#and adding the blur after the fact

[licca-archive]

here she is. the ruby choco herself...

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot. 

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away. 

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away. 

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds. 

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone. 

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates. 

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming. 

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up. 

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?” 

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had. 

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid. 

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together. 

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.” 

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage. 

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change. 

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door. 

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?” 

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face. 

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all. 

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?” 

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction. 

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression. 

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. 

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again. 

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts. 

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize. 

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door. 

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place. 

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void. 

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.” 

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[myrleius]

love letter — iwaizumi h.

iwaizumi h. X shy fem!reader│word count: 1.9k

synopsis: You’ve had a crush on Iwaizumi for a while now and finally decided to confess through a letter. But to your surprise, he rejects it.

cw/tags: pure fluff, misunderstandings, light angst (resolved quickly)

Today was the day. 

The mirror reflected a face that wasn’t sure whether to look determined or terrified. You adjusted the collar of your uniform for the third time, smoothing its nonexistent wrinkles, then clipped a small, colorful hair clip into your hair–a small attempt at looking cute.

You sighed and stepped back, moving around to check your overall appearance. It wasn’t bad but it looked like your usual ordinary self. You were never one to obsess over your looks, looking clean and simple was usually enough. But the thought of meeting him, of him knowing who you are, made you want to put in a bit more effort. Alas, Seijoh had a strict dress code so you didn’t have much room for experimentation anyway.

Your bag caught your eye sitting on your desk. Inside, the letter waited. You had checked a million times, both night and morning, making sure it hadn’t somehow disappeared. Maybe you hoped it had so you wouldn't have to go through this. 

But no. There was no turning back now. 

You’ve thought about this for months, prepared for it for weeks. You didn’t want to throw away your efforts, and you definitely didn’t want to regret not saying anything like you’ve done with your past crushes. With a determined huff, you grabbed your bag and headed out before you could second guess yourself further.

Classes passed in a blur, your mind too busy daydreaming to focus. You rehearsed the plan in your head over and over, making sure you knew exactly what to say and what to do when you approached him. It wasn't until lunchtime that the nerves started crawling into your skin. What if this was a mistake? What if you weren’t ready? What if you messed up?

Truthfully, it wasn't about his reply (though that's a big deal too)—you were more afraid of how he’d see you after this. 

The two of you only met once at the cultural festival. You had wandered into a classroom hosting a raffle draw, unaware that claiming the prize required completing a dare. By the time you had realized it, it was too late. Your name was called and the attendant asked you to do a cute idol pose. It was simple but it didn’t mortify you any less.

You hesitated, feeling your palms grow clammy and your heart pounding against your ribs. The murmurs of the students behind you heightened into a roar of complaints in your ears, and it made you want to run off and just disappea–

“You’re overthinking it. Just go for it.”

A voice murmured behind you, steady and matter-of-fact. You turned and met the gaze of the guy next in line, his expression unreadable.

“No one’s going to remember in five minutes,” he added, hands in his pockets. “They’re too busy worrying about their own dares.”

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was grounding. He spoke like it was simple, like this wasn’t something worth spiraling over. And somehow, that made it easier.

You did the pose—quick and awkward, but done. And the moment passed yet the world didn’t end. When you turned to sneak a glance at him, he wasn’t even looking anymore. That small exchange lingered in your mind long after. It wasn’t the fact that Iwaizumi had helped, it was the way he had done it that impacted you the most. No coddling, no teasing, just quiet confidence in you, like you were already capable.

And now, standing outside his classroom with your love letter behind your back, you at least wanted to leave a good impression on him as he had on you, even if he does reject your affections in the end.

Taking a deep breath, you slide the door open just enough to peek inside. A student near the door glanced at you, his brow raised in curiosity.

“Um, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Iwaizumi-san?” you asked, shifting nervously on your feet.

The student nodded, looking around before his eyes fell on the volleyball player in the corner. “Oi, Iwaizumi!” he called and jerked his head over to you. “Someone's looking for you.”

Iwaizumi's head snapped up. The moment your eyes met, your breath hitched. He stood and walked towards you, his footsteps syncing with the pounding of your heartbeat.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone serious and stoic as ever.

You didn't answer at first, too dazed with the fact that this was really happening. Your friends had never understood why you were so smitten with Iwaizumi (even after telling them the story of how you two first met) especially when Oikawa, the team’s captain, drew all the attention. Iwaizumi wasn’t flashy or outgoing, but that was exactly what you admired about him. There was a quiet yet solid confidence in the way he carried himself, and to you, that was way more captivating.

“Uh, yeah, hi. Can I talk to you?” you managed to say once you’ve regained your composure, gaze shifting to his classmates. “Alone... if that's okay?”

Iwaizumi stared at you, his expression hard to read, before nodding. You nodded back, somehow finding comfort in mimicking his action, and began to lead him to a more secluded spot behind the school building.

Once you were sure no one else was around, you turned to face him. Little pins prick at your cheeks, a sure sign that you were already blushing furiously. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. Shutting your eyes, you held the letter out toward him.��

“I-I, uh, the reason I…” you fumbled, the script you rehearsed in your head drawing blank and you start to feel the panic set in. “Can... Can you take this for me!?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew you had messed up. That wasn’t how you had planned to say it at all. Your heart pounded as embarrassment washed over you. Was that too abrupt? Too demanding? Oh god, what if he thought you were rude? 

“Sorry! Oh gosh, I didn't mean it like that!” you blurted out, frantically waving your hands. “Wait. Let me start over—”

“No.”

You froze. The word had hit you harder than it should have. “I... What?”

“I won't take it,” Iwaizumi repeated, more stern this time.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers curling slightly at the letter that was supposed to be in his hands now. 

“But why…?” you asked, your voice coming out more quieter than you intended. You knew he didn't owe you an explanation, but asking was the only thing keeping your composure from cracking entirely.

Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm not trying to be mean but you should really do this by yourself. You won't raise your chances at getting with him through me. Trust me, that jerk would be way happier receiving that love letter from you directly. Would probably inflate his already shitty ego too.”

“... What?” you asked, blinking in confusion. 

“What?” Iwaizumi asked back, just as confused.

“What do you mean by ‘giving it to him’?” Your brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Oikawa?” He said it like it was obvious. “Weren't you talking about him?”

“Oika—Of course not!” you said quickly. “I was talking about you!”

The words hung in the air, its impact resonating.

Iwaizumi's eyes widened, a blush creeping up his cheeks. You were just about to think it was cute when your mind screeched to a halt. 

Oh.

You confessed to him. 

It was roundabout, super awkward, and completely unintentional, but it was still a confession.

Your heart stuttered in horror.

“I, uh…” Iwaizumi trailed off, visibly struggling to respond. “Sorry for assuming? Most girls usually talk to me for... that.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t expected that. You knew he wasn’t as popular as Oikawa, but somehow, the idea of Iwaizumi being overlooked made your chest tighten. “It's okay. I... kinda didn't say it clearly so I understand why you misunderstood. Sorry.”

“No! It's my fault for jumping to conclusions,” he said quickly, stepping forward as if to further insist his point–only to freeze when he realized how close he got, a deep red spreading up to his cheeks. “I-I should've heard you out more properly.”

“No, it's not your fault, Iwaizumi-san.”

“It's not yours either, er…”

“Yn,” you supplied, realizing with a quiet chuckle that you hadn't even introduced yourself.

“Yn,” he repeated and you nearly forgot how to breathe. There was something about the way he said your name that made you like it ten times more.

“It's really not your fault,” he added firmly.

“Can we just say that we're both at fault?” you offered with a hesitant smile. “Because I don't think I can blame you entirely. Or at all.”

For a second, you were worried the tension would linger, but then–

Iwaizumi laughed.

It was short and awkward, maybe sounding more of a soft snort than a laugh? Still, you found yourself drawn to it. Like it's the best thing you've heard.

Feeling a bit braver, you offered the letter toward him again, wincing slightly as you realized it was a little crumpled from how tightly you’d been holding it. “So… are you okay with taking this?”

Iwaizumi eyed the letter, his gaze lingering on the small doodles you decorated at the edges. You suddenly felt embarrassed. Was it too childish? Maybe too much?

"Y-You don't have to give me a reply now,” you added quickly. “I know it's sudden, and I don't really think I did the best job at putting my feelings out there, but I'd appreciate it if you answer me honestly after thinking about it. Even if just a little.”

Iwaizumi was quiet for a moment. Then, he smiled.

“Sure,” he said, finally taking the letter off your hands. “I'll tell you when I've made up my mind.”

You felt your shoulders sag in relief and you returned his smile with one of your own. “Thank you.”

That night, Iwaizumi sat at his desk for hours, staring at the letter. He'd read it four times already, to the point where he could anticipate the next compliment, his eyes tracing her neat handwriting once more.

It was his first time receiving something like this. He couldn't really call it a 'love letter' per se. He'd seen those before–notes littered with flowery and gushing phrases–when Oikawa received some from his fangirls. Yn’s letter wasn’t like that. It was more like a letter that said she saw him.

Sure, it was also filled with praises that inflated his ego more than they should, but the way she worded it felt more like respect rather than infatuation. It was weird. He never saw himself like she did. To him, he was just doing things normally. 

But as he read through her words, a realization settled in–maybe he really was someone worth admiring. 

To know that his kindness, passion and earnestness reached someone he hadn’t even known existed until today filled him with a quiet, humbling warmth. It was proof that even the smallest gestures could ripple through the lives of others.

He sighed and folded the letter neatly back into its envelope, the smile on his face still lingering even after hours had passed. Now, he understood why Oikawa liked the attention. It was both amazing and terrifying how a few words from someone could make him feel invincible.

Iwaizumi leaned back in his chair, glancing at the letter one last time before tucking it safely into his drawer. He wasn't sure what answer to give yn yet. They've only just met after all. 

But he was sure of one thing.

He would carry her words with him, knowing that who he was, as he is, mattered to someone.

[stunie]

“DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOU, I SWEAR!”

WIND BREAKER BOYS + ACCIDENTALLY HURTING YOU. ft. hayato suo, kaji ren, nirei akihiko, sakura haruka, togame jo, & umemiya hajime x f!reader.

filled request: “Hi there i want to request something, asking Sakura, Ume, Nirei, Kaji and Suo to play fight and they accidentally hit you hard (If it's to many you can just do Suo and Kaji, no pressureeee)”

sfw. 3.2K wc. a/n: added togame! & tried to make suo & kaji’s xtra long since those 2 look like they might be ur faves <33

HAYATO SUO.

in the time you’ve spent dating suo, you have never once managed to successfully sneak up on him. not even remotely close. it’s impossible to the point that you’ve started to consider the fact that your boyfriend may have developed a sort of sixth sense since meeting you, an intuitive awareness of your presence— because as soon as you step within a three foot radius of him, his head is swiftly turning to face you, greeting you with an amused smile and a “this again?” with that tone that has your eyebrow twitching all over again.

you continue to fiddle with the bottom of your shirt from where you’re hidden behind your apartment door, anxiously awaiting for the moment suo emerges from outside. your plan was nothing short of perfect, every little detail thought out— and you were entirely sure of it this time.

you had given suo a copy of your key ages ago, so that he could come in at anytime without you needing to be there. a second check of your phone’s messages has you mentally preparing yourself when you reread his “i’m coming~” text from exactly twenty minutes ago, and you smile to yourself. asking him to come by and babysit your cat while you went on a quick snack restock errand was the best excuse, and a part of you feels a little guilty for formulating such an intricate plan just to get a scare out of your boyfriend— but it had to be done.

the sound of suo’s key wiggles inside the doorknob, your breath hitching in your throat when you hear the lock switch just a few seconds after, followed by the eerie creaking noise that your door always seems to make.

“i’m here,” suo sings out to no one in particular, his usual smile etched onto his face as he takes a peek inside. dark, and empty. nothing unusual, not that he was expecting anything out of the ordinary in the first place.

as soon as he takes a step inside, he’s going to take off his shoes first, and you jump on the opportunity. you’re quick to lunge at him the second his thumb slips in his shoe, aiming to launch yourself into his middle and crush him in a suffocating hug. you don’t miss the way he tenses for a split second, eyes widening at the sudden movement— mind immediately flashing to his first thought…. an intruder?

he doesn’t recognize you at first, your figure reduced to a blur— and all he knows is that something is headed towards him. and fast. he’s moving on pure instinct, arm reaching for the closest thing to him at that moment: your arm.

you gasp when you realize just how agile your boyfriend really is. the truth is— you’ve never seen him fight, and he doesn’t really talk to you about it. he has a habit of leaving all the details out, and you don’t usually find yourself asking him about it after seeing the way he’s always coming out of fights unscathed. so sure. you knew he was probably pretty strong.

but you had no idea he was like this.

“w-wait!” you yelp when his foot comes to loop around your ankle, and you’re suddenly falling backwards. your hand desperately moves to catch onto something— anything to avoid falling onto the floor, so you grab a fistful of suo’s shirt.

he’s clenching his jaw in shock when you roughly yank him down with you, the familiar sound of your voice registering a second too late, because the two of you are crashing onto the ground a second later, suo’s weight knocking the wind out of your chest.

there’s a moment of silence as the two of you wince, your eyes fluttering open to meet with suo, looming over you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before. genuine concern … and what looks to be .. shock?

it takes you another moment to take note of the subtle warmth you’re feeling until you finally recognize it as suo’s hand that’s currently cradling the back of your head— and you’re at a loss as to exactly when or how he managed to do that in only a split second.

“i’m sorry,” suo chuckles sheepishly, “you got me this time. i really thought you were an intruder.”

“but did you hit your head? hard? are you okay?” he continues, other arm coming to pull you up and hold you against his chest. “tell me.”

“i think so,” you’re barely able to mumble, heat rushing to your cheeks at the realization that suo’s first thought wasn’t to cushion his own fall, but to protect your head instead. “not that hard though… i think. it doesn’t hurt very much.”

suo’s gaze on you is suddenly much more noticeable, and you’re tearing your eyes away from him a second later, sneaking glances back and forth as he continues to search for any signs of pain.

none that he notices, and the way your lips are pressed in a nervous line is a good sign, at least. suo lets out a relieved sigh before he’s smiling again, as if you hadn’t just spooked the sealed spirits out of him.

“let’s not do that again, okay?”

KAJI REN.

you’ve never seen the night market this packed in your entire life.

it’s so busy that it’s almost suffocating, each breath taking double the effort from the way your body is being smothered between people as kaji leads you towards the food stands.

‘the best fried octopus you’ll ever try,’ your friend had said…but you’re seriously reevaluating you and kaji’s decision to come here— on the busiest night all summer to top it off.

it definitely wasn’t the best idea the two of you have come up with.

you’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve said the words “excuse me!” and “sorry, getting through!” tonight. a part of you feels bad for your boyfriend— because you knew kaji was way worse off than you, the scowl on his face running the risk of being permanently etched onto his face from the sheer intensity of his glare. the grip he has on your wrist is tighter than ever before, trying his best to weave his way through the crowd without losing you.

kaji knows his mood is worsening each time someone bumps into him, and twice— or even three times as much when he feels someone bumping into you instead. he can feel the way your body roughly jerks back from the impact, and it was stressing him out more than he could imagine. the possibility of losing you and leaving you all alone in an aggressive crowd like this was the last thing he wanted.

he’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear you call out his name the first time, or the second time. not even the third time. he doesn’t hear your voice trail off a bit when you mention that his grip is starting to hurt a little— to maybe hold hands instead.

he didn’t hear any of it.

kaji catches a glimpse of an emptier area, and he’s suddenly pulling harder at your wrist to lead you to it, not hearing you squeak out an “ouch, that hurts!”

and it hurts badly, warm tears welling up in your eyes as you struggle to try and keep up with him. it’s only when he suddenly jerks you around a corner that you’re tripping over the curb, stumbling and crashing into his back with a loud ‘ouch!’ that he finally turns to take a look at you.

kaji’s eyes are widening at the sight— your teary eyes peering up at him through wet lashes and your hand gingerly rubbing at your wrist. his words catch in his throat, barely able to sputter out an “are you.. okay?”

you shake your head quickly, lips tugging to a shaky frown. “you were hurting my wrist, kaji.”

his chest feels tight.

kaji is quick to bring your hand in his, gently cupping your hand as he looks at your wrist, and the guilt is flooding through him all at once. the thought of hurting you has him grimacing, feeling physically ill just thinking about it, and it’s not long before his mind is racing through all the scenarios.

he didn’t want to hurt you— and he doesn’t want to be someone you saw as ‘dangerous’ either. your wrist was so delicate, and it was a terrifying reminder of his strength— because he didn’t even realize that he was squeezing in the first place.

he truly had no idea.

“it’s okay,” your voice slices through the thick air, ripping him out of his thoughts, “i know you were stressed— it was scary over there.”

“i was scared too, kaji.”

the gentle smile you give him is the only thing that can bring him this much comfort, he thinks. it’s enough to clear his head, his heartbeat settling down, and he’s ripping another lollipop open before popping it in his mouth, turning and kneeling onto the floor.

“you can get on.”

even without his words, it’s a gesture you’re very familiar with— so you don’t hesitate for a second before climbing onto his back, arms circling around kaji as he lifts you up. there’s a subtle pink dusting the tips of his ears when you press a gentle kiss to his head, thanking him for carrying you.

“it’s not a problem,” he grumbles, voice coming out low as a futile attempt to hide the excited thump of his heart.

“get comfy up there, because we’re not leaving this damn market until we get a hold of that octopus.”

NIREI AKIHIKO.

nirei swears that he had no idea that the pillow he had just thrown towards you a moment ago had buttons decorating the outside.

he really didn’t know, and of course it was the only pillow that happened to land right on your face.

“i’m so sorry! are you okay?” his voice comes out frantic as he rushes towards you, terrified eyes watching the way you rub your eye and groan in pain. this was terrible, he was terrible. pillows were never supposed to cause you any pain.

“it…it hit your eye? i’m so sorry,” he repeats, hands coming up to do something— wave around you in panic, because he’s not quite sure if he should touch you or leave you be. his hands hover just in front of your face, mind racing with potential ways he could help.

he jolts when you laugh a bit.

“you really picked the worst pillow,” your laugh comes out strained as you try and blink, vision spotted with dots from the hit you’ve taken. “…it’s okay though.”

it takes you a couple more seconds to see nirei clearly, and you can tell that he’s absolutely devastated with just one glance, nervous hands finally coming to grab at your shoulders, keeping you still so he can inspect your eye.

“let me see.”

he’s leaning in a bit, until his face is just a couple inches in front of yours. “i think um,” he squints a bit, ignoring the warmth rising to his cheeks from the proximity, “i think your eye looks fine.”

the guilt is still eating him alive. a part of him wishes that you had been the one to grab that pillow instead, because he’s certain he would have jumped on the opportunity to tank a hit from a buttoned pillow a thousand times before letting it hit you just once. straight in the eye. anywhere. it doesn’t matter to him.

“it probably is,” you give him a small smile, “but you still cheated. i won that fight.”

SAKURA HARUKA.

“i-i didn’t know you were there!”

sakura’s a complete and utter mess, and he genuinely didn’t know any better. he didn’t hear you creeping up behind him, so when your arms suddenly wrapped around his middle, his reflex was to jab his elbow straight behind him— and it hit you square in the face.

he could feel his heart shatter into pieces when the sound of your yelp rang in his ears, jerking his body around only to see you stagger backwards, clutching your nose and peering up at him through those teary eyes.

sakura doesn’t know what to do. you’re sniffling now, your arms reaching out to hug him a second time, your voice barely coherent as you start babbling with a shaky voice, the only words he could recognize being “i deserve a hug for that.”

he’s a complete mess. he’s stiff when he lets you wrap your arms around his middle this time, face flushed with red at the simple touch and his heart hurting at the sound of you sniffling against his jacket, hand coming to wipe at the tears welling up in your eyes.

it’s impossible for him to not think of the worst— because he knows other guys wouldn’t be making this kind of mistake. his friends wouldn’t have elbowed you in the face in the first place. or at the very least, his friends would know how to comfort someone in this type of situation. he wants to kick himself for just standing there, words catching in his throat every time he tries and apologize.

“sorry…” your voice is quiet, but it’s enough to yank him out his thoughts. “i shouldn’t have scared you like that.”

it takes sakura a couple seconds before his mouth is falling at the apology. “huh?” he’s dumbfounded, hands coming to grab at your shoulders, “i should be apologizing!”

his face erupts in a furious blush when you giggle at his reaction, thumb coming to swipe at the tears that have spilled onto your cheeks. it’s only then when he tugs you back into a tight hug, hand cradling the back of your head to hold you flush against him.

he thinks it’s because he can’t stand to see you cry.

“o-oh?” you whisper against his chest. “this is new.”

sakura chooses to ignore your little remark, clenching his jaw as he glares at your wall, gaze locking on anything except you. “i should be sorry,” he repeats again, his voice barely coherent with the way he’s fighting against his blush, “so you should just … you know. tell me. when you want a hug..”

TOGAME JO. (pet name: doll)

“that’s not right, doll,” togame coos from below you, lips tugging into an amused grin as he watches you struggle to master the self-defense moves that you asked him to teach you an hour ago. or maybe two. it’s normal for him to lose track of time when he’s with you anyway.

your boyfriend doesn’t seem to realize that you don’t have the same stamina he does. or the focus, because you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks again— unsure if it’s because you’re embarrassed of your confused attempts at grabbing him, or if it’s the fact that he’s so casually sprawled out underneath you.

“you listenin’?”

you perk up, followed by a delayed nod. a little too obvious, but he doesn’t say anything.

“you grab me here,” his voice is gentle, guiding your hands back to hover over his body, “and then you pull. remember?”

and you nod again. but the sound of his voice, slow and steady, paired with the way he’s lazily propped up on his elbows to look up at you through tired eyes has your mind spinning all over again, instructions already going out your other ear as you try again and take a large fistful of his sweatshirt.

“..like this?”

he hums, lips tugging into a smile. “that’s good, doll. now pull the way i showed you.”

and you do— or you try to. you tug with all your strength, but you can tell he hasn’t moved an inch. you can hear him hum in wonder above you, and that’s all it takes for your eyes to slam shut as you jerk and pull with all your strength— and you feel some movement for the first time tonight.

“wait…” togame interrupts, but you don’t stop, pulling and pulling— not realizing you’ve inched towards to very edge of your mattress. “wait— we’ll fall,” he repeats with a little more urgency.

it’s a second too late when you realize it, eyes shooting open the second gravity tips the balance, and you’re plummeting backwards with a shriek. togame’s twisting his body to catch you as fast as he can, but the frantic movement has his fist connecting with your cheek before he grabs a hold of you, yanking you upwards and into him.

“fuck,” you wince, rubbing your cheek with the back of your hand as you huff. “that hurt a bit..”

“sorry,” togame lulls, legs spread to have you seated right in front of him, “i was trying to catch you… didn’t mean to smack you like that. are you okay..?”

his hands come to cup your cheeks, tilting your head up to look at the him. the familiar heat in your cheeks returns as soon as you lock eyes with him, because he’s so close. you can feel his breath fan against your lips with the proximity.

and he’s looking right at you.

“‘m okay,” your voice is just above a whisper, “you barely even grazed me, anyway..”

UMEMIYA HAJIME.

“when did you take that?!”

your arms shoot up to reach for ume’s phone, cheeks burning with embarrassment— because that had to be the most foul photo you’ve ever seen of yourself. the sound of your boyfriend erupting into the loudest laugh you’ve heard all day only has you seething— and he’s effortlessly holding his phone just out of your reach, as if to taunt you even further.

“you don’t need to know,” he grins widely, watching the way you shift your weight onto your toes in a futile attempt to reach his phone. “and it’s cute! you don’t think so?”

“give it!” you hiss, and you lunge forward to start pulling at the arm that has the phone, “i’m deleting it!”

“no way,” he retorts with a huff, but you’re pulling his sleeve with your full strength, and it catches ume off guard a bit, foot stumbling forward a step. he’s never seen you pull with all your might— so he just wasn’t expecting it.

you’re lunging again before he’s regained his balance, and he shifts his weight backwards, lower back colliding with the table behind him. his phone slips from his grip too fast for either of you to react, and it lands on your nose with a sickening thud.

his laughter vanishes as soon as you’re letting out a pained yelp, hands coming to clutch your nose, squeezing the bridge to ease the pain.

“ow….” you whimper, voice cracking a bit as tears start to flood your lash line. his heart breaks in two when he sees you sniffle, desperately blinking away the tears that threaten to spill as you check your hand.

no blood. just a lot of pain.

“i’m so sorry,” he’s hovering over you within a second, nervous arms fluttering just above your frame— because he hasn’t quite figured out what to do, and you look so fragile like this. he just doesn’t want to break you.

“..are you okay?” he breaks the silence, “let me see you.”

your face is buried in your hands when ume kneels in front of you, hands coming to gently tug at your wrists so you can look at him. “i’m sorry,” he repeats even quieter, worry flooding his expression when you tear your gaze away from him.

it’s your attempt at trying to get rid of the tears threatening to spill, but he doesn’t know know that. his lips are tugging into a deep frown, eyes filled with worry as he tries to get you to just look at him again.

“look at me, okay?” he whispers, “let me see.”

a deep inhale, and you’re trying to make your voice come out steady again. “i think..i think it’s okay.”

your eyebrows furrow. “you klutz…”

the relief in his face is almost too obvious. he’s taking a sharp inhale, opening his arms to urge you to come for a hug. “i know,” he chuckles, “are you sure? you’re okay?”

you give ume a nod, ignoring the throbbing in your nose as your arms wrap around him, holding him close against you. “i think i’ll be okay if you delete that.”

“no way,” he retorts, relieved that you're at least not crying anymore. "but i'll give you cuddles. deal?"

he's pulling you tighter against him before you even give him your answer, and his shoulders relax a bit when you finally nestle into his arms, leaning into his hold with a soft smile and a throbbing nose.

[shockercoco]

Cheer Up

Art Donaldson x reader

Warnings - 18+, smut, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm denial

Word count - 1135

a/n - I watched Challengers a couple days ago, and it's safe to say I’m a mike faist supporter lol. Also I kind of just skimmed through this so ignore the errors. I hope you enjoy :)

You haven’t been having the best week, and losing a match today to an opponent who you clearly should’ve beat didn’t help at all. Your irritation didn’t go unnoticed by Art either, but he decided to leave you alone in hopes you would calm down.

Art could see the anger radiating off of you from his seat in the stands as you walked off the court after the game. You were pretty much silent for the ride back to the hotel and still once you got into the room. You took a shower in hopes that it would ease the tension in your body, and it did, but not enough. 

Sitting on the couch in front of the tv, you opened your laptop to watch the playback of today's game. This is something you did after every match to help you become a better player, but if you were to ask Art, he would just say that you were torturing yourself.

You were so into the video playing on your laptop that you didn’t notice Art entering the room until you felt him sit down next to you, resting an arm on top of the couch behind him.

“You’ve been sitting here watching yourself for hours, don’t you think it would be better to just close this and relax,” Art says as he dips his head down to try to get you to look at him, but you ignore him and keep your eyes on the screen.

“This is me relaxing,” you tell him.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“Well this is what I want to do, so if you could leave me alone that would be great,” you turn to give Art a sarcastic smile before looking back at the laptop. He rolls his eyes at your attitude.

“How long are you going to be in this bitchy mood?” he asks, and you just shrug in response. Luckily for you, he knows just how to

You thought he would just leave you given the fact that you clearly don’t want to talk, but he stays in his spot next to you. Suddenly you feel Art grab the laptop from your lap and lean forward to place it on the coffee table in front of you, causing your eyebrows to furrow.

“What are you doing?” you ask, watching him.

“Helping you relax,” he says as he turns his attention back to you and dips his head down to start placing kisses on the side of your neck and up to your ear. 

“Art-,” you begin, but you cut yourself off when you feel a moan rising in your throat. Once you feel like you’ve composed yourself you say, “I’m busy.”

“Then tell me to stop,” he whispers in your ear before attaching his lips back to your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. 

He places his hand on your thigh and trails it up until he reaches the fabric of your panties. Lucky for him you just like to sleep in underwear and a shirt. He begins to lightly rub you through your panties, not adding any pressure on purpose. Your eyes drift to your laptop on the table that’s still open and playing.

“This isn’t the time,” you say breathlessly as you naturally buck your hips.

He hums in response, waiting for you to tell him to stop, but it doesn’t come. He dips his hand into your panties and runs his finger up and down your slit through the arousal that has started to leak out of you, circling your entrance before moving up to your clit, and this time adding pressure.

“You’ve had this little attitude all week, and I think it’s time that it goes away,” he says in your ear, then leans back to get a look at your face as he pushes a finger into you. “What do you think?”

Your mouth falls slightly ajar as you let out a small moan, but no answer. The video may be playing, but the screen has turned into a blur.

“What, nothing to say? You sure did have something to say these past couple of days,” Art fake pouts with a tilt of his head. “If this is what you needed all along, why didn’t you just say something?”

He then inserts another finger and watches as you fall apart as he curls his fingers inside of you. You move one of your hands up to grip the armrest as your eyes close and your body leans back against the couch.

“I mean this is what you wanted, right? For me to fill you up and make all your worries just disappear?” he questions with a smirk. 

Art feels your walls clench around him at his words as he continues his measured pace with his fingers.

“An answer would be nice,” he states, his tone a little more firm. You shake your head no, but that isn’t enough for art. “No, say it out loud.”

“No,” you manage with a whine.

“No? Are you sure because the way you just gave in so easily tells me otherwise,” Art fake pouts. “It’s not like I have a problem with it, though. After all, I get to be inside you,” he smirks at you.

All you can do is moan as he increases the speed of his fingers. Your legs start to involuntarily close, but you hear him tell you no, so you listen and force them back open. You feel yourself coming closer and closer to your orgasm with each thrust of his fingers, and Art notices too by the way your whimpers and whines become more consistent. 

Right when you feel yourself about to tumble over the edge, Art quickly pulls his fingers out of you and out of your panties, causing you to gasp and your walls to clench around nothing. You finally open your eyes and look at Art, who still has the stupid smirk on his face.

“What are you doing?” you ask in confusion and irritation, and he just laughs at you.

“You were the one that said this wasn’t the time,” he tells you as he licks the fingers that were inside you only a moment ago.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” 

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he repeats with his eyebrows raised. Art begins to stand up, leaving you more tense than before. He motions to your laptop still playing the video from your tennis match and says, “I don’t want to bother you, so I’ll let you go back to what you were doing. Come find me when you’re done.”

You watch with an open mouth as Art walks out of the room with a smile and heads into the bedroom, not giving you a second look.

Part 2 out now!

[just-nc-tea]

nine and three quarters ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

⭑.ᐟ Roommate to Lovers - Park Sunghoon Somehow, in the middle of your semester break, you ended up with a new roommate. Your landlord rented out the second room in your flat without telling you, and now you’re living with Sunghoon. At first, your paths barely cross – you’re buried in work, and he’s always at the rink. But slowly, he slips into your routine in ways you never expected. Then one night, everything shifts. A blurred memory, a moment of fear—and Sunghoon catching you before you can fall. Suddenly, it’s not awkward anymore. You start looking forward to him coming home. Maybe—just maybe—home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person.

ᝰ genre. Figure skater!Sunghoon, college sports, angst, hurt/comfort, really SLOW burn, fluff, suggestive .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ warnings. Swearing, partying, consumption of alcohol, hospital visits, mentions of rape, mentions of date-rape-drugs, mentions of the police, panic attacks, eating disorder, overworking PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANYTHING OR IF YOU FEEL LIKE I MISSREPRESENTED SOMETHING.ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ features. Mark, Johnny, Ten, Kun, Taeyong & Jungwoo from NCT, Woonyoung and Rei from IVE ᝰ word count. 31.6k .ᐟ₊ ⊹ --⟢ PART 2 --⟢ PART 3

series masterlist ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ GET ADDED THE SERIES TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT 🏒 ⤷ GET ADDED MY PERMANENT TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT ✨

Hallucinating. You had to be hallucinating.  Maybe Sunoo was right. Maybe the sleep loss wascatching up with you. You were starting to hallucinate. There was a hot guy flipping through the first pages of one of your fashion magazines. In your living room. Surrounded by moving boxes. 

You cleared your throat. “Hi?” He looked up from the magazine he was looking at and smiled at you. Oh god. “Hi I’m Sunghoon.”, he set the magazine down on your sofa table. “I’m your new roommate. I don’t know if Mr. Kang told you I am moving in today instead of the first. I had a more or less spontaneous change of plans.” He chuckled.  No. No Mr. Kang did not. He did in fact not tell you at all that you would be getting a roommate. You tried to smile at Sunghoon but it felt more like a grimace. “Hi. I am Y/N. Are you sure you are in the right apartment? I mean considering you probably got the keys from Mr. Kang, yes, but he didn’t tell me anything about a roommate? I know in Apartment 4B is a free room?” Sunghoon scrunched his eyebrows. “This is Apartment 4D, right? I definitely signed a contract for the smaller room in Apartment 4D.” “Oh.”, you just said and blinked at him. The smaller room in your apartment has technically been rented out for the last two years you have been living in this apartment but the girl that supposedly rented the room never came. When you asked Mr. Kang about it he said that as long as the rent was being paid he didn’t care if the other girl came or not and you were free to use the room until she did indeed show up. 

So that is what you did.  You transformed the small room into your studio. You pushed the bed to the side and used that, as well as the closet in the room, for all of your utensils. And you knew for a fact, that the desk and the floor were a cluttered mess at the moment. You handed in your last assignment just a few days ago after your professor thankfully extended your deadline by three weeks into the semester break after he made you start from scratch again.  “I–uhm–I didn't know you were moving in at all. I’ve been using the room as my studio. Just give me like an hour and I’ll move all of my stuff into my room.”, you said, already feeling a headache coming. You just wanted to peel your uniform off, eat something and sleep. And not deal with Mr. Kang not telling you Adonis 2.0 would be moving in today, or well, at all.  Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at your words, then glanced toward the hallway leading to his supposed new room. "You’ve been using it as a studio?" You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Yeah. I mean, it’s been empty since I moved in. Not technically empty? Someone rented it out but she never came and Mr. Kang said I could use the room if my supposed roommate wouldn’t want it? So I just… took over? I’ll be really fast so you can start putting all your stuff in there." Sunghoon’s lips quirked up in amusement, arms crossing over his broad chest. "So, I’m kicking you out of your studio?" You groaned internally. Yeah, yeah he was. "Technically, yes. But it’s not your fault. Mr Kang just – kind of forgot to tell me you were coming? At all? So I didn’t know I had to clean it out." 

He nodded, glancing back toward the hallway before looking at you again. "Well, if you need help moving your stuff, I don’t mind." You blinked. That was… unexpectedly nice. And also the absolute last thing you wanted. Some of your sketches and drawings were way too personal for him to even get a glimpse at them. "No, it’s fine. It’s mostly styrofoam, pens and sketches. It's fine." Sunghoon shrugged. "Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind." He moved toward the sofa, lifting a box and putting it onto the floor to flop down on the green fabric. He reached for the magazine again. “Are you a fashion student?” “Oh. No. I study architecture.”, you shook your head and made your way through the maze of boxes and furniture in your living room towards the hallway that separated your and now apparently Sunghoons room.  “Oh, that's cool. I am in PE.”, he grinned at you. You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. "Ah. That's nice. Just… make yourself at home while I clean I guess?." Sunghoon grinned. "Will do, roommate." The word made you wince. ──────────────────────── You stood in the doorway of your studio, well technically Sunghoon’s room, mentally preparing yourself for the hours of cleaning ahead. The small space was overflowing with architectural sketches, blueprint rolls, rulers, model pieces, and textbooks.

This was… embarrassing. You usually were a really organized person but with work and your deadline coming up, you just didn’t have the time and energy to clean behind you. You were pushing that to the next weekend after you got at least 10 hours of sleep instead of the five you got the last few days. You groaned quietly when you realized that those five hours might be even less during the next semester when you had to work in  the university instead of your flat since you had to give up your working space at home. Great. Just great.  You started cleaning, piling all of the cut-up styrofoam and paper into a trash bin, carrying your unused styrofoam into your room and getting a broom from the kitchen.  After around half an hour Sunghoon slightly knocked on the doorframe to his room, startling you from where you were sorting through your sketches and designs.  “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”, he asked, while he stepped into the room, doing his best to not step on anything.  You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling self-conscious with Sunghoon standing there, observing the chaos with a curious look. “No, it's fine…It’s not usually this bad,” you mumbled, tiredly smiling at him. Your head was aching a bit and you were hungry but you didn’t want to inconvenience him by making him wait until you ate something and napped. And you wanted to inconvenience him even less by making him help you clean a space that should have been clean. Sunghoon let out a soft chuckle. “Mhm. No worries. If it’s just your space that you use for a creative chaos I don’t have any problem with that.” You pressed your lips onto each other and tried to ignore the heat that was crawling up your neck. 

