVERYTHING WHEN SHE CALLED | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sillylilsquid · 2 days ago

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𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖑𝖎𝖒𝖎𝖙𝖘

pairing - nam gyu x reader summary - you loved him when you shouldn't have. he hurt you when he swore he never would. now, after everything—grief, silence, years apart—you're learning how to be near him again. it isn't perfect. it never was. but maybe, just maybe, there's still something here worth holding on to. warnings - afab!reader, age gap, forbidden love/brother's ex-best friend trope, mentions of parent death, grieving, brief mentions of drug use/fighting/usual nam gyu vibes, explicit sexual content, 18+ minors dni!! 18k words

You grew up with Nam Gyu like a shadow in the hallway. He was always there–shoulder to shoulder with your brother, dropping his shoes by the door, raiding the fridge like it was his own. You were the kid in oversized pajamas, trying to blend into the wall just to watch him. Too shy to speak. Too small to matter.

But you remember everything. The way he laughed too loud, cursed too often, smoked behind the shed even when your mom caught him and told him he’d “ruin his lungs and your brother’s future.” You remember the scabs on his knuckles. The choked grin he gave you when he caught you staring. The way he’d ruffle your hair and call you, “lil sis.”

You remember the day he stopped coming. No warning. No goodbye. One week he was there every day, and the next, your brother wouldn’t say his name. Your parents said it in hushed voices. “He got in with the wrong crowd,” your mom murmured. “Drugs. Guns. He’s not welcome here anymore.”

You never saw him…not until that night.

You’re in college now. Still living at home. Still doing everything right. Your classes are going well. Your professors say you’re “gifted.” You paint portraits for extra cash, volunteer at the community center when you’re not studying. You’re a good girl. Your mom tells her friends how proud she is. Your dad gives you curfews like you’re sixteen.

You still have your childhood room. Pink sheets. Sketches taped to the wall. A desk in the corner covered in soft, pretty things. You don’t party. You don’t sneak around. You don’t lie.

Until you do.

It’s late when your class ends. You stayed behind to finish a painting, left campus with paint on your fingers and your brain still half lost in the shade of someone’s eyes. You don’t even think twice when you pull into the convenience store down the street from your campus. Just want a snack. Something sweet before you drive home.

The bell jingles when you walk in. You head straight for the drinks cooler, tug it open with chilled fingertips. You’re crouched by the candy shelf when you hear it. That voice. Rough and low and unmistakably familiar.

“Thought that was you.”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn–and there he is. Nam Gyu. Standing by the counter like a ghost you summoned. Same hooded eyes, same sharp jaw, same dead-serious stare. Only now he’s older. Taller. Built like a man. There’s a scar above his eyebrow. Tattoos you don’t remember. A cigarette tucked behind one ear.

He looks you up and down, slow. Unapologetic. You feel heat crawl down your neck. “You got taller,” he says. Then a smirk, “Finally.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. He steps closer. Not enough to touch–but enough to make your chest tighten. You don’t know what to say. He looks like a warning sign. A mistake your parents would lose their minds over. But your heart is pounding like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

“Still got that same look on your face,” he murmurs.

“What look?” you manage, too quiet.

He tilts his head, eyes dark. “Like you’re about to beg me for something.” Your stomach flips. And just like that, your perfect little world starts to crack.

After that night at the convenience store, you told yourself it was nothing. A coincidence. A strange little flicker in your perfect routine. You didn’t give him your number. You didn’t ask to see him again. But then he showed up.

Outside the art building. Leaning on a low wall while you packed up your paints. He didn’t say much, just took a long drag from his vape before blowing the strawberry scented smoke in your face. “Just thought I’d say hi,” he said with a shrug, like he didn’t already know your schedule.

Then he was waiting again a few days later. A different building. Same smirk. “You always walk to your car alone?” You told yourself it was harmless. You told yourself you were being careful.

It kept happening. You’d go to the cafe and find him there, nursing a coffee like he belonged. You’d leave a gallery show and see his motorcycle parked across the street. You never invited him. But you stopped telling him to go.

Sometimes he’d offer you rides. Just to be nice, he said. Other times he just…lingered. Leaning against your passenger door, watching you with those tired, heavy lidded eyes. Always in that same hoodie. Always looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

You told yourself you weren’t flirting. You were just being polite. But your body always got warm when he was near. Your voice always went soft. You didn’t tell your parents. You didn’t tell your brother. You just let it happen.

It wasn’t one big moment–it was a hundred little ones. A ride home that ended with him brushing your hair behind your ear. A compliment muttered under his breath that made your stomach twist. A lingering look when you leaned over the console, digging through your bag for gum.

One night, it was late. You’d been driving around for no reason. He was smoking, windows cracked. Your legs were curled up under you in the passenger seat. And he said, quiet, “You always this good, huh?”

You blinked. “Good?”

He nodded once. “Don’t party. Don’t lie. Don’t fuck around.”

You felt that sentence in your spine.

A Few Weeks Later…

You’re fucking him now.

On weekends. After class. In his car, in his bed, once in the bathroom at a shitty bar while music thumped outside. You’re kissing him like you need it to breathe. Letting him spit in your mouth when he says, “Good girls don’t take it like that.”

He’s your secret. Your filthy little addiction.

He picks you up in his car after lectures. Has you ride with your skirt pushed up, panties in his glove box. He buys you drinks with his hand on your thigh under the table. Fucks you dumb and raw and makes you smile at your parents like nothing happened.

You keep him off your social media. Tell your friends he’s just someone from school. Tell your brother nothing.

You lie to everyone. But not to yourself. You like the way he bites your shoulder. You like the way he growls, “Mine,” when you try to leave. You like the way he looks at you like he’d kill for you.

And that terrifies you. Because if your brother knew–if your parents knew–you’d lose everything. And if Nam Gyu ever stops showing up again, you’re not sure you’ll survive it this time.

Your parents left that morning for a weekend trip–anniversary, something fancy. They hugged you, kissed your forehead, reminded you not to let anyone over. You smiled. Promised. Said you’d be panting all weekend.

And now? You’re on your knees in front of Nam Gyu while your favorite candle flickers on your desk. His pants are halfway down his thighs. Your lips are glossy with spit. He’s got his thumb hooked into the corner of your mouth, dragging it down so you can watch your tongue roll over the head of his cock like he owns it.

“God, baby,” he breathes, hand in your hair, rough and praising. “Your mouth’s the fuckin’ prettiest thing in this house.”

You whimper. He grins. The bedroom still looks like it did when you were sixteen. Pink bed sheets. Fairy lights. Your easel in the corner. Drawings on the wall.

Nam Gyu leans back against your pills like he belongs here. “Fuck,” he mutters, “You’d cry if your mom saw you like this, huh?”

You moan around him, cheeks flushed. He grips your jaw, pulls you off slow so strings of spit stretch between your ips and his tip. “Open,” he says. You do.

He smirks, just about to say something else–when the doorbell rings. You freeze. Both of you go still. Nam Gyu blinks, then frowns. “The fuck is that?”

You grab your phone. A text is already lighting up the screen.

Brother👾: you home? came to drop something by

Your heart drops into your stomach. “Fuck–fuck, fuck fuck,” you scramble up off the floor, panic blooming your chest. “It’s my brother. He’s here.”

Nam Gyu’s face goes flat. “I thought he didn’t live here anymore.”

“He doesn’t! He just–he visits, I don’t know, please–” you’re already pulling him up by the wrist, shoving at his chest. “Hide.”

“Hide where?” he hisses. You point to the bed. He gives you the dirtiest look. “You want me to crawl under your fucking bed–”

But you’re already halfway to the door. “I’m stalling him–just do it!”

He curses under his breath–but drops to the floor and disappears under the frame, just as you yank the door open.

“Hey!” you say, breathless. Too cheerful.

Your brother raises an eyebrow. “Why are you out of breath?”

“Uh–yoga. You know. Stretching.”

“You don’t do yoga.”

You laugh. “I do now!” He narrows his eyes. “I, um,” you step aside, heart pounding, “come in. You said you brought something?”

He holds up a brown bag. “Mom forgot her vitamin thing. Figured I’d drop it off.”

You lead him into your room. Your knees are shaking. He takes one step inside. Looks around. Frowns. “Why’s it smell like cologne in here?”

You blink. Your skin goes cold. “I–lit a candle,” you lie quickly. “It’s like…cedarwood or something. Manly. Grounding.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Takes another step inside. You can feel Nam Gyu under the bed. You don’t dare peek. You can barely breathe.

Your brother sighs and drops the bag on your desk. “Still weird being in here. Place hasn’t changed since we were kids.”

You give a weak laugh. “Yeah…nostalgic.”

Then he crouched to pick something off the floor–right by the bed–and your stomach caves in. But it’s just a pencil. He straightens up. Smiles at you. “You good though? You been okay lately?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. “Yeah. Just…busy.”

“Tell Mom and Dad I dropped by.”

“I will.” He leans over and ruffles your hair like you’re still twelve. Then he leaves. You don’t move until the front door clicks shut.

A long moment of silence. You hear his car start. And then– “Are you fucking kidding me–” Nam Gyu’s voice, low and furious, as he drags himself out from under the bed. His hoodie is dusty, hair messed up. “You made me hide like a goddamn teenager–”

You throw yourself at him before he can even finish. “I’m sorry–I panicked–” His mouth crashes down on yours, fast and rough, and his hands are already shoving you toward the bed.

“You owe me for that shit,” he growls into your mouth. “You fuckin’ owe me.”

You nod, breathless, pulling at your clothes. He flips you onto your stomach. “No lights. No moaning. Be a good little liar and keep quiet for me.” You bury your face in the pillow and prepare to let him ruin you.

Your face hits the pillow as Nam Gyu shoves you forward, hand planted firmly between your shoulder blades.

“Gimme that fucking ass,” he growls behind you, voice dark and low with adrenaline. You can feel the floor dust on his jeans–feel how hard he is through the fabric. “Got me hiding under your bed like some fucking side piece.”

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, cheek pressed into the sheets.

“You’re sorry?” he laughs–sharp, mean. “You let me suck your tits with a stuffed bear watching and you’re sorry?”

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down hard. He pauses. “You weren’t even wearing panties when you let me in.”

Your breath stutters. “I–”

He slaps your ass. Hard. “Fucking knew it.” You cry out into the pillow, but he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back. “Shhh,” he coos mockingly. “What would your brother think if he heard you like this? Bent over your bed. Wet as fuck. For the guy he used to call family.”

He lets your hair go and spits down between your thighs. One hand spreads you open–no teasing, no warning–and then his fingers are inside you, two thick and fast, curling up deep. “Goddamn,” he breathes. “Still so tight. You been keeping this little pussy just for me.”

You nod frantically, dropping into your pillow.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes–yes, I have–just you–”

“Good fucking girl.” He pulls his fingers out and slaps your cunt with them, soaked and loud. Then you feel it–his cock, hot and heavy, dragging through your slick. He nudges the head against your entrance, just enough to make you clench. “You wanna get filled like a dirty little secret?”

“Yes–”

“You gonna keep lying to Mommy and Daddy about where you go at night?”

“Yes–” He pushes in deep. Your back arches, mouth open in a silence cry. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you breathe. Just ruts into you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your ass, skin on skin loud in the silence.

His hand clamps over your mouth. “Don’t you dare making a fucking sound,” he hisses. “You want them finding out you’re a whore now? Wanna explain to your brother how I stretch you out and fuck you dumb?”

You whimper under his palm. Your legs shake. He shifts his grip to your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. One hand choking you, the other slipping between your legs.

“You feel that?” he grits, rubbing your clit fast. “That’s me. That’s all me. Every inch of this sweet little cunt’s mine.”

You’re spiraling. Coming so hard your body jerks in his hold. He fucks you thorugh it–growling, mean, filthy.

“Fucking squeeze me like that again and I’ll make you suck me clean after.” You sob. He bites your shoulder. Sucks a mark into your skin so deep you’ll see it for days. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You–fuck–you–”

“That’s right.”

When Nam Gyu finally cums, it’s with a loud grunt, buried deep, your name spilling from his mouth like a threat and a prayer. He stays inside you for a second–hands still on your hips, breath heavy against your ear.

Then he pulls out slow, the slick sound obscene. You collapse on the bed, boneless, face flushed and eyes glassy. He watches you. Watches his cum drip out of you onto your cute pink sheets. Watches your thighs tremble. Then he leans down, kisses your lower back, and mutters: “Bet your brother wouldn’t believe a sweet girl like you could take dick like that.”

You’re still facedown on your bed. Cheek pressed to the sheets. Legs sprawled. Your breathing is uneven and your thighs are trembling. For a second, neither of you move.

Nam gyu just stands there, his jeans still half down, eyes fixed on the mess he made. Your pussy, swollen and leaking. His cum on your thighs. Your back rising and falling like you just ran a mile. “You okay?” he asks finally, quietly.

You nod, a little dazed. “Mmhm.”

He exhales–then zips himself up and pads toward your door, bare feet creaking on the old floorboards. “Don’t move,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll clean you up.”

A minute later, he’s back–with a warm washcloth from the hall bathroom. His voice is different now, lower. Soothed. He kneels between your legs. The cloth is warm when it touches you. Gentle and careful.

You twitch. “Easy,” he murmurs, one hand on your thigh. “I got you.”

He wipes you clean–slow circles, gentle dabs. No teasing. No filth. Just care. You feel him swipe the cloth through the mess between your legs, wiping up his cum, then toss it to the side. “I was too rough,” he says after a moment. Guilt peeking through.

You peek over your shoulder, cheek squished to the pillow. “I liked it.”

He huffs a breath–smiles, barely–and leans over to kiss your lower back. Soft. A little reverent. Then again. Higher this time. Between your shoulder blades.

You feel his hands under your arms, pulling you up slow, and before you can even fully sit, she’s scooping you into his lap like you’re his. His girl. His baby “C’mon,” he mumbles into your hair. “Shower.”

He carries you to the bathroom room, flicks the light on low. The old shower rattles a little as it starts up. You sit on the counter while he grabs your towel and favorite body wash. He kisses your knees while he waits for the water to heat.

And when you’re both finally inside, under the spray, he washes you like you’re something breakable. Soapy hands across your shoulders. Your back. Down your arms. His fingers slow on your belly, gentle between your legs. No filth now. Just love.

He lets you wear his hoodie after, even though it’s warm outside. And later, curled up in your bed with his arm under your head and his hoodie draped over your bare legs, he holds you so close you can feel his heartbeat in your spine.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I never left,” he murmurs. “You just stopped looking.”

The window’s cracked. The summer air slips in slow, thick and sweet, brushing over your skin. Crickets hum somewhere outside. Your childhood neighborhood, still the same–still safe. Still small.

Nam Gyu’s hoodie hangs loose on your body, sleeves bunched at your wrists. Your legs are bare beneath the covers, curled into his. His chest is warm against your back, arm heavy around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

He takes another drag from his vape. The quiet click of it echoes in the stillness, then a curl of strawberry vapor drifts out the open window. “Babe,” he mumbles sleepily against your shoulder. “I’m gonna get you addicted to this shit.”

You smile faintly. “No, you’re not.”

“You already like it.”

“I like you.”

He huffs a breath. Doesn’t say anything for a second. Just lets it hang there. You’re quiet for a while. Long enough for your heart to settle, long enough that you think maybe he’s fallen asleep.

But then, you ask, “Why’d you stop coming around?” It’s soft, gentle. But it slices through the silence like a blade.

He’s quiet for a long time. You don’t push. You just wait. Eventually, he shifts behind you–pulls the covers tighter around the both of you. His vape clicks again. Then he exhales slowly, and says, “Your brother told me to.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What?”

Nam Gyu lets the words come slow. “It was right after that one summer,” he explains. “The one where I started skipping school. Showing up with bruises and black eyes and shit.” He pauses. “Your parents got worried. Thought I was a bad influence. He didn’t disagree.”

Your heart twists. “He told me if I gave a fuck about you,” Nam Gyu says, no emotion in his voice. “I’d stay away. Said you didn’t need some punk with a death wish hanging around the house anymore.”

You roll over to face him. He doesn’t look at you. Just stares up at the ceiling, eyes half lidded, fingers tugging at a loose thread in your blanket. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he mutters. “Didn’t want you to see what I turned into.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you whisper.

“I do now.” You shake your head. He finally looks at you. His eyes are darker than usual. Not angry. Just hurt. Heavy.

“You were so fucking little,” he mutters, almos to himself. “Used to sit in the grass and draw with sidewalk chalk. Couldn’t even look me in the eyes without blushing.” Your throat tightens.

“And then I got kicked out of school. Started running shit with guys who wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in someone’s back. Stopped being your brother’s friend and started being a problem.” He holds his vape up to his lips but doesn’t hit. “You shouldn't even want me in this bed.”

“But I do.” He looks at you. Really looks. And then he tucks your hair behind your ear. Leans forward, slow, like it hurts him, and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. “I know.”

He’s still watching you. Eyes darker now. Not with lust–but with something heavier. Something that makes your chest ache. His hand slides under the hem of your hoodie–barely there, just resting on the small of your back. Then– “Get up here,” he murmurs. You stare up at him in confusion. He taps your thigh gently. “C’mere.”

You hesitate for half a second before shifting forward, crawling up his chest until your body lies flush against his–chest to chest, cheek nestled into the dip between his collarbones. You feel his hand curve around your thigh to help you settle, the other resting flat between your shoulder blades.

His warmth sinks into you instantly. “See?” he mumbles into your hair. “Better.”

You hum in agreement, eyes slipping closed. You feel his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. One slow, endless loop at a time. It makes your whole body feel like it’s floating.

“I used to think about this,” he says softly, after a long pause. “Back when I stopped coming around. Used to imagine what it’d be like…if I had got to see you one more time. If I got to lay with you in my arms.”

You don’t say anything, just tuck your face deeper into his neck, like maybe if you hold him tighter, he won’t disappear again. His breath slows. He keeps talking–quieter now, barely audible. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to touch you again. Let alone have you fall asleep on top of me like this.”

Your heart thuds hard against your ribcage. And then his arms tighten–just slightly. Not possessive, or horny, not even jealous. Just holding. Just having. “Sleep, baby,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to fight it. But your limbs go heavy. Your breathing softens. And eventually you drift off like that–clinging to him. The only boy who ever made you feel both ruined and safe.

And when you woke up the next morning, he was gone. Not in a left you forever way. Just gone-gone. A scribbled note on your desk: had to run. be back later. lock the door–gyu

You had class anyway. You showered, threw on your usual outfit–something cozy, something simple–and tried not to spend the whole lecture replaying the feel of his hand gripping your hip while you moaned into his throat. When you get out of class, there’s a text waiting for you.

When you get out of class, there’s a text waiting for you.

bby boi🧸: party tonight

bby boi🧸: come

You pause. You’re not a party girl. You’re a homework and chamomile tea and skincare before bed kind of girl. But still, your heart skips.

You send back: you’ll be there??

His response is instant.

bby boi🧸: obviously

bby boi🧸: i’ll pick u up

You try on four different outfits before settling on a soft cream sweater and black leggings. Cute socks. Clean sneakers. A spritz of perfume behind your ears and a hint of gloss on your lips.

You hear his car outside. You grab your bag, check yourself in the mirror one more time, then head out. When you slide into the passenger seat, Nam Gyu looks you up and down–blinks once, then frowns. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Your stomach twists and you freeze up. “What?”

He doesn’t mean it mean. He just gestures vaguely. “All girly.”

You bite your lip. Look down at your outfit. “I thought it was cute.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. And then–you swear it–his eyes soften. “It is.” And then he drives.

The house party is loud. Music shaking the walls. People crowding the front lawn. The air smells like weed and stale beer and cheap perfume.

The second you step inside, it hits you all at once–flashing lights, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, girls dancing on tables, guys with bottles in their fists. Someone yells something unintelligible across the kitchen.

You flinch. Nam Gyu doesn’t. He fits in here. Like he was made for it. The tattoos, the lazy confidence, the way his hand wraps around your wrist without thinking as he guides you through the crush of people.

He starts talking to a friend. Someone taller, louder. They laugh, talk about something you can’t follow. A blunt gets passed. A girl slaps Nam Gyu’s arm playfully. You stay quiet. Pressed against his side. A pretty little shadow in a soft sweater, wide eyed and quiet. He doesn’t let go of your hand, but he doesn’t look at you, either.

You can feel the stares. From girls. From guys. You don’t belong here and you know it. But you want to. Because he’s here. And you want to be where he is. Even if it means swallowing the knot in your throat and trying not to look like you’re trembling.

You’re still glued to his side, barely saying a word, when he finally turns to look at you. You don’t know what gives it away. Maybe the way your hand keeps fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. Maybe the way you flinch every time someone brushes past too close. Maybe it’s how you haven’t laughed once tonight–not even a fake little chuckle to make him feel good.

He leans down toward your ear, voice low. “Come with me.”

You nod immediately, clinging to his sleeve as he guides you out of the kitchen. Up a hallway, past a line for the bathroom, through a cracked open door into some random bedroom.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, the noise softens. You can breathe again. Nam Gyu turns to face you. Eyes sharp but not unkind. “You wanna leave?” he asks, arms folding as he leans against the dresser.

Your eyes widen. “No.” You’re too quick to answer. Too eager.

His brow arches. “No?”

“I–” you swallow. “I wanna stay. I just…”

His head tilts. “You just?”

“I wanna stay with you.”

That get a smile. Slow, crooked, dangerous. “You’re not exactly blending in, baby.”

You blush. You look down at your shoes. “I know. I’m not really…” You trail off, unsure how to say it. Not cool. Not edgy. Not the kind of girl who smokes and dances on tables and makes guys stare.

He pushes off the dresser and walks up slowly. The floor creaks beneath his boots. When he’s in front of you, he reaches for the end of your sweater sleeve and tugs it between his fingers. “You wanna drink with me?”

Your lashes flutter. “Right now?”

“Yeah. right now. Or not. Up to you.” You’re quiet, nibbling on your bottom lip. He leans in and murmurs, “You don’t have to, baby. If you’re not comfortable, I’m not gonna make you.”

And maybe it’s how gentle his voice goes. Maybe it’s how patient he is, for once. But it makes something inside you crack open. “I just…” You finally say it. Small and honest. “I just want you to like me.”

The moment hangs in the air like fog. His eyes flicker up to yours. He doesn't laugh. Doesn't tease. He just takes a breath and closes the distance–his hand slipping beneath your jaw to tilt your face toward his. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, voice rough. “You think I don’t like you?”

Your breath catches. “I show up to some stupid party full of assholes I hate just so I can see you in that sweater,” he mutters, thumb grazing your cheek. “You’re the only reason I’m not high off my ass right now.”

You blink up at him. Slowly. And he leans in–kisses the corner of your mouth. Not quite your lips. Not yet. Then he murmurs, “Now sit on the bed and tell me what kinda drink you want.”

She looks up at him from where she’s perched on the edge of the bed, her voice quiet under the bass still thudding from downstairs. “Can I go with you?”

He doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say anything. Just grabs your wrist and pulls you in close, tucking her under his arm like she’s already his and leading her back down to the chaos.

It’s worse this time. There’s someone passed out hallway up the stairs. A couple making out in the hallway. The music’s louder. Someone’s lighting a blunt in the living room. But Nam Gyu doesn’t let go of you, not even once.

In the kitchen, he shrugs his arm off you just long enough to grab a red cup, filling it up from a big bottle of something clear. He leans his weight into the counter lazily, one arm slung low around your waist again–pulling you back against him.

You go without a fight. Back flush against his broad chest. He takes a sip, smirking into the cup, and then lifts it toward your lips. “Wanna taste?”

You hesitate, then nod. The second it hits your tongue, you choke. “Oh my god,” you sputter, coughing into your sleeve. “That’s awful!”

Nam Gyu lets out a low laugh against your shoulder, that kind of boyish snort he almost never shows. You feel it more than you hear it–the way his chest shakes behind you, the curve of his smile pressing into the side of your neck. “I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me it tasted like nail polish remover.”

He just hums, taking another sip like it’s nothing. You wrinkle your nose, settling back against him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. The music’s changed–something heavier, the bass vibrating through the floor–and you can’t help it. You start to sway a little. Barely. Just the tiniest movement.

But he feels it. His hand twitches against your hip. And then he coughs once. Clears his throat. You feel his body tense behind you. His voice sounds a little too casual when he talks to the two guys across from you–one of them saying something about a fight that broke out at the last party, something about who got banned from whose place. But Nam Gyu barely responds. His fingers are digging into your sides now. Harder.

“Stop rubbing on my cock,” he mutters in your ear, his voice hoarse and quiet enough that no one else hears, “or I’ll fuck you right here in front of my friends.”

You freeze, it makes you hold your breath. And he just sips his drink like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just say that with his lips brushing the shell of your ear, while your heart’s racing and your thighs are clenching and his arm is tightening around your waist. “You’re so mean,” you whisper breathlessly.

He smiles into your hair. “Yeah, but you like it.”

One of his friends glances over from where he’s grabbing another drink. “Yo, Gyu,” he calls with a grin, “you bringin’ her to to share or are you takin’ her straight to the backseat?”

Nam Gyu doesn’t miss a seat. “Backseat,” he says, cool and sure. “Gonna get my dick sucked before we leave.”

Your hands shoot up to cover your face, lips parted in shock. You’re mortified. He said it like it’s nothing. Like you’re not right there in his arms, practically melting from embarrassment. “Stop,” you whine, shoving lightly at his chest without looking at him. “You can’t just say that–”

“Why not?” he asks, way too smug. “They should know how good you are for me.”

You make a tiny, wounded noise and try to twist away but he just laughs and hugs you tighter from behind. One hand slides up to tilt your chin, making you look at him with that pouty, red faced glare. He hums, “Cute. Didn’t say it wasn’t true.”

His friends chuckle, amused but distracted. The music’s loud. No one really cares. But he’s got you blushing so hard it hurts, hiding your face again in his hoodie as he kisses the side of your neck like you’re his and he wants everyone to know it.

The second the car door opens, it’s like a dam breaks. Nam Gyu pulls you in with both hands, climbing into the backseat, already crowding you against the seats. It smells like him in here–his cologne, his vape, the faintest trace of weed–and it’s warm, private, and dangerous.

“You were so fuckin’ cute tonight,” he mutters, shoving your sweater up to your ribs, fingers skating over your bra, your waist, gripping like he wants to leave fingerprints. “Walkin’ around all shy in your little socks like you didn’t know what the fuck you were doin’ to me.”

You gasp as you watch him unbutton his jeans, tugging them down just far enough for his cock to spring free–already hard, flushed dark, tip leaking. “Gyu–”

“You wanted this.” He cups your chin, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “Been squirming in my lap all night. You want me in your throat, baby?” You nod, eyes wide. “Then open up. Be a good fuckin’ girl for me.”

You drop to your knees on the floor of the car, wedged between his legs, the driver’s seat digging into your lower back. Your hands wrap around the base of his cock as you lean in, tongue licking a stripe from base to tip. He hisses through his teeth. “Shit–look at you,” he pants. “Good fucking girl.”

You swirl your tongue around the head and then take him in slowly, inch by inch, until your lips are brushing your fingers. He’s thick. Heavy. The weight of him presses on your tongue, makes your eyes flutter. You moan.

“Fuck. Don’t tease. Take it.” You do. You pull off, spit thick and glossy between you, then open your mouth wider–letting him slide in deeper. He grabs your hair with one hand, the other bracing on the seat as he starts to thrust.

It’s filthy. Wet. Your eyes start to water almost immediately as he pushes in too far, holding your head down until your nose is buried in the soft of his belly. You choke, gag–but don’t pull away. Your nails dig into his thighs.

“God, baby–fuck yes–take it, just like that,” he grits out. “Look at you. My pretty little slut, takin’ cock in the back of my car like you were made for it.”

You can’t respond. You can only moan around him, eyes blurred, throat tight and aching. Spit’s running down your chin, soaking your sweater. He’s panting now, hips jerking up faster. “You gonna let me cum in that pretty mouth?” he groans. “Huh? You gonna swallow for me, sweetheart?”

You nod as best as you can with him deep in your throat, and that’s all it takes. His breath stutters, his grip tightens. “Fuck, shit, baby–swallow it. Take all of it–”

He spills down your throat with a rough groan, holding your head down while he pulses in your mouth. You whimper, obedient, swallowing everything, lips wrapped around him until he finally lets you go. You pull off with a gasp, coughing a little, tear streaked and flushed and ruined. And he just leans forward, pulls you into his lap, and kisses you slow. “My perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You’re still catching your breath when he reaches up with his sleeve and gently cradles your jaw with his fingers. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. He wipes at your mouth first–slow, careful–then tips your chin to swipe at the smudged mascara trailing beneath your eyes.

You blink at him, dazed and pink-cheeked, and he smiles like he wants to kiss you again, like he’s proud of the ruin he made. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you in the front seat before someone calls the cops.”

It makes you giggle. He tucks himself back into his jeans, zips up, helps you climb over the center console. His hand never really leaves you–either steadying your thigh, brushing your hair back, or resting on your knee as he starts the car.

The drive is quiet at first. Warm. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the soft music playing from the radio.

“My parents come back tomorrow,” you whisper, watching the streetlights blur past.

He glances at you. “Yeah?”

You nod, picking at the hem of your sweater. “Means I probably won’t be able to see you as much.”

Nam Gyu exhales, his hand squeezing your knee silently. “I won’t abandon you, baby.” You glance over at him, brows slightly furrowed. He grins. “You’re gonna sneak out like a good girl for me, right?”

You roll your eyes, but you nod. “Yeah.”

“Atta girl.” HIs voice dips low–something teasing and dark curling around the edges. “Keep bein’ good and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Your cheeks burn. There’s a pause for a second, then softer he speaks, “If your brother knew, he’d literally kill me.”

You laugh under your breath. “Yeah. I know.”

He chuckles, tapping the wheel with his thumb. “He always was a hothead.”

Another stretch of silence, then you speak again–quieter this time. “I’m almost done with this semester.”

“Yeah?” he hums. “Proud of you.”

“I don’t know if I’m gonna go back.”

His head turns, eyes flicking toward you for a second. “Why not? You’re great at art.”

“I enjoy it. I do,” you say, staring out the window. “But it’s starting to feel like a chore. Like it’s what they want. Not what I want.”

Nam Gyu doesn’t speak right away. His fingers squeeze your knee again. “You know you don’t have to live for them, right?”

You glance over, surprised at the softness in his voice. He’s still focused on the road, but his jaw’s tight. “You can figure out what you want. Doesn’t have to be what they mapped out for you.”

You nod slowly. “I don’t know what I want yet.”

“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’ll figure it out.”

The words hang in the air–we’ll. Like he means to stay. You look at him. The boy who wiped your mouth and kissed your ruined face. Who made you feel both destroyed and protected in the same breath. “Okay,” you whisper.

And when he parks outside your house, he doesn’t kiss you again–not right away. He just brushes hair out of your face and says, “Text me when you’re inside.”

“I will.”

“Good girl.”

It’s been a few weeks since that night in his car, since he murmured “good girl” against your cheek like it meant something more than obedience. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. You haven’t dared ask.

Since then, you’ve been lying with more ease than you ever thought possible. “Studying at Mia’s.” “Group project ran late.” “Just staying at school a little longer.”

Your parents don’t question much, not now–not with finals around the corner and your sketchpad always in hand. You’ve been too busy with your last assignments to sneak away like you want to. You’ve been too busy with your last assignments to sneak away like you want to, but Nam Gyu hasn’t complained. Not once. He still texts you throughout the day: stupid memes, blurry gym selfies, a voice memo once where he told you “I miss your weird little laugh.” You keep replaying it when the ache of not seeing him gets too much.

For your final project, you’re supposed to do a single charcoal portrait: someone real, someone who stirs something in you. You chose him. You don’t tell him, of course. You’ve been working on it in secret, staying up late when the house is quiet and everyone’s asleep. His face is starting to emerge from the paper–sharp, shadowed. The slope of his brow, the mess of his hair. Your fingers stay smudged with graphite. You’ve ruined two pillowcases and a sweatshirt. You don’t care.

It’s almost done when your phone buzzes beside you.

bby boi🧸: come open ur window

Your heart stutters. You’re in bed already, oversized shirt on and bare legs, a little flushed from how often you’ve been thinking of him lately. You tiptoe across your room, crack the window open, and there he is–dark jacket, tousled hair, looking up at you like he’s done it a hundred times.

You help him climb in, trying not to laugh when he bumps his knee on your desk. “Shh,” you whisper, biting your lip. “You’re gonna wake up the whole house.”

He grins, breathless from the climb, and whispers back, “You gotta get a ladder or something. I’m getting too old for this.”

You snort softly and motion for him to sit, but his eyes are already scanning your room–and they land on the sketchbook still open on your desk. He tilts his head. “What’s that?”

You freeze. “Nothing–” But he’s already walking toward it. You’re too slow to stop him. His hand hovers over the page–not touching, not smudging. Just looking.

