#and now it’s about their drama over and over again like let her have a funny b plot sometime oh my god..

[yungistiny]

man on fire ═ chapter six

[ J. Yunho ]

chapter six: are you nervous?

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summary: yunho was hongjoong’s right hand man, his best dealer, his best racer, last thing yunho needed was to get distracted by a cop’s daughter

warning: possessive yunho, weed dealer yunho, stoner yunho, street racer yunho, corruption kink, size kink, use of drugs, dom yunho/sub reader, unprotected sex, creampie, choking, spanking, biting, public sex, car sex

pairing: yunho x afab/reader

genre: smut, drama, angst, romance

word count: 5.6k

chapter five

chapter six coming soon

masterlist

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It was almost too quiet in the little diner her dad liked, some old school spot with checkered floors, cracked booths, and waitresses who knew his order before he sat down. Y/N stirred her lemonade slowly, her nails tapping anxiously against the glass. Her dad was talking about a case from earlier that week, but her mind kept skipping back to Yunho. The race. The warehouse. The couch. His mouth.

“You okay?” her dad asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been in your head since you got here.”

She blinked, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced, but let it slide. He took a bite of his sandwich, then, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment, dropped the bomb.

“Pulled someone over the other night.”

Y/N froze mid sip, hand tightening around her glass.

“Yunho,” her dad said like the name tasted sour. “Little shit in that car that sounds like a damn rocket. Recognized it right away.“

Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. That night. She’d been in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over her head, practically folded in half trying not to breathe too loud. Yunho had cracked smartass jokes. Her dad hadn’t seen her.

Or… had he?

She kept her expression neutral with every ounce of strength she had. “You give him a ticket?”

“Nope,” he grunted. “Smart mouth got in the way.” Her dad rolled his eyes. “Slick bastard. And get this, he had the nerve to say he’d heard my daughter’s seeing someone. Looked smug as hell. Yet, here I was not even know you and Han had broken up.”

She tried to laugh. “Maybe he was messing with you.”

Her dad eyed her. “That so? So you and Han aren’t broken up?”

“No, I’m not seeing anyone and, yes, I did breakup up with Han.” she said quickly, taking another sip of lemonade to hide the shake in her hands.

“Hm.” He went back to his sandwich, thankfully dropping it. “Just saying, if I did find out you were seeing someone like him, I’d be having a very different kind of lunch right now.”

Y/N stomach churned. The image of her dad’s patrol car flashing in Yunho’s rearview mirror played behind her eyes. Her own face ducked beneath the dashboard. She’d nearly had a heart attack when the door opened and her dad stood there, oblivious.

Her dad went on talking, something about an arrest the week before, but she couldn’t hear any of it. Her head was spinning. She’d thought they were being careful. Clearly not careful enough.

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“Someone’s…. going to see …. us…” y/n gasped, panted, moaned as Yunho kept thrusting with a deep, hard speed. Her hand was around his throat, legs around his waist. He gripped her waist, face buried into the crook of her neck.

“You” he pulled almost all the way out of her, “were” he snapped his hips, thrusting all the way back in, “fucking” he did it again, pulling all the way back out, “made” and then thrusting all the way back in, hitting her spot, that amazing fucking spot that made her legs start shaking and her moans turn to cries. “for me.”

She came, gripping his throat, and pulling at his hair, and one, two, three more deep, rough, possessive thrusts, he came too, biting at her collarbone then soothing it with his tongue.

Yunho leaned against the workbench, still catching his breath, one hand resting on y/n bare thigh as she perched in front of him, legs wrapped around his waist, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. Her shirt was somewhere behind them, and his belt hung loose around his hips.

“That’s twice now,” she murmured, dragging her fingers along his chest. “Garage sex. We’re getting reckless.”

Yunho grinned, pressing a slow kiss to her jaw. “What can I say? You bring out my worst instincts.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The afterglow softened the earlier tension, but not enough to erase it entirely. There was still an ache behind Yunho’s eyes, still that unspoken fear threading his touch.

She leaned her forehead against his. “You know Seonghwa’s dad’s a cop too, right?”

Yunho pulled back slightly, brows lifting in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. He transferred, does narcotics in Seoul.”

Yunho let out a low whistle, then gave her a crooked smirk. “You’re surrounded, sweetheart. That’s two strikes. You and Seonghwa trying to take us down from the inside?”

She grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Maybe I’ll use that against Hongjoong,” Yunho said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Tell him you’re part of a secret cop coalition and Seonghwa’s your handler.”

Y/N laughed, tossing her head back. “You’re so dumb.”

But before Yunho could lean in for another kiss, the side door creaked open behind them.

“Hey, Yunho, do you know where the…. OH MY GOD!”

Y/N shrieked, scrambling to yank Yunho’s shirt in front of her bare chest while Yunho instinctively stepped in front of her, glaring at the two stunned figures in the doorway.

Wooyoung stood frozen, eyes wide and mouth halfway between horror and delight. Beside him, Yeosang blinked slowly, looking more confused than scandalized.

“Seriously?” Yeosang deadpanned. “This is the second time we’ve had to witness this.”

“You’re getting predictable,” Wooyoung added, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Also, is this your kink? Public sex in places with terrible lighting and the scent of motor oil?”

“Get out,” Yunho growled.

“Oh, we’re going,” Wooyoung said, already backing out the door with both hands up. “But not before I tell everyone.”

Yeosang simply nodded once toward y/n, who was bright red and clutching Yunho’s shirt to her chest, before walking out behind him.

The door shut with a dull clang, leaving behind stunned silence and the echo of Wooyoung’s laughter.

Yunho sighed and dropped his head onto y/n shoulder. “I hate them.”

She snorted. “No you don’t.”

“Okay. I don’t. But I do hate that they’re always around when I’m trying to be inside you.”

Y/N bit her lip, giggling against his neck. “Maybe we should invest in a lock.”

“Or your place,” he muttered.

“Or your place.”

Yunho went quiet again, arms tightening around her just a little.

Because his place still felt like too much. Too close. Too permanent.

And it scared the hell out of him.

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The garage felt colder than usual, despite the heat outside.

The air hung thick with tension as Yunho stepped in, the usual buzz of drills and engines replaced with stifling silence. He knew something was wrong before anyone even said a word, Yeosang looked like he hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, Jongho was pacing, and Hongjoong stood dead still in the middle of the floor, arms folded so tight his knuckles were white.

“What happened?�� Yunho asked, voice low, already bracing.

Yeosang looked up. “Wooyoung got caught.”

Yunho froze. “Caught how?”

“Possession,” Jongho said, walking in tight circles. “Pulled over in his car. Weed in the glovebox. Not even his biggest stash, but enough.”

Yunho’s stomach turned. “Shit.”

“Your girl’s dad got him,” Yeosang added. “Detective Kim recognized the plates. Didn’t even hesitate.”

The room spun for a second.

“He didn’t get a warning?” Yunho asked, already knowing the answer.

Hongjoong’s voice was low and sharp. “Does it look like he got a warning?”

Yunho looked at him, eyes dark. “He’ll be out, though?”

“Bail’s being processed,” Jongho said. “But that’s not the goddamn point.”

“No,” Hongjoong said, stepping forward. “The point is that Wooyoung got picked up by your girlfriend’s dad. The same cop that’s been trying to pin shit on me since we were teenagers. The same one who’s been sniffing around every time one of our deals gets even a little hot.”

Yunho clenched his jaw. “Y/N not involved in any of that.”

“Is that so?” Hongjoong snapped. “Because her father sure as hell is.”

“She doesn’t know…” Yunho stopped himself mid lie, swallowing hard. “She’s not in it.”

Hongjoong didn’t buy it for a second.

Yeosang spoke up. “You told she was in the car with you when he pulled you over the other night.”

Yunho didn’t answer.

“And now Wooyoung’s sitting in a cell because of a family name.” Jongho muttered.

“I’ll get him out,” Yunho said quickly. “I’ll go now.”

“Not yet,” Hongjoong barked. “We’re not done.”

Yunho flinched as Hongjoong stepped closer. “How long have you been keeping this from me?”

“Not long.” Yunho lied straight through his teeth.

“And you didn’t think any of this was worth bringing up?”

“I handled it.”

“Handled it?” Hongjoong’s voice rose. “You brought a fucking detective’s daughter into this, and now one of our guys is locked up because of it.”

Yunho’s jaw ticked, but his voice stayed cool. “I didn’t drag her in. I didn’t ask for this to happen. It’s not like I can control who her father is.”

Hongjoong stared at him, breathing hard. Then he laughed bitterly. “And here I thought you were the careful one.”

Yunho snapped, “I’m not the only one with a cop in their life.” He hadn’t meant to say it, it wasn’t his place but he spoke before he could stop himself. “Seonghwa‘s dad is Narcotics Division in Seoul.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened. “Wait….. what?”

Hongjoong’s face darkened. “And no one thought to mention that to me?”

“Guess we all have secrets,” Yunho muttered.

Jongho gave a long exhale. “This just keeps getting better.”

“I’ll go get Wooyoung,” Yunho needed to get out of there, he wanted to disappear and cool off before he did something he would regret. “Bail’s probably posted by now. I’ll bring him back.”

“No detours.” Hongjoong said, his voice cold.

stay away from her was the unspoken words.

Yunho didn’t respond, just turned and walked out. The second the garage doors clanged shut behind him, he cursed under his breath and pulled his phone out, dialing the number from Wooyoung’s earlier call.

He had no idea how bad the fallout might get.

But if there was one thing he knew for sure, it wasn’t over.