He hummed, stepping further into the room. "What's this?” He gestured to a half-finished architectural model on your desk, a sleek modernist building carefully cut out of foam board and assembled with tiny, precise details. You spend countless hours on it, just for your professor to ask if you could start over since he didn’t think it was the best you could do. You hesitated before replying. “It was supposed to be my final project. For my design class.” Sunghoon bent down slightly, inspecting it. “This is insane,” he murmured, his fingers hovering near the structure but not touching it. “It looks like something you’d see in an actual firm.” You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you just gave a small nod, focusing on rolling up your blueprints instead. Compliments always made you feel a little awkward. Then, unexpectedly, Sunghoon grabbed a stack of sketches and rulers and started organizing them neatly. Your head snapped up. “W-What are you doing?" “Helping,” he said simply, not looking up. “You’re going to take forever if you do this alone.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around a miniature model piece. Letting other people touch your things, especially your carefully crafted work, wasn’t something you were a hundred percent comfortable with.  But he was doing it carefully and slowly, making sure to not fold or bend anything. “…Okay,” you mumbled, focusing back on your sketches. Sunghoon smirked. “That sounded painful for you to say.” You refused to look at him as you continued sorting.

An hour and a half later, the room was clear. Well, mostly clear. Your things were now safely in your room, and Sunghoon’s moving boxes were neatly stacked in the corner, ready to be unpacked. You gave Sunghoon a kitchen tour and went over the house rules and you found yourself standing awkwardly in the living room when you were done. Sunghoon had started unpacking his boxes, while you weren’t entirely sure what to do with yourself.  You have been living alone for the past two years, and now suddenly, there was another person here. Another person who would sleep in the room next to yours, walk around the apartment, use the kitchen, and exist in your space. It wasn’t like you didn’t know this would happen eventually. Your scholarship technically covered a dorm with a roommate, but since no one had ever moved in, you’d gotten used to having the space to yourself. You cleared your throat, shifting on your feet. "Uhm… do you, uh, need anything else?" Sunghoon looked up from where he was stacking his books on the shelf. "Nope. I think I got it." "Okay, um good. Well, uhm, goodnight then." His lips curled slightly, amused at your awkwardness. "Goodnight, Y/N." ─────────────────────── When you woke up and made your way to the kitchen at 6:30 am the next day, feeling and probably also looking like you had just risen from the dead. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were half-closed, and your body was running purely on muscle memory as you reached for the door handle of the kitchen door. You took a deep breath. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. For a second, you thought you were hallucinating again or maybe still asleep. But when you rubbed your eyes and looked up, you realized something far worse than hallucination was happening. There was a half-naked man in your kitchen. Sunghoon stood by the counter, one hand resting on the coffee machine, the other rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his bare upper body was exposed to the warm air in the kitchen. Seoul was way too humid and warm even in the morning during the summer months. He turned, eyes still heavy with sleep, and blinked at you still standing in the doorway. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, he yawned again. "Morning." "Uh—" you cleared your throat, snapping your gaze away from his body. Ogling at your admittedly stupidly attractive new roommate was very inappropriate. "Morning." Your voice sounded way too high-pitched. Sunghoon didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he just poured himself a cup of coffee, completely unbothered. You walked to the fridge, pretending to not care that he was standing next to it and grabbed one of your containers with porridge inside.  By the time you turned back around, Sunghoon had disappeared into the hallway. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, now wearing a T-shirt. "Do you have any plans today?" he asked, casually leaning against the counter as he took a sip of his coffee. You glanced at him, still feeling a bit weird to have seen him half naked after knowing him for not even 24 hours. "Uh… yeah. I have work today." Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. "You work?" "Yes?" You frowned. "I mean, my scholarship covers a lot, but I still have to pay for food, transportation, materials, and the rent. It adds up." "Hm," Sunghoon hummed, nodding. "What do you do?" "I work as an intern at an architecture studio." You grabbed a spoon and honey, setting it on the counter. "I mostly organize files, scan documents, and do small tasks for the senior architects. I also make coffee and refill the printer paper, which is apparently the most important job in the entire office." Sunghoon let out a small chuckle at that. "Sounds fun." You gave him a dry look. "It pays." Sunghoon leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking toward your food as you peeled off the lid of your porridge and took a small spoonful. He glanced back up. "I have training later." You blinked at him. "Training?" "Yeah." He took another sip of coffee. "The season ended, but I’m still training. I’m working to qualify for the Olympics."

You froze mid-bite. "The… Olympics?" "Yeah." Your spoon slowly lowered. "You’re an athlete?" Sunghoon gave you a confused look. "Did you not know that?" "No?" He tilted his head slightly. "You didn’t google me?" You stared at him. "Was I supposed to?"

Sunghoon let out a small breath of amusement, shaking his head. "I thought you might, considering how organized you are. I did google you. Y/N Y/L/N, architecture student at DA, graduated from Tongyeong High School with honors. Your parents have a restaurant." You stared at Sunghoon, your spoon hovering slightly above your container of porridge. “You…you found out quite a lot. Did that all come up when you just put in my name?” “Yeah.”, he nodded, taking another sip of his coffee, “Well the first thing I found was an article about you graduating as the only one with honours that year, and then it mentioned that your parents have a restaurant, so I just looked it up on Naver. Your parents got featured on KBS once!” “Oh.” You felt your entire body heat up. You knew the article he was talking about and the picture in said article. You saw your stiff smile, the way-too-tight graduation gown, the way your parents insisted on standing beside you, both of them beaming proudly, even though they weren’t supposed to be in the picture in your mind. A wave of secondhand embarrassment crashed over you. You swallowed hard. "You–You saw my high school graduation picture?"

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, setting his coffee cup down. "Yeah. You looked cute." Cute. "Oh my god," you muttered, pressing your cold spoon against your cheek, hoping it would somehow cool down the sudden heat spreading over your face. Sunghoon chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. You cleared your throat and tried to change the topic.  "What do you do? What sport?" "Ice skating," he answered simply. "You’re a figure skater?" Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. "What else would I be?" "I don’t know–basketball?"

Your brothers loved basketball. After school, you ended up playing with them more days than not, mainly because your parents wanted you to get some fresh air and not only study in the living room of the small apartment the six of you shared above your parent’s restaurant. They couldn’t really give you the opportunity to be in a sports club, since the subscriptions would be quite expensive so throwing around Taeyongs worn and weathered baseball together with Mark and Jungwoo was the thing to do. Oftentimes other kids that were living in Tongyeong or some of the tourists would play with you.  Sunghoon gave you a deadpan look. "Do I look like a basketballer?" You ignored that. "You’re an Olympic-level skater?" "Hopefully," he said. "If I qualify." For a moment, you just stared at him. Then, you shook your head. "That’s really impressive." Sunghoon just shrugged, like it was no big deal. You took another bite of your porridge, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. You never did anything that made you special. Or something impressive. 

Sunghoon took another sip of his coffee, watching you. "You always eat that little?" You swallowed, a bit caught off guard. "I meal-prep my portions." He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You sure that’s enough? This looks like it could keep me afloat for like an hour." You hesitated and just gave a tight smile. "I manage." Sunghoon just nodded slowly and stood up, putting his cup into the dishwasher. "Alright," he said, heading toward his room. "See you later." You watched him go. ──────────────────────── A few days later Sunghoon got back to the apartment pretty late. 

His body ached from hours of training. After practice, he had gone out for food with Jay and a couple of the other guys, something that had become routine over the years. Ice hockey players ate like they were fueling a small army, and even though Sunghoon wasn’t quite on their level, he had no problem keeping up, so he at least didn’t have to think about dinner today. He didn’t have the time to buy groceries and would have not wanted to eat a chicken breast today again and he would not touch your carefully labelled and stored food.  Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his arms over his head, sighing as he made his way into the living room. The apartment was quiet, and he couldn’t see light coming out from under your door. So he just assumed you weren’t home. Not that he really cared.

It was none of his business where you were. But he did notice that you did come home pretty late often. He barely saw you, even though the two of you live together. You were going into the bathroom while he was in the kitchen and vice versa in the morning. Aside from a few short greetings in the kitchen, you barely talked. He figured you were just shy or maybe just didn’t like talking to people in general. Not that he had a problem with that. He poured himself a glass of water, leaning against the counter as he looked at the pictures and postcards you had on the fridge. He took a step forward and carefully took a postcard showing the sea into his hands. He knew he probably shouldn't be doing that but he was curious. 

Hi Bug! Busan is as beautiful as ever. I wish you were here. I hope you're doing well in Seoul. Don't overwork yourself too much, okay? See you soon.- Love and miss you, Mark :) 

He didn’t know much about your personal life. Actually, scratch that. He didn’t know anything about your personal life. He had no idea what you did in your free time. Maybe you really did have a boyfriend. Mark definitely sounded like a boyfriend name? Your hometown was close to Busan after all. Maybe he went to Busan to study and you went to Seoul. But that wouldn’t explain where you were now, if Mark was in Busan.  He shook his head and took another sip of water. It was not his business to wonder where you were. You weren’t friends or anything, just two strangers sharing an apartment.  He exhaled. He should really get to know you a bit, or else this semester was going to get quite awkward.  When he was just about to go to the bathroom to get ready for bed the front door opened. Sunghoon’s fight or flight response immediately set in but when he saw your figure walking into the hallway he relaxed again.

His brows furrowed as he glanced at the time on his phone. 1:30 AM. You seemed exhausted and you were… wearing a uniform? A white dress shirt with your name stitched into it and black pants.  Sunghoon starred as you locked the door behind you, dropping your bag onto the floor before kicking off your shoes. You rubbed at your temple, eyes half-lidded from sheer exhaustion. The dim kitchen light cast soft shadows over your face, emphasizing the dark circles beneath your eyes. “Where were you?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. You flinched slightly like you hadn’t noticed him standing there. Your tired eyes flickered to his.

“I was at work,” you mumbled, walking past him to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Work?” Sunghoon repeated. “I thought you worked at the architecture studio?” "I do," you sighed, filling your glass with water. "This is my second job." His eyebrows rose. "You have two jobs?" You let out a small huff of laughter, but it was completely devoid of amusement. "Three, if you count my scholarship." Sunghoon blinked. Oh. He thought about that for a second. You had the same scholarship he had, didn’t you? Did you really need to work another job? He was aware that your parents probably couldn't stem you going to university. The pictures he saw of your parent’s restaurant weren’t horrible. The opposite actually. It had good reviews but still, it didn’t look like something that made much money compared to other jobs. He watched as you took slow sips of water. “That sounds like a lot.” You just nodded and repeated your answer from this morning. “I manage.” ──────────────────────── The next time you saw Sunghoon was a day later when he shuffled into the living room, still half asleep. You were sitting on the sofa reading a book from your big to-be-read pile that accumulated during the semester. His hair was standing up in every direction. He had red streaks on his face that came from sleeping on a wrinkly fabric. He let himself fall next to you on the sofa, lleaned back and closed his eyes again, grumbling a sleepy. “Good morning Y/N.”

"Good morning, Sunghoon," you said softly, turning your attention back to your book. He hummed in acknowledgement, still not opening his eyes. "Got any plans today?" "Not really," you murmured, tucking your feet under yourself. He opened one eye. “You don’t have work today?” "I have the morning shift in the cinema tomorrow, but that doesn’t start until ten, so technically, I could sleep in. The studio is closed on weekends." "Mm," he grunted. "At least two days of the week you don’t have to run out the door at seven.” You let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. It’s nice to sleep in." The conversation faded into silence. The living room was warm, the kind of thick, humid heat that made everything feel slower in the middle of summer. But with all the windows open, a soft breeze drifted through the apartment, making the living room curtains sway gently.

You shifted your focus back onto your book. The slow and soft breathing that came from Sunghoon made you think he fell asleep again. You had noticed over the course of the last week that Sunghoon wasn’t a morning person. He was always grumpy in the morning, but still polite and nice to you.  Just as you were finishing your chapter his voice suddenly broke the silence in the living room. "What are you reading?" You blinked, lowering the book slightly. He was still sprawled out on the couch, but his eyes were open now, watching you. "Uh," you turned the book over, showing him the cover. "It’s a novel I’ve been meaning to read for a while. Haven’t had time during the semester."

He nodded slowly. "You like reading?"

"I do." “My friend Jay’s girlfriend also really loves reading. She is super crazy. She reads like a book or two a week.”, he tilted his head slightly. „What is this one about?“

“Teenage summer love? Something along those lines. I am not that far in yet so I can’t really tell you more to be honest.“, you turned the book around in your hands and looked at the cover. „Teens? Aren’t you too old for that?“, Sunghoon hummed, shifting slightly so he was lying on his side, head propped up on one arm. “You are never too old or too young for love, Sunghoon.”, you answered, opening your book again. It was ironic. Really. You only knew love from books and TV shows. Those overly dramatic or romantic relationships between two overly attractive persons are written to always have a happy ending. In reality, love doesn’t end in happy ends. Or most of the time it didn’t, so you didn’t even want to try it out. Better not get to know something you could lose forever, right? The thought made you sign quietly. Sunghoon was quiet for a moment. "You open all the windows every morning." You looked up and blinked at him. "Yeah. The air feels stuffy otherwise." Sunghoon nodded. "You don’t open mine."

You hesitated. On the first day, you almost did. You almost opened the door opposite to yours in the hallway when you just woke up.  You liked to open the windows in the morning. When the air was still fresh and not too warm. "I don’t want to overstep." He exhaled a soft laugh. "Don’t worry. I‘ll just open it myself now. Then you can’t overstep anything." You smiled faintly. "Thank you." For a while, there was nothing but the occasional rustling of your pages and the sound of cars in the distance. Then Sunghoon spoke again. He didn’t seem like a person that talked a lot. But apparently, he had the desire to talk to you sometimes. He would come to your room or the kitchen when you were there and strike up conversations. It was nice. Sunghoon was nice. 

You did google him and asked Sunoo about Sunghoon when you were working the Wednesday shift in the cinema together. Wednesday was always slow. Not that you minded. That gave you plenty of time to talk to Sunoo or Jungwoon. Sunoo was surprised when you told him who just moved in. Apparently, Sunghoon was known across the sports and business faculties. He attended their parties together with his friends a lot. According to Sunoo, Sunghoon is really nice.  "Do you miss home?" The question caught you off guard. You looked at him again, only to find that he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling. You hesitated before answering. "Sometimes." Sunghoon nodded slowly. „It must be weird to move from such a small town to Seoul. I grew up in Suwon but I think I spend more time in Seoul than anywhere else. My childhood and teenage years took place in ice rinks in Seoul.“

You thought for a second. It was weird. The house you grew up in was always loud. Either your brothers or the guests downstairs in the restaurant were constantly talking or making noises and suddenly you were in this apartment, all alone and it was silent. You really disliked it. You spend quite a lot of time calling your friends or family members in the beginning until you adjust to the silence.  After you finished your first year Mark finished his mandatory military service and resumed studying and working in Seoul as well. It was still almost an hour-long bus ride to go to his dorm but it was better than 5 hours to Busan.  Taeyong went back to Tongyeong to help your parents. He loved the little restaurant and most importantly he loved the new doctor in Tongyeong. He and Johnny got together back in high school and have been together ever since. Johnny came back to your hometown to take over his father's doctor's office. You loved Johnny. He was fun. When you were younger he always brought you expensive presents and never said no if you asked for ice cream when you were out with him and Taeyong. Taeyong and Johnny were almost 7 years older than you so they were tasked with babysitting you when your parents needed someone to do so quite often. You missed all of them a lot. 

„Yeah. It’s weird. It’s so quiet and loud here at the same time. At home you rarely hear this many cars passing by but my family is quite loud so living alone is very quiet?“, you put in a bookmark to not lose your page. You assumed Sunghoon was in the mood to talk right now. „Really? Do you have siblings?“, he tilted his head slightly. His hair flopped down. You hummed and nodded. „3 brothers. All older.  7 years, 4 years and 3 years. What about you?“ „I have one sister. 5 years younger than me. And a dog. “, he chuckled. „Oh, that’s nice. I always wanted a pet. But my parents wouldn’t allow it. They were busy enough with 4 kids and a restaurant.“ "Your parents still run it?" Sunghoon asked. "Yeah," you answered quietly. He nodded. "Do you help out?" "Not really," you admitted. "My parents always told me to focus on my studies and made my brothers help them. I did help if they let me. I usually cleaned out flat though. I like the area I live in to be really clean and growing up my brothers weren’t the cleanest.“ Sunghoon hummed. „Yeah, I’ve noticed. I think that’s pretty nice. That you are such a clean person I mean. I love my old roommate but he left his shit everywhere and should be sued for noise complaints 24/7. That guy never shuts up.“ „Oh that sounds annoying.“, you kept your voice soft.  “It’s all right. Now I don't have to tell him to wash the dishes or to not scream at his internet friends in the middle of the night.”, he hummed and lifted himself from the sofa, “Do you want some breakfast? I was thinking about going for a run and getting something from the Creek. My friend’s girlfriend works there and I can get us free stuff?” “I uhm. I already ate. But thank you so much for offering.”, you smiled at him. “Sure, always.”, Sunghoon smiled at you.  ──────────────────────── Sunghoon wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as he stepped back into the apartment. It was still cold in the apartment. You must have closed the windows after he left. You never really used the AC in the mornings. You let the early morning breeze cool the place down and waited until it got too warm, until you couldn’t stand it anymore. He didn’t really get why, but he wasn’t home much in the afternoons, so it didn’t matter. He was actually quite glad about the warmth after he spent all day in the rink. It felt kind of nice.

His run had been good. He liked going on runs. It felt refreshing. It took his mind off of things for a while. But by the time he finished his run and he stepped into the Creek the sun had started blazing. After he spent way too much time talking to Jay, who was doing god what in the small campus cafe while his girlfriend was on shift, he stepped out and was hit by a wall of heat. The cool air in the apartment made him feel a bit less sticky.  He dropped the bag of food onto the kitchen counter, his eyes scanning the room. It was still quiet. His gaze flickered toward the living room. You were still lying on the sofa. Your legs were slightly bent and your arms were in awkward positions. One was sprawled across your face, blocking your face from the light coming in through the living room windows. The other one was resting loosely over your stomach. The book you had been reading was lying on the floor next to you, seemingly having slipped from your hand when you fell asleep. 

He quietly walked towards the sofa and reached down to pick the book up. Sunghoon slipped the bookmark that was still resting on the sofa table in between the pages and his fingers brushed over the creased cover before setting it on the table.  He knew the book. His sister read it last year and wouldn’t shut up about it. You must have enjoyed the book. You’ve read a big chunk of it already.  Sunghoon made his way back to the kitchen and cursed whatever architect designed your flat for deciding on building an open-style kitchen. The open-style kitchen was what sold him on the place, but now, with only a kitchen pass-through separating the two spaces, it also meant that if he used the coffee machine, it would definitely wake you up. He signed and grabbed the orange juice jug in the fridge instead. That was healthier anyway.  As he poured himself a glass, his eyes landed on the vase near the window.  The tulips inside were starting to wilt, slowly letting their heads hang down and a few white petals were laying on the window sill. Without thinking he got up, grabbed the vase and changed the water. Maybe that would keep them alive for a bit longer. 

Sunghoon set the vase back down, watching another petal slowly making its way down towards the window still. He would drop a few coins in the vase later. Wasn’t that supposed to help keep flowers fresh longer? Having fresh flowers around made the kitchen look more alive. The whole apartment actually. It was clean, something he appreciated, but it still felt lived-in. Your personal style was different from his. The walls were painted in a pale green and you hung pictures and paintings along the walls, antique-looking candle holders and books were lined on the white shelves. It reminded him of older European-style houses, those that he had only seen in movies or pictures. When he helped you clean his room last week, he tried not to look too closely at the sketches you were carrying. But the ones he did catch a glimpse of? Almost all of them were of European-style houses. Tall, elegant, full of intricate details. You must really like that style. Sunghoon chewed slowly and glanced at you again. In the seven days that he has been living here he hasn’t seen you this still? Usually, you were always moving, rushing almost. Even in the evening, when you shuffled into the kitchen before heading to bed, there was a quiet urgency to your movements. Like you were always on the clock. He knew he was privileged. He knew that his parents were making enough money for him not to worry, especially not when he and his sister both got scholarships. His sister still had two years of High School to go, but had been offered the scholarship already, just like he had been. But you did have a scholarship as well. And the rent wasn’t too high. So why were you working so much? It wasn’t his place to ask. But he was curious. After all, he hoped to befriend you at least a bit.

Just as he was finishing off the last of his food, he heard you stir. At first, it was just a sleepy shift, a small stretch of your legs. But then, your eyelids fluttered, and with a deep breath, you slowly pushed yourself up, blinking blearily at the room. “Morning.” Your gaze flickered to him, still half-asleep. “Morning,” you murmured back, your voice soft. He hesitated for a second before nodding toward the counter. “I got you something.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, then followed his gaze to the extra plate. You stared at it for a moment before looking back at him. “You didn’t have to.” “I know,” he said simply. “I got them for free so I thought I’d just bring you one.” You hummed again before flopping back onto the sofa, singing softly and stretching again. He watched you push yourself up from the couch and paddle over to the kitchen, yawning softly. You sank onto the stool across from him, glancing down at the pastry before picking it up. “Thanks, Sunghoon,” you said, your voice still quiet. He only shrugged, watching as you took a small bite.

The apartment was quiet for a moment, the sound of birds outside filtering in through the open windows. The heat of summer was already creeping in, but the slight morning breeze kept it bearable. Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke. “Would you mind it if I put on some music? I have a really nice summer morning playlist.” You shook your head. “No, go ahead.” Sunghoon hummed and searched for his morning R’n’B playlist. “So what do you do on your day off?” You shrugged. “Laundry. Grocery shopping. Sometimes I sleep in.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re really making the most of your free time.” You let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t have much free time, so I have to use it well.” Sunghoon thought about that for a second. It made sense. He understood what it was like to have every second of your day planned out, to always have something you were supposed to be doing.

“How was your week?” he asked, surprising even himself. You swallowed the bite you just took and for a second the only noise in the kitchen was the soft music coming from the speaker on top of the fridge. “Busy. The office was hectic, and I had a lot of late shifts at the cinema. I didn’t really have much time for myself.”, you answered. He nodded. “Mine was busy too. Training’s been rough.” You tilted your head slightly. “Do you train every day?" “Yeah. Well, almost. I get a rest day here and there.” He stretched slightly. “But even on those, I still have to stay active.” You hummed, considering that. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” he admitted. “But I’ve been doing it for so long, it’s just… normal now.” You took another bite of your pastry, glancing at him. “You must really love it, then.” Sunghoon was quiet for a second. He did love it. Skating had been his entire life for as long as he could remember. It was just strange hearing someone say it like that. Then, he nodded. “Yeah. I do.” You smiled slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “That’s nice. I like to paint. On my days off I mean. I have to be creative for uni so much. But I love painting other stuff aside from houses as well.”

Sunghoons eyes immediately wandered towards the painting that hung in the kitchen. It was two pieces of kimchi, the cabbage split in half, sitting neatly on a plate on a striped fabric with some typography at the bottom of it.  He was never good at English and the letters were cursive and ornate so he had a hard time figuring out what it said. “Did you paint that one?”, he asked.  You were in the middle of drinking water, and for a second, he thought you might choke. But you quickly swallowed and cleared your throat. “Oh, uh, yeah,” you said, setting your glass down. “Last summer break. It’s oil, so it took an eternity to dry. But, uh, the sun helped." He tilted his head back toward the painting. “Oh wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s so cool. Are the other ones yours too?” “Uh. Yeah.” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and suddenly looked very interested in your glass of water. “I was feeling, um, really inspired last year. And my brother got me oil paints for my birthday.”

Sunghoon watched as you let out a small, breathy laugh, your fingers gripping the glass a little too tight.  “I’d never really had the chance to paint with oils before,” you continued, words coming out a little too fast, “since they’re super expensive. But, uh, money well spent, I guess?” He looked back at the paintings again, his gaze lingering for a moment. It was really well done. “You know,” he added, voice dropping a little in awe, “I don’t think I’d be able to do that. Like, paint something like this. It’s pretty... impressive.” You quickly looked away, like you didn’t know what to do with the compliment. And then, you laughed. A weird, nervous little laugh, as if he’d just told a joke instead of genuinely complimenting you.

“Oh, no, I mean–it’s just practice, really,” you blurted out, waving a hand in the air. “It’s not like–it’s not, like, some crazy talent or anything, it’s just… you do it enough, and it sort of, um, happens?” ​​Sunghoon blinked at you. He wasn’t sure why, but it was kind of funny watching you trip over your words like that. You looked like you wanted to disappear. “Still,” he said, amused now, “it’s really cool.” You made a weird, stiff nod, then immediately picked up your water again and took the smallest possible sip. Sunghoon bit back a smile. He wasn’t sure why you were acting so flustered, but it was… kind of entertaining.  ──────────────────────── You stepped into your apartment, shivering slightly at the cool air pressing against your skin. 

Sunghoon must have turned on the AC again. It was nearly 35 degrees outside, but inside, it was much colder. You never really liked using the AC too much. It used a lot of electricity and the temperature drop always left you uncomfortable. You shouldn’t have to wear long sleeves in summer. But Sunghoon didn’t seem to mind the cold. Given how much time he spent at the ice rink, you supposed he was used to it. His skin was pale compared to yours. As a child, you have always been a bit self-conscious about how dark your skin was compared to the ones of the actors or celebrities you saw on TV.  But most of the people around you had tan skin.  Living in the South meant you spent a lot of time in the sun after school or when playing with friends. You enjoyed being outside in the sun, letting the warm ray of sunshine hit your skin, having to eat ice cream quickly before it melted in your hands. What you really disliked was the constant smell of fish everywhere, but that was a given thing, considering one of the dishes Tongyeong is famous for is Chungmu gimbab. It is usually served with a baby octopus with spicy sauce (kolddugi muchim) and radish kimchi. Your mother made really yummy kolddugi muchim. Maybe you still had some in your freezer.

You placed your shoes neatly next to Sunghoons by the door and stepped further into the cool apartment. The sound of the television playing in the background hummed through the air. When you looked over, you saw Sunghoon sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes focused on the screen. You hesitated for a second, not really sure what to say if you should say anything at all. You didn’t want to disturb Sunghoon and make him miss something in his show. But before you could decide, Sunghoon reached for the remote and lowered the volume. His head turned toward you. “Hey.” You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Hi.” He sat up slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest. “How was work?” You paused by the fridge, fingers hovering over the handle. He asked the same thing yesterday, and the day before. You weren’t sure if he asked just to be polite or if he actually wanted to know. Either way, it was nice.

So, after a beat, you pulled the freezer open and started shuffling through the bags of frozen fruits or vegetables. “It was fine. Busier than usual.” Sunghoon tilted his head. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” you said, smiling when you found the container with kolddugi muchim that was at the bottom of the freezer. “It’s usually not that packed during summer shifts, but today was weirdly busy.” You took a sip before adding, “At least Sunoo was there. It was fun with him." Sunghoon hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze flicking back to the screen for a moment. “Who’s Sunoo?” You hesitated slightly before standing up from the crouching position you were in. “My friend and coworker, I guess. He works the counter with me.” Sunghoon nodded slowly. “You work with him a lot?” You frowned slightly at the question. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just wondering.” You didn’t know what to make of that, so you let it go, turning back to the counter to start defrosting your food. Your favourite pot was still in the dishwasher, it hadn’t been run today. There weren’t any new dishes in the sink either. You hesitated for a second. “Have you eaten lunch today?”, you asked, glancing over your shoulder. Sunghoon looked at you, almost like he was caught off guard by the question. “Uh… no. I was too lazy to cook, so I just had a protein shake.” You frowned slightly. A protein shake was not a meal. You shifted your weight, debating for a second before clearing your throat. “Do you… want some? I’m making kolddugi muchim and rice. It’s too much for just me anyway.” His eyes lit up a little, his usual neutral expression shifting. “Oh, for sure. That sounds way better than another shake.” You nodded, a little awkward as you turned back to the counter. 

Sunghoon stood up, stretching slightly. “Need help with anything?” You’ve gotten used to him wearing joggers and tank tops over the last week. That didn’t mean that seeing him in those didn’t make you feel like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have seen.  “Um.” You thought for a second. “Could you go to the GS25 down the street and get some mu kimchi? Only if it’s no trouble. I can go too.” He waved you off, already grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. “Nah, I got it. I’ll be back in a sec.” The apartment fell silent again as the door shut behind Sunghoon. You stood still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint dialogue from the drama still playing on TV. Then, shaking off the quiet, you turned back to the stove. The scent of simmering garlic and gochugaru filled the air, thick and warm. It clung to the fabric of your clothes and seeped into the walls of the small kitchen. 

You closed your eyes for a second. It smelled like home. Like summer afternoons in the restaurant, your mother’s voice drifting in from the kitchen. The ajummas asking you and Mark how your day was, praising you for being so well behaved. The sharp tang of kimchi mingling with the sweetness of caramelized fish sauce. The distant sound of seagulls outside, the heavy heat of the South pressing against the window screens. You exhaled, opening your eyes again. Swallowing the sudden ache, you focused on stirring the sauce for the kolddugi muchim, watching the deep red paste thicken over the heat. Cooking had always been something comforting, something familiar. You never saw yourself working in the restaurant after you finished high school but you missed living by the sea, close to your family. You were so happy when Mark moved to Seoul. Was it weird that you asked Sunghoon if he wanted food? Usually, if Mark was over for a weekend or just after he finished uni and work for the day it was a given that you cooked for him as well. Eating is supposed to be an activity to do with loved ones after all.  Before you could dwell on it too much, the door clicked open again.

Sunghoon stepped back inside, a small plastic bag in his hand. “Got it.” You turned, wiping your hands on a kitchen towel. “That was fast.” He shrugged, placing the bag on the counter. “I have long legs.” You glanced inside, pulling out the package of mu kimchi. “Thanks.” “No problem,” he said, leaning against the counter. His eyes flicked to the stove. “It smells really good.” You didn’t know if he meant it or was just making conversation, but either way, you liked hearing that. “It’s my mom’s. She gives me containers of this stuff every time I visit home. Sometimes I have to eat kolddugi muchim for days after I’ve been home because it wouldn’t fit into the freezer.”, you chuckled thinking about it.  “Oh, I wouldn’t complain about eating kolddugi muchim for days. If it tastes as well as it smells I’ll gladly help you eat some of the kolddugi muchim you can’t fit into the freezer.”, Sunghoon grinned and reached up to grab two sets of plates and bowls from the cabinet. 

You just nodded and smiled at him while dropping the still slightly frozen baby octopus into your mom’s premade sauce. The sizzling of the pan was the only sound for a few moments.  “I’ll go and turn off the TV. I’ll be right back.”, Sunghoon said and disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later the music box he placed in the kitchen made a sound and Sunghoon’s playlist hummed through the speakers. You weren’t sure if he turned it on just to fill the silence or if he actually wanted to listen to music, but either way, you didn’t mind. By the time he returned from turning off the TV, you were both ready to eat. Sunghoon sat across from you, piling some of the baby octopus onto his plate. “So, are you allowed to sneak me free popcorn at the theatre?” You blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a small laugh. “No.”

“Not even a little?” he pressed, raising an eyebrow. “Nope.” You shook your head, scooping some rice onto your spoon. “If I got caught, I’d probably get scolded. We’re supposed to charge for everything.” Sunghoon sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “Man, I thought I could use you for a continuous flow of premium popcorn.” “Yeah. Sadly that’s not possible.”, you smiled and scrunched your nose a bit. Sunghoon picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the kolddugi muchim. You watched, suddenly unsure if you maybe had made a mistake with the sauce, or overcooked the octopus. But then, his brows lifted slightly, and he gave a small nod. “This is good.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Really?”

He hummed. “Yeah. I don’t eat baby octopus much, but this is nice.” A strange sense of relief settled in your chest. You took a small bite yourself, humming in delight when it did indeed taste good. Not as good as if your mom made it freshly but it was still yummy. You’d call our mom later to thank her for cooking for you.  By the time you were both finished eating, you felt exhausted. Standing and smiling at customers for hours was always exhausting, no matter which shift you had. You stood, grabbing your plate, but Sunghoon reached out before you could take his. “I got it.” You blinked. “You don’t have to–” He was already stacking the dishes. “You cooked. I’ll wash.” You hesitated, but after a second, you nodded. “Okay.” ──────────────────────── A few days later Sunghoon came home from the rink and was ready to just drop into his bed, maybe eat something if he still had eggs in the fridge. He signed when he opened the door to your apartment. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed it wasn’t silent, how it usually was.

Soft music played from the speaker in the kitchen, something mellow, with a steady rhythm. He frowned slightly, slipping off his shoes. You were usually  still at work or in your room when he got home. But now, as he stepped further inside, he saw you sitting at the kitchen table, completely absorbed in whatever you were doing. You were painting. Your brows were slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in focus. The soft light of the kitchen lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm glow on your skin. Sunghoon found himself pausing, watching as you carefully dragged your brush across the canvas. “You’re painting?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the music. You flinched, clearly startled, before looking up at him. “Oh–yeah. They sent the interns home earlier today. I’ve been thinking about adding a second painting to the living room, if that’s fine with you.”

Sunghoon dropped his bag by the couch, stepping closer. “Yeah, sure. Go on Y/Nasso.” You hesitated for a moment before tilting your canvas slightly so he could see. It wasn’t finished yet. Soft, blended strokes created what looked like an ocean scene. The colours melted into each other, deep blues fading into lighter shades. “That’s really good,” Sunghoon said, his voice a little softer than usual. He wasn’t trying to flatter you. He genuinely thought it was impressive. You blushed a little, glancing down at the painting. “Thanks,” you murmured. “It’s the view from one of my favourite beaches in Tongyeong.” He pulled out a chair across from you, sitting down. “Do you still paint often?”

“Not really,” you admitted, dipping your brush into the water before reaching for a new colour. “I used to do it more. Back home.” He watched as you mixed a soft peachy hue, the movement of your hand precise, practised. “Why’d you stop?” You shrugged, not looking up. “I don’t know. Just got busy, I guess.” Sunghoon hummed in understanding, leaning back in his chair. He knew what that felt like, the way life could pull you away from things you enjoyed. “What made you start again?” For a moment, you didn’t answer. Then, finally, you sighed, glancing out the window. “I just… missed it. And I had some free time today so I thought I could use it by doing something I love.” Sunghoon nodded slowly, his gaze flickering back to your painting After a moment, he stood up, stretching. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your masterpiece.” You rolled your eyes but smiled slightly. “It’s not a masterpiece.” “Yet,” he said, smirking before heading toward the fridge. “Have you had dinner?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.” Sunghoon opened the fridge, rummaging through it. “Want me to make something? I was thinking of kimchi fried rice.”, he asked, half-expecting you to decline. You hesitated but then nodded. “Okay.” As he started pulling ingredients out, the quiet music continued playing, filling the space between you. He noticed that you replaced the flowers in the kitchen. The white tulips were gone and you changed the vase. The freesias you bought were arranged neatly in the window frame. His little sister was obsessed with flowers and made him learn the names of at least 30 different ones. They were pretty. Your voice startled him a bit when you started speaking. “How was your day today?” Sunghoon paused mid-chop, surprised. You usually didn’t really initiate conversations, so this was a first. “It was good,” he said, continuing to chop the vegetables. “Tiring, but good. My routine is a bit intense.” He turned toward you, his eyes catching yours for a moment. “How about you? How’s work been?”

You paused for a second, looking up from your canvas. “Not much happened today, so pretty chill actually,” you said, your voice light. “I am glad.”, he replied with a small nod. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Have you ever been ice skating?” You blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. “Me? Ice skating?" “Yeah,” he grinned.  You shook your head and focused back on the canvas in front of you. “No, I haven’t tried it yet. I was thinking about going last winter. But my friends and I didn’t really have time for it. And we don’t really get snow or ice at home.” Sunghoon leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he looked at you. “Wait so you have never seen snow?” You glanced up at him, a small, unsure smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve been living here for 2 years now. I have seen snow in Seoul.”

“That’s insane,” he muttered, shaking his head. “What did you even do in the winter?”

You hesitated for a second, then quietly said, “Just… normal things? It wasn’t that different. We had the ocean instead of snow.”

Sunghoon huffed out a quiet laugh. “The ocean is great, but winter is so much better when you have snow.”

You gave a quiet laugh, your gaze dropping back to your painting. “Maybe. I don't like the cold tho.” 

“Nah, you’re just missing out.” He straightened up, turning back to the stove to check on the food. “Do you want to learn how to skate?”

“I am not sure I would be good at it," you said. 

“Well, good thing that I am very good at it. My friend Jake was able to teach his girlfriend how to skate so I am sure you could do it as well. It’s fun. You should definitely try.” 

You hummed noncommittally and started to clean up the table.

Sunghoon focused on finishing preparing the food. It was nothing fancy, just stir-fried vegetables, kimchi and rice with some grilled chicken, but it smelled good. He set a plate in front of you before grabbing his own and sitting across from you at the table.

 He made enough for the two of you, actually it was probably not enough for the both of you – or so he thought. But when you finished putting food onto your plate, he stared. His brows furrowed.

“…That’s all you’re eating?”

You looked up, blinking at him. “Yeah? Why?”

Sunghoon glanced between his plate and yours, then back again. His plate was nearly overflowing, while yours looked like what he considered a snack at best.

“That’s like, half of what I made for you,” he pointed out, still frowning.

You just shrugged. “I don’t eat a lot in one sitting.”