It’s his face. Almost exactly. You even captured the little scar above his eyebrow. The way his mouth curves when he’s about to tease you. The soft shadows under his cheekbones. It’s him, raw and unfiltered. It’s him how you see him.

When he speaks, it’s quiet. “Is this for school?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Final. It’s…it’s a portrait unit.”

He’s silent for a long beat. Just staring. Then– “You made me look better than I do in real life.”

You huff. “No I didn’t.”

He finally turns toward you. His voice is rough when he says, “That’s how you see me?”

You nod again, smaller this time. He steps closer. His hand finds your cheek and his thumb brushes a charcoal smudge you didn’t know was there. “You make me look like someone worth something,” he murmurs. “No one’s ever done that before.”

And suddenly your room feels very small. The night very quiet. Your breath caught in your chest.

You whisper, “You are.” His fingers tilt your chin up. And when he kisses you, it’s the softest it’s ever been–like he’s scared he’ll break something if he presses too hard. Like he’s trying to memorize how this moment feels.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, legs warm under the covers, blanket draped across your lap. Nam Gyu’s stretched out beside you, propped against your headboard, jacket sleeves pushed up around his forearms and one leg hanging off the mattress. His hair’s still messy from the wind outside, and he smells faintly like smoke and detergent.

The window’s cracked open behind you for air. A breeze curls in, bruising over your bare arms. He looks at you sideways. His voice holds a bit of a teasing tone. “You gonna hide me forever?”

You smile, pulling your legs up to your chest. “Why? You jealous?”

He scoffs, then shrugs, not denying it. “Maybe. Kinda pathetic, right?”

You giggle, and he leans his head back against your wall like he’s trying not to smile. The sound of your laugh is his favorite thing in the world and you have no idea.

“No,” you admit softly. “I’m not trying to hide you. I’m just…” You trail off, picking at the edge of your blanket.

He doesn’t push, just waits. You finally exhale, voice quieter. “I’m sure I’ll tell them eventually. Just…not right now.”

He nods, like he understands. Like he does understand. There’s a long, gentle pause. And then, just above a whisper, you say, “I know why they don’t like you anymore.”

His jaw twitches, but doesn’t look away. Doesn’t speak. You go on, nervous but honest. “I think it’ll be hard to show them you’ve changed. Especially with, you know…you being twenty-five. And my brother’s ex-best friend.”

Nam Gyu’s gaze drops. His thumb starts tracing a crease in your sheets. “Yeah.”

“They’ll really have a hard time with it,” you add.

“I know.” His voice is so soft it barely reaches you. “But I don’t care about them.” You glance up at him. “I care about you,” he says, finally looking at you again. “That’s it.”

Your heart aches. You try to hold his gaze, but your face heats up too fast, so you look back down at your lap, hiding a shy smile. He shifts closer, knocking your knee with his. “Hey,” he whispers. You look up. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I’ll sneak through your window for as long as it takes.”

That makes you laugh again, soft and surprised. “You better be careful, my dad’s got a gun.”

“I’m not scared of your dad.”

“You should be,” you tease.

He grins at that, and for a few quiet minutes, you just sit there. Letting it be easy. Letting yourself enjoy him. Then he reaches out, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. “So…you drew me, huh?”

You groan, grabbing a pillow and half heartedly whacking him with it. “Don’t make it weird!”

“I’m not!” He’s laughing, dodging your attack. “It’s just–kinda sweet. That’s all.”

Your cheeks burn again. But you let yourself lean into his side, head resting on his shoulder, legs tangled under the blanket.

Outside the wind rustles the leaves. Inside, you whisper, “I really like you.” And he doesn’t say it back–not yet. But he turns his head and kisses your forehead like he means something more than words ever could.

3 Years Later…

You’re twenty-two now. Not the same girl who used to sneak out at night and crawl into the passenger seat of his beat-up car, trembling and giggling. Not the girl who kept him hidden like a sin. You’ve graduated, moved to Seoul–far away from the suffocating small town and all its long memories. You rent a cozy little apartment above a flower shop, teach art at a nearby school, and on weekends, you lead pottery classes for older women who treat you like their daughter.

You’re happy, or maybe just quiet. It’s not the same thing, but it’s close enough. He stopped reaching out years ago. First, the replies came slower. Then his messages turned from blue to green. You checked his socials–gone. He blocked you. No warning. Just…gone. It left a hole you haven’t really filled.

Your new friend drags you out to this sleek little place tucked into a quiet alley near Itaewon. Good food, expensive drinks, soft jazz humming in the background. It’s a far cry from the smoke filled house parties you used to cling to Nam Gyu in.

You eat. Laugh. Nurse your drink while your friend heads out early, waving goodbye with a wink and a joke about getting some sleep for once. And you’re left in the half dim lighting, swirling your cocktail with the straw, letting the music buzz low in your chest.

That’s when you feel it. A presence. Eyes. You look up. Nam Gyu. Standing near the door, dressed in black, sharp around the edges–just like always. But older. His hair’s a little longer, his build filled out. There’s a woman on his arm, clinging to him like a promise.

And yet–his eyes are locked on you. For a moment, neither of you move. Then he says something to the girl–quiet and low. She nods and walks off without looking back. And he stays. Still staring.

You drop your eyes, suddenly cold all over, pretending you didn’t see him. You focus on your drink, heart pounding in your ears. You should walk away. Leave. But it’s too late.

He’s already walking toward you. He stops at your table, hands in his coat pockets, that same worn-in confidence in his stance. “You grew up.”

You don’t look at him. Not at first. Just blink, stare at the ice melting in your drink. But something in you snaps. You glance up slowly, eyes sharp, voice quiet. “Yeah. That’s what happens when you ghost someone for three years. People change.”

And that hits him. You see it. The flicker in his jaw, the faint squint in his eyes. He pulls the empty chair out and sits without asking. Like he used to. Like no time passed at all.

“You’re still mad.”

“I’m not mad.” You laugh bitterly. “I’m over it. I just…didn’t expect to see you here. In Seoul. With another girl on your arm.”

He leans back in the chair, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. “Didn’t think I’d see you either. You’re different.”

“So are you.” You pause, then add, quieter, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” And neither of you say it–but it’s there. The silence. The grief. The thousand things that were left unsaid.

“You should go.” Your voice is steady, but the hand gripping your glass is trembling slightly. You don’t look at him. You can’t. His presence is a weight across your skin, heavy and electric. “I’ll forget I saw you,” you murmur. “Just go.”

Nam Gyu doesn’t move. “That’s not what you want.”

You swallow hard. Still not looking at him. Your thighs press together under the table on pure instinct–tight and tense. You’re trying to stay composed, but he sees the way your knuckles pale where you hold your glass. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leans forward slightly. Drops his voice. “Come back to my place.”

You scoff, shaking your head once. “What about your girlfriend?”

He lets out a short, amused breath through his nose. “She’s not my girlfriend.” Something shifts. Something cracks. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re standing. You don’t look at him as you walk toward the door. He follows without a word.

The city blurs by outside the windows of the black car. You sit in the back seat beside him, silent. Tension coils in the narrow space between your bodies. His leg brushes yours and you don’t move away.

By the time the elevator door opens to his floor, your heart is pounding in your ears. His apartment is nothing like what you imagined it to be. A luxury penthouse, floor to ceiling windows, expensive furniture. Dark, sleek, masculine.

You step inside slowly, heels clicking against the hardwood. You don’t say anything at first–just walk to the edge of the living room where Seoul glitters beneath you like a galaxy.

“How the hell do you afford this?” you ask, half to yourself.

Behind you, Nam Gyu shrugs off his coat. “I work. I don’t blow it on drugs anymore. Turns out you save a lot of money when you’re not trying to kill yourself.”

You turn around, lips parting–but the words catch in your throat. He’s staring at you. Not just looking. Staring. Like he hasn’t blinked since the second you stepped through the door. You glance down at your dress. Tight. Black, with thin sleeves resting on your shoulder. A slit up the thigh. It clings to all the right places. Your body has changed since he last saw you. Fuller. Softer. More woman than girl now.

You look back up at him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. He moves. Crosses the space between you in three strides. His hands are on your waist, gripping, pulling. His mouth finds yours–hot, desperate, bruising. He kisses you like it’s been years. Like he hated every day he couldn’t.

Your back hits the window. His hands push down your dress straps roughly, pulling them to your elbows. His mouth is on your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, voice hoarse. “You–fuck, you feel so good now.”

Your fingers are in his hair. His knees hit the hardwood. He doesn’t even hesitate. Not when he sinks down in front of you, palms sliding up the backs of your calves, slow and reverent like he’s praying. Not when his eyes travel up your legs, over the soft swell of your thighs peeking through the slit in your dress. He palms them–big, rough hands gripping tight.

“Fuck,” he whispers, sounding absolutely wrecked. “You got so–” He swallows. “You grew up, baby.” His eyes flash up to yours, pupils blown wide. “Can’t believe you’ve been walking around like this. Looking like this. And I’ve been–” he breaks off, licking his lips. “Dreaming about this body for years.”

Your heart pounds. He pulls your dress up, bunches it around your hips. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, gripping your ass, squeezing hard–groaning like he’s in pain. His mouth finds the inside of your knee, trailing kisses up, slow and sloppy, as he mumbles against your skin.

“Want you so bad, fuck–lemme taste you please. Just–please, baby, I’ll be so good.”

You stare down at him–this tall, cocky, once detached man–now on his knees, lips at your inner thigh, begging. Begging to worship. “You’re begging now?” you murmur, breathless.

He nods against your skin. “I’ll beg all night. You want me to get on my hands and knees and crawl after you, I fucking will. Just let me have you. Let me taste you.”

You step out of your heels. Then out of your panties. He groans when they slide down your legs, eyes locked to the wet center like it’s the only thing on earth. Like it’s his.

And then he’s buried between your thighs. His tongue is hot and filthy, all open mouthed kisses and greedy flicks. He moans into you–loud, like he doesn’t care who hears. Like he wants the whole goddamn city to know how good you taste. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers pressing bruises into soft flesh. He eats like he’s drowning in you.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he mumbles, lips slippery against your folds. “Missed this pussy. Dreamed about it–”

His tongue drags up and flattens over your clit. You gasp–head falling back against the glass window, body trembling as he sucks, gentle and then hard. He groans like he feels it too, like your pleasure is his pleasure.

“You’re perfect now,” he mutters, breathless. “Full and warm and fuckin’ mine.”

You whimper. “Gyu…”

He pulls back just long enough to look up at you. His chin is wet, lips shiny, eyes wild. “Say you missed me,” he growls.

“I missed you,” you whisper, shaking.

“Say this pussy missed me.”

Your voice breaks this time. “It missed you–fuck–” And then he dives back in like he’s starving. Tongue flicking and curling and fucking into you until your knees buckle. You cry out, grinding down on his mouth, and he lets you–hands under your ass, guiding your hips, moaning as you ride his face.

Your thighs clench around his head. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re full on sobbing through your orgasm, shaking, slumped against the window. Your dress is a mess. Your hair’s a mess. Your legs won’t stop trembling.

Nam Gyu finally rises–slow, towering over you. He licks his lips, grinning. “Now,” he says, undoing his belt, voice like thunder. “I’m gonna fuck you in front of this window until every bastard in this city knows who you belong to.”

He towers over you–belt undone, pants halfway down his thighs, cock flushed and aching. It’s thick, heavy, twitching against his abs, and he’s panting just from looking at you. “Please, please let me fuck you.” His voice is trembling.

Your breath catches. He’s flushed, hair messy, pupils blown wide with want. He’s not cocky anymore. Not right now. He’s wretched before he’s even really touched you. “Say I can, baby. Say it’s mine.” He pleads with you.

You glance down at his cock, then back up, lips curled into the faintest smirk. “You want it that bad?”

He nods quickly, hands coming up to cup your face. “So bad. You don’t even know–I’ve been dreaming about you, baby. Jerking off to the thought of your tits, your thighs, your voice. I’d do anything. Anything. Let me show you.”

You lean in, brush your lips across his ear. “Then show me.”

He groans, loud, and spins you gently, pressing your front to the window. The glass is cold against your skin, but he’s already tugging your dress up, sliding it over your hips until it’s bunched around your waist.

You hear him behind you. Fumbling, panting, cursing under his breath like he’s in pain. “So pretty,” he breathes, gripping your ass, spreading you open. “Your body…fuck, your body’s perfect. You were beautiful before, but now–” He groans. “Now you’re a fuckin’ dream.”

You whimper when he grinds his cock between your thighs, dragging the length of it over your soaked center. He leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, voice hot and needy in your ear. “Let me in baby. Please. Let me fuck you. Let me make you mine again.”

“Say it,” you whisper, trembling.

He nuzzles your neck. “Please, baby. I need it. Need to feel you again. Need to fuck you until you scream my name.”

You shift your hips back, guiding him to your entrance. “Then take it.” He sinks in with a gasp. His hands fly to your waist–gripping so tight, he might bruise. His hips roll forward, slow at first, savoring the heat, the stretch, the way you take every inch like you were made for him.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel even better than I remembered–tight, hot, wet. You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

You moan, pressing your palms to the window as his pace builds. Every thrust is deep, smooth, worshipful. He’s fucking you like it’s the last time he ever will–like he’s memorizing your body all over again.

The glass fogs beneath your hands. “Look at you,” he pants, thrusting harder. “Bent over my window, letting me fuck you like a good girl. All these people down there, and you’re just taking it.”

You cry out when he hits that perfect spot–when his hands slide under your dress to grab at your tits, squeezing, groaning at the way they fill his palms. “You got so soft,” he moans. “So full. Your thighs–your ass–your tits–fuck, I could die between them.”

His hips slam into you harder, needier, his voice dissolving into whimpers against your skin. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “I’m gonna fucking come. Say it’s mine–say this pussy’s mine–please.”

You tilt your head back, grinding against him, loving every filthy, desperate word. “It’s yours, Gyu. It’s all yours.” That’s all it takes. He breaks. He comes with a guttural moan, hips snapping forward as he spills deep inside you–grinding through it, panting, groaning, hands trembling where they told you.

He doesn’t pull out. Just leans forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, whispering between shaky breaths. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much. Don’t make me go another day without this. Without you.”

You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m never letting you go again.”

The lights are dim, casting a soft golden glow across the tiles and the water. The deep porcelain tub stretches wide in his massive bathroom–sleek black counters, warm wood floors, and wall to wall windows that overlook the glittering city.

But right now, all you care about is him.

You sit across from each other, the water nearly up to your shoulders, the scent of sandalwood bubbles curling into the air between you. Your knees poke up from the water, glistening in the low light, and his hands rest lazily on his thighs, head tilted back against the edge of the tube.

He looks soft like this. Damp hair curling slightly at the ends, his strong chest rising and falling slowly. When you stretch your legs out and place your feet in his lap, he looks down–smiles.

You wiggle your toes. Nam Gyu huffs a quiet laugh, one hand sliding along your shin. “You’re such a brat.”

“Say it again,” you murmur, teasing.

He grins. “Brat.”

You stick your tongue out at him. He catches your ankle, presses a kiss just above the bone. It’s stupidly gentle. So is the look in his eyes. “What?” you ask, your voice dipping quiet, almost embarrassed.

His shoulders shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…here. In my bath. With your toes in my lap. I think I used to dream about this.”

That’s what does it. The question slips out before you can stop it–fast, unfiltered. “So who was that girl, if she’s not your girlfriend?” The words echo a bit too sharply in the steam filled room. Your eyes go wide. “Shit–I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in gently. “You don’t have to act like it didn’t bother you.”

You look down at the water, heart racing, skin heating in more ways than one. “It didn’t bother me,” you say softly.

Nam Gyu gives a slow, amused sigh. “We work together.”

You glance up. “Work together?” You make air quotes with your fingers, voice skeptical. It makes him smirk.

“You wanna go through my phone?” he offers casually. “Deadass. You can scroll through the whole thing. You won’t find anything. No flirty texts. No hidden apps. Just boring ass group chats and my open tabs of porn with girls that look like you.”

You stare at him wide eyed. “What?”

“I’m not kidding,” he says, holding your gaze. “Same body type. Same thighs. Same tits. Same soft little belly. They all look like you. I haven’t fucked anyone since you. Haven’t wanted to.”

The words dangle in the air, leaving you speechless. He runs his hand up your calf, fingers trailing lazily along your skin. “It’s like I ruined myself,” he says with a small laugh. “Now nothing else works.”

You hold your breath. “Gyu…”

“I don’t say that to pressure you,” he murmurs. “You don’t owe me anything. But I don’t want you wondering where I’ve been or who I’ve been with. It’s only ever been you.”

You slip your foot from his lap, crawling forward through the water, slow and shy. He watches you, still and waiting, until you’re between his legs, your chest pressed lightly to his, water lapping around your waists.

Your fingers slide up to his jaw. You tilt his face to you. “Thank you for telling me,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You gonna kiss me now?”

You lean in, barely brushing your mouth over his. “Maybe.”

He grins, water dripping from his lashes. “I missed you so bad,” he breathes out. You kiss him. Long and deep. The kind that makes your toes curl beneath the bubbles.

His hands find your back, your waist, your thighs under the water. You pull back just an inch, catching your breath, whispering, “You don’t have to ruin yourself anymore.” He looks at you like he’s already been saved.

You’re still curled into him, damp skin pressed against his chest, your nose tucked under his jaw. The bubbles have started to fade, leaving the water silky and warm around you both. His arms rest around you, hands drifting mindlessly over your hips, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you for even a second.

You pull back just enough to look at him. There’s a smile curling at your lip. “So you’re really gonna sit here and tell me,” you murmur, “that you didn’t fuck anyone else in the last three years.”

His brows lift. “That’s what I said.”

You tilt your head. “Not even once?”

“Just me and my hand,” he says without shame.

Your mouth falls open a little. “What the fuck.”

He shrugs, totally unfazed. “I tried. Once. Didn’t work.”

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. “Didn’t work?”

“Couldn’t get it up,” he says bluntly. “She wasn’t you.”

You blink at him, jaw slack. “Wow. Really making me feel special over here.”

“You should,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, your lips, your body beneath the water. “You broke my dick. Congratulations.”

You snort, about to make some sarcastic comment–but then his hand trails down your side andrests on your thigh, spreading gently. Not demanding, just waiting. You breathe in slowly. Then you slide out of his arms. His brow furrows. “What are you–”

“Shhh,” you whisper, slipping lower in the water. His hands twitch like he’s about to reach for you, but then you’re disappearing beneath the surface.

The water distorts everything. His legs, the dimmed lights, the ripples against your arms as you ease forward and settle between his thighs. You press your palms to them gently, guiding him back as he leans against the tub wall.

You glance up, his figure blurred and glowing in golds and blues through the water, and then you wrap your fingers around his half hard cock, stroking slow. Above the water, he groans. His head falls back.

You close your lips around the tip. Heat pulses through the water and through your chest at once. You bob your head slowly, the pressure different down here, warmer, heavier. Your mouth moves with gentle suction, tongue tracing every inch of him you can fit.

You feel the way his hips twitch, his thighs flexing under your hands. You come up only for air–eyes meeting his as you gasp softly, mouth wet and pink and hungry. “You’re really gonna kill me,” he pants.

“I’m making up for three years of you being tragically abstinent,” you tease, voice low and playful.

He grabs the sides of the tub, knuckles white. “You think I won’t drown in this bathtub for you?” he growls.

You grin. Then you go back down. This time, you take him deeper. Let your throat relax, water bubbling softly around you as you move. His hand slips into your wet hair, not pulling, just holding. Like he’s grounding himself.

When you come up again, your lips are slick and swollen, and his whole body's shaking. “Get up here,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Please.”

You blink slowly. Innocent, dangerous. “Why?”

“I need to fuck you.”

You hum, dragging your nails along his thigh. “Thought you liked my mouth?”

His hand wraps tight around your wrist. You think he’s going to pull you into his lap again–but instead, he’s yanking you up, water sluicing down your body, your chest bare and glistening in the low bathroom light. “Get up here,” he growls. “Now.”

You step out of the tub slowly, dripping, trembling–but you don’t get far. He doesn’t wait. The second your foot hits the tile, he grabs your hips, towel falling away, and guides you down to the floor with him. We skin against wet skin. His back hits the side of the tub, and he grabs you right over his lap, one hand fisting your thigh, the other slicking down your waist, squeezing.

“You gonna make me beg again?” he pants, eyes hungry and ruined.

You stare down at him, breath catching, chest heaving. “No,” you whisper. “I want you to feel how much I missed you.” You reach down, guide him to your center, and sink down slow.

His mouth drops open. His eyes flutter shut. His head thuds back against the porcelain. “Fuck–baby–”

You roll your hips gently, slowly, letting him stretch you open, letting him feel every second of it. He’s still wet from the tub, water pooling on the tile beneath you, your thighs soaked and gleaming as you ride him in slow, grounding waves.

He looks up at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect. His hands settle on your waist, fingers shaking, thumbs stroking your stomach. “You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You feel unreal.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders and he leans in just enough to kiss you–sloppy, desperate, soaking wet–moaning into your mouth as you move faster. “I missed you so much,” you gasp.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he breathes. “Not once.”

And then you’re gasping, trembling, choking his name as your thighs shake and his grip turns bruising–and he fucks up into you like he’s losing his mind, like he’s starving, like he’s going to die here if he doesn’t make you come on his cock one more time.

You’re both still dripping, steam rising from the bath behind you, your bodies tangled on the bathroom floor–no time, no space, just now. Just need.

You’re both a mess–sweaty, soaked, sprawled on the bathroom floor. Water drips from your hair, your thighs still trembling as you lean forward and rest your cheek against his chest. His heart is still pounding beneath your ear, fast and wild like it hasn’t quite caught up yet.

Nam Gyu exhales, arms loosely draped around your back, and murmurs, “Stay.”

You lift your head and look up at him, lips still parted from the kiss you just barely pulled away from. “I can’t.”

“Nooo,” he gorans, throwing his head back dramatically against the floor. “Why not.”

You sit up slowly, reaching for a towel and dabbing at your skin. “Because I have to go back to my place.”

“Why,” he whines, dragging the world out like a child being denied dessert.

You raise your brows at him, smug. “You can text me. I won’t block you.” A pause. “Like you did to me.”

He groans again, but this time it’s more shame than play. He covers his face with his hand. “Low blow.”

You stifle a giggle, drying off as you stand up. “You deserved it.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “So we fuck and now you’re just…heading out?” He sits up, watching you with narrowed eyes, trying to look offended but the corner of his mouth is twitching. “What are you now, a fuckboy?”

You laugh, tossing the towel at his head. “Please. My cat will literally kill me if I don’t go home and feed him. He’s feral.”

He catches the towel mid-air, chuckling under his breath as he watches you step around him, grabbing your dress. “Your cat’s got an attitude,” he mutters.

“So do I,” you say with a wink, slipping your dress back on. “Maybe that’s why he likes me.”

Nam Gyu is still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, towel in his lap, just watching you move. Like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re here. Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your back and the shape of your smile.

“Do you work tomorrow?” you ask, glancing at your reflection in the mirror, adjusting your hair.

He shrugs, like the question is beneath him. “I’ll call in.”

You roll your eyes, but your gin is soft. “Okay, well–once you do that, call me. And we’ll meet up. Okay?”

His eyes warm. He nods. “Okay.”

You lean down, press one last kiss to his lips, and whisper, “I’ll see you soon.”

And as you head for the door, he calls after you, voice lazy and teasing: “Tell your cat I said fuck you.” You laugh all the way to the elevator.

The night air is cool on your cheeks as you walk home alone, heels clicking against the pavement, your head still spinning from everything. From him. His mouth. His hands. The things he said. The way he looked at you like you’d swallowed the stars and spit out light. You smile. You don’t mean to–but it happens.

Your phone is warm in your hand, your fingers brushing over his most recent texts. Let me know you got home safe. i should’ve made you stay. i already miss you…

You tuck it away and swipe to call instead–someone else. Your brother answers on the second ring.

“Yo. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting the strap of your purse. “I just…guess who I ran into tonight.”

He groans. “If this is one of those ‘you’ll never believe who I saw at the grocery store’ calls, I swear to God–”

“It’s Nam Gyu.”

Silence. Then a sigh, long and familiar. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Where? And why?” he asks.

You pause. “Out. At this lounge. He was there with someone but then he…he saw me. Came over.”

Your brother mutters something under his breath, probably cursing like he knows your mom doesn’t like. “Stay away from him,” he says. Not a suggestion. A command. “There’s a reason Mom and Dad made him stop coming around back then. You remember that, right?”

You stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Your heart beats a little slower than it did earlier. “I know. I just…” You swallow. “He seemed…different. I don’t know. Maybe he’s changed.”

Your brother’s voice is flat. “Yeah. I highly doubt that. People like that don’t change.”

You shift your phone to the other ear, trying not to sound defensive. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Just be careful, okay? Seriously. That guy’s not–he’s not built for soft things.”

You don’t say anything else. You just promise you’ll call later, then hang up as your apartment comes into view. Once inside, your cat is already meowing at the door like you left him for dead. You scoop him up, kissing the top of his head as he purrs against your collarbone. “I know, I know. I was bad. I’ll feed you.”

You change out of your dress, wash the makeup off your face, pull on the ugliest, softest sleep shirt you own. You scroll through your texts again.

Gyu💀: you make the stupidest faces when ur about to cum

Gyu💀: in a good way btw

Gyu💀: text me when ur home

Gyu💀: text me when ur in bed

Gyu💀: text me even if ur not thinking about me. idc i’ll take crumbs

You smile again. Just a little. And type:

you: i’m home. in bed. and thinking about you

you: but i’ll text you in the morning, gyu. goodnight

You don’t expect him to reply–but he does. Almost instantly.

Gyu💀: fuuuck. okay. goodnight baby

You sleep like shit. Even curled under your coziest blanket with your cat tucked behind your knees, all you can think about is the way Nam Gyu looked at you last night–like he wanted to memorize the shape of your body with his hands, like the ache in his voice was real when he said “please.”

You wake up slow, eyes gritty, throat dry. A faint soreness between your legs and something heavier sitting right in your chest. It’s a quiet morning. The city hasn’t quite stirred yet. You make tea. Feed Tofu so he won’t scream at you. Sit cross legged on your couch with your sketchpad and try to lose yourself in a drawing–but your lines are uneven. Unsteady. You flip to a blank page and try again, but halfway through you realize you’re drawing him.

Again.

Same strong brow. Same dark eyes. A mouth you could recognize by feel alone. You drop the pencil, lean back, and just…stare at the paper. You shouldn’t miss him. You shouldn’t. But you do. You pull your phone from the coffee table and scroll back to his last text from last night. You stare at it, thumb hovering. Then you start typing.

you: i think i missed you.

The read receipt pops up almost instantly. A bubble appears. Then it disappears. Then reappears.

Gyu💀: meet me at my club tonight. 7pm.

You: okay

You spend way too long picking out what to wear. It’s stupid. You’ve already had your tongue down his throat and his hands between your thighs and you've literally ridden him on his bathroom floor–but still. You want to look good.

You pull on a long black skirt with a small slit up the side. A soft, oversized cream sweater–that sweater, the one from years ago. The one he used to tease you about for being a blanket. You tuck it in just enough to show off your waist. High-top sneakers, a little scuffed. Hair down. Lips tinted rose.

You keep the makeup minimal. Soft, comfortable, like you. Your phone buzzes with the Uber notification. You give your cat one last kiss on the head. “Don’t wait up,” you mumble.

The club is huge. Loud and packed. The music thrums like a heartbeat in the pavement beneath your feet. The line outside stretches down the block and curls around the corner. You suck in a breath, heart already skipping.

This…is definitely not your speed. But you keep your head down, stay in line, and when you finally reach the front, you dig through your bag for your ID–only for the bouncer to nod at you and open the velvet rope. “Go ahead.”

You look at him confused. “Wait, what–?”

But the guy’s already moved on to the next person. You step inside. The air hits you like a wall: warm, electric, pulsing with music, and sweat, and weed. Neon lights flicker from above, reflecting off mirrored walls and liquor bottles behind the long bar.

People are dancing, drinking, pressed together in corners and booths. It’s chaos. Flashy and expensive. Like something out of someone else’s life. You hover next to the bar, trying not to look too awkward. You pull out your phone and text: i’m here.

You chew your lip. Grip your purse. You feel like you don’t belong, like you’re playing dress up. You wonder where he is–if he’s even here yet. If this was a mistake. Until you feel a hand curl gently around your waist. And hear that familiar voice, low and close to your ear. “Of course you wore that sweater.”

You turn, already smiling. Nam Gyu’s standing there in all black–jeans that fit way too well, a dark t-shirt, and a subtle chain around his neck. He looks good. Too good. And he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the room.

He leans in a little, fingers still at your waist. “You want a drink?”

You hesitate. “Um…something light?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Light?”

“I have to function, Nam Gyu,” you tease, bumping his arm gently.

That gets a crooked grin out of him. “Got it. Girly. Weak. Possibly pink.”

You roll your eyes but don’t let go of the smile tugging at your lips. “I trust you.”

He waves down the bartender–doesn’t even have to wait. Just murmurs something low and quick, and the guy nods and starts mixing. You blink, impressed. “You really own this place?”

He shrugs. “I helped start it. Now I run most of it.”

The drink slides into your hand moments later. It’s pink. Fizzy. Garnished with a sugared rim and a twist of something citrusy. You raise an eyebrow. “This better not make me black out.”

He laughs. “You’ll be fine.”

You take a sip. It’s sweet, barely any alcohol, and honestly–delicious. “Okay, you win.”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle against your hip. “I win.”

You bump him again with your elbow. “Don’t push it.”

Nam Gyu leads you through the maze of people like he’s done it a thousand times. And you guess he has. He knows this place like muscle memory–nodding at staff, sliding past corners and shadows and pulsing light until you’re climbing a narrow set of stairs tucked behind the DJ booth.

The noise dips once you’re up top. Not gone, but softened. The VIP lounge is sleek and expensive. Still crowded, still buzzing–but the music doesn’t rattle in your teeth up here. The lighting’s softer, the drinks fancier, the couches low and plush and wrapped in velvet.

You hover just inside the railing. You can see the whole club from here. The crowd below like moving constellations, all glitter and movement and rhythm. It’s a little surreal. This whole night is.

Nam Gyu presses a warm hand to the small of your back. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still on the floor below. “It’s just a lot.”

“You’re doing good.” His voice is warm, fond. “You look good, too.” You glance at him, just to see if he means it. He’s already looking. Already caught. You feel heat bloom at the base of your throat. “Still soft,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the edge of your sweater where it tucks into your waistband. “Still my girl in sneakers.”

Your breath catches. You don’t say anything. You just take another sip of your drink and try not to melt under the way he’s watching you.

You take the last sip of your drink, lips brushing the sugared rim one final time. Nam Gyu’s watching you–he hasn’t stopped. Leaning back on the velvet couch, one arm stretched along the back behind you, the other draped over his thigh. Relaxed and cocky. Completely zeroed in on you.

He looks like he owns the room. He catches your glance and tips his head slightly. “What?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

You look away, eyes drifting down to the crowd below. Bodies moving together like waves. Hands in the air, heads thrown back, lights slicing through the dark. Music thrumming through the floor, vibrating faintly beneath your shoes.

“Still not your scene?” he asks softly.

You rest your arms on the railing, trying not to fidget. “Not really.”

“But you’re here.”

You bite your lip. “I said I missed you, didn’t I?”

His breath catches. It’s subtle, but you hear it. Feel it. That little hitch of surprise. Or maybe restraint. When you glance back, he’s already closer. Not touching. But closer. His voice dips. “You know, if I were still twenty-five, I probably would’ve pulled you into the bathroom by now.”

Your eyes widen. “You’d pretend you didn’t want it,” he continues, “but you’d be dripping. Just like always.”

Your thighs clench under your skirt. You keep your face turned away, but he sees it–he feels it. You shake your head, forcing a light laugh. “You’re not twenty-five anymore. And I’m not nineteen.”

“No,” he says. “You’re better now.” His hand brushes your leg–barely there. Just the edge of his pinky along your thigh, just above your knee. A touch so light it might’ve been imagined. You press your lips together, pulse ticking fast in your throat. He leans in again, mouth near your ear. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you right now.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. You just watch the floor below, the way the people dance like nothing else matters. Like they’re made for it. And you try to pretend your heart’s not thudding out of rhythm every time Nam Gyu looks at you like that.

The second he unlocks the door to his office and lets you inside, you don’t wait. You barely hear the click of it shutting before you’re pushing him back, slamming your mouth into his. His low grunt stutters in surprise, but he melts into it fast–too fast–his hands already sliding down to your waist like he’s been touch starved.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles between kisses, pulling at the hem of your sweater. “Didn’t know you were gonna be the one attacking me tonight.”

You tug him toward the couch, straddling him without another word. His back hits the cushions with a soft thud, and you’re already grinding your hips down into his lap, your long skirt riding up with every roll.