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The station reeked of floor cleaner and stale coffee, the kind of sterile smell that made Yunho’s skin crawl. He walked in like he owned the place, which only made the front desk officer narrow his eyes. But they all knew who he was. Yunho wasn’t some anonymous face, they just hadn’t caught him with anything yet. And that was enough to keep his name muttered in quiet hallways and posted on boards with red pins and question marks.

He found Wooyoung sprawled on the bench like he was waiting for a table at a restaurant, not being held for drug possession.

“About time,” Wooyoung said with a shit eating grin, kicking his feet up. “Was starting to think you forgot about your favorite criminal.”

“You’re not my favorite anything right now,” Yunho muttered, glancing toward the front desk before leaning down. “What the hell happened?”

“I got pulled over. Your girlfriend’s dad, actually. Seems he knows my face.” Wooyoung winced. “Didn’t even give me time to toss it. He was waiting.”

Yunho swore under his breath just as the sound of polished boots echoed down the corridor.

“Jeong Yunho.”

The voice was too familiar. Cold and sharp, like a scalpel.

He turned to find Detective Kim standing near the hallway entrance, hands clasped behind his back, expression carved from stone.

“Come with me.”

Yunho gave Wooyoung one last glance. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” He teased.

Wooyoung saluted mockingly. “No promises.”

Yunho followed the detective down the hallway lined with closed doors and frosted windows, past judgmental glances and cops who didn’t bother hiding their suspicion. The silence between them was thick, the tension nearly tangible. The detective didn’t look back once as he pushed into his office.

The door shut with a heavy click behind them.

“Sit.”

“I’ll stand,” Yunho replied evenly, arms crossed.

Detective Kim arched an eyebrow, but didn’t press it. He stepped behind his desk, sliding into the chair and staring Yunho down like he was already in handcuffs.

“You and Wooyoung have known one another for years.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Since high school,” Yunho said coolly. “Is that what this is about?”

“What it’s about is him getting caught with weed in his car, on my side of the city. And you showing up like some damn knight in leather armor to bail him out.”

Yunho didn’t respond, jaw tight.

The detective leaned forward. “And now I’m hearing rumors. That you’re seeing someone. That you’ve been… distracted.”

Yunho didn’t blink.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re chasing skirts,” the detective continued, not knowing that skirt was his daughter. “But I do care if you’re dragging innocent girls into your mess. Because you and I both know the kind of shit that happens when someone like you gets too close.”

Yunho’s tone was razor sharp, glancing at the framed picture of Y/N on her dad’s desk. “I keep my business separate.”

The detective’s jaw ticked. “Funny. That’s what your father used to say. Before he got himself killed working a job for this city. For me.”

That hit like a punch to the ribs.

Yunho’s mouth was a flat line, but his fingers clenched at his sides.

“Your father was a good man,” Kim said. “Tried like hell to keep you on the right path. And if he could see you now, racing through the streets, mixed up in whatever the hell Hongjoong is running out of that garage, he’d be disappointed. No, ashamed.”

Yunho swallowed that down like venom. “Then good thing he’s not here,” he said, voice low.

Y/N dad leaned back, eyes cold. “You got lucky tonight. Wooyoung’s record’s clean enough that I’m letting him go. But next time? If I catch either of you slipping, there won’t be a warning. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other.”

Yunho didn’t flinch. “Then maybe stop wasting time on clean records and go after the people who actually have something to hide.”

The air between them cracked like glass.

“Tell your friend he’s free to go,” the detective said finally.

Yunho turned and walked out, shoulders tight, pulse drumming in his ears.

He didn’t breathe until he was back at the front of the station and saw Wooyoung already on his feet, twirling his keys.

“You get your ass chewed out by your future father in law?” Wooyoung asked, stepping into pace beside him, teasing.

“Yeah,” Yunho muttered. “The whole thing. Got the your dad would be ashamed bonus speech too.”

Wooyoung winced. “Damn. He went there?”

Yunho didn’t answer. Just shoved the door open and stepped into the night.

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Yunho was laid out on the couch in his and Jongho’s apartment, one arm flung over his eyes to block the dim light drifting through the blinds. The room smelled faintly of weed, sweet and earthy, a haze still hanging in the air from the joint he’d smoked a while ago. The ashtray on the coffee table was full, his phone face down, music playing low from the speaker in the corner, something old and slow and scratchy.

But none of it really registered.

He kept hearing it.

Your father would be ashamed.

The words hadn’t left him alone since Y/N dad said them earlier at the station, after dragging him into his office and closing the door like they were equals. Like he had the right.

It wasn’t the first time someone used his dad as a weapon, but coming from a man who used to work with him? A man who was supposed to be a friend? It hit harder than he expected.

It made him want to punch something. Or light another blunt. Or forget altogether.

So he stayed there, barely blinking, chest too tight, brain too loud.

Then there was a knock.

Yunho blinked once, sat up slow, muscles sluggish from the high and the weight of everything sitting heavy on his shoulders. He opened the door with a low, tired groan and there she was.

Y/N.

Hoodie sleeves pushed up, jean shorts that showed way too much thigh for his already fried self control. Her expression was soft and concerned, eyes flicking over him like she’d been preparing herself to find him worse.

“Jongho told me where you live,” she said quietly. “I wanted to see you.”

Yunho’s chest stuttered. He leaned against the doorframe for a second, unsure whether to let her in or keep her far away. Not because he didn’t want her, God, he wanted her, but because this… this was real.

“Come in,” he said eventually, stepping back.

She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room, simple furniture, a few car parts on the kitchen table, Jongho’s sneakers by the hallway, Yunho’s jacket draped over the back of the couch along with a Spiderman blanket.

He can’t sleep without his Spiderman blanket.

Smiled, because Jongho hadn’t been joking when he told her that.

Yunho watched her take it all in, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “You want a drink or something?” he asked, suddenly self conscious. “It’s not much, but…”

She turned to him, brows raised in surprise. “Are you nervous?”

Yunho let out a low scoff, avoiding her eyes. “It’s weird having you here, alright? I didn’t think you’d ever be in this part of my life.”

“You literally have had sex with me at the garage where anyone and anyone have, walked in on us,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing glint. “But this, your apartment, is what makes you nervous?”

He gave a breathy laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s different. That’s the mess I’m used to. This..” he gestured to the space around them “this is where I sleep. Where I come back to after the world tries to ruin me.”

Y/N stepped closer, eyes softening. “And you wanted to keep it safe from me?”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, voice quieter. “I just… I don’t want you to see me like this and realize I’m not worth it.”

Her expression cracked, just for a second, before she grabbed his hand and pulled him down onto the couch beside her.

“Too late,” she whispered, climbing into his lap.

He barely had time to breathe before her lips were on his, hands tangled in his hair, the need between them hitting like a lit match to dry leaves. Yunho kissed her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, fingers digging into her thighs, hoodie riding up to her ribs.

His nerves didn’t matter anymore. Not when she touched him like this. Not when her breath hitched in his ear and her nails scratched lightly across his scalp.

Y/N gasped when he stood, legs wrapping around his waist and moving to kissing at his neck as Yunho carried her down the hall and to his bedroom.

His back hit the bedroom door with a soft thud as Y/N slid down his body, pulling him in, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. It was halfway off his shoulders already, exposing his flushed skin, and he didn’t care. He only cared about her mouth on his, the urgency of her touch, the way her body molded to his like she belonged there.

Because she did.

She hadn’t stopped kissing him since she climbed into his lap on the couch, and now, with the door shut and no one around, it was like everything snapped.

Just her. Just him. Nothing else.

Yunho’s mouth crashed into hers again, all heat and hunger, and he groaned softly when she bit down on his lip, pulling at it with her teeth. “You trying to kill me?” he rasped against her mouth, breath hot.

“Maybe,” she whispered, her hands already sliding under his shirt, nails dragging across the firm ridges of his stomach.

He growled low in his throat and spun them fast, pressing her against the door. The kiss deepened. She gasped into it, legs hitching around his waist once again, his large hand sliding under one thigh to hold her up. The way she clung to him, wrapped herself around him, made something in Yunho’s chest tighten almost painfully.

It scared the hell out of him, how badly he needed her. How much of himself she already had.

“Y/N,” he breathed, barely pulling back, his forehead resting against hers. “You sure you want this?” You sure you want me?

Her eyes met his, bright and sure and impossibly soft. “I came here for you, Yunho. I want this. I want you.”

And that was it.

He kissed her again like he needed her to breathe, walking her backwards until her legs hit the edge of his bed and they tumbled down together, tangled in denim and skin and heat. Her hoodie came off first, followed by his shirt, and then his sweatpants, landing somewhere on the floor as they stripped each other down in frantic pieces.

His mouth dragged down her stomach, her ribs, the curve of her breast as he took his time memorizing every inch of her. She arched into him, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips jumping, letting him pull her shorts off, practically tearing the blue lace panties off, his tongue finding the spot between her legs that made her cry out.

“You better catch your breath, baby,” he smirked. “I’ve got the munchies.” He took his time, working her apart with long, slow licks, making her whimper and writhe and beg before Y/N reached down, pulling at his hair. “Enough… I need…. I need to feel you….”

Yunho crawled up her body, mouth slick and eyes dark. “You’re gonna destroy me,” he muttered, lining himself up and sliding in with one long, deep stroke that made both of them gasp as he stretched her, her always so tight for him.

Y/N clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth open on a soundless moan. He moved slow at first, deep and deliberate, watching her face like he was starved for it. Every twitch of her brow, every hitch in her breath, every time she moaned his name, it undid him.