Sunghoon stared for another second before looking down at his own food. How were you even functioning on that?

He wasn’t exactly an expert on how much people should eat, but compared to his own portions – hell, even compared to what his sister or his mom ate – yours seemed ridiculously small.

His first instinct was to tell you to take more, but he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Instead, he picked up his chopsticks. He felt a bit weird about it but decided not to push.

The silence between you was comfortable, only broken by the occasional clinking of utensils against plates and the quiet music playing from the speaker.

After a few minutes, he spoke again. “You know,” he said casually, “you should come to one of my competitions sometime.”

Your eyes flicked up to him. “Your competitions?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back slightly. “They’re pretty cool.”

You took a sip of your water, considering. “Maybe,” you said finally.

Sunghoon smirked. “That’s not a no.”

You gave him a little smile. “I’ll think about it.”

That made him smile too.

All through the dinner his eyes kept drifting to your plate. He’d never really paid attention before, but now he was wondering – was this just a today thing, or was this normal for you He always assumed you ate a few snacks at the company or the theatre but if you were eating just this little portion, but maybe you really only ate the small pre-prepped lunch boxes, that were neatly stacked in the fridge.  ──────────────────────── Sunghoon had just finished mixing his protein shake when he heard keys jingle and the front door swung open.

He frowned, setting the shaker bottle down. You weren’t supposed to be home yet. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. Had your shift ended early? 

Still, he greeted you out of habit. “Hey, Y/N–”

But the person standing in the doorway was definitely not you.

Sunghoon froze. The guy in the doorway froze too.

For a long second, they just stared at each other, equally confused.

Sunghoon slowly lowered his shaker bottle. Who the hell–

“Uh…” the guy started, blinking a few times like he was trying to process the situation. Then, he pointed at Sunghoon. “You’re not Y/N.”

“No,” Sunghoon said flatly. “I’m not.”

The guy frowned, his head tilting slightly. “Then… who are you?”

Sunghoon crossed his arms. “I live here. Who are you?”

The guy’s face shifted as realization dawned on him. His confusion melted into something amused.

“Ohhh,” he said, dragging out the word. Then, he grinned and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Wait.

Mark as in your boyfriend Mark?

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked toward the fridge before he could stop himself. The slightly curled postcard from Busan hung beside a few photos he had found himself staring at more than once in the past week and a half. Mark was in a lot of them. Always close to you, arms slung around your shoulders, laughing together.

Sunghoon quickly cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you, Mark. I’m Sunghoon.”

Mark hummed, already toeing off his sneakers. “Is Y/N still at work?” He dropped his bag by the door and strolled toward the kitchen.

Sunghoon, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, hesitated before answering. “Uh… yeah? She usually gets home around 4:30. Sometimes a bit earlier.”

Mark nodded, completely unfazed. “Alright, cool.”

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached into a cabinet, pulled out a glass, and filled it with water.

“How long have the two of you been together?”

Sunghoon nearly choked on air.

“What?” He spun around so fast that he nearly knocked over his protein shake.

Mark just shrugged, sipping his water like this was a completely normal conversation. “Y/N didn’t tell me she was seeing someone. Or, well… seeing someone seriously enough to let him move in with her.”

Sunghoon’s brain stalled. What. The. Hell.

“I hope it’s been at least half a year and you didn’t just sweet-talk her into letting you move in after, like, two months.” Mark narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Why–why would I be Y/N’s boyfriend?” Sunghoon blurted.

Isn’t Mark the boyfriend?! What was happening?

Mark gave him a look. “Dude,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You literally just said you live here.”

“Yeah, because I’m her roommate,” Sunghoon said, still trying to process this ridiculous conversation. “I pay rent and shit to be here.”

Mark blinked. “Wait. You’re her roommate?”

“Yes.” Sunghoon gestured vaguely at the apartment. “What else would I be?”

Mark tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged. “I dunno, her boyfriend?”

Sunghoon let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples. “Dude, I thought you were her boyfriend.”

Mark burst out laughing.

“Me?” He pointed at himself, looking genuinely amused. “Oh, nah.” He shook his head, still grinning. “I’m her brother.”

Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Brother.

Oh. Okay.

Now that he really looked, Mark did have similar features to you. 

Mark just grinned, clearly entertained by the situation. “Damn, you really thought Y/N was cheating on me?”

Sunghoon groaned, leaning against the counter. “Can we not phrase it like that?”

Mark cackled. “That’s wild.”

Before Sunghoon could recover from the secondhand embarrassment of his own assumption, the front door suddenly swung open again.

“Oh my god,” your voice rang through the apartment, full of surprise and excitement. “Mark?!”

Sunghoon turned his head just in time to see you practically launch yourself at your brother. Mark barely had time to put down his glass before you crashed into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming! I thought you were still at home!” You grinned up at him, eyes shining.

Mark ruffled your hair like it. “I wanted to surprise you. Taeyong packed you a snack box from home. Mom and Johnny’s Mom added some stuff too. You know, since you can’t come home.”

Your face lit up. “No way.”

Mark smirked. “Way.”

Sunghoon, still leaning against the counter, just watched as you glowed with excitement over the snacks and goodies from home.

But before he could fully process how different you looked right now—so happy, so genuinely overjoyed—Mark turned to you with an easy grin.

“So…” He dragged out the word, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

Sunghoon felt the moment you went stiff in Mark’s arms.

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

Mark jerked his thumb toward Sunghoon. “You didn’t tell me you were dating your roommate.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then, your entire face went red.

Sunghoon could feel the heat radiating off you from where he stood.

“What?” you repeated, blinking rapidly.

Mark just smirked, clearly enjoying this. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” He gestured toward Sunghoon, who was still standing there like an idiot.

Your eyes darted to Sunghoon like you were expecting him to say something but Sunghoon’s brain was still buffering.

Because all he could think about was how genuinely happy you had looked when you saw Mark.

He had never seen you like this.

So expressive. So open.

The way your face had lit up, the way your voice had lifted into something bright and completely unfiltered, it was cute. And, selfishly, Sunghoon wondered why.

Why did you always hold back a little around him? The small, bashful smiles, the careful responses. Was he that intimidating? He was trying so hard to get to know you, to be a good roommate that would turn into a friend. 

“We’re not dating.” Sunghoon finally managed, his voice a little more rushed than intended. “I’m just her roommate.”

You exhaled, pressing your hands to your very red cheeks. “Yes. He’s my roommate.”

Mark raised a brow, clearly not convinced.

“Right,” he said slowly, crossing his arms. “So you just let random guys move in with you now?”

“I didn’t—it’s not—” You groaned. “It’s a long story.”

Sunghoon, for some reason, felt the need to defend himself. “It’s not weird, okay? We barely even knew each other when I moved in.”

Mark snorted. “That makes it sound so much worse.”

Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it. Okay, fair.

You groaned again, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Mr. Kang is renting the second room to Sunghoon.”

“No way. Your studio?”, Mark asked and looked at Sunghoon as if he had personally had the intention to steal your studio from you. 

“Yeah. It’s all right though. I always knew he could rent it out to someone that will show up.”, you leaned against the counter next to Mark. 

Mark was still looking at Sunghoon, but his facial expression had changed from accusation to something that looked like interest.

“Anyway,” he said focusing back on you, “Do you wanna open the package? I am praying that Johnny put in some of those dope cookies from the bakery under his office. If he did, I am claiming one-half.”

At that, your face brightened again, and Sunghoon caught himself watching the shift in your expression again. 

The way your eyes widened, the slight bounce in your stance, the way you leaned in just a little closer to Mark.

Mark unzipped the bag and pulled out a medium-sized cardboard box, setting it on the counter with a slight thud.

Your hands were already on the tape, peeling it open. “You had four weeks to eat the cookies from ppangjib. You get one. Or maybe two."

Mark grinned. “Deal.”

Sunghoon, though still a little confused by the whole situation, couldn’t help but glance into the box as you pulled back the flaps. Inside were neatly packed bags of homemade snacks, a few small wrapped gifts, and a handwritten letter sitting on top.

You immediately grabbed the letter, unfolding it with the kind of excitement that was usually reserved for kids on Christmas morning.

While you skimmed it, Mark reached into the box and pulled out a small bag of yakgwa, grinning. “Oh, sick. Mom made you some yakgwa.”

“No way.” You grabbed the bag from him, grinning just as wide.

Sunghoon almost asked what was so special about it–but then he checked the time.

Shit.

He had to get to training.

With a sigh, he grabbed his shaker bottle and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I gotta head out,” he said, glancing between the two of you. “Enjoy your snacks.”

You looked up from the letter. “Oh–right! You have training tonight.”

He nodded, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mark, already chewing on a piece of yakgwa, gave him a lazy salute. “Have fun, man.”

Sunghoon huffed a small laugh before turning toward the door.  ──────────────────────── On the second Saturday after Sunghoon moved in, a soft knock on your door startled you from where you were curled up in your bed reading. “Yeah?” you called out, glancing toward the door. Sunghoon’s head appeared in the gap, his figure half-hidden behind the doorframe. “Hey,” he began, “a few of my friends want to come over and check out the apartment. Is that fine with you? I know you’ve got work tomorrow, but I promise we’ll keep it down when you want to head to bed.” You shifted slightly in your bed, sitting up to get a better look at him. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, and he seemed a little sheepish like he wasn’t sure whether he was imposing. You smiled, the question barely making you think. “Oh, that's not a problem, Sunghoon. You live here too, after all. It’s not like I’m going to stop you from having friends over.” You stretched a little, trying to shake off the sleepiness in your limbs. “I don’t mind at all. I’m just reading anyway. Besides, it’s your apartment too.” He relaxed at your response, the tension in his posture easing as he gave a small, appreciative nod. “Thanks,” he said, looking genuinely relieved. “I’ll let them know we’ll keep it low-key.”

You nodded, offering a small smile. “No worries. You do you.” Then, as an afterthought, you added, “Just don’t be too loud around midnight. I haven’t really had parties here so I don’t know if our neighbours are cool with noise or not?” He chuckled again. “Yeah, I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. “You can come hang out later. If you want to.” You nodded in acknowledgement, giving him a small wave. “Ah. Uhm. Thanks. But I think I’m good. I’ll sleep soon anyway.”

Sunghoon grinned and gave a quick nod before closing the door behind him, leaving you in peace once again. You could hear him bustling around in the kitchen, probably making snacks or food for him and his friends. It was kind of weird. To have someone in your apartment this long that wasn’t Mark. But Sunghoon wasn’t the worst person to live with. He was a very clean person and living together with him these past weeks was really peaceful. You kinda liked having someone around in the evenings. Sometimes, especially during the summer break, you feel a bit lonely. Sure you met some of your friends in the studio or the cinema, but you were working there, not hanging out. So your small conversations were very nice. He was listening to a lot of music and he seemingly enjoyed having his room door open, so whenever you read or sketched in the kitchen or living room you listened to the music he was playing. ──────────────────────── At some point in the evening, your stomach started to growl. You cursed yourself for not having eaten more for lunch. You could hear laughing and music from the living room. Your stomach wouldn’t stop growling so you begrudgingly put your book away and stood up from your bed. 

You hesitated for a moment when you reached your door. You weren’t really dressed for guests, let alone Sunghoon’s friends. You were still in your cosy striped pyjamas, hair braided messily from your earlier nap, and you hadn’t even bothered to put on any makeup. Your stomach growled again, which made you sign and push your door open. The laughter grew louder, and you could hear them chatting away in the kitchen.

As soon as you entered, four pairs of eyes turned to look at you.

Before you could even consider retreating, one of them looked up. He was tall, with sharp eyes and an easygoing smile. “Oh, hey!” he said like he wasn’t about to make your night significantly worse. “You must be Y/N.”

“Oh, uh–hi,” you said, your voice coming out slightly too high. Your fingers tugged nervously at your shirt.

Sunghoon turned to you, looking far too amused for your liking. “This is Jay, Heeseung, and Jake,” he said, nodding toward each of them. “Guys, this is Y/N.”

Heeseung leaned back against the couch. “Dude, your apartment is so nice,” he said. “Did you decorate it?”

You blinked. “Uh–what?”

“The apartment,” Jake chimed in, grinning. “It looks really good. Feels like a Pinterest board. My girlfriend would love it.”

“Oh! Um–yeah, I did?” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, shifting awkwardly. “I mean, I just… put some things together. I like interior stuff, so…”

“Man, Sunghoon lucked out,” Jay said, shaking his head. “My first roommate had, like, one folding chair and a mattress on the floor.”

“Hey!?”, Heeseung said and turned to Jay, “I was your first roommate?”

“Yeah. And we have been living in our dorm for 3 years now. The only reason why you have more than your bed and a keyboard collection is because your girl made you buy a rug and some decoration.”, Jay deadpanned. “How did she phrase it again? She was glad you have a big dick and that she loves you but you but if she had to look at that keyboard corner again she would throw all of them away?”

Jake and Sunghoon snorted while Heeseung tried to defend himself: ”I bought those with her, okay, my room looks fine you stupid piece of shit.”

“See I am really happy to have Y/N as my roommate. She has rugs and decorations. And a normal amount of keyboards.”, Sunghoon grinned at you. 

The guys laughed again, and you forced out a nervous chuckle.

“Oh, the paintings? Those are yours, right?” Jay asked, nodding toward the kitchen. “They’re sick.”

You had already been flustered enough–first with the whole walking into a room full of good-looking strangers in your pyjamas situation, then with them complimenting your decorating, and now this.

Your paintings.

It was weird hearing people—people other than your brother or your friends—talk about them, at least the ones you had hung up here and at home. You weren’t used to it. It felt like they were looking at something too personal, like flipping through a journal you hadn’t meant to leave out.

“She’s really good,” Sunghoon said, leaning back in his chair like he was enjoying this way too much. “But she gets all shy when people talk about it.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide with betrayal. He just grinned.

“Did you paint all of them?” Jay asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. Mostly last summer.”

“Damn,” Jake said, shaking his head. “That’s sick. I can barely draw a stick figure.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Thank you.”

Before you could recover, Sunghoon gestured toward the pizza box. “Are you hungry? We ordered way too much.”

“Oh–no, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I was just going to warm up something from the fridge.”

He just raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I swear this is so much and we are all supposed to watch over our diets. You’d be doing a good thing by stealing a slice or two.”, Jake said before stealing a gummy bear from Jay.

“…Maybe just one slice,” you mumbled.

Jake’s smile widened. “Sure, take as many as you want.”

He slid a plate toward you, and you shuffled over, still feeling painfully awkward. You perched on the arm of the couch next to Sunghoon, back stiff.

“Y/N.”, Heeseung leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “Are you coming to the beginning-of-the-semester party next Friday?”

You blinked. “The… what?”

Jay chuckled. “The semester opening party. Each semester one of the teams throws one, this semester it's the baseball players.”

“Oh.” You swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. You hadn’t even heard about it. You shifted slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I–um. I don’t really know. I usually work on Fridays, so…”

Jake tilted his head. “Yeah, Sunghoon did say you work a lot.”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated. You did work a lot. But it wasn’t like you didn’t have free time… you just never really did much with it.

Jake leaned in a little, his voice gentle. “If you don’t have work that night, you should come. It’s not, like, a crazy party or anything. Just fun. You can just hang out, meet some people.”

“You don’t even have to drink,” Jay added quickly. “I mean, most people do, but you don’t have to. There’s food. Music. It’s chill.”

You felt all their eyes on you, waiting for your answer. You shifted again, fingers curling around the edge of your plate.

“Oh. Um.” You wet your lips. “I’ll… think about it?”

Heeseung smiled, nodding. “That’s fair.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah, no pressure.” ──────────────────────── Except that, it was pressure. 

The hum of the popcorn machine filled the quiet lobby, the scent of butter lingering in the air. The morning shifts were always slow—just a few scattered customers, mostly older couples and parents wrangling excited kids. You handed a soda to a woman with two small boys, murmuring a polite “Enjoy your movie” as she thanked you and walked off.

Sunoo, who had been leaning against the counter snacking on popcorn, gave you a look. “Okay, spill.”

You frowned. “What?”

“You look weird.” He popped another kernel into his mouth. “A bit constipated. What are you thinking so deeply about? 

You hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “…It’s nothing.”

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

You exhaled, already knowing you weren’t going to get away with it. “…Sunghoon’s friends came over last night.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Heeseung, Jay, and Jake?”

You blinked surprised. “…How did you know?”

At the same time, you weren’t really surprised. Sunoo had a way of knowing everything and everyone. He was the definition of a social butterfly.

He grinned. “They’re his closest friends. He’s always with them.” Then, he leaned in. “Tell me more.”

You sighed, wiping your hands on a napkin. “It wasn’t a big deal. They just came over to see the apartment and hang out. I ran into them when I went to the kitchen.”

“And?” Sunoo prompted, eyes gleaming with interest.

“And… they were nice,” you admitted. “They complimented the apartment and–” you hesitated, then added reluctantly, “my paintings.”

Sunoo gasped dramatically. “No. Way.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, calm down.”

“No, because you get all shy when people talk about your art. How did you survive that?”

“I almost didn’t.” You groaned, covering your face. “Sunghoon called me out for being awkward about it.”

Sunoo cackled. “That is kind of funny.”

You shot him a glare. “Not to me.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, waving a hand. “And then?”

You hesitated for a moment before saying, “They… invited me to a party next week.”

Sunoo froze.

His expression went from shocked to utterly gobsmacked in less than a second. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Wait like, the sports team party?”

“…I think?”

He gawked at you. “You think? Y/N, do you even realize how exclusive those are? The end and beginning of semester parties are mostly for the teams and their close friends.” He leaned in. “It’s at a different frat house each semester, but you have to know people to get in.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “I guess… I know people now?”

Sunoo smacked your arm lightly. “Oh my god, this is huge.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is.” He placed a hand over his heart. “You have to take me with you.”

You groaned. “Sunoo–”

“Please.” His eyes widened. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We’d be insane not to go.”

You chewed on your lip. “I don’t know… I feel like I’d just be awkward.”

Sunoo softened slightly. “You might. But you might also have fun.”

You sighed.

“If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll leave with you,” he promised. “I swear.”

You hesitated before finally mumbling, “…I’ll think about it.”

Sunoo beamed. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Sunoo was not letting this go.

“You have to take me with you,” he said, gripping your wrist.

You groaned. “Sunoo.”

“Please.” His eyes widened dramatically. “Do you even understand what this means? This is like–like being invited to the Met Gala of frat parties.”

You gave him a look. “You are so dramatic.”

“Am I?” He scoffed. “Y/N, do you realize how hard it is to get into one of these? And you got invited. You!” He clutched his chest like he was about to faint.

You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Sunoo’s jaw dropped. “Not that big of a deal? Y/N, if I had even breathed in the direction of these parties before, I would’ve been escorted out.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. If not even Sunoo had been invited to one of these parties they probably were a big thing. Johnny was always talking about how he enjoyed going to parties. You loved hearing his and Taeyongs stories every time they came home. They did romanticize uni life a bit in your opinion. Or maybe you were just doing something wrong. Maybe you could try going to that party.  

Sunoos face softened slightly. “Look,” he said, “I get it. Big parties aren’t your thing. And, yeah, it might be overwhelming at first. But, Y/N, you deserve to have fun.”

“I do have fun,” you muttered.

Sunoo gave you a knowing look. “Working and studying doesn’t count.”

You sighed.

“If you don’t like it, we’ll leave,” he promised. “I swear. I won’t ditch you. But at least try.”

You hesitated, staring at the counter, before finally mumbling, “…Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Sunoo grinned like he had already won. “That’s all I needed to hear.” ──────────────────────── It was way too early when you made your way through the market, near your apartment. Despite it being 7:30 am, the market was already bustling with life. It was never truly empty, and if it was then the stall owners made sure that it was at least as loud as it is with customers there. The air smelled like fresh produce and spice but the closer you got to the stand you needed to go the more the air smelled like flowers. 

You stopped in front of a stall called ‘Spring Flowers Right Next to You' and greeted the elderly lady behind the stall with a warm smile. You stopped by once a week to buy your flowers, so the Ajumma greeted you with an even warmer smile. She reminded you a lot of your own grandmother. 

"Good morning, Ajumma," you said, stepping closer.

"Ah, Y/N!", her hands were arranging some petals. "It’s so lovely to see you again, my child. Do you have any particular flowers in mind today?"

“Not really. I think I’ll just buy whatever speaks to me today.”, you answered, softly shaking your head.

You walked slowly, taking your time to browse through the vibrant bouquets and paused in front of the pink peonies. You’ve always loved peonies, but you really didn’t feel like having to carry them around all day, since a bouquet was quite big and your working space in the studio was quite small. Maybe you could give them to the lady at the front desk again. You continued to wander until you reached the chrysanthemums. The yellow ones were beautiful today. You reached out to gently touch one, admiring how full they were. They would go well with the new painting you had in mind for the kitchen. Maybe you could finish that before the flowers wilted.

You gathered a few of the flowers and walked back to the ajumma. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Yellow chrysanthemums today, Y/N? You usually stay with less vibrant colours.” You hummed when she started wrapping the flowers in some old newspaper. “Yeah. I thought I should try something new.”

Her face grew more serious, though still warm. “Yellow chrysanthemums can symbolize caution or a warning.”

You frowned slightly, taking in the flowers again.  "Really?" You chuckled lightly, not taking it too seriously. "They’re so pretty, though."

The Ajumma gave you a small smile, "If you feel like buying them, then maybe be careful. Something might happen, my love."

You stared at her for a moment, unsure of how to react. "Oh," you said slowly. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” 

With a polite thank you, you paid and made your way out, chrysanthemums in hand.

As you left the market, the sunlight began to feel warmer, the air thick with the early morning heat.  ──────────────────────── When you arrived home, Sunghoon was already there, his sneakers discarded by the door. He glanced up from his phone as you walked in, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth when he noticed the flowers in your hands.

“Oh hey you bought new flowers.”, he said smiling at you. "They look nice."

You smiled softly, setting them down on the counter. "Yeah, I thought they’d brighten things up a bit. I usually tend to go with softer colors or white but somehow the yellow spoke to me this morning."

He came over, inspecting them with a thoughtful expression. "I like how you always have flowers around here. It makes it feel more... cozy, I guess."

You nodded, while reaching for a new vase. “I like the way they make the place feel, too."

The freesias that were sitting in the window still were still blooming. You reached over the sink and grabbed the old flowers, putting them into the living room and exchanging them with the new chrysanthemums. 

Sunghoon stood there for a moment, watching you work. He then shifted his weight, looking at you with a hint of curiosity. "So, have you thought about the party this weekend?"

You paused, your fingers lightly grazing the flowers in the vase as you considered his question. "I’m still not sure," you admitted softly, glancing up at him. "I mean, it’s just... I don’t know."

Sunghoon tilted his head, his eyes soft but insistent. "It’s going to be fun. You’ve been working so hard lately. You deserve to get out and relax." He stepped closer, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "Think of it as roommate bonding time. I'd love to see you outside of the apartment too. You know, I’ve only seen you in PJs and your work outfits. I don’t even know if you have anything in your closet that's not suit pants or a gigantic washed out T-shirt."

You felt heat creep up your neck. He really hasn’t seen you in any normal outfits yet. You haven’t been spending your free time outside a lot, so you never wore anything aside from working uniforms and Pyjamas. You hesitated, feeling a bit nervous about the idea, but considering he and Sunoo both claimed you should spend more time outside of work and uni you probably should. You knew you should. You just sometimes, okay most of the times, felt a bit uncomfortable and too tired for social interactions, especially when you had to meet new people. 

But the thought of spending time with Sunghoon outside the apartment  felt a little exciting. He was quite nice and maybe you could turn from roommates to friends. You always thought you would struggle more when living in a shared apartment but Sunghoon somehow made it easy. You always feared you would feel uncomfortable outside of your room but you liked having Sunghoon`s presence around.

"Okay," you said, surprising yourself. "I’ll go."

Sunghoon's grin widened, clearly pleased. "That’s the spirit! I’ll make sure it’s a good time, I promise." ──────────────────────── By the time Sunghoon made it home, he was done. 

Completely exhausted. 

His entire body ached from training and his wrist was throbbing. If he wanted to keep up with his competition and impress the scouts for the Olympic team, his execution had to be perfect.

Perfect footwork. Perfect jumps. Perfect landings.

Too bad he’d wiped out twice today.

And landed on his wrist, both times. The neon pink tape Wonyoung put onto it helped slightly with the pain.

With a sigh, Sunghoon kicked off his sneakers and slung his bag onto the floor, barely mustering the energy to shuffle further inside.

The apartment smelled faintly of paint.

When he looked up, he found you sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table, surrounded by brushes and tubes of oil paint. You were wearing an oversized lab coat with a few colourful smudges on the fabric. Your hair was in that same slightly messy braid you always did, a few strands falling loose around your face.

Sunghoon felt a strange, fleeting sense of familiarity at the sight. His younger sister used to wear her hair like that all the time, and at some point, she had forced him to learn how to braid too. He would also come home to find her sitting in front of the TV studying or eating hunched over the table. 

Instead of heading straight to his room like he normally would after a brutal training session, he walked over to the couch and let himself collapse onto it with a groan.

You looked up. “Tough day?”

He let out a short, humourless laugh. “You could say that.”

Your eyes flickered to his hands, and before he could stop you, you asked in a soft voice, “Did you fall?”

Sunghoon hesitated.

“Just a little.”

Your expression made it very clear you didn’t believe him.

“Okay, maybe more than a little,” he admitted, rubbing the sore spot on his wrist. “Coach keeps drilling me on this footwork section. It’s not even the hardest part of my program, but I swear I’m losing my mind.”

You hummed in understanding, but your attention was already back on your painting.

That was fine. Sunghoon didn’t need a response. He just needed to sit here and let his brain switch off. It was nice that you were out of your room again. Usually, he didn’t see that much of you but you seemed to feel a bit more comfortable around him now, so you were more in the shared rooms of the apartment. 

His eyes drifted back to the TV, catching sight of a painfully dramatic scene. The female lead was running in the rain, and the male lead was standing there, staring after her.

A few minutes passed before he finally asked, “What are you working on?”

You glanced at him, surprised. “It’s part of a series I’m doing.”

“Series?”

You nodded, hesitating a little before explaining, “I’ve been painting dishes from my childhood. Meals I grew up with, the ones that remind me of home.” You gestured toward your canvas. “This one is my mom’s kimchi jjigae. She used to make it whenever someone had a bad day.”

Sunghoon stared at the painting for a moment.

“That’s… really cool,” he found himself saying.

You blinked at him, clearly not expecting that either.

“Thanks,” you murmured, going back to your work.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the only sound coming from the TV.  ──────────────────────── You yawned while opening the door, stepping into the apartment and kicking off your shoes. Work had drained you, and the thought of going to a party tonight made you feel even more exhausted. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or just the lingering headache, but either way, you needed a break before even thinking about getting ready.

“Hey,” you mumbled, rubbing at your temples. “I think I’m gonna nap for an hour before we go. Is that okay? I could also just drink a cup of coffee if not.”

Sunghoon, who was lounging on the couch with his phone, looked up from the screen and nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want to get there on time anyway.”

“Oh. Okay. When do you want to be there?”, you asked, a bit unsure as to when coming to a party was appropriate. 

“Around ten? Maybe eleven? Imma ask the others but probably around that time. You will even have time to get ready. Gotta impress the jocks, don’t we, Y/Ncasso?”, he smirked at you. 

“Oh. I wasn’t really planning on doing that?”, you said, shrugging and Sunghoon chuckled at that.

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you went straight to your room, shutting the door quietly behind you. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you let out a long sigh. You tried to push aside the anxiety gnawing at your stomach. You hadn't been to many parties before, especially ones like this. You closed your eyes and let yourself drift off.

About an hour later, you reluctantly pulled yourself out of bed. Your head was still heavy, the migraine a constant throb beneath your temples. You could feel your nerves creeping back up as you walked out of your room, rubbing your eyes.

“Hey, Sunghoon,” you said, standing in the bathroom doorway. Sunghoon was already getting ready, styling his hair in the mirror. You gave him a small smile, trying to push away the nervousness in your chest.

“I don’t wanna drink a lot tonight,” you said, your voice a little softer than you would have liked. "Is that okay?"

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, a smirk spreading across his face. “Why? Are you a lightweight?”

You rolled your eyes but felt the flush creeping up your neck. “I’m just asking. I don’t really drink much at all.”

He leaned against the sink, looking you up and down with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Y/N, you’re seriously asking if it’s cool to not drink a lot? What kind of question is that? It’s just a party. You’ll be fine.”

You bit your lip, still feeling a little uneasy about the whole idea of the party. “It’s just... I don’t know. I’ve not really been to many parties.”

Sunghoon’s face softened. “You don’t have to worry. It’s gonna be fun, alright? You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. We’re just hanging out. I’ll make sure you’re not left to fend for yourself and Sunoo will also be there. If you feel uncomfortable I’ll bring you home, I promise.”

The soft, almost protective tone he used made you relax a little, and your anxiety loosened just enough for you to take a deep breath. You nodded.

“Okay. Thank you.”

He laughed slightly and turned back to the mirror. “Always. Don’t stress, alright? It's just a party. There is going to be lots of drunk people and no one will notice if you don’t drink. They will be too busy getting drunk.”

You smiled, though it was still a little tight around the edges. Sunghoon caught your glance and, after a moment of silence, his expression softened into something more reassuring. 

“Come on, it’s going to be okay, yeah? We’ll get there, and we’ll just hang out. You’ll be alright, I promise.”

You gave a reluctant nod, grateful for his words. You stretched out, trying to shake off the drowsiness, and took a deep breath.

"Okay. I’m going to eat the rest of the kimchi jiggae from yesterday and then change." ──────────────────────── The moment you stepped into the house, the overwhelming mix of loud music, sweaty bodies, and flashing lights hit you all at once. The air smelled like alcohol, something vaguely fruity, and whatever cologne the guy who just stumbled past you had drenched himself in.

You were already regretting this.

Before you could fully process your surroundings, a loud voice called out: “Y/N!!!”

You barely had time to react before Jake launched himself at you, arms wrapping around you in an enthusiastic, borderline crushing hug.

You froze immediately. Your arms stayed stiff at your sides as Jake rocked you side to side, laughing and giggling.

“Oh my God,” he slurred. “I knew you’d come! I told Sunghoon you were gonna come!”

Your eyes darted around, searching for Sunghoon and you stared at him in a plea for help.

Sunghoon, being the absolutely useless person he was, was not helping. Instead, he stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching you with a big, shit-eating grin.

You glared at him. He just smiled wider.

Hesitantly, you lifted a hand and gave Jake a few awkward pats on the back and he beamed. He finally pulled away just as Jay approached. Unlike Jake, he didn’t tackle you. He just gave you a half-hug, clapping your shoulder lightly. “Glad you came,” he said with an easygoing smile.

You managed a small nod, still recovering from the ambush hug. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.”

Before you could even take a breath, another person appeared, practically draping herself over Jay’s side.

“Baaaby,” she whined, stretching the word out dramatically. “I want more shots.”

Jake, who had just released you from his bear hug, perked up immediately. “Oh yes, shots!” he cheered, eyes shining.

Jay turned to the girl with a rather lovesick smile. “What do you want, baby?.”

“Vodka? Tequila? I don’t care.”, she shrugged. 

Sunghoon leaned down slightly so you could hear him over the music. “That’s Jay’s girlfriend,” he murmured, nodding towards the girl. “She and Jake together are, like, dumb and dumber when they’re drunk.”

You raised an eyebrow, watching as the two of them clung to each other, giggling over something completely unintelligible.

“They seem… enthusiastic,” you said hesitantly.

Sunghoon snorted. “They are. Jake’s girlfriend is probably off getting high somewhere, so later we just have to deal with dumb, dumber, and dumbest and whoever they rope into their mess.”

Oh. This really sounded like one of the parties Johnny used to tell you about. Somehow you felt a bit weird being surrounded by all of these strangers being drunk. Usually, you only drank with your friends at home or in a restaurant, so this was something completely new. You opened your mouth to respond to Sunghoon but were interrupted by cheers that echoed through the whole house, coming from different directions.

“Katy shot!” Jake bellowed.

“Katy shot!” Jay’s girlfriend echoed, nodding enthusiastically. You were glad Jay had her arm around her since she seemed a bit wonky on her legs.

Before you could even ask what was happening, a guy materialized out of thin air with a vodka bottle and a stack of shot cups, moving with the efficiency of someone who had clearly done this a thousand times before. The others were cheering on him and he was laughing like some kind of a lunatic. 

One by one, he poured shots and handed them out, barely even looking as he passed them around.

And then, before you could even protest, he shoved a shot glass into your hand, too.

You blinked down at the clear liquid.

“What,” you said flatly.

Sunghoon, standing next to you, huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s a thing for the hockey players,” he explained. “Every time a Katy Perry song plays, they take a shot.”

“…Why?”

He shrugged. “Tradition.”

You glanced back up at the others, who were all now holding their shots high in the air, looking at you expectantly.

“To Katy!” someone announced.

“To Katy!” the rest echoed.

You turned to Sunghoon again.

He leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You don’t have to drink it, you know.”

You bit your lip. You had told him earlier that you didn’t want to drink much tonight. But… it was just one shot. And everyone was looking at you expectantly.

So, before you could overthink it, you raised your glass and knocked it back.

The vodka burned on the way down, and you barely had time to process it before the other girl cheered, Jake clapped you on the back, and Jay grinned.

Sunghoon just shook his head and took his shot. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon was leaning against the sofa, half-listening to Jay argue with Jake about their next beer pong shot. His own cup sat untouched beside him. He was pacing himself, knowing he had practice tomorrow and he did not intend to show up hung over. His coach was already on him for falling last week so he didn’t want to even try his luck and skate hungover. The music thumped through the house, bass vibrating beneath his feet, and the heat of too many bodies in a small space was starting to get to him.

He glanced over at you, watching as you hesitated before stepping closer.

“Sunoo is here,” you said, raising your voice slightly over the music. “I’m gonna go find him.”

Sunghoon nodded. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said smiling at you.

As you disappeared into the crowd, he turned back to Jay and Jake, who were still discussing their game strategy. Sunghoon took a sip of his drink, sighing as he tuned them out. For a while, he let himself get caught up in the game. He played a round of beer pong, winning against Jake, who was way too drunk to aim properly, before getting pulled into a conversation with some of Jay’s friends. But even as he talked, he found his eyes drifting back to you.

You were with whom he assumed to be Sunoo, just as you said you’d be, laughing at something one of the baseball players said, that came in with Sunoo. Sunghoon recognized a few of them vaguely. He watched as one of them, a little taller than the rest, leaned in slightly while talking to you.

Sunghoon wasn’t sure why, but something about it made his jaw tighten as he saw you taking a slight step back, your smile reverting back to the small reserved ones you always had when you were uncomfortable or felt especially shy. He hasn’t seen that in quite a while now.

He shook the word feeling off, going back to his drink. You were fine. 

Then, a few minutes later, the guy stood up and made his way toward the kitchen.

He watched as the guy grabbed a couple of cups and a few bottles from the counter.

He handed out the cups and to Sunghoons surprise you also took one cup. You hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it, your fingers barely brushing against the cup.

You weren’t smiling as much anymore. You weren’t laughing like you had been with Sunoo. Your shoulders seemed a little stiffer now, your weight shifting slightly as if you were debating stepping back.

Sunghoon frowned, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup.

You were uncomfortable. He could tell.

And suddenly, guilt crept up his spine.

You didn’t even want to come in the first place.

He had been the one to convince you. 

And now here you were, standing in the middle of a room full of people you barely knew, clutching a drink you probably didn’t even want.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, setting his cup down on the counter with a soft thud. He didn’t know if he was overthinking things, but he did tell you that if you felt uncomfortable he or his friends would help you out.

So casually he started making his way toward you. Sunghoon had barely taken a step toward you when a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

“Park,” a familiar voice drawled.

He turned to see Hyunjin, one of the more senior skaters. Despite the loud music and chaotic energy of the party, Hyunjin looked as relaxed as ever, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

“Haven’t seen you drink much,” Hyunjin noted, tilting his own half-empty cup toward Sunghoon. “You’re really out here being responsible?”

Sunghoon snorted. “Some of us have practice tomorrow.”

Hyunjin laughed, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have told coach you are trying out for the Olympics. He’s already making you run that new program into the ground.”

Sunghoon hummed in agreement, but his attention was already elsewhere.

Across the room, you were still standing with that guy. Sunghoon didn’t know his name but he was talking to you with a bit too much interest, hands moving animatedly as he spoke.

You weren’t saying much. Sunghoon had come to know you well enough to recognize when you were just being polite. The way your shoulders stayed stiff, the way your fingers fidgeted slightly at your side. 

Sunghoon forced himself to look away. Maybe you were interested and just didn’t know how to react. Hell, he knew best how awkward you could be when you met new people. He was just overthinking things.

He shifted his weight, keeping one ear on whatever Hyunjin was saying while his eyes flickered back to you.

Hyunjin snapped his fingers in front of Sunghoon’s face. “Hello? Are you even listening?”