He gasps. Then grins. “Shit. Okay. What do you want me to do?”

Your fingers curl into his shoulder, eyes dark as sin. “Nothing.” You smirk. “Just sit there and be good.”

His breath catches, then he nods fast, wide-eyed and helpless. “Yes ma’am.”

You swear you feel him throb beneath you when he says it. You reach down between you and unbuckle his belt slowly, fingers brushing over the hardness beneath. He’s not just hard–he’s aching. You can tell by the way his head tips back, the way he groans when you palm him through his boxers. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He mutters again.

You slip your hand under the waistband and wrap around him, warm and solid in your grip. His hips jerk. His fingers clench the edge of the couch. He doesn’t even try to touch you back–just watches you, desperate and ruined, as you work him slowly, teasing.

But then your phone vibrates on the table behind him. You don’t look at it. But it keeps going. Buzz. Buzz.

Nam Gyu blinks up at you. “You can get it, baby–”

You grab it and answer without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

Your brother’s voice hits your ear, loud and clear. “Hey–did you talk to the lawyer yet? They need the signature for Mom and Dad’s estate paperwork–”

Nam Gyu stiffens beneath you. Your free hand presses to his chest. Stay quiet, don’t move.

You clear your throat and try to keep your voice steady. “Yeah, I got the email, I just haven’t–”

You shift your hips, slowly. Nam Gyu gasps. “F-fuck.”

“Who was that?” your brother snaps. “Is someone with you?”

Your stomach drops. You answer too fast. “Just a friend.”

He goes quiet, then says, “You’re with him, aren’t you?”

You glance down at Nam Gyu. His jaw is clenched, brow furrowed. He doesn’t say a word.

“I knew it. I knew you were lying the second you said you ‘ran into him.’ What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You swallow hard. “I don’t need this right now.”

Your brother’s voice cuts like a blade. “What do you think Mom and Dad would say? Is this your way of grieving? Sleeping with him? Letting him back in? It’s fucked. You need to stop.”

You flinch, like his words reached through the phone and hit you. “Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t throw them at me like that.”

He’s relentless. “Then grow the fuck up. Sign the fucking papers. Get your life together. And don’t come crying to me when he fucks it all up for you again.”

You stare down at Nam Gyu, your hand still curled tight into his shirt. His eyes are locked on yours, unreadable. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just waits.

You hang up without saying another word. The silence in the office is heavy–tense, electric, raw. You press your hands to your thighs to steady yourself. Then you look him in the eyes, and sink down on his cock in one long, slow, devastating motion.

You fuck the anger out of yourself.

Hands braced on his chest, thighs tight around your hips, you ride Nam Gyu like you own him. Because in this moment–you do.

He looks wrecked beneath you. Face flushed, lips swollen from all the begging he’s done. Hair sticking to his temples, chest heaving. The matching bra and pany set you wore just for him is long forgotten–his greedy hands shoved the cups down, hands full of your tits, moaning about how perfect you are.

Though now, he’s bare beneath you. Arms pinned above his head, wristed held down by your strength, though he could easily break free. His cock buried deep inside you as you ride him hard and mean. “Fuck–please, baby,” he gasps. “I missed you–I missed this–please, let me touch–”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, hips grinding down, your cunt clenching just to hear the way he chokes on a moan. “You don’t get to touch unless I say.”

“Y-yes ma’am,” he whimpers.

You lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “You like being used, don’t you?”

His whole body twitches. “God–yes–I fucking love it.”

Your pace grows harsher, your breath ragged as you ride him harder. You feel how close he is–his cock throbbing, his body straining beneath you. You let go of his wrists and grab his face instead, making him look at you. “You gonna beg for it?”

He nods fast, completely gone. “Please let me come, please–please–I’ll do anything–I’ll worship you–”

You’re right on the edge too, hips slapping against his, your body shaking. And then–the door to the office swings open.

“Nam Gyu, I’ve been looking for you–” The voice cuts off. She freezes in the doorway. Her. The girl from dinner. She’s wide-eyed, staring.

Nam Gyu doesn’t even flinch. “Get the fuck out!”

“Jesus–sorry–!” she blurts, scrambling backward and slamming the door behind her.

Silence. Your chest heaves, your palms still splayed across his chest. You’re still seated on his cock–him still pulsing, twitching, begging.

You slowly start grinding again. Nam Gyu gasps like he’s dying. His hands grab your waist, desperate and clumsy. “Please. Please don’t stop. Please. I’ll do anything–just let me come inside you–I’ll die if you stop–”

You smirk, breathless. “Embarrassed, baby?”

He groans. “I don’t care. Let them all hear. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”

And you fuck him again–merciless and slow–watching him unravel. You ride him until he’s coming undone beneath you, moaning your name like he’s worshiping it, spilling inside you with trembling thighs and bruised lips.

You both slowly start to get dressed, the sticky heat of your bodies cooling in the aftermath. He watches you as you fix your bra and skirt, soft and reverent, like he still can’t believe he got to touch you yet again.

When you’re slipping your sweater back over your head, Nam Gyu clears his throat and goes, “Can I come over tonight?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know, Gyu. If you know where I live and we…don’t work out…”

His jaw flexes, but he nods. “I get it. I do. But I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable. I swear. I’ll leave if you tell me to. Hell. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want me to.”

Your lips twitch with a reluctant smile. “Okay.”

The drive back to your place is quiet, but not awkward. His fingers rest gently on your knee the entire ride, like he’s grounding himself just by touching you.

When you pull up to your apartment, you glance over shyly. “It’s nothing like your fancy penthouse.”

Nam Gyu lets out a quiet laugh, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I used to live on the street, baby girl. Your place is heaven to me.”

You feel your stomach twist at the nickname, the sincerity in his voice, the softness that feels too real. He follows you inside.

A Few Weeks Later

The road stretches ahead in one long, gray ribbon, the sky overcast, heavy like your chest. You sit with your legs pulled up on the passenger seat, sweatshirt sleeves bunched around your fists, the silence between you and Nam Gyu comfortable–but weighted.

He reaches out every once in a while to rest his hand on your thigh, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your jeans in slow, absent circles. It’s been like that for most of the ride–quiet, steady touches. No music. Just the sound of the engine, the tires on the highway, and the occasional soft murmur between you.

After a while, he glances over. “So why are they selling the house now?”

You swallow. “My dad got really sick. About a year ago.”

His expression shifts immediately–brows pulling together, eyes flickering over you.

“He passed away six months ago,” you say, voice quiet. “Mom lasted another three months. I think she just gave up.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice low and serious. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug, staring out the window. “It’s fine. It’s just been…a lot. Trying to get everything settled. Especially with my brother.”

Nam Gyu glances at you again. “He’s still giving you a hard time?”

You don’t answer right away. Just lean your head back against the seat and sigh. “He’s angry. About everything. And he’s always been overprotective. So when it comes to you…”

“I don’t care,” Nam Gyu cuts in gently. “Let him be pissed. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Your glance at him, heart clenching. “You really didn’t have to come.”

He just shrugs, eyes on the road. “Yeah, I did.”

By the time you arrive, your stomach’s tied in knots. The house looks the same. Like it’s been frozen in time. The overgrown bushes. The chipped mailbox. The front door with the faded welcome mat your mom refused to replace. But it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

You spot your brother’s car in the driveway, along with the lawyer’s. The realtor’s already waiting on the front porch, arms folded, clipboard in hand.

Nam Gyu parks behind them and kills the engine. He glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod, jaw set. “Let’s just get it over with.”

You step out of the car together, and the second you and Nam Gyu walk through the front door, you hear it: “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You turn slowly, meeting his glare. He’s standing in the living room with the lawyer and realtor, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight his neck veins are visible.

You sigh. “Just let me sign the papers and we’ll go.”

His eyes cut to Nam Gyu. “You brought him here? Are you serious?”

“I said drop it,” you snap, already walking past him toward the kitchen where the documents are laid out. “We’re not doing this right now.”

Nam Gyu stays close but quiet, his posture tense. He doesn’t bite back–doesn’t give your brother the satisfaction of a fight. Not yet.

You take the pen the lawyer hands you and sign your name quickly, the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

Your brother scoffs. “This is such a joke. You always do this. You let trash back into your life and pretend like it’s love.”

You slam the pen down. “I said we’re not doing this.”

He steps forward. “What do you think Mom and Dad would say if they could see you now?”

You open your mouth to respond–but Nam Gyu steps in, voice sharp and low, “Hey. That’s enough.”

Your brother’s gaze cuts to him with a fresh wave of hatred. And you–your hands are trembling slightly, but your face is steel. You just pick up your copy of the signed papers, turn to the realtor, and say flatly, “We’re done here.”

You walk out without another word. Nam Gyu follows, slamming the front door behind him. You’re halfway to the car when the fury claws up your throat like bile. You stop short, heart pounding. Then you spin on your heel.

Nam Gyu calls your name, but you’re already storming back into the house. Your brother’s standing in the living room with his arms crossed, smug like he won whatever argument this was supposed to be.

“Stop making their death about you,” you snap, voice trembling out of anger. “You have done nothing but make this whole process awful for me. I’ve handled everything while you sat in a different country and judged from afar.”

“Oh, please,” your brother scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t even show up to the funeral. Who are you to talk about grief?”

Your breath catches. Behind you, you hear the soft click of the front door as Nam Gyu steps back inside. He doesn’t say a word–just rests a steadying hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

But you’re shaking. “I hate you,” you whisper at first. Then louder, “I fucking hate you.”

Your brother’s jaw clenches. “Take the money from the house,” you say, venom in every word, “and don’t ever fucking call me again.”

There’s a moment of silence–so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat. And then he laughs. Cold and cruel. “Oh, I see. Gonna run off to Nam Gyu now?” he sneers. “Let him make you feel special again, right? Until you have one minor disagreement and he beats you like he did his ex?”

The world lurches sideways. Your ears ring. You blink at him, stunned. Frozen. You didn’t mishear him. You couldn’t have.

You feel Nam Gyu stiffen behind you–but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t say a single word. Your brother smirks. “Yeah. Bet he didn’t tell you that part, huh?”

Your mouth opens. But no sound comes out. The only thing you can feel is the blood roaring in your ears, and the warm, heavy pressure of Nam Gyu’s hand still steady on your shoulder.

You turn to him, jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

Nam Gyu doesn’t argue. Doesn’t glance back at your brother. He just follows you out of the house like a shadow.

The car ride is silent. He doesn’t start the engine right away when you both climb in–just sits there, hands limp on the wheel, staring through the windshield.

You cross your arms, sinking into the passenger seat, then say sharper than you mean to, “Can we go to the hotel, please?”

He flinches. But he turns the key. The drive is only ten minutes, but it feels like forever. No music. No words. Just the muted hum of tires on pavement and the ache of something cracking between you.

He parks. You both get out. Check-in is stiff, wordless–he pays, and you trial behind him to the elevator, eyes on the floor.

When you reach the room, he unlocks the door and lets you walk in first. The moment it shuts behind you, you just stand there. Motionless. The room is dim and clean and painfully quiet. It feels sterile. Temporary. A holding place for whatever happens next.

You turn to face him slowly. Nam Gyu’s already watching you. “Go ahead and ask,” he murmurs. His voice is steady, but there’s something hollow behind it–something bracing for impact.

You swallow. Your throat’s dry. “I…don’t know if I want to hear it.”

His jaw flexes. He looks away, then back at you, eyes dark and tired. “That’s fair.”

You stare at him for another beat, your chest rising and falling too fast. The air between you feels thick. Heavy.

“I didn’t hurt her,” he finally says, voice quieter now. “Not like he thinks I did.”

Your heart knocks hard against your ribs. But you don’t speak. Not yet. Because some part of you still isn’t sure which version of him to believe.

You cross your arms tighter across your chest, your nails biting into your sides. “Then tell me,” you say flatly. “I guess.”

Nam Gyu’s eyes search yours for a long, tense moment, like he’s checking for how much you really want to hear it. But then he takes a slow breath and begins. “It was bad between us. Me and her,” he explains quietly. “I was using all the time. Coke. Pills. Anything to get through the day. She wasn’t much better.”

You don’t interrupt. Just wait.

“We fought constantly. Screaming, throwing shit, doors slamming…the cops got called once. She said I grabbed her arm too hard. I probably did.” He shrugs, but it’s bitter, like he hates himself for even trying to sound casual. “I black out half that week. The only reason I remember any of it is because of the court transcript.”

You swallow hard.

“She dropped the charges a month later,” he says, gaze fixed on the floor now. “Said she exaggerated. Said she didn’t want to ruin my life. But the damage was done. I did six months for possession and resisting arrest.”

You stare at him. The hotel room is quiet. The carpet beneath your feet feels like it might give out. You take one step forward. Then another. And then you shove him. Not hard. Just enough that he stumbles back one step back. He blinks at you, stunned.

“Why,” you begin, voice cracking with fury, “do I still fucking love you after that?”

His eyes fly to yours, wide. “Wait…you what–?”

You shove him again. “You’re not a good guy.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, hands open like he’s surrendering, but there’s something desperate in his voice–like he wants you to hit him again, just to feel it.

So you do. Push him harder this time, until he stumbles back onto the edge of the bed, catching himself with his hands. You’re standing over him now, your whole body trembling with rage and confusion and want.

“So why do I love you,” you whisper, “and why do I wanna fuck you right now?”

He’s breathing hard, looking up at you like you’re the only god he’s ever believed in. “I don't know,” he whispers. “But please…do it anyway.”

Nam Gyu looks up at you like he’s already undone. You climb onto his lap without a word, straddling him, grabbing the front of his sweatshirt and dragging it up and off with a force that makes him gasp. Your nails scrape down his chest as you lean in, mouth at his jaw, biting hard.

He groans–loud–grabbing your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I missed you,” he pants, “I missed you so fucking much–”

“Shut up.”

You crash your mouth onto his, messy and hot, all teeth and tongue. He’s already hard beneath you, bucking up into your core like he can’t help it. Your hand fumbles at his belt, yanking it open, and he moans like it physically hurts to be touched again by you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he stammers, head tilting back as you reach into his briefs, wrap you fingers around him. “Please, baby–please, I need you–”

You tear off your shirt, your bra, and then stand up just long enough to shimmy out of your pants and panites in one frustrated motion.

“Look at you,” he whispers, nearly breathless. “All for me?”

“Who else?” you snap.

He surges forward, mouthing hungrily at your chest, hands roaming your thighs as you push him flat on the bed and straddle him again, dragging his cock through your slick folds.

“Beg for it,” you whisper into his ear.

“Please,” he groans instantly. “Please ride me, baby, I’ll do anything–need you so bad–been so fucking empty without you.”

You sink down in one swift, brutal motion and he chokes, hands flying to your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Holy fuck! You feel–fuck you feel unreal.” He gasps.

You ride himself without rhythm at first, just fast, messy, like you’re tyring to fuck the heartbreak out of yourself. His fingers bruise into your skin, jaw slack as he watches you, completely gone.

“You’re mine,” you growl, voice raw.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yours, all yours, always–fuck, don’t stop, please–”

You lean down, press your chest to his, fucking him deeper, harder, his name falling form your lips like a curse. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, dragging it before you kiss him again, rough and desperate.

The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. His breath is ragged and stuttering beneath you.

“Gonna come,” he whines, completely unguarded. “Fuck–please, can I? Inside you? Please let me…”

“Do it.”

He shatters with a strangled cry, clinging to you like you’re salvation. You don’t stop moving, riding him through it until you come too, a tidal wave breaking as your head falls into the crook of his neck, mouth open in a silent moan.

You collapse together–sticky, panting, clinging.

His voice is hoarse, barely audible. “I love you. Even if you hate me–I love you.”

You’re still catching your breath, chests pressed together and damp with sweat, when Nam Gyu murmurs, voice low against your temple, “Do you love me…or do you just love fucking me?”

You huff a laugh against his neck. “Do I have to only pick one?”

That makes him laugh–deep and breathless, warm in your ear. His arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. The air between you settles, heavy with heat and history.

“I do love you,” you whisper eventually. “But if you ever do anything to me…I will kill you. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

He leans back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s no trace of amusement left in his face–just the solemn curve of his mouth as he nods. “Oh, trust me,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You giggle a little, even as your chest aches. You curl tighter into him, cheek resting over his heart.

There’s a beat of silence. Then he whispers, “I’m sorry about how today turned out.”

You nod slowly, fingers tracing the faded ink on his ribs. “I’m just…glad to be done with it all, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I get it.”

You swallow thickly. “I really miss them.”

Nam Gyu doesn’t say anything–he just strokes your spine gently with the pads of his fingers, grounding you.

“I hope they can’t see how things turned out,” you admit, barely audible. “They’d be disappointed in my brother and me.”

He exhales. “You’re doing your best. You loved them. That’s what matters.”

You blink up at the ceiling. Your throat is tight, but the tears don’t come. “I don’t think I’ve ever really said goodbye,” you murmur.

Nam Gyu kisses your hair, cradling you like you might slip through his arms. “Then maybe we do that tomorrow.”

You let your eyes fall shut, cheek still resting on his chest. His heartbeat thuds gently beneath your ear, slow now. Safe.

You yawn, voice muffled in his skin. “I didn’t go to their funerals.” Nam Gyu doesn’t say anything, just keeps rubbing your back, waiting. You swallow, then keep going. “Because I didn’t want it to be real. If I didn’t see it…then it wasn’t real.”

He exhales through his nose, presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “I understand,” he murmurs. “They do too.” You close your eyes tighter. “It’s okay to grieve however you need to,” he adds gently.

“I guess my way of grieving,” you whisper, “is fucking a guy who’s no good for me.”

That makes him laugh–quiet and tired, like he knows exactly much weight lives in that sentence. “I’m trying to be good for you,” he says softly.

You shift, pressing your nose to his neck. “I know, Gyu.”

The morning comes with a dim gray sky and a chill in the air. You’re sitting on the edge of the motel bed, tugging on your hoodie, still half asleep. Nam Gyu runs a hand through his messy hair, watching you quietly.

He speaks up, voice rough with sleep. “I could take you to see them. If you want.”

You look up, startled. You hesitate, heart thudding a little faster. “I…I don’t know,” you admit. “I’ve never been. Not even once.”

Nam Gyu stands, walks over to crouch in front of you. “Then maybe it’s time.”

You stare at him for a beat, then nod slowly. “Okay. Yeah…okay.”

The cemetery is still. Wind rustles through the trees, leaves whispering to each other like they’re trying not to disturb the silence. You walk slowly between the rows, your fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of your hoodie, until you see their names etched in stone.

Your knees give a little when you reach them, and you let yourself sink into the grass. It’s cool beneath you, soft and damp. Nam Gyu stays quiet, standing behind you, one of his hands resting gently on your shoulder.

You stare at the headstones. Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. It takes a moment for your voice to steady. “Hi,” you finally whisper. “I’m here.” You press your hands into your lap, knuckles white. “Sorry it took me so long.”

The air is thick with things unsaid. You look at the flowers someone left–probably your brother. You didn’t bring any. Didn’t think to. You feel stupid about it.

“I didn’t…I didn’t want it to be real,” you say. “I thought if I just kept going, you’d still be out there somewhere. I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t want this to be true.”

You draw in a shaky breath. Nam Gyu’s hand squeezes lightly. “I miss you both so much,” you whisper, your voice breaks a little. “I think I’ve just been pretending that I’m fine. Like maybe if I didn’t cry, I could just keep going. But I’m not okay.”

You look up at the sky. “I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m doing anything right, but I’m trying.”

And then, slowly, you glance over your shoulder. Nam Gyu is still there, hands in his pockets now, watching you with that same unreadable expression that somehow manages to be both calm and full of quiet affection. When your eyes meet, he just offers you a small smile. Gentle. Patient.

That’s all it takes.

The tears come without warning–hot, soundless, unstoppable. They roll down your cheeks like something broken, finally cracking open, something too tightly held for too long.

You turn away quickly, but Nam Gyu kneels beside you. Doesn't say anything. He just wraps an arm around you, pulling you into him, tucking your face into his chest as your shoulders shake.

Still quiet. Still safe.

You cry there, finally, in the open, in front of the only people you ever wanted to be proud of you. And Nam Gyu just holds you, steady and still, like he knows this is what you needed more than anything else.

The takeout containers are scattered across the bed, half empty and grease stained. You’re both sitting cross legged, the TV playing something mindless in the background, the glow of it soft against the hotel room walls. Nam Gyu’s balancing a carton of noodles on his thigh, shoveling them in like he hasn’t eaten in days.

You stab at a dumpling with your chopsticks and laugh when it slips out of your grasp for the third time. “Okay,” you grumble, “I’m gonna sue.”

Nam Gyu snorts. “Sue who? The dumpling?”

“I don’t know,” you say, popping a piece of broccoli into your mouth instead. “Whoever invented chopsticks. My hands are too sweaty for this.”

“You want a fork, baby?” he teases, nudging your side with his elbow.

You roll your eyes, pretending to be offended. “I’m fine. I’m strong. I’m independent.”

“You’re losing a war to steamed vegetables.”

You laugh, that warm, honest kind that makes your stomach flutter a little when you realize how easily he draws it out of you. You let the moment breathe, quiet and soft.

Then, Nam Gyu asks, gentle and unassuming, “How are you feeling?”

You pause, the air in the room suddenly a little heavier. You push a noodle around your carton. “I was fine,” you say, voice light and falsely bright, “until you asked.” You look up at him with a shaky smile, then down again. “I’m okay. Or… I will be. I think.”

Nam Gyu doesn’t press. He just hums quietly, finishes chewing, and reaches for one of the fortune cookies on the nightstand. He tosses one toward you, and it bounces off your chest before landing in your lap. “Open it,” he says. “Let’s see what your fate is.”

You crack it open and read the slip aloud: “Your strength is not loud, but unshakable.”

Nam Gyu grins. “It’s true though. You’re handling all this…better than I ever could.”

You crumple the fortune and toss it toward the trash, missing entirely. “Thanks, I think.”

He leans back on his elbows, watching you with something quieter in his gaze. “You don’t have to be okay right now. You don’t have to be anything for me.”

You make a face and throw a balled up napkin at him. “Okay, stop being sappy. I’m emotionally fragile and your tender little voice is gonna make me cry.”

Nam Gyu snickers, catching the napkin before it hits his chest. “Fine, fine.”

You nudge his leg with your knee. “What does your fortune say?”

He breaks the cookie with a dramatic flourish, unfolds the tiny strip of paper, and squints at it. “Huh.”

“What?” you ask, peering at him.

He looks at you, deadpan. “Says I’ll receive the most mind blowing head tonight.”

You stare at him, horrid for half a second–before you burst into laughter, clutching your stomach and nearly knocking over the soy sauce. “Shut up! No, it doesn’t!”

He’s already cracking up too, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m kidding. It actually says…” He clears his voice and reads it in a mock serious voice. “A long awaited answer will arrive when you least expect it.”

You go quiet for a beat, your laughter trailing off. “That one’s kinda eerie,” you say.

“Yeah,” Nam Gyu murmurs, folding the fortune and slipping into the takeout bag. “Guess we’ll see.”

You smile faintly, then settle in beside him again, letting your fingers brush against his without holding on–just a soft, simple connection. And for a moment, nothing hurts.

The silence stretches, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

Outside the city hums below you. Inside, everything is still. You think: maybe this is where the worst ends. maybe this is where something new begins.

You don’t know what comes next. But for now, you stay.

a/n - so, so happy to be back posting again! i absolutely loved writing this story...so lmk if anyone would be interested in a part 2 of this! i'm cooking up some more juicy fics!! xoxo, squid

#squid game #squid game x y/n #alternate universe #namgyu squid game #nam gyu squid game #nam gyu x thanos #nam gyu smut #nam gyu x reader #nam gyu #nam gyu x y/n #squid game imagines #squid game fanfic #squid game 2 #squid game season 3 #player 124 #player 124 x reader #player 124 squid game #player 124 smut #roh jae won

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science-hoes · 2 days ago

Text

It’s the Fourth of July. Everyone is at Jack’s house because he has a pool. In fact, Jack bought the house for the pool after his physical therapist told him that swimming was the easiest way to stay in shape after losing his foot. Now, it was a regular hangout spot for his friends and family.

Robby’s three oldest kids are swimming and jumping off the diving board with Jack’s twin boys. Their wives are dangling their feet in the water while Robby’s wife holds their newborn close to her chest, adjusting the floppy sunhat on the baby’s head.

Jack is manning the grill, carefully flipping hamburgers and hotdogs with one hand and holding a beer in the other. Robby stands next to him but keeps an anxious eye on the kids in the pool, sipping his own beer every now and then. That doesn’t stop him from backseat grilling though.

“Those burgers are done.”

“Are you trying to serve us charcoal?”

“We’re not dentists. We can’t fix our teeth if we break them on the food.”

Jack picks up a piece of burning charcoal with the tongs and chases Robby down until he’s far enough away from his grill. Their wives laugh and roll their eyes at their old men who still act like rowdy teenagers.

Robby holds his hands up in defense once he’s close to the edge of the pool with nowhere else to run. “I’m just trying to make sure we don’t end up in the Pitt.” He can’t help himself from joking.

Jack narrows his eyes, lip curling in disgust that his friend would be so condescending about his excelling grilling skills. “Hey, kids! Robby wants to play sharks and minnows with you.” He calls out to the children in the pool.

The air fills with cheerful shouts of “Dad’s coming to play!!” and “Come on, Uncle Robby!”

Robby shoots a glare at Jack, starting to pull off his t-shirt. “Fuck you.” He grumbles.

Jack raises a brow and points to the pool with the grilling tongs. “Stay the fuck away from my grill.” He retorts before taking a sip of his beer and returning to his post.

The afternoon passes with a pleasant slowness. Classic rock and respectable old country music blares from the speaker surrounding the pool. Robby plays pool games with the kids, making sure each one stays far enough away from the diving board when they jump.

Eventually, Jack joins them, slowly entering the poolside with the handicap railing. The water makes it easier for him to balance without his prosthetic, and he feels somewhat normal again. Standing without having to intentionally balance himself, without the squeeze of his prosthesis around his shin. He’s able to hold his boys in his arms without their added weight building pressure on his knee.

After everyone’s eyes are red from chlorine and fingers are pruned, Robby and Jack go to set up the haul of fireworks in the driveway while their wives dry off the kids.

“Are you sure about this?” Robby asks, a furrowed brow signaling his worry.

Jack smiles and nods. “Yep. Did just fine on New Year’s.” He assures his friend.

The two men call for their wives and children, opening the tailgates to their trucks in the driveway as seating. Robby places tiny noise cancelling headphones over his newborn’s head, pressing a kiss to her cheek and cradling her close to his chest. Jack takes a similar pair of headphones, the ones his wife bought him for Christmas, and pulls them over his ears.

The world becomes muffled, but he’s able to see everything. The way his twin boys laugh and sprint away from the fireworks after lighting them, red curls bouncing on their heads with each step. The way Robby’s daughters chase their brother and the twins with sparklers, their smiles so wide that their cheeks would ache later. The way everything around him glows in rainbows when the sparks fly, especially his wife’s pretty eyes when she looks up to him and gives him a sweet kiss.

No flashbacks. No phantom pain. No PTSD. No psychosis.

Just joyful memories with his friends and family that he doesn’t have to miss anymore.

#just a little blurb #the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr robby #doctor robby #jack abbot #Michael Robinavitch x reader #Jack abbot x reader

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 3 days ago

Text

„Just One Hour.“

(Yandere Batfam)

A/N: this was inspired by a ask from @oatyoooo

Hope you like it!! And yeah somehow I love writing drabbles so much. But I’m working on the next chapters!! and maybe a new series?🧐

Anyways have fun reading! Some facts that I mentioned here (like Y/N being able to speak multiple languages) I will explain further in the main series :)

She could hardly breath anymore.

Not from sickness — but from their version of love. If that’s what it even was.

To Y/N, it didn’t feel like love. It felt like a gilded cage. Velvet-wrapped chains. She could smile, speak, move — but only within the lines they traced for her. Everything she did was monitored, shadowed, echoed back to her in suffocating waves of “care.” Cameras in her room. Panic buttons in her school bag. A bracelet tracker disguised as a charm. And her brothers — rotating guards who never let her walk alone.

Even her breath felt observed.

Today it was Damian.

As always, he walked her to her first class, stood at the door until she stepped inside, and then lingered for a moment longer — making sure she didn’t try anything stupid. He’d taken to doing that since she ran. He didn’t say it aloud, but she could tell by the way his hand always rested near the hilt of his katana — even inside the school.

Once she was seated, he turned and left for his own class.

But today…

Today was different.

One of her teachers was sick. No substitute. Meaning Y/N had a free period.

Usually, this would mean Damian would expect her to sit with him in one of his more advanced courses — or at the very least read quietly in the library under a dozen invisible eyes.

But this time…

He didn’t know.

Nobody knew.

It was sudden. No one informed him. And for once, no one stood breathing down her neck.

She sat with the news in silence. Her books unopened. Her eyes fixed on the grey clouded sky.

And then — like the smallest rebellion cracking through stone — she stood.

She told her friends she had to go see the nurse. Something small. Nothing to worry about. She gave them the smile she always gave. That perfect, sweet, believable curve that no one ever doubted.

And she left.

She didn’t even realize she’d left her phone in the classroom — still zipped in the front pouch of her bag. It buzzed softly against her book, unnoticed. Unimportant.

Her feet carried her out the gate.

Out of the school.

Out into the city.

She didn’t plan on going far — she just wanted air. Just one hour. She wanted to exist without their eyes, their rules, their guilt. She just wanted to walk where she wanted. Without a shadow behind her.

And somehow, her body had remembered the way.

The botanical gardens.

The ones she had loved as a child. The ones she stopped visiting because she feared it would remind her family who her mother was. Because when you’re the daughter of Poison Ivy, touching soil always felt like a loaded question.

But now?

Now it felt like a sanctuary.

The air was humid and green, heavy with flowers. The plants — bright, blooming — called to her. And they listened, too. She stepped through the overgrown paths with soft fingers brushing petals, and something in the stems curled toward her as she passed. She didn’t mean to make them — but they did.

She sat in the heart of the conservatory, where no one ever looked. Her shoes off. Her skirt brushed with pollen. Her hands sticky with petals. And for the first time in months, Y/N breathed.

She didn’t notice time slipping past.

An hour became two. Two became nearly three.

She didn’t see the text notifications piling up on her school phone. Because it was still zipped in her bag… back at school.

⸻

Meanwhile, back at Gotham Academy…

Damian’s eyes flicked toward the clock.

She should’ve passed his hallway ten minutes ago.

He stood. Books forgotten. The soft murmur of his classmates drowned beneath the buzz in his skull. Something was wrong. He felt it. Like blood freezing under skin.

His steps were sharp and fast as he returned to the wing where Y/N’s cancelled class had been scheduled. The halls were half-empty — most students having dispersed after the unexpected free period.

Damian didn’t knock. He shoved the door open.

A few students still loitered inside, talking, giggling.

No teacher.

His eyes scanned the room.

She wasn’t there.

His vision narrowed. His boots were already stomping toward a group of familiar girls — her so-called “friends.” He didn’t bother with introductions.

“Where is she?” His voice was low. Sharp.

The girls blinked. One flinched.

“W-We don’t know,” one whispered. “She said she had to go… somewhere. She said it was just for a little bit.”

Damian’s fists clenched.

And in his mind — all hell broke loose.

Damian’s fingers were white around his phone as he pressed it to his ear.

He was already pacing the empty hallway when the call connected.

“She’s gone.”

Tim blinked.

“Gone?” he repeated slowly, eyes flicking to Dick and Jason, who were sitting on the couch across from him. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean she wasn’t in her class. She lied. She left school. Her friends said she went off on her own.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jason’s voice cut in from behind the phone — loud and hot like gunfire. “What the hell do you mean she left? You were with her, demon spawn!”

“I brought her to class,” Damian growled, his voice low and strained, “She had a free period. It was last-minute. I didn’t know. She slipped through.”

Dick was already standing. “I’ll run a trace.”

“No need,” he said grimly. “After her last stunt, we all agreed she couldn’t be trusted. I made sure of it.”

Jason sat up straighter. “What did you do?”

Tim’s voice was cold and steady. “She has a chip. Internal. In her shoulder.”

Jason’s mouth twitched, jaw tight. Even Dick, whose fingers were curled into fists against his knees, didn’t speak for a moment.

None of them liked that it had come to this — drugging her during sleep, inserting a tracker without consent. But after what she did the first time — after the month she’d spent hidden from them, alone in some godforsaken part of Gotham, starving, shaking, terrified — they couldn’t risk it again.

Love meant protecting her from herself.

Even if she hated them for it.

“Where is she now?” Dick finally asked, voice hard. The old warmth was gone. His blue eyes burned sharp, hot with something possessive, something near-broken.

Tim glanced down at the glowing signal on the map. “Downtown Gotham. Botanical garden.”

Jason let out a string of curses. “Of course she went there. Of course.” He threw on his jacket, already striding toward the bikes. “Let’s go.”