“Fuck,” his hands gripped at her waist, lifting her up only slightly off the bed, the angle earning him the hottest cry, the most addictive moan of his name from her parts lips. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”

They moved together like they were made for this. Like they’d done it a thousand times in a hundred different lives. It was hot and slow and so damn intimate it made Yunho’s chest ache.

He buried his face in her neck as he got closer, her name whispered like a prayer. “You feel so good, baby. So perfect. Can’t… can’t get enough of you.”

She arched up into him, her nails leaving red lines down his back. “Yunho…. please…. come with me….”

Her orgasm hit her like a wave, pulling him under with her. He groaned her name, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he could go before everything went white.

The aftermath was breathless. Quiet. She lay tangled beneath him, skin dewy with sweat, her fingers tracing soft patterns along the back of his neck while he tried to catch his breath.

She was still here.

In his bed.

And the scariest part?

He never wanted her to leave.

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Sunlight was already leaking through the blinds when Yunho blinked awake, his arms still wrapped around the warm body beside him. Y/N was tucked against his chest, legs tangled with his under the covers, her bare back pressed to his front. Her soft breathing was steady and calm, and he swore he could’ve laid there forever.

He almost didn’t want to move. Almost.

But then she shifted sleepily, her hips brushing against him, and Yunho groaned softly against her shoulder. “You’re killing me,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep and sex, placing a kiss just below her ear.

Y/N hummed, smiling without opening her eyes. “Mmm. Thought you liked a slow death.”

He grinned and nuzzled her neck, letting his hand slide lazily down her side. “Only if it’s you doing the damage.”

She rolled over to face him, hair messy and eyes half lidded, and Yunho swore he’d never seen anything better in his entire life. His fingers brushed her cheek like he couldn’t help it, his smile softening. He should’ve been scared. He was scared. But in that moment, all he felt was her.

Until the door creaked open.

“Whoa. Whoa!” Jongho’s voice came from the hallway like a bucket of cold water. “Jesus, Yunho, lock your damn door!”

Yunho groaned and reached for the nearest piece of clothing, a discarded shirt on his bedroom floor, to chuck at the door. “What part of knock first do you not understand?!”

“Clearly the part where I don’t expect to see ass first thing in the morning,” Jongho fired back.

Y/N buried her face in Yunho’s chest, mortified. “This is my nightmare.”

“Don’t worry,” Yunho whispered, smirking as he rubbed her back. “Jongho’s been dreaming about walking in on me since we were sixteen.”

“I heard that!” Jongho shouted from the kitchen. “Also, I made coffee. I’m assuming you both need it after that symphony you played last night.” He was very thankful he passed out at the garage the night before now.

Y/N groaned, but Yunho kissed her temple and pulled her closer, lips brushing her ear. “Stay here. I’ll get you a cup.”

But before he could get out of bed, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

He frowned, answered. “Yeah?”

The voice on the other end was familiar. Clipped. Tight. Too familiar.

“We need to talk.”

Yunho sat up straighter, chest tightening.

Y/N brows furrowed at the at faint look of fear that crossed his face before he masked it with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw.

Y/N father’s voice came through the other end of Yunho’s phone like once again. “One of my deputies saw someone entering your apartment last night. Someone that looked a hell of a lot like my daughter. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that… would you?”

Yunho’s heart dropped. Fuck. Fuck.

“Sir, with all due respect,” he started, scrambling mentally, “I think there might’ve been a mistake. Lot of people come and go from this building. I didn’t even know you had a daughter.”

There was a pause. “Uh huh. Strange how your name keeps popping up lately. Between pulling you over last week and now this… You keeping secrets, Yunho?”

Yunho’s eyes flicked to Y/N, who was sitting up now, watching him with a wide eyed, panicked look.

“I think we should finish this conversation in person,” Yunho said tightly. “When and where?”

“Come by the station. Bring your smartass attitude with you.”

The line went dead.

Yunho set his phone down with a long, sharp exhale, dragging a hand over his face.

Y/N looked like she was about to pass out. “What’s wrong?”

“Your dad knows you’re here. He doesn’t know everything.” Yunho muttered, voice tight. “But if he figures it out… this is gonna blow up. Fast.”

She pulled the sheet tighter around herself, eyes wide. “What do we do?”

Yunho stood slowly, already pulling his jeans on, jaw tense. “We don’t panic. I go handle this. You stay here. Jongho’s got you.”

“You think I’m just gonna hide?”

“I think you’re not walking into your dad’s station right after being in my bed all night,” he said, pinning her with a look. “Let me figure out what he knows.”

She didn’t like it. But she didn’t argue.

He kissed her fast, harder than usual. Like it might be the last time.

And then he was gone.

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The second Yunho stepped into the precinct, everything in him tensed.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright. The steady murmur of phones and boots on tile grated on his nerves. Cops looked up when he passed, some recognizing him, some just sensing the weight he carried in his stride. He kept his head down, hoodie drawn up, the same way he used to walk into places he knew he didn’t belong.

Only this time, he did belong. Or maybe he belonged exactly here. That was the problem.

A deputy nodded toward the back. “He’s waiting.”

The door to Y/N dad’s office creaked closed behind Yunho with a sharp click. The second he stepped in, the air shifted, he could feel the weight of every bad decision clinging to his back like sweat. Her dad stood behind his desk, arms folded, jaw already clenched so tightly it looked like he might break a tooth.

“Sit,” he said coldly.

Yunho didn’t.

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “I said sit.”

Still, Yunho remained standing, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to be defiant without being disrespectful. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, voice low but steady.

“Let’s not pretend this is a formal chat.”

Her dad gave a bitter laugh through his nose. “You’re right. It’s not.”

There was a beat of silence so tense it practically crackled.

“You want to tell me what the hell my daughter was doing going into your apartment last night?” he asked, his tone sharp and unmistakably father, not officer. “One of my deputies recognized her. Said she looked real cozy ducking into your building around midnight.”

Yunho swallowed. “That’s not your deputy’s business.”

“Maybe not,” her dad snapped, “but it sure as hell becomes my business when you’re the one opening the damn door for her.”

Yunho didn’t flinch. “It’s not what you think.” He tried lying, but what would he say?

“Then what is it?” Her dad demanded, stepping around the desk now, closing the space between them. “You messing around with her? Using her to keep tabs on me? You think I’m that easy to fuck with, Yunho?”

Yunho’s voice was taut. “I’m not using her. I would never do that.”

“Right,” her dad said, pacing now, hands on his hips. “Because when I pulled you over last week, you just happened to have a mystery girl with her face turned away. And you just happened to show up in the middle of every damn problem I’ve been dealing with for months.”

“I wasn’t hiding her,” Yunho lied easily, eyes cool. “She wasn’t involved. She isn’t involved. And…. She didn’t want you to know about me.” Not a total lie.

The older man looked at him, like he was trying to see straight through his skull. “You think I’m stupid?”

“I think you’re a good cop and a better dad,” Yunho said carefully. “Which is why I haven’t let her anywhere near the garage. Or the races. Or the business. She doesn’t know anything.” Lies. All lies.

Her dad stared him down like he could hear the truth in the cracks. “You know what bothers me the most, Yunho?”

Yunho said nothing.

“That you’re his kid,” he said quietly. “Your father was one of the best men I ever knew. And here you are, walking the edge of everything he hated. You think he’d be proud of this? Of you?”

Yunho’s throat went tight. His heart thudded once, hard in his chest. That low, buried shame curled deep in his gut like smoke.

“You don’t know what he’d be proud of,” Yunho said, voice rougher now. “You don’t know what it was like after he died. You got to keep your badge. I got handed a stack of hospital bills and a funeral bill we couldn’t pay for.”

Her dad’s expression faltered. Just for a second. “So you decided to get in bed with the very people your dad spent his life fighting?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Yunho bit out. “You think people like me make it out clean?”

“You always have a choice.”

“Right,” Yunho scoffed. “Like I had a choice not to fall for your daughter.”

The words were out before he could stop them. He didn’t mean to say it. Hell, he hadn’t exactly even thought enough about what he exactly his feelings for Y/N are yet.

Her dad went dead silent.

Yunho regretted it the second he said it, but he didn’t take it back.

“Did you just say….”

“Yes.” Yunho’s voice was low but unshaken. “I didn’t mean to. But I did. I’m not sorry for it.”

The captain’s jaw clenched like stone. “You’re going to stay away from her.”

“She’s a grown woman. You can’t tell me not to be with her.”

“You will, or I’ll make sure every part of your life starts falling apart, starting with your little garage.”

Yunho’s fists clenched in his pockets. “She’s not your leverage.”

“She’s my daughter,” her dad growled. “And if I find out you’ve dragged her into any of your mess, if I so much as catch her name mixed up in one of your dealings, I’ll bury you. And no one will come looking.”

Yunho’s breath left him in a slow, careful exhale. He gave a small nod.

But he didn’t say yes.

Didn’t agree to shit.

Because she wasn’t leverage. And she wasn’t just some thrill. She was his undoing, his temptation, his calm and his chaos, and if she asked him to burn it all down, he’d hand her the match.

“I’ll see myself out,” he said tightly.

And then he walked out the door.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies

tag list: @dawn-iscozy @milkfromacow @pearltinyy @hoe4yunho @cosmicrecs @roxhanah @hoe4yunho

[favefandomimagines]

I Know Places 5 (r.c)

Summary: Y/N becomes suspicious of Rafe, while JJ becomes suspicious of Y/N

Taglist: @luvrclub

AN: i think this has like three or four chapter left! But I feel like their self indulgent at this point lol

Previous Part

The Pogues’ house was bustling with the usual chaotic energy that came with living under one roof. Sand trailed in from the front porch, damp towels were slung over chairs, and the faint smell of sunscreen still lingered in the air. It was home—a messy, loud, and ridiculously nosy home.