Sunghoon blinked, forcing himself to focus. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Sunghoon exhaled through his nose, glancing at you once more. “Yeah. I am just a bit tired.”──────────────────────── The music thudded in your chest, vibrating through your bones. Your head was pounding, your vision blurry, and there was a weird, giddy sensation bubbling up in you like everything was too funny. You didn’t feel like yourself.

Your hand was still gripping your drink. You tried to concentrate on his words, but the pounding in your head was intensifying. It wasn’t unusual for you to get a migraine, especially with the noise and lights in a place like this. It felt like your mouth was moving without you even thinking about it when you were answering whatever question Injang just asked.

“So, what brings you here tonight?” He asked, leaning in slightly, his voice a little too loud to make it easy to follow.

You could feel his eyes on you, more intent than necessary. “Um... I came with Sunghoon? He’s my roommate.”

“Ah, cool. You two must be close,” he said, his grin widening. “How long have you known each other?”

You tried to concentrate on his words, but the pounding in your head was intensifying. “I—I don’t know, a few weeks?” you replied, your voice trailing off into a giggle.

He continued asking questions, and you tried your best to follow along, giving short, vague answers. Your thoughts felt slow, fuzzy, and your vision started to swim a little, but you chalked it up to the headache that was now making its presence known.

“Hey, Y/N, you sure you’re okay?” Injang’s voice broke through the fuzz. His proximity was suddenly too much, his words a little too loud, and yet it made you want to giggle like there was something funny about how he was looking at you, how close he was.

You blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the haze in your brain, but instead, the dizziness swirled, the world spinning around you.

“I... I’m fine, I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to reassure him, though you weren’t even sure you believed it. Your words were slurred, and you felt the giggles bubbling up, like a laugh track in your head, though there was nothing funny happening.

He kept leaning in, his hand brushing your arm, his smirk growing wider. You tried to focus on him, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the pressure in your skull and the odd sense of lightness in your limbs.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again, leaning even closer, and you could feel his breath on your face. His voice sounded like it was echoing from far away. Your mouth felt dry, but you still wanted to laugh. It was all so weird.

“I... yeah,” you giggled softly, barely able to catch your breath. It was so hard to keep it together. “I’m just... I’m just a little tired, y’know? Need... water...” You tried to push past him, but your legs felt unsteady, as though they weren’t entirely yours. You could hardly keep your balance, and the noise became so much louder like it was vibrating inside your skull. You placed a hand on the wall for support, just trying to stay on your feet. The room was spinning, and you tried to focus, to remember where the kitchen was, but it felt like you had to move through molasses. Your vision blurred at the edges, but you focused on the thought of just getting some water, something to cool down the spinning in your head. You leaned against the wall to steady yourself, the world around you tilting sideways.

But before you could move, you felt his hand again. This time, it wasn’t just a touch; it was a grip, his fingers wrapping around your waist, pulling you back. You tried to tug away, but your body wasn’t listening.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out, alright? You don’t have to be so shy,” Injang’s voice was thick now, too close for comfort. His touch sent an uncomfortable shiver through you.

Everything felt wrong, but you were too tired to fight it. The giggles still threatened to slip from your mouth, but you pushed them down. You knew you needed to get away from him, but every part of you felt so heavy, and your movements weren’t your own. You were trapped in this slow, sluggish fog.

You tried to move away from him, but your body wasn’t responding the way it should, your feet dragging with each slow step. "Seriously, Y/N, you're cute when you're all quiet like this," he continued, stepping even closer until you could feel the heat of his body at your back. "I’m just worried about you. You sure you’re not feeling anything... weird?" 

You flinched, trying to pull away, but he kept his grip, his fingers brushing down to your waist in a way that made you feel exposed and uncomfortable. “Come on, don't be shy. It's just a party. We’re just having fun, right?” His voice was low and thick like it was supposed to be reassuring, but it just made your stomach twist in on itself. Everything felt off. This wasn’t right. Your thoughts were foggy, too confused to make sense of it, but you knew enough to feel uncomfortable. You barely registered that your feet were still dragging, moving you backwards towards the counter, away from him.

But before you could get any farther, you heard loud voices—like shouting—though it sounded muffled, distorted. Then, you heard Sunghoon's voice cut through the noise. “Get your hands off her. Now.” Your heart picked up speed, your pulse pounding in your ears. 

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, barely able to keep your eyes open, the words slipping out without you even meaning to speak them. You thought you heard a shuffle of footsteps, the sound of someone else stumbling, but your vision was swimming again, too blurred to catch the full picture. You vaguely made out Sunghoon moving closer, his shadow blocking out the light from the hallway. "Did I fucking stutter? I said, get off her," Sunghoon growled, the anger in his tone clear now. Injang didn’t let go immediately. You could hear him chuckling, but it was shaky and nervous, and you felt him try to touch your arm again. “I was just trying to... you know... be friendly.”

“Friendly?”, Sunghoon spat, “This is not friendly.”

The next thing you knew, there was a quick movement. But before you could do much else, your knees buckled. The sound of the voices and the music became distorted again like you were hearing it underwater. You tried to take a step forward, but your body didn’t listen to you, and in a blink, everything went black. ──────────────────────── The moment you collapsed, it was like time stopped. Your body crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll. Sunghoon barely managed to catch you in time, feeling the weight of your body press into him as you fell limp in his arms. His heart slammed in his chest. 

"Y/N?" he shook you gently, but you didn’t respond. Your head flopped back, your eyes closed, and your face was pale.

What the fuck was going on?

"Someone call 112!" Sunghoon yelled. He held you against him, trying to shake you awake, but you remained unresponsive. “Y/N? Y/N, wake up!”

The kitchen had gone eerily silent, the music and chatter fading into the background. The people around him were now all staring.

Sunoo had been standing at the edge of the room, just a few feet away when it all went down. 

"Oh my god," he gasped, as he rushed forward.

He knelt beside Sunghoon, his breath coming in short, shaky bursts. His eyes flickered between Sunghoon and you.

"What happened to her? What's wrong with her?" Sunoo’s voice was panicked. His gaze darted between your pale face and Sunghoon’s frantic movements. Sunghoon carefully laid you down on the floor and onto your side. He checked your pulse, your breathing and that if you threw up you wouldn’t choke on your vomit.

Sunghoon's mind raced as he tried to figure out what could have happened. You had been fine when you came here. You said your migraine had been getting worse after a while at the party you, but you wouldn’t faint from a headache. Not this quickly. Something else was going on.

He looked around the room, eyes searching for the guy who had been sticking so damn close to you earlier. His hands were shaking as he tried to make sense of the situation.

"Call 112," he shouted at Sunoo, pushing through the growing panic. "Call 112, now!"

Sunghoon’s voice was firm despite the rising panic. “She’s been drugged,” he said through clenched teeth. "She didn't drink with me. And I didn’t see her take more than two sips of her drink afterwards.”

Sunoo’s eyes went wide with disbelief, his hands hovering over you like he was too scared to touch you. “What? No. No, this can’t be happening. I- she- she was fine just a few minutes ago.” His voice cracked, the fear and shock written all over his face. He carefully took your face into his hands. “Y/N, wake up. Wake up,” he muttered.

Sunghoon looked around the room again, his eyes searching for Injang. He had to be the one responsible.

He turned to Sunoo. “Stay with her,” he commanded. “Don’t leave her, alright? I’ll find that guy.”

Sunoo nodded, his face pale, his lips pressed into a tight line. Sunghoon pushed through the crowd, the noise and the panic rising as more people realized what was going on.

When he spotted Injang near the back of the living room, casually laughing with his friends as if nothing had happened, Sunghoon’s blood boiled. Without thinking, he rushed over, grabbing Injang by the collar and yanking him around to face him.

"What the hell did you do to her?" Sunghoon’s voice was low, tight with anger. "What did you give her?"

Injang, looking completely unfazed, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “What? I didn’t do anything to her,” he said, his voice laced with a mocking sweetness. “She’s just drunk, man. Chill out.”

Sunghoon’s grip tightened and he pulled him closer. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he hissed. “I saw how you were with her. She’s not just drunk. You drugged her.”

Injang’s smirk only grew wider, and he shrugged nonchalantly. “You know, she’s a shy little thing, right? Pretty cute, too. I thought it’d be funny. Nothing too serious.” He leaned in a nasty gleam in his eyes. “It wasn’t like I wanted to rape her, dude. Just a little fun. You know, loosen her up a bit. She is just a lightweight I guess.”

Sunghoon felt his stomach twist in disgust. His vision blurred with anger. "You think this is funny?" he growled, stepping closer, his voice dangerously calm. "You think what you did is some sort of joke?"

Injang scoffed, clearly unfazed by Sunghoon's fury. "Relax, man. She’s just a little buzzed. Nothing serious happened." His tone was dismissive as if he was still trying to downplay the situation as some harmless prank.

Sunghoon's chest tightened with rage. "Nothing serious happened? She is unconscious!”

Injang's smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, shrugging nonchalantly. "Whatever, man. Don’t be so dramatic. It was just a little harmless fun–"

He was stammering, trying to back away from Sunghoon. 

“Sunghoon, stop!” Hyunjin’s voice reached him just in time before he could shove his fist into Injangs face.

Sunghoon turned to see Hyunjin standing behind him, holding his arms up in a way that was meant to stop him. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Hyunjin?” Sunghoon snapped, furious at him for getting in the way. “This shithead drugged Y/N.”

“Sunghoon, listen to me,” Hyunjin said, stepping closer. “If you hit him, it’s going to fuck up your chances for the Olympics. Let the police handle this. You have enough evidence that will get him into trouble.”

Sunghoon stared at Hyunjin, his hands trembling with the urge to knock Injang’s teeth out. His entire body was on fire, adrenaline pumping through his veins. But Hyunjin was right. As much as Sunghoon hated it, he was right.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around nothing as he reluctantly let go of Injang. “You’re lucky I’m listening to him,” Sunghoon muttered, his voice barely controlled.

Injang took a step back, his face pale and sweaty now.

The sound of sirens grew louder in the background, and Sunghoon pushed past Hyunjin to get back to you.

Sunoo was still kneeling beside you, looking helpless, his hands hovering over your body as if trying to figure out what he could do to help

Sunghoon crouched down next to you, watching as your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon sat in the back of the taxi, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. His mind was still racing, his pulse hammering in his ears as the city lights blurred past the window. His body moved on autopilot as the taxi finally pulled up in front of the hospital. He couldn't get the image of you collapsing out of his head the way you crumpled to the floor, lifeless in his arms. He insisted on coming to the hospital but wanted Sunoo to be with you in the ambulance, just in case you woke up. The chances were low but he didn’t want you to be with him. You barely knew each other. Heeseung asked him if he should come along, Jake and Jay also tried but those two already drank too much to survive a car ride without throwing up. He declined Heeseungs offer, Sunoo would be there and Mark would also be there. Sunoo called him the second you had been securely lying in the ambulance.

He barely remembered paying the driver before rushing inside, the sterile scent of antiseptic and bright fluorescent lights making his head pound. He wasn’t as sober as he wished he would be. 

The waiting area was quiet except for the distant beeping of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses. It didn't take much of an effort to find Sunoo.

He was curled up in one of the plastic chairs, elbows resting on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, and when he looked up at Sunghoon, his eyes were bloodshot.

Sunghoon hesitated before stepping closer. "Any news?"

Sunoo shook his head, wiping at his face with his sleeve. His voice was hoarse. "She's stable, but she's not awake. They-they said it's GHB." His breath hitched slightly. "It's gonna take time for it to wear off."

Sunghoon felt his stomach twist. Before he could say anything else, the doors to the waiting room swung open, and Mark rushed in, looking like he had just thrown on the first clothes he could find. His hoodie was inside out, and his sweatpants were wrinkled like he had just rolled out of bed, which made sense, it was nearly 2 AM.

Mark's eyes immediately found Sunghoon's. "Where is she?"

Sunghoon gestured toward the hallway leading to the ICU. "They're still monitoring her."

Mark let out a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting heavily in the chair next to Sunoo.

Mark's voice was shaky when he asked, "What happened?"

Sunghoon took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he spoke. "Y/N fainted. The doctors say she's stable now, but she's still unconscious. She's been drugged. They found GHB in her system."

Mark let out a soft, guttural sound of disbelief, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair as he processed the words. His face was a mask of shock, confusion, and rage all mixed together. "She was drugged?" Mark repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "Who the hell would do something like this?"

Sunghoon clenched his jaw, the memory of Injang's smug face flashing in his mind. "Some asshole at the party. I confronted him before the cops came. He acted like it was funny." His fists tightened.

Mark lifted his head, his face eerily blank. "What's his name?" 

Sunghoon hesitated. "Mark-"

"What's his name, Sunghoon?" Mark repeated, his voice sharper now.

Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. The police took him in."

Mark's expression was unreadable, but before he could press further a nurse came up to them.

"Mr. Lee?", she asked as she approached them.

"Yes.", Mark stood up immediately.

"Y/N is stable," she said gently. "We've been monitoring her closely, and her vitals are steady. She hasn't woken up yet, but we'll continue to keep a close eye on her. Lucky the dose she digested was small and she ate something before going to the party."

"Can we go in and see her?"

The nurse hesitated, then nodded. "You can, but please be as quiet as possible. She's still unconscious, and we don't want to overwhelm her."

They followed her down the hospital corridors, the sterile smell of disinfectant in the air.

The nurse carefully opened the door to your room. You were lying motionless in the bed, your face pale beneath the hospital sheets and an oxygen mask was resting gently over your nose. The soft beeping of the machines filled the room.

Mark seemed at a loss for words, as he walked to your bed and gently took your hand into his hand. “She is going to be alright, right?”, he whispered.

“Definitely.”, the nurse nodded, “She might be confused and shocked when she wakes up and may experience side effects of the antidote, but she will be alright.”

Mark slightly nodded his head and caressed your hand. "I grabbed a T-shirt and some joggers. I thought... I thought she might want something comfortable when she wakes up."

Sunghoon glanced over at the bag Mark had brought and hummed slightly. 

“That’s really nice of you. We handed her clothing to the police, so they can take it in for evidence collection.”, the nurse smiled at Mark. “You can stay in here for a while, just please don’t try to wake her up.”

The three men nodded and Sunghoon watched the woman leave the small room. Sunoo signed and pulled one chair closer to your bed. Mark sat down next to you on the bed while Sunghoon stayed at the end of your bed. He felt weird and guilty, for being here, for his friends asking you to come, for him to not pay more attention. 

There was a long silence before Sunoo sniffled.  "I don't know what happened, Mark. She was fine. We were just hanging out, talking to some of the baseball guys I know and then she….. she just collapsed. I shouldn’t have let her drink something we didn’t watch being made. But he brought everyone a cup."

Mark shook his head, he was still carefully holding your hand, petting its backside. "It's okay Sunoo, it's not your fault that this happened." 

Thick silence filled the room again. Sunoo occasionally reached out to adjust the blankets around you, his eyes never leaving your face. It was as if no one could speak of what was actually happening, so they stayed silent instead.

Sunghoon had never felt so helpless in his life. He kept glancing at you, watching the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Every time the beeping of the monitor shifted, his heart skipped a beat, thinking for a second that something had changed. He also couldn’t imagine being in Mark's position. If Yeji was laying here, pale and motionless –drugged– his whole world would end. 

Minutes turned to hours, and yet, nothing changed. The night dragged on, and the three of them sat, waiting, watching, doing nothing but hope. Neither of them left your side. The hospital staff came in and out, checking your vitals, assuring them that you would wake up, your body just needed time. There was nothing to do but wait. ──────────────────────── Darkness.

That was the first thing you registered. Heavy, suffocating darkness clung to you like a thick fog, making it impossible to think, impossible to move. Your body felt foreign—like it wasn’t yours at all. Your limbs felt sluggish and your head was pounding.

Then came the sound. Distant at first, like you were hearing everything from underwater. A rhythmic beeping. The faint hum of voices. Someone shifting beside you.

You tried to move, but your body refused to cooperate. Your fingers twitched slightly against the sheets and a noise escaped your lips.

The beeping grew louder. The voices became clearer.

“…think she’s waking up.”

A hand brushed against yours, hesitant and warm.

“Y/N?”

You forced your eyes open, but the brightness was overwhelming. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through your skull, and you let out a quiet whimper, squeezing them shut again.

“She needs a doctor—someone get a nurse!”, a voice said, more urgent this time.

Footsteps hurried away.

You tried again, forcing your lashes to flutter open. The light was still too much, but this time, your vision wasn’t completely useless. Shapes. Shadows. A blurry figure leaning over you.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” someone murmured, their tone softer now.

You blinked a few times, and slowly, painfully, the world started to come into focus.

Sunoo.

His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles beneath them like he hadn’t slept in days. His fingers were trembling against your hand.

Behind him, other figures began to materialize.

Mark? Sunghoon?

Your sluggish mind tried to piece things together, but it felt like you were missing something. Everything was hazy. The last thing you remembered was the party. The bright lights, the pounding music, the way your head had started to spin. And then… nothing. Just a void.

Your throat felt raw when you tried to speak. “Wha—?”

“Don’t talk yet,” Mark cut in quickly, leaning forward. His hair was messy, and he looked like he had been dragged out of bed. “You’re in the hospital.”

Hospital?

Your fingers twitched again, trying to push yourself up, but your body didn’t cooperate. Everything was too heavy.

You swallowed, forcing the words out. “What… happened?”

Sunoo squeezed your hand. His lips parted, but for a second, he hesitated, like he didn’t know how to say it.

Sunghoon was the one who finally answered. His voice was low, careful. “You were drugged.”

Drugged?

Your eyes darted between them, searching their faces for some kind of explanation, some kind of reassurance that this was a misunderstanding, that they were wrong.

But Mark’s jaw was clenched. Sunoo’s fingers were still shaking and Sunghoon’s face was unreadable.

A cold sensation washed over you, creeping up your spine.

Drugged.

Your stomach twisted violently.

A shuffle at the doorway made you turn your head slightly. A nurse had entered, a clipboard in hand,

“Y/N,” she said with a small smile, stepping closer to check the monitor beside your bed. “How are you feeling?”

You opened your mouth, but for a moment, no words came out. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what you felt.

“…Heavy,” you managed weakly. “Tired.”

The nurse hummed in understanding. “That’s normal. The drug is still leaving your system, but your vitals are stable. Do you remember anything?”

Your mind scrambled for an answer, but there was nothing. Just fragments.

“I…” Your throat tightened. “Not really.”

She nodded, scribbling something onto the clipboard. “That’s expected. Your body reacted well to the fluids, and the tests showed a relatively low dose, but it’s still disorienting.” Her eyes softened slightly. "I will bring you something to drink and then we will have to draw a bit of blood to send to the lab again."

You just nodded and watched her leave the room.

Mark leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “You scared the hell out of us.” His voice cracked slightly. “I thought—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Sunoo was silent, but his hand trembled against yours. When you turned to look at him, you saw that his bottom lip was pressed tightly together, his eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Then, quietly, almost too softly to hear, he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Your chest ached at the way his voice broke.

“I shouldn’t have convinced you to go,” he continued, his fingers tightening around yours. “You didn’t even want to. I–I wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve been watching out for you. I should’ve–”

“Sunoo,” you cut him off, your voice was still hoarse and talking was uncomfortable. “No.”

He shook his head. “But–”

“No,” you said again, stronger this time. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Sunoo let out a sharp breath, looking down at your joined hands. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away hastily.

“If anything, I shouldn’t have just taken a drink from someone I didn’t know.” You tried to give him a small smile. “That was stupid of me.”

Mark tensed. “Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Blame yourself.” His voice was firm. “You shouldn’t have to watch your drink like a hawk just to be safe. This isn’t on you.”

At the foot of the bed, Sunghoon, who had been mostly silent, finally spoke up. “Mark’s right.” His hands were clasping the end of your bed. “If anyone’s at fault, it’s that bastard who did this to you. Not you. Not Sunoo.” He exhaled heavily. “I wish I could’ve hit that asshole.”

You blinked at him, a little surprised at the sudden shift in his tone. 

Mark exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re gonna have to call Mom and Dad,” he murmured.

Your stomach dropped. He told your parents? Your mom must be worried sick right now. They never admitted it but your parents were always a lot more careful with you, compared to your brothers.

Mark must have seen the way your face fell because he quickly added, “You don’t have to do it right now. Just… at some point.”

You nodded numbly.

Sunghoon shifted slightly, the rings on his fingers clicking against the metal of the bed. “We already gave our statements to the police,” he told you. “But they’ll want to talk to you too.”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t even know what to tell them. Whatever happened at the party was gone. You could barely remember getting there, so what were you supposed to tell the police? 

Mark hesitated before speaking again. “The guy who did it… Injang. The police took him in.”

You tried to put a face to that name. Sunoo sniffled quietly beside you, his head bowed.

You squeezed his hand, again and tried to ignore the overwhelming wave of emotions that threatened to crash over you. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone right now.

Mark sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You should get some more sleep. I’ll wake you when the nurse returns,” he murmured.

You weren’t sure if you could sleep, not with your heart still hammering in your chest, but you nodded anyway. ──────────────────────── The rest of the day passed in a blur.

The hospital staff checked in on you frequently, making sure you were eating, and drinking, and that the drug was fully leaving your system. Your body still felt sluggish, like moving through water, and your head pounded in a dull, persistent ache. It really did feel like the worst hangover of your life, except this time, you hadn’t even earned it.

By the time the evening rolled around, you were discharged with strict instructions to rest, stay hydrated, and come back if anything felt off. Mark refused to let you go home alone.

So Mark, Sunghoon, who was weirdly invested in “Tomorrow” and you settled into the couch in your living room, the TV casting a soft glow across the dimly lit living room. Mark had insisted on watching the episodes you missed, hoping it would distract you, but honestly, you could barely focus.

Your whole body still felt off. Heavy. Sluggish. Every movement required double the effort. It felt like there was a fog over everything, making it impossible to think too hard or even process what had happened.

So you just… sat there. Curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in the blanket Mark had thrown over you the second you walked into the apartment. Your body felt hot and cold at the same time. The AC was still running so the apartment was not as uncomfortably hot as the air outside, but somehow the cold didn’t feel comfortable either. 

Mark and Sunghoon were having way too much fun making fun of the show.

“Why does he run like that?” Sunghoon snorted.

Mark shook his head dramatically. “Man’s fighting for his life, and you’re worried about his running form?”

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be scared if someone chased me like that.”

Mark let out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh my god he is such an idiot. Look at him! He had one job, and now–yep. Yep. He’s dead.”

Sunghoon shook his head. “Deserved.”

Mark turned to you, expectantly. “Right, Y/N?”

You blinked slowly, trying to focus on their conversation. “Huh?”

Mark’s teasing expression faltered slightly. His eyes softened. “Never mind,” he said gently. “You tired?”

You nodded, barely holding back a yawn.

Mark reached for the remote, lowering the volume. “You should sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

You were about to agree, but when you tried to move, your entire body protested. Even sitting up felt like too much effort. You groaned softly, dropping your head back onto the couch. “I wanna continue watching. I’ll go to bed after the episode.”

Mark hummed in agreement and turned back to the TV.

Somewhere in the middle of the episode, your body gave in to exhaustion.

You woke up in the middle of the night. It took you a moment to realize you were curled into Mark’s side, your head resting against his chest. His arm was draped over you protectively, his slow, steady breathing the only sound in the quiet room. You adjusted slightly and closed your eyes again.  ──────────────────────── The apartment was quiet. 

Sunghoon stood in the kitchen, rolling his shoulders back as he stared at the half-chopped apple sitting on the cutting board in front of him. His eyes kept flicking toward the living room, where you were curled up on the couch, asleep. Again. 

Mark had left a few hours ago, only after making you swear you would be okay. He assured you and Sunghoon that he’d be back in seconds if he was needed.

Now, it was just the two of you. 

Sunghoon knew that you wouldn’t be on top of your game 24 hours after being drugged, but it was weird seeing you do nothing all day long. You called in sick at work for your shift in the cinema for today, so all you did today was try to rewatch the episode of “Tomorrow” Mark and Sunghoon watched with you yesterday. Or well watched without you. You fell asleep not even 30 minutes in. The same thing happened today. 

During lunch, you only ate a few spoonfuls of rice so you could eat your medications, painkillers and pills that suppressed the nausea. So now he was cutting up some fruit for you. He neatly arranged a banana, a few pieces of apple, mango and some grapes before setting the plate down on the coffee table. Maybe you felt like eating a bit when you woke up and the meds had kicked in.

When he came to the kitchen a few hours later he saw the plate of fruit standing next to the sink. Untouched.

Sunghoon frowned, stepping closer. He had expected at least a few pieces to be gone. Maybe you just weren’t hungry? Or still nauseous? There were a few crumbs on the kitchen counter and when he opened the dishwasher he emptied before he saw a plate. So you did eat something. Maybe you just didn’t feel like fruit? 

He placed the fruit in one of the containers he usually used for his lunch preps and wrote you a small note to eat some of the fruit when you woke up again. He had training in the morning and didn’t know when you would wake up, but wanted to make sure you ate something in the morning. The nurse told the men that you should eat a bit more. Not only because you were drugged, but because you were in the lower BMI regions and you had to pay attention that it wouldn’t get worse. Marks face fell when he heard that. He told Sunghoon to please keep an eye on your eating behaviour.  ──────────────────────── You jerked awake around midnight. 

You left your blinds open when you went to bed a few hours ago, not because you wanted to but because you simply forgot. 

You never forget to close your blinds. 

The light from the street lamps outside always made your sleep restless, so you closed the blinds. 

Everyday, after you finish your night routine. 

Today you barely had the energy to brush your teeth and wash your face before falling into bed. 

You blinked slowly and took a deep breath in. The air in your room felt stuffy and hot. When you slowly sat up the world was spinning for a second before you could stand up. Your stomach was growling and your throat felt dry so you slowly and carefully made your way into the kitchen. Maybe Sunghoon put some of the fruit he cut up for you into the fridge. You tried to eat some when you woke up from your nap earlier but just the thought of eating made you nauseous. The rice you ate for lunch was lying heavily in your stomach. 

The nurse said that the nausea was normal and would probably take a few days to subside. She advised you to stick to plain food, that was easy to digest, so you ate a piece of toast with butter for dinner, after you cut it into small bite-size pieces.  

You made your way into the kitchen, careful to be as quiet as possible, to not wake Sunghoon. When you opened the fridge you had to squeeze your eyes closed again. The light coming from it made a sharp, stabbing pain shot through your skull again. Similar to the one in the hospital when you first woke up. You closed the door again and leaned against the kitchen counter. 

On Friday, before you went to the party you planned on changing the water of your chrysanthemums, so the flowers were standing on the counter instead of the window sill. You reached for the vase to push it further back. Your fingers barely brushed against its smooth surface before it tipped over. It teetered for a split second, the world seeming to slow before it crashed onto the floor. The sound was deafening—glass shattering, water splashing, and the dull thud of the flowers hitting the tile. No. No. No.

It startled you and your heart started racing, pounding violently against your ribcage. The walls of the kitchen suddenly seemed to close in around you, and a heavy weight pressed down on your chest, making each breath feel laborious like there was not enough air to fill your lungs. You gasped, but the air felt thick, suffocating, and each breath was a struggle. Suddenly everything felt too much. The low humming of the fridge, the shouting from the streets, the light coming from the fridge. 

You looked down at the mess on the floor.

The kitchen started spinning slowly, the edges of your vision blurring as your head grew lighter with every passing second. The shards of what once was your favourite vase shimmered in and out of focus. Their jagged edges distorted before your eyes, and your stomach twisted into knots.

You crouched down and hovered your fingers over the sharp edges, but your body felt disconnected like you were trapped in a haze. Then, through the haze, you heard hurried footsteps.

“Y/N!” Sunghoon’s voice cut through the static in your ears, but it sounded far away, distorted like he was speaking through a tunnel.

"Y/N? Are you okay?" Sunghoon asked when you didn't respond.

You opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, that you just knocked over the vase, but the words got stuck in your throat. You could only stare at the mess in front of you, your fingers twitching as you tried to piece together the fragments of the vase.

Sunghoon kneeled down beside you. “Hey–hey! Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!” His voice was urgent but soft. He reached to stop you from touching the glass, but the moment his hand got too close, you flinched violently. You didn’t know why, but the thought of him, or anyone touching you, made your breathing come even faster. It came in rapid, choked gasps, your chest rising and falling too quickly.

"I can't—" You tried to tell him you couldn’t breathe, that something was happening, but you couldn’t push out more than those two words. Why couldn’t you breathe? What was going on?

Sunghoon cursed under his breath. “Y/N, you have to breathe,” he pleaded, but his voice barely reached you over the deafening static in your head. He didn’t reach out again, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you were thankful for that.

Then, suddenly, your body gave out. Your knees buckled, and the room tilted violently as you started to fall.

Before you hit the floor, Sunghoon caught you.

“Let’s sit down,” he said firmly, and without waiting for a response, he gently guided you to the floor, settling you against the cool tiles. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on his voice. But the moment you sat, your body betrayed you, and the weight of, what you assumed was panic crashed down even harder. 

You were having a panic attack. 

Each breath became a desperate gasp, your chest constricting painfully as you tried to pull air into your lungs. The shadows in the corners of the kitchen deepened, and the static in your ears rose to a deafening roar. It felt like you were drowning.

“Y/N!” Sunghoon’s voice was muffled and distant like he was speaking from underwater. 

He shifted closer, concern etched deeply in his features, but you couldn’t focus on his face. Desperation rose within you as you gripped your knees, your nails digging into your skin as if that might calm you, but it didn’t help. All you heard was the pounding of your heart, drowning out everything else.

“Y/N! Look at me! Just breathe!” He tried again, his voice steady and calm.

You gasped, your voice shaking, “I can’t... I can’t...”

Sobs clawed their way up your throat, but you swallowed them back down, your body trembling with effort.

His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, holding you up as your body shook uncontrollably. He didn’t let go—not even when you flinched again, your entire body tense as if expecting a blow. You didn’t understand why this was happening, why you were panicking, why the thought of Sunghoon touching you made it even worse.

“Shh, I got you,” he murmured, “Just breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The air wouldn’t reach your lungs, no matter how hard you tried.

Sunghoon adjusted his hold, carefully guiding you to sit on the floor against the cabinets. He moved quickly but gently, his grip firm enough to keep you from collapsing completely. 

He grabbed your shaking hand and pressed it against his chest.

“Feel that?” His voice was very soft now. “That’s my heartbeat. Focus on it, okay?”

Your fingers twitched against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the rhythmic thump beneath your palm. It was strong, steady. You closed your eyes, trying to concentrate on the sensation of his heartbeat and the warmth radiating from him.

“Inhale,” he instructed gently, his own breath deepening as he demonstrated. You could feel his chest expand beneath your hand, and you tried to mirror him, drawing in a shaky breath as you followed his lead.

“Hold it for a second... and exhale,” he guided you, releasing his breath slowly.

You tried. You really tried. Your breath stuttered, but you forced yourself to follow his lead, mirroring the slow, controlled rise and fall of his breathing.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his hand covering yours. “Just keep doing that. Inhale... hold... exhale. You’re doing great...”

It took time. Minutes passed in a blur of shaky inhales and uneven exhales. Your body still trembled, but slowly the weight on your chest began to ease. The static in your mind started to fade and got replaced by the steady rhythm of Sunghoons breath, his heartbeat.

Sunghoon didn’t rush you. He didn’t let go. He just stayed there, guiding you through each breath.

Eventually, your breathing evened out. Your fingers relaxed against his chest, no longer curled into fists. The dizziness ebbed, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

“Just like that,” he whispered, offering you the faintest smile.

You swallowed hard, nodding slightly. You didn’t understand what had just happened. Why had you had a panic attack over knocking over a vase? Yes, you liked it, but why hadn’t you been able to breathe just seconds ago? Why had Sunghoon had to catch you again?

You leaned against Sunghoon, your head resting on his shoulder, closing your eyes. Your body felt so heavy.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern as he glanced down at you.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your eyes closed.

You barely had the strength to lift your head, let alone stand up. Every muscle in your body felt drained as if the panic attack had stolen the rest of your energy in the blink of an eye. 

Sunghoon glanced down at you, concern still evident on his face. "Y/N, should we call the hospital? Or at least Mark?" His voice was gentle.

You shook your head weakly, which took embarrassingly much effort. "No, I–I– don’t call Mark. I just need to rest. I’ll be fine."

He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing as he took in your condition. He didn’t argue, but the concern in his eyes remained. He nodded softly, looking around, as if trying to figure out what would help you.

"I don’t want to be alone," you muttered, barely above a whisper, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The thought of being alone in your bed was unbearable. 

Sunghoon’s gaze softened. "Do you want me to stay with you?" 

You just nodded and looked up at him, your exhaustion and anxiety still clinging to you, making it hard to even form coherent thoughts. 

He gently placed his hand on your shoulder. "Yeah, I’ll stay with you. Let’s get you to bed first."

Sunghoon helped you up slowly, his arms steady around you as you leaned against him for support. Your legs felt wobbly like they might give out at any moment. Together, you made your way to your room.

Once inside, Sunghoon guided you to the bed, helping you lie down as carefully as he could. You curled up into the blankets. The weight of exhaustion hit you all at once, and all you wanted to do was close your eyes and escape into sleep.

Sunghoon climbed in beside you, his movements slow and gentle. He settled beside you, making sure to give you space but still close enough to offer comfort. You felt him move, his hand lightly brushing your hair as he began to softly caress it, a soothing motion that calmed you more than you expected.

"Just relax," he whispered, his voice soft as he ran his fingers through your hair. "I’m here. You’re safe."

With each gentle stroke of his hand, your breath steadied. You felt your body relax, the tension in your muscles easing, until you were almost asleep. Before you completely drifted off, you managed to whisper a quiet  "Thank you". ──────────────────────── The warmth against Sunghoon’s side was the first thing he registered when he stirred awake. The second thing was the damp stickiness of sweat clinging to his skin. You were still curled up against him, your body radiating heat beneath the covers, your breathing uneven. Even in sleep, you were restless.

His eyes flickered open, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. He blinked sluggishly, his mind still foggy with sleep. He needed a second to remember where he was.

He was in your bed.

His body stiffened slightly. You had a panic attack. A rather bad one he’d say. He wasn't particularly an expert but he had seen a fair share of people having panic attacks before. Afterall he was doing a sport on a level where it wasn't just a hobby anymore. Sometimes the pressure and stress are just too much and people crack.

His body tensed slightly as he thought of yesterday night. The sound of the vase shattering, the way he had bolted into the kitchen, heart hammering in his chest because, for a split second, he had thought someone had broken in. But then he had seen you. On the floor, hyperventilating, flinching away from him like he was a threat. The way you had nearly collapsed in his arms, too overwhelmed to even breathe properly.

You had been terrified last night. Completely overwhelmed. He hadn’t known what to do, so he just stayed. Let you rest, let you find comfort in his presence, because if that was what you needed, then fine. Sunghoon wasn’t great at emotions, but he could do this. He could be here.

After all, wasn’t it kind of his fault that you had been drugged in the first place?

A dull pang of guilt settled in his chest at the thought. If he had just been more careful if he had noticed sooner—if, if, if. It was too late to change anything, but it didn’t stop the thought from lingering.

Sunghoon swallowed, his jaw tightening. He glanced down at you, still tucked close against him. Even now, your brows were slightly furrowed, your fingers twitching every now and then like you were stuck in a restless dream. His grip on the blanket tightened slightly.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

He had never been great at this, comforting someone emotionally. He could be there physically, he could hold you, keep you safe, but saying the right words? Making sure you actually felt better? He didn’t know if he was capable of that.

He sighed quietly, shifting slightly to ease the discomfort of his sweaty shirt clinging to his back. The movement must have disturbed you because, after a moment, he saw you stir, your breath hitching slightly as you blinked yourself awake.

Immediately, you tensed. He felt it—the way your body stiffened, the way your breathing changed

Slowly, you pulled away from him, avoiding his gaze as you sat up.

“Uh… morning,” you murmured, your voice slightly hoarse from sleep.

Sunghoon sat up too, studying you carefully. You looked exhausted, of course you did. After everything that had happened, it wasn’t like one night of sleep would magically fix it

You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly. “Um… thanks. For last night. I–”, you hesitated, eyes darting to the covers. “I don’t know what happened. It was just a vase, I don’t know why I–”

You cut yourself off, shaking your head like you didn’t even know how to explain it.

Sunghoon frowned. You shouldn’t have to explain yourself right now, it wasn’t like you planned on having a panic attack.

“You okay?” he asked, instead.

You hesitated before nodding, but it wasn’t exactly convincing.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. He wanted to ask more. Wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to act like everything was fine, but he wasn’t sure how to say it without making things worse.

"You sure?” he pressed.

You swallowed. “I mean… I don’t know. I just feel… off.”

Yeah. That made sense.

Sunghoon bit the inside of his cheek, watching you carefully. You weren’t crying, but you still looked so lost in your own head, your eyes unfocused like you were somewhere else entirely.

He hated it.

Sunghoon exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. He had no idea how to comfort you emotionally, but he could at least make sure you weren’t alone.

“…Are you gonna be okay alone today?” he finally asked, watching your reaction closely.

You hesitated again, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “…I don’t know.”