Damian’s voice snapped out over the comm. “Not without me. No one touches her until I’m there.”

They didn’t argue.

_____

Y/N sat cross-legged in a small patch of dappled sunlight, hidden beneath the swaying arms of a white wisteria tree. The petals swayed gently around her face. Her fingers stroked a curling vine at her side, and the stem shivered — as if nuzzling back.

The garden had changed since she was little.

Or maybe she had.

The plants didn’t shrink from her anymore. They watched her. Responded. Whispered back, in their own way. They curled toward her fingers, bent toward her breath. One vine in particular coiled upward slowly, swaying toward her cheek as if trying to tuck behind her ear.

“You guys remember me, huh?” she whispered, voice quiet and cracked with soft laughter. “I used to be scared someone would see. That if I talk with you, they’d think I was just like her.”

She didn’t say the name.

She didn’t need to.

But here, the ghosts of Ivy were kind. Not cruel.

She leaned back against the bench and let her eyes flutter shut, letting the plants hum around her in their secret way. Her stomach growled after a while, a soft pathetic sound.

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “Right. Food.”

That’s when she realized—

Her backpack was gone.

It hit her all at once. Her bag. Her phone. Her watch. Her class schedule. Everything was still at school.

Her blood ran cold.

Her brothers were obsessive. All of them. She’d survived under their radar for barely more than a month when she first ran. And that was before the craziness, the implants, before the curfews, before they reminded her what they were willing to do when she disobeyed.

Panic shot through her lungs like cold water.

“I need to get back,” she whispered aloud, stumbling upright. “I need to go. I need to go now—”

She sprinted out of the wisteria grove, heart pounding. Her flats slapped the pavement as she pushed through the winding hedges and warm glass walls. If she could just make it back, sneak in before the final bell, grab her bag—

Maybe they wouldn’t know.

Maybe they’d never know.

She darted around a corner, breath hitching, only to freeze—

Her breath caught.

Jason’s hand slammed against the glass wall beside her head, his towering figure casting a long shadow over her. His other hand wrapped around her upper arm in a grip that made her freeze. She flinched instinctively — cheeks warm, knuckles scratched, her school skirt rumpled and dirt-speckled from kneeling in the garden for too long.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jason’s voice was low. Not quite yelling. But almost worse — like thunder building behind steel.

She opened her mouth, but her words caught.

Behind him, the others had caught up. Dick, flushed with exertion, eyes glassy with disbelief. Tim was silent, his arms crossed, his jaw set like a ticking bomb. Damian stood stiff at the back, chest heaving beneath his uniform, green eyes narrowed and burning.

“I—” she started, licking her lips, “I had a free period. Mr. Keane didn’t come today. I just— I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think,” Jason snapped, “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Jay,” Dick’s voice was quiet, warning — but he didn’t stop him. None of them did.

Y/N stepped back, but Jason’s grip didn’t let go. “I just wanted to be alone for a bit. I didn’t even realize I left my bag— I didn’t mean to—”

“You forgot your phone,” Tim said sharply. “We couldn’t reach you for almost three hours. Your last ping was in school. You know what that looks like from our side?”

“I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Didn’t mean to—?” Damian let out a sound close to a scoff, stepping forward at last. “You’re lucky we found you. Do you even realize the risk? You could’ve been snatched off the street by any low-tier thug with half a brain. Or worse.”

“I wasn’t— It’s the garden,” she said quickly, her voice rising with desperation. “I was in the botanical garden, I just wanted to— I used to love going there— I thought it’d be okay—”

Jason exhaled hard, scrubbing his face with one hand. “If you needed space that bad, you come to me. I’ll take you out. You don’t disappear. Not again.”

Y/N’s lips parted. Her voice was small. “But I didn’t want to burden—”

Before she could finish, Dick had already reached her, tugging her out of Jason’s hold like it was nothing. He threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing — which compared to him, she did. She yelped, kicking weakly.

“No, no, I can walk—!”

“You lost that privilege the second you lied,” he said coldly, not even breaking pace.

Her fists hit his back, but it was like trying to punch marble. “Put me down, Dick!”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re being unreasonable! It was just one hour—!”

“It was three,” Tim corrected sharply.

She whined, her fists falling uselessly at her side.

„"يا حمقاء صغيرة,”

(— little idiot) Damian muttered behind her

Her eyes widened as she twisted in Dick’s grip.

“I am not—!”

“You are,” he growled, stalking after them. “You’re too weak to even go to the restrooms alone in school without getting dizzy. And you thought running off alone to play with plants would be safe?”

Y/N froze.

The mention of plants— his tone.

Then he added, tone colder now, sharper than glass:

“Tell me, did they whisper to you like your mother’s always did?”

That shut her up.

Her body tensed like a slap had landed. Her fists curled into her skirt. The breath in her throat vanished. Dick felt it immediately in the way her small frame stiffened against his shoulder.

“Damian,” he warned, his voice suddenly icy. “Shut. Up.”

Jason didn’t warn. He struck.

A hard jab against Damian’s arm sent the younger boy stumbling sideways.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked, voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“She has to hear it,” Damian snarled, but Jason pushed him back with another shove, harder this time.

“You don’t speak to her like that.”

Behind them, Y/N was silent, face buried against Dick’s shoulder now. Her eyes were wide, wet, full of something she couldn’t name. Shame. Pain. That old ache that had clung to her since childhood.

The fear that no matter what she did — they would always see her as Poison Ivy’s daughter. Not theirs.

Not truly loved.

None of the brothers spoke after that.

Even Tim, who usually deflected the tension, cracked a quiet joke or shifted the conversation to calm her down — stayed silent.

They were tense. Quiet. Fury buzzing beneath the surface. The weight of it followed them all the way to the car. All the way back to the Manor.

Back to the place she already knew would feel like a cage again.

______

The manor was cold when they stepped inside, yet her skin burned under Dick’s hold.

He hadn’t let go.

Not for a second.

He sat her down on the plush couch in the great room, but his arms stayed around her like a steel frame. Not tight — not hurting — but immovable. She squirmed once and he pulled her a little closer, as if to remind her:

You ran. I caught you. You don’t get to slip away again.

Her legs dangled off the edge of the cushion like a child’s. Dirt smudged her socks and the hem of her uniform skirt. Her hands were curled in her lap, nails bitten to the quick. Her face tilted down.

She didn’t dare look at any of them.

Still, when Alfred stepped in — calm, quiet — she managed a small, broken, “Hi, Alfred…”

His gaze swept over her in an instant, old eyes catching everything. Her flushed cheeks. Her mussed hair. The tension vibrating off the boys like a coiled spring. She wasn’t crying, but she looked like she might if one of them raised their voice too loud.

He knew the signs.

He always had.

“I see we’ve had a bit of an afternoon,” Alfred said gently, folding his hands behind his back. “You’ve stirred the lions’ den, Miss Y/N.”

She smiled weakly, eyes glossy. “Wasn’t on purpose…”

He hummed. Then softened. “Well. I was just about to prepare cinnamon rolls. Fresh. Extra soft. Shall I bring you one, dear?”

Her entire expression cracked open like sunlight through fog. She nodded instantly, eyes wide, round, desperate. “Yes, please…”

Jason, standing with his arms crossed by the fireplace, said nothing — but his jaw unclenched. Even Tim relaxed slightly.

Damian grumbled from his post behind the couch, “She wouldn’t be hungry now if she hadn’t skipped lunch to roll in garden weeds.”

Y/N flinched.

Then—

SLAM.

The front door snapped open with a crack like thunder. It slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle a frame loose.

She jumped in Dick’s hold — heart jumping to her throat, twisting around to look.

Bruce.

Her father’s silhouette stood at the threshold, tall, cloaked in tailored black. No cowl, no armor, no Bat — but the same grim gravity. The front of his shirt was still half-buttoned, the collar askew. He hadn’t come from the Cave.

He came from Wayne Tower.

And it had taken him less than seven minutes.

Y/N turned sharply to Dick, eyes wide. “You… you told him?”

He looked almost guilty — almost — but firm. “He’s your father.”

Even Jason didn’t protest. Even he knew this wasn’t something to hide.

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

If the brothers were fire, Bruce was ice. Controlled. Composed. Crushing.

His heavy steps echoed into the room. He didn’t say a word at first. He simply walked toward her, scanning her body the way only he could — for injury, signs of harm, danger. He crouched in front of the couch where she sat wrapped in Dick’s arms.

His eyes — steel-blue, unreadable — narrowed at her cheeks.

"You’re dirty,” he muttered, thumb swiping at a patch of soil.

She stiffened.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked lowly.

“N… no,” she whispered.

A beat. Then he stood. Tall. Unforgiving.

“Then explain.”

Every brother was silent now.

Jason leaned against the wall, arms folded. Tim stood behind the couch, half in shadow. Damian was unreadable but sharp, like a blade ready to draw.

Bruce’s gaze bore into her like a spotlight. “Why did you leave school. Why did you go off alone. Why did you leave your phone. And why the hell didn’t anyone know where you were.”

“I… I had a free period,” she mumbled. “I didn’t know I would— I thought I could—”

“You thought wrong,” Bruce snapped, voice cutting through the air.

She shrank into herself. “I just… I saw everyone was busy and I didn’t want to be a bother—”

“You’re not a bother,” Tim said tightly, the first to speak.

“I just needed air,” she said faster. “The garden— I haven’t been there in years—”

“Why?” Bruce’s tone was unrelenting.

She blinked.

“Why that garden?” he pressed.

“…Because I used to go there with Mom,” she whispered.

A pause.

Her voice broke. “She used to tell me the poppies whispered back.”

Bruce said nothing.

The entire room held its breath.

Jason looked away.

Damian’s jaw twitched.

Tim’s fingers tightened around the back of the couch.

Dick held her just a little closer.

And Bruce, for one brief flicker of a second — seemed to hesitate. A twitch in his brow. A flicker behind his eyes. Something he would never voice. Guilt, maybe. Memory. Something older than shame and deeper than pride.

But it passed.

“I should ground you for a month,” he said calmly.

She looked up at him, startled.

“But you’re not leaving my sight for a minute.”

He turned to Alfred. “Set up a cot in the Batcave. She’s coming down with me tonight.”

“But—!”

“No phone. No friends. You want air? I’ll give you filtered oxygen. The safest in the world. But you’re not walking out of a five-foot radius again without one of us at your side.”

“You can’t—!”

“I can. And I will.”

He looked at her. Dead on. “You don’t vanish on us again, Y/N. You don’t get to vanish. Not now. Not ever.”

Her lips trembled.

But she said nothing.

Because part of her — the part that had died once already — knew he meant it.

And another, smaller part…

…wondered if this was what love looked like, when it was so twisted it wrapped around itself.

——-

Y/N sat on the edge of the stiff cot like it had personally offended her.

Her arms were crossed. Her chin tilted high. The toes of her fuzzy socks tapped the steel floor in uneven frustration. Alfred had brought her pajamas and tucked her hair gently behind her ears before retreating with the same calm grace he always had. But even the cinnamon roll he left behind — warm, dusted with sugar, perfect — sat untouched on the tray in front of her.

She wasn’t eating.

She wasn’t talking.

She was pouting.

And grumbling.

Loudly.

In German.

Tim, hunched over a monitor just a few feet away, flicked his gaze to her every few seconds like she might suddenly explode. Bruce, standing by the Batcomputer, had tried ignoring it.

It hadn’t worked.

“Was habe ich getan, um das zu verdienen,” she muttered in a pointed tone, hands flopping into her lap as she stared at the cave floor. “Kein Buch, nicht mal ein Fernseher. Nichts. Aber sie erwarten, dass ich hier wie ein Hund sitze.”

(What did I do to deserve this? …. No book, not even a TV. Nothing. But they expect me to sit here like a dog)

Tim blinked slowly. “Did she just call herself a dog?”

“I didn’t talk to you,” Y/N snapped in English.

“You said it near me.”

“I was talking to the floor.”

Bruce closed the file on the screen. The glow of it dimmed.

Then he turned.

Y/N immediately looked away, her brows twitching into a deeper sulk.

Without a word, Bruce stepped over, towering like always. She expected him to bark another order. Or drop a lecture from ten feet above. Instead…

…he crouched.

His knees popped slightly as he bent to match her height.

It still didn’t quite work — he was too massive, too broad — but he tried.

“Du bist wütend,” he said calmly in German.

(You’re mad)

She blinked.

Then narrowed her eyes. “You don’t get to use my secret language against me.”

He tilted his head, amused. “It’s mine too. You were just better at remembering it.”

She didn’t answer.

He looked at her — properly this time.

No cape. No growl. No cowl. Just Bruce. And in that moment, somehow… her dad.

“I know you think this is unfair,” he said gently, voice low. “But I have to do this.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, you want to. Because you all like keeping me in cages.”

His jaw clenched. “You ran.”

“I sat in a garden.”

“You didn’t tell anyone where you were.”

“I forgot my phone!”

“You forgot us.”

That shut her up.

For a moment.

Then she exhaled hard through her nose. Her voice cracked slightly.

“I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“I know.”

She blinked, surprised by the immediacy of his response.

His eyes held hers. “I know you didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

Then she shook her head, expression tight. “I just needed space, Daddy. Just… a second. You guys left me alone all the time before. You didn’t even care. For years, you didn’t even notice I was at the table. Now I’m not allowed to blink without all of you watching.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“It’s too much.”

His face didn’t move. But something in his shoulders shifted — almost imperceptibly. The Bat didn’t bow. Bruce Wayne did.

“I’m trying,” he said, so quietly it was almost a confession.

She sniffled. Her hands balled in her lap. “You’re all so mean to me.”

His breath caught. “Y/N…”

She looked up.

And for a moment — a sharp, heart-wrenching second — she wasn’t a runaway or a danger or a rule-breaker or a risk.

She was just his daughter.

His little girl.

And she looked so small in this cave.

Bruce exhaled softly. He reached out — let his hand rest on the tray, not her, not yet. He wasn’t sure if she’d let him.

“You don’t understand,” he said lowly. “None of us can imagine this world without you. Not anymore.”

Her lip wobbled.

He reached for the cinnamon roll, tore off a small piece, and held it out.

“Eat.”

She stared at it like it was poison.

Then — slowly — she reached for it, bit the corner of it off like a sulky bunny. Her lips chewed. She glanced up to make sure he wasn’t smirking.

He wasn’t.

He was watching her like she might fall apart again.

“…It’s good,” she mumbled after a second.

He nodded.

She took another bite. Then a third. Soon the whole piece was gone and she was licking sugar off her thumb.

“Don’t tell Jason I ate it. I‘m mad at him.” she said.

“Too late,” Tim called from the side, not even looking up. “The Cave has audio.”

She groaned.

But she kept chewing.

And Bruce, still crouched, simply stayed there. Watching. Guarding. Not as Batman.

Just a man who didn’t know how to hold the world… except through her.

_____

The soft sound of breathing filled the Batcave.

It wasn’t coming from the men pacing between computer terminals, or the quiet clicking of keys. It came from the cot in the corner, tucked just beside the Batcomputer’s glow — where the youngest member of the Wayne family had finally fallen asleep.

Y/N layed curled on her side, a blanket half-draped over her legs, her cheek pressed against a plush pillow Alfred had insisted be added for her comfort. Her lips were parted slightly, a smudge of cinnamon sugar still tucked at the edge of her mouth from the roll she’d devoured in slow, sleepy defiance.

And curled protectively around her frame — like a sentinel — was Titus.

The massive dog rested his snout gently across her calves, tail flicking once in mild alertness. No one was getting close to her without getting past him first.

Tim sat in front of the main monitor, legs stretched, one hand lazily navigating security feeds. The other hand was curled beneath his chin. His coffee had gone cold.

He hadn’t stopped working.

But his eyes kept drifting.

Back to her.

Every thirty seconds.

His sister.

His soft, delicate, reckless little sister.

He studied her curled fingers. Her flushed cheeks. Her messy hair that had fallen from its clip.

He exhaled slowly.

“Good thing I put that tracker in her.”

He muttered it under his breath, a near-whisper. Not proud — but not ashamed, either. She didn’t know, of course. None of them had told her it was in her. In her arm, just beneath the skin, placed during a routine visit after her last escape. Painless. Seamless.

Permanent.

He tapped the screen.

The red dot — her signal — blinked steady from her current location. Safe.

He let himself breathe again.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

He didn’t need to turn to know who they belonged to.

Dick came in first, helmet tucked under one arm, still in Nightwing gear, hair windswept and eyes immediately scanning the Cave.

They softened the second they landed on her.

Jason followed a second later, tossing his helmet on a nearby table with a huff. Red Hood was still splattered with grime from the streets, but his expression cracked the moment he saw her there — safe, asleep, untouched.

He blinked.

“…Tch. Gremlin,” he muttered, low.

Dick walked right to her and knelt beside the cot. His gloved hand reached out, fingers running lightly through her hair.

She didn’t stir.

“She refused to eat earlier when I offered,” Jason grumbled, folding his arms. “Acted like I was trying to poison her.”

Dick smiled faintly. “She took it from Bruce. Of course she did. She’s still mad at us for telling him.”

“She can be mad,” Jason said gruffly, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Better mad than missing.”

Tim hummed in agreement from the desk.

“Doesn’t matter how much she hates it,” he said, turning slightly. “She’s not going anywhere again. Not without one of us. Not without ten of us, if I can help it.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Tim tapped the side of his temple.

“Every message she sends. Every step she takes. I see it. She’s not going anywhere I don’t approve.”

Dick didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and tucked it beneath her chin.

“…Good.”

Jason sighed through his nose, eyes still locked on the quiet, dreaming girl in the cot. His voice was softer this time.

“Next time she wants flowers, I’ll drive her myself.”

Tim snorted. “You’d burn the garden down if it looked at her wrong.”

Jason didn’t deny it.

Dick leaned over and kissed her temple.

“…Goodnight, little bloom,” he whispered.

They didn’t leave the Cave for hours.

They watched her sleep.

And not a single one of them planned to let her out of their sight ever again.

497 notes · View notes

jkwrites-m · 2 days ago

Text

Daddy Kookie (4)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, guilt, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, comfort, vulnerability, domestic, resistance, hope, long-distance, confessions, secrecy, moving explicit: praising, kissing, riding, oral (f. & m. receiving), unprotected sex, phone (FaceTime) sex,

A/N: hey friends, myb for the delay! i got sucked into a fic and had to finish reading before posting 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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═══════

The worst part wasn’t the fight.

It was the stillness after.

He didn’t call that night.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t ask if I’d changed my mind.

He picked Eun Ae up like he said he would. Walked her home. Stayed for dinner like nothing had happened. She didn’t notice the way I sat on the other end of the table. The way his eyes barely touched mine.

We were polite.

Almost warm.

But never close.

And that, somehow, hurt more than yelling ever could.

I found myself watching him more than I wanted to.

The way he tied her shoes.

The way he helped her build the puzzle she was obsessed with this week.

The way he folded the laundry and left it in a neat pile on the edge of the couch- not assuming, not asking, just… there.

I missed him while he was standing five feet away.

That night, I called my best friend.

Told her everything.

“I think I’m testing him,” I admitted, voice thick with guilt. “I think I’m waiting for him to mess up so I can say I was right to be afraid.”

She was quiet for a beat.

Then said, “Maybe it’s not about being right. Maybe it’s about being ready.”

I didn’t respond.

Because maybe I wasn’t either.

═══════

I didn’t sleep.

Again.

I sat on the couch after Eun Ae went to bed. Headphones in, notebook open, staring at the same line I’d rewritten six times.

I wasn’t mad at her.

Not even close.

I got it.

She was scared.

I’d made her that way.

And it wasn’t her job to trust me.

It was mine to earn it.

So I wrote her something.

A letter I didn’t send.

A letter I folded three times and tucked inside my bag.

Y/N,

If you say no, I’ll stay. If you say not yet, I’ll wait. If you say never, I’ll still love you from wherever you are. Because it’s not about the city. Or the life. Or the dream. It’s you. It’s always been you. And I would trade all of it to be where you are.

- JK

I left it there.

In my bag.

Because she wasn’t ready.

And I wasn’t going to leave this time.

Not even if she told me to.

═══════

It was just a box.

Labeled “Old Stuff” in fading black Sharpie, shoved in the back of the closet I hadn’t touched since we moved into this place.

Eun Ae found it while looking for her art supplies.

“Mama!” she called from the hallway. “What’s this?”

I dried my hands and walked over, heart already twitching at the sight of it.

The top was half-off, papers spilling out- receipts, baby socks, polaroids, hospital wristbands.

And a journal.

My old one.

From the pregnancy.

Before the nausea. Before the ultrasounds. Before I knew if she was a she.

Back when I was scared of everything.

Back when the only person I wanted to tell had stopped answering his phone.

I picked it up slowly.

Felt the way it still remembered my hands.

Eun Ae looked up at me with wide eyes. “Can we read it?”

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

We sat on the floor, backs against the wall, pages turning beneath fingertips that barely fit across one line of text.

I skimmed, at first.

Then I landed on one.

“Week 13. I think I’m starting to love her. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I should. But she’s mine. She’s mine. And I’ll never let her feel what I’m feeling right now - alone.”

My throat tightened.

Eun Ae leaned her head on my shoulder. “Did you write all of this for me?”

“I did,” I whispered.

She smiled.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like she already knew.

And in that moment, I remembered every version of myself I thought I’d buried:

The girl who still hoped.

The girl who believed people could change.

The girl who loved Jungkook with her whole heart and never stopped.

═══════

Later that night, when the sky went pink and the apartment went quiet, I found him sitting on the front steps. Hoodie pulled over his head. Knees drawn up. Staring at nothing.

He looked surprised when I joined him.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, I said:

“I’m not saying yes.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m not asking you to,” he replied.

I took a breath.

Let it sit between us.

Then added, “But I want to think about it.”

His head turned.

Eyes searching mine.

And for the first time in a long time…

He smiled.

Not because he’d won.

But because I’d let him in.

Even if just a little.

═══════

I didn’t tell him.

Not Jungkook.

Not my best friend.

Not even myself, really.

I just waited until the apartment was quiet, until Eun Ae was tucked in and dreaming, until the hallway lights dimmed and the city softened behind the windows. Then I opened my laptop.

The cursor blinked back at me like a dare.

I stared at the search bar for a long time, my fingers hovering, my pulse skittering like it used to when I was younger and about to send a message I couldn’t take back. My heart said don’t. My hands didn’t listen.

Seoul elementary schools for international children.

The results came too fast, flooding the screen with photos of clean white hallways, polished shoes, little uniforms, beaming parents, perfectly translated admissions promises. I scrolled through three websites before slamming the tab shut like it had caught me doing something shameful.

But a minute later, I opened them again.

Maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I was just… curious.

And maybe curiosity was enough for now.

I made a folder on my desktop and labeled it with a single letter: “E.”

Vague enough to pass, quiet enough to keep. I bookmarked a handful of schools. A few had Korean-English bilingual programs. One had an art curriculum that made my throat ache in a way I couldn’t explain.

I wasn’t planning anything. I just… didn’t want to be unprepared if someday I did.

═══════

The next day, while Jungkook was out with Eun Ae, I did the same thing with job listings.

Event management companies in Seoul. Nonprofits. One university venue- looking for a program coordinator. Nothing life-changing. Just possible.

When my best friend called that afternoon, she caught the tremor in my voice immediately.

“You sound distracted,” she said.

“I’m not,” I lied.

She didn’t buy it.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“About what?”

“Seoul.”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re allowed to want it, you know.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“I can’t do this again,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “You’re not doing it again. You’re doing it differently.”

That night, I sat with a printed school application on my nightstand. I didn’t fill it out. I didn’t even reread it. Just folded it once and tucked it into my notebook, like something half-forbidden, half-holy. Then I lay back, watching the ceiling blur into dusk, and whispered to no one, “If I were brave, maybe I’d go.”

And something quiet inside me, something I hadn’t heard in years, whispered back:

Maybe you already are.

═══════

I didn’t ask where her head was at.

Not when I picked up Eun Ae that morning. Not when I saw the folded tension in Y/N’s shoulders. Not when she handed over a backpack and a juice box and said, “Have fun.”

There was something behind her eyes- a storm she was still naming. I wasn’t going to push her into clarity. Not this time.

So I gave her space.

And I gave our daughter the kind of day I’d only ever dreamed of giving her.

We went to the zoo again- it wasn’t new, but she liked the giraffes and the flamingos and the way the map made her feel like a pirate. She held my hand the whole time. Told strangers I was her dad with no hesitation, like it was a fact she’d always known.

We ate popcorn on a bench. Took selfies. Bought a postcard that she insisted we mail to “the living room,” because “that’s where Mommy always sits.”

She fell asleep in the car on the way home.

I didn’t carry her in right away.

Just sat there for a few minutes with the engine running, her head tipped against the window, her mouth slightly open.

And I thought about everything I’d missed.

First steps. First words. First fevers. First birthdays.

I would never get those back.

But maybe… maybe I could still make up for them in the ways that mattered now.

Later that night, after I put her to bed and folded the laundry she’d managed to scatter across the floor, I sat at the kitchen table with a blank notebook in front of me.

I didn’t know what I was writing it for.

Maybe for me.

Maybe for her.

Maybe for the woman sleeping behind a door I still didn’t feel brave enough to knock on again.

I wrote slowly.

Carefully.

No edits this time. Just truth.

I don’t want you to choose Seoul for me. I want you to choose Seoul because you believe something new could grow there. I know I broke us. I know I left you with the hardest parts. And even if you never move, never change your zip code or your heart-

I’ll still be here. Still showing up. Still trying to be the man I should’ve been the first time.

I signed it.

Didn’t fold it.

Didn’t leave it out.

Just slipped it into my journal and closed the cover.

Maybe she’d read it someday.

Maybe she never would.

But at least I’d said it.

And sometimes, that has to be enough.

═══════

He lingered at the door.

Not like he was expecting an invitation. More like he was reminding himself not to hope for one.

Eun Ae was already in bed, curled under her blanket with her stuffed tiger tucked beneath her chin. Jungkook had brought her home an hour ago, quiet, calm, soft-eyed.

I opened the door before he could knock.

He blinked, surprised.

I stepped back.

“You want to come in?”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

Didn’t say a word as he followed me inside.

We moved around each other easily now- like we’d been doing this a lot longer than a few weeks. He set his keys on the counter, pulled off his jacket, and slipped off his shoes.

I didn’t offer him tea.

He didn’t ask.

We just sat.

Side by side on the couch, no TV, no phones, no distractions. The lamp beside us hummed faintly. Outside, the city had gone quiet. A lullaby of sirens somewhere far off.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I curled my legs under me. He rested one arm on the back of the couch, not quite touching, not quite distant.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“What’s it really like?”

He looked at me.

“Seoul,” I clarified. “Your version of it.”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh.

“Busy. Loud. Fast. Kind of beautiful if you slow down long enough to look up.”

I nodded slowly.

“And your life there?”

He shrugged. “Structured. Pressured. But it’s mine. Even the exhausting parts.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

“I don’t want to lose this,” I said quietly.

“You’re not going to,” he answered just as softly. “No matter where we live.”

I tilted my head, searching his face. “And if I said I couldn’t do it?”

“I’d stay.”

“No hesitation?”

He shook his head.

“None. Because I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to stay.”

The lump in my throat came fast.

I looked away.

He didn’t reach for me.

Didn’t force it.

But his presence was enough, a gravity I no longer wanted to resist.

I leaned against his shoulder slowly, tentatively, and when he didn’t move, I let my full weight settle there.

The familiar scent of detergent and something uniquely him, wrapped around me like a memory. Jungkook’s presence was a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d missed until this very moment.

We stayed like that for a long time.

The silence wasn’t awkward; it was understanding.

I didn’t cry, though the weight of everything we’d been through pressed against my chest.

He didn’t speak, but his stillness felt like a question, a plea, a promise all at once. It was as if we were having a conversation without words, our hearts speaking in a language only we could understand.

Eventually, I pulled away just slightly- just enough to see his face.

His dark eyes were on me, calm and searching, waiting for something I wasn’t sure I could give. But when I looked into them, I saw the same man I’d fallen for years ago, the same man I’d swore away. And in that moment, I knew I wanted him back.

So I leaned in.

And I kissed him.

It was soft, deliberate, like I was testing the waters of a river I once knew by heart. There was no panic, no tears, just the steady rhythm of our breaths intertwining.

His lips were warm, familiar, and yet they felt new, like discovering something you’d forgotten you loved.

His hands touched me like he was still asking permission, brushing my hair back, cupping my cheek.

My body answered before my mouth could.

I tilted my head, deepening the kiss, and his hands moved to my waist, pulling me closer. It was as if our skin still remembered what our minds were just beginning to relearn.

We moved together like we’d done this in another life, our bodies falling into a rhythm that felt both ancient and brand new.

There was no rush, no need to prove anything. Just us, reclaiming what we’d lost.

He undressed me like I was fragile, his fingers tracing the curves of my body with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

I undressed him like he was already mine, my hands mapping the lean muscles of his chest, the ink of his tattoo sleeve, the piercings that glinted under the soft light of the living room.

His body was a canvas I knew by heart, and yet it felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

When we were both bare, he pulled me onto his lap, his hands resting on the small of my back. I could feel the heat of his skin against mine, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck.

I didn’t say anything, just pressed a kiss to his jawline, letting my actions speak for me.

I shifted slightly, my legs straddling his, and he groaned softly, his hands moving to my hips. There was no urgency, just a slow, sensual exploration of each other’s bodies.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his as I whispered, “Prove it.”

His eyes darkened, and he flipped us, pressing me gently into the couch. “Anything for you,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down my neck, my collarbone, my breasts.

His touch was reverent, careful, like he was rediscovering every inch of me. I arched into him, my hands tangling in his hair, my moans soft and desperate.

But I wanted more. I wanted to feel him, to taste him, to remind myself why we’d been so right once upon a time. I pushed him back, my hands on his chest, and he let me take control, his eyes never leaving mine.

I slid down his body to the floor, my lips brushing his skin as I went. His hands gripped the cushions, his breath hitching when I reached his erection.

It was thick, hard, and I smiled, knowing exactly what I wanted to do.

I took him in my mouth, slow and deliberate, my tongue swirling around the tip before I took him deeper. His hands tangled in my hair, his head falling back as he let out a low groan. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick with need.

I hummed around him, my hands gripping his thighs, my mouth moving in a rhythm that had us both gasping.

I pulled away, my lips swollen, my breath ragged. “Your turn,” he whispered, pushing me back onto the couch.

He shifted, his hands guiding me back onto his lap, his mouth trailing kisses down my stomach, my thighs, until he was between them. His tongue was warm, insistent, and I cried out, my hands gripping his hair as he worshipped me with his mouth.

“Jungkook,” I moaned, my body arching off the couch.

He groaned against my skin, his fingers teasing, his tongue relentless, until I was a trembling mess, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

When he finally pulled away, I was shaking, my body buzzing with need.

I straddled him again, his hands gripping my waist as I positioned myself above him. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was something softer there too, something that made my heart ache.

I lowered myself onto him, slow and steady, his hands moving to my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples.

I rode him, my hips moving in a rhythm that had us both groaning, our breaths syncing, our bodies moving as one.

His hands were everywhere, his mouth kissing every inch of skin he could reach. He idolized me, his fingers tracing my waist, my hips, my thighs, like he was memorizing every curve.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his, my hands tangling in his hair. “Say it again,” I whispered.

He looked up at me, his eyes intense, his hands gripping my hips tighter. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice steady, certain.

I smiled, a silent answer, and kissed him deeply, our bodies moving faster now, the tension building, the pleasure coiling tight.

His hands moved to my back, his fingers digging in as he thrust up to meet me, our bodies colliding in a rhythm that felt like coming home.

And then we were falling, our breaths ragged, our bodies trembling, as we came together, our cries mingling in the air.

He whispered my name like a prayer.

I moaned his like a truth.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his hands holding me tight.

And afterward, when the silence returned, it wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full.

Of us.

Still us.

Becoming us again.

═══════

I texted him after school drop-off.

Y/N: Can you meet us at the park?

It was simple. No buildup. No context. But he replied almost instantly.

Jungkook: On my way.

When I got there, he was already waiting.

Sitting on the same bench he’d sat on during that first zoo outing. Hoodie pulled up over his head, sunglasses in his hands, a slight fidget in his knee like he wasn’t sure what version of me was about to show up.

I walked over slowly.

He stood.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t assume.

Just looked at me- quiet and still and open.

I took a breath.

“This isn’t a yes.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m not ready to uproot everything. Not yet.”

“I know.”

“I need time. I need to make sure Eun Ae’s education is stable, that I have job options. I need to know I’m not doing this just because I- ” I stopped myself. Swallowed hard.

He didn’t flinch. “Because you what?”

I shook my head, refocused.

“This has to be about all of us. And it has to be real. Not rushed. Not romantic. Just… right.”