That was what made sneaking around so damn difficult.

Y/N stood in her room, hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest.

She wasn’t nervous about seeing Rafe. No, she was thrilled—her entire body buzzing with anticipation at the thought of being with him again.

What had her on edge was keeping it all under wraps.

Lying wasn’t something Y/N did often, especially not to JJ or the rest of the Pogues. They were her family. But this? This was something different.

This was hers.

And while she wished she didn’t have to keep it a secret, she knew that the moment JJ found out, all hell would break loose.

Kie sat cross-legged on Y/N’s bed, watching with her usual amused expression as Y/N fussed with her earrings. “You’re like a lovesick puppy.”

Y/N turned, her lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “I know. It’s weird. A guy has never made me feel like this before.”

Kie let out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s what’s weird. Not the fact that Rafe Cameron is the one doing it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She knew how it sounded. Hell, if someone had told her a year ago that she’d be sneaking around to go on dates with Rafe, she would have laughed in their face.

But here she was.

Kie leaned back on her elbows, her teasing expression softening into something more sincere. “I’m sorry you feel like you have to hide this.”

Y/N sighed, glancing down at her hands. “It’s JJ I’m worried about. You know how he is. I’m positive he’d disown me as his sister if he found out.”

Kie frowned slightly, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. “I mean… he would freak out,” she admitted. “But disown you? C’mon, Y/N. He’d never do that.”

Y/N gave her a skeptical look. “Kie, he still holds a grudge against the guy who took my sandwich in fourth grade. What do you think he’d do if he found out I was seeing his mortal enemy?”

Kie winced. “Okay, fair point.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment before Kie hesitated, then said, “Sarah wouldn’t judge you. After all, Rafe is her brother.”

“Maybe,” Y/N murmured, twisting a ring around her finger absentmindedly. “I don’t know. I’m just… scared.”

Scared of what JJ would say.

Scared of what everyone would say.

Scared that if she said it out loud, it would all fall apart.

Kie sighed, sitting up straighter. “I get it. And I won’t say anything. Just—don’t shut me out, okay?”

Y/N met her gaze, gratitude shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Kie grinned, nudging her with her foot. “Now, tell me—what’s the plan for this mystery date?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “I actually have no idea. He wanted it to be a surprise.”

Kie raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Okay, I take back some of my judgment. The boy’s got game.”

Y/N chuckled, standing up. “I’m meeting him at the lighthouse.”

Kie stretched her arms over her head. “Well, have fun. And forget about all the JJ-and-Pogue drama tonight, okay? Just enjoy it.”

Y/N smiled, feeling some of the tension ease from her chest. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

With that, Y/N grabbed her bag, took one last deep breath, and left the house—excitement bubbling beneath her skin as she headed for the lighthouse.

She had no idea what Rafe had planned.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t worried about it.

||

The lighthouse stood tall against the dusky sky, its beacon flashing intermittently over the ocean, casting fleeting streaks of golden light across the water. The waves crashed rhythmically against the rocky shore, the salty air thick and humid, sticking to Y/N’s skin as she stood near the railing.

She wrapped her arms around herself, a small shiver running through her—not from the cold, but from the anticipation.

She had never waited for a guy like this before, had never cared enough to feel this kind of nervous excitement. But Rafe Cameron had changed that.

She glanced down at her phone. No message yet.

A small smile tugged at her lips. He’d be here soon.

But before she could fully settle into that thought, another voice broke the quiet.

“Hey, Y/N.”

Her spine stiffened at the sound.

She turned, her eyes landing on a figure standing just beyond the lighthouse’s glow.

Barry.

His presence was unwelcome, but not surprising.

She took him in—black eye, fresh cuts on his face, the signature smirk that she hated—and immediately rolled her eyes.

Great.

“What do you want, Barry?” Y/N asked flatly, crossing her arms.

Barry let out a low chuckle, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The orange ember flared to life, casting sharp shadows across his bruised face.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he exhaled, smoke curling around his words. “Just here to meet a buyer. Didn’t think I’d run into you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Yeah? Well, I wish you hadn’t.”

Barry let out an amused hum, taking another drag from his cigarette. His gaze flickered over her, assessing. “So… meeting Country Club?”

She clenched her jaw. He wasn’t supposed to know about that.

“What’s it to you?” she shot back, voice steady despite the slight unease crawling up her spine.

Barry smirked, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Be careful around him,” he said casually. “Rumor has it he’s made enemies of the wrong people.”

Y/N froze.

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as Barry’s words echoed in her mind.

Enemies.

She thought about Rafe’s break-in, the way he brushed it off when she asked about it. She had pushed the thought aside, convinced herself that if it was serious, he’d tell her.

But now…

Now, doubt crept in.

Before she could press for more, the sound of an approaching truck rumbled through the quiet night.

Barry glanced toward the headlights as they approached, then smirked. “Speak of the devil.”

Rafe’s truck came to a slow stop, the engine cutting off as he stepped out.

His usual cocky smirk was absent. Instead, his face was set in a sharp, serious expression, his blue eyes locking onto Barry with immediate suspicion.

Barry, ever the instigator, gave him a lazy salute. “Later, Maybank.”

Then, with one last glance at Y/N, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the darkness.

Y/N exhaled, shaking her head. “Fucking waste of space.”

Rafe’s gaze flickered between her and Barry’s retreating form. His jaw tightened. “Was he bothering you?”

Y/N shrugged, shifting her weight. “Just Barry being Barry.”

“Stay away from him,” Rafe said immediately.

Y/N turned to face him fully, furrowing her brows. “I can handle myself, Rafe. Especially with Barry.”

“I know you can,” Rafe said, his voice softer now, his fingers flexing at his sides. “It’s just… I don’t trust him.”

Something about the way he said it made her pause.

There was something underneath those words.

Something he wasn’t saying.

But before she could push, Rafe exhaled, shaking off the tension. He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers, grounding himself.

“Come on,” he said, giving her a small, lopsided smile. “Let’s go enjoy our date.”

Y/N hesitated for only a moment longer before nodding.

As they walked toward the truck, fingers still laced together, she couldn’t shake Barry’s warning.

Rafe had made enemies of the wrong people.

And for the first time, Y/N started to wonder just how deep his secrets went.

||

Rafe led Y/N down a narrow, overgrown path through the dunes, their hands intertwined as the sound of crashing waves filled the air. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues over the sand, and Y/N couldn’t help but marvel at the scene in front of her.

They reached a small cove where the beach curved into a secluded spot, hidden from view by a rocky outcrop. The waves were rough here, the tide stronger than most places along the Outer Banks, which was why no one ever came.

But Y/N’s eyes widened when she saw what was waiting for her.

A full picnic was set up on the sand—blankets, plush pillows, a wicker basket filled with food, and a cooler with drinks. A lantern flickered beside the setup, even though the sun had yet to fully set.

“You did all this?” Y/N asked, looking up at Rafe in disbelief.

Rafe smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Told you I was pulling out all the stops.”

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “What, trying to impress me?”

Rafe grinned. “Is it working?”

Y/N bit her lip to hide her smile. “Maybe.”

Rafe reached for her hand again, pulling her toward the picnic. They kicked off their shoes, settling onto the blanket as the salty breeze played with Y/N’s hair.

The tension of the past week—sneaking around, the secrecy, the weight of knowing she couldn’t share this with her friends—melted away as she watched Rafe pull out sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of wine.

“You really went all out,” Y/N mused, watching as he poured them both a drink.

Rafe shrugged. “Figured if I’m gonna convince you to go on a third date with me, I have to keep setting the bar high.”

Y/N smirked. “Bold of you to assume there will be a third date.”

Rafe handed her a glass, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “There will be.”

Y/N shook her head, but she was grinning as she took a sip of wine.

As they ate, they talked—really talked.

Y/N had always been curious about Rafe’s childhood. She had grown up seeing the Cameron family from a distance, watching the way Ward Cameron carried himself like he owned the island, the way Sarah seemed so effortlessly perfect in everyone’s eyes. But Rafe? Rafe had always been different.

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if things were different?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice softer now.

Rafe looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Y/N hesitated before continuing. “Like, if your dad had been different. If you and Sarah had been closer. If you had grown up… I don’t know, happier.”

Rafe exhaled a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “I think about it all the time.”

Y/N watched him carefully, noticing the way his jaw tensed.

Rafe leaned back on his elbows, staring out at the waves. “Ward was… complicated. He wanted perfection. From all of us. And I was never going to be that.”

Y/N swallowed, setting her wine glass down.

“He wanted Sarah to be the golden child. The one who got everything right. Me? I was the disappointment,” Rafe continued, his voice bitter. “And when I started screwing up, when I started proving him right… I just leaned into it.”

Y/N hesitated before reaching out, placing her hand over his. “Do you think you’d want to be back in Sarah’s life?”

Rafe was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me does. Part of me thinks it’s too late.”

Y/N squeezed his hand. “It’s never too late.”

Rafe looked at her, his blue eyes filled with something unreadable.

After a long pause, he said, “You wanna know the truth?”

Y/N nodded.

“I hated JJ,” Rafe admitted, his voice raw. “Not because of the Pogue-Kook shit. But because I envied him. I envied you.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

Rafe nodded, exhaling slowly. “I knew about your dad. I knew your childhood was shit. But you had each other. No matter how bad it got, you had someone who loved you. And then you had John B, Kie, Pope… you had family.”

His jaw clenched. “I never had that.”

Y/N’s heart ached.