Sunghoon nodded, already making a decision before you even had to say anything else.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Huh?���

“To training. You can sit in the bleachers or whatever,” he shrugged, standing up to stretch. “You don’t have to be alone.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to protest, but after a moment, you shut it again, your expression softening slightly.

“…Okay.”

Sunghoon gave a small nod before grabbing his phone off the nightstand. “Cool. Get ready, we’ll head out soon.”

As he walked toward the bathroom, he glanced back at you, still sitting on the bed, staring at your hands. ──────────────────────── You sat in the bleachers, wrapped in the thickest hoodie you could find, your arms resting on your lap as you watched the skaters glide effortlessly across the ice. The cold from the rink seeped into your bones, but you didn’t really mind. It was better than the midday heat outside. 

When you and Sunghoon arrived at the rink the air was hot and humid and you were glad to escape the weather for a few hours. You've been at the rink for a while now watching Sunghoon and his teammates skate through various choreographies. Alone, in pairs, alone again. His coach seemed to be quite strict, making them run through the same part multiple times.

You had never seen Sunghoon skate before. Not in person.

You had known he was good, obviously. He was literally training for the Olympics. But knowing something and seeing it with your own eyes were two very different things.

He moved across the ice like he was made for it, every motion smooth and deliberate, like gravity didn’t affect him the way it did everyone else. His long limbs should have made him look awkward, but instead, they made everything he did look even more refined—effortless.

It was mesmerizing.

And it wasn’t just him.

The other skaters–especially the female ones–floated across the rink with that same elegance, their bodies cutting through the ice with practised ease. They were beautiful and so graceful.

Your mind still felt slow, like it was moving through water. Everything around you felt a bit...distant. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just… off. Like you were here, but not fully.

Having a full-blown panic attack in front of your hot roommate and asking him to more or less act like a gigant plushie in your bed, so you could sleep may contribute to that feeling. And the fact that it felt wrong to sit here. You should be in the office right now. It was Monday after all, but the hospital sent your doctor’s note to your workplace, excusing you until the weekend, so you could recover from the GHB properly. The doctors were quite worried when you left, that you might still be affected by the drug. Which, honestly, you were. So maybe it was good you didn't go to work, but at the same time would you have appreciated a bit of a distraction?

You pulled your knees up slightly, resting your chin against them as you watched Sunghoon land a jump perfectly, the ice slicing beneath his blade.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, just watching. But you were grateful that, at least for now, you didn’t have to do anything else.

At one point you felt bored so you pulled your sketchbook from your bag, flipping to an empty page as you settled back against the cool bleachers.

Your fingers gripped the pencil lightly, gliding it over the paper in slow, careful strokes. The ice skaters still moved gracefully across the rink, but now, instead of watching them with awe, you focused on capturing their movements with lines and shading.

Sunghoon was still the easiest to spot, his tall frame making him stand out among the others. You tried to sketch the way his body tilted ever so slightly before he leapt into the air. It was frustrating, trying to capture something so fluid, but it gave your mind something to focus on other than the lingering exhaustion weighing down your limbs.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, but eventually, a small shiver ran through you.

The cold had crept up on you gradually, settling in your fingers and arms before you even realized it. You rubbed your hands together, tucking them into the sleeves of your hoodie before glancing down at your phone. Sunghoon was still practising, but you didn’t want to sit in the rink any longer.

Y/N: Hey, I’m gonna go outside. It’s getting kinda cold.

You packed up your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you made your way out of the building. The warmth of the summer air hit you instantly, a stark contrast to the coolness of the rink. You let out a slow breath, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as you stepped into the shade of a tree just outside the entrance.

You sank onto the grass, reopening your sketchbook.

Here, in the quiet, it was easier to draw.

Your pencil moved fluidly, shading in the folds of Sunghoon’s training jacket, the angle of his arms mid-spin. The longer you sketched, the more the world around you faded into the background.

You didn't even realize how much time went by when you heard footsteps approaching.

You straightened up, seeing Sunghoon walking toward you, his tall figure framed against the bright afternoon sky.

“You didn’t have to wait out here. You could have gone home,” he said with a small smile, though there was something in his eyes that made it seem like he was still concerned about you.

“It’s fine,” you replied quietly, standing up and stretching out your legs. “I didn’t feel like going back inside and here I could enjoy the sun a bit.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but you noticed his eyes flicker toward your sketchbook.

“Did you paint something?”

You glanced down at the book in your hands, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Just… some sketches of you and the other ice skaters..”

Sunghoon tilted his head, walking a little closer. “Can I see?”

You hesitated, but then you opened it to the page with a sketch of him. The lines were still rough, not nearly as clean or as elegant as his movements on the ice, but it was the best you could do.

He smiled slightly when he saw the drawing. “Is that me?”

“Yeah.” You closed the sketchbook quickly, feeling suddenly awkward. “You looked really...elegant? I don't know how to describe it but I wanted to capture that. I also painted your friends. The one with the long hair. She is really beautiful.”

"Wonyoung?", Sunghoon asked and flopped down onto the grass next to you. "She is really pretty. And really talented. If she doesn't get into the Olympics team I don't know who will."

You collected your pencils that you spread onto the hoodie you layed beside you. "Do you think you will get in?"

Sunghoon let out a humourless laugh. "I am doing my best, but I am not sure. Honestly, at the moment it feels like I am stuck somehow. No matter what I do it feels like I am getting worse instead of better."

"Oh.", you said softly, "Sometimes the universe just has different plans for us. You still have other cool opportunities but the Olympics, right? I imagine taking part in the Olympics is quite hard on your body and psyche?"

Sunghoon hummed. "Yeah. And if nothing works out I'll just coach or something. I don't know. My degree offers me so many various career paths. I am sure I'll find something I like."

You nodded, "Mine really doesn't. Oh well, it does, maybe not as many as yours but I kinda am planning in specialising in Architectural History and Classical Design, which won't get me far here in Korea, so I kind of have to think of going in a different direction."

"Why not go to Europe or the States? You like that kind of architecture, right?", Sunghoon asked.

You looked at him confused. How did he know that? "I-uhm- yeah, I do. But I would hate to live far from my parents and my brothers. Seoul is already too far. I want to go to Busan. To you know, live and build my life there."

"Oh really? I love Busan. It's very pretty. I've been there with my family once or twice.", Sunghoon said.

"It is.", you smiled at him.

Before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by a female voice: "Honnie?"

The girl with the long hair, Wonyoung?, was walking towards the tree you and Sunghoon were leaning against.

"I thought you left to go home?", she said and then turned to you. "Oh hi. You must be Y/N I am Wonyoung."

You cleared your throat and looked up at her. She was quite tall. "Ah yeah. Hi Wonyong."

"I heard what happened at the party on Friday," she said and shook her head. "I knew Injang is a Idiot but I would have never guessed that he would drug people for fun. Are you feeling better?"

You stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the question. Your fingers curled around the edges of your sketchbook, gripping it just a little too tightly.

“I…” You hesitated, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t entirely true, but what else were you supposed to say?

"I am glad." Wonyoung's expression softened as she looked at you.

“Yeah,” you murmured, shifting on your feet. “Me too.”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a moment. You felt awkward, unsure of what to say, but Wonyoung quickly changed the subject, turning to Sunghoon.

“Are you heading back to your place now?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Y/N and I were planning on cooking together tonight.”

Oh? Were you?

“Alright,” Wonyoung said. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She gave you a small wave before walking off, leaving you alone with Sunghoon.

You exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “She is nice.”

“She is,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, he glanced down at you. “Ready to go?”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as you both headed toward the bus station. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon and you didn't really plan on cooking together. Sunghoon just had an oddly specific craving for dinner.

“I really want dakgalbi,” he said as you walked side by side toward the bus stop. “There’s this place I love, but you have to order for at least two people. So if you're up for it, I would order for the both of us?”

You blinked up at him. "I-sure. I would love to eat some dakgalbi."

Eating with Sunghoon was… nice.

You had fallen into an easy routine with him over the past few weeks. Sometimes one of you would cook a meal with two portions so you would eat together, but most of the time you both ate different meals, his playlist would softly play in the background and you would be talking about anything and everything. It had all started feeling strangely comfortable. You liked coming home to him being at home already. He preferred to lounge on the sofa in the living room, instead of his room and you enjoyed the natural lighting of the kitchen more than the artificial one in your room so the two of you were often in the same room, doing your own thing. 

The smell of spicy stir-fried chicken filled the apartment as you both settled on the floor, in front of the TV, the takeout container placed between you on the small sofa table. The heat from the dish rose in soft waves, making your mouth water despite the lingering unease in your stomach.

Sunghoon dug in immediately, scooping up a generous bite of chicken and rice, his playlist playing softly in the background. You took your first bite. It was delicious, and at first, you thought you’d be fine.

But a few bites in, your stomach twisted uncomfortably. The spice lingered longer than usual, settling in your gut, and you swallowed quickly, taking a sip of water to cool your mouth. You tried eating a little more, but by the time you reached your fourth bite, it was obvious that your stomach was not on board with this meal.

You set your chopsticks down and exhaled, hesitant to say anything. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful when Sunghoon had been so excited about it. He didn’t even let you pay your half.

After a few moments, Sunghoon glanced up and noticed you weren’t eating. His brows furrowed slightly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, feeling a little guilty. “I think the spice is a bit much for my stomach.”

Sunghoon blinked, chopsticks pausing mid-air. For a second, he looked almost disappointed, but the expression was gone as quickly as it appeared. Instead, his features softened, and he set his chopsticks down, eyeing the takeout container. It was nearly untouched on your side of the bowl.

“Do you want more rice?” he asked gently. “It might help settle your stomach.”

You looked at him, a little surprised by the offer. 

You nodded after a moment. “Yeah, sure.”

A small, almost satisfied smile crossed his face as he scooped some of his rice onto your plate. “Here. Eat at least this much, okay?”

You smiled back, warmth settling in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but it made you feel… cared for. It was like with your brothers, but different somehow. Your brothers kinda had to be nice to you, they were your brothers after all. But Sunghoon just was…nice and caring and watching out for you apparently. You knew he was feeling unbelievably guilty for what happened on Friday. 

It wasn’t his fault. 

Or his friends fault. 

Or Sunoos. 

Just yours. For stupidly accepting a drink from a stranger. It was stupid. Really. 

But nothing you could change. The police came to your hospital room and you gave your statement, it wasn't really helpful, since you couldn’t really remember anything at all that would help, but they assured you Injang would be punished.

You looked at the rice on your plate . “Thanks,” you murmured, picking up your chopsticks again.

Sunghoon nodded, going back to his own food.

The two of you continued eating, the quiet hum of his playlist filling the space. It was a comfortable kind of silence, the kind where you didn’t feel the need to fill it with words.

You liked this. Sitting here, sharing food, talking about whatever came to mind. ──────────────────────── The apartment was eerily quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered tubes of paint, brushes of varying thicknesses, and a palette smeared with muted blues, soft greys, and hints of warm ochre. You dragged a brush lazily across the canvas. It was slowly coming to life—a cityscape bathed in hazy afternoon light.

Normally, your days were filled to the brim with tasks, deadlines, and obligations. There was always something to do, somewhere to be. But today? Today had been mind-numbingly empty. If Mark had gotten to know that you went to work he would have probably killed you, so would Junwoo and Taeyong. Johnny even asked if he should come to Seoul to give you a once over and when you declined told you to get rest and take care of your body as much as possible. 

So you were doing just that. 

Taking a rest. 

But taking rest somehow felt even more draining than working. You had to find something to do besides sleeping, that would keep you occupied, even though you somehow didn't feel like doing anything. The last three days you tried everything.

You cleaned the apartment, skimmed through a book, scrolled through your phone more than you cared to admit and you tried to start a new drama. Nothing stuck. The boredom pressed down on you until you gave in, grabbing your sketchbook and paints.

At least painting gave you something to focus on.

You've finished the painting of your mom’s kimchi jiggae you planned to hang next to the one of her kimchi that already hung in the kitchen and decided that you wanted to paint something different. So now you were painting the gamcheon village in Busan. Since talking to Sunghoon about wanting to move there you’ve watched a few Youtubers vlogs they filmed in Busan. It was such a beautiful city. 

The silence in the apartment stretched, only interrupted by the occasional distant sound of cars passing outside while you painted for hours on end.

It wasn’t until the familiar click of the front door opening that you realized how much time had passed.

"I'm back," Sunghoon’s voice rang through the apartment. You heard him toe off his shoes before stepping inside.

You turned to glance at him over your shoulder, taking in the slight dampness of his hair and the relaxed way he shrugged off his jacket. He must’ve gone out with his friends after training, just like he had mentioned in passing this morning.

His gaze flickered to you, then to the half-finished painting in front of you. His brows lifted slightly. “You’ve been painting all day?”

You nodded, stretching your stiff limbs. “There wasn’t much else to do.”

He hummed, walking over and peering at your work. “It looks good.”

You let out a small laugh. “You say that about everything I paint.”

“Because everything you paint looks good,” he replied easily before his eyes flickered toward the kitchen counter, where the plate you used for your breakfast was still standing next to the sink, waiting to be put into the dishwasher. His brows furrowed. “Did you eat?”

You opened your mouth to say yes but then hesitated.

Had you?

You tried to think back, but your mind came up blank. You remembered making tea in the morning. You remembered eating two pieces of toast with butter in the morning, before your stomach acted up again, so you made yourself tea. Tea was safe. You remembered sitting down to paint. And then… nothing.

“…I don’t think so,” you admitted, a little uncertain.

Sunghoon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y/N.”

 “I just… forgot. I did eat breakfast?”, you said quickly. 

Since you’ve left the hospital a few days ago you had trouble sleeping and eating. Somehow your sleep was really restless and you still couldn’t really eat. You didn’t even know why. You were nauseous after eating, your stomach hurting, whatever you ate, so you just stuck to small portions of rice, soup or plain bread and drank a lot of tea, that was supposed to help your stomach.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you eat?”

You winced at his tone. “Some rice. And, um… a bit of bread.”

Sunghoon let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s it?”

You shifted under his gaze. “Food still makes my stomach feel weird.”

His expression softened slightly. “You can’t just not eat,” he muttered, already heading toward the kitchen.

You watched as he pulled out a pan and some ingredients, your stomach dropping.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Making food. Something you can and will eat. I swear I will call Mark and tell him you haven’t eaten. Painting is not an excuse to forget eating, Y/N.”

You nodded and just sat there, watching as he cracked eggs into the pan, adding rice and a few simple seasonings. The scent of warm, slightly buttery rice filled the air.

Within minutes, he placed two plates of egg-fried rice on the table, sitting down across from you. “Eat,” he said simply, nudging a fork toward you.

You picked up your spoon and took a small bite. It was plain and a bit bland. You took another bite, and Sunghoon seemed pleased, nodding slightly before starting on his own portion.

Then, like a switch flipped, he started talking.

“I almost faceplanted during practice today,” he said, shaking his head. “Lost my edge on a turn and nearly crashed into the barrier. Coach wasn’t impressed.”

You looked up, raising a brow. “But you didn’t fall?”

“I saved it at the last second,” he said proudly, then deflated a little. “Still got yelled at, though.”

You hid a smile behind another small bite of rice.

He continued talking, recounting random moments from his day—how the rink was more crowded than usual, how Rei had almost tripped over Wonyoung’s skates, how his friends dragged him out for food afterwards and wouldn’t stop teasing him about something dumb he said years ago.

You barely had to say anything, just nodding along, adding the occasional question or comment. But you didn’t mind.

You liked listening to him.

Before you knew it, you had eaten more than you thought you would. Almost half of your plate was gone. Sunghoon must have noticed because he gave you a small, satisfied smile. “See? Not that bad, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “Yeah, yeah.”

Sunghoon just grinned, leaning back slightly. “Good. Gotta make sure you don’t starve while I’m around.”

You shook your head, but a small warmth settled in your chest.

Somehow, despite everything, Sunghoon made things feel a little easier. ──────────────────────── Exactly one week after the party Sunghoon came home late. Frustrated and annoyed and with his wrist taped again.  He saw the edge of his skate catch the ice, and before he could correct himself, he was already stumbling. His landing was off. Again. His frustration boiled over as he skated to a stop, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

He never struggled with this jump. It was muscle memory, something he had nailed a thousand, no a million times before. But today, it was like his body refused to cooperate. Every attempt ended in a mistake. Every spin felt just a little too slow. His footwork was sluggish. He had barely made it through his program without messing up half of it. And he had fallen. Four times. 

He wasn’t going to make the Olympic team. He knew it was pointless at this point. He knew he had to stop, before he would be one of the athletes stumbling under the pressure. 

Sunghoon had been trying to accept it, telling himself that there would be other competitions–Worlds, Grand Prix Finals, Four Continents. He had time. He could try again.

But knowing that didn’t make failure taste any less bitter.

By the time he got home, he was still frustrated and annoyed. His muscles ached, his mood was horrible, and all he wanted to do was shower and pass out.

You were curled up on the couch, holding a packet of crackers in one hand and your phone in the other. Your face lit up when you saw him.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft. “You wanna watch Tomorrow with me?”

Just like that, every ounce of frustration in his body melted.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. His mood was still heavy, but the tightness in his chest loosened just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmured, kicking off his shoes. “Sure.”

As he stepped further inside, his eyes flickered to the empty packaging of the crackers that way lying on the sofa table. It wasn’t much, but at least you were eating. 

The amount you ate in the last few days wasn’t enough for anyone older than ten months.

So he’d take what he could get. 

He sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough to see the flicker of relief in your expression.

You curled into the couch, your head resting against the armrest, the soft glow of the TV flickering across your face. Sunghoon barely paid attention to the drama, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You had always been on the quieter side, but lately, it was different. You barely spoke at all. You looked exhausted, all the time. You forgot to eat all the time. It was like someone stole your routine and suddenly you didn't know how to be alive anymore.

He knew, he just knew, that you probably hadn’t eaten much today.

It had been days now, and he had been paying attention. The way you only picked at your food, how your portions kept shrinking, how you hesitated when he asked if you had eaten. 

He understood, why you weren’t eating. But he couldn’t stop worrying. Not after what happened last week.

His jaw clenched as he thought back to the party and to last Sunday. Your body crumbling to the floor, your breathing ragged and uneven, the sheer panic in your eyes as you tried to gasp for air. That moment had scared the living shit out of him.

He had never felt that helpless before.

Sunghoon wasn’t great with emotions, but he knew guilt when he felt it. If he hadn’t convinced you to come to that party, you wouldn’t have been drugged. You wouldn’t have had a full-blown panic attack in front of him. You wouldn’t have been this drained, barely eating, barely sleeping.

Sunghoon saw you blink slower and slower. And then, you stilled completely.

You had fallen asleep.

For a moment, he just watched you, letting out a quiet sigh.

His fingers hovered over the remote before he lowered the volume, careful not to wake you. The drama kept playing, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore.

He wished he knew what to do.

Sunghoon had always been someone who fixed things with action—if his jumps were off, he trained harder; if he lost a competition, he worked until he won the next one. But this? He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t rewind time and undo what had happened. He couldn’t take away the fear, the exhaustion, the way you barely seemed present sometimes.

And that made him feel useless.

In the four weeks he has been living here he started liking you in a way that made him feel protective, that made his chest ache when he saw you struggling.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch.

Sunghoon had never been good at dealing with feelings. 

Not others, not his own. 

But he knew that if you weren’t feeling like shit right now he would really like this. 

Watching TV with you, being the person you quietly sought out when you didn’t want to be alone, quietly spending time with you.  ──────────────────────── University had started again a few days ago, and honestly, you were relieved.

It felt good to slip back into a rhythm, to have a schedule, to wake up knowing exactly where you needed to be and what you needed to do. Your mornings were filled with lectures, afternoons with group work, and in between, you had your friends back. After weeks of quiet, of spending most of your time alone or with Sunghoon, the campus felt alive again.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed this.

So when lunchtime rolled around, you were glad to finally sit down with Renjun, Jaemin, and Ningning, listening to them bicker.

“I swear, Professor Kim hates us,” Ningning groaned, aggressively stabbing at her rice. “Why else would she give us a group project with the deadline in less than 3 weeks?”

Jaemin snorted. “She’s just testing who’s gonna drop out first.”

Renjun sighed dramatically. “Well, it’s me. I’m dropping out. I’m packing my bags.”

“You say that every semester,” Jaemin pointed out.

“This time, I mean it.”

Ningning grinned. “What’s the plan, then? Becoming an unemployed artist?”

“Hey.” Renjun looked offended. “I could make it work. Maybe i am the next Picasso.”

Jaemin smirked. “Sure. I’d go more for Van Gogh. I think you would be sexy with only one ear.”

Renjun picked up a fry and threw it at him.

At some point during the lunch break, Renjun glanced at your tray.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Is that all you’re eating?”

Your stomach twisted. You hadn’t meant to eat so little—it just… happened. You hadn’t even realized how little you filled your tray with until now: a bit of rice, a few slices of meat and a yoghurt. It was food you knew you could eat without feeling uncomfortable later.

You forced a casual shrug. “I’m not that hungry.”

Ningning frowned. “Y/N, that’s, like… nothing.”

Jaemin studied you for a second before leaning forward. “You’re really not hungry?”

You hesitated, gripping your spoon a little tighter. “Not really.”

Ningning raised an eyebrow. “You sure? It’s not because the food here sucks?”

You forced out a chuckle. “I mean, that’s part of it.”

Renjun, though, wasn’t so easily convinced. His voice was softer when he spoke. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, right?”

You hesitated. Your fingers curled around the edge of your tray.

You hadn’t told them yet. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it too real, or maybe because you just didn’t want to see the way they’d react, maybe because you were embarrassed that you made such a stupid mistake.

But now, with all three of them staring at you, waiting, you exhaled shakily.

“Something…did happen.” You swallowed, forcing the words out. “At a party. Someone put something in my drink.”

Silence.

Renjun’s face went blank. Jaemin sat up straighter. Ningning eyes widened, mouth parting slightly.

“What?” Renjun finally breathed.

You nodded, pushing your yoghurt around with your spoon. “Nothing… bad happened. But it could have. I am just not feeling super good.”

Jaemin looked like he was ready to murder someone. “Who the hell—”

“You know Injang?”

Ningning’s face twisted in disgust. “The baseball player?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was him.”

A long pause stretched between you all. You didn’t want them to look at you like that, with pity and worry and barely contained anger, but you couldn’t blame them either. If one of them told you they were drugged you would be furious. 

Renjun ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Y/N… why didn’t you tell us?”

“I don’t know. It’s not really something to just tell someone?”, you shrugged.

“And you’ve been okay?” Ningning asked, voice softer now.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m getting there. My stomach is just super upset at everything I eat. It’s really annoying but it’s getting better.”

They didn’t look convinced. You weren’t convinced either. But at least you didn’t feel like vomiting. Jaemin slid his untouched banana toward you. “Eat this. Just a few bites. Bananas are easy to digest.”

You sighed, but peeled it anyway. And as you forced yourself to take a bite, you saw them all relax.  ──────────────────────── You saw the light filtering through the lecture hall windows, dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun as your professor droned on about neoclassical influences. Your hand moved across your sketchbook on its own, lines forming the skeleton of a Corinthian column without conscious thought. When your professor wrapped up his lecture you realized that yes you have painted a row of very beautiful looking Corinthian columns but you also didn’t pay attention to what the professor was saying. You signed and texted Jaemin to send you his notes of the class. His only response was a thumbs-up emoji. 

The walk home was long and the heat made it almost unbearable. It was September but summer was unwavering and the air was hot and humid. You adjusted your bag strap when it slipped off your shoulder, then frowned as your jeans sagged at the waist again. You hitched them up with one hand, mentally scolding yourself for buying them a size too big last month. The washing machine must have stretched them out. You made a note to check the care tags later. Maybe they needed a hotter wash.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Taeyong’s contact photo flashed on screen. A ridiculous selfie of him and Johnny making fish faces at the camera in your parents’ restaurant kitchen. A warm flicker sparked in your chest at the sight.

"Oppa," you answered, pressing the phone to your ear as you turned onto your street.

"Y/N!" Taeyong’s voice was sunshine wrapped in static. "Did you get the package Mom sent? There’s three kinds of kimchi and—"

"Johnny’s mom’s seaweed soup," you finished, smiling for the first time all day. "Yeah, it’s in the freezer." You hesitated before adding, "I had some yesterday." You had taken one bite before the nausea hit, which technically counted.

"How’s uni? You sound less dead than last week."

You kicked a pebble across the pavement. "It’s… actually good? My design professor finally approved my project concept." You didn’t mention it was your third submission. "It’s just annoying to haul all my models back and forth now that I don’t have the studio space at home."

A beat of silence. Then, carefully: "Sunghoon still says you can use the living room, right?"

"I don’t want to take over his space," you muttered, stepping around a crack in the sidewalk. "It’s his home too."

Taeyong sighed. "Y/N–"

"Anyway, the studio has extended hours now," you interrupted, watching your shoes scuff the pavement. One lace was fraying. "It’s fine."

Johnny’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Tell her to eat the soup, Taeyong. With rice. Actual rice, not just broth–"

"I’m eating!" you lied, too quickly. Your stomach chose that moment to growl loudly enough that Taeyong snorted.

"Liar," he said, but his voice was fond. "Just… take care of yourself, yeah? Or I’m driving up there."

You rolled your eyes but felt something tight in your chest loosen. "Yeah, yeah. Love you."

The call ended just as you reached the apartment. The key stuck in the lock and you jiggled it harder than necessary until the door gave way.

The living room was exactly as you’d left it this morning, except now Sunghoon’s skate bag sat by the couch, his jacket slung over the back. A sticky note on the coffee table caught your eye:

"Left japchae in fridge. Made by my mom, so it’s edible!"

You traced the blocky letters with your finger. He’d drawn a tiny smiley next to his name. You didn’t see Sunghoon often, since uni started. His and your schedule was so different, that the only time you saw him was late at night, when he came back from training, exhausted and frustrated. You were feeling so bad for him, he was training so hard, but if he was right he was training for nothing. Maybe he would be able to deliver a beautiful routine and he would be accepted into the Olympic team. You would be so happy for him. He would deserve it. 

Your models and supplies were still stacked neatly in the corner where you’d left them after Sunghoon moved in. 

You bit your lip. Maybe you could work out here tonight while he was at practice. You should really get started now that your project has been approved. 

As you bent to pick up your drafting supplies, your jeans slipped again, the waistband catching on your hip bones. You huffed, yanking them up. 

In the kitchen, you opened the fridge out of habit. The japchae sat front and centre in a glass container, noodles glistening under the fluorescent light. Your stomach twisted—not unpleasantly, just… strangely.

You shut the door without taking the food.

The wilting chrysanthemums on the windowsill caught your eye as you passed. Brown-edged petals curled inward like fists. You should change them. Tomorrow. Maybe.

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty ♡ CONTINUE ON READING --⟢ PART 2 all feedback and reblogs is welcome ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ if you liked this you might also like the rest of this series ⭑.ᐟ

ᝰ taglist. @firstclassjaylee @enhaprettystars @vantxx95 @stormy1408 @fancypeacepersona @jaylvrsworld @xylatox @bluxjun @sumzysworld @outroherrr @50-husbands @ikeumina @softchannie @sirens-dreams @schmocolateschmchip @delirioastral @dearestdreamies @deluluscenarios @urmomssneakylink @qlorin @elairah @addictedtohobi @doririsstuff (if anyone wanted to just be tagged for The truth untold pt. 2, i am very sorry. I kinda didn't give you a way to differentiate if you wanted to be tagged for the series or just his story! So just ignore this tag if I tagged you wrongly)

ᝰ an. A special mention and thanks to @xylatox for dealing with my rambling and more or less live reading all of this. Ily and your comments please feel all of my kisses!!! Part two is in the works and will be coming! I don't know when, but it`s coming! ₊ ⊹  

[aleksatia]

❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs. 

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color.  The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago… He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about… a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn’t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together — drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet. 

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

“But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you. 

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

[whosashan]

Hello, hi! Sorry for my bad english.

Can I request Jealous!MC where there’s a new colleague whom everyone respects (lets say shes only in Linkon for a week for a short mission) but MC sees how that colleague lowkey and subtly flirts with Xavier? (y’know how guys can be dense at times)

he sets boundaries though, it’s just “colleague” tries to push her luck— for the ending m not so sure, how about Xavier catches on and bluntly turns her down and makes it up for MC? :3

thank you!!!!!! you r very talented🫶🫶🫶

Me? Jealous?

PAIRING: Xavier x mc!reader

SYNOPSIS: Watching your new coworker grow a little too familiar with your boyfriend sent a sharp, unwelcome heat curling in your chest—an emotion you’d never dare to name, let alone admit.

A/N: Thank you for the request. I twisted it a little, so hope you won't mind. I'm not really good at writing jealousy-related stuff, but I hope I'll get better with time!! Hope you enjoy!

Xavier - your sweet, devoted lover. A man of quiet strength and effortless charm, wrapped in an air of aloof detachment that only made people want to be closer to him.

Somehow, despite his reserved nature, he had a gravitational pull. Perhaps it was his unshaken confidence, the way he moved with the quiet assurance of a skilled hunter who had nothing to prove. Or maybe it was that face—carved with sharp angles and softened by golden strands that always seemed to fall just right. Whatever the reason, people wanted him close.

You never minded. In fact, you were proud. Admired, respected—a man like that was yours, after all. And Xavier was never one to indulge in unnecessary conversations or fleeting acquaintances. His world was small, intimate, built on a foundation of loyalty and shared trust. You had never been given a reason to worry.

Until now.

Standing next to Tara, your stomach twisted as your gaze locked onto the scene unfolding across the room.

A woman—tall, poised, exuding an effortless confidence—stood by Xavier’s desk, leaning in just enough to blur the lines between casual and intentional. She had the look of someone who had never been denied, her gaze slow and deliberate as it traced the sharp lines of his face before slipping lower, taking in every inch of him like he was something to be appraised.

Like he was something to be claimed.

Your jaw tightened.

She wasn’t subtle. Her eyes lingered, drinking him in like a fine wine, her expression betraying nothing but intrigue and unspoken intent. If you didn’t know any better, you would have mistaken her for a predator, circling its prey with the patience of something that had never known hunger.

“Who the hell is that?” Tara’s voice was low, hushed, but tinged with the same disbelief you felt.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

“She’s the hunter Jenna assigned for the new mission,” Simone’s voice cut in, her sudden presence making you jolt. “They say she’s one of the best in the field.”

Your lips parted slightly. “The captain of the aviation department?”

Simone nodded, watching your expression carefully.

She was young for such a high-ranking position, but that wasn’t what unsettled you. What unsettled you was the way she carried herself—like she already knew the outcome of a game you hadn’t even realized you were playing.

And the worst part? Xavier seemed oblivious.

His responses were polite, clipped, maintaining the professionalism expected of him when speaking to a superior. He didn’t return her lingering gaze, didn’t acknowledge the subtle shifts in her tone, the way her lips curved when he spoke.

And yet, it still made your blood simmer.

You hated it—the feeling curling in your chest, the way it coiled around your ribs like something dark and unspoken. You didn’t want to name it. Didn’t want to admit that, for the first time, you felt something dangerously close to threatened.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Xavier. Quite the opposite.

It was her.

"She’s supposed to be here for a week or so,” Simone added, eyeing you warily as if she had just glimpsed a side of you she wasn’t quite sure how to handle.

Tara shot her a nervous glance. You didn’t miss the way they exchanged looks, as if silently agreeing that this was unfamiliar territory—you were unfamiliar territory.

Finally, your feet moved before your mind had time to catch up.

You wove through the room with careful, measured steps, every movement precise, controlled. By the time you reached Xavier’s side, you had already tucked away the wildfire burning beneath your skin, smoothing out the edges of your expression into something unreadable.

Xavier turned at your approach, and in an instant, everything about him changed.

His guarded expression softened, his posture easing as that rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Warm. Familiar. Yours.

The woman noticed.

“Ah, Y/N.” Her voice was smooth, practiced. She straightened slightly, taking you in with an unreadable gaze. “I’ve heard about you.”

Your eyes met hers, searching, assessing.

“All good things, I hope?” Your words were polite, but there was something beneath them—something carefully measured, just shy of warning.

She didn’t answer. Not really. Instead, a slow smirk curled at her lips, her amusement flickering like the first embers of a fire.

She turned back to Xavier, dismissing you entirely.

“Well, Xavier,” she mused, her voice taking on a honeyed lilt, “I hope you’ll consider my proposition.”

And then she walked away, hips swaying just enough to make her intentions clear.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

“What was that about?” You turned to Xavier, making no effort to hide the edge in your voice.

He blinked, glancing between you and the retreating figure. “…She wanted to meet up to discuss something about the mission.”

Casual. Dismissive. Utterly oblivious.

Xavier reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in that familiar, grounding way. It was instinctive, absentminded, as if he had done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again.

It was enough to ease some of the tension in your shoulders. Almost.

Because while you trusted Xavier implicitly, one thing was certain:

You were not about to let someone like her think she had a chance.

And with the welcome party set for later that week—a gathering meant to formally introduce the aviation captain to the association - it was the perfect moment to make sure she knows he's yours.

Yes. This was going to be fun.

...

Having heard about the party, you weren’t about to let the opportunity slip through your fingers. This was your chance to ensure the captain understood something crystal clear—Xavier was not, and never would be, one of her playthings.

With Tara and Simone’s help, you looked nothing short of lethal. Your makeup was flawless, enhancing every sharp edge and soft curve of your features, making you appear both untouchable and irresistibly tempting. Your hair was styled to perfection, cascading in a way that made you feel like a walking temptation, and your skin glowed with the scent of the perfume Xavier adored—the one that always seemed to awaken something predatory in him, darkening his gaze whenever you wore it.

And the pièce de résistance? A dress—the dress. Baby blue, the color of summer skies and lingering daydreams. It clung in all the right places, teasing with just enough skin to drive anyone who laid eyes on you to the brink of madness, yet leaving enough to the imagination to make them crave more. You knew the effect it had on Xavier. Knew the way his eyes darkened, how his hands twitched as if resisting the urge to pull you close and claim you on the spot.

And tonight, you planned on making sure everyone knew it too.

You had chosen to surprise him, arriving separately so he wouldn’t have a chance to drag you back to the safety of his arms before you had even stepped through the door.

The club was dimly lit, pulsing with the deep bass of music that thrummed beneath your skin. The scent of alcohol, expensive cologne, and faint traces of smoke clung to the air, mixing with the hum of conversation. Association members littered the room, some drinking, others caught in quiet discussions about missions and assignments.

And then you saw him.

Xavier was easy to spot—even in a crowded room, he stood out like something carved from myths, his golden hair catching the glow of the overhead lights. Dressed in his usual understated yet effortlessly attractive manner, he leaned against the bar, engaged in polite conversation.

But then his eyes found yours.

For a moment, he stilled.

And then—oh.

It was subtle at first. The slight parting of his lips, the way his grip on his drink tightened ever so slightly. His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, before snapping back to your face, sharp and hungry. If he had been holding a conversation, you wouldn’t have known—it was as if the world had ceased to exist around him, leaving only you.

Your lips curled into a knowing smile as you strode toward him, reveling in the way his pupils dilated, his usual composure slipping for just a fraction of a second.

You were used to catching Xavier’s attention. But tonight? Tonight, he was absolutely enthralled.

And of course—your lovely new colleague took notice.

She had dressed for the occasion as well, a deep crimson gown hugging her form, exuding confidence. Perhaps she had the same plan you did—to steal Xavier’s attention, to lure him in with beauty and presence.

But she had made one miscalculation.

Xavier’s attention wasn’t hers to steal.

You reached him just as she did, her voice silky as she tilted her head, a charming smile gracing her lips. “Xavier, I must say, you clean up well.”

Xavier, who had just barely managed to tear his gaze from you, turned toward her with his usual polite indifference. “Thank you, Captain.”

She placed a hand on the bar beside him, inching just a little too close, feigning casual conversation. “You know, I never did get a proper answer about my earlier proposal. A meeting—just the two of us. I think we could make an excellent team.”

Your blood simmered. The sheer audacity.

But before you could even open your mouth, Xavier did something that made your heart skip a beat.

He stepped back. Just enough to create space, his movements smooth yet unmistakably intentional.

“I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice calm but firm, “but I’ll have to decline. I don’t mix work with anything that could be… misinterpreted.”

The captain faltered for a fraction of a second, clearly not expecting such a direct rejection.

Still, she recovered quickly, letting out a light laugh, as if amused rather than deterred. “Oh? And here I thought you’d at least consider it.”

Xavier’s gaze flickered toward you then—brief, knowing, filled with something warm and unshaken. And then, with the faintest hint of amusement lacing his voice, he spoke again.

“There’s nothing to consider.”

The words were final. A dismissal. A line drawn in stone.

The captain seemed to realize that any further attempts would be futile. With one last lingering glance, she lifted her drink to her lips, her expression unreadable, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd.

You exhaled, finally allowing yourself to breathe.

And then—Xavier’s hand was on your waist, his grip firm as he pulled you flush against him.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice was low, edged with something darker, something teasing.

You tilted your head up at him, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Maybe. Though, I was a little concerned for a second there.”

Xavier’s lips twitched, his free hand tracing idle circles against your lower back. “Oh?”