He nodded slowly, like every word mattered more than the last.

“And?”

I looked up at him fully now.

Met his eyes.

And let go of everything I’d been holding back.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said softly. “And I’m willing to try.”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just breathed.

Then his shoulders dropped.

His hands loosened.

His face cracked open into the gentlest smile I’d ever seen on him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped forward- not to grab me, not to kiss me, just to be close.

“How long do you think you’ll need?”

“As long as it takes,” I said. “A few months. Maybe more. I need to go at our pace.”

He reached for my hand then, slowly, like he was still making sure I’d let him.

I did.

He linked our fingers. “Then I’ll wait. For however long it takes.”

I smiled.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because we were finally starting from the same place.

A place without conditions.

Without ghosts.

Without pretending.

Just two people who loved each other.

Trying.

═══════

Eight months.

That’s what I gave myself.

Not six. Not twelve.

Eight.

Enough time to find the right job, prepare Eun Ae’s transition, apply for her school, sort financial documents, visas- everything. But not so long that I’d let fear talk me out of it again.

I made a list.

Typed it into my Notes app like it was a grocery run and not the first blueprint of a new life.

Seoul school research

Submit CV to three companies this week

Budget flight options for move window (March?)

Ask Jungkook if his house has a bathtub (non-negotiable for Eun Ae)

I laughed at that last one. Out loud.

Because this time, the future didn’t feel like a trapdoor.

It felt… possible.

And somehow, even more than that, it felt like mine.

Jungkook never rushed me.

Not once.

We FaceTimed every morning and every night. Some calls were full of updates, screenshots, “Can you believe Eun Ae lost another tooth?” Some were just silence. The soft kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything.

Some mornings, I woke up before the alarm and reached for the phone already smiling. Other nights, I fell asleep to the sound of his voice reading bedtime stories from halfway around the world.

He made it feel like he’d never left.

Like distance was just a word we didn’t let mean much.

The week I finally submitted three job applications, I didn’t tell anyone at first.

I just closed the tabs.

Let my chest fill.

And cried in the kitchen for exactly six minutes before reheating leftovers and helping Eun Ae with her math homework like everything was normal.

When Jungkook called that night, I didn’t say anything about it.

Just asked how his day was. Listened to him complain about a radio interview and laugh about Yoongi falling asleep mid-rehearsal. Watched his face relax when I told him he still talked too much with his hands.

We said goodnight the way we always did.

Him: “Sleep well, beautiful.”

Me: “Good morning, idiot.”

He grinned at that. Always did.

After I hung up, I walked to the mirror and looked at myself for a long time.

Tired.

Determined.

Not waiting for rescue.

Just building something brave.

Eight months.

And then we’d jump.

═══════

I bought the house three weeks after I got back to Seoul.

Didn’t tell anyone. Not even her.

It wasn’t big. I didn’t want big. I wanted quiet.

It sat at the edge of a park, tucked into the kind of neighborhood people usually outgrew into- peaceful, steady, with clean sidewalks and too many trees. The house had three bedrooms and an attic that begged to be turned into something. The walls were soft yellow. The windows wide.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it felt like them.

I took a photo from the front porch the first night the sun set through the trees just right and sent it to Y/N.

Jungkook: This might be the view from your coffee mug someday.

She didn’t reply right away.

But when she did, it was simple.

Y/N ❤️: Is there a bathtub?

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

She remembered.

Of course she did.

I took a photo of the bathroom. Sent it.

Jungkook: Clawfoot. Definitely deep enough for mermaids.

She heart-reacted the message.

Didn’t say more.

She didn’t need to.

I started nesting, even though no one had said they were coming yet.

Bought a tiny desk and set it up under the window in the second bedroom.

Hung a corkboard above it with empty pushpins.

Labeled the WiFi “EunAeStar97.”

I knew it was risky.

I knew I was getting ahead of myself.

But every morning, I made two cups of coffee. Every night, I left the porch light on.

And every time I passed that tiny bedroom, I imagined laughter spilling out, crayon drawings taped to the walls, the faint smell of shampoo and cereal and new beginnings.

The members noticed I was different.

Lighter, maybe.

I didn’t say much about it.

Just said I had a house now.

A little closer to peace.

Namjoon stopped by once. Walked through the space, nodded slowly, then looked at me and said, “You bought this for them.”

I didn’t deny it.

He didn’t ask anything else.

═══════

That morning, I FaceTimed Y/N from the kitchen.

No shirt, hair still wet from the shower, the good kind of tired in my bones.

The Seoul sunrise painted the room in soft gold, a stark contrast to the darkness I knew enveloped her world..

Her face appeared on the screen, sleepy but smiling, her messy bun and the faint smudge of yesterday’s eyeliner making her look both vulnerable and impossibly beautiful.

“Trying to seduce me in 1080p?” she teased, one eyebrow arched.

Her voice was thick with sleep, but there was a spark in her eyes that told me she was already playing along.

I grinned, leaning closer to the camera. “Always.”

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made my chest tighten. It was a laugh I’d missed more than I’d cared to admit.

But in that moment, it felt like we were in the same room, her hand brushing against mine, her breath warm on my skin.

“You’re up early,” I said, my gaze lingering on the curve of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly as she spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Thinking about you.”

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t expected that. “I’ve been thinking about you too.” I murmured, my voice low and rough.

The air between us crackled with unspoken desire. I could almost feel her heartbeat through the screen, could almost smell the faint scent of her perfume.

It was ridiculous, I know, but in that moment, the distance felt like a game we were both willing to play.

“I have to be quiet,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might overhear.

“Good,” I said, my smirk widening. “I like it when you’re quiet.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she propped her phone against her pillow, adjusting it so she could lie down in front of it. The camera angle shifted, giving me a view of her slender frame, the curve of her hip, the way her tank top clung to her full breasts.

My breath hitched.

“You’re killing me, baby,” I groaned, my hand instinctively drifting south.

I flipped the camera, showing her my other hand wrapped around my cock. It was already hard, throbbing with anticipation.

Her eyes darkened, her lips parting in a silent gasp. “You’re not the only one,” she murmured, her hand slipping under the waistband of her panties.

I watched, mesmerized, as she began to touch herself, her movements slow and deliberate. Her skin was sparkling in the dim light of her room, her fingers slender and graceful.

She was a work of art, and I was her audience, her admirer.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with need. “I wish I was there, wish I could touch you.”

“Me too,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving mine.

Her hand moved faster now, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here.”

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on my cock. “I’d pin you down,” I said, my voice rough with desire. “Kiss every inch of your body, eat your pussy until you’re screaming my name.”

She moaned softly, her free hand clutching the sheets. “Fuck, Jungkook. Keep talking.”

I did, my words dirty and desperate, painting a picture of everything I wanted to do to her, everything I wanted her to do to me. She was a vision, her body arching off the bed, her lips parted in a silent cry as she came, her fingers still moving in rhythm with her trembling breaths.

“That’s it, baby,” I praised, my own release building. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering closed as she rode out her orgasm. “Keep going,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I didn’t need to be told twice. My hand moved faster, my breaths coming in ragged gasps as I imagined her there with me, her lips on mine, her body pressed against mine.

“Y/N,” I groaned, my voice breaking as I came, my cum spilling over my hand.

She watched, her expression soft and satisfied, as I caught my breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Always,” I replied, my heart still pounding.

She got up slowly, her movements languid, and pulled on a soft sweater. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said, her voice already slurring with exhaustion.

“Okay,” I said, my gaze lingering on her as she climbed back into bed. “Sleep well, baby.”

I stayed on the line, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

I waited until her breathing deepened, until I was sure she was asleep, before whispering, “I love you.”

The distance still hurt, but in that moment, it felt a little less impossible. She was there, and I was here, and somehow, we’d found a way to bridge the gap, if only for a little while.

═══════

It started with spilled juice on the rug.

Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if Eun Ae hadn’t also had a stomach bug and I hadn’t already been running on three hours of sleep and I hadn’t opened my inbox to three rejections in one morning.

I cleaned it.

Twice.

Then sat on the floor beside it and stared at the fibers like they owed me something.

By the time lunch rolled around, I’d cried once in the pantry, snapped at the delivery guy for ringing the bell three times, and put the dirty dishes in the fridge.

Eun Ae was a trooper.

Even sick, she tried to cheer me up. She scribbled me a card that said “Mommy I love you more than toilet paper,” and offered me half a cracker from her dry-stomach ration pile.

I kissed her forehead, tucked her in, and promised I was fine.

I wasn’t.

When Jungkook called later, I almost didn’t answer.

The screen lit up with his name - Jungkook - and I stared at it until it dimmed.

Then I picked it up and sat on the edge of my bed, legs trembling for no reason at all.

He smiled when he saw me.

“Hey. Almost thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Bad day?”

I nodded.

Tried to speak.

Didn’t.

My eyes welled up faster than I expected, and before I could stop myself, I was crying. Not the dramatic kind. Just the quiet, tired kind. The kind that doesn’t have a beginning or end, it just is.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t ask for details.

Didn’t try to spin it into something light.

He just watched me.

Waited.

And when I finally whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this,” he didn’t panic.

He just said, “You don’t have to. Not alone.”

That undid me completely.

Because for years, that’s all I had ever been.

Alone.

Even when I didn’t want to admit it.

Even when I thought I’d made peace with it.

I wiped my face, tried to breathe.

“Why do you love me?” I asked suddenly, not sure where it came from.

His answer was immediate.

“Because you’re you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s everything.”

I closed my eyes.

Let his voice fill the room, calm and steady.

He didn’t solve anything that night.

He didn’t need to.

He just stayed on the line while I lay back against the pillows, and eventually, I fell asleep to the sound of his breathing through the speaker.

And I realized-

Maybe I wasn’t waiting anymore.

Maybe I was already with him.

═══════

I told them on a Thursday night.

I waited until the room felt safe.

It was Yoongi’s place- quiet, cozy, cluttered with comfort. We’d done this a hundred times. Late-night takeout, ridiculous arguments about who stole the last dumpling, J-Hope humming along to background noise none of us were really watching.

But tonight I felt it in my throat. The need to say it. The weight of her in my chest.

So I set my chopsticks down.

And said it.

“I have a daughter.”

Silence.

The kind that swallows the air.

Then Taehyung squinted at me from across the coffee table, a piece of seaweed stuck to his cheek. “Like… you’re raising someone else’s daughter?”

“No,” I said quietly. “She’s mine. Her name’s Eun Ae.”

More silence.

Jimin’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Namjoon looked down.

Yoongi didn’t move.

“She’s six,” I continued. “And she looks just like me. Big eyes. Dimple on the left side. She sticks her tongue in her cheek when she’s concentrating and she calls me ‘Daddy Kookie.’”

Still no one spoke.

“She loves drawing, and stuffed animals, and wildflowers. She’s obsessed with pancakes. She hates socks. She knows I sing for a living, but she doesn’t really care. She thinks my job is just being ‘silly on YouTube.’”

The corner of Jin’s mouth twitched.

“And Y/N…” I paused. Exhaled slowly. “She raised her alone. I left and she did everything without me. She’s the strongest person I know, and somehow she still lets me be part of their life.”

Jungkook, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not yet.

“I don’t know how to deserve them,” I said. “I’m trying. Every day. But I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it up. Like one bad choice and I’m back to being the guy who blocked her number instead of answering the phone.”

Namjoon looked up.

“And you told her this?”

“I tell her everything now,” I said. “Even when I’m scared. Especially then.”

Jimin pushed his sleeve up. “So what happens next?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I asked her to think about moving to Seoul. She said she’s willing to try. So I need to make it safe. I need to make it real.”

Yoongi finally leaned forward.

“You need to tell the label.”

I froze.

“What?”

“They’re going to find out,” he said. “You should control the narrative. Get ahead of it. Tell them before someone else does.”

“And if they don’t want me to go public?”

Namjoon shrugged. “Then you decide what matters more- image or honesty.”

Jin nodded. “You’ve got us. All of us.”

That night, I scheduled the meeting.

═══════

No managers. No buffer. Just me and two senior reps behind a long glass table that made everything feel colder than it should have.

I told them the whole story. Not just the timeline. The heart.

The nights I spent wondering if Eun Ae had my laugh. The way she grabs my hand when she’s scared. The way she calls Y/N “Supermom” and how they make pancakes together every Sunday. I told them I wasn’t asking for approval. Just transparency.

They listened.

Took notes.

Asked almost no questions.

Then one of them said, “Jungkook… we understand. But this isn’t something we can advise you to share with the public.”

I blinked. “What?”

“We’re in a delicate position here. You’re the youngest member. The most visible. Statistically, the most desirable. Releasing news of a child now- ”

“She’s not news,” I snapped.

The rep didn’t flinch. “We’re prepping a new comeback. We’ve been planning toward this moment for over a year. If this story breaks, it won’t just shift your image. It will define it. You will become the father. Not the artist. Not the idol.”

My hands curled into fists.

“She’s not a scandal.”

“She’s not,” the other rep said, gentler. “But your personal truth is not always compatible with brand protection.”

I stood too quickly. My chair scraped the floor like a scream.

“You think I care about brand protection right now?”

“No,” the first rep said calmly. “But we do.”

And that was it.

No punishment.

No anger.

Just strategy.

Just the quiet re-packaging of my life into something marketable.

I agreed to wait.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I didn’t want her caught in the crossfire.

That night, when Y/N called, she looked tired but peaceful.

Her hair was braided to the side. She was lying on the couch in sweatpants, Eun Ae’s stuffed tiger tucked under one arm. There was a softness in her eyes I hadn’t seen since we were teenagers.

I almost told her.

Almost blurted it out- they said no. I tried anyway. I fought for us.

But I didn’t.

Because she was smiling.

And I didn’t want to put the weight of my disappointment on her shoulders when she was just starting to hope again.

“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”

And maybe that was true.

But I still fell asleep feeling like I had swallowed the truth whole just to keep her dreams intact.

═══════

The job offer came on a Tuesday.

It was buried in my inbox between a coupon for 30% off sneakers and a school newsletter announcing a lice outbreak. The subject line was polite. Plain.

[Event Coordinator – Seoul Venue | Offer Letter Enclosed]

I clicked it three times before I really opened it.

It wasn’t just good. It was ideal.

A flexible schedule, bilingual staff, family health coverage, relocation assistance. They’d even included a list of school partners nearby for “your daughter’s transition.”

They knew.

They really knew.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time, the screen glowing in my hands.

My first instinct was to call Jungkook.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I walked to Eun Ae’s room.

She was in the middle of dressing her stuffed animals for “airport adventures,” complete with a plastic suitcase and pretend boarding passes drawn in crayon.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked gently, leaning on the doorframe.

“Packing for Korea,” she said without looking up.

I blinked. “You are?”

“Yup. I already told daddy I want to sit by the window. And I’m gonna bring him my drawing of the flamingo with the hairbow.”

I laughed. “He’s going to love that.”

She nodded solemnly. “It’s his favorite animal now. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Later that night, after she fell asleep clutching the flamingo drawing, I sat at the kitchen table and read the offer again. Then printed it. Signed it. Scanned it back into my email.

The moment I clicked send, my hands started shaking.

Not from fear.

From relief.

We weren’t planning anymore.

We were doing it.

We were going.

I called Jungkook. He picked up before it finished ringing.

“Hey,” he said, breathless. “Everything okay?”

“I have something to tell you,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Okay,” he said, voice suddenly soft, like he was bracing for a storm.

I looked down at the flamingo drawing still sitting beside me.

Then I smiled.

“We’re coming.”

Silence.

Then a soft exhale.

Then-

“You’re really coming?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “We’re moving. We’ll need a little time- school, housing, all of that. But it’s happening.”

He didn’t speak for several seconds.

Then I heard it. A sniff. Another.

“Hey,” I said, laughing now. “Are you crying?”

“No,” he said, very obviously crying. “Shut up.”

I covered my own mouth, tears prickling.

“We’re not waiting anymore,” I said softly.

He cleared his throat. “No,” he echoed. “We’re coming home.”

═══════

I didn’t cry when I gave my notice at work.

I thought I would.

I thought I’d hand in the letter and immediately feel like I’d cut off a limb, like the floor would tilt beneath me. But instead, my boss smiled softly, hugged me, and said, “You were never meant to stay small here, you know.”

That’s when it started to feel real.

The next few days blurred into boxes and donation piles, phone calls, emails, spreadsheets titled “Move Logistics – Seoul.” I canceled utilities. Sorted through years of receipts and forgotten drawers and memories I didn’t know I’d buried.

Everything was chaos.

But for once, it was the good kind.

Eun Ae wanted to pack everything.

Her shoes, her pencils, her stickers, the rocks she collected from the park last spring. She drew a sign for each box - “Korea stuff!!” with a million hearts. On her bedroom wall, she’d started a countdown calendar with pink stars and crooked numbers.

“Twenty days left!” she shouted one morning over cereal. “That’s less than a month!”

Her excitement made it easier.

So did my best friend showing up with iced coffee and too much bubble wrap.

“You know this is brave, right?” she said as she helped me wrap the last picture frame from our hallway.

“I know it’s terrifying.”

She smiled. “That too.”

The apartment started to look hollow.

The shelves were bare. The rugs rolled. The scent of our lives here slowly faded- replaced with the smell of cardboard and sharpie ink.

I took a break one afternoon and sat in the middle of the living room floor, sweat sticking my shirt to my back, a half-sealed box beside me labeled “Memories: Handle Carefully.”

I looked around.

This place had been everything.

A hiding place.

A womb.

A home when I didn’t know if I’d ever have one again.

And now we were leaving it.

Not because we were running.

But because we didn’t have to anymore.

That night, Eun Ae fell asleep on a mattress on the floor, curled up in a sleeping bag she insisted on using for “practice.”

I kissed her forehead and whispered, “You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever known.”

Then I stood in the doorway of her room and let the tears come.

Soft.

Steady.

The kind you don’t wipe away, because they mean something bigger than sadness.

They mean something’s ending.

Because something better is waiting.

═══════

The call came just as I was trying to fold a fitted sheet back into the drawer that no longer existed.

My phone buzzed against the counter, and I didn’t even check who it was. I just answered with a groan and said, “If you’re calling to ask if I’m emotionally stable enough to pack another box of toddler art and broken crayons, the answer is absolutely not.”

Jungkook’s face filled the screen, grinning like a kid who’d just gotten away with something.

“Well… I was calling to show you this.”

The camera flipped.

I saw a bedroom.

A real one.

Small but sunlit, with pale wooden floors and a big window framed in white curtains. There was a new bed- not too big, just right. In the corner, a tiny desk with a lamp shaped like a bunny. The closet had been left open slightly, and I could see three little dresses hanging up, all way too colorful to be his.

But what broke me was the wall.

A hand-painted mural stretched from corner to corner. Wildflowers- just like the ones Eun Ae always drew. Lavender, daisies, poppies, even sunflowers. All painted with slightly clumsy strokes and beautiful imperfections. At the center was a name in soft brush lettering:

Eun Ae

I covered my mouth with my hand.

“You painted that?” I asked.

He turned the camera back on himself, slightly shy. “It took me a week. I watched three videos and ruined two shirts.”

“You hate painting.”

“I hated not being there more.”

I sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to fall apart.

“I love it,” I said. “She’s going to lose her mind.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing it?”

He shrugged. “Felt better to show you.”

We sat in silence for a few beats. I could hear the cicadas outside his window. The faint hum of his fan. The way his breath hitched like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should.

“I miss you,” I said first.

His eyes softened. “I miss you too.”

“I keep waiting to feel… panic. Like this is too much. Like I’m making the same mistake again.”

“Are you?” he asked gently.

I shook my head. “No. I think… I think this is the first time I’m choosing something with hope instead of fear.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving mine.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he said softly.

“You won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He turned the phone a little, showed me the living room- now filled with flat-packed boxes, open tool kits, a coffee table he’d clearly put together backwards.

“I’m learning how to do this,” he said. “Not just for you. For us.”

“You already are.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling.

I lay back on the couch and turned my screen so he could see the half-empty room behind me.

“Looks different,” he said.

“It’s happening.”

“I know.”

“Soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

We stayed like that for a while.

No pressure. No plans. Just breathing in each other’s quiet.

He kept the phone propped beside him while he started unpacking the box labeled KITCHEN – MAYBE??

I fell asleep like that, the sound of him humming to himself while putting mugs on the wrong shelf, the screen slowly dimming beside me.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t dream of the past.

I dreamed of that room.

Of flowers.

Of home.

═══════

It was supposed to be a junk drawer.

You know the kind- rubber bands, old receipts, maybe a pen that doesn’t work but you’re too sentimental to throw away.

But when I opened it, I found everything I hadn’t meant to keep.

The envelope with my ultrasound photo. Folded, faded, edges curled. A polaroid of me at twenty, holding my belly and smiling like I wasn’t completely terrified. A hospital bracelet with a worn name tag: “Y. L/N — MOTHER.”

And at the very bottom… the photo strip.

Jungkook and me, fifteen, crammed into a booth at the summer carnival. His lips on my cheek in the first one. Me laughing in the second. Our faces pressed together, blurred with motion in the third. The last one- just us looking at each other.

Frozen in time.

Hopeful.

Before the distance. Before the silence. Before the ghosting and the heartbreak and the empty nights filled with baby kicks and no one to share them with.

I didn’t mean to sit down.

But suddenly I was on the floor, that strip of photos in my lap, the others spread around me like evidence.

My chest hurt.

Not in the sharp way it used to. Not the crack. Just a slow, deep ache. A memory of pain.

I should’ve thrown it all away.

That’s what I told myself two years ago.

That’s what I told myself last month.

But I didn’t.

And now I couldn’t.

Because that drawer wasn’t just grief.

It was proof I survived it.

The tears came slowly.

One, then another. Not sobs. Not panic.

Just release.

I ran my fingers over the faded ink of a half-written letter I never sent. One I wrote the night I went into labor, when I still believed if I just kept writing, he might come back.

“I miss you. I wish you could see her. She’s already yours, even if you don’t know it yet.”

I folded it again, placed it back gently.

Then I stood.

Wiped my cheeks.

And grabbed the last empty box in the hallway closet.

I labeled it in sharp black marker:

“For Me.”

Not for storage. Not for clinging. Just a box of everything I lived through.

Everything I earned.

Later that night, I opened my journal.

The same one I’d started the week after Eun Ae was born.

And I wrote:

“I don’t know what will happen in Seoul. But this time, I’m not walking in blind. I’m not hoping for rescue. I’m not waiting to be proven wrong. I am choosing this. With all of it. With eyes wide open.”

Then I closed the cover, sealed the box, and tucked it in beside my suitcase.

═══════

We woke up early. Not because we had to, but because it felt like we should.

The apartment was almost completely packed. Just two suitcases left open by the door, a mattress on the floor, and a bag of essentials for the flight. Everything else was taped shut, labeled, and waiting for movers.

There was nothing left to clean. Nothing left to do.

So we went for a walk.

One last time.

I let Eun Ae choose the route. She picked the bookstore first.

The clerk recognized her instantly- the way kids who read aloud in every aisle tend to get remembered. She gave Eun Ae a free sticker and a hug that lasted two seconds too long.

Next was the corner coffee shop.

I ordered my usual. Eun Ae got the warm vanilla milk the barista always made her even though it wasn’t technically on the menu. He waved goodbye with both hands, said, “I hope your new place has extra whipped cream.”

Eun Ae giggled. “I’m going to Korea!”

He blinked. “Well, in that case… take a piece of our hearts with you.”

She didn’t understand it.

But I did.

Then the park.

The one where I used to push her on the swings until my arms ached and she screamed “higher!” like there was no such thing as falling.

We sat on our favorite bench. She counted the squirrels. I watched the sky.

I remembered the night I’d cried on that bench because her fever wouldn’t break. The morning I’d laughed because she’d pointed at a tree and called it “Mr. Leaf Face.” The first time she ran ahead without looking back and I knew, deep down, that I was doing something right.

We walked home slowly.

Stopped at every crosswalk we used to race across. Said goodbye to the flower shop, the deli, the place where she lost her first baby tooth and asked if the sidewalk was allowed to keep it.

As we rounded the corner to our building, she looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, are we going to miss this?”

I bent down to her height.

“Yes,” I said honestly. “But we’re allowed to miss something and still move on.”

She thought about that for a second.

Then nodded, very seriously.

“Okay.”

Inside, we didn’t talk much.

We packed the last of her crayons. Taped shut the toy box. She added one more heart to the countdown calendar and wrote “tomorrow = adventure.”

That night, after she fell asleep for the last time in our home, I walked room to room with bare feet on bare floors.

Every wall held a memory.

But none of them held me.

Not anymore.

We were ready.

═══════

The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m.

Not that I’d slept much.

Eun Ae had curled into my side all night like she knew we were crossing a threshold. She woke up the second I moved, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists, already smiling.

“Is it time?”

“Almost,” I said, brushing her hair back. “You ready?”

She nodded. “I was born ready.”

I laughed, but my chest ached.

The car arrived just after five. We double-checked the passports. The boarding passes. The suitcase with the flamingo drawing taped to the top like a flag.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when we drove away.

No big goodbye. No music. Just the quiet shuffle of tires over pavement and Eun Ae pointing out shapes in the dark.

“That one looks like daddy,” she said, pointing at a billboard shaped like nothing.

At the airport, everything blurred.

Security. Lines. Announcements overhead. I answered questions automatically. Smiled at strangers. Let Eun Ae pull her own tiny carry-on with stickers on every side.

It wasn’t until we were sitting at the gate, flight number glowing on the screen, twenty minutes to boarding, that I froze.

I had her hand in mine.

My passport in the other.

My heart somewhere between them.

And suddenly, I felt it.

That flicker of fear.

What if I was wrong?

What if it broke again?

What if this was another story where I gave everything and got left behind?

My fingers curled tighter around my passport.

I stared at the gate.

The world outside those windows looked impossibly wide.

Then I felt it.

A tiny hand on my arm.

I looked down.

Eun Ae leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, “We’re going to Daddy.”

Just that.

No doubt.

No question.

Just faith.

And something inside me cracked.

Not from fear.

But from relief.

Because it hit me-

This time, I wasn’t chasing a boy.

I was joining a man.

Not starting over.

Just continuing what was always meant to begin.

We boarded the plane.

She took the window seat. Pressed her face to the glass.

The engines roared. The wheels lifted.

Clouds swallowed us.

And I thought:

This is the second time I’ve flown into the unknown.

But this time, someone’s waiting.

This time, I wasn’t falling.

I was flying.

═══════

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MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/04/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe@kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @xmiaacxio @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons @rinkud @withluvjm @singingjk @ficluvr613 @roseidol @looneybleus @ermno97 @rainandmatcha

#jkwrites m #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts ff #bts ffs #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook idol au #jungkook angst #daddy kookie m

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lexus-k4 · 13 hours ago

Text

Damian still looking at his new sisters. "I wasn't aware you had any sisters. Were they hidden siblings?"

Danyal realizing he has a lot of explaining to do. "Looks like I have quite a bit of explaining and catching up to do habibi. Let's sit down for some dinner first, it's been a while since we've sat together to eat."

Damian without hesitation asks Alfred, who was silently stood at the back of the watching crowd consisting of his family, if dinner will be served soon and Alfred responds with a quick it's already ready to sit down and eat.

Damian leads Danyal Jazz and Ellie to the dining room and they all sit next to each other. And as they begin to eat Danyal slowly starts to explain each of Damians questions- "to start with it all, I guess I should say this. The mission I went on. It was to investigate a new Lazarus pits. All was well, till the floor gave out beneath me. And I fell into the pits."

A few of the other kids at the table choked on either their food or drinks or just took a very surprised double take. And Damian continued. "Yes. When another assassin was sent to do recon, and figure out what happened to you they saw the collapsed floor and your Katana dug into the ledge."

"Hmmm. Yes. I originally tried to stop my fall with my Katana but then a rock from above knocked me down and into the pits." Danyal responded. He took a bite from the offered bread roles set at the table.

Damian, in the process of remembering that event all those years ago spoke up in a quiet voice. "We thought you were dead."

Danyal was quiet for a moment before responding with a short -so did I, as a response. "But no. Instead I got sent to a different dimension. One were the league doesn't exist. No Batman. No mother, no grandfather. Nothing I knew... "

-Danyal goes to explain everything that happened to him in the other dimension other than the key facts such as him now being a king and that he's half dead, he only subtully indicated that he was different and close to a state of death called liminality. And doing so gave a signal to Damian that there was more.

Overall, the dinner got a whole lot of reactions, with the majority being the members of Damians family. Overall when the dinner finished Danyal could feel for many emotions all over the place. Especially when Danyal had to explain that Ellie was a clone who became another adopted sister.

"If you accept them as family then I do to." Was what Damian said when he called Jazz and Ellie family.

"Yes. Ellie is still learning things and I'm teaching her our mother tongue, Arabic at her request. She wished to know more if her heritage. Jazz already knows Arabic as a way to bond with me when I first joined her family, and she knows some fighting styles. Not to leagues standard, however she is capable. And she is also a highly liminal individual due to exposure."

If anyone saw Danyal avoiding looking in his sisters direction with slightly pink tinted ears, no one said anything but the smirks on a few of them and his sisters said everything. Damian just nonded in understanding. "Then, I feel like it'd be best to see her level of understanding. But for now let's get settled. It would be best to introduce you to my father and the rest of the family. And I feel it's only fair to show you my hobbies."

Danyal froze hearing that word. Hobbies. Something they weren't allowed in the league. "You mean... "

Damian just nodded. And without thinking Danyal just hugged Damian. One hand pressing Damians head into the crook of his shoulder as he buried his head into the crown of Damians head. "I'm so glad. I'm so happy. I really am."

Later that day, Damian showed Danyal and his new sisters his art, his pets his sword collections and Danyal Katana which he saved. And in private Danyal told Damian the truth of him being a half a and a king. There were some tears but Danyal was till alive. He was there. So he was happy. Then they went down to the cave, after Damian told them that his fathers whole family was in the bat business. Damian had a short sparing match with Jazz.

This is when they discover that Jazz is a bit more liminal than they thought when her hair goes into a bright orange and red burst of flame and her eyes illuminate a vibrant teal as her incisors become sharp fangs and is able to fly when her hair is on fire.

Duke, who was in the crowd became happy that he was no longer the only meta and Damian approved of Jasmine's capabilities.

Not sure where else to take it. But oh well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Someone else can add if they want. I feel like if/when Danyal find out about Damians clones he would go ballistics. So there is an idea.

An Al Ghul first

DP x DC Prompt

Damian had an older half-brother that he loved. Danyal was his name, and he was the best fighter in the entire League, even better than Ra's and Talia combined. Danyal was even a brother who encouraged Damian to follow the things he wanted to do behind the backs of Talia and Ra's.

The last Damian ever saw Danyal was right before he left on a mission that may lead to a new Lazarus Pit when Damian was 8 and Danyal was 10. And right before Danyal left, he had embraced Damian and left a parting forehead kiss, saying that he'll be back soon.

Danyal had found the Lazarus Pit but had fallen in it after the ground beneath him gave away, and he didn't have enough time to react, as he was busy drawing for Damian about Goliath and other animals Damian would like.

Danyal was sent to the Infinite Realms and then put in another dimension near a place called Amity Park. He's got no time for friends or school. He needs to get back to his younger brother. Danyal uses his brain to hack into the school database and remove his name from it, effectively stopping him from ever meeting Sam and Tucker and stopping Dan from happening.

Danyal spends the next couple of years trying to find a way back to his home. And since the Fenton parents are always busy, that leaves just the "older sister" he has to deal with on distracting. He likes that she tries to get to know his culture better than the adult Fentons, as she calls him Danyal and not Danny or Danno like the adult Fentons. She even tries to learn how to make food from this world's version of where he's from.

Danyal still became a Halfa because he tried to activate the portal early, which had caused the portal to work but brought dangers he had to find off until he found the right place to go to. His Ghost Half outfit is his Assassins gear, as he was wearing it because he thought he would be going home when he activated the portal.

After Danyal bested Pariah and became the next Ghost King, he has the means to go back to the dimension he comes from. He's not going alone, as the Nasty Burger explosion happens, and only the adult Fentons and others were there, leaving Jazz without a family. Dani, known as Ellie, is also coming, it was easy to convince her because of her curiosity of how different his world might be. Vlad is gonna have to serve his time, as Danyal used his new title to put the man in Walkers prison. The man made Ellie by using his DNA to make her and for freeing Pariah, so the man will either fade away because Maddie is gone or get a new obsession to keep him going.

Danyal is now 18 and is finally back home. He just hopes that Damian is okay and not too upset that he didn't keep his promise to return.