She had spent her whole life thinking Rafe Cameron was just another rich kid with a perfect life. But now, sitting here with him, hearing the pain in his voice, she realized how wrong she had been.

Without thinking, she reached up, cupping his cheek. “You have me.”

Rafe inhaled sharply, like the words had physically hit him.

And then, before she could second-guess it, he leaned in.

Their lips met softly, hesitantly at first. But then, something shifted. Rafe’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer as the warmth of the moment wrapped around them.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When they finally pulled away, Rafe rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

Y/N felt like she was floating.

For so long, she had been the outlier—the one always watching from the sidelines while her friends found love, found people who made them feel wanted.

But here, with Rafe?

She felt like someone’s first choice.

And she never wanted the feeling to end.

But as the date wound down, Y/N found herself thinking back to Barry’s words.

"Rumor has it he’s made enemies of the wrong people."

She had asked Rafe about the break-in before, and he had brushed it off. But something about Barry’s warning gnawed at her.

Rafe had enemies. That much she knew.

But how deep did it go?

She wanted to ask him again, but as she looked at him—his relaxed posture, the small smile lingering on his lips—she stopped herself.

She didn’t want to taint what they had with suspicion.

She was happy.

She felt wanted.

For once, she didn’t feel like JJ’s sister, or the second choice to her friends. She felt like herself.

So, for now, she pushed the doubt away.

But some part of her knew that it wouldn’t stay buried forever

||

JJ had spent the better part of the day pretending he wasn’t bothered.

Pretending he didn’t notice the way his sister had been slipping away lately.

Pretending he didn’t care that she had been sneaking off, coming back home with that same dazed look in her eyes, like she was keeping something from him.

But JJ wasn’t stupid.

He knew Y/N better than anyone.

And something was off.

At first, he chalked it up to stress. Running the shop, dealing with the summer Tourons, handling his bullshit on a daily basis—it was a lot.

But then he noticed the way she had been glued to her phone. The way she had started making excuses to disappear for hours at a time. The way Kie, who never kept secrets from him, had been acting weird around Y/N, like she was walking on eggshells.

Something was going on.

The house was empty when the rest of the Pogues decided to head to The Wreck for the night.

Kie had tried to get him to come along, a little too eagerly, which only made JJ more suspicious.

“Nah, I’ll catch up later,” he had said, stretching out on the couch like he had no other plans.

Kie hesitated. “You sure? Free food, my treat.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you offer me free food?”

Kie forced a smile. “Since I’m feeling generous.”

JJ stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m good. I’m just gonna chill for a bit.”

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she nodded. “Alright. See you later.”

The second the door shut behind her, JJ sat up, running a hand through his hair.

Y/N had been hiding something.

And now he had the house to himself to wait for her.

JJ sat in the dimly lit living room, bouncing his leg impatiently, flipping a lighter between his fingers. He hated this. He hated feeling like he didn’t know his sister anymore.

They had been through everything together.

Y/N was his person. His twin. His built-in best friend.

And now, she was keeping something from him.

JJ knew she had been lying about the “errands.” She had been gone all day.

What the hell was she really up to?

It was nearly 9 PM when JJ heard the sound of the front door unlocking.

He stayed completely still as Y/N stepped inside, her movements careful and quiet, like she was trying not to wake anyone up.

JJ watched as she reached for the light switch, completely oblivious to his presence.

The second the warm glow illuminated the room, her eyes landed on him.

She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. “Jesus, JJ, you scared the hell out of me.”

JJ didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You’ve been gone for a while.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it.

Y/N swallowed, her expression shifting just slightly—so slightly that most people wouldn’t catch it. But JJ did.

“I told you I was running errands,” she said, too quickly.

JJ tilted his head. “You’ve been gone all day, Y/N.”

Her posture stiffened, and JJ knew he was right. He knew she was hiding something.

“Errands don’t take that long,” he continued, his blue eyes locked onto hers. “So where were you really?”

Y/N hesitated.

It was the first real hesitation JJ had seen from her in a long time.

And it confirmed everything.

She was hiding something.

JJ leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “C’mon, Y/N. We both know you suck at lying.”

Y/N bit her lip, glancing toward the hallway like she was debating just walking away.

But JJ wasn’t letting this go.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look… if something’s wrong, you can tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, and for a second—a split second—JJ thought she was going to tell him the truth.

But then she exhaled, her expression shifting into something unreadable.

“I was just busy,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

JJ’s stomach twisted.

She wasn’t telling him the truth.

He could see it in her eyes.

And that realization hit him harder than he expected.

JJ trusted Y/N more than anyone. But right now? He wasn’t sure if she still trusted him.

His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice even. “Alright,” he said, standing up. “If you say so.”

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised that he was letting it go so easily.

JJ gave her a small, almost knowing smile.

But the thing was—he wasn’t letting it go.

Not even close.

He had every intention of figuring out what the hell was going on with his sister.

And whoever—or whatever—was pulling her away from him?

They were about to have a serious problem

[yeosangmaybe]

Hiiiiii here’s San. Might write an epilogue for this one 🫶🏽 sorry for the wait, my life was in shambles yet again. Hope you enjoy :P

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Genre: Bestfriend!san x female!reader, no smut, angst, fluff

Warnings: mentions of food, san’s a big dummy, low-key bullying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 1

The gloomy weather had settled throughout the city, the air so thick with humidity that a delicate fog hung outside Y/N’s window like a heavy curtain. Rain had been tapping a steady rhythm against the glass all evening. It was soft, constant, almost comforting.

It was perfect

And there was only one thing Y/N ever did when the world outside looked like this: she watched the entire Twilight series.

It had been a tradition, their tradition, that began in high school. She still remembered the first night it happened. San had been over at her house, supposedly to study. They were halfway through a history assignment when she had glanced at the window, seen the mist caressing the glass, and casually mentioned how weather like this always made her think of Twilight.

San had admitted then, with that sheepish grin of his, that he’d never seen it. She had been scandalized. Outraged. And then excited .

She’d made him sit through all five movies in one night, watching his every reaction like it was more important than the plot itself. The way he laughed at some of the cornier lines, how he cringed at the over the top drama, the way his jaw had dropped during the Breaking dawn battle scene. She could still picture it perfectly.

He almost ended their friendship that night over the plot twist, and she never let him live it down.

From that night forward, it became a promise. Whenever the weather was giving Forks, Washington, they would watch Twilight together.

It used to make her so happy. It used to make her feel like no matter how much the world changed, she could count on that. She could count on him.

But tonight?

Tonight the fog wasn’t just outside. It was inside her chest too, heavy and suffocating. Each breath felt shallow, sticky with the weight of the thing she’d tried so hard not to name.

She knew exactly why she felt this way.

San had asked to borrow her Twilight DVD set.

Not to watch it with her. No.

He had asked for it so he could watch it with the girl he’s talking to.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. The way she had smiled, made herself smile, when he asked. How she had joked, light and easy, “Make sure you use protection,” like she wasn’t falling apart inside.

She groaned into the sleeve of her sweatshirt, burying her face.

How could she let the man she had been in love with for years do all the things that were theirs, with someone else?

This was only the beginning.

First the Twilight tradition. Then the first ice cream of the summer they always shared. Then the birthday mukbangs. The lazy weekends spent on her couch, yapping about nothing.

Piece by piece, all their little rituals would be handed over to someone else.

Eventually, they’d turn into the kind of people who waved awkwardly at each other in the grocery store. Like they hadn’t once known every secret, every dream, every hidden part of each other that they couldn’t share with anyone else.

A tear slipped down her cheek, quickly followed by another.

If only she were braver.

If only she could tell him that it wasn’t just the traditions she missed. It was him.

It was how he was sunshine on her rainiest days, effervescent and sweet like the fruity drinks he always teased her for loving.

It was the way she felt safe when he laughed, like the world couldn’t touch her.

It was everything.

But how could she ever say it?

How could she risk anchoring him down when he was meant to shine, to light up someone else’s world?

Maybe all she would have now were reminders. The hollow echoes of everything they used to be.

And she would have to learn how to be okay with that.

Part 2

San was in the middle of arranging snacks on the coffee table. He had gotten chips, cookies, and two bottles of coke.

In the midst of him setting each item on a wooden tray he had found, Seonghwa wandered into the living room.

Seonghwa’s eyes immediately caught the twilight box set sitting next to the TV. He raised an eyebrow, instantly suspicious.

“Oh, is Y/N coming over?” he asked casually while sneakily swiping a bag of chips off the table.

“I thought you said you had a date tonight?”

“I do have a date,” San said, trying but failing to snatch the bag back from Seonghwa.

With a huff of annoyance, he went back to unnecessarily fiddling with the rest of the snacks, making sure everything was perfect.

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shot up, his mind racing. No way.

No way had San finally come to his senses.

After years of orbiting each other like clueless satellites, had San actually grown a pair and told Y/N he liked her?

Seonghwa opened his mouth to say something just as Yunho strolled into the room, headphones on his head and a controller in his hand

“Oh! Is Y/N here?” Yunho asked, grinning when he saw the Twilight set out front and center. He always thought their little tradition was adorable, like one of those coming of age movies. And Y/N had become like a little sister after all these years. He always enjoyed when she was around.

San let out a short chuckle. “No! I’m borrowing it from her. For my date. You guys are being so weird.”

He sounded so normal, so unbothered, like he hadn’t just shattered some unspoken, sacred bond.

Both of his older friends just stared at him.

“And your date… is not with Y/N?” Yunho asked, his once bright grin now faltering at the revelation.

San nodded, still confused as to why they seemed shocked.