You smirked, eyes gleaming with something playful. “I mean, she’s confident, gorgeous, highly respected—”

Xavier cut you off with a quiet scoff, his thumb brushing over the exposed skin of your waist. “So are you.”

Your laughter was soft, but before you could say anything more, he leaned down, his lips ghosting just below your ear.

“I only see you,” he murmured. “I only want you.”

A slow shiver ran down your spine.

You turned to face him fully then, hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “Good.”

He smirked. “Good?”

You leaned in, your lips just barely brushing his before whispering, “Because you’re mine.”

Xavier’s breath hitched—just barely, just enough for you to catch it—before he let out a quiet chuckle, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.”

And with that, he kissed you—slow and deep, in a way that left no room for doubt.

A statement. A promise.

And a reminder to anyone who had dared to think otherwise.

[bklynsboys]

Rest On Me (And I'll Lean On You)

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: what surprised the unit chief was that your head, as if drawn by an invisible string, had laid rest on spencer's shoulder—a stray strand of hair tickling his cheek. and not only that, spencer didn't seem to mind, not one bit. or, you fall asleep on spencer's shoulder and the rest of the team sees.

genre: fluff

word count: 1.3k

author's notes: back with another spencer fluff! i miss seeing my baby on my screen. i had to rewatch old episodes right after seeing the new ones because i miss him so bad. anyhow, enjoy reading this one.

RAIN LASHED AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD, BLURRING THE NEON GLOW OF THE CITY LIGHTS INTO A SMEAR. Inside the car, the air was filled with the silence of exhaustion. The BAU just narrowly captured another unsub—fortunately, just in time to save the most recent victim. Hotch, who was driving, glued his eyes to the rearview mirror. He had caught a glimpse of the scene unfolding behind him.

Spencer, usually busy poring through whatever piece of literature on his legs, was nestled into the corner, his head resting against the cool glass of the window. While, you, the newest member of the team, sat beside the male, curled up in the backseat, and brow furrowed in light sleep. Hotch recalled earlier how you were fighting back a yawn and wasn't surprised that he had found you passed out cold.

What surprised the unit chief was that your head, as if drawn by an invisible string, had laid rest on Spencer's shoulder—a stray strand of hair tickling his cheek. And not only that, Spencer didn't seem to mind, not one bit. In fact, a faint blush had dusted his cheeks, and his own eyes, momentarily fluttering open, held a hint of something akin to fondness.

Hotch watched, a small smile tugging at his lips. You and Spencer had been partnered for a particularly grueling case—a string of arsons with a unique signature. The long hours and emotional toll had clearly taken their toll.

Yet, even in exhaustion, an intimacy has bloomed between the both of you. Spencer, ever the gentleman, hadn't moved a muscle, seemingly content to act as a human pillow. On your part, like magnets, you had unconsciously gravitated towards his warmth, your breathing slowing into a peaceful rhythm.

Beside Hotch, a knowing grin spread across Morgan's face in the passenger seat. He glanced back at you and Spencer through the rearview mirror, catching the tender scene. He stifled a chuckle, it was endearing to see the boy genius to be intimate with someone, knowing that he wasn't known to be keen on physical affection.

With a playful nudge to Hotch's arm, Morgan kept his voice low. "Looks like someone found a comfy pillow, Hotch."

Hotch chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving the rearview mirror. "Seems so, Derek. Seems so."

But Morgan, ever the tease, couldn't resist adding another jab. "Just don't drool on him, kid," he called back in a mock-serious tone, knowing full well you were fast asleep.

Hotch shot him a withering look, but a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. He knew Morgan wouldn't disturb the peaceful tableau unfolding in the back. They all needed a moment of rest, a stolen fraction of comfort in the storm.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain. It was then, with a slight bump in the road, that the car dipped, causing Spencer to jostle ever so slightly. His head, as if following the car's movement, dipped as well, and his hair brushed against yours in a soft, unexpected touch.

You stirred in your sleep, a frown momentarily creasing your brow before smoothing out again. Spencer, wide awake now with a jolt of surprised awareness, froze. His hand instinctively reached up to brush the stray strand of hair back from his own face, but his fingers lingered in the air, hovering just above your head.

Heat flooded his cheeks as he realized the intimate position you had found yourselves in. He wanted to apologize, to gently move away, but a strange sense of peace settled over him. You looked so peaceful, nestled against the cool leather, and your brow finally relaxed. The exhaustion of the case seemed etched on your face, a shared burden they both carried.

With a silent sigh, Spencer decided against disturbing your slumber. He leaned his head back against the window, his gaze fixed on the blurry cityscape outside.

The car continued its journey through the city, the gentle sway a lullaby against the harsh symphony of the storm. You drifted deeper into sleep, the weight of Spencer's head on yours a grounding anchor.

As dawn painted the horizon with streaks of pink and orange, the rain finally subsided. Hotch, ever vigilant, announced they were nearing the precinct. Morgan, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, nudged Hotch again. "Think they'll wake up before we get there?" he whispered.

Hotch chuckled. "Knowing them, they'll probably jolt awake the second we stop. But for now, let them sleep."

The car pulled into the familiar parking lot of the BAU headquarters. Hotch gently nudged the brakes, careful not to disturb the peaceful scene in the back.

A trace of sunlight peeked through the clouds, illuminating the interior of the car. It danced across your face, warming your cheek and causing your eyelids to flutter open. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the events of the previous night flooded back.

A blush crept up your neck as you realized your head was resting on Spencer's shoulder. You were about to mumble an apology when you noticed his head turned towards the window, a thoughtful expression etched on his face.

Gathering your courage, you cleared your throat softly. "Spencer?"

He turned his head slightly, a surprised look flickering across his features before a gentle smile softened his expression. "Good morning."

You felt a tug in your chest, a mixture of awkwardness and something else, something warmer and more exhilarating. The sound of the car door opening startled both of you. Spencer's eyes flew open, a look of surprise mirroring yours.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You felt a renewed warmth bloom in your cheeks. "I… I think so," you stammered, suddenly self-conscious. "How about you?"

Before you got the chance to hear what Spencer had to say, Morgan's voice boomed from behind you. "Well, well, well. Looks like someone slept well."

You scrambled to sit up straight, your face burning. Spencer mirrored your movement, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Uh, good morning, Morgan," you stammered.

"Morning, kids," Morgan chuckled. "Hotch is grabbing coffee. You two coming in, or are you planning on catching some more shut-eye in the parking lot?"

You stole a glance at Spencer, who was gathering his things with a focus that seemed almost deliberate. The memory of his hair brushing against yours sent a shiver down your spine. You weren't sure if it was the exhaustion of the case or something else entirely, but the shared touch felt undeniably intimate.

"We're coming, Morgan," you called out, your voice a little shaky.

As you were about to exit the car, Spencer held the door for you with a shy smile. "Thanks for letting me, uh, borrow your shoulder," he mumbled, his cheeks dusted with a faint pink.

"No worries, Spencer," you replied, forcing a casual tone. "We both needed the rest. And thank you, as well. I used your shoulder first, so I guess it's only fair I let you borrow mine."

Spencer chuckled at this which caused your cheeks to pinken.

"About earlier," Spencer started. "When you asked me how I'm doing? Much better than I expected, considering the circumstances," he admitted with a hint of a chuckle.

The air crackled with unspoken words, a tension that felt both electric and strangely comfortable. You stole a glance at his profile, the way the soft morning light highlighted the planes of his face.

"That's good," you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper. "We should probably get going."

Spencer seemed to hesitate for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Right. We have forms to fill up."

Before you could unbuckle your seatbelt, Spencer beat you to it—his hand brushed against yours for a fleeting moment. It sent a jolt through you, a silent echo of the intimacy from the night before.

Stepping out of the car, you took a deep breath of crisp morning air. The city stretched out before you bathed in the golden hues of sunrise.

"Ready to face another day?" Morgan uttered loudly ahead of you, his voice laced with amusement.

You turned to face him, sighing at his teasing. You weren't oblivious to the fact that Morgan liked seeing you and Spencer together. "As ready as I'll ever be, Morgan."

[sleep-drunk-kitten]

pairing: Sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: angst with a happy ending, fluff, established relationship

content warnings: emotional neglect, some swearing, hoon is kinda a workaholic ig?, I don't think there's anything that really needs warnings other than this is sad but lmk if I miss anything!

summary: your boyfriend comes home late after promising to be home on time for once, only to find that you're nowhere in sight...

notes: this is another one that I'm not sure how to feel about ;-; but I hope you guys enjoy it TwT fun fact, the whole thing was inspired by an rp that I did with an ai where the robot somehow managed to call me by another person's name while cuddling XD

I'm making a general taglist for my fics so if anyone would like to be added please either send an ask or a DM ^w^

Everything below the cut is NOT proofread

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  The white noise of your favorite movie buzzes through your living room, conversation and dialogue that you’d learned by heart filling the cold space with a false sense of familiarity. You sit cross-legged with your back pressed into the arm of the L-shaped couch in front of the tv, resting your chin on a plushie held close to your chest, looking not at the flickering screen to your right, but at the clock hanging in your kitchen–the only room in the house with the lights on. 

  9:17 pm, it reads. Roughly three hours and seventeen minutes since your boyfriend would typically get home from work. 

  Three hours and seventeen minutes since you’d been waiting on a barstool by the kitchen island where you both usually took your meals. 

  A tiramisu cake and a bouquet of flowers laid out in front of you. 

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  So much waiting. 

  After an hour or so, you’d gently slid the cake back into its box, distracting yourself with the task of putting the flowers into a vase before they could wilt. 

  ‘He’s late again,’ you think sleepily, eyes struggling to stay focused on the clock, ’he promised he wouldn’t be tonight.’

  Your vision blurs as the long hand hits 12, eyelids too heavy to keep open, mind wandering to the conversation you’d shared with Sunghoon that morning. 

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  “What time will you be home from work today?” you asked sleepily, sitting up in your nest of blankets, having woken up to find that he was already in the process of pulling his socks on, careful not to wake you. 

  “I don’t know, Love, you know how crazy things have been with this update, I might be late again,” he said absently, looking around for his glasses. “Where the fuck did I put them?”

  He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly, leg bouncing in agitation. It made your heart ache slightly in your chest, disappointment, guilt, and worry mixing confusedly in your stomach. 

  You loved Sunghoon, more than almost anything else in your life, he was the man you’d chosen as your partner, who you’d decided to stand by through thick and thin. But ever since the game company he worked for had started work on a new update, you’d been seeing less and less of him. Always coming home late, tired and stressed, mind wandering and absent even when he was sitting right in front of you. You understood, you really did. Between the two of you he was the one with the bigger income, the burden of taking care of you, of making sure that the two of you could build a future together, was on his shoulders. And it was a responsibility that he did not take lightly. 

  But still. 

  In moments like that, where you slid off your bed to fetch his glasses off the nightstand–blanket wrapped securely round your shoulders to fend off the cold that permeated your apartment since the heating had started to malfunction–moving round the bed to stand in front of him… you couldn’t help but feel like he was breaking your heart. Just a little. 

  It was in the way he only met your eyes briefly when he took them from you before standing and gathering the rest of his things, sighing in what could’ve been frustration or relief, it was hard to tell. 

  It was the way he didn’t stop the flow of movement steadily taking him away from you and towards the office till you called his name twice, stopping in his tracks and fixing you with a look that, though probably unintentional, made you want to bury yourself under your mountain of plushies and hide. 

  “I’m going to be late, (y/n), what is it?”

  You winced. You couldn’t help it. Unaccustomed to hearing him say your name with so little emotion. “Just… could you come back on time tonight?” your voice is barely more than a whisper, tapering off into silence the longer you force your eyes to meet his. “Unless you can’t of course! I’m not saying you have to do anything, I understand that you’re busy and you can’t really dictate when or how things get done but just that it would be nice if you could be home on time tonight since-”

  “Okay.”

  “Huh?” 

  “I’ll make it home on time tonight.” 

  His voice was softer than it had been a moment ago, giving you the courage you needed to meet his eyes. They were still heavy with worry, brows drawn together to dig a permanent crease into the middle of his forehead, but they weren’t quite as cold or distant. He was looking at you, really looking at you for the first time in what felt like forever. 

  It wasn’t much, you knew that. But it was still enough to ease the knot building in your throat. Enough to bring a small smile to your face as you nodded. “Mnm! Okay, I’ll see you tonight then.”

   “Mnm, alright,” he said, a small, slightly strained smile coming to rest on his own lips.

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  The apartment was almost completely dark when the lock to the front door chimed, alerting the darkness that someone had arrived. The figure that stepped through was slumped over, backpack sliding off one shoulder with his jacket, shoes abandoned haphazardly. 

  It took a moment for Sunghoon’s mind to catch up to his body, for it to fully sink into his bones that he was home. That he was home and it was nearly 11 pm. Home and the tv and kitchen light were both on, white letters onscreen asking the room if anyone was still watching Netflix. 

  Something in the kitchen caught his eye, a handmade vase his sister had given you for your birthday set out on the kitchen island, filled to the brim with pink, white, and purple flowers he did not recognise. 

  ’Oh’

  It was his birthday. 

  That’s why you’d asked him to come home on time. 

  Sunghoon groaned, face twisting with what could only be described as pain as he quickly set his bag down by the front door and made his way to your shared bedroom. You were usually asleep by this time, unable to pull all-nighters the way you used to back when you were in high school, always out like a light by no later than 10:30 every night. 

  ’But she still stays up every night waiting for you,’ a voice in his head hisses.

  ’I know… fuck I know she does,’ his own voice replies, panic setting in when he finds your room empty, the bed neatly made, not even a dent to show that you’d been laying in it while working on your laptop during the day. 

  ’She’s not here… are you surprised? How long did you expect her to wait?’ the voice whispers, a chill cascading down his spine.

  The panic sets in with more vigor, wrapping round his throat and sending his tired mind into overdrive as he checks the bathroom, your home office, and finally the dark living room. Fear telling him that this was it. 

  He’d really gone and done it now. 

  He wasn’t a complete fool. He knew the moment you stood in the middle of your bedroom floor instead of closing the distance between you and wrapping your arms around his waist, choosing instead to clutch your favorite duvet like a lifeline, wincing when you heard his voice, all because you wanted to ask him to come home… he knew right then that he’d been an absolute idiot. 

  He’d meant to come home early, to be there to make it up to you, to apologise properly, tell you that he’d take some time off as soon as the update was done and dusted. 

  But he didn’t. He let work sweep him up again. Drowning in error messages and buggy code till the sky outside his office windows was filled with the flickering lights of the city at night. 

  And now… now you weren’t there. 

  He’d left you alone. 

  He’d left you alone too long and you were gone. 

  You were gone. 

  You were gone and-

  ’Oh.’

  There you were. 

  The relief when Sunghoon sees you–curled up on the couch, partially hidden by a small pile of blankets and stuffed animals–is immediate.

  He doesn’t really register the way he sighs your name, shoulders relaxing, body melting into the floor the moment he’s in front of you, hand brushing a few messy strands of hair out of your face. The need to feel the warmth of your skin, to confirm that you really are there in front of him more an instinct than a conscious decision. 

  You mumble something in your sleep, tilting your face away from his cold fingertips, eyes fluttering open. “Hoon… hi baby… welcome home,” you say tiredly, shifting under your blankets in an attempt to pull yourself up. 

  Sunghoon feels his heart crack in his chest. Why were you smiling at him? You should've been angry. You should've pushed him away, demanded to know why he was back so late, why he'd been neglecting you in the first place. 

  “Baby? My love… why are you crying?” you ask, reaching for him through the haze of sleep still clinging to your limbs. 

  Choking back a sob, he leans closer, tucking his head under your chin and doing his best to wrap an arm around you from his place on the carpeted floor. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, though the tears soaking into your sternum say otherwise, “just missed you…”

  Your vision blurs at his words, a thread of steadily building tension and worry that had been constricting your heart for the past few weeks snapping. “Oh…” your voice shakes slightly, lungs shuddering as your breaths begin to feel lighter, “I’m right here you goose, what’re you crying for?” 

  “Who says I’m crying,” he says, hoarse with tears. 

  “Right right,” you laugh despite the dampness now soaking through your own cheeks, “because my baby never cries, huh?” 

  “Never,” he sniffles, nuzzling closer.

  You stay like that for a while, eventually urging him to sit more comfortably on the couch, allowing you to settle yourself on his lap, his arms still wrapped firmly round your waist, hands occasionally kneading whatever part of you he was in contact with as if he needed to assure himself that you were there, solid and real. 

  He waits until he feels your heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, trying his best to calm down so his own can match yours, beat for beat. The way it–in his opinion–should. 

  But it wouldn’t, there were words lodged in his throat, and every time he tried to get them out he felt that same panic wash over him, sending his heart into a frenzy. 

  You could feel like beating against your cheek, could sense that there was something he wasn’t saying from the way his grip on you would tighten almost imperceptibly, stiffening as if he was bracing himself for something. A part of you wanted to push him, prompt him and ask what was going through his head, why you’d woken up to the sight of him crying in the dim light of your living room. And you would’ve if he hadn’t beat you to it. 

  “I’m sorry, (y/n).”

  “What do you mean? For being late? I know you can’t help it, Hoon, it’s not some-”

  “No! I mean yes, I’m sorry for being late tonight but… I mean… I mean for everything… for not being… here, with you, like this… as often as I should be, I’m sorry,” he says, the hands at your sides nervously fidgeting with the fabric at your hips, nervously looking between your face and the static tv screen behind you. 

  Sunghoon had never been good with words. You’d learned early on in your relationship that he preferred to show how he felt through his actions. Yet here he was, fumbling through an apology because… because… 

  “My love… did you think I’d left?” you ask, gently cupping his face with one hand, urging him to look at you. 

  Puffy red eyes still wet with tears, messy unkempt hair from running his hands through it all day, tired and probably as emotionally spent as you’d ever seen him and still… still he was the most beautiful person in the world to you. He nodded, hiding his face in your chest again, hands stilling. 

  “Well,” you sigh, resting your chin on top of his head and running a hand through the hair at the back of his head, combing through it in a way he swears only you can, “at least you know you’ve got things you need to make up for…”

  “I know… I forgot for a while… but I know…”

  “That’s okay then,” you breathe, leaning back to kiss his forehead. “But Sunghoon… baby… darling… the love of my life… my little pookie bear… “ you both giggle a little at the pet names, “You know I’d never leave you over something like this right? I was sad, and hurt, and I still expect you to make it up to me by never doing this again but… I still love you, it only hurts because I love you… I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sunghoon pauses for a moment, letting your words sink in. You think that when he looks up, lips slightly parted, it’s to say something in response, but you really should’ve known better. 

  Slowly, giving you enough time to pull away should you choose to, his breath mingling with yours before he steals it away with a soft, lingering kiss. Neither of you is in any rush to take things further. 

  It feels like a small eternity before he pulls away, like time stills for you both, but then he’s pressing his lips to your jaw, butterfly kisses tickling you down to your pulse point, making you giggle so you almost miss it when he says, “I love you too… so much…” 

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  It isn’t until the next day when you’re shuffling into your home office dressed in one of his oversized jerseys, complaining about a meeting that he remembers the flowers he’d seen on the kitchen island.

  Pulling out his phone, he makes good use of his detective skills (and google lens), remembering all the times you’d spoken to him about the language of flowers, and the meanings behind certain blooms. 

  He wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry once he’d figured it out, opting to dig through the cabinets for a pack of waffle mix to fix you some breakfast instead. He had a lot of apologies to make…

Baby’s Breath: pure everlasting love

Pink Camellias: longing for you

Forget-me-nots: true love memories, do not forget me

[shitpostingkats]

An Asexual's love letter to Good Omens 2

There's an infamous quote by Neil Gaiman going around, regarding the general vibe of season 2, and many people (I believe humorously) yelling that it could not be further from the truth. Particularly in the last episode, where that happens.

I disagree.

The final episode of season 2 was deeply, deeply comforting to me. 

I am asexual. Have been my whole life. Even before I had the words to describe what that was, child-me had this feeling in their gut of being an outlier, that everyone was exaggerating, or in on some joke, that I wasn’t privy to. Because I was bombarded on all sides by shows and movies and books, telling the same story of love, again, and again, and AGAIN. It’s drilled into our brains with the same fervor as the days of the week, or the quadratic formula. Meet-cute -> misunderstanding ->declaration of feelings ->kiss. More or less steps can be added to account for runtime or complexity of narrative, but that’s the basic structure that a relationship follows. It MUST be, because that’s the formula every character who's ever been in a story goes through, often times when it even feels like an add-on, like it’s only there because this is a story, there HAS to be a romance. And it has to follow the steps.

For a long time, I felt love wasn’t for me, because if there’s only one way to be in love, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling it. 

Instead, the relationship I ended up in looked a lot like what Beezlebub and Gabriel go through. Meeting someone routinely until it starts to feel comfortable. Getting to know them and slowly growing more attached. Eating chips and listening to music.

We like to joke whenever someone asks us how long we’ve been together, because the answer is we just sort of slowly fell into it, and we honestly don’t know when the line got blurred between ‘friends’ and ‘partners’. And, at least for me, a good deal of that confusion, that hesitancy to label, came from the fact that what I was feeling, what we were, couldn’t be love. It couldn’t be romantic. 

We were just quiet and gentle.

And that wasn’t love.

Because it was slow, because it wasn’t physical, because there was no structure aside from consistency and companionship. Because it didn’t follow the Rules.

Then I found myself in stories, and it felt like a revelation.

Beelzebub and Gabriel aren’t the first time I’ve seen a love like I feel represented in a narrative, but it never stops feeling special. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop celebrating it.

Throughout the sequence in the pub, I kept expecting them to “confirm” Gabriel and Beelzebub. A dramatic line, a kiss, a whatever. That’s what I’ve been taught to expect, after all, that’s the only way a relationship is “real”. Of course, this doesn't mean Crowley and Aziraphale sharing a dramatic kiss is wrong, or that I can’t see why it resonated with so many people, but for me. Those moments in the pub are worth so much more.The last scene might have been literally showstopping, but those handful of moments between the duke of hell and an archangel were the beating heart of the season for me. A simple love story in four scenes. No kisses. No ‘I love you’s. Not even any definition of what. The love Gabriel and Beelzebub have is strong enough for them to both want to shatter their worlds and flee their lives and it's just. 

It's just that. 

Two people in a pub, playing the other's favorite song, giving a little gift, buying a packet of crisps. 

That sequence means far more to me than any kiss ever could.

Love isn’t only real when it's hot and sudden and ephemeral, it can also be

Quiet.

And gentle.

And still romantic.

Still real.

[writersblockedx]

A Rekindled Kind of Love

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Summary - Spencer and Y/n hadn't talked since the Summer before college and then he sees her name as the only survivor in their latest serial killer case. Warning - violence, drinking Words - 3.6K

A/n - It's be a while! I've had a surge of inspiration lately since becoming a little obsessed with character ai lol and thought to write this one into a little one-shot.

masterlist

Spencer was lying if he ever called any day at the BAU normal. Between serial killers, sadists, and everything else in between, the boy had a blurred definition of normal. So, he expected anything - or so he thought. When he entered the meeting room that morning, he hadn't expected the name of Y/N Y/L/N to pop up.

"We've got three victims and, weirdly, one survivor." Garcia started to explain, clicking through the victim's dead bodies, the woman squirming at just a glance of the photos. "Whoever this sicko is, he's going after journalists. His latest victim, Y/n Y/l/n, was actually able to get away before he had a chance to kill her."

Spencer stopped. His gaze snapped up as Garcia clicked once more and he caught sight of the girl he once knew. Only now was she older, and her expression was stern. The unsub had left her features tainted, early bruises and several cuts littering over her. "She's pretty distraught says doctors, but she's alive and well."

He couldn't stop staring at her, memories of high school, of that last summer, of their blissfully ignorant friendship fueling his feelings. This was not normal. None of what he felt was normal - not for him away. "He stabs them?" Emily observed, all of the team had yet to clock onto the haze Spencer had suddenly found himself in.

Garcia hummed, "Yep, as many times as it takes before they...you know...die."

"He's aggressive, he's got no remorse for these victims," JJ spoke, glancing between her file at the screen in front of her.

"Not only are they all journalists, but they're female journalists too." Rossi added. "There's got to be some reason for that too."

Hotch nodded, "Either way, we should take Y/n into our care. She's the first to get away, I doubt he's happy about that-"

The shaggy-haired boy couldn't seem to take it. The way Y/n had gotten herself mixed in like she was any other victim, like she wasn't once the most important person in Spencer's life. "Excuse me," The boy stood abruptly, not giving any reasoning to the team before he practically ran out, gasping for breath.

The team were left with nothing. Their expressions moulding into ones of confusion, and puzzlement, "What's up with him?" Morgan was the first to question. But it was only met with the same uncertain expressions and a shrug from Hotch.

Morgan took it upon himself to stand, following Spencer out into the adjacent hallway where Spencer was panic pacing. A hand swooped through his hair as his thoughts raced. "Hey, kid, slow down," Morgan soothed. He hadn't realised the arrival of Derek until he spoke. Spencer turned, swallowing the lump which had since grown in his throat. "The hells going on with you?"

He took a breath. He evened his lungs and took a moment before confiding, "I- erm- I know her, Y/n Y/l/n, the survivor." He explained and that was enough for Morgan to understand. "Well, I suppose I knew her, we lost contact when we went to college, but we had been friends."

Morgan gazed back into the meeting room, "Reid, it's okay. She's okay, you know? She survived."

His head shook, "It doesn't matter. You heard Hotch, she's still a target." She wasn't safe and that fact was only nagging at Spencer.

"Alright, alright, how about I talk to Hotch? We'll go to the hospital, you make sure she's okay yourself?" Reid had barely agreed before Morgan walked back into that meeting room.

Of course, he wanted to make sure she was okay. But that also meant seeing her, after all these years. Spencer didn't know what had changed - if anything had. And he didn't know which option was scarier. Either way, he soon found himself at the hospital, waiting at the reception desk as a doctor went to find her.

His feet were tapping, his nerves obvious to Morgan. "Reid, calm down, she's gonna be alright," He said, but no words from Morgan or a doctor was going to help. He needed to see her.

"It's not just that I'm worried about." What if everything had changed? What if nothing had? What if-

He turned and found his eyes on her. She still had that same look. That same smile, the same soft gaze, the same ease about her that Spencer craved. But this was the very moment he feared.

She wandered up to him, quickening her pace as much as she was able to considering her state. "Spencer," She said his name like a sigh of relief. Before he realised it, her arms were wrapped around his neck, melting into his touch as if no time had passed.

"Hi," He breathed into her ear; she was safe. The hug didn't last long enough. How could it? They had 12 years of missed hugs.

"I can't believe you're here, the doctor said a profiler and then said it was Doctor Reid and I-" She trailed on, "I don't know why I was so surprised. Of course, you made it big."

Spencer shrugged, "I wouldn't call this big." The boy became sheepish, almost flushed and Derek Morgan had certainly taken notice. "I'm sorry I stopped calling and I should have-"

"Oh, Spence, save it," She chuckled lightly, "I could have picked up that phone just as well as you had. I just wish we could have met under different circumstances."

He nodded, "Yeah, well about that," Spencer turned to bring Derek into the conversation, "This is Agent Morgan, he's erm gonna help."

Morgan sent his usual cheeky smirk as he did with any pretty lady, "It's good to meet you, sweetheart. Glad to hear you're feeling better too."

Spencer hadn't expected anything less from the man. "Look, I don't know if the doctor explained it to you, but we're under the belief that this unsub may still be targeting you."

"Unsub?" She reiterated.

"The killer that went after you." Morgan answered, "Unknown subject, unsub for short."

"We erm- we have to take you in, make sure you're safe kind of thing," Spencer explained, fidgeting with his fingers as she glanced between them and the girl in front of her.

Her pupils grew worrisome, "You think I'm still in danger?"

Spencer hated that word. Even the thought of Y/n in danger made his spine shiver. "You're the first to get away, we erm- we don't think he'll be very happy about it. He could lash out, many unsubs, new unsubs especially, a victim getting away could be like a double stressor, he could be on a rampage, he could be doing nothing but think about getting to you." He realised he was rambling and his words were only worrying the girl more, "Sorry, I just, I want to make sure you're safe."

But Y/n understood, "It's alright, Spence. I'll go grab my things."

With that, a rush filled the girl as she turned her back on the two agents, wandering back into the hospital room she had come from. Spencer's eyes hadn't left from where her figure was once standing. This was personal for him - even if he hadn't seen the girl for years now. "She's not just someone from high school, is she?" Morgan realised as he observed Spencer.

He turned to him as if he had just left the trail of thoughts in his mind, "Hm?" He turned back to look at Morgan.

His response had only made Morgan smile, "Y/n, she seems more to you than that."

"It was..." The boy thought back to it, to that Summer, he didn't know how else to describe it, what they had, her. "Complicated."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

12 Years Prior, Las Vegas

Y/n always had something Spener didn't: Popularity. Well, in a way. Spencer was cast away from many of his peers. A social reject. While, Y/n was a social butterfly of sorts. She took to a crowd with ease. The type of girl that could make friends with anyone.

The boy had certainly hit the jackpot when he was assigned to tutor her. Over the course of several sessions, they had bonded over literature, future college plans and, surprisingly, Y/n's distaste to certain 'jocks' - as the social hierarchy liked to describe them as.

She was the only reason Spencer turned up to the end of year house party. Crowds weren't his thing, drinking neither. But she...she was worth it.

"Spencer!" The girl gleamed as he wandered into the house. 

He didn't belong at all. His shoulders were stiff, his glasses at the edge of his nose. But, despite such, Y/n still took him into a longing hug. "H- Hi." He greeted, his eyes flickering all over the place. From the demolished kitchen to the living room where drunken teens were dancing on top of couches and coffee tables.

Her brow raised, "Come on, we'll get you a drink." Her hand slipped into his, bringing the boy back to his attention: her. "You do drink right?" She checked as she guided him towards said demolished kitchen.

"Erm, not a heavy drinker but, sure I can have one."

"You sure?" She spoke ever so softly, "You know you don't have to."

"Just one." He offered her a smile.

She grasped a few bottles: vodka, rum, tequila. "Pick your poison."

Spencer had simply shrugged, a chuckle at the tip of his tongue, "I'll have whatever you're having."

"Rum it is!"

She poured the two the same drink - almost half liquor, half mixer. Spencer coughed when he swallowed, causing the girl to giggle, "Too much?"

But Spencer simply shook his head, "Just perfect," He almost joked as he leaned onto the kitchen counter next to the girl, "I almost didn't come," He admitted.

"I don't blame you," He gazed down at her answer, his expression urging her to add some context. "Ashley James puked up after two drinks, Kacy and Liam broke up, now Liam's making out with Polly. It's just...a mess." Her eyes rolled. "But then again, what was I expecting?"

Spencer smiled at her. She was good at knowing like everything. While he was filled with facts and statistics, Y/n knew everything about everyone. Within one look, she knew your secrets. Maybe that's why she was so good with people. "We can go somewhere else if you want?" He suggested.

His question brought along an idea for the girl. With her free hand, she took Spencer's and led him out into the back garden. Whoever lived here was almost rich. Well, rich enough for a pool and a pretty big outdoor area. "Come on," Y/n urged him as she pulled the boy towards the edge of the pool.

She slipped her shoes off, sitting down and letting her legs dangle into the fresh water. Spencer watched her for a moment before joining her, the two sipping on their drinks. "Better?" She asked him.

He nodded, "Much."

"At least we've got Summer now, no more being forced to see them assholes." She joked.

Spencer's brows narrowed in thought, "You mean the assholes that you were friends with until you met me?"

"Well you got me there, Spence." She shrugged, "Social survival, that's what I call it. It's not as if there won't be similar people in college. I mean, fucking sororities, semi-pro football leagues, frats?"

"I'm sure you'll fit in amazingly at Princeton." His smile seemed to falter at his own words.

She gazed at the boy who seemed captivated by the slowly swaying water below them, "We'll still call you know, text, just cause we're in different places, doesn't mean anything, Spencer." Y/n attempted to comfort him.

"That's what everyone says but, I don't know." He shook his head, ignoring a thought.

But she noticed it; she noticed everything, "But what?"

He huffed and stared over at her, his eyes pooling in admiration. "You're one of the best things to have happened to me in a long time you know," He offered her a smile, "I couldn't even imagine losing you."

The girl bit her lip. Something was on her mind and Spencer had noticed. He too noticed everything about her. But he didn't ask. Partly, because he didn't have the chance to. Her eyes flickered to his lips. Then to his eyes. And before Spencer could realise, she had leant in, her lips at his. Without even realising, she had changed everything for the boy.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Spencer accompanied the woman towards a private, interview room. He would offer support and comfort but at the same time, he had a job to do. A part of that was questioning. She was the only person to know this unsub. As difficult as it would be for her, he would have to ask them questions.

"Hey," Emily spoke as he entered the room, two coffees in hand: one for Spencer and one for Y/n. "Coffee orders are here," She smiled as she placed them at the table between the two. "I'm Emily, Reid says you're an old friend."

Her eyes flickered to the man before she shook Emily's hand, "Something like that yeah."

"Well, we're here if you need anything, alright?" She said, "You're in good hands here, especially with our Doctor Reid."

With that, Emily left to join the rest of the team who were busy compiling a profile. Which left her and Spencer. This was the part he wasn't looking forward to. "I've erm, I've got to ask you some questions, it'll help us understand this unsub, help us find him." He explained. When she nodded, the boy continued, "I'm going to ask you to close your eyes, alright? And then I'm just going to go through the night you were attacked. Is that okay?"

She swallowed the lump which had grown in her throat, "Yeah," She muttered.

Y/n followed the instructions and let her eyelids close before Spencer started the exercise, "Okay, just go back to that night. You were on 9th Street, correct?"

"Yes."

"It was getting late, but it was summer, think about the air, was it still warm? What sort of things could hear, anything?"

She thought back to it. Y/n had just finished her work week, she was walking home from the Subway. "There's a group of girls on the other side of the road, they're giggling. Drunk, I assume."

"That's good, that's really good." Spencer praised, "Then when did you realise something was off?"

Her brows furrowed and she thought about it, the pit in her stomach growing, "Someone- someone was yelling. A man. I thought he was like bible bashing so I wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying."

"Think." Spencer jumped in, "Listen to him, pick any words, any phrases that stick out to you."

And she did so. Her mind ran through the memory, "Something, something about an agenda, the- the snowflake agenda? It's ruining America it's-" She cut herself off as the memory reached the worst part. "That's when he grabbed me." Her voice quickened, her breaths soon becoming uneven. "He had a knife to my neck- he pulled me to an ally. I- Spencer."

Her hand reached out over the table instinctively, "It's okay," He too had become panicked just seeing her's. "I'm here, it's over, you can open your eyes."

When she finally did, she took one breath. A sigh of relief that she was okay. And then, a single tear dropped from her eyeline. Spencer couldn't take it. He stood and she followed suit, "Come here," He spoke before taking her into a tight hug. "You're safe, I promise." 

She pulled away just slightly but never dared to break touch, "The only reason I got away was because I had pepper spray in my bag," She explained. 

Spencer thought on that and then an idea came to mind. "Come with me," The boy took a hold of her hand, guiding the girl through the bullpen towards the meeting room where the rest of the team had been.

The round table was scattered with files and papers. Garcia typed away at her laptop while the rest were debriefing. At the entrance of the pair, they glanced up. 

Before they could ask any questions, Spencer started rambling, never daring to let go of Y/n's hand. "The unsub was protesting on the street, he's some kind of right-wing enthusiast. He was going on about the left-wing 'agenda', about how it's ruining America." He explained. "Not only that, but Y/n used pepper spray on him."

Like that, they had something, "He would have had to go to the hospital?" JJ thought.

"Or at least bought some kind of medical supplies."

"Yeah, saline wipes or there's a nasal spray that helps the pain." Spencer went on to explain.

From there, Hotch turned to Garcia, "Cross check avid right-wing protesters in the D.C. areas, men with low criminal offences, things like hate crime. Then look at anyone whose been admitted for treatment of pepper spray or has bought any medical supplies to treat it."

Like that, the aggressive typing ensued. The team were all waiting, Y/n still at Spencer's side, anxious for the name of her attacker to be revealed. "I've got it, Tony Jones."

When Hotch stood from his chair, the rest of the team started to follow. "Send us the address, Garcia."

"Already done it, Sir."

Each of the team members stood, one by one walking passed Y/n. That was apart from Garcia who was still glued to her laptop, sending the address to the rest of the team. Spencer was about to turn when Y/n reached for the boy's hand once again. Her eyes filled with nothing but worry. "Do you have to go?"

Her question had made his heart ache. His eyes flickered to Garcia who was already glancing at the two, "I- I probably should but, but Garcia will stay with you." He offered.

Y/n looked back at the extravagant woman who was smiling, "Of course, I've got loads of things I can show you in my office!" She gleamed.

Y/n returned the smile before turning back to Spencer, "You'll be careful, right?"

The boy nodded, "Of course," He replied before taking her in his arms once again. But this time, when he pulled away ever so slightly, it was to place a gentle kiss to her forehead.