#dc x dp #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #batfam #dcxdp #danyal al ghul #damian al ghul #half brothers #older brother core #liminal jazz fenton #yes #Bamf jazz #and of course #Bamf Danyal al ghul #fluff

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avengxrz · 3 days ago

Text

the golden boy becomes the fool ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part five]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 22.3k words (i am so sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy, then there was you, the fool. he had everything—charm, swagger, a future carved out in medals and glory. you were the quiet one, the weird one, the girl he used and tossed aside like a joke. years passed. ranks changed. you rose. he stayed the same, until suddenly he didn’t. thrown back together in the sky and on the ground, bitterness turned to tension, and tension lit a match neither of you were ready to put out. old wounds were reopened, truths finally spoken, and under texas stars, it wasn’t the fool who broke—it was the boy who begged. and now everyone’s asking the same thing: how the hell did the golden boy become the fool?

warnings: angst, unresolved tension, sexual tension, emotional monologues, past bullying, mutual pining, late-night realizations, texas farm setting, childhood trauma, muddy chaos, jake seresin being painfully in love, emotional breakdowns, slow burn, redemption arc, accidental co-showering, stubborn idiots in love, soft!jake, rogue being a baddie, found family feels, one (1) dog named bingo, and a swing set that saw everything. oh, and did we mention? angst.

notes: finally we are in the last part. to be honest, this was supposed to be just two parts and look where we are… part five. thank you so much for the love, for screaming with me in the tags, for the asks, for everything. i cried writing this. like actually. and oh, did i mention that we will have an epilogue? yeah. buckle up again, babe. it ain’t over just yet

part one , part two , part three , part four , epilogue

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

- Jake -

Somewhere between Rogue’s final words in the boardroom and the low hum of the air conditioning unit above, Jake started drifting. Not physically — no, his boots were still planted, his arms folded like always, that cocky lean still balanced just right. But in his mind? He was spiraling. Because now, now it was starting to dawn on him: this wasn’t about petty ranks, or her showing off, or the universe punishing him for being an asshole once upon a time. This was about how badly he’d fucked up, and how thoroughly she’d risen from it.

At first, he told himself she was bluffing. That she couldn’t possibly be that good. That maybe this was still the nerdy girl who lit up when he remembered her birthday and blushed when he asked if her puppy was still alive. Then she started talking tactics, commanding a room full of aviators and admirals like it was second nature. And it hit him like Gs to the chest — this was not some lucky rise. This was calculated, earned, forged in fire and fury. Meanwhile, he’d spent the years coasting on talent and charm, grinning his way out of reprimands and leaving his wingmen to hang when it counted.

Then came the real gut punch: the memory of her birthday. Not the part with the cake or the puppy. No — the look on her face when her parents smiled at him. The look that said this is the closest you’ll ever get to mattering to me. And he’d still walked away. Walked away like she was nothing but a sweet girl who wanted too much, too fast — when in reality, she was everything he could’ve hoped to become. And he humiliated her.

Back then, it was so easy. He made jokes at her expense because they made his friends laugh. He forgot her name on purpose just to watch her cover up the hurt with a smile. He told himself she wasn’t important — but only because he didn’t want to admit that she was. And now, here she was: outranking him, outflying him, outclassing him in every possible way. Meanwhile, he was sitting in a debriefing room, unusually silent, drawing side glances from Fanboy and Phoenix like he might be having a stroke.

Jake didn’t know when the silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling like drowning. The squad was talking around him now — soft jokes, nervous energy, half-assed optimism — but it all sounded far away. Because in his head, her voice echoed louder than the rest. The calm command of it. The sharp edges hidden beneath the steel. The way she said, “I was just warming up.” And he couldn’t stop wondering — how much of her command came from pain? How much had he put there?

And worst of all… if this was revenge?God help them all.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she never needed revenge — because she won?

And yet, part of him still clung to denial like it was his last parachute. Because if this wasn’t revenge, then it was worse. If this wasn’t personal — if she wasn’t targeting him — then he didn’t matter at all. That would mean she wasn’t even thinking about what he’d done. That she had risen without him in the picture. That he was just… collateral.

The truth burned more than he wanted to admit.

He’d always been the guy. The one everyone remembered. The one who smiled too wide, flew too fast, talked too much. The one who could get away with anything — until now. Until her. Rogue. The name echoed in his skull, rough and wild. He remembered the way she used to sit quietly, the way she’d light up at every crumb of attention he tossed her. How easy it was to take her for granted. Now, she didn’t flinch when he spoke. She didn’t chase. She didn’t even blink.

And yeah — fuck, maybe that’s what rattled him the most.

She was steady. Cold as steel. Calculated, poised, terrifying in her control. Meanwhile, he couldn’t get through a single day without watching her hands, waiting for a glance, parsing every word she said like it held some secret message just for him. But it never did. Not anymore.

He started wondering when the scales had tipped. Maybe it was during the dogfight — when she’d pulled that impossible maneuver, practically bent the laws of physics, and left him choking on altitude. Or maybe it was earlier. That moment in the hangar, when she looked at him like a stranger. That moment when her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

God. She hadn’t just outgrown him, she’d left him in the dust.

And what stung wasn’t just the pride. It was the sudden awareness that everything she was — everything she’d become — had happened without him. She had built this legacy on the bones of what he broke, and now she wore it like armor. Commanded fleets. Designed the Gauntlet. Wore the Navy’s respect like it was stitched into her uniform. And he?

He was still trying to figure out how the hell he lost her before he ever even had her.

Meanwhile, the squad kept throwing him glances, poking him for reactions he didn’t give. Rooster said something, probably another crack about how hot she was. Jake didn’t even flinch. His mind was too far away, somewhere between regret and awe, caught in the eye of a storm that had her name written all over it.

He’d laughed at her once — humiliated her in front of friends. Told her she was just some PoliSci nerd who got lucky being around someone like him. Now he was the lucky one, just to breathe the same air. And the worst part? She didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem wounded.

She seemed finished. Finished with him. Finished with the memory. Finished with needing anything from Jake Seresin. And that terrified him more than anything else in the world.

He didn’t hear when Payback called his name the first time. Barely registered it the second. It wasn’t until Phoenix threw a pen at his chest that he blinked, jolted back into the present like a man surfacing from deep water.

“Jesus, Seresin,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

He wanted to laugh. If only she knew.

Because truthfully, he had. She was flesh and blood, standing tall in that flight suit — but she was also a phantom of every stupid thing he’d ever said, every choice he couldn’t take back. And now she haunted him in the worst possible way: by thriving. By being better. By being so far above him it felt like a cosmic joke.

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the debriefing screen even though nothing was playing. He didn’t know how to explain it — the way guilt had sunk in slow and mean, like a knife twisting over years. Back then, he’d thought she’d bounce back. Thought she’d grow out of it, forget about him, find someone more her speed. Not...turn into someone who made admirals hold their breath. Not outrank him. Not be the best goddamn pilot he’d ever gone up against.

He wasn’t used to losing. Not in the air. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t losing. This was a reckoning.

And what made it worse — what really clawed at the insides of him — was the realization that she wasn’t trying to make him feel it. She wasn’t looking at him with revenge in her eyes. She hadn’t dragged the squad through hell just to watch him squirm.

No. She was just doing her job. Brilliantly. Mercilessly. Like she was born to wear command on her shoulders. Like he’d never mattered at all.

And that was the twist of the knife.

Because if she had hated him, maybe he could’ve worked with that. Anger, he could handle. Fury, he could fight. But indifference? That kind of silence? It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

So he sat there, quiet. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. While the others whispered and stretched and griped about the Gauntlet, Jake was somewhere else. Lost in a memory of a birthday candle, a puppy named Bingo, and the girl who had once looked at him like he hung the stars — back when he barely even knew her name.

And now? Now the whole damn Navy knew hers.

Rogue. Hell of a call sign. Hell of a woman.

And hell, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop paying for the day he decided she wasn’t worth remembering. But where the hell did she go?

That sunshine girl — the one with messy notebooks and a smile that could power a damn jet engine — where did she vanish to?

Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the headache behind his brow to quiet down. His teammates were still talking, vague mutters about the next flight schedule, about fuel consumption ratios, about anything but her. But for him, there was nothing else.

Because when he looked at Rogue — Commander Rogue — he didn’t just see the sharp angles and medals and ruthless authority. He saw echoes. Shadows. Glimpses of someone who used to bake brownies for old folks and let him copy her social science notes just because he’d grinned at her once. God, she was so easy to please back then, wasn’t she? All it took was his attention — even if it came wrapped in mockery, even if it was half-hearted, even if it hurt.

And now?

Now she looked through him like he was just another report on her desk. Just another cocky pilot who needed to be broken down and rebuilt.

Jake stared at the faint scuff marks on his boots, letting the silence stretch.

Maybe that sunshine girl didn’t disappear. Maybe she’d been scorched to ash. Burned out by the very heat of his cruelty, until all that was left was steel. Maybe he’d looked at gold and called it dirt. Maybe he’d clipped her wings, thinking she’d never fly without him, and she turned around and soared so far above that now he was the one grounded.

He didn’t deserve her warmth. He never had. But damn it — he missed it.

He missed the way she used to tilt her head when she talked about theories he didn’t understand. He missed the way her voice cracked just a little when she got too excited, the way her eyes sparkled when she believed in something. And even if he’d never admitted it back then, he missed how she believed in him.

Jake hadn’t realized how dark his world had gotten until she walked back in — not with her sun, but with a storm.

She was lightning now. And maybe that made sense.

Because sunshine forgives.

Lightning remembers.

The debriefing room was thick with tension and silence, stale air and the kind of fatigue that only came from barely scraping through a day like Hell Day. The squad sat in various degrees of slouch and stretch, groaning and muttering like overworked soldiers in a trench. Jake hadn’t said a word since the last evaluation — not even when Fanboy elbowed him gently and whispered some sarcastic remark about being emotionally constipated. He just sat there, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swimming miles away from this room and the people in it.

Then the door opened.

He didn’t even look up at first — probably Hondo coming to collect one of them or Mav stepping in to remind them to hydrate. But the sound of boots, the tempo of those confident steps, pulled at something in Jake’s chest like a thread unraveling from old cloth. He lifted his head, just in time to catch a flash of black flight suits — Rogue, Ruin, and Jinx — walking past the debriefing room window. Their faces were unreadable, all business and command, and there was something in the set of Rogue’s shoulders that made Jake’s body move before his brain even caught up.

He shoved out of his chair with such force it squeaked across the tile. He didn’t excuse himself, didn’t check if he stepped on someone’s boot — and based on Payback’s startled grunt, he probably did. He nearly tripped on the step down from the raised platform but caught himself with a sharp curse under his breath. The squad stared, confused and half-concerned, as Jake threw open the door and bolted into the hallway.

“Commander Rogue!” he called out, voice cracking slightly with urgency.

The three of them stopped.

Rogue turned first, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ruin raised a brow, exchanging a look with Jinx, who just crossed his arms and waited.

Jake jogged toward them, slowing only when he was close enough to speak without yelling. His breath came in fast, uneven pulls, and he hadn’t even thought about what to say. All he knew was that if he didn’t talk to her now, if he let her slip away one more time, he’d lose something he couldn’t name.

“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to sound composed, failing miserably.

Rogue didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her watch, then looked over her shoulder, clearly weighing something. “We have somewhere to be,” she said, her tone clipped but not cold — efficient.

“Please,” Jake added, and that word came out quieter, almost desperate. “Just five minutes.”

Ruin let out a low hum and tilted his head toward Jinx. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Jinx replied, already stepping back.

“We’ll give you the room,” Ruin said to Rogue, then cast Jake a warning glance — not threatening, but definitely cautious. Like he was letting Jake borrow something precious on the condition that he didn’t break it.

Once the two men turned away, Jake followed Rogue in silence as she led the way down the corridor, toward the temporary officer’s office the Big Three had been using since their arrival. Her strides were purposeful, heels of her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. And for the first time in his life, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he should.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the kind that sounded louder when tension clung to the air. Rogue walked ahead, moving toward the desk at the far end of the room, her posture still poised and unreadable. Jake lingered just inside the doorway, blinking as he took it all in — the quiet space that somehow screamed the presence of three elite operators even in their absence.

It wasn’t a sterile office. It was lived in.

To his left, a small side table had three neatly stacked folders, the corners dog-eared from frequent flipping. One had a cracked navy emblem, the kind only handed out at high-clearance briefings. Above it hung a photo — an unfiltered snapshot of the Big Three: Rogue in the middle, standing tall between Ruin and Jinx. All three were in flight suits, helmets under their arms, the open sky behind them.

Their grins were wide, real, the kind captured between war and silence. Rogue had her sunglasses shoved into her hair, and the wind had caught her braid just enough to give it movement. Jake stared at it longer than he should’ve.

Near the couch — a beat-up leather one that sagged slightly on one side — were two hoodies tossed lazily over the armrest. One read “Death Before Dishonor” in cracked white letters. The other had Get Wrecked stitched in scarlet red on the chest, clearly Ruin’s sense of humor bleeding through.

On the coffee table sat an abandoned protein bar wrapper and an energy drink can with its tab popped but barely sipped. A flight helmet sat beside it — Rogue’s. Her call sign, ROGUE, stenciled across the side in thick matte letters, scuffed and worn at the edges.

Jake's eyes trailed along the shelves. No dust. Books on naval tactics, missile systems, aerospace combat strategy — well-used. A sticky note stuck out of one of them, the handwriting tiny and precise. He couldn’t read what it said from here.

And pinned to the board by the desk was another photo. It wasn’t labeled, but Jake recognized the location — somewhere in the Middle East, by the look of the sand and the sky. The three of them again, this time wearing gear heavier than regulation. Bulletproof vests. Goggles pushed to their heads. War paint smudged and smeared with sweat. Rogue stood at the front, chin lifted. The leader. Always had been, hadn’t she?

Jake swallowed hard. This wasn’t some office thrown together for convenience. This was their ground. Their turf. It was built off years of flying, of bleeding, of trusting each other with their lives over and over again. He was just a guest here. A trespasser with a fractured past and guilt-riddled shoes.

She didn’t tell him to sit. She didn’t offer him water or some smooth way to start the conversation. She simply turned, leaned back against the desk, crossed her arms, and looked at him with unreadable eyes — the same way she had that night she’d left him speechless on the hangar floor.

“Talk,” she said, not cruelly. Not kindly either.

Jake stared back, hands clenching at his sides. God, where the hell did he even begin?

Jake hesitated, the words stalling at the back of his throat like they were jammed behind the pressure of years unspoken. Rogue didn’t blink. Her gaze was a scalpel, sharp and still, dissecting him before he even opened his mouth. She didn’t need to raise her voice — her silence already screamed volumes.

“I just…” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted on his feet like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “If this is about what happened back then—”

“It’s not,” she cut in, calmly. Coldly.

Her voice was even, professional, clipped in the way only officers who’ve given too many post-op debriefings know how to deliver. She didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t soften. She simply corrected him like he was misreading a report.

Jake’s jaw twitched. “It’s not?”

“No.” She stood upright now, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer — but not intimately. She didn’t let him forget where they stood. “You think this is some kind of personal vendetta, Seresin? That I clawed my way through the ranks, designed an entire Navy-certified evaluation gauntlet, and got assigned command on a strategic permanent squadron initiative just to settle an old score?”

He opened his mouth — a reflex — but couldn’t say a damn thing.

She didn’t wait.

“I am here because I earned it. Because I bled for it. Because I sat through mission after mission where people didn’t come back, and I made sure the next ones did. That’s why Warlock signed off. That’s why Cyclone listened. That’s why Maverick respected my word when I said I’d take the lead.”

Jake swallowed, shoulders tensing. “I’m not saying you didn’t—”

“But you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “By assuming this is about you, you’re reducing years of work, risk, loss, and leadership into a high school grudge. You’re disrespecting me. You’re disrespecting Jinx. Ruin. Every damn WSO and pilot who built this alongside me.”

The words hit like thunder — quiet, steady, but impossible to ignore. Jake felt himself shrinking under the weight of them.

“And just so we’re clear,” she went on, voice lowering, more controlled now — like a storm sharpening to a blade, “even if I wanted revenge, I would never risk my integrity, my crew, or my career for it. Unlike you, I don’t use people as stepping stones when I’m running scared.”

Jake flinched. It was subtle, but Rogue caught it. She always caught everything.

“I’m not here to ruin Maverick. Or the Dagger Squad. I fought for them. I reviewed every file, every hour of flight data. You think you’re the only one who cared if they stayed? If this squadron was approved, I fought for it harder than any of you realize.” Her voice cracked slightly — not with emotion, but with restrained fury. “You don't know how many times I had to defend this program. And not once — not once — did I use you as my reason for being here.”

Jake finally found his voice, quiet and thin. “Then why did you say yes to this talk?”

“Because Jinx and Ruin would have called you a coward for running after me in the hallway,” she said, dryly. “And because part of me hoped… maybe you’ve changed.”

She looked at him — really looked — and something unreadable passed through her expression, too fast to name.

But then it was gone, and she stepped back behind the desk.

“You’ve had your say, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“No,” Jake said, louder this time — steadier. “I’m not leaving.”

Rogue’s hand froze halfway toward a folder on her desk, her fingers curling slowly as if resisting the urge to throw it at his head. Her brows lifted, that calm mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of disbelief — or maybe it was disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not leaving,” Jake repeated, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers. “Not until we settle this.”

“What exactly do you think there is to settle?” she snapped, voice sharp now — the edge of command laced with a storm of personal fury she had long tried to bury under layers of discipline. “You think this is unfinished business? That I owe you some kind of closure? After what you did?”

Jake blinked. “We never talked. Not really. I—I didn’t know what you were going through—”

“And you never asked!” she cut him off, stepping out from behind the desk so fast the chair rolled back with a soft groan of its wheels. “You never once asked me what was happening. Not when you humiliated me in front of your friends. Not when I handed you your damn project so you wouldn’t fail your class. Not when you let people mock me like I was some punchline.”

Her voice trembled on that last word — not from weakness, but from years of venom held tightly in the back of her throat. Jake took a step back, stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to still be carrying all of it. As if his sins were something time alone could wash away.

“You really think I’ve been up at night plotting revenge on you?” she laughed bitterly. “Jake, I forgot you for years. Or tried to. I erased you because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to believe someone saw me… and then watch them toss me aside like I was nothing.”

“I never meant to—”

“You did mean to.” Her voice dropped. “You wanted your friends to laugh. You wanted to feel cool. And I was just… collateral.”

Jake’s mouth parted. The words he’d rehearsed, the apologies he’d thought might help, all died in his throat. Because she was right. And now, standing in front of her — not sunshine anymore, not soft and sweet, but steel and thunder in a commander's uniform — he realized that even if she forgave him, he’d never stop being ashamed of who he’d been.

But shame didn’t stop his anger from flaring. “Then why the hell did you fight for us to stay, huh? Why go through all this if you don’t even give a damn anymore?”

“Because I do give a damn,” she hissed. “Just not about you. This isn’t about your guilt, or your closure, or your redemption arc. I fought for Maverick because he deserves better. I fought for that squad because they have potential, even if they’re reckless idiots. I didn’t do this to prove something to you—I did it because it’s my job.”

She stepped closer, her voice low now, seething. “So don’t you dare stand here and twist my work into some schoolyard drama you never outgrew.”

Jake stared at her — lips parted, breath heavy, like he was about to say something else.

But Rogue just looked at him like he was a memory she’d already burned once.

Then, flatly: “Are we done?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, like the words were caught somewhere between pride and regret, tangled in barbed wire he didn’t know how to pull free without bleeding for it. Then he exhaled, sharp and quiet, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“No,” he said finally, voice rough. “We’re not done. Not until I say what I came here to say.”

Rogue gave him a look—dry, sharp, dangerous. But she didn’t speak. She folded her arms and waited, a soldier in command, daring him to step wrong.

Jake let out a shaky laugh, eyes not quite meeting hers. “You think I don’t know I was a dick back then? Because I do. I know it every time someone looks at me like I’m some goddamn hero, and all I can think about is the girl who smiled at me like I was worth something—and how I spat on that.”

He stepped closer, the weight of his boots heavy on the office floor. “I was stupid. I was selfish. I thought you were just this weird, sweet, nerdy girl who’d get over it. But you didn’t. And I didn’t. And now you’re standing here in a uniform that outranks mine, giving orders, saving asses—including mine—and all I can think is, damn. I deserve this.”

He paused, chest heaving.

“But I don’t want them to pay for it. Not the squad. Not Mav. They didn’t screw up—you didn’t screw them over. I did. And if this whole thing is about revenge, if it’s some twisted full-circle karma, then fine. I’ll take it. I’ll walk away. Hell, I’ll quit the damn Navy if that’s what you want.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man who finally saw the ruin he left behind and realized too late it had bloomed into something unstoppable.

“But don’t punish the rest of them because I was an asshole.”

There it was—Jake Seresin, laid bare. Not smirking. Not cocky. Just raw and scared and desperate to fix a wound he never thought would still be bleeding.

Rogue didn’t flinch. Not once. She stood there, spine like steel beneath her flight suit, arms still folded like she was holding herself back from hurling something—maybe the truth, maybe a fist.

“Oh, so now you want to fix it?” Her voice was low, razor-sharp. “Now that your cushy little ego is bruised, you suddenly care about consequences? Jake, you weren’t just an asshole. You made me the punchline. You played with someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

Jake opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a hand, like a blade. “You humiliated me, in front of your friends. In front of myself. You knew how I looked at you. You let me do your work. You let me believe you cared.”

She was breathing harder now, eyes burning—not just with anger, but betrayal, exhaustion, something bone-deep and old. “And now, what, you want a neat little bow on it? A ‘sorry’? A ‘let’s not ruin this for everyone else’? I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is my job. I don’t play god. I don’t hold grudges over people’s careers. That’s you. That was always you.”

Jake flinched at that—visibly, quietly. But she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t design the Gauntlet for revenge. I did it because I’ve nearly died out there. Because I've watched people burn up in the sky because someone wasn’t ready, someone wasn’t honest, someone thought charm was a substitute for leadership. So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to go easy on a team that still flies like cowboys with something to prove.”

Then, softer—but only slightly, and somehow more terrifying for it—she said, “This isn’t about you anymore.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “It was never about me, huh? Then why are you still this angry?”

Her silence was immediate and blistering.

When she did speak, her voice was calm. “Because I expected better. Because once upon a time, I thought you were going to be great. And now all I see is someone still trying to crawl out of the wreckage he made.”

Jake stared at her, speechless.

And then—

“I’m not doing this,” she muttered, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “You want to talk like adults, you know where to find me. But this pity parade? This guilt-fueled performance?” She shook her head. “Spare me.”

She reached the door, hand on the handle.

“Wait.”

His voice cracked. Not loud, not sharp—just hoarse and human. And that alone made her pause. Just for a breath.

Jake crossed the space between them in two strides. Not to block the door, not to touch her—he didn’t dare—but just enough to make her stop. Just enough to say it.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Not like she was surprised. More like she was exhausted. Like she’d waited years to hear those words and now that they were finally spoken, they rang hollow in the air.

Rogue turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over him, scanning for the trick, the loophole, the out. Because Jake Seresin never just said sorry. Not without a catch. Not without a punchline.

And yet—there it was. No grin. No wink. Just a man who looked like he’d finally run out of ways to pretend he hadn’t wrecked everything that mattered.

“For what?” she asked.

He faltered. “For... everything.”

“That’s not an apology,” she snapped. “That’s a blanket statement. That’s what people say when they want to be absolved without being accountable. So try again, Lieutenant. What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Jake swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw.

“I’m sorry for using you,” he said. “For making you think you mattered to me when I didn’t even have the guts to admit you did. I’m sorry for letting other people laugh at you, for laughing with them. I’m sorry I was a coward who needed someone like you to lift me up, and the second you did, I kicked the ladder out from under you.”

Her arms had dropped to her sides now, fingers flexing slightly. But her expression didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were until you were already gone,” Jake finished, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I still think about you every damn day, even when I know I don’t deserve to.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Rogue stood still, unreadable, a statue carved out of every moment he’d let her down.

Then, finally, she spoke. “You don’t get to apologize and expect forgiveness like it’s some kind of trade.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not giving it.”

Then, as if she were brushing the entire moment off her shoulders like dust, she stepped toward the door again. “And don’t worry about dinner tomorrow,” she added, almost too casually. “It’s totally fine if you don’t come. Really.”

Her hand hit the door handle. No hesitation this time. And with her back still to him, she said, “I’ll see you in the sky, Hangman.”

The door closed behind her, and Jake was left standing in the space where a second chance used to be.

Jake walked the corridor like a man returning from war—shoulders squared, boots heavy, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked granite. His flight suit felt too stiff, too hot, like it was suffocating him from the inside out. Every footstep echoed in his ears louder than it should’ve. He didn’t look back. Not once. Not after the door closed behind her. Not after she said his call sign like it was just another name on her checklist. No emotion, no hint of what he used to mean. Just Hangman. Just another damn pilot.

By the time he reached the debriefing room, the sound of the others inside bled into the hall—low murmurs, the scrape of boots against tile, someone cursing under their breath about the heat. He paused for just a second outside the door. One beat. Two. Then, with a sharp inhale, he threw on the only armor he had left: a smirk.

Jake swaggered into the room like nothing happened. Like his heart wasn’t a bruised peach inside his chest. His chin was up, his grin sharp as ever, and when Coyote shot him a look—half worried, half suspicious—he just flashed a wink and dropped into his seat.

“Miss me?” he drawled, leaning back like he hadn’t just been torn apart in a quiet office two halls over.

Across the room, Rooster gave him a narrowed stare, but didn’t push. Bob glanced at him and then at Phoenix, silently asking a question neither of them knew how to phrase. Even Fanboy and Halo had gone quiet, watching him like he might combust if touched too hard.

At the front, Maverick stood with his arms folded over his chest, Hondo just to his right. The air shifted when they noticed Jake’s return, but Mav didn’t comment. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepped forward, and nodded once, firm.

“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “I just finished a conversation with Commander Rogue.”

Jake’s smirk twitched. He didn’t move otherwise.

“She reviewed every maneuver, every decision, every comm log. Every one of your flights during the Gauntlet,” Maverick continued, his eyes moving from one pilot to the next. “And she’s made her recommendations.”

There was a collective inhale. The kind that filled the room with a buzzing anxiety, a quiet thrum beneath the silence. Phoenix sat straighter. Rooster leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him. Jake kept his mask on, resting one ankle over his knee like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t just begged her to forgive him, and failed.

Maverick’s voice dropped a note lower.

“She was thorough. And blunt.”

Of course she was.

Jake didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider.

There was a long, loaded pause as Maverick closed the folder in his hands. The sharp clap of it echoed in the room, followed by a beat of silence. Then he looked at them all—really looked—and the ghost of a smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

“She approved it,” he said.

It took a second to register.

Then it hit them like a missile.

A breath released collectively around the debriefing room, like a pressure valve had finally been turned. Maverick didn’t say it outright, but the weight in his voice, the lack of disappointment in his tone—it was enough. They had passed. Maybe not all with flying colors, maybe not without bruises or scars to their egos, but they were still standing. Still in this. And more importantly, still a squadron.

Phoenix gave a low whistle and leaned back in her chair, throwing Bob a look that said, I told you we’d survive. Bob just blinked, dazed but visibly relieved, like he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Fanboy fist-bumped Payback under the table, a quiet gesture that still earned a grin. Fritz clapped Halo on the shoulder, muttering something about “not getting shot out of the sky” being cause for celebration. Even Omaha and Yale, usually reserved, broke into rare, crooked smiles.

Hondo chuckled from the side, and Maverick just gave a tired, proud nod. “Commander Rogue said you all passed—barely, but you passed. She said she’d rather keep a team that learns than perfect strangers who don’t.”

“Yo,” Coyote said, twisting around to face the rest of them, “I say we celebrate tomorrow. Properly. Barbecue at the beach?”

“I second that,” Rooster chimed in, already looking way too excited. “We got through Rogue’s personal hellscape and lived to talk about it. That’s worth a drink or five.”

Harvard raised an eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “And food. A lot of food.”

“I’m not grilling again,” Halo warned, deadpan. “Last time y’all nearly set the sand on fire.”

“That was Fanboy,” Payback said quickly, pointing an accusatory finger. “He thought kerosene was cooking oil.”

“It was labeled confusingly,” Fanboy argued.

Jake stayed quiet, still sitting in that deceptively relaxed posture, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He chuckled along, but it was thinner, a little too practiced. When Rooster elbowed him in the ribs and asked if he was in, he just offered a lazy shrug.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

The squad kept tossing out ideas—who’d bring what, who’d be in charge of music, how many coolers they’d need for beer—and somewhere in the blur of chatter, someone casually mentioned inviting the big three.

“They’re part of the team now, right?” Yale said, tapping his pen on the table. “Might as well include them.”

“Yeah,” Fritz added. “Maybe if we feed them, they’ll go easy on us next time.”

“They don’t eat,” Fanboy muttered dramatically. “They feast on our fear.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes but smirked. “Still. Wouldn’t kill us to ask. Especially Commander Rogue—”

No one knew tomorrow was her birthday. No one but one person.

Jake’s jaw tensed, but his smile didn’t falter. He nodded absently, muttering something noncommittal about “good idea.” But behind his eyes, gears were turning. Because he knew. He remembered the date before he remembered her rank, before her call sign was etched into his damn skull.

She wasn’t just Rogue. She was his sunshine. Once.

The Hard Deck buzzed with its usual late-night charm, lights dim and golden, music humming beneath the rhythm of laughter and beer bottles clinking. Dagger Squad clustered around a corner booth, half-shouting over each other about marinades, playlists, and who was bringing what to tomorrow’s beach barbecue. Penny was behind the bar, laughing as Fanboy attempted to mix his own drink and nearly set off the soda gun. It was loud, chaotic, and warm.

Meanwhile, Jake Seresin sat perched at the far end of the bar, staring into the amber depths of a half-finished glass. He wasn't sulking, exactly—but he wasn’t glowing either. His usual charm, the cocky swagger, the teeth-and-dimple grin—it was all there, but thin as tissue paper. A performance. He'd laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at plans he didn’t plan to join, and now he was here, hiding in plain sight with his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

Maverick had been watching him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. He nursed his own drink nearby, leaned against the bar with that weather-worn stillness of a man who had lived through things most people only feared in theory. Eventually, he stepped over and sat down beside Jake without a word. For a few minutes, they both just watched the room, letting the weight of the silence settle between them.

Then Maverick spoke, low and without fanfare. “You alright, Hangman?”

Jake didn’t look at him. He smirked instead, lazy and easy. “Peachy, Cap.”

Maverick nodded slowly. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”

Jake finally glanced sideways, his eyes guarded but not cold. “I’m good. Just tired. Long week.”

“Yeah,” Mav said, letting the word stretch with meaning. “Hell of a week.”

Another beat passed. Jake swirled the whiskey in his glass and chuckled under his breath. “You gonna do the whole mentor thing now? Sit me down and tell me I’m spiraling?”

“I’m not your therapist,” Maverick said calmly. “But I’ve been where you are. Stubborn. Stupid. Pretending like nothing’s wrong when everything’s falling apart.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Then he exhaled hard and said, “I was a real asshole to someone once. A long time ago.”

“Just once?” Maverick joked, and Jake snorted.

“Alright, wise guy.”

Maverick let him speak, didn’t press. Jake tapped the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on nothing in particular. “She was... good. Kind. A little weird, honestly. Smart in a way that scared me. And I made it my goddamn mission to ruin that.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I thought I was being funny. Cool. I don’t even know why—I think I just... couldn’t handle it. So I humiliated her. Over and over. Like it was a sport. And she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon.” Jake’s voice dropped. “Then one day, she stopped.”

Maverick was quiet. Then he said, “And now?”

Jake shook his head. “Now, she’s—” But he cut himself off.

Mav already knew. He didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the full picture. He’d seen the way Jake looked at her during briefings. The way his bravado twitched when Rogue walked into the room. The way he clammed up every time her voice took command. Maverick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t blind.

“You remind me of myself,” Maverick said softly. “Back when I was your age, I made a lot of choices that cost me things I didn’t know I’d miss until they were long gone. There’s a danger in thinking we’ve got time. In thinking we can burn bridges and still cross back over later.”

Jake didn’t respond, but he didn’t deflect either.

Maverick took another sip and looked over at the squad laughing across the room. “This job—it’ll take everything if you let it. Your body. Your mind. The people you love. You gotta decide what matters, Jake. And if someone mattered to you, even once—don’t let pride be the reason you lose them for good.”

Jake finally looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, he just nodded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Maverick saw it in his eyes: he knew.

Jake looked away again, his mouth tightening, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He ran a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of stubble like he could scrub away the guilt gathering beneath his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost foreign to him. “But what if it’s too late?”

Maverick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then it’s too late,” he said simply. “But you still show up. You own what you did. You stand there and take it. And maybe they never forgive you. Maybe they slam the door in your face.”

Jake’s lips pressed together. The idea clearly unsettled him. He was used to being liked, even when he didn’t deserve it. He was used to being the golden boy.

“But,” Maverick went on, tapping his finger against the bar, “you do it anyway. Because that’s what we do. That’s what aviators do. We don’t get to cherry-pick the consequences of our actions. If you left damage behind, you don’t run from it. You clean it up. Even if the person never lets you back in—you clean it up because it’s the right thing to do.”