“Okay,” Seonghwa said, voice a little too clam now. He could feel the anger starting to bubble under his skin, thinking about Y/N. Sweet, loyal Y/N, who was probably at home right now thinking she was being replaced. “I already knew you were stupid, but have you always been this big of an asshole, too? Or is this a new development?”

San looked taken aback by the insult. “How am I being an asshole? I-“

“You’re watching Y/N’s favorite movies, doing your tradition, with a different girl?” Yunho interrupted slowly, the disbelief dripping from every word.

“San, that’s diabolical.”

San blinked at him, confused. “What? Y/N said she was fine with it.”

At that, both Yunho and Seonghwa let out the loudest, most exasperated groans known to man.

“Of course she said she was fine!”Seonghwa bursted out, throwing his hands up. “Because she’s Y/N! Because she’s annoyingly selfless and hopelessly in love with you, you dumbass!”

San froze, the tray wobbling dangerously in his hands.

The room fell silent except for the soft patter of rain against the windows.

“What… what are you talking about?” he asked after a long beat, voice quieter.

Seonghwa sighed and crossed his arms, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“San, you two have been practically married since high school. You really think it’s a coincidence that you do everything together? That she’s the only person who knows how you take your ramyeon? That she fixed up that plushy you’re weirdly attached to when it’s seam ripped and didn’t say a thing about it so you wouldn’t be embarrassed?”

Yunho chimed in, his voice gentler now but still firm. “Dude, you don’t watch Twilight every time it rains with just anyone. That’s your thing with her. You’re her person.”

San felt something deep inside him crack open. Images flooded his head.

A memory of Y/N laughing as she threw popcorn at him during Eclipse. Her eyes glinting with mischief when she insisted Edward was better than Jacob just to get him riled up. Her soft, secret smiles when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He thought she just liked the movies. He thought she just liked the traditions.

He never let himself wonder if maybe it was about him, too.

And now? He was about to watch their movies with someone else. He was about to replace her.

“Oh my god,” San said, abruptly tossing the tray down onto the table. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.“I fucked up.

“No shit!” Seonghwa exclaims, throwing his arms up

San looked to his friends in what seemed to be the beginning of panic, desperation bleeding in every movement.

“Wh-what do I do? How do I fix this?” He asked.

Yunho stepped closer to his younger friend, placing his hands on San’s shoulders.

He locked eyes with him, gaze steady and serious.

“There’s no guarantee that you can fix it,” he starts, “but maybe start with canceling your damn date.”

Part 3

The universe was truly shoving Y/N’s cowardice in her face.

She had been fully prepared to spend the rest of this rainy, miserable day wallowing with a pint of ice cream and the saddest romance movies she owned. But when she opened her copy of Dear John, her heart sank all over again. There, inside the case, was her Twilight disc. The one San had asked to borrow.

So now here she was. Eyes puffy. Hair in a messy bun. Wrapped in the comfiest hoodie she could find, driving through the gray drizzle toward the dorm of the guy who was slowly, silently ripping her heart out of her chest.

She sat in the car for a long moment once she parked. Staring at the building like it had betrayed her.

Please, she begged the universe, just let one of the other guys answer. Not San. Not today. Not like this.

She caught her reflection in the mirror and winced. No amount of fixing would erase the fact that she had cried over him.

Her steps up the stairs were heavy. The hallway stretched longer than it ever had before. Her heart ached with every step. How many times had she walked this path with that movie in hand? How many rainy days had they spent together, bundled in blankets, arguing over Edward and Jacob like it actually mattered?

Would she ever be able to watch her comfort movies again without thinking of him?

When she finally reached the door, her hand trembled as she raised it to knock.

This felt like a goodbye. Even if she didn’t say the words. Their was a finality in the air and it settled deep in her chest with an ache before she finally decided to knock

She knocked once. Lightly. Then waited, bracing for impact.

The door opened slowly and thank god, it was Jongho.

“Oh, Y/N!” he greeted with a sleepy smile, still blinking like he’d just woken up for a nap. He moved aside instinctively to let her in.

She shook her head. “I’m just here to drop this off,” she said, extending the disc toward him.

Jongho blinked down at it, confused. “San asked to borrow it and I guess I misplaced it last time we watched it together,” she added with a brittle smile. “Just… give it to him for me.”

She then turned and left without another word.

Jongho stood there for a beat, the door still cracked open, holding the disc like it weighed a ton.

Wait.

San had a date tonight.

And he asked to borrow Y/N’s favorite movie for it?

His jaw tightened.

Oh hell no.

With his protective instincts flaring, Jongho slammed the door and stalked through the dorm, hunting for San.

When he finally found him in the living room, San was standing with a phone to his ear. Seonghwa was glaring daggers at him from the couch. Yunho leaned on the wall with his arms crossed, brows furrowed.

“Thanks for understanding,” San was saying quietly. “And again, I’m really sorry.”

He hung up, looking a little pale.

“She was about to cancel anyway so I guess that’s a plus,” he muttered to no one in particular.

That was when Jongho shoved the DVD into his chest. Hard.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain why Y/N just showed up here all teary-eyed to drop this off before I kick your ass,” he growled.

San’s head snapped up. “Y/N? Is she still here?”

“She just lef-“

But before Jongho could finish, San was gone.

“Dude, wait!” Yunho shouted, taking off after him.

Seonghwa groaned and shot Jongho a look. “Come on, let’s go make sure he doesn’t screw this up worse.”

Outside, San bolted down the stairs, his heart thundering in his chest. His feet slipped slightly in his slides. The rain hit his face like cold needles. And then he saw her.

Just a few feet from her car. Hand on the door handle. And god, she looked wrecked. Red eyes. Wet lashes. His damn hoodie she always wore. The one he had given her when she had stayed the night at the dorms for the first time. The one he always internally lost it at seeing her in.

“Y/N.” he gasped, chest heaving. Just as he reached her, he lost his bearings and landed on his knees. His house shoes were no match for the slick sidewalk.

She turned sharply, surprised. Her lips parted, eyes wide ready to ask if he’s okay. But then she had realized something. Wasn’t he supposed to be on a date?

“San?” she questioned.

“Don’t you have a date?”

“I cancelled it,” he said, breathless but firm.

“Why?”

“Because…” He moved forwards more . “Why would you tell me it was okay if it wasn’t? If it was gonna hurt you?”

Her expression twisted as she looked down at him. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, San. That’s my favorite movie.”

“YOU TELL HIM!” Seonghwa’s voice echoed from somewhere behind them.

Both of them turned to see the rest of the guys standing nearby, completely unashamed.

San turned back to her, eyes shining.

“I know. I know. I’m so fucking stupid. Please just… please give me a chance to make this right.”

She shook her head, overwhelmed and exhausted.

“You better make his ass grovel, Y/N!” Jongho shouted helpfully.

San was fighting every urge to punch his younger friend. But he wasn’t wrong. He definitely deserved to grovel. He probably even deserved worse.

“How do I know you’re not just saying this?” Y/N asked, voice trembling. “How do I know you’re not going to toss me aside again when something else comes along?”

“Because I didn’t even know if you’d want me like that. I was too scared I’d lose you if I told you that I wanted more. That I’m in love with you.”

The words came out in one desperate, cracked breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeated, softer. “And I would never, never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Please believe that.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat.

“San…” she whispered.

“If you don’t want this to become something more… I’ll understand,” he said quickly, terrified. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Y/N. Just… let me still be something to you.”

She looked down, a soft blush coloring her cheeks despite her puffy eyes.

“You’re everything to me, San,” she admitted, voice small.

“But?” He braced for it. The heartbreak. The goodbye.

“But you’re an idiot,” she answered, letting out a watery laugh.

San blinked, then broke into the most relieved, tearful smile she’d ever seen. His eyes crinkled, and he looked like he could cry all over again.

“Your idiot, though. Right?” He asked, a sparkle of hope now danced in those brown eyes.

She raised on eyebrow up at him in a teasing manner. “Don’t push your luck, buddy.”

San smiled a little wider before he caught her off guard by standing up finally and pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. She hesitated at first but quickly melted into the embrace of her best friend.

Best friend. Could she even call him that now?

From behind them, Yunho wiped a fake tear from his eye. “They grow up so fast.”

Seonghwa elbowed him, trying to hide the amusement on his face with a look of annoyance. “Shut up and get them a towel or something.”

Jongho just crossed his arms, smirking. “I would’ve made him stew a little more.”

San went to swat him, one arm still holding Y/N. But Jongho quickly dodged it, giggling as he ran away from the assault.

“Didn’t know my fate was to be determined by the fucking peanut gallery.” He huffed out causing Y/N to giggle.

Y/N looked up at San, really looked at him. Standing in the rain, all soaked, looking at her like she hung the moon.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself hope.

[blaintism]

mythic quest season 4 is not real and cannot hurt me

[ciderjacks]

argh. This comic writing is taking me way longer than usual. I keep editing things and it doesn’t feel right.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Too Much Like Me

Potter!Reader tells her dad she's been asked on a date.

Summary: James finds out Lily's type in men is apparently genetic.

Wc: ~1.7k

CW: Just chaotic fluffy hijinks - a jab about Americans

“Dad.” You trailed James into the kitchen, fighting to keep your voice calm despite the storm brewing ahead.

But James Potter, in all his dramatic glory, had gone entirely deaf. Arms flailing like a prophet warning of doom, he roared, “Family meeting!”

“No! No family meeting!” you yelped, lunging for his arm. You barely stifled a laugh as he flailed harder, like a fish trying to escape the net.

James spun around, courtroom-drama style, and gasped at you with the intensity of someone catching their child red-handed with a cursed artifact. “Fred Weasley? Our Fred Weasley? That Fred Weasley?”