And like that, a soft smile, a goodbye, was passed between the two before Spencer turned away to join the rest of the team. She stared out the door of the conference room until Spencer slipped away. From there, she turned, a weak smile given to Garcia as she came to join her at the round table.

The other woman had watched the interaction and, while she wasn't a profiler, she wasn't oblivious to the world of loving. "He really cares about you, doesn't he?" She asked. Though, Garcia already knew the answer.

"I care about him just as much," Even after all this time, a piece of her heart still belonged to Spencer Reid - it always would.

"You're not just an old friend, are you?"

Y/n swallowed, glimmers of that high school Summer filling her brain. "It was, complicated." She described. "We erm, only really had a Summer as..." How could she describe it? "More than friends, I guess. And then we were both shipped off to college. And I mean, we lost contact. As a lot of people do." And 12 years later here she was.

Garcia offered her a smile, "You still love him, don't you?"

The girl giggled but gave a nod, "I don't think I ever stopped."

"Well, if my time with Doctor Reid has taught me anything, the way he is with you, I mean it's like no other." Her hand brushed at her shoulder gently, "I don't think your feeling is one-sided."

That would stick in her head for the next hour. While Spencer and the rest of the team were arresting Tony Jones, Garcia was giving the girl a tour of her office. Everything wonderful and weird. And while she tried her best to pay attention, her mind kept being dragged over to Spencer. If he was safe, if he was coming back...if, once again, everything had changed.

She knew one thing: she would make sure they didn't lose contact this time around.

When the boy finally returned, he practically rushed through the BAU to find her. She was at Garcia's side as they exited her office, "Y/n," He called.

The girl's head snapped to him, her pace quickening as she came to reach him, "Did you?"

He nodded, "He's at the station, don't worry." He assured.

"Oh, good, yeah," She spoke before a sigh fell from her lips. "So, I mean, what happens now? Do I just go home?" The idea of such, while stupid to think so, was almost disappointing. Going home meant she wasn't in Spencer's company any longer. And that wasn't something she wasn't to lose just yet.

But Spencer's reaction was a similar one, "I can walk you home, if you want of course."

Her smile grew, "I'd like that."

"I'll just erm," He gestured to his FBI vest, "I'll only be a second."

And so she watched him leave for barely a minute, coming back in his shirt. He took her hand, led her into the lift and pressed for the ground floor. A moment of silence. A moment of thought. One of which was urgring Y/n on.

She glanced over at the boy, "You know I always think everything happens for a reason." Her nerves suddenly flooded her body as she realised what she was about to admit, "And as much as getting jumped was not fun, I'm glad it brought me back to you, Spencer."

Y/n turned to face him, barely any space between them, "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Spence."

With that, Y/n made the leap. She closed that gap, their lips meeting every so soft, ever so longing. Like they had both been waiting for this moment for 12 years. And when they pulled away, her hands cupping his face and his placed at her waist, it was like they were 18 again. "Promise we'll keep in contact now?" He almost joked.

And she chuckled, "Promise."

[stvrkeysgal]

hi sorry i’ve never done one of these before but i have a request:

drew and y/n are co-stars in a new romance movie that is about to come out. it has been heavily anticipated and because of this calvin klein reached out to them to shoot an ad.

it’s gonna be really tension ridden and like they can’t keep their hands off eachother. the lines between acting and real life start to blur .

i don’t mind how it ends or what you decide to happen☺️

thank you if you do it!!

on-screen (?) chemistry — drew starkey

pairing: drew starkey x fem!actress!reader

warnings: not much, but it's fluff + minimal swearing

taglist: @jadastarkey @tillysslife @hrtsforstrkysblog @hoefordrewstarkey

starring alongside drew motherfucking starkey in a movie was something you still can't grasp onto. he was the man you've always admired way before you started acting. and now that you're finally going to get some time to know what it's like to be with him, you swore you didn't want the whole thing to stop.

both of your schedules were mainly filled with days to weeks of filming. and after that, your upcoming calvin klein photoshoot that's going to happen after your filming with him. honestly speaking, you couldn't quite wrap your head around the fact that you and drew have starred alongside each other, and then a photoshoot to follow. sounds like a dream, if you're being asked.

today was another day of filming with drew. the two of you had been in your separate trailers for today and were given an hour off to get styled. your makeup artist was busy doing your eye makeup, and your hairstylist fixing you up when your PA came in. "drew's here to see you," she says, while you give her a thumbs-up to let him in.

drew walks into your trailer then, and is met by the sight of you being styled. "hey," he says, eyeing your current outfit and makeup. "can i talk to you for a while?" everyone stops for a moment, and looks at you as if asking what they were supposed to do. "is this a 'we need to talk in private' moment, or everyone can stay?"

everyone drops what they're doing and just smiles at the two of you. "we'll just leave the two of you alone. just call us when you're finished." you just nod at them, and in a matter of seconds you're left alone with drew.

"what's wrong?" you took a few careful steps towards drew who sat in your trailer's couch. he looks up at you and smiles. "just wanna know if you're okay about everything. and about the next scene to film." how sweet of him to check up on you!

"yeah, i'm fine. thanks for checking." you returned his smile with as much sweetness as possible. "that's good. just tell me if you have something with the scenes, and we'll work it out." drew says, before standing from your couch and walking out of your trailer.

๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑

if you had to hear the words "and, action!" one more time, you swore you'd lose your shit and crash out on the spot. the scene that you and drew had been filmed and cut so many times—all because the director didn't deem the cuts worthy enough—and he didn't think that you and drew weren't acting that well for the scene.

which was new, since you and drew usually got every scenes right.

you sighed in frustration and walked out of the set, with drew trailing behind you as he saw your face. "you okay, y/n/n?" god, hearing him call you by that nickname he gave you a while ago should be enough to take all your frustrations away. unfortunately, it wasn't.

"no," you finally stopped walking, and then turned to face drew. "i'm just so... pissed." drew barely saw you pissed—in the whole time he was working with you. so this might be a totally different case. "huh," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "do you wanna talk about it?"

"sure."

it's been about an hour since the two of you finished filming so right now, you and him were talking inside your trailer after a long day. "i'm just so tired," you say, taking a sip out of your coffee. "what weren't we doing for him to talk to us like that? we were giving whatever he was asking for. what the hell are we doing wrong?"

what you didn't know was that drew kept asking himself the same fucking thing. what weren't you giving or doing enough for the cuts and scenes to be in line for being unconsidered?

that was until an idea crossed his mind. "you may hate me for this," he says. "but what if we practiced the scene here, and we could just... you know, perform it tomorrow?"

aha, practicing with drew starkey. filming with him was one thing, but practicing? running lines together alone? oh, that was a different talk.

ohmygodohmygodohmygodisthisreallyhappening— but what came out of your mouth was, "are you sure? i mean, you don't have to if—"

"i insist, y/n. alright? it's fine." drew offers you one of his trademark smiles, one that has your stomach swarmed with butterflies. "okay," you nodded, mirroring the same smile that lingered on his face.

filming had finished after a while—three months, to be exact—and everyone was talking about it. before you and drew knew it, the movie had been the talk of social media. twitter, instagram, tiktok, you name it.

of course, the hate comments weren't exactly... avoidable, but everyone was mainly praising how much of a great job you did. drew had been there to comfort you through the negative comments, and he was there to remind you of your hardworks, and how perfect you were for the role—and as his co-star. "you were amazing, y/n. you don't let them get to your mind. got that?"

"holy shit have y'all seen drew and y/n interact earlier at the premiere????"

"trust me when i say drew can't keep his eyes off y/n earlier 😭 felt like i was interrupting something"

"y/n and drew def did it. we just can't prove it 😩"

the premiere night had been great so far. besides the paps and the reporters crowding you and drew, the fans' reactions have made up for it all. seeing them in awe and smiling at your—and drew's—performance, things have been doing good.

"you okay there, y/n/n?" drew asked you once he saw your legs bouncing from underneath your dress.

everyone had been watching the film, and it didn't help that the cinema was a little bit cold for your liking. that alone may have added to your chilling factor. "i'm okay," you give drew a tight-lipped smile. "just cold."

with no hesitation, drew takes his coat off and wraps it around your body. "there," he says, a faint smile lingering on his lips. "still cold?" you shake your head no, but somehow you find yourself shivering a little bit more.

you didn't know which part of the movie you zoned out—but for the rest of the night, all you could think about was drew. and the way he gave you his coat without hesitation.

or the way he smiles at you while filming.

how he casually and protectively wraps an arm around your waist in pictures.

or how he looks at you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

'it's normal, it's fine, you're just his co-star, you're just his co-star, you're just his...' you snapped yourself out of it before you could even let your mind wander elsewhere. after all, drew could never see you in that way. he's just friendly to everyone, right?

๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑

a while had passed after that premiere with drew, and here you were now. filming the goddamned calvin klein ad with drew.

if shooting a romance movie with him was something, then an ad for an underwear was another thing. that would mean you'd see him wearing nothing but boxers.

little do you know, drew was thinking of the same thing. if it helps, he couldn't sleep the night before, knowing he'd be seeing you in nothing but underwear for the rest of the shoot.

so to say, you two had been losing your shit about each other in secret.

before you knew it, your body was pressed against drew's, the moment allowing you to feel nearly every inch of his bare skin. he was feeling yours as well, and he fought his hardest not to give away any of what he's thinking right now.

"okay," the cameraman says. "drew, move closer to y/n. y/n, place your arm on drew's shoulder, and lean on him." the command somehow has your mind spinning, and for a moment you felt every inch of your self-control fly out the window.

you did what you were told, and then the shooting commenced.

the two of you had said each other's lines. everything was executed perfectly, but either the two of you would be able to tell that something was missing. "that was good," the cameraman says. "but something's not right." you could feel your cheeks heat up, but you were unsure if it was in a good or bad way. "we'll work on it," drew says, giving you a side-glance once.

"take two, then."

cameras started rolling once more, and when it reached the part where the change was needed, drew grabbed your chin and tilted your face up to meet his. one of his hands snaked towards your waist and pulled you closer to him.

despite the raging butterflies in your stomach, you decided to go with the flow and rested your hands on his chest while staring deep in his eyes.

your hand resting on him allowed you to feel just how toned he was. what the hell, what the hell, what the hell—?

"cut!" you heard the cameraman yell once. "i said cut, you two!" but neither you or drew bothered moving at all. unbeknownst to the two of you, everyone had been snickering and staring at you two and had been observing how neither of you pulled away or heard "cut."

you snapped out of it when the cameraman put the clapper directly to your side and drew's, making the two of you pull away in shock. "yeah, okay." you muttered mindlessly, pulling away from drew with flushed cheeks.

the tension seemed to intensify somehow, once the two of you were left alone with your own thoughts and feelings in a room filled with chaos and staff going around. "so..." you began, eyes avoiding to meet drew's. "what was that?"

"what was what?" drew tried his best not to smirk or let any of his emotions slip, but he knew he was failing. just before you could even come up with a reply, drew was called by his assistant, and he shot you a wink before walking away.

it wasn't until the second photoshoot when you felt the spark that ignited between you and drew. the tension seemed to rise, making it harder to ignore the unsaid chemistry between the two of you.

this time, however, everything seemed to take up a notch when the director had you sitting on drew's lap, arms wrapped around his neck while his hands were on your thighs while the two of you looked at the camera.

your heart raced against your chest, heat crawled up to your cheeks at the position that you and drew were in. and you were sure as hell that the fans would have something new to talk about, then.

๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑

the shoot was over before you knew it. the two of you had done a great job with the photos and videos—and in keeping your professionalism intact, which meant it was time to wrap everything up.

you were fixing up your outfit when drew came in your dressing room, which left you alone with him. your heart beats pick up the pace once more, and it didn't help that what you two did earlier kept flashing through your mind.

seeing that the shoot was over, you were finally going to get some rest, maybe treat yourself out for something to celebrate the shoot finishing—and maybe... just maybe, forget about drew.

however, that plan seemed to go to waste when you noticed how drew's eyes lingered on you—way longer than it should've, and you could only stare back at him, ignore the way his eyes stared at you intensely, and give him a small smile.

drew was having none of that.

he walked closer to you while you moved backward, stumbling against one of the dressers and keeping you trapped against him when he put his arms on either of your sides.

"how long are we gonna pretend that we don't feel it, huh?" one of drew's hands moved to grab your chin, tilting it up to make you meet his eyes. "i swear to god, y/n. this is driving me crazy—you're driving me crazy."

your breath hitches at that. you wanted to look away—look anywhere else but drew, to hide how much you've craved him. but seeing that he was this close to you, your senses were only filled by drew, and him only.

"i don't wanna pretend anymore, y/n," drew leaned down and whispered the words against your ear. "i don't wanna do all this and pretend that i don't want you."

your head spins, your breath stills, and everything seems to slow down for the two of you, all while his words start to get to your head. "tell me you don't want me, and i'll walk away."

you can't.

because you know you want drew.

without even thinking, your lips crashed against drew's. hard. he returned the kiss, and both of his hands moved under your thighs while he lifted you to have you sit on the dresser. your lips moved against each other's, every movement seemed to be just perfect.

"can't believe i didn't tell you sooner," drew's lips moved from your lips to your neck, him immediately finding your soft spot and sucking on it gently. "but well, i'm telling you now. i like you, y/n." you gasped softly at the feeling of his lips, the action making your eyes flutter.

"you're my waking thought, and the last thing i think about before i sleep. you've ruined me, baby. for anyone else." his lips remained where they were, his voice vibrating against your skin which felt more good than you thought.

"you don't know what you do to me, starkey." you said in a whisper, sounding breathless all of a sudden. "you drive me insane. make me feel things that i've never felt before." he moved back up to stare at your eyes, the action making your heart flutter somehow.

time passed by like a blur—the two of you were on the same position you were in, just a few minutes have passed. "so much for acting," drew says, breathless against your lips. "i'm done pretending."

"so am i, drew. so am i."

a/n: OH YEAAAAAAHHHH BABY GUESS WHO'S BACK !!! anyway idrk how to start chapter two of how to lose a guy in 10 days but pls bear w me when i say i'm finishing my works (and drafts) !! love y'all sm 🫶🏻

p.s: tell me if i did a bad job abt the whole social media bs thing pls

[stayevildarling]

I adore your writing!! If you take requests, could I request the following for female reader x Wanda x Natasha. Where Natasha and Wanda have been in love with reader for the longest time and absolutely but secretly hate the fact she is in a relationship with someone. Unbeknownst to them, the relationship is toxic and reader suffers but doesn't say anything until maybe one day on a mission they find out? I adore your mental health fics. maybe bit of everything? angst/fluff/smut???? tysm

Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff x Reader- Good Luck, Babe

A/N: First of all I want to thank you dear anon for this request. I'm a sucker for fics like this. Secondly, I apologise for other projects on hold like ,,Fragments of us'' Part two. Right now, I don't have a lot of motivation or time to write but this intrigued me. Title inspired by the song ,,Good Luck, Babe!'' by Chappell Roan.

tw/tags: female reader, established relationship Wanda + Natasha, mention of abusive partner, mention of physical abuse, mention of verbal + emotional abuse, mention of bruises/cuts, mention of violence, cursing, mention of poly relationship, angry wandanat, slight nsfw mentions

word count: 10k (I apologize for my previous post regarding this, my draft messed up and I ended up counting the fic twice)

translation: detka= baby, malishka= baby girl

taglist: (if you want to be added comment/sent an ask or dm)

@lunaticwhittaker, @billiebeanhoward, @lanawinters-ily, @kenzbro, @minaslittleone, @httpfiftyshadesofgay, @whitelotus00, @ninaahs, @vintagepaulson, @isle-of-earle, @paulsonsratched, @stepintomyworld, @grilledcheeseandguavajelly, @lucyintheskywithxanax, @fanfics4world, @mymiraclewitch, @hazard-to-myself, @awritersometime, @ohrwurm26, @wastdstime, @p1pecleanerwitheyes

The Avengers compound had been unusually quiet this morning, the rain tapping gently against the large windows, creating a soothing rhythm that contrasts with the usual hustle. Outside said large windows, the world is wrapped in a soft haze, the greenery of the compound blurred by the pouring rain. The air inside feels cooler this morning, causing Natasha to shiver slightly, before the scent mixes with the faint aroma of coffee.

In the meantime, Wanda stands by the stove in the kitchen, her movements flowing freely as she prepares breakfast. The soft clinking of utensils, one of the few sounds breaking the silence. Usually, mornings after Tony's birthday parties would be filled with the sounds of laughter, groans from those suffering from hangovers and the general buzzing from the team slowly coming back to life. However, today it was different. Natasha sits at the kitchen island, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands.

Her green eyes fixed on the rain outside, lost in her thoughts. Her posture is tense, shoulders slightly hunched and her usual confident demeanour seemingly distant. Even her hair, still damp from the shower she had, falls in loose waves around her face. Wanda, ever the observant girlfriend, notices of course. Having noticed, as soon as she found Natasha this morning, sitting absentmindedly on the sofa of their shared apartment within the compound, before she headed for a shower, barely any words exchanged yet.

Usually, the two of them had a different routine on mornings like this with no mission to prepare for. Natasha would shower first and then Wanda would join her in the kitchen, where Natasha would tease her about her cooking and baking, despite loving it deeply. But today, there was no teasing, no light conversation, no glances filled with love, no warm arms wrapping around the redheads. Just silence and the occassional sounds of rain and clattering from Wanda's cooking.

As the Scarlet Witch flips a pancake, she glances over at Natasha again, her concern deepening with each moment passing. The redhead's face is a careful mask, but Wanda could sense the tension beneath it, her magic not needed as her love for the Black Widow was enough as she had been with her for years and knew her better than anyone. Natasha's fingers tap rhythmically on the side of her mug of coffee, a rare sign of agitation.

Setting down the spatula, Wanda moves closer as her elbows rest on the kitchen counter, her eyes observing Natasha a little closer. ,,Are you okay darling?'' she asks softly, her voice cutting through the silence.

In response she blinks, as if coming out of a daze, looking at her girlfriend. For a moment she seems conflicted, ready to flash one of her practiced smiles and assure her girlfriend that she is absolutely fine and just thinking about a mission or what to do at the gym later. But then she sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. ,,I don't know'' she admits, her voice unusually soft and small. She looks back at the window, the grey reflecting in her eyes. ,,Just thinking'' she acknowledges, her walls right where they usually would be, before Wanda would break through them gently.

,,Are you thinking about last night by chance?'' Wanda whispers, reaching out to place her hand on Natasha's arm in a comforting manner. The redheads head snaps towards her partner, both feeling caught and at the same time wondering how Wanda would have known. ,,How-?'' she snaps a little, worried that maybe the witch had used her powers on her girlfriend as reading minds certainly was one of them. If she was thinking straight, the avenger would know that Wanda would never do that, respecting Natasha's privacy always and rather giving her time and space rather than using her magic to force any truths out of her partner.

,,Detka, I know you'' she assures, her eyes searching her girlfriends. Natasha sighs, feeling bad for even thinking that Wanda would have invaded her thoughts like that and at the same time sighing, knowing she would have some explaining to do. ,,This is about Y/N, isn't it love?'' Wanda asks softly, using her magic to turn off the stove as the pancakes were done at this point and wanting to stay close to her girlfriend in order to comfort whatever was troubling her mind. Natasha sighs, as Wanda as usually had figured out exactly what was troubling her and indeed it had been you.

The relationship between the two of them and you had always been a little strange. Natasha and Yelena rescuing you and your memories years ago from the red room and the people having done the same horrible things to you than the Russian and her sister. They took you in, introducing you to the avengers as you really had no home, no family, yet your skills had been impressive. And quickly, the avengers had become your home, giving you shelter at the compound to get back on your feet, Yelena quickly becoming one of your best friends and Natasha equally close to you, wanting to save the last bit of your soul as she had instantly felt something, as soon as laying eyes upon you for the first time, you had been different and she could tell, even back then.

At the time, both Natasha and Wanda had more of a fling, hands always lingering somewhere on each other, glances shared in meetings, secret meetings and hook ups at night as they couldn't quite keep their hands away from each other. Both of them took you under their wing, helping you train some younger recruits in order to give you something to do, support you emotionally, making sure you could thrive again after suffering abuse and torture for several years. And you blossomed in a way that Tony and the others quickly realised you could be an asset to them, offering to send you on your first mission. And at that time both Wanda and Natasha had grown so close to you that they objected, not liking the thought of you in danger again and worrying about your health and mental state and how the mission may affect you.

In the end they insisted on accompanying you and watched in awe as you succeeded with your first mission, thriving with each day along the avengers. The three of you quickly become the golden trio, always seen together, either in the gym with Natasha, working out while blasting some music, the redhead teasing you for your right hook. Often seen with Wanda as she showed you some of her magic as it had you in awe. The three of you grew closer than the two of them ever had been before and over months their feelings for you grew. Natasha and Wanda pretty much realised at the same time, confiding in each other as they didn't want to ruin what they already had. When the same words spilled from their lips they couldn't help but laugh but the laughter quickly subsided as one of the recruits who you had been training often, seemed to have captured your heart.

They didn't notice the lingering glances, the gestures from her as she showered you in flowers, affection and gifts. As they had been too caught in their own feelings and how they could ever propose this idea to you, despite feeling pretty sure that you felt the same way, having seen your blushing whenever around them and the way you squirmed whenever their hands lingered on you somewhere or the pet names they had reserved for you specifically, flowed so freely from their mouths. It hit them hard when they found about you and Lucy, each of them handling the news in their own ways. Natasha made sure to background check her properly, using all of her spy skills, even searching her room one day, wanting to make sure she would treat you right. Wanda accepted it, your happiness her main priority and wanting to comfort Natasha in the process.

In the end that's how the two of them finally grew closer and closed the last gaps of privacy, making their fling more official and confessing their feelings. Ever since then, they had been the power couple of the Avengers. The two mothers as the others would often call them as they made sure to look after the others, often providing them with food after missions or advice and always a listening ear or Wanda's magic nearby whenever anyone needed it. But despite the months passing, slowly even a year of your relationship with Lucy approaching, they still hadn't forgotten about you and their feelings certainly never subsided. They respected your relationship of course and the fact you couldn't spent as much time as before but they always made sure to fit some conversation or at least one pizza or move night into a week, wanting to make sure you are well taken care of and they could still have you around.

,,Yeah'' Natasha admits, stopping her daydreaming about you, before she reminisces about the previous night and how Lucy had been all over you, dragging you onto the dance floor when you clearly looked tired after the previous mission. How you often wanted to come over and chat with them but she dragged you into another corner, crashing her lips onto you, making Natasha almost rage in jealousy and wanting nothing more than to pry you away from her. Natasha had been worried, whether this relationship was truly making you happy as you had never mentioned Lucy to them before and how they found out through Thor and some of the other guys chatting back then. How they often found you alone when Lucy was out with some of the other recruits from her missions and team, leaving you alone as they went clubbing and drinking, Natasha inspecting Lucy's social media closely. How she never seemed to post photos of you, never showing you off the way she certainly would. How she hadn't showered you in gifts for ages, something Natasha would certainly also do as you deserved flowers every single day if it was up to the Russian.

,,Don't you think it's time to let that go darling?'' Wanda asks softly, knowing her lover had struggled for almost a year with her feelings and the jealousy so evident on the Black Widows features whenever the two of you are around. Of course the Scarlet witch hated it equally, ultimately agreeing that her and Natasha could certainly treat you better but you seem happy and your happiness is all that matters to the redhead. ,,I know I should but-'' the redhead hesitates then, not knowing how to finish that sentence as her feelings both confused and overwhelmed her at the same time. ,,I just have this feeling that she's not happy that.. we could have-'' she begins but Wanda cuts her off, finishing her sentence. ,,Could have treated her better?''. Natasha nods, sighing again as her shoulders slump further, Wanda smiling sadly at her partner and hating how much this was hurting her.

,,Am I not enough for you?'' Wanda suddenly questions, completely catching Natasha off guard as she sits up straight, her face almost crumbling at the question. ,,Darling'' she sighs, feeling bad instantly before noticing the slight smirk on her partners face. ,,You're perfect detka'' she reassures, kissing the tip of her nose. ,,How about you show me just how enough I am for you'' Wanda teases, knowing she couldn't fix this and some distracting was in order. ,,Certainly but pancakes after?'' Natasha smiles before lifting up her partner, Wanda's legs wrapping around her as she carries her to the bedroom, the witch giggling on her way over as Natasha plants kisses along her neck. Wanda nods through her hitched breathing.

----

Today had been another slow day, the rain had woken you a while ago, as well as a pounding headache, causing you to groan as soon as you tried to open your eyes but failed due to the pounding pain. Somehow, you managed to stumble your way into the kitchen of your shared room with Lucy, reaching for some water and painkillers before sitting in silence for what seemed like hours until the headache was bearable enough to move again. Last night seemed a blur, the only memory left the fact it was Tony's birthday and at some point remembering his speech but then everything blurred. As you glance at your phone, you realise the upcoming meeting for the mission tomorrow in the afternoon and you knew you should get some exercise in at some point as you skipped yesterday due to the party and helping Pepper with the preparations.

After throwing on some leggings and an oversized hoodie, you grab some Gatorade from the fridge and make your way over to the gym, sincerly hoping that no one would be in there as you certainly didn't feel like conversation today. You didn't feel right today, besides from the headache and you really couldn't tell what was wrong, feeling both dizzy and fatigued and as if someone had repeatedly beat you with Thor's hammer. You sigh in relief finding the gym empty, putting on your headphones and blasting some music before starting on some cardio, knowing the upcoming mission would probably include some running, wanting to do some weights afterwards before showering and getting ready for the meeting in the afternoon. The rain continues pattering as your thoughts are blended out by the sound of music and focusing on your training, wanting to be fit and ready for tomorrow.

In your daze you never realised Wanda and Natasha entering about an hour later, watching you with amused smirks, as they watch you from behind lifting some weights, not having seen your features but recognising that oversized hoodie from anywhere as Natasha had given it to you after you came home with them, barely any clothes with you and how you had kept it since. They had tried to greet you but the music from your headphones had been so loud that they could hear it from the other side of the room and Wanda took a mental note of the songs, how they were so slow and sad, unlike the usual things you would listen to, wanting to adress that at some point. It's not until you take your headphones off, having finished your workout for today, grabbing the bottle and almost chugging it, suddenly feeling the same fatigue and dizziness again, when you notice their presence.

,,Hi detka'' Natasha and Wanda greet you with bright smiles and you breathe a second before turning around with a smile. Instantly their smiles drop slightly as they notice how pale you are. ,,Are you alright, sweetheart?'' Wanda asks concerned, walking over to get a better look at you. ,,Fine, just tired Wands'' you reassure but that certainly wasn't enough for the redhead witch, as she approaches you, cupping your cheeks and checking for any sign of a temperature. ,,Wanda I just worked out, I'm fine'' you reassure and Natasha can't help but giggle at your antics. ,,Stubborn just like me'' she huffs before grabbing some weights and beginning her own workout. ,,How have you been darling? we haven't seen you much lately'' Wanda asks as her eyes search yours. She instantly notices the hesitation before you speak and the concern is evident in her orbs. ,,I've been good, just busy with missions you know'' you assure and she nods, knowing you had been sent on plenty of them lately.

,,If you ever need us to tell Tony to back off a little, you know where to find us'' Natasha offers with a wink but you know she means every word as they always took care of your needs. For a moment your brave smile fades as your reality catches up with you and you have to fight the tears away, and they notice of course but before either of them can speak, the three of you are interrupted as a presence stops by the door. ,,Y/N, you coming?'' Lucy asks and you smile before reaching for your things ,,Of course'' you nod, smiling at both Wanda and Natasha before following your girlfriend. ,,Bye guys'' you part them with almost a sad smile as Lucy reaches for your hand, dragging you away from them. The two of them remain quiet, Natasha drowning her raging jealousy in her workout and Wanda lost deeply in her thoughts as today she had for the first time seen what Natasha had mentioned, the sadness in your eyes, the feeling that something wasn't quite right, despite her not being able to point it out exactly.

As the elevator doors close, Lucy's grip tightens on your hand. "I told you I don't like them," she hisses. You roll your eyes inwardly, too tired to argue. The familiar ache in your head and the exhaustion in your bones keep you silent, dreading the confrontation that awaited in your room.

Your relationship with Lucy had started beautifully. She'd been sweet and caring, helping you through nightmares, showering you with affection, and making you forget the Red Room's horrors. But then things changed—her patience waned, arguments became frequent, and eventually, she became physical with you. You blamed her stress, even yourself, for provoking her.

Now, you just endured it. You had become an expert at hiding the bruises, adjusting your uniform to conceal them. The shame of being an Avenger, unable to stand up to your girlfriend, weighed heavily on you. You longed for someone who treated you kindly, like Wanda and Natasha. But you believed you had missed your chance with them, seeing them so happy together. Lucy had convinced you that no one else would want you, and you believed it, accepting your fate.

And you had been exceptional at hiding your true feelings, the lonely nights when Lucy went out partying, the nights after arguments, covering your body in order for no one to see. And so you carried on each day, your head held high as if nothing happened, carrying on with your duties and your life, accepting your ultimate fate as you had a play in it surely.

At the meeting that afternoon, you entered the briefing room feeling every bruise and ache Lucy had left on you. Last night had been particularly rough, and her anger had found its usual target you. Despite your best efforts to hide the signs, you felt utterly drained, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Your goal was simple to get through the meeting without drawing attention.

As you take a seat, you immediately notice both Wanda and Natasha watching you from across the room. You tried to muster a convincing smile but somehow the exhaustion must show. Natasha's eyes narrow slightly, Wanda's brow furrowed in concern. They exchange a glance, clearly picking up that something was off and bothering you. Throughout the meeting, you could feel their eyes on you while Tony was going on about mission details but somehow you struggled to focus. ,,You're nothing, worthless'' the words of Lucy replay in your mind. You nod along, taking notes almost mechanically, just trying to keep up your apperance. It's when Tony asks for your input on a tactical point, there is a pause as you realize you really hadn't been listenting the way you should have.

,,Y/N?'' Tony prompts and thats when you snap back to the present, stammering a response that you hope was good enough to answer his question. Wanda's eyes are practically boring into you, her concern deepening by the minute as she senses your unease. After the meeting finishes, you hurry and gather your things, hoping to slip away before anyone could corner you. But Natasha was quicker of course, intercepting you at the door.

,,Hey, you alright?'' she asks, her voice casual but her eyes serious. All you can do is nod, forcing a smile. ,,Yeah, just tired'' you say, hating how weak your voice sounds right now. Natasha doesn't seem convinced, but she doesn't press the subject further, just nodding slowly.

Wanda, however had always been more direct. As you step into the hallway, she catches up with you, her expression filled with concern. ,,Can we talk?'' she asks, her tone gentle but insistent. You sigh, feeling cornered but too exhausted to resist. ,,Sure'' you mutter, following them both to a quieter area. Natasha joins, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

,,Y/N darling'' she begins, the sound of her voice causing your heart to swell. ,,You don't seem like yourself. What's going on?'' she asks softly. You hesitate, your instinct to hide the truth clashing with the need of finally letting someone in. Natasha's gaze is boring right into you, making it clear they are serious about this and not about to let this slide.

,,It's nothing, I'm just tired and.. had a long night'' you admit weakly, avoiding their eyes. Wanda's hand reaches out, gently touching your arm. It takes every last bit of you not to flinch, not having felt their gentle hands in so long and the gesture almost causing you to cry as you had longed for gentle hands rather than rough ones.

,,We are worried about you'' she says. ,,You can talk to us, We have noticed you have been different lately detka'' the witch tries again, feeling bad for pushing you but deeply concerned about you as your bright smile had vanished lately.

Natasha nods, her voice low and serious ,,We care about you Y/N, you don't have to do this alone, whatever it is''. Your facade and walls crack a little at their genuine concern. You feel a lump forming in your throat, the urge to break down overwhelming. You look at them, tears threatening to spill. You know you needed to give them something but then again you knew it couldn't be the truth.

,,It's.. complicated'' you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. Wanda squeezes your arm reassuringly. ,,Please know that we are here for you, always'' she encourages, knowing they had pushed enough know and at least wanting you to know that much.

Their words feel like some weight finally lifted off your shoulders, despite the chain of Lucy holding you down. You wanted to tell them everything but the fear keeps you silent. Yet, the warmth and concern in their eyes gives you a glimmer of hope and warmth. As the conversations lingers in the quiet corner, Wanda and Natasha exchange a knowing glance.

Natasha is the first to break the silence ,,What are you doing tonight?'' she asks, her voice casual but her eyes intent on you. You hesitate, unsure how to respond. ,,Nothing much.. I guess just rest'' you say, knowing that Lucy had plans with the others to go out drinking again. You had planned for a quiet night, mentally and physically preparing for the mission tomorrow. But you dreaded the nights alone, dreading the emptiness of the room you shared with her. Dreading her return and the comments she would make as soon as she would sway into the room.

Wanda smiles softly, an idea clealry forming between them. ,,How about a movie night? Just like the old days'' she suggests, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. ,,We could use some downtime and I think you could too'' Natasha adds, her eyes sparkling with excitement. You blink a few times, suprised by the offer. It had infact been long since the three of you had spent time together like that. The thought of a quiet evening with them, away from everything, seems incredibly exciting. You find yourself nodding before you even fully process it or the potential consquenzes of your agreeing.

,,That sounds nice'' you admit, feeling a little shy as a small but genuine smile creeps onto your face. Natasha grins, looking relieved. ,,Great, we'll pick up some snacks and meet in the common room around seven?'' she asks and you nod. Wanda smiles before leaning in closer ,,Now get some rest detka'' and you smile a little before parting ways with them.

The warmth of their invitaton eases some of the tension in your chest and on your tired shoulders. It feels like a small escape, a chance to reconnect with them and perhaps even feel like yourself again. Whenever you had spent time with them in the past, they made you feel seen, valid for your experiences in life and the way of your thinking. As you step back into your room, finding it empty, everything fades in the background a little, the anxiety and anticipation about tonight.

The exhaustion weighs heavily on you, both physically and mentally and before you can think about tonight any further, your eyes begin feeling heavy, sleep quickly catching up with your tired bones. When you wake next, the room is dimly lit by the late afternoon sun, the rain having subsided, casting soft shadows. You glance at the clock, realizing it's almost time for the movie night. Stretching, you feel a little more rested, though the dull ache still remains. You notice Lucy's absence for a moment and feel a pang of relief and guilt. She must have already left to meet the others for their night out. The silence of the room feels foreign but peaceful. You take a deep breath, hoping she wouldn't find out about tonight as she most certainly would be furious as soon as she found out.

After a quick shower to freshen up, you dress in comfortable lounge clouthes, trying to shake off the remaining sleep from your nap. You take a moment to look into the mirror, noticing the tiredness in your eyes but also a small flicker of something else, maybe hope or at least the anticipation of a night without stress. As you make your way to the common room, you find the atmosphere cozy and inviting. The lights are dimmed, a stack of movies awaiting your selection on the table. Natasha is sprawled out on one of the couches, flipping through the snack options, while Wanda arranges blankets and pillows, making everything comfortable for the three of you.

,,Hey! perfect timing'' Natasha greets you with a grin, motioning you to join them. ,,We've got snacks, drinks and a whole lot of movies, pick your poision'' she smirks and you can't help but blush a little, feeling right at home with them and as if no time had passed since last spending time with them.

,,Yeah we've got everything malishka, from cheesy rom-coms to action, whatever you're in the mood for''. Wanda smiles warmly at you as you join them both, positioning yourself in the middle as they had left a gap there for you.

You feel a genuine smile stretch across your face as you settle into the plush couch. It feels good to be around them, like slipping into an old beloved sweater. The tension of the day begins to melt away, replaced by the comforting presence of both women.

,,How about we start with this one'' you suggest, reaching for a bowl of popcorn. Wanda and Natasha nod in agreement and the three of you quickly fall into easy conversation, laughing and chatting as the first movie starts. For the first time in what feels like forever, you begin to relax, feeling the warmth and safety of their company wrap aorund you like a protective blanket. For the first time you didn't need to tense, worry about an argument coming, saying the wrong thing or upsetting someone. Simply being able to be yourself and be free from the usual anxiety sourrounding you.

The hours seem to fly by as the sunset quickly turns into darkness of the night, the only light source both the TV and some lights and candles in the corner of the room. The three of you laugh until your sides hurt at the ridicilounsess of one of Wanda's favorite rom-coms, finding joy in the over the top scenarios and cheese lines. It feels good to laugh freely with them. As the night wears on, the movie choices shift to horror. The mood in the room changes with the flickering shadows on the screen and you find yourself jumping at sudden scares. Natasha's teasing doesn't stop as she finds you and Wanda basically jumping into each other's arms. ,,Badass Avenger and the Scarlet Witch hm?'' she smirks, causing you both to side eye her.

Eventually, the adrenaline fades, replaced by a warm, sleepy comfort. The room is filled with the glow of the television and the quiet hum of its background noises. You find yourself leaning into Natasha, her shoulder a steady and comforting presence. The exhaustion of the day, combined with your own rollercoaster of emotions, finally catches up with you. Your eyelids growing heavy and before you know it, you drift off, lulled to sleep by the warmth and safety of the moment.

Natasha had equally drifted off a little, smiling as she noticed you asleep on her shoulder and Wanda simply stares in adoration, having missed your presence with them both for the longest time. She lets herself relax, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the peace.