Jake nodded once, but there was a bitter curl to his mouth. “You ever say something so cruel, you still hear it years later? Like it’s stuck under your skin?”

Mav didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. “Yeah. I have. Still do. Every damn day.”

Jake stared down at the bar top. “I didn’t just screw up. I killed something. She—God, Mav, she looked at me like I was a stranger the other day. Like she didn’t even remember the boy I used to be.”

“And maybe,” Maverick said gently, “that boy wasn’t worth remembering.”

Jake flinched. But it wasn’t meant to hurt—it was meant to land.

Then Maverick leaned in, voice low. “But you’re not him anymore. Are you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“Figure out who you are now,” Mav said. “Then go be that person. Whether she forgives you or not? That’s on her. But the man who walked in here tonight... he’s got a chance. Don’t waste it.”

Jake didn’t move for a long time. The clatter and laughter of the Hard Deck carried on around them, but it was like he wasn’t in the room at all.

Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Maverick watched him for a moment longer, his eyes distant like he was seeing something from long ago, something that never really left him. Then he breathed out slowly, leaned back on the stool, and nodded toward the exit.

“Go now,” he said. “Before the years stack up like bad debt and you realize you can't pay it off.”

Jake blinked. His brows drew slightly together.

“Don’t wait for the right moment, Jake. There isn’t one,” Mav added. “Just the one you choose. I waited too damn long, you know? Penny—she didn’t make it easy. I’d hurt her more than I had the right to, but she still showed up. And I…” He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I was a goddamn coward. Kept thinking I’d fix things tomorrow.”

Jake glanced over at Penny then. She was behind the bar, her hair up in a loose bun, laughing at something Bob had said. The light above her shimmered against her skin like she was glowing from the inside out. Jake saw the way Maverick looked at her—the way his whole world tilted ever so slightly toward her, like she was north on a compass.

And that’s when it hit him. Jake Seresin had never looked at anyone like that. No—scratch that. He had once. Years ago.

When she wore a stupid party hat and carried a puppy in her arms, surrounded by candles and family and cake and joy. When her laugh sounded like sunlight. When her hand found his under the table and he thought, this is what forever might feel like.

And now she walked past him in command stripes and called him Lieutenant.

- You, Rogue -

The Texas sun filtered through the windshield like an old friend, golden and familiar, and yet you kept your sunglasses on—not because it was too bright, but because the ache in your eyes hadn’t quite left since you left North Island last night.

You had taken the first flight out, the earliest one available, and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Not to Rooster, who had made you laugh more than he should’ve been able to. Not to Coyote, who’d offered to carry your bag. And certainly not to Jake Seresin, who had stood in that damn office with those wide eyes and that desperate voice, thinking a single I'm sorry could sew up everything he’d ripped open.

Now, your hands gripped the steering wheel of your mom’s old truck, the same one you learned to drive in when you were seventeen, and the tires hummed against the backroads you used to know like the lines of your palm.

Tall grass danced in the breeze on either side of you. Fences leaned where they always had, weathered by years and still standing. You didn’t need a map for this part of the world—this was home. This was where the sun rose slow and the air smelled like cedar and freedom.

You’d gotten the text early this morning. Change of plans, sweetheart. We’ll celebrate at the old house. Bring an appetite. And maybe don’t wear white—your brother’s bringing the horses in.

You’d smiled at that. It had been a long time since you'd driven this stretch of road. Since you’d seen the wild dogs running along the fence lines or the rusted mailbox that still had the dent from when Jake once hit it with his truck mirror on a dare.

God. Jake.

His voice had replayed in your head all night. That man—no, that boy—had stood in front of you like he still had a right to your time, to your air, to your name in his mouth. And for a second—just a second—you had wanted to believe him.

But the past doesn’t just disappear. Not when he’d humiliated you. Not when you had spent nights trying to convince yourself you were imagining it all. Not when he walked away back then and pretended you didn’t matter.

And now? Now he begged you to let him settle things. As if your pain could be negotiated.

You clenched your jaw, adjusting the volume of the radio, letting the old country songs wrap around your thoughts like smoke. You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You weren’t doing any of this for him.

You’d come this far—become this woman—for yourself. Because you had learned how to command rooms, how to fly faster than anyone else, how to hold your head high even when your heart burned like hell.

Meanwhile, the familiar arch of trees opened up ahead and the house came into view. The white porch. The worn shutters. The yard where you used to set up obstacle courses for your bike and trip over your own feet. The same swing still hung from the oak tree.

You exhaled. Today was your birthday. And for once, it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

You were home.

You parked the truck in the dirt patch just to the left of the barn, dust kicking up behind you like the ghosts of old summer days. The door creaked when you opened it, a familiar sound that tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.

Everything was the same. The chipped blue paint on the fence. The faded plastic chairs stacked by the porch. Even the smell—warm earth, hay, a hint of rosemary from your mother’s garden—smelled like memory.

You stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel, and tilted your head up to the sky. Texas blue. Endless and unapologetic.

Inside, you could hear your mother laughing with someone—probably your brother—and the sizzle of something on the stove. You didn’t go in just yet. Instead, you wandered around the side of the house, past the rusted wind chimes, letting your hand trail along the familiar wooden siding like it could anchor you to something real. Something before everything.

Before the Navy.

Before Top Gun.

Before Jake Seresin broke your heart and then had the audacity to stand in front of you like a damn open wound pretending he could heal something he didn’t even understand.

You paused by the swing. It swayed gently in the breeze, unbothered by the years. You sat, slowly, gripping the rope like it might tether you back to seventeen—the girl who had once looked at Jake like he’d hung the stars. She didn’t exist anymore. But sometimes, on mornings like this, she whispered from somewhere deep inside you.

And God, the nerve of him. Standing there with his pretty mouth and that I’m sorry like it meant something. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Not really. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just what he said to you that day back then—it was what he didn’t say. The silence that followed. The way he turned away and never looked back. Until now.

Now, when you’d become someone. When you wore medals and held rank and had the power to ground squadrons with a signature.

Now he wanted to talk.

But you weren’t that girl anymore. And this wasn’t about him.

You smiled despite yourself.

Rising to your feet, brushing your palms on your jeans, you turned back toward the house. The sun was warm against your back. The air smelled like cinnamon and barbecue and honeysuckle. You weren’t ready to let Jake back in. Not yet.

But you were ready to celebrate the woman you’d become.

Because today? Today was your damn day.

The screen door hadn’t even finished creaking shut behind you when the stampede began.

Little feet slapped against the worn floorboards as your nieces and nephews burst from the hallway like a pack of wild horses. They were bigger now—older, louder—but still the same blur of joy and sugar-smeared cheeks as they flung themselves at you.

“Auntie!” one of them shrieked, and your heart cracked open just a little more.

You caught two in your arms, staggering slightly with the force of their enthusiasm. The oldest tried to look cool but you saw the grin tugging at his mouth before he lunged in for a hug too.

Behind them came your mother, wiping her hands on a dish towel and already reaching for your face like she had to confirm you were real. “There’s my girl,” she whispered, voice a bit too watery. Your father, quieter as always, stood just behind her, but you knew the emotion was there in his eyes. He pulled you into a brief but firm hug.

Then came the rest.

Your brothers—bigger and broader than you remembered, one already holding a beer, the other pretending not to tear up. Your grandparents, slow but steady, offering words of pride in their soft, worn voices. Aunts and uncles who made jokes about medals and jet fuel, cousins who squealed and poked fun at your rank while hugging you tightly.

You barely had time to breathe.

Laughter bloomed in every room. The table groaned under the weight of food. Music played from the old speakers by the window, some twangy country song you hadn’t heard in years but could still hum along to. You were home. And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest dulled. Just sunshine and sweat and summer in Texas.

Until—

“Damn, y’all didn’t tell me she was gonna look this good.”

The voice sliced through the haze like a whipcrack.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your whole body locked up.

No.

No no no no no.

You turned so slowly you could feel the blood drain from your face before it even reached your toes.

And there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Standing in your childhood kitchen like he belonged there.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging just a little too well to his broad chest, jeans slung low on his hips, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen more dirt than you were ready to admit you missed. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a bit damp, and his face was flushed like he’d just come in from outside. Like he’d been working. Or running. Or maybe pacing in nervous circles wondering if you’d show up.

He had sweat on his neck.

Your mother, traitor that she was, beamed from beside the stove. “He’s been here since this morning! Helped fix the gate. Fixed the porch swing, too.”

You stared at her, unblinking.

Jake met your gaze from across the room, and he smiled—slow and dangerous and laced with something like hope. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawled, like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you weren’t standing in front of him with a thousand unspoken things catching fire behind your ribs.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

So many people in this room.

So many things you could throw.

Your mouth dropped open before your brain even caught up with your body. And what came out next was entirely involuntary.

“What the fuck—”

“Ay!” your mom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “Language!”

Jake had the audacity—the actual gall—to throw his hands up in mock dismay, laughing like this was a damn sitcom. “Yeah, sunshine,” he added, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s kids present. Watch your language.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then your eyes narrowed, lips curling back into something not quite a smile. “You’re joking,” you muttered under your breath, fury simmering under your skin like a Texas thunderstorm just seconds from breaking loose.

“Oh, she’s definitely not joking,” your older brother said, already backing out of the kitchen with his beer like he wanted no part of this incoming Category 5.

Your little niece tugged on your sleeve. “Auntie, who is that cowboy?”

Jake winked at her, all smooth charm and self-satisfaction. “I’m Uncle Jake, darlin’. I used to—”

You cut him off with a stare that could curdle milk.

He grinned wider.

Your hands clenched at your sides. You had dreamed of this moment—Jake Seresin begging at your metaphorical altar. Groveling. Crying. Maybe slipping on a banana peel and falling into a pile of cow dung while you sipped sweet tea on a porch swing, untouched and unbothered.

Not this. Not him in your house. Not here, where the walls still whispered childhood secrets and the air still smelled like soil and sun. This was your place. Your safe haven.

And now it was full of him.

Jake, standing there like he belonged. Looking at you like he always did—like he saw you. All of you.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you hissed, stepping toward him as your family slowly scattered, sensing something heavy crackling in the air.

Jake shrugged, casual as hell. “Your mom invited me. Would’ve been rude to say no.”

“Would’ve been smart to say no,” you muttered.

Your mother clucked her tongue again from the stovetop, giving you the kind of look that had once kept you from sneaking out after curfew. “He’s our guest, sweetheart. Be polite.”

Jake leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a particularly beautiful storm he couldn’t wait to chase. “Yeah,” he echoed, voice dipping lower. “Be polite, Rogue.”

You wanted to throttle him.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders, took a breath, and gave him the most saccharine, venom-laced smile you could muster.

“Welcome to the party,” you said, voice dripping with southern hospitality and suppressed rage. “Try not to choke on the cake.”

You were going to kill him. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. Kill. The kind of murder you could only get away with because you were loved—deeply, endlessly—by nearly everyone in this yard.

And the worst part? He knew it.

Jake Seresin, with that stupidly white t-shirt clinging to his chest like sin, was roaming your childhood home like he’d grown up beside you. Laughing with your uncle, throwing a ball with the boys, helping your grandpa adjust the damn barbecue coals like he belonged there.

No. Nope. Not today, Satan.

You turned sharply on your heel and marched straight to the little ones—your nieces, your nephews, your cousins’ kids—because at least they wouldn’t ask questions about why your ex crush who shattered your heart into military-grade shrapnel was casually flipping ribs in your backyard.

“Auntie, can you help us with the lemonade stand?” little Mila asked, tugging on your hand, her curls bouncing as she ran ahead.

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, following her like she was your designated emotional support human. “Let’s go make a small fortune before the grown-ups get too drunk to notice they’re tipping us real money.”

She giggled, and just like that, your shoulders dropped a little. Being around the kids always did that. They didn’t care who you were in the sky. They didn’t know about commands or squadrons or callsigns or men who left you when they promised they wouldn’t. They just knew you made the best strawberry punch and that you gave the biggest pushes on the tire swing.

So, you spent the next hour ducking the ache in your chest by being useful. Fixing the lemon mix, adding way too much sugar because Mila insisted, handing out tiny cups to your cousins and childhood neighbors.

You caught up with your Aunt Lou, who still talked with her hands and smelled like gardenia. She pinched your cheek and asked, “When are you getting married?”

You almost choked on a grape.

Meanwhile, your uncle pulled you aside and told you the crops were better this year. Your younger cousin asked about the Navy—not about Jake—and your Granfather gave you a nod of approval that still meant everything.

You wove in and out of the crowd like muscle memory. This was your world. These were your people. This house, this land—this life—shaped you. It was sacred.

And yet, he was here. Like a shadow clinging to your sun.

You did everything to ignore him. Didn’t glance his way. Didn’t listen to the sound of his laugh or notice how often he kept checking where you were. You refused.

But there was no escaping it—the hum in your chest, the crackle in your spine, the way your whole damn body knew he was watching you.

And you’d be damned if it didn’t set you on fire.

He just had to do it.

You were halfway through helping the kids repaint the old wooden lemonade sign—your hands streaked with pastel pink and yellow, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that still had wisps falling loose from the Texas heat—when you heard the familiar sound of children’s laughter crescendo into a shriek of delight.

That’s when you looked up. And saw him.

Jake Seresin, all tall and smug and golden, crouched low in the grass with Mila balanced on his back like a tiny, squealing cowboy. Her tiny arms were stretched like wings, and he was galloping across the lawn on all fours, making horse noises—actual horse noises—as the other kids chased after him.

“Giddy-up, Hangman!” one of the boys shouted between wheezes.

“Yeehaw!” Jake whooped, and it was so stupidly charming you almost forgot to hate him.

Almost.

The kids adored him. Of course they did. He was a walking Disney Channel character with cowboy boots. He let them climb him like a jungle gym. He gave Mila his sunglasses and called her “Commander Cool.” He high-fived every single child like he was campaigning for mayor of the backyard.

And then—then, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough—he glanced over. Right at you.

Eyes locked.

He grinned.

Not the cocky, I-know-you-want-me grin. No. This one was softer. Almost bashful. Like he knew he’d been caught being good and didn’t mind it.

You blinked.

Your heart hiccupped.

Then you glared.

Hard.

His grin widened like the absolute menace he was. He gently helped Mila off his back, ruffled the boy’s hair, and made his way toward the drink table like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just disarmed you with joy and children and that damn dimple.

You turned back to the sign and scrubbed at a smudge of pink paint like it had personally wronged you.

He was trying to worm his way in. You could feel it.

And worse?

It was working.

Of course he wasn’t done. Jake Seresin never quit while he was ahead. Not when there was a mountain to climb or—more accurately—a woman to win back with the same stubbornness that once drove you up the wall and straight out of his life.

You kept your back turned to the lawn, laser-focused on helping Mila paint the corner of the lemonade sign. It was something about the way her tiny fingers clumsily held the brush, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration, that almost made you forget he was still here.

Almost.

Because then you heard him.

Not his boots—he was good at hiding his approach when he wanted to—but his voice. Low, sweet, casual.

“You missed a spot.”

You didn’t even need to look up to know he was standing behind you. You could feel the heat of his presence like sunlight pressing against your spine.

“You’re gonna smudge the paint if you keep hovering like that,” you muttered without turning around.

Jake crouched down beside you, just close enough for his arm to brush yours.

“You sure? Looked like you needed help.”

You gave him a pointed glance. “I don’t need anything from you.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you’d want a break. It’s your birthday, after all.”

You scoffed, dipping your brush back into the pale yellow paint. “Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something folded. Paper. You recognized the edges before he even handed it over.

The sketch.

Your sketch.

The one you’d done on a napkin years ago—of the farm, of the porch swing and windmill and stars. You thought it had been lost in the fallout. Turns out, it had been with him all along.

“I carried it,” he said softly, not trying to smile this time. “Through Pensacola. Through Fallon. Hell, even had it on me in Lemoore. Kept it in my flight bag.”

Your fingers trembled around the brush. You swallowed. Hard.

“Why are you showing me this now?” you asked, voice too thin, too fragile for your own liking.

“Because I’m not good with words,” he admitted. “But I kept this. Every time I saw it, I thought of you. I still do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw the paintbrush at his stupid, perfect face. But Mila giggled beside you and tapped your arm with a tiny yellow-streaked hand, and somehow, somehow, you kept it together.

You inhaled slowly.

Then, like a switch had flipped, you plastered on a calm smile, turned your head just enough, and whispered:

“You’re still a jackass, Seresin.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m your jackass. Right?”

You didn’t answer. You stood, handed Mila the paintbrush, and walked off without a word.

He stayed crouched there, that damn sketch still in his hands, watching you walk away like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You told yourself you weren’t going to look.

You swore you’d steer clear, keep your head down, stay with the kids or the cousins or literally anyone who didn’t make your pulse do Olympic sprints in your throat. But no. Of course not. Of course you looked.

Because he was on a damn horse.

And not just on a horse—riding it like he was born in a saddle, one hand casually gripping the reins, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He sat straight, easy in the way only someone who knew what they were doing ever could. His shirt clung to his back just enough to make you forget how to breathe, a thin sheen of sweat darkening the white cotton at the collar and down his spine.

You hated him.

Jake Seresin, of all people, had the nerve to look like a goddamn cowboy catalog cover while chatting with your brother, who was laughing like they’d been best friends since elementary school. They were talking about something mechanical—tractors maybe? Fencing? You couldn’t hear, too far across the yard, but Jake tipped his head back to laugh and your brother clapped him on the shoulder like he belonged there.

Like he’d always belonged there.

“Stop staring,” your cousin whispered beside you, eyes full of amusement as she handed you a glass of sweet tea.

“I’m not,” you muttered, sipping too fast and promptly choking on the ice.

Your cousin didn’t buy it for a second. “Mmmhmm. Girl, you might as well be writing his name in the clouds.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from the corral, back toward the porch, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. But the image was seared behind your eyes now—Jake’s long legs, the easy grin he threw at your brother, the way the sunlight kissed his cheekbones as he swung down from the saddle like it was nothing.

You didn’t want him to be beautiful. You didn’t want him to fit in so easily here. This was your space. Your home. Your family.

And yet… he wore it like it had always been his, too.

You pressed a hand to your chest, felt the traitorous flutter there, and cursed under your breath.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’d deal with this. With him. With all of it.

But right now? Right now, you needed to not melt into a puddle on the damn porch.

Girl, listen—he had no business being that fine.

You’d tried. Swore up and down to every relative, every sticky-fingered kid clinging to your legs, that you were not going to fall into the trap that was Jake Seresin and his dumb, gorgeous cowboy energy. You were here to celebrate your birthday, not combust into flames.

But then—then—he did something unforgivable.

He took his shirt off.

It started simple enough. He was helping your uncle haul a bale of hay from the shed—one of those heavy ones, wrapped tight, stacked tall. You watched from the shade of the porch with narrowed eyes and a paper plate in your hand, just trying to enjoy your damn macaroni salad. You weren't even looking at him. Not really. Just... in the vicinity.

And then the man tugged at the back of his shirt, lifted it clean over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck like this was a Marlboro ad come to life.

Time paused. The sun wept. Your fork clattered onto your plate.

Tanned skin, broad shoulders, that stupid tattoo on his shoulder blade you used to trace with your fingertips in the dark—all of it was on full display. His abs weren’t just abs; they were architectural. Like if God had sculpted a man from summer heat and Southern charm and said, “Yup. That’s the one that’s gonna ruin her peace.”

He slung the hay over one shoulder and laughed at something your cousin said, the sound low and smooth, dripping in Texas. Then he spit to the side—spit, for God’s sake—and somehow even that was hot.

“What in the cowboy smut novel is this,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Your mom passed behind you and gave you a little hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d say someone’s got a type.”

“I don’t,” you snapped. “He just… looks hydrated.”

And maybe you were not.

Because now he was leaning on the fence, shirt still off, muscles flexing as he talked to your older brother like they were planning your family’s next barn renovation. His fingers tapped absently on the wooden post, drawing your eye down, down, down—

“Need a drink?” someone asked beside you.

You didn’t even know who said it. You just nodded and reached for whatever they had.

Water. Wine. Holy water.

At this point, you’d drink it all.

You just needed to breathe.

The house was full. The yard was fuller. There were children sprinting like tiny missiles across the porch, uncles hollering about the grill, your mother fussing about potato salad and forks. And him. Jake Seresin, the unholy Texas mirage, was walking around shirtless like he didn’t just ignite your central nervous system every time he smirked.

So you slipped away—quiet as a whisper—toward the old well tucked behind the barn, the one your grandfather built with his bare hands. It was quiet there. Still. You could almost hear your heartbeat, feel the wind in your hair. That familiar creak of the wooden bucket, the low hum of cicadas in the grass. You rested your hands on the worn stone edge and exhaled.

Just one minute. One moment of peace. No chaos. No memories. No him.

“You always ran off here when you were mad,” came the voice behind you—smooth, low, and damn near sinful.

You didn’t even jump. You just groaned.

“For the love of—” You turned. “Do you own a shirt?”

Jake Seresin stood there in all his shirtless, sun-kissed glory, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his collarbones and a devil-may-care look in his eyes that made you want to throw something at him. Preferably your dignity.

“Probably,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Didn’t think I’d need one. Not when it’s this hot out.”

“Go away.”

“Can’t. Kinda like the view.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to ignore the way your pulse leapt. “If you’re here to flirt, try again when you aren’t radiating ‘country boy thirst trap’ energy.”

He grinned. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last time.”

“Yeah, well…” You looked back at the well, swallowing hard. “Last time, I was young. Stupid.”

Jake took a few more steps until he was right beside you, the heat from his body sinking into your skin. He didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that the air felt charged—like lightning waiting to strike.

“I was stupid too,” he said, quieter now. “But not about you.”

You froze. His voice was lower, more honest. The kind of voice you remembered from nights wrapped in his arms beneath a quilt of stars, when he whispered promises against your skin he never had the courage to keep.

You looked at him then, really looked.

And for a second, it wasn’t Commander Rogue or Lieutenant Seresin standing in that golden Texas sun.

It was just you. And him.

The silence between you shimmered—tight, fragile, electric.

Jake was too close. Too warm. Too Jake.

You could smell the sun on his skin, that familiar scent of old leather, cedarwood soap, and whatever reckless sin made him walk around like that in broad daylight. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, while your own lungs forgot how to work. Every nerve ending in your body was on high alert, tuned to the space between his mouth and yours.

He wasn’t touching you—but god, it felt like he was. Like his heat had fingers, like his gaze was dragging along your collarbone and down your spine. Your grip on the stone edge of the well tightened.

“Still mad?” he asked, low, like he was trying not to spook you.

You turned your head slowly. “Is that a serious question?”

Jake gave a soft, crooked smile—the kind that used to undo you, back when you were foolish and seventeen and let that mouth talk you into the backseat of his truck.

He leaned a little closer. You felt it before you saw it: the flex of his arms, the slight roll of his shoulder as he planted a hand against the well, boxing you in. Not forceful. Not trapping. Just... a little too intimate. A little too familiar.

“You’ve always had a temper,” he murmured.

“And you’ve always been an arrogant jackass,” you shot back, heart pounding.

He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Yeah. But you used to like that.”

You hated the way your body remembered. The way it leaned just slightly into his space before your brain caught up and screamed, abort mission. You turned your face away—big mistake. His breath brushed your cheek.

“You used to like me,” he added, voice like gravel dragged through honey.

“I also used to believe in Santa Claus.”

That made him laugh. And god, that laugh. You remembered it in the worst ways—in dark barns and truck beds and your childhood bedroom when you swore you could keep a secret from the whole damn town.

You tried to step back. Your shoulder hit his arm.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes dipped lower, taking in the line of your throat, the heat flushing your neck. You could see it then—the moment his cocky little grin faltered. The shift. The hunger. Like he’d just remembered the exact sound you made when his hands were on your hips and his mouth was on your skin.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice raw now. Quiet. “Even when I should’ve. Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not when every inch of you was screaming, don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him—

“Auntie!”

The two of you snapped apart like teenagers caught behind the barn, you nearly bumping your elbow on the stone lip of the well. Jake blinked, disoriented for half a second, before scrubbing a hand down his face and stepping back.

A herd of small feet came rushing around the corner, your nieces and nephews tearing toward you like a tactical strike team. One of them had a cowboy hat too big for his head; another clutched a popsicle that was now just red sugar water dripping down her arm.

“Auntie, Auntie! Come play tag with us!”

“Uncle Jake’s it!” one shouted, smacking Jake on the hip and running away squealing.

Your jaw twitched. “Uncle—what?”

Jake gave a helpless shrug, smirking like the devil himself. “Guess I got promoted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours.”

“And yet I’m already the favorite,” he said, casually starting to jog after the kids, chest still annoyingly bare, voice all sugar and sin. “You better keep up, sunshine.”

You glared at his back as he disappeared into the trees behind the barn, chased by three of your brother’s kids and what felt like the rising heat of your own blood pressure.

The worst part? You wanted to follow.

God help you.

By the time you caught up to them—shoes soaked, jeans streaked with specks of damp soil—Jake had already been tackled into the grass by a pack of laughing children. One clung to his back like a baby koala, another tried pulling his boot off, and the youngest had climbed onto his stomach with a triumphant yell of, “Victory!”

“Help,” Jake groaned dramatically, his hands pinned by tiny, sticky fingers. “I’m under attack. Man down. Send reinforcements.”

You stopped short at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over your chest, breath stilling for half a second.

God, he looked... absurd.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the droplets of water clinging to his hair. His white shirt from earlier had vanished—long forgotten or maybe tossed aside somewhere in the chaos—and his jeans were now grass-stained and muddied at the knees. One of the kids had drawn something across his chest with blue chalk, and another had clearly poured water from the bucket left beside the well.

Jake Seresin, golden boy, Navy pilot, hotshot of North Island—absolutely wrecked by five small children.

It made something in your chest ache.

“Stop staring and get over here, Lieutenant Commander!” he called from the ground, giving you a lopsided grin. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Not likely,” you said, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And then the smallest—Avery, your niece—sprinted up, grabbed your hand, and beamed up at you.

“Come on, Auntie! You’re on my team!”

You were halfway through the word “Wait—” when Avery yanked you straight into the mess.

Your boots sank into the mud with a wet squelch. Your balance wobbled. And then, like some twisted cosmic joke, Jake reached up and tugged—lightly, playfully—on your wrist just as you tried to catch yourself.

You landed with a soft oof right beside him in the grass. Mud splattered up your arms and soaked through your shirt.

“Jake!” you gasped.

He blinked innocently. “Oops.”

Before you could lunge for him, he was already rolling out of your reach, laughing, the kids cackling with delight as they jumped in after him.

And suddenly, like it hadn’t been years of anger and silence and ghosts between you, like there weren’t a thousand things unsaid still lodged in your throat—you were laughing, too.

The sound was light. Real. It hadn’t been pulled from you like a demand or forged like armor. It just… slipped out.

Jake looked over from where he lay sprawled on the grass, hair wild, dirt on his cheek, and something almost reverent in his gaze.

“Sunshine,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet even the wind barely caught it.

You didn’t hear him.

But maybe, just maybe, part of you felt it.

- Mom -

From the edge of the porch, camera in hand, your mother watched the chaos unfold in the muddy clearing with an expression somewhere between wonder and suspicion. She stood still, the warm light of late afternoon catching in her silver-streaked hair, her apron smudged with flour from the pies cooling behind her.

She hadn't meant to come out here. Not really. She just wanted to get a peek at the noise—children squealing, someone yelling “mud war!”—and maybe call everyone in for lemonade. That’s all. But what she found instead made her stop dead in her tracks, heart twisting in her chest.

There you were. Laughing.

Muddy from head to toe, grass in your hair, sleeves rolled up, chasing after one of your nieces with wild joy in your eyes that she hadn’t seen in—God, how long had it been?

And right beside you… him.

Jake Seresin, the Texas boy with charm sharp as spurs and a reputation that had, once upon a time, made her raise an eyebrow more than once.

He was covered in mud too, shirtless and grinning, water dripping down his jawline as he hoisted your nephew up in the air like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the kids had drawn a smiley face on his back with marker. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care.

Her breath caught.

And then it happened—you stumbled back from a slip in the wet grass, and Jake reached out without even thinking, catching you by the waist, steadying you as if his body still remembered the shape of yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, startled. He said something she couldn’t hear, and you rolled your eyes, trying to shove him off—though not very hard.

Her fingers moved before she even realized.

Click.

One photo. Then another. Then another.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But there was a knowing tug in her chest—like an old song she hadn’t heard in years playing quietly in the background of her thoughts.

You looked like a girl in love.

And Jake? Well… he looked like he had just remembered what it felt like to come home.

She lowered the camera slowly, eyes never leaving the pair of you, and smiled just a little to herself.

“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath, “just maybe.”

- You, Rogue -

You didn’t mean to fall.

One second you were lunging after your nephew, hand outstretched to snag the edge of his shirt before he could escape the muddy ambush you and your niece had planned. The next, your foot slid in the wet grass, your arms windmilled, and then—

You were airborne.

“Shit!”

You barely got the word out before someone caught you mid-fall, arms wrapping around your waist, the rest of you crashing against something—someone—solid and stupidly warm and annoyingly familiar.

“Gotcha,” Jake drawled right against your ear, like a cowboy catching a tumbleweed.

And just like that, he had you. Picked you up. Just… scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. His bare chest was damp from sweat and hose water, his jeans soaked and clinging to strong thighs, and you hated the way your breath caught at the feel of him. At the sound of his damn laugh when your muddy hand smeared across his shoulder.

“Put me down!” you shouted, squirming in his grip, even as the kids screamed with laughter around you.

“Nope,” he grinned, spinning with you in his arms. “You look like trouble, darlin’. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

You slapped at his chest, legs kicking. “You’re the one with a smiley face on your back, you idiot!”

He paused mid-spin. “Wait—what?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound cracked out of you raw and surprised. The chaos around you—the kids yelling, someone spraying a hose again, your brother hollering something from the porch—it blurred into a warm blur of color and sound as Jake finally dropped you gently onto a pile of soaked grass.

You landed on your butt with a graceless thud, hair a mess, shirt clinging to your back, and mud streaked down your arms. Jake stood over you, grinning like the damn sun, and offered you a hand like a gentleman.

You took it.

Just to pull him down with you.

He yelped, hit the ground with a grunt, and for a second—just one heartbeat-long second—you both lay there, breathless and laughing, side by side in the summer haze, the world spinning around you in children’s shrieks and distant music and the smell of grilled corn and cut grass.

You turned your head. He was already looking at you.

The sky above was impossibly blue. His eyes were impossibly green. And for a split second, you swore the whole damn world slowed down.

You didn’t kiss him.

But God, it was close.

- Jake -

Jake wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the moment your laugh cut through the summer air like something ancient and wild, or maybe it was when your muddy hand smeared across his bare chest and you didn’t apologize—just glared at him like you were still that girl who could outmatch him in every way that mattered. Maybe it was earlier, back when he caught you mid-fall and realized that you still smelled like salt and sunshine and the kind of life he never thought he deserved.

Whatever the hell it was, it hit him like a bullet. Fast. Deep. Irreversible.

You were in front of him now, yelling something at one of the kids, your hair sticking to your neck, droplets glinting on your skin like gold in the dying light. The sun hit you just right—like it always had—and he felt that ache all over again. That same gut-punch he felt the first time he saw you grin under the Texas sky years ago, before he messed it all up with his arrogance, his ambition, his own damn fear.

Meanwhile, you were so alive. That’s what wrecked him. It wasn’t just your smile or your voice or the way your jeans hugged your hips—it was the way you moved like you belonged here. Like the earth and sky were built around you. You weren’t just beautiful, you were real. Real in a way most things in his life weren’t.

Then you looked at him. Brief. Barely a second. But you looked at him with those eyes—sharp and guarded and unknowingly soft—and Jake knew. He knew, in the most terrifying, infuriating way, that he was in love with you. Not some crush. Not some what-if. Love. That stupid, all-consuming kind.

He kicked at the grass, trying to shake the thought loose. Tried to convince himself it was the sunstroke or the adrenaline or the leftover tension from every unsaid word between you two. But it wasn’t. It was just you. And the quiet knowing that the second he saw you again, this version of you—commanding and sun-drenched and laughing through mud and kids and chaos—he was a goner.

And worst of all? He didn’t know if he deserved even a second of it. Not after everything. Not after the years. But damn if he didn’t want to try.

Jake Seresin swore the sun had nothing on you.

He’d spent years in cockpits, chasing horizons, burning through the sky like he had something to prove—and maybe he did, back then. But none of it, none of the blinding sunsets or golden-glow mornings that kissed the edges of the world like something out of a dream, ever touched what you looked like in this moment. Hair messy and pulled half-back with a strand falling loose against your cheek. Mud on your knees.