“Yes, that Fred Weasley,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Merlin’s saggy balls, I regret telling you already.”

James slammed his hand on the counter for emphasis, pivoting toward the sitting room like a man possessed. “Lily!” he thundered, shaking the walls. “Lily, get in here! Your daughter’s lost her mind!”

“Dad, for Merlin’s sake!” You tried to grab him again, but James had started pacing now, looking like a wizard unjustly accused of crimes against decorum.

“Not in my house! Not under my roof!” He spun around, hazel eyes bulging with a level of betrayal that deserved an award. “Fred Weasley doesn’t know the meaning of curfew! Or- Merlin help us- a respectable bedtime! Do you think I’m letting that chaos into my family? After all I’ve sacrificed? For you?”

“James,” came Lily’s voice, calm but laced with amusement. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, her lips twitching. “What are you yelling about this time?”

James turned to her, a man on the brink. “Fred Weasley! He asked her out! Our daughter! On a date! Alone! With no chaperone!”

Lily blinked, then turned to you with a grin brighter than a Patronus. “Oh!” she gasped, her eyes lighting up. “He finally asked?”

James froze mid-tirade, pointing an accusatory finger at his wife. “Finally? What do you mean, finally? Have you been... supporting this? Encouraging it?”

Lily shrugged, her grin widening as she pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the kitchen. “He’s a lovely boy, James. Polite, clever, charming. He reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“Don’t you dare—” James began, his tone low and dangerous.

“You,” Lily finished brightly, jabbing him in the chest. “Fred’s just like you were. All mischief and charm. No wonder she likes him.”

James gawked at her like she’d suggested selling their house to a pack of trolls. “That’s exactly why she can’t date him! I was Fred Weasley, Lily! Do you know what I would’ve done if someone let me date their daughter?”

“You married her,” Lily said sweetly, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek, winking at you as it effectively stunned the red mess that was your father.

James froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, completely derailed by Lily’s well-placed jab and affectionate kiss. He finally managed to sputter, “That’s- That’s completely different!”

“How, exactly?” Lily teased, raising an eyebrow as she crossed her arms again. “Because if I recall correctly, you were a menace, Potter. A charming menace, but a menace nonetheless. Fred’s cut from the same cloth, and you turned out all right.”

James spluttered, gesturing wildly at you. “Because this is my daughter! She’s not supposed to fall for charmers like Fred Weasley! I can’t just let this happen! Where’s the fatherly dignity in that?”

“Oh, James,” Lily sighed, patting his shoulder with exaggerated pity. “I hate to break it to you, but you lost your ‘fatherly dignity’ the day you wore those matching Christmas jumpers with Sirius.”

“That was solidarity!” James barked, his ears reddening as he straightened his posture in a futile attempt at reclaiming authority. “And anyway, this is different. I’m supposed to protect her! Shield her from the heartbreakers and mischief-makers of the world.”

“Fred’s not a heartbreaker, Dad,” you said, exasperated but amused. “He’s actually- dare I say- nice? And maybe even mature? A little bit?”

James looked like he might faint. “Mature?! You’re telling me Fred Weasley- the bloke who turned all the Quidditch goalposts into giant marshmallows- is mature?! What next? He’s taken up knitting?”

“Knitting would be a good look for him,” Lily quipped, clearly enjoying herself. “Very soothing hobby. He could knit you a jumper, James, to match that dignity you’ve misplaced.”

You couldn’t help but snort at the visual, and James threw his hands up, pacing the kitchen again. “I can’t believe this. I’m being outnumbered in my own home.”

“It’s called democracy- like the Americans,” Lily said, smirking as she leaned against the counter. “And right now, you’re the losing party.”

James stopped pacing to glare at her. “Fred acts like a damned American..” He mumbled before he raised his voice. “This is treason. Pure, unadulterated treason.”

“James,” Lily replied patiently, though her lips twitched with amusement. “You’ll survive.”

At that moment, Harry wandered into the kitchen, his face set in curious confusion as he surveyed the scene. He held a plate of leftover treacle tart, chewing leisurely. “What’s with all the shouting, then?” He asked, his tone disinterested but his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

James immediately pounced, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Your sister has decided to go on a date with Fred Weasley, Harry! Fred Weasley! What do you have to say about that?”

Harry blinked at him, clearly trying to piece together the situation. Then his gaze slid to you, and his smirk grew as he swallowed a bite of tart. “Fred, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Nice. Bold choice. Never a dull moment with a Weasley.”

“Bold-? Harry!” James looked genuinely wounded. “This is a betrayal! Your own sister-"

“Is an adult,” Harry interrupted, shrugging. “And you’re acting like she’s run off to marry Voldemort’s ghost.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” you muttered under your breath, earning a snort from Harry.

“Not helping, Harry!” James barked, looking thoroughly frazzled now. He pointed at you again. “Fine! Go on your date! But I’m watching him. One toe out of line, and-”

“And what?” you challenged, grinning now as Lily watched on, clearly entertained. “You’ll duel him? Turn him into a marshmallow like his Quidditch goalposts?”

James opened his mouth, floundering for a retort, but Lily stepped in, tugging him gently away from the center of the chaos. “Come on, love,” she cooed soothingly. “Why don’t we sit down, have a cuppa, and let the kids handle their own lives for once?”

James sighed, finally deflating. “Fine,” he grumbled, shooting you one last suspicious look. “But mark my words- an eye for an eye! Harry, date his younger sister!”

Harry froze, the bite of treacle tart halfway to his mouth as the words sunk in. His eyes darted between you, Lily, and James, clearly trying to figure out if this was his moment to fess up or quietly Disapparate.

“What?” James demanded, noticing Harry’s hesitation. “What’s with that face? Don’t tell me you’ve already thought about it!”

Lily covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. You, on the other hand, burst out laughing immediately, doubling over as the image of James putting two and two together hit you.

“Why are you laughing?” James barked, looking between the two of you like he was missing the punchline to a joke everyone else got. “What’s so funny? Harry, explain yourself!”

Harry, clearly seeing no way out, sighed and placed his plate of treacle tart on the counter. “Dad,” he started, bracing himself, “I’m already dating Ginny.”

James froze. Completely, utterly froze. His jaw hung slack, his hands hovering mid-air like a malfunctioning automaton.

“You’re what?” He whispered, his voice teetering on the edge of shock and betrayal.

You howled with laughter, tears forming in your eyes. “Oh, Merlin, this is priceless!” You gasped. “Dad, your face- your face!"

“James, breathe,” Lily advised through her own laughter, leaning against the counter for support. “You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

James finally snapped out of his trance, his eyes narrowing into sharp points of indignation. “Ginny?! Ginny Weasley?! First her with Fred, and now you- how long has this been going on?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to make himself look smaller. “A while.”

“A while?" James repeated, his voice cracking. “Define ‘a while.’ A few days? Weeks?”

Harry hesitated. “Since... fifth year?”

“Fifth year?!" James bellowed, looking like he might explode. “That’s years! Years, Harry! And you didn’t think to tell me?!”

“What was I supposed to say?” Harry shot back, clearly frustrated now. “‘Hey, Dad, by the way, I’m snogging Ron’s little sister’? That would’ve gone over well.”

“Well, it’s certainly better than me finding out like this!” James cried, gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. “My own son! Betraying me! I raised you better than this, Harry!”

Lily wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, James. They’re clearly happy, and Ginny’s a wonderful girl. You love her.”

“That’s not the point, Lily!” James snapped, his hands flying to his hair. “It’s- this is-!Fred! Ginny! My children and their Weasleys! What’s next? Ron’s going to marry into the family, too?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well... technically, Hermione-"

“No! They got her too!?" James cut him off, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t even tell me! I won’t survive it! This is it- this is how I go. Betrayed by my own family and buried in a sea of Weasleys.”

You leaned against the counter, wheezing with laughter. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” James turned to you, his face a picture of righteous indignation. “You don’t understand. I fought a war for this family- for this! And now my legacy is going to be a house full of Weasleys!”

“Sounds cozy,” Lily teased, patting his arm. “You’ll come around, James. You always do.”

James groaned, sinking into a chair as if all the fight had been drained out of him. “Fine,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. Date your Weasleys. Marry them. Name your kids Fred and Ginny Jr. for all I care.”

You patted his shoulder, grinning. “Love you, Dad.”

He shot you a glare but muttered, “Love you, too. But don’t think for one second I’m not watching Fred like a hawk.”

“And Ginny?” Harry asked, daring to push his luck.

James pointed a warning finger at him. “You, young man, are on thin bloody ice."

Lily hushed James as she patted his back, leading him out of the kitchen. He continued to blabber on, muttering something along the lines of;

“Is this my fault?”

“Merlin, does Molly know?”

“Bloody redheads- OW!”

[jupiterpilgrim]

Sex Cage: Big Breasts and the Ordinary Modern Life

Eunbi x Somi x male reader

word count: 12K

previous chapter

Eunbi’s room is decked out like a gamer’s fever dream now. The RGB lights are set up just right, throwing a chill neon glow around, lighting up her face a bit. She’s parked in her plush gaming chair, legs tucked under, hunched over the mic. She’s rocking a baggy gray sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, showing a peek of her white tank top, and some soft black shorts. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, a couple strands hanging loose around her face. The camera’s got her in frame, the ring light smoothing out the hype written all over her expression. On-screen, “Rubydden’s Realm” overlays the corner of the stream—a hastily made, slightly clunky logo she insisted on designing herself. Below it, a scrolling bar reads, “First-ever stream! Let’s see if I survive TLOU!”

Her hands grip the controller nervously as the familiar PlayStation startup chime fades. The chat explodes before she even gets to the main menu.

StarGazer48: OMG, first stream vibes!!!

ButterflyEffect: She’s so cute 😭

ClickClackJack: Does she even know what’s coming??

MossyUnderwear: If she doesn’t cry at the start, she’s a robot.

"Wow! Okay, okay, hold on, chat!" Eunbi laughs, her voice carrying that particular mix of giddiness and terror. She leans forward, squinting at the second monitor to keep up with the flood of comments. “First of all, hi, everyone! Thank you for showing up… I thought there would be like… five people?"

She glances toward you, sitting just off-camera, as if for reassurance. You flash her a thumbs-up, silently mouthing, “You’ve got this.”

Her nervous laugh lingers as she picks up the controller, her fingers already fumbling with the buttons. “So, here’s the deal. This is my first-ever stream, obviously. And we’re starting with The Last of Us because… well, apparently, it’s a classic, and I don’t know much about it other than… it’s supposed to be really dramatic?” She draws out the last word like it’s a question, her doe eyes widening.

The chat erupts again:

GameDork98: Oh, honey, you have NO idea.

HatGuy69: She’s gonna cry in the first 15 minutes, guaranteed.

EllieLuv: Protect Ellie at all costs 😭

"Wait, what? Cry?!” Eunbi’s head jerks up, her gaze darting to the chat. “Nobody said anything about crying! This is just… an apocalypse thing, right? Like zombies and stuff?” Her voice rises an octave as she tries to sound calm.

The game menu appears, the soundtrack's desolate guitar fills Eunbi's ears through headphones. She adjusts in her seat, pulling the hoodie tighter around her like armor. “Alright, alright. I’m not scared. I got this. I mean, if I can handle weird requests in my DMs, I can handle… this… scary music…”

She navigates to “New Game,” as the opening cinematic begins, her expression shifts from nervous to curious. “Oh, wow. The graphics are pretty good. Look at this house! So cozy—oh no, is this where the drama starts?”

The chat explodes with laughter, cryptic emojis, and ominous hints.

ClickClackJack: This is the calm before the storm.

CryingAlpaca: Everyone, place your bets. Does she cry in 5 minutes or 10?

Eunbi leans closer, totally engrossed in Sarah wandering through the house. “Aw, this kid is so cute. Wait—she’s the main character, right?”

The chat collectively groans.

DadJokes24: Oh, sweet summer child…

“Wait, wait! Why are you guys groaning?!” she exclaims, pausing the game, eyes darting to the chat. “Don’t tell me! No spoilers, okay? Let me be innocent and enjoy this!”

She presses play again, her lips pursed as she concentrates. The moment Joel bursts through the door, Eunbi squeals in surprise. “Oh my god, what’s happening?!”

As the chaos unfolds—the infected neighbor, the car chase—she grips the controller so tightly her knuckles whiten. “THIS IS NOT ZOMBIE STUFF! WHY IS EVERYTHING EXPLODING?!”

DoomBoom: Chat, she’s losing it. This is GOLD.

NoContextGary: Just wait until the emotional sucker punch.

When the gut-wrenching scene with Joel and Sarah hits, Eunbi falls silent. Her eyes stay glued to the screen as her mouth drops open slightly. The soft sound of a sob escapes her lips as the scene fades to black, and she quickly wipes her eyes with her sleeve, laughing awkwardly. “Okay. Fine. You win. I cried. Are you happy now?”

CryingAlpaca: 16 minutes. I called it.

EllieLuv: And that's just the fucking prologue!!

ClipThis: Clip it, chat!

Eunbi sits back, letting out a shaky breath. “I need a second. That was brutal. And you guys… you knew. This whole time, you knew!” She waves a finger at the camera, mock-accusingly.

Her laughter turns genuine as she takes a sip from her water bottle, holding it dramatically like an Oscar. “Alright, let’s keep going. But if the game keeps hitting me like that, I might need therapy. And snacks. Definitely snacks.”

The chat goes wild with love and teasing, and Eunbi seems to relax, her natural charm shining through. When you see that she has everything under control, you sneak out of the room to let her focus on the game. She adjusts her hoodie, leans into the mic, and smirks at the camera. “Okay, chat. Let’s see what other heartbreaks you’ve got lined up for me. Bring it on.”

—

The stream winds down with a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion radiating from Eunbi. The game’s pause menu glows on the screen as she swivels her chair toward the camera, resting her chin in her hands with a bright, satisfied smile.

“Alright, chat. That’s it for today!” she announces, her voice warm and a little hoarse from three hours of near-constant talking. “I can’t believe we actually survived this far… well, mostly. Let’s just ignore all the times I accidentally ran straight into danger, okay? You guys are seriously the best for sticking with me through that chaos.”

The chat explodes with a flurry of messages:

StarGazer48: BEST STREAM EVER!

ButterflyEffect: You were so much fun, Ruby! Can’t wait for Friday!

ClickClackJack: First stream? Nah, you’re a natural.

RubyFan326: She’s learning fast chat, we stan a chaotic queen!!

Eunbi beams, hugging her knees to her chest like she can’t contain her excitement. “You’re all making me blush. Seriously, thank you for hanging out with me. I’m back Friday at 7 PM—mark your calendars, okay? Same game, same chaos, but hopefully with fewer ‘oops I died’ moments.” She flashes a cheeky grin and winks at the camera.

“And don’t forget to follow if you haven’t already! I mean, unless you hate fun. In that case… I don’t know what to tell you.” She laughs, leaning back in her chair and making finger guns at the screen.

The chat fills with emotes and farewells, hearts and inside jokes from the stream.

MossyUnderwear: WE LOVE YOU, RUBYDDEN!

DadJokes24: Don’t forget snacks for next time!

MovieBuff88: Stream was fire 🔥. See you Friday!

Eunbi waves a final time, her smile stretching wide and genuine. “Bye, guys! See you Friday! Be good, okay?” She clicks the “End Stream” button, the chat disappearing into a frozen feed of her grinning face.

The room falls silent except for the faint hum of her PC. Eunbi leans back, letting out a long, breathy laugh, hands pressed to her cheeks. “Oh my god… that was insane,” she mutters to herself, still buzzing.

Without a second thought, she bolts from her chair, nearly tripping over the cord of her headset. She sprints to your room, throwing the door open with the force of a hurricane.

“BABE!” she screams, launching herself onto the bed where you’re sprawled out, scrolling on your phone.

“Jesus!” you exclaim, startled, but there’s no time to process because Eunbi is already on top of you, straddling your waist and peppering your face with a barrage of kisses.

“Did you see that?!” she babbles between kisses, her words tumbling out like they’re fighting for first place. “They loved me! They actually loved me! The chat was so sweet, and everyone was so funny, and I didn’t even cry that much, right? Okay, maybe a little, but that was the game’s fault, not mine!”

You laugh, hands instinctively finding her waist as you steady her. “Slow down, babe! I can barely understand you!”

She pulls back, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. “I can’t slow down! I’m too excited! It went so much better than I thought it would, and they were so nice, and I didn’t mess up too badly, right?”

“Are you kidding me? You killed it,” you assure her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “You were funny, adorable, and totally yourself. No wonder they loved you.”

Her grin widens, and she dives back in, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips—anywhere she can reach. “You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend,” she teases, but her voice is thick with happiness.

“Maybe,” you admit, catching her face in your hands to slow her down and plant a proper kiss on her lips. “But I’m also right. You were amazing.”

She melts into the kiss for a moment before pulling back, practically vibrating with energy. “I have so many ideas for Friday! Like, maybe I can do a snack tier list during breaks? Oh, and I should definitely figure out how to make those pop-up notifications cooler—like, fireworks or something every time someone subscribes!”

You laugh, letting her ramble, loving every second of seeing her this happy. “Whatever you do, it’ll be awesome. I’ll help you set it up.”

“Ugh, you’re the best,” she says, flopping down beside you, her head resting on your chest. She’s still buzzing, her fingers drumming lightly against your ribs. “This was the best day. I didn’t think I’d love streaming this much, but it’s so fun! And everyone was so nice! Did I already say that?!”

“Only like ten times,” you tease, wrapping an arm around her.

“Well, it’s true!” she says, tilting her head to look up at you, her smile softening. “Thanks for believing in me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Always,” you say, pressing a kiss to her temple. The two of you lie there in a comfortable silence, her excitement slowly giving way to contentment as she curls closer to you.

—

The gym is quite crowded today. The faint scent of rubber mats and sweat hangs in the air, but it’s far from unpleasant—it’s the smell of effort! Eunbi and Somi stand by the dumbbell rack, mid-chat, stretching in between sets.

Eunbi’s dressed in a black sports bra and high-waisted lavender leggings that hug her figure, her small waist accentuated by the snug fit. Her hair’s tied up in a messy ponytail, a few strands already sticking to her forehead from the light sheen of sweat. Beside her, Somi towers, her blonde hair pulled into a sleek braid that sways with every movement. She’s wearing a cropped white tank top, leaving her toned stomach exposed, paired with tight, navy blue biker shorts. The cut of her tank makes her generous chest all the more noticeable, matching Eunbi’s proportions, but on a taller frame.

“You really crushed that stream, Eunbi,” Somi says as she adjusts her stance for a set of squats. She picks up a kettlebell, testing its weight. “Three hours and you still looked fresh by the end? You’re a beast.”

Eunbi laughs, grabbing a smaller kettlebell for herself. “Fresh? More like barely holding it together.”

“Yeah, but that’s part of your charm,” Somi teases, dropping into her squat. Her form is flawless, back straight, glutes engaging as she lowers herself smoothly