The peace is interrupted however, as soon as Lucy returns to your room from her night out. Both tipsy and irritated she finds your absence, sending a spike of anger through her alcohol fuzed daze. She clenches her jaw, before slamming the door behind her ,,JARVIS, where is Y/N?'' she screams. JARVIS responds in his usual calm tone ,,Miss Y/N is currently in the common room with Miss Romanoff and Miss Maximoff''.

Her anger reaches new levels as she stomps towards the common room, her footsteps echoing through the quiet halls. She's fuming, a mix of jealousy and drunken anger washing over her. As she reaches the door, she pushes it open with a loud bang, startling both you and Natasha awake. You blink, groggy and disorientated for a momnent, struggling to understand what is happening. The peaceful atmosphere shatters as Lucy stands there, her face filled with anger and confusion.

,,What the hell is going on here?'' she slurs, her voice thick with the alcohol she had consumed. Her eyes are wild, darting between the three of you. You feel a cold knot of dread forming in your stomach, feeling terribly guilty for not having told her as you knew from the start she wouldn't have approved this.

Natasha's arm, still around you from before, tenses and Wanda quickly stands, stepping slightly forward, her expression calm but her eyes alert. ,,Lucy'' you say, your voice thick with sleep and confusion. ,,What are you doing here?'' you try to keep your voice steady but the sight of her sends more waves of anxiety crashing over you.

Your girlfriend ignores your question, her gaze fixed on both women in the room with you, her lips curling in disapproval. ,,So this is what you're doing? Cozying up with them while I'm out?'' she spits, her words slurring. The accusation is clear and you feel embarassed as in all honesty she was right with every word.

,,We were just watching movies Lucy'' Natasha says, her voice steady and controlled. She stays seated but her posture is alert, ready to react if needed. ,,Nothing more''.

Wanda still stands beside the couch, looking at you with concern, then back at Lucy. ,,Y/N needed some time to relax. We invited her for a movie night'' the witch explains gently, trying to calm the tension in the room.

Lucy's eyes narrow, her jealousy reaching it's peaking point. ,,Oh is that it?'' she chuckles sarcastically. ,,Just a friendly little get together? Looked like more than that to me'' She takes a shaky step forward, her voice rising. ,,You think I don't see how they look at you? How you look at them?'

Your heart pounds at her words but you stand up, instinctively placing yourself between Lucy and the other two. ,,Lucy it's not like that. We were just hanging out like we used to'' you try to reason with her, wanting to simply be swallowed into the ground, feeling embarassed they both had to witness this.

Natasha stands up too, moving beside you, her presence protective. ,,Lucy calm down, you're drunk'' she says, her tone firm. ,,We don't want this to turn into a scene''.

Your girlfriend laughs bitterly, her eyes flashing with anger. ,,A scene? you think this is a scene? You don't even know what a scene is'' she points a finger at you, her voice harsh. ,,You're mine Y/N, I don't care what kind of night you had or hoped you had, you don't just ignore me and run off with them''.

,,You know what? You need to back off. Y/N has done nothing wrong'' Wanda suddenly speaks up, growing impatient with Lucy's behaviour.

,,Come on we are leaving'' she warns, ignoring Wanda's words as she tries pulling your arm. You feel a sting at her words, the weight of everything she implies. The usual shame and guilt washes over you and as you glance at the two of them, their worried and protective gazes, only cause you to feel worse. The pull of the situation is stronger than any urge to stay with them, fearing what would happen if you didn't comply with Lucy's request. As you stand there, the feeling of tension crackling in the air, Natasha suddenly reaches out and gently touches your arm, her voice soft but firm.

,,Y/N you don't have to go with her'' she offers, her green eyes locking onto yours with a seriousness that catches you off guard. For a moment you hesitate, the warmth and sincerity of their words a contrast to the cold anger coming from Lucy. The idea of staying and not having to face this night was tempting but again Lucy's grip on you was tighter than anything you had felt before.

As her glare intensifies, her hands clenched at her sides, the familiar fear and guilt builds up, overwhelming you for a moment. You swallow hard, looking down, uanble to meet the Black Widow's eyes any longer. ,,I should go'' you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the decision crushes you and you feel the string of tears threatening to spill over. Without another word, you nod, swallowing back the tears turning towards Lucy and following her out of the room. Natasha steps forward as if wanting to follow you but Wanda holds her back, knowing you had made your choice for tonight.

As you enter your shared room, you immediately head to bed, the tears flowing freely as Lucy barely looks at you, storming around, still mutterting angrily. Tonight you realize the reality of what you are stuck in, a reality you can‘t seem to escape from. Both Wanda and Natasha had been so kind, too kind perhaps. Maybe Lucy was right, maybe you didn‘t deserve anything, didn‘t deserve kindness and maybe you shouldn‘t have accepted their invitation, as you deep down knew this was coming.

You lay down, sobbing silently into your pillow, feeling the stinging in your heart. As Lucy eventually quietens and settles down, you feel utterly alone, despite her presence. You close your eyes, wanting nothing more than sleep to come and make you forget.

As you left with Lucy, the silence in the common room feels heavy. Wanda and Natasha stand there quietly, stunned, before the redheads sighs deeply. They clean up in silence, both lost in their thoughts. Once everything was tidy, the tension follows them back to their room. Natasha is the first to break the silence, her voice low and troubled. „I can‘t believe she just went with her“ she sighs, staring up at the ceiling. „Did you see the way Lucy was acting? I‘ve never seen her like that before, it‘s not normal“.

Wanda turns onto her side, facing her girlfriend. „Yeah I saw it“ she replies softly. „Lucy was drunk“ she states before silence follows. „But it was more than that, she was possessive and angry and it didn‘t seem right“. She hesitates, her eyes searching Natasha‘s. „Y/N looked scared Tasha, I have never seen her like that before“ Wanda acknowledges, finally understanding her lovers words from the other day and what Natasha had been implying all along.

Natasha sighs, turning her head to meet Wanda‘s gaze. „I know“ she says, her voice filled with guilt. „I should have done more, should have stopped her“. Wanda reaches out, taking her girlfriends hand into her own. „We did what we could love, besides Y/N was in a tough spot, you saw how Lucy reacted“.

Her girlfriends expression darkens, a protective instinct on her features. „Lucy is hurting her Wanda. Maybe not physically- I hope at least but emotionally. You saw how she flinched when Lucy yelled. That‘s not normal and Y/N doesn‘t deserve that“. Wanda nods in agreement, having seen the same things but not wanting to think too much about that as the thought killed her. Wanda squeezes Natasha‘s hand, nodding. „We‘ll figure it out but we have to be careful. Y/N has to want our help and right now she seems scared“.

Natasha‘s eyes flicker with frustration. „But we can‘t just sit by and do nothing“ she insists. „What if something happens?“. Wanda moves closer, her hand resting comfortingly on Natasha‘s cheek. „Then we step in darling“ she reassures and the redhead finds herself leaning into her girlfriends touch.

----

The next morning arrives much quicker than you anticipated, barely getting any sleep as Lucy's words and the night before had kept you awake most of the night. Tired and fatigued, you somehow got yourself ready for the upcoming mission, getting into your costume and chugging a Gaterode and munching on a protein bar as you make your way to the others. Lucy was still asleep when you left and you had considered waking her but from experiences in the past, she hated to be woken up so you simply accepted it and meet the others by the Quinjet.

Natasha and Wanda quickly greet you, alongside the other Avengers joining you on this mission. You greet them with a small smile, feeling both exhausted and embrassed about what happened the night prior and that they had to witness it. You hoped for a quick succesful mission, wanting nothing more than to get back into bed. You avoid the cockpit, strapping yourself into one of the seats and closing your eyes, missing the other's chatting and catching up with each other as you didn't feel like socizalising. They leave you be, especially the two redheads whos eyes seem to follow your every movement, knowing you probably needed some space after the night before and wanting to allow you to rest some more before arriving as you seemed exhausted.

The Quinjet moves through the sky with light speed, getting you to your destination quick and safely. As soon as you feel a hand on your shoulder, you flinch not expecting the sudden sensation. Wanda smiles warmly at you, ignoring how you reacted to her touch. ,,We're there sweetie'' she coos, frowning a little at seeing you in this state. ,,Are you sure you're up for this detka?'' Natasha asks carefully and you simply nod, rising to your feet and ignoring the dizzy spell as you walk into action with the others.

It was a usual mission, infiltatring a secret enemy hideout stashed with countless illegal and highly dangerous weapons. The mission had been going on for months and Tony finally found their biggest secret base, giving you all the tasks to both disable the weapons and bring in the people responsible. Both Thor and Steve make their way through towards the basement, Natasha, Wanda and you on your way to the labs in order to find the weapons. You dodge security cameras knowlingly, having done this plenty of times before. Natasha is quick to take out the occassional guard lingering somewhere or Wanda simply making them drop to the floor with her magic.

The three of you move in perfect synch, completing each other perfectly and in no time you manage to reach the weapons, hack into their computer database and follow your mission innotiative. After checking back in with the others, you make your way back to the main area, when suddenly you are caught by countless men carrying weapons and making your way back to the others more difficult than necessary. With all of your strength left, you fight them off along with the other two, doging their punches and shots and making them fly into the nearest wall.

It almost all carried out to plan when Thor and Steve alerted you they had what you needed and to get back to the Quinjet, the three of you glancing at each other before getting ready, when another wave of them came. You had been so preoccupied by the pain on your body and the dizziness slowly dragging you down that you slipped a little, stepping in front of Wanda and pushing her out of the way as a bullet came her way. And Wanda being Wanda she of course had it, her magic already glowing in her hands ready to dodge the bullet or simply make it fly back. Instead it graced your shoulder slightly, Natasha quick to make the last of them drop unconscious as they aid to your side.

,,Y/N are you okay?'' Wanda asks, her expression panicked as she sees the cut on your arm and the droplets of blood. ,,Yes it just graced me'' you reassure, signaling them both to get back to the others. They follow close behind you, meeting the others before Natasha takes the wheel, wanting to get back to the compound as quickly as possibly. Wanda sits you down, strapping you into your seat before giving you some water. ,,Wands I'm fine'' you reassure again but your pale expression and the shacking of your hands from holding the water bottle aren't exactly convincing the redhead. Natasha glances towards you both a few times, the concern rippling through her, despite knowing you are safe with her girlfriend.

,,Let me have a look'' she urges, pulling at your uniform but you pull away, knowing you couldn't let her see, not with the state your body was currently in. In the end the redhead accepts it, not budging from the seat beside you and keeping a close eye on you. You stare at the opposite seats which are empty, feeling foolish for your actions, knowing Wanda easily had that bullet and would have been safe. You don't know what washed over you, suddenly feeling the urge to protect them both, despite knowing they are much tougher and stronger than you are.

Almost defeated you make your way back into the compound, not remotely interested in the debriefing with Tony but Steve and Thor noticed, signaling to both redheads they had got it and they can take care of you instead. They follow you into the hallway before stopping you ,,Y/N Y/N wait'' they urge, not wanting to let you leave like this. ,,I said I'm fine'' you suddenly snap, your emotions and the heavy exhaustion betraying you and you simply storm off towards the elevator, leaving them both standing stunned in the hallway, accepting the distance you have put between them and worrying they had fussed too much.

As soon as you step into the elevator moments later, the exhaustion seems to drag you down whole. You barely manage to press a button before your knees give in, causing you to sink to the floor, your back leaning against the wall of the elevator. Wanda and Natasha barely make it back to their room when they suddenly hear JARVIS over the intercoms. ,,Miss Romanoff, Miss Maximoff'' he begins ,,It seems Miss Y/N is in need off assistance in the north elevator''. Their eyes meet for a bare second before they both jolt towards you.

JARVIS system works as quick as light, opening the elevator door and finding your exhausted frame on the floor. In seconds they both drop to their knees, taking your cheeks into their hands, their hearts beating faster at the sight of you like this. ,,Detka, can you hear me?'' Wanda tries and you nod weakly, concious but barely. ,,Okay let's get you to med bay'' Natasha urges, worried the bullet may have done more damage than you let on and they initially believed. ,,No.. no.. please no med bay'' you practically beg through your last energy and Wanda notices the panic in your voice and face, nodding towards Natasha before smiling reassuringly at you.

,,Okay sweetie, let's get you to our room instead hm?'' she offers and you nod weakly before they get you on your feet, each of them resting an arm on their shoulders and getting you towards their room. Natasha is quick to set you down on their sofa, running to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit as Wanda fetches you a sugary drink, hoping this was simply fatigue due to the mission and how exhausted you had been lately. She holds the bottle for you as you take slow sips, the blood slowly reaching your brain again and causing for the shacking of your hands to stop and the colour slowly fading back into your features.

,,Let's take this off and have a look'' Natasha urges and you knew then it was pointless. They would see now due to your own foolishness and without being able to hide it any longer, the tears flow freely, feeling both embarassed and weak for having them see. ,,Detka, are you in pain?'' Wanda asks concerned, seeing you so sad and flinching at Natasha's gently touches. You simply avoid answering her, closing your eyes and brazing for what is about to happen.

Natasha undoes the zips slowly before pulling your uniform off your shoulders, exposing you in a tank top. They instantly notice the beaten and bruised state of your body and their reaction is utterly different. Wanda shocked, the colour equally draining from her face, unable to yet comprehend what had happened. ,,Y/N?!'' she gasps ,,What happened, was this on a mission?''. You remain quiet, meeting Natasha's gaze who knew exactly where these came from. She remains silent herself, inspecting the wound on your shoulder from earlier, making sure to clean and wrap it up for you. She talks you through every step, when it may sting and when it wouldn't, silently asking for your permission and treating you with the gentlest touch in the world.

,,Wait'' Wanda suddenly mumbles as she realizes the extent of your stiutation and what you had been trapped in for almost a year now. ,,Please tell me this wasn't Lucy, malishka'' she urges but when you remain silent again, knowing you couldn't lie to them any longer her green eyes meet Natasha's, filled with tears. ,,I'm going to kill her'' the Black Widow hisses, abandoning the first aid kit before she gets ready to find Lucy. ,,No.. Natasha please..'' you beg, not wanting her to get caught up in this, not wanting her to fight your battles and do what you should have done a long time ago.

Your hands frantically reach for hers, terrified of her leaving and getting hurt by Lucy or her words. She stays, kneeling down in front of you before taking a glimpse at your tired eyes. ,,It's okay, I'm not leaving'' she reassures. ,,What can we do darling?'' she questions as her hands comfortably and reassuringly rest on your knees. ,,May I- stay with you two for a bit please?'' you ask and your voice sounds so broken due to your fear of them abandoning you that it breaks their heart. Natasha steps away for a moment, needing to get her own emotions at bay before she was going to loose it on your girlfriend. Wanda smiles, placing her hand on your cheek ,,What can I do, detka?'' she asks softly, wiping the tears from your cheeks with her thumbs.

,,How would you feel about a nice soothing bath?'' she offers and the sound of that truly sounds heavenly. You nod weakly, feeling bad you intruded on them like this but feeling safe and comfortable with them right now. ,,Let me just run it for you darling'' she assures and as she leaves you for a moment you watch Natasha, her back faced to you before the words spill out of you, barely audible but enough for the redhead to hear. ,,I'm sorry'' you whimper, instantly catching her attention as she turns around and walks over to you. Her eyebrows furrow as she takes a seat beside you ,,What are you sorry for?'' she asks sincerly.

,,For letting you both down, I know you taught me better than this but I didn't know what to do'' you hiccup. Her heart hurts at your statement, unable to form any words as she simply wraps her arms around you, holding you steady. ,,Never be sorry Y/N, this is not your fault'' she assures. Before you know it, Wanda guides you into their bathroom, a warm soothing bath already waiting for you. She had placed some warm towels near the sink for you, as well as one of her hoodies and leggins and some clean socks, knowing you wouldn't feel comfortable in your uniform. ,,Thank you Wands'' you mumble and for a moment there is a pause as the two of you look at each other.

,,Do you need any help? I can stay with you'' she offers but you feel self concious, not wanting her to see the full extend of your bruises, knowing they had only seen a couple so far and knowing the whole image would break them. ,,No thank you and thank you for this'' you smile at her and she nods, giving you the privacy you needed. ,,I'll just be out there, give me a shout if you need anything at all''. And with those words she leaves you, allowing you to undress yourself and soothe your bones in the bath that she had made for you. You instantly feel a little at ease, your muscles feeling less sore in an instant and you wonder whether Wanda had added more than just the bath bubbles she said she added for you, knowing her magic was strong.

When the Scarlet Witch returns to her girlfriend, Natasha sits on the sofa, both the rage and sadness written in her perfect features. Wanda sighs, not having expected this outcome but the pieces finally falling together and making sense after all. ,,I need to go and settle this Wands'' Natasha sighs, her knuckles turning white from the pure anger she is feeling in this moment. ,,I know my love but not like this'' she urges. ,,Help me fix us up some dinner and then we will figure this out together okay?'' the redhead suggests and Natasha nods, knowing her partner was right and if she so much as looked at Lucy right now, she wouldn't be able to control herself.

About half an hour, the two of them finish dinner, noticing you still aren't around and as their gazes meet, the worry is evident on their features. ,,I'll check on her'' Wanda announces. She knocks on the door a few times without success. Natasha follows, noticing the absence of your response. ,,Y/N darling'' Wanda tries again without success. In an instant Natasha opens the door, the two of them finding you asleep safe and soundly in the tub. Their hearts swell at the sight and Wanda is quick to fetch some of the warm towels, carefully scooping you up in her arms as you are knocked out cold. They dress and dry you with the most gentlest of touches, their eyes never prying.

After finishing, Natasha puts you to bed, tugging you in before Wanda suddenly storms off. ,,Where are you going?'' the Black Widow questions, having tried to ignore the state of your body so far and the new bruises and scars they had discovered. ,,Settling this'' Wanda hisses, her eyes glowing red with anger and Natasha lets her, knowing Lucy deserved every bit of Wanda's anger. The Scarlet Witch hurries through the corridor into the elevator, asking JARVIS where she could find Lucy.

Without a second thought she bursts through the door of your and Lucy's shared room, finding her with her back turned, looking out the window. ,,Where the hell have you been?'' she hisses, assuming it was you but when there is a lack of response she turns around, confusion washing over her as she finds Wanda instead. ,,What the hell are you doing here?'' she spits, seeing the red glowing of Wanda's hands. ,,You have exactly until tomorrow morning to leave this place and don't you ever try and return'' Wanda hisses, before storming into the bathroom and bedroom, collecting some of your things, ignoring Lucy's presence.

,,What are you rambling about? where is Y/N?'' she asks, following after the witch. ,,You will never see her again, never lay a single finger on her again'' Wanda warns, trying to hold back her magic, knowing one wrong move and it could wipe out her entire being from ever existing. ,,You have until tomorrow morning, if you aren't gone Natasha will surely have pleasure to see to it'' Wanda hisses as she collects some of your things from the bathroom. Before she can storm off, Lucy stands in her way, her angry eyes darting through Wanda. ,,She's a liar and a manipulator, I didn't do anything, not my fault she's been in love with you two for years'' she laughs bitterly, before Wanda pushes her aside, ignoring her comments and banging the door shut on her way out.

When Wanda returns, she finds you sitting with Natasha on the sofa, looking both comfortable and sleepy in her clothes. The redhead gently sets your things down and your questioning eyes find hers. ,,W- Wanda where were you?'' you stammer, fearing the worst. Wanda sighs deeply before kneeling in front of you ,,I have got some of your things darling, you'll stay with us tonight'' she assures. ,,By tomorrow morning Lucy will be gone and you won't ever have to see her again, she will never lay a hand on you again''. You find yourself in tears again at how protective they are, how they are putting your safety and needs first. ,,Tha- thank you'' is the only thing you manage to say before Wanda takes your hand and guides you to their dining table. ,,I'm sure you must be starving darling, lets eat something hm?'' she suggests and you nod at her offer, sitting between the two of them and enjoying the comfortable silence and occasional small talk.

During the remainder of the night, the two of them having you sandwiched and comfortable between them as you sit on the sofa watching a movie, you are lost in thought. Knowing this was for the best but somehow still reminsing the good times with Lucy, feeling bad you wouldn't get to talk to her yourself and be brave and find the courage to tell her exactly what you had been thinking yourself. Feeling bad to have her driven away from this place as she was good at her missions, belonged with the Avengers just like you did. And you didn't want to ruin it for her. Wanda and Natasha could tell you are lost in thoughts as you had been very quiet, not focusing on the movie much, missing some of the funny bits that has them both giggling or the jump scares, having them both jump.

In the end you let go off the thoughts, feeling so safe and comfortable with both of them that you simply fall asleep on Wanda's shoulder. They debated for a little bit how to do the sleeping situation as the couch wasn't nearly big enough for you three or even two people. And they worried leaving you here alone, knowing this was a lot to process. In the end, Natasha again took you in her strong safe arms, placing you in the middle of their big bed, both of them on either side of you, giving you some space but wanting you to not be alone incase you would wake up tonight and needed anything. And that night was the first night in a very long time where you had proper sleep. You had woken up at some point, confused by the strange surroundings until you found them next to you, sleepily and instictively crawling into their arms before falling asleep and not waking until late the next morning.

The two of them chuckled finding you in their arms, loving the feeling of holding you and knowing deep down that you belong with them, never with Lucy and never anyone else again. But they knew you needed time. Natasha and Wanda got up early, wanting nothing more than to stay beside you but knowing they had things to do. Wanda made sure to have a chat with Tony and the others, explaining the situation delicately and making sure they would take the three of you off missions for a little bit in order to let you and your body heal for a while. After she focused on making breakfast for the three of you, making sure to add some of your favorites, just like she remembered. Natasha in the meantime made sure Lucy was truly leaving, finding her with her bags packed in your room.

,,I hope you three will be very happy'' she spits and Natasha couldnt help but use her right hook on Lucy, a small portion of what she really meant to do to her. With a defeated ego, her bags and a broken nose she ended up leaving the compound, Natasha alerting JARVIS and security that she may never be seen on the premises again. The Black Widow made sure there are no reminders of her left in your room, if you wished to return.

By the time you wake up, finding the bed empty and the clock in their room showing it was past 10am you instantly rise to your feet, feeling panicked for sleeping in so long. Usually, you would have gotten told off for this by Lucy. You find both Wanda and Natasha in the kitchen, waiting for you with your favorite breakfast. ,,Good Morning Detka'' they greet you at the same time. Nervously, you take a seat, sipping some of the orange juice before meeting their gazes. ,,I'm sorry for sleeping so long'' you apologize and Wanda quickly chuckles and shakes her head. ,,Nonsense you were exhausted detka'' she assures. ,,How exactly did I end up in your bed?'' you ask a little shily and Natasha can't help but chuckle ,,You fell asleep on us and we took you to bed, we didn't want you alone in the livingroom'' she assures and you nod.

,,Is she gone?'' you ask after a while of eating breakfast with them in comfortable silence. ,,Yes she's gone'' Wanda assures and they see the tension leaving from your shoulders. The remainder of the day you spent with them as they take it slow with you, going on a walk in the afternoon, eating dinner with you and watching another movie with you in the evening. You felt at ease, knowing this was going to haunt you for a while to come but feeling safe with them. The routine of the prior night repeats as you fall asleep on them and they take you to bed, you not feeling comfortable with sleeping alone and the two of them liking your presence.

The weeks to follow had been filled with many ups and downs, days where you barely managed to get out of bed, days where you were full of energy before reality came crashing down on you. Natasha and Wanda had been with you every step of the way, getting your body and soul enough rest to heal from this. Eventually you moved back into your old room, feeling like intruding on them. You still ate with them, trained with them, eventually even joined them on missions again. You spent your days the way you always had before Lucy, right with them and where you belong. The nights had been lonely often, filled with nightmares or the inability to sleep at all. But slowly you started to heal, focusing on yourself again and slowly as the months passed both Wanda and Natasha seemed content, having you back and feeling like their sunshine was back again.

Your body had healed, the bruises and scars long gone now, the scars on your soul still lingering but fading with each day, with every moment of spending time with them, every soft gentle touch, every reminder that you are worth it. And in the end you started to believe it too, knowing your abilities and never wanting anything like this to ever happen again. It's not until one of Tony's birthday parties that your emotions get the better off you. It had almost been a year without her, a year without pain, without beatings, without feeling like you are worthless every minute of every day. But somehow tonight felt strange, despite having fun with Wanda and Natasha and getting ready with them, Wanda letting you borrow one of her dresses.

You somehow felt empty that night, eventually stealing away to one of the balconies, away from the crowds. Your heart had been feeling strange lately, a longing that you couldn't quite grasp. Each day your thoughts had been consumed by them, their touches on you, their words and how gentle they had been with you. And you felt sad, having missed your chance, longing for someone like them and despite liking your freedoom, also feeling incredibly lonely at night. For the past few days you had been more quiet and they had noticed of course, having tried to get the truth out of you but you didn't feel ready to tell either of them how you truly had been feeling.

,,Penny for your thoughts?'' Natasha interrupts the peace and as you turn around you find her in the black dress that complemented her features perfectly. Wanda is right beside her, the red dress matching the wine glass she is holding perfectly and you couldn't help but smile, seeing them so happy, so perfect for each other. ,,Hi there'' you greet them, feeling slightly tipsy from the amount of drinks you had been having in order to forget.

,,Enjoying the view?'' Wanda teases and you freeze for a moment until she looks at the sky filled with stars and the moon shining down brightly on the compound. ,,Yeah it's peaceful, I like it'' you admit and they both join you, before Natasha offers you to sit down on one of the large outdoor sofas. ,,What's been on your mind detka?'' she asks, having noticed and not wanting to worry anymore, simply wanting to get the all too familiar smile back she had been in love with for years.

,,I've just been thinking a lot lately'' you admit, staring at the now empty glass in your shaking hands. ,,What about love?'' Wanda asks carefully, tilting her head a little in order to catch a better glimpse of you. ,,About life, you know?'' you sigh and Natasha can't help but chuckle. ,,Come on detka, tell us'' she smiles warmly, enjoying the poetic side of you. ,,I just regret things you know? with Lucy and before and the choices I made'' you sigh. ,,I can't help but wonder what my future would have been like if I didn't-'' you stop yourself, not wanting to ruin what you had built with them by filling them in how you truly had been feeling.

Wanda and Natasha had talked a lot in the last few months, wanting to give you space and time to heal but having realized you belong with them. And they knew, it didn't take Natasha's spy skills or Wanda's magic to figure out that you felt the same way but they never wanted it to be too soon, never wanting to push you unil you were truly ready. But they could see the way you look at them holding hands, thinking about how your hand would fit in it so perfectly. Seeing their loving glances and how your heart equally beat for them, wanting to feel them on you, thinking about what their lips felt like on yours.

,,Didn't choose us over her?'' Natasha questions bluntly, knowing it was the right time to adress this tonight. Your eyes widen at her statement, before your gaze averts them, nodding before looking into the distance. Her statement surprised you as you never truly knew whether there was an us considering the two of them had always loved each other, long before you even joined them. ,,Tell us how you feel'' Wanda encourages, her green eyes staring right into your soul. ,,I can't'' you sigh, your heart beating out of your chest at this point. ,,Why?'' Natasha questions curiously, enjoying the sight of you squirming. ,,Because I don't want to ruin what we have'' you admit, tears filling your vision.

,,You could never darling'' Wanda assures and then it bursts out of you. ,,I wish I never got with her or even if I did I wish I would have stood up for myself, I feel lonely, my heart aches for...'' you still can't finish your sentence but Natasha is quite happy finishing it for you. ,,For us?'' she questions, a smirk playing on her lips and your eyes widen again at her bluntness. ,,Yes'' you admit, tears lingering in your eyes. ,,And I know you've got each other and would never feel the same but you just are so kind and perfect to me'' you admit.

This time Wanda breaks the silence, taking your hand into her own and abandoning the glass you had been holding. ,,Detka, we have been in love with you for years you know'' she admits and instantly your eyes snap towards her green ones. ,,Natasha hated every single day of you not being with us and we know it hasn't been easy for you lately, thats why we never said anything but you belong with us'' she admits and when you look at Natasha and see the sincerity in her eyes, you almost can't believe this is real and not one of your daydreams.

,,You.. you love me?'' you question, wanting to make sure you understood them right. ,,Yes silly, now the question is, do you love us?'' Natasha teases again and you can't help but blush under their gazes before nodding. ,,Good, I'm glad we finally talked about that'' she smiles before taking a sip from her drink. ,,Now whenever you are ready, we can have a conversation about this properly okay? but know you never have to be lonely again with us or scared, we will be there, we will take care of you because you belong with us'' Wanda confesses and you nod weakly, still feeling like you are in a daze.

,,Need a refill?'' Natasha offers and you chuckle a little reliefed before nodding. ,,Lets go then'' they suggest and you follow them as they take you to the bar. You end up dancing with them, drinking with them and giggling with them, finally feeling like you belong, still unable to believe any of this is real. After a while, you suddenly look at them both with an expression neither of them could read. ,,Nat?'' you mumble, not wanting anyone else to hear what you are about to say. ,,Yes detka?'' she asks, leaning in a little closer, her eyes piercing into your own and her lips so close to your own.

,,What if I'm ready now?'' you blurt out, feeling both the effects of the alcohol and the confession from before, mixed with adrenaline. ,,What?'' she asks confused, not understanding what you are implying. ,,You said to tell you when I'm ready, what if I'm ready for you both, right now?'' you ask again, this time much clearer and Natashas's eyes quickly meet Wanda's the lust in your own blending in with theirs. ,,Yes.. Yes I mean if you're sure'' she mumbles before you nod. ,,Then come on, we'll take good care of you'' Natasha offers and you take their hands into your own as they lead you away from the crowds towards their room, their hungry lips and hands already on you as soon as you step into the elevator and the door closes behind you.

And despite everything that had happened, you finally know you belong. With them, always.

[gilbertscurls]

Pillow Wall ➵ Chris Sturniolo

inspired by

The night had been a blur of whispered conversations, laughter, and movie marathons. You and Chris had always been close, but this—this was new. The boundary between your friendship and something more had been blurring for a while now, but neither of you had dared to acknowledge it.

You sat on Chris' bed, surrounded by an avalanche of blankets and pillows. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes darting over to Chris, who was scrolling through Netflix absentmindedly. You were doing your best to ignore the awkward tension that had settled between you the moment you realized the night had gotten late—too late for you to drive home.

“Guess we’re stuck with the classic 'two friends sharing a bed' dilemma,” Chris joked, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. He tossed the remote aside, letting it land somewhere among the chaos of pillows.

You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to cross any lines, huh?”

Chris smirked, grabbing one of the pillows and dropping it in the middle of the bed. “Easy solution. We build a wall.”

“A pillow wall?” You raised a brow, but the idea made you grin.

“Exactly,” Chris said, already arranging more pillows between you. “That way, no accidental cuddling or whatever.”

“Ah, yes. Brilliant plan,” you teased, adding a few more pillows to the barrier. The wall grew higher, and when it was done, it was a comically lopsided fortress between you.

“Perfect,” Chris declared, lying back on his side of the bed. “Now we’re safe.”

“Totally safe,” you echoed, lying back as well. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the silence comfortable, but the awareness of each other’s presence just on the other side of the pillow wall was impossible to ignore.

You both tried your best to sleep, but every time you shifted, you could hear Chris doing the same. It was ridiculous, really, how much space you had in the bed, and yet it still felt impossibly small.

Minutes turned into hours, and at some point, your eyes fluttered shut. You fell into a restless sleep, your thoughts still lingering on Chris—how close you were, how easy it would be to reach across the pillows.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was warmth. More specifically, Chris' warmth. The pillow wall, once so carefully constructed, was now half-destroyed, some pillows having fallen to the floor during the night. And somehow, you had both ended up tangled in each other.

Chris’ arm was draped across your waist, and your head rested against his chest. You blinked, your mind slowly registering the fact that you had both gravitated toward each other in your sleep, despite the supposed “barrier.”

For a second, you thought about pulling away, about untangling yourself before Chris woke up. But something stopped you. Lying there, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of him, felt too right.

Just as you were debating what to do, Chris stirred, his grip on you tightening slightly as he woke. He froze for a moment, clearly realizing what had happened, and then he groaned softly, half-amused, half-embarrassed.

“So much for the pillow wall,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

You smiled, your face still pressed against his chest. “Yeah, it didn’t work out too well, huh?”

He chuckled softly, but neither of you moved. The awkwardness from the night before had disappeared, replaced by something softer—something neither of you had the words for yet.

“You comfortable?” he asked after a moment, his voice gentler than you were used to hearing from him.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he said, his breath warm against the top of your head. “I’m good.”

You lay there in silence for a little while longer, neither of you feeling the need to break away. Maybe you’d talk about it later—what this meant, what it might turn into—but for now, you were content just being close, pillow wall forgotten.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06

[just-nc-tea]

COMING TO YOU THIS WEDNESDAY APRIL 2ND: ⤷ READ HERE

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⭑.ᐟ Roommate to Lovers - Park Sunghoon Somehow, in the middle of your semester break, you ended up with a new roommate. Your landlord rented out the second room in your flat without telling you, and now you’re living with Sunghoon. At first, your paths barely cross – you’re buried in work, and he’s always at the rink. But slowly, he slips into your routine. Then one night, everything shifts. You can't remember more than a blurred memory and Sunghoon catching you before you can fall. Suddenly, it’s not awkward anymore. You start looking forward to him coming home. Maybe—just maybe—home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person.

WORD COUNT: ~31k (of approximately 65k) RELEASE DATE: 2nd of April 2025

series masterlist ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ GET ADDED THE TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT 🏒

Hallucinating. You had to be hallucinating.  Maybe Sunoo was right. Maybe the sleep loss is catching up with you. You were starting to hallucinate. There was a hot guy flipping through the first pages of one of your fashion magazines. In your living room. Surrounded by moving boxes. 

You cleared your throat. “Hi?”

He looked up from the magazine he was looking at and smiled at you. Oh god. “Hi I’m Sunghoon.”, he set the magazine down on your sofa table. “I’m your new roommate. I don’t know if Mr. Kang told you I am moving in today instead of the first. I had a more or less spontaneous change of plans.” He chuckled. 

No. No Mr. Kang did not. He did in fact not tell you at all that you would be getting a roommate. You tried to smile at Sunghoon but it felt more like a grimace. “Hi. I am Y/N? Are you sure you are in the right apartment? I mean considering you probably got the keys from Mr. Kang, yes, but he didn’t tell me anything about a roommate? I know in Apartment 4B is a free room?”

Sunghoon scrunched his eyebrows. “This is Apartment 4D, right? I definitely signed a contract for the smaller room in Apartment 4D.”

“Oh.”, you just said and blinked at him. The smaller room in your apartment has technically been rented out for the last two years you have been living in this apartment but the girl that supposedly rented the room never came. When you asked Mr. Kang about it he said that as long as the rent was being paid he didn’t care if the other girl came or not and you were free to use the room until she did indeed show up. So that is what you did. You transformed the small room into your studio. You pushed the bed to the side and used that and the closet that the landlord rented out together with the apartment for all of your utensils. And you knew for a fact, that the desk and the floor were a cluttered mess at the moment. You handed in your last assignment just a few days ago after your professor thankfully extended your deadline by two weeks into the semester break. 

“I–uhm–I didn't know you were moving in at all. I’ve been using the room as my studio. Just give me like an hour and I’ll move all of my stuff into my room.”, you said, already feeling a headache coming. You just wanted to peel your uniform off, eat something and sleep. And not deal with Mr. Kang not telling you Adonis 2.0 would be moving in today, or well, at all. 

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at your words, then glanced toward the hallway leading to his supposed new room. "You’ve been using it as a studio?"

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Yeah. I mean, it’s been empty since I moved in. Not technically empty? Someone rented it out but she never came and Mr. Kang said I could use the room if my supposed roommate wouldn’t want it? So I just… took over? I’ll be really fast so you can start putting all your stuff in there."

Sunghoon’s lips quirked up in amusement, arms crossing over his broad chest. "So, I’m kicking you out of your studio?"

You groaned internally. Yeah, yeah he was. "Technically, yes. But it’s not your fault. Mr Kang just – kind of forgot to tell me you were coming? At all? So I didn’t know I had to clean it out." 

He nodded, glancing back toward the hallway before looking at you again. "Well, if you need help moving your stuff, I don’t mind."

You blinked. That was… unexpectedly nice. And also the absolute last thing you wanted. Some of your sketches and drawings were way too personal for him to even get a glimpse at them. "No, it’s fine. It’s mostly styrofoam, pens and sketches. It's fine."

Sunghoon shrugged. "Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind." He moved toward the sofa, lifting a box and putting it onto the floor to flop down on the green fabric. He reached for the magazine again. “Are you a fashion student?”

“Oh. No. I study architecture.”, you shook your head and made your way through the maze of boxes and furniture in your living room towards the hallway that separated your and now apparently Sunghoons room. 

“Oh, that's cool. I am in PE.”, he grinned at you.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. "Ah. That's nice. Just… make yourself at home while I clean I guess?."

Sunghoon grinned. "Will do, roommate."

The word made you wince.

Lots of Love Patty ♡