Shirt clinging to your spine in the heat. And that smile—God, that smile—sharp as ever, soft where no one else got to see. He remembered it. He’d never forgotten. It haunted him in the quiet and crept into his thoughts on missions and long flights, the ghost of it grinning like it had unfinished business.

Meanwhile, you were laughing with your cousin’s kid, crouched in the grass like you belonged to the wild. You flicked water at Jake and didn’t even look his way, too focused on teasing the children, too alive to notice the way his entire world tilted. It was maddening. It was holy. It was like watching the kind of woman poets write about and soldiers carve names into locker doors for—except you were real. And you hated him. And maybe he deserved it.

He ran a hand through his hair, watching as you stood up and stretched, the sun hitting the line of your waist in a way that made him clench his jaw. It should’ve been illegal. That easy sway in your hips. That tired but proud glint in your eye like you knew you ruled this little corner of earth and had no plans of giving it up.

Then you bent down to scoop a toddler into your arms, spinning her, laughing as she screamed with delight. And Jake…well, his knees almost gave out.

Not because he imagined you holding his kid like that—though, Jesus Christ, he did—but because it reminded him of everything he’d tried to shut out.

How warm you could be. How dangerous it felt to love someone who glowed from the inside out. And how badly he wanted to earn even an inch of that warmth again.

He tore his eyes away, just for a second, just to breathe—but it was no use. You were everywhere. In the sky. In the dirt. In the back of his goddamn mind. A storm in boots and a baseball cap. A fever he could never shake.

And Jake Seresin was parched. Starving. Hopelessly, humiliatingly thirsty—for a woman who looked at him like he was a closed chapter. A footnote. But still…he stayed.

Because watching you now, sun-kissed and mud-streaked and all fire? It was the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.

Jake didn’t realize when the noise around him faded—the laughter, the barking dogs, the clatter of beer bottles and ice buckets—until all that remained was the soft lilt of your voice somewhere across the yard.

You were bent at the waist again, helping one of your nieces wash off a muddy hand, and the light struck your profile like it was painting it for keeps. He could trace every angle by memory. He had, once. Quiet nights in his bunk. Long flights with nothing but time and guilt.

And now, the fantasy was whispering again.

It started small—just a flicker in the back of his mind. You in that kitchen you’d once dreamed about. Windows wide open. Coffee brewing. A dog at your feet. Then it deepened.

A blur of tiny footsteps racing across a hardwood floor, squeaky with morning. A giggle that sounded like you. A scowl that mirrored his. And then you, barefoot in the hallway, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler on your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake blinked hard, suddenly warm beneath his collar. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself want like that. Not anymore. But the image burned anyway—you and him in a little house tucked somewhere quiet, the kind of place where he could build what he never thought he deserved.

Maybe a swing in the front yard. Maybe a pickup in the driveway with a car seat in the back. Maybe he plants lilies along the fence because you once offhandedly said they were your favorite, and the look on your face when you saw them? Worth every sunburn and scraped knuckle.

He’d never even bought a girl flowers before. Never stayed long enough to learn what they liked. But with you? Lilies. White, soft, stubborn things. Grew in the sun. Survived the storms.

Just like you.

Meanwhile, you stood up and laughed again, brushing your hands off on your jeans. One of the kids tugged at your hand, pulling you back toward the yard, and Jake felt something in his chest twist. Not ache. Not quite. It was want—raw and deep and bigger than anything he’d felt in years.

He wanted to be the one you turned to. The one who carried in the groceries and kissed your temple just because. The one who gave you lilies every damn birthday, no matter where he was in the world. The one you leaned into when the world got loud.

Jake Seresin wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t that simple.

But God, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try.

And if you’d let him—just give him one more chance—he’d give you the whole damn garden.

He didn’t notice you walking up at first. He was too far gone, stuck in that half-dream where your hand fit perfectly into his and the world was quieter, softer, wrapped in summer cotton and the scent of lilies. But then your shadow crossed his boots, and your voice—sharp, familiar, home—sliced clean through the haze.

“Seresin,” you said, firm as ever.

He blinked up, caught like a deer in headlights. Your arms were crossed, your brows drawn together like they always did when you were irritated. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheekbone, a streak of dried mud on your shirt, and somehow you still looked like you could knock the wind out of him without even trying.

You didn’t wait for him to come up with something clever.

“You’re muddy,” you said, blunt and unimpressed. “Go clean up. Dinner’s soon, and my mom will actually murder you if you track dirt onto her porch.”

That tone. That exact brand of annoyed-but-secretly-concerned that made him grin before he even meant to.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled, lazy and smug, “you always talk this sweet to your guests, or am I just special?”

Your eyes narrowed into something that could’ve cut steel.

“Don’t push me, Hangman,” you warned, voice low. “You are already on thin ice.”

He lifted both hands, palms up, like he was some innocent cowboy who’d never done a damn thing wrong in his life.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you didn’t smile. You just gave him one last glare—like a warning shot—and turned on your heel. Your boots squelched softly in the dirt as you headed back toward the house, leaving him blinking after you, still half-caught in the image of you in a sundress and muddy boots, tossing him that same frown thirty years from now with a ring on your finger.

Jake exhaled slowly, watching you disappear into the crowd.

Get it together, Seresin.

Dinner was coming.

And so was trouble.

The guest room was small but warm, the kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and old books, like history and a lifetime of love carved into the floorboards. Jake dropped his duffle bag by the edge of the bed, the springs creaking just a little when it hit. He paused, blinking at the sight of another bag already there—dark green canvas, fraying a little at the seams. Not his. He frowned.

Probably belonged to one of your brothers. Or a cousin. Or a friend of the family passing through. The house was full of bodies and boots and energy, after all. He didn’t think too hard about it. The need to get clean tugged at him harder than the mystery of who claimed what.

Your mother had been sweet, as always, showing him the room like he wasn’t the guy who’d broken her daughter’s heart clean in half once upon a time. She smiled kindly and said, “There’s hot water. Fresh towel’s hanging. Go clean up, darlin’. You look like you rolled through hell and back.”

And he had—in a way.

So, he peeled off his shirt first, tugging the fabric over his head and feeling the dried mud crumble like dust onto the hardwood. His boots came next, then the rest of his clothes. The bathroom mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection—sunburned shoulders, flushed cheeks, that damn stubborn smirk still ghosting across his mouth like a man who had no right.

Jake stepped into the shower and twisted the knob. Steam poured in seconds later, curling up around him like a memory.

The water hit him hot and hard, sluicing over skin and sweat, washing the afternoon off his shoulders. But the thoughts didn’t go away. If anything, the quiet made them worse.

He braced one arm against the tile, head down, water beating across the nape of his neck—and that’s when she showed up.

Not in person, no. In his damn head.

You, soaked in rain and mud, laughing in the yard as kids screamed and chased each other. You, yelling at him to clean up, but eyes flicking down his bare chest like you couldn’t help it.

You, standing under the Texas sun, defiant and glowing, fire in your glare and something soft flickering underneath. A kind of softness he remembered. A kind he used to know.

Jake exhaled, long and low, like he could breathe you out. Like the heat of the water could chase your face from his mind. But it didn’t.

It got worse.

Your voice. Your eyes. Your mouth.

His hand curled into a fist against the slick tile wall.

"Get it together, Seresin," he muttered to himself. "This ain't the time."

But God, it had been a long time. And suddenly, the idea of you sharing this room—of that duffle bag maybe being yours—hit him with the force of a jet engine.

Oh, he was screwed. And not in the way he wanted.

- You, Rogue -

The sun had started its slow descent behind the fields, casting golden rays that poured into the corners of the farmhouse like warm honey. You’d just about had enough of the noise, the chaos, the squealing of kids using your childhood bedroom like it was a damn jungle gym. Your old dresser was littered with dolls that weren’t yours, stuffed animals whose eyes stared blankly, and one suspicious-looking crayon mural on the closet door that hadn’t been there twenty years ago.

You pouted. Unapologetically.

Your father had chuckled, all gravel and warmth. “Spare guest room’s empty, sweetheart. You can crash there for now.”

You didn’t argue—just nodded, already tugging your duffel bag from beneath a pile of someone’s blanket fort. That morning, you had dropped your stuff in the guest room before helping your mom out front.

Now, covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sticky child-handprints, you pushed the door open and let it shut behind you with a soft click. It was quiet in here, cooler too, the way old farmhouses always held the chill of dusk in their bones.

You locked the door out of habit, drew the curtains, and stripped down without ceremony. Your robe was nowhere in sight—probably left in the trunk of your car—but you weren’t about to go looking. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you padded barefoot across the hardwood, steps quiet as you made your way toward the bathroom.

Then you paused.

There—on the bed. Something that definitely wasn’t yours. A second duffle bag. A wrinkled T-shirt. Socks. Boxers. Oh, for the love of—

You rolled your eyes with the weight of a thousand exasperated sighs, arms folding as you marched across the room to investigate. Maybe it was one of your cousins. Or maybe—

The bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.

And then—

“Well… well,” came a drawl, slow and rich as molasses.

You whipped around, eyes wide.

Jake Seresin stood there in nothing but a towel, drops of water tracing the carved lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, glistening like he was carved out of sin and every bad decision you ever made. His hair was damp, mussed perfectly without trying. His smirk? Lethal.

And oh—his eyes locked on you, towel-clad and stunned mid-step, and lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Would you look at that,” he said again, voice lower now. “Talk about walking into paradise.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

And the towel around your body felt suddenly very, very insufficient.

The steam curled from the bathroom like smoke from a lit match, clinging to the air with the scent of cedar soap and something sinfully masculine. You barely had time to process the fact that the mystery toiletries on the sink weren’t yours before the door swung open—and there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Dripping wet.

Shirtless.

Smug as hell.

And wrapped in a towel that was doing the bare minimum.

His broad shoulders glistened, golden from the remnants of the setting sun slipping through the curtains. Water ran in rivulets down the defined lines of his chest, cutting through the faint dusting of freckles and tan like the universe was outlining sin itself. That damn smirk curled onto his lips the second he saw you—towel wrapped tight, hair damp, standing in front of the bed like a deer caught in a thunderstorm of what the actual hell is happening.

He didn’t even flinch. No shame. No embarrassment. Just that cocky, damn-near-illegal glint in his eyes as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping off the ends of his hair, traveling down the slope of his neck and vanishing behind the cotton barrier wrapped snug on his hips.

“Well,” he drawled, voice deep and slow like whiskey on a southern summer night. “Wasn’t expecting company… but I gotta say, I’m not mad about it.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Words were there—maybe a curse, maybe a scream—but none made it out. Instead, you just stared. At him. At his bare chest. At the way his abs flexed subtly when he shifted. At the slight dip of the towel where his hipbone peeked out like a damn invitation to ruin your life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you finally hissed, clutching your towel tighter with both hands like it was a lifeline.

Jake blinked, faux-innocent. “Your mom said the spare room was free. Guess we both had the same idea.”

You were going to combust. Not from embarrassment—no, that ship had sailed the second you caught a glimpse of the way a single droplet of water trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fold of the towel—but from sheer, blinding, seething indignation.

“This is my room,” you snapped.

“Looks like it’s our room now, darlin’,” he said, cocking a brow as his gaze slipped—not rudely, but boldly—from your face down to the curve of your towel-wrapped figure. “Unless you want me to leave.”

You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.

And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to drop the towel and see if he’d still be standing there all smug.

Jake must’ve sensed that dangerous crossroads of thought because he stepped forward slightly, his voice dipping. “You gonna kick me out, sunshine? Or are you gonna admit that you missed me?”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “I didn’t miss you. I forgot you existed.”

“Oh,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes still on you like you were something sacred and forbidden. “Then why are you staring like that?”

You weren’t staring. You were not staring. Absolutely not. You were simply—

Then his towel slipped just an inch lower on his hips, and you made a noise in your throat that could only be described as a choke.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jake teased, grinning.

You snapped out of your stupor like you'd been slapped. “Put some damn clothes on.”

“Say please.”

“Jake.”

He winked, slow and lazy, then stepped back toward the bathroom door. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”

He turned—and you got a full view of his back muscles working under skin still damp from the shower. You gulped.

The door closed behind him.

And you just stood there, staring at the space he’d been in, cheeks burning, pulse racing, and towel clutched like a lifeline.

Hell.

This was going to be a long weekend.

By the time Jake exited the bathroom, the air around him was thick with the scent of soap, aftershave, and smug satisfaction. He was still towel-drying his hair, now dressed in a white t-shirt that clung too well to his chest, and a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips in a way that should’ve been outlawed in polite society. His boots were off—thank God—but that cocky, heat-soaked grin? That was very much still on.

He passed you with a small nod and a whistle-soft, “Don’t take too long now. Dinner’s soon, birthday girl,” before tossing his damp towel onto a nearby chair like he owned the damn place.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because the second the door clicked shut behind him, you lunged into the bathroom like it was your last salvation.

The moment the door locked behind you, your back hit the wall, and your towel nearly slipped with the force of your breath. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a five-mile sprint—not walked in on a man you allegedly forgot you were in love with. The steam in the room hadn’t dissipated yet, and it wrapped around your skin like a memory, thick and too damn hot.

You blinked.

His soap still clung to the air. His scent still lingered in the steam.

You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Why the hell was Jake Seresin always ten times hotter when you were actively trying not to think about him? Why did he have to look at you like that? Talk to you like he had all the time in the world and nothing to lose? Stand there like a walking sin with a towel hanging so low on his hips you were pretty sure your ancestors felt that down their spines?

You were burning up.

Not just from the heat in the room, but from the fire crawling up your neck and down your spine like molten sugar and hellfire. That man had the audacity to exist like that—just exist—with a smirk and soft drawl and biceps that looked like they could throw you over a fence.

And you let him.

You watched him.

You remembered every drop of water sliding down his chest, every twitch of that cocky little smirk, every brush of his voice when he said your name like he’d never forgotten it.

God, you needed a cold shower inside a blizzard under a glacier.

Instead, you groaned and stepped under the still-warm spray of water he’d left behind, muttering curses to yourself as if that would rinse the images of him out of your head.

They didn’t. They only got worse. Because now you could see him there, in this space—his footprints still on the mat, his breath still clinging to the mirror. And your knees might’ve wobbled just a little as you gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to yourself—

“Get a grip.” But you didn’t believe it. Not even a little.

You were finally clean. The kind of clean that only came after scrubbing off not just mud but the weight of the entire day — your skin warm from the water, your hair damp and curling against the nape of your neck, steam fogging up the mirror like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. You’d taken your time, hoping the silence might scrub away the image of Jake Seresin standing shirtless in the same damn bathroom just minutes ago. It didn’t work.

Wrapped snugly in a towel, you turned toward the door, ready to put an end to this spiral — only to realize something crucial. Your clothes. Your actual, decent, non-humiliating clothes? Still in your duffel bag. Which, naturally, was not in the bathroom. No. It was on the bed. Out there. With Jake.

Your stomach dropped. Your face flushed instantly with heat that had nothing to do with the shower. You stared at the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed you.

You considered your options. You could march out, wrapped in nothing but your towel, and grab the bag yourself — risk walking past the man who’d already seen far too much. Or, you could bite the bullet. Ask for help. Humble yourself.

Groaning under your breath, you cracked the door just slightly and peeked through the gap. Jake’s voice drifted through before you could even speak — humming off-key to some old country song like he was just a man enjoying his own company and not the reason you were considering climbing out the bathroom window.

You exhaled sharply and said his name. “Jake?”

The humming cut off, replaced by a beat of silence. You could hear the shift of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards as he turned toward the door. Then, far too amused for your liking, he answered, “Well, well. Sunshine. Miss me already?”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “I need my duffel.”

Another beat. You knew exactly what kind of grin was spreading across his face. The smug one. The one that belonged to a man who had never once let you live anything down.

“You mean the one out here? With your clothes in it?” he asked, faux-innocent.

You closed your eyes. “Yes, Jake. That one.”

A low chuckle rolled from his chest, and you heard him moving, footsteps heading toward the bed. “I got you,” he said. “Only because it’s your birthday. And because I’m a gentleman.”

You didn’t grace that with a reply. Just pushed your arm through the crack in the door, fingers wiggling impatiently. The second the canvas of the duffel hit your palm, you yanked it through — but of course, Jake couldn’t help himself.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve dreamed about this moment before.”

You were already turning away when he added, just loud enough to reach you, “Didn’t say it was a dirty dream.”

The door shut on his smirk, and you leaned your forehead against the cool tile, clutching the duffel bag like it was a shield. Your pulse was still hammering. Your ears were red. You hadn’t even changed yet and already you felt half undone.

Inside the steam and silence, you whispered to yourself, “You are not losing your mind. You are not attracted to him again. You’re just... hot. It’s just the weather.”

But even as you unzipped your bag, you couldn’t deny the truth.

Jake Seresin, the human migraine, was getting under your skin again. And he hadn’t even really started yet.

The backyard had been completely transformed. String lights were strung between trees and porch posts, glowing amber for the deepening blue of a Texas evening later. Long tables had been set with checkered cloths and mismatched plates, pitchers of iced tea and lemonade sweating on every surface. The smell of grilled meat lingered heavy in the air, tangled with the warm, comforting scent of sun-warmed grass and citronella candles. Laughter echoed like a hymn — soft and constant, as if the whole world had taken a breath and decided to stay right here.

You stepped into it dressed and clean, your hair still damp, pulled back in a quick braid that clung to the back of your neck. You had slipped into a loose cotton dress that your mother had left on your childhood bed, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone softer than what the Navy hardened.

Your boots hit the porch step with a solid thud. Then you scanned the crowd — cousins shouting over a cornhole match, your uncles gathered around a cooler, your aunts near the grill gossiping like it was religion. And right there in the thick of it, beer in hand and talking to your brother like he’d belonged all his life, was Jake.

He looked up like he felt you before he saw you. His eyes met yours across the backyard, and for a moment, the noise faded out. He was wearing a clean white t-shirt now, sleeves rolled up, jeans low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower — the cocky bastard looked every inch like the boy you used to curse under your breath and secretly stare at. But this wasn’t some reckless flyboy anymore. This was a man, and that was somehow worse.

You tried to act unaffected, crossing the yard with your chin high and spine stiff. But the way Jake stood up when you got closer — the way he pulled out the chair beside him, grinning just slightly — you knew he was going to get under your skin again. He always did.

“Birthday girl,” he greeted as you dropped into the seat, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

The plate in front of you was empty for two seconds before Jake reached for it and started piling on food like muscle memory. Ribs, your aunt’s corn pudding, slices of brisket, and a scoop of the macaroni your cousin swore she made from scratch but absolutely did not.

“This much brisket?” he asked, shooting you a look.

“You’re lucky I don’t shove it down your throat.”

Jake grinned like you’d just told him a love poem. “Threatening violence on your birthday. Classic you.”

“You want me to add the fork in your eye to my wish list?”

“I missed you,” he said under his breath, and that? That almost made you drop your glass. Almost.

The table was loud — too loud, and the warmth in your chest too unfamiliar. Jake passed you the cornbread without asking, refilled your lemonade like he had every right to. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed close, smiling whenever you spoke, listening when you didn’t.

Then came the moment you’d been dreading.

“Happy birthday to you…”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand as your family sang with full volume and zero tune. Jake leaned in close, voice low beside your ear.

“No use hiding, sunshine. Take it like a pilot.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he just laughed. He never even looked at the cake — his eyes stayed on you the whole time, like you were the flame, not the candles.

When it was time to blow them out, he leaned in again. “Make a wish.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I already got what I wanted.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah? Me?”

“Silence,” you deadpanned, then took a bite of cake like you didn’t notice the way his smile turned into something tender.

Your mother raised a toast. Your father gave a speech. The table clinked glasses and passed plates, and through it all, Jake didn’t move from your side. And you let him stay.

Dinner had long wrapped, but the yard still buzzed with life. Lanterns swung lazily from the trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the evening. Kids shrieked and laughed as they ran barefoot across the grass, dodging sprinklers and slipping in the mud.

Adults lingered in clumps around the grills and tables, voices lowered now, soothed by full bellies and the sweetness of homemade pie. It was the kind of night that made time feel like it bent a little — like it curved inward and held everything close.

You were about to help clean up when a familiar sound cut through the hum of conversation. A wheeze. A low huff. Nails on the wooden porch.

You froze.

And then you saw him.

“Bingo?” you breathed out, like the word alone might summon him closer.

The old Labrador came hobbling down the porch steps, slower than he used to be, his once-golden fur now dulled to a soft cream shot through with gray. His tail swayed, not wagging as wildly as it had when he was younger, but still moving, still trying. Still happy.

You dropped down into the grass without a second thought, your dress catching on a twig, your hands reaching out. “Hey, old man,” you whispered, cradling his tired face. “You still remember me?”

Bingo leaned into your hands and licked your cheek, huffing softly against your skin. You laughed, even as your throat tightened, and blinked against the burn behind your eyes.

And then, like gravity — like clockwork — Jake was there. He moved into the scene like he belonged, crouching down beside you, boots sinking into the earth. His gaze softened at the sight of the dog.

“Damn,” he murmured, running his hand down Bingo’s back with a tenderness you hadn’t seen in years. “Still kickin’.”

“He’s a tough one,” you replied, not looking at him.

“I always knew he’d outlive all of us,” he said with a lopsided grin, still looking at the dog. “Still got better instincts than half the squadron.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Bingo huffed again, content to lean his weight against both of you — like he didn’t care about time, or history, or everything unspoken hovering between the two people he loved most.

Then your mother’s voice called out from the porch, light and warm, “Hey! Let’s get a picture. Come on — just like the one from before!”

You looked up, heart sinking just a little.

Before.

Before everything.

Still, you didn’t argue. Not when your dad had already joined your mom on the steps, waving you both over. Not when Bingo began trotting that way with all the shaky dignity he could muster.

You stood and followed, wiping your hands on your dress. Jake moved beside you, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel.

On the porch, the photographer — your cousin Ellie — arranged you quickly. “Okay,” she chirped, “just like before! You and Jake in the middle. Bingo between you. Your parents on either side.”

You and Jake took your places, shoulders brushing. You both knelt again. Bingo plopped his butt between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake glanced at you, his arm settling gently behind Bingo’s back. “Ready?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just smile, Seresin.”

The camera clicked. And there it was. A snapshot.

You in your old boots and a sundress, Jake in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hands muddy and hair a mess. Your parents standing tall and proud on either side. And Bingo, the last link to who you used to be, smack in the middle.

You felt something lodge in your throat when you stood. Something small, sharp, and unspoken. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Jake’s hand brushed yours when he stood beside you. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t reach back, either.

The swing creaked as you sat down, the familiar groan of old wood and rusted chains filling the quiet air like a memory. The sun had dipped lower now, slanting gold across the horizon, painting shadows long and low across the fields you once called home.

You swayed gently, toes brushing the dust-soft ground, fingers curled loosely around the chain links. The cool breeze carried the scent of cut grass, barbecue smoke, and rain that had never quite come.

And then you heard footsteps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just… there. Steady, familiar. And you didn’t have to look to know.

You kept your eyes on the sky, the pale orange bleeding into pink. “If you’re here to bother me again,” you said, voice calm, cool, unreadable, “I swear to God, Seresin—”

“I’m not here to bother you.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for Jake Seresin, and that alone made your hands tighten around the swing’s chain. “I just… saw you come out here. Thought maybe—” He paused. “Thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”

You snorted. “You thought wrong.”

He didn’t answer. You heard the rustle of grass as he walked around, and then he was in your peripheral vision, hands in his back pockets, boots scuffing the dirt like he was twelve years old and about to confess to breaking a window.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t sit.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said finally, voice low. “To today. To any of this.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I know.” A pause. “Your mom did.”

You closed your eyes briefly, jaw clenching. “Of course she did.”

He shifted again, then leaned against the old post of the swing set. You could feel his gaze, hot and heavy, but still you didn’t turn.

“I meant what I said. Back there, in the office.” His voice was quieter now, steadier somehow. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” you asked, tone sharp like a snap of wire. “You weren’t lying now, but you were lying then. You lied to me, Jake. You used me.”

“I was a kid,” he murmured.

“So was I,” you snapped, finally looking at him. The anger rose like a tide, quick and bright. “But I didn’t turn someone’s heart into a party trick.”

Jake didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, solemn and still. “You left.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said you left.” His jaw worked. “You didn’t just walk out of my life, you disappeared from the damn map. No calls. No message. Nothing. I turned around and you were just… gone.”

Your chest tightened. “I left because I had to. Because staying meant looking at the version of myself I became around you—small, pathetic, invisible.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” you said, standing now, fury crackling beneath your skin. “You stood there while they laughed. While I was trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone. And when I gave you everything I had—my time, my loyalty, my belief—you threw it back like it was nothing.”

Jake’s voice came out quieter. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

You laughed, cold and bitter. “You think this is about a grade? About a project? You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth seeing, Jake. Like maybe I wasn’t just the weird, quiet girl who loved jets and read manuals for fun. And then, when it mattered… you made me feel like I was a joke.”

Silence stretched between you. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting strands of hair across your cheek. Jake’s face was pale in the soft light, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what the hell to say.

Finally, he stepped forward. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not asking for that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe just… to not be a ghost in your story anymore.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t the boy you remembered—too smug, too handsome for his own good, too damn reckless with hearts that weren’t his. This man in front of you was older, weathered in ways you hadn’t expected. He wore guilt like a second skin, pride chipped away beneath a uniform and call signs and medals that didn’t erase the kid who once broke you.

But still.

It wasn’t enough.

“You’re not a ghost,” you said finally, voice soft but cold. “You’re the bruise that never fully faded.”

And with that, you turned back to the swing, sitting down again with a sigh. The air felt heavier now, but somehow clearer too. Jake didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, watching the woman he once thought he could forget.

Meanwhile, the cicadas began their slow chorus. The stars blinked into being, one by one. And neither of you moved.

Jake exhaled. It was shaky, like it had been trapped in his chest for years. Then, quietly: “I know I don’t deserve to ask anything from you.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, but you said nothing.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. You didn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just still.

“But I’m going to say it anyway,” Jake murmured. “Because I’m tired of letting the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I was too proud or too scared to admit I screwed up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. But it cracked on the next breath.

“I used to think you were a detour,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “Just a stop along the way. A girl who knew too much about engines and didn’t laugh at the right jokes. But you… God, you were everything. I just didn’t know it yet.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted in disbelief.

“You were fire wrapped in softness. You were brilliant, and kind, and so damn loyal it scared me. And I—” his voice broke, and he looked away for the first time, dragging a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together.

Then he looked back. And his eyes… they were wet.

“I was the fool. Not you. I was the coward who needed everyone to think he was cool, even if it meant throwing away the one person who actually saw me. Really saw me. And I hurt you. I used you. I mocked what you gave me like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than anything.”

His throat bobbed, his voice raw and cracking as he stepped even closer, as if the distance between you was burning him alive.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “You don’t even have to look at me again. But I needed you to know... I love you. I never stopped.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, the words hitting like a punch to the chest.

Jake’s shoulders shook now. He tried to breathe, but it came out a choke. He covered his mouth with his hand, tried to blink it back, but the tears were already falling—silent, slow, like the kind that don’t beg for pity. Just truth.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you since the day you handed me that stupid project and told me not to fail. I just didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you.”

You stood slowly, eyes locked on his. He was crying, nose pink, jaw trembling—Jake Seresin, who never flinched in dogfights, who never let anyone see the cracks.

And now, all of him was cracked wide open. Just for you.

Your voice was quiet at first. Almost too quiet to hear above the creak of the swing swaying slightly behind you. But Jake heard it—heard you—and the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to keep control, tried to keep steel where there was only the slow-melting ache of grief.

“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And God, I tried. For years. I told myself you didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter how you looked at me like I was worth nothing in front of your friends. That it didn’t matter how you let them laugh, let them joke about the quiet girl who knew too much and felt too much.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself you didn’t mean it. That maybe you were just young. Stupid. Caught in the wrong moment.”

Jake stood frozen, barely breathing, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. Because you were.

“And now?” you continued, voice breaking at the edges. “Now you show up like this. With words I waited for years to hear. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you—God, Jake, part of me wants to. But I’m terrified.” Your voice cracked completely now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for this. “Because if I forgive you… if I let myself fall for you again, and you leave—if you break me again—I won’t come back from that.”

Jake’s face crumpled. All of his armor, the cocky smirks, the playboy confidence, the golden-boy glow—shattered. He stepped closer, slowly, then dropped to his knees right there in front of you, in the dirt, like none of it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not if he couldn’t reach you.

“I won’t leave,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I won’t hurt you again. I swear to you, I swear on everything I’ve got left—I will never, ever let you feel like you’re not enough. Not again.”

His hands were on your waist, trembling, grounding him. His forehead lowered against your stomach, and you felt his body shaking—not with cold or nerves but with something deeper. Something broken and rebuilt, still raw at the edges.

“I love you,” he said again, almost pleading now. “And I know that word isn’t enough. I know I’ve got a hell of a mountain to climb to prove it. But I’ll do it. I’ll prove it every damn day for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ll give you every flower, every sunrise, every second chance you thought you’d never get.”

He looked up at you, eyes wet, voice soft but sure. “I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not running. Not from you. Not from us. I will never leave you behind again.”

And as you looked down at him—at Jake Seresin, on his knees, shaking in your arms, eyes wide and begging like prayers—you realized he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness.

He was asking for forever.

You stared at him, at the man kneeling in the dirt like he wasn’t born of sky and pride but forged from something heartbreakingly human. Jake Seresin—your first betrayal, your oldest wound, your almost. His hands were still on your waist like a tether, like if he let go, he’d float off and lose you again.

And God, your chest ached with it—with the heat of his words, the trembling in his shoulders, the way his eyes never once strayed from yours. You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse into his arms and never let go.

Instead, you knelt in front of him.

It startled him—his breath caught, his eyes widened like he didn’t expect you to meet him on his knees. But you did. Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden move might break you both again.

“I used to imagine what this would look like,” you said, your voice rough, lips trembling with the effort it took to speak. “You, apologizing. Me, finally getting to ask why.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, not finished.

“I used to think if I ever saw you again, I’d slap you. Or worse. And maybe I should’ve.” You laughed wetly, bitter and exhausted. “But then you looked at me. Not the way you used to—God, not like that—but like I was real again. Like I wasn’t just something you stepped over to get where you wanted.”

Jake’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was still crying—quietly now. Steady. Like it wasn’t a thing he could stop, just a thing he carried.

You reached up, thumb grazing his cheek, brushing a tear away. “You were my first heartbreak, Jake. And maybe that means I’ll always flinch when you get too close. Maybe I’ll always wonder if I’m just a placeholder again.”

Jake gripped your wrist gently, turning into your palm like it was the only lifeline he had.

“But maybe,” you whispered, “I want to find out.”

His breath hitched. “You do?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice cracking with a laugh, with something like fragile hope. “I’m still scared. But if you’re willing to do the work… if you’re really in this, Jake—then yeah.”

His mouth was trembling now, his shoulders shaking harder. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t want pretty speeches,” you warned, even as you leaned closer, forehead pressed to his. “I want the truth. I want actions. I want the man you are now—not the boy who broke me.”

He nodded, over and over like he couldn’t believe you were saying this, like he needed to etch the words into his heart before they disappeared. “I’ll be him. For you, I’ll be him.”

Then, finally—finally—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. And Jake folded into you like he’d been waiting years just to breathe again.

A quiet, shared exhale against the tender press of foreheads—him on his knees, you holding him like he might fall apart if you let go. And maybe you would too. You could still taste the ache between you. Years of silence, of what-ifs and almosts and never-agains. But in that moment, wrapped in the soft amber of dusk and the hush of the farm behind you, there was only one truth left.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, not entirely. It was hesitant, then desperate, then sure. The kind of kiss that tasted of memories and apologies, of pain soothed and promises rewritten. His hands cradled your face like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. And you held him like he was no longer the boy who hurt you, but the man who swore he never would again.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. You looked at him—really looked—and there it was: the wonder in his eyes, the salt of old regrets on his lips, the trembling hope in his touch.

“You’re crying,” you whispered.

“I’ve been crying since I saw you in that swing,” he murmured, grinning through it now. “You kissed me.”

“You begged,” you shot back with a smirk, cheeks burning.

Jake laughed, forehead against yours again. “Damn right I did.”

And somewhere behind you, the sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses carried from the house. But in the quiet between heartbeats, it was just the two of you. No call signs. No ghosts. No armor.

Just the girl who ran wild in the fields and the boy who didn’t know what he had until she left.

Funny, really.

Once, you’d been the fool for loving him. The quiet one. The invisible one. The girl no one expected to rise.

And he—he’d been the golden boy.

But life has a wicked sense of humor.

Because now, as he knelt there beneath the stars, still trembling from the kiss you gave him, there was no mistaking it:

The golden boy had become the fool.

And he’d never been happier to be one.

#jake seresin #jake “hangman” seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #glen powell x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #pete maverick mitchell #top gun fandom #bob floyd #top gun maverick #avengxrz #glen powell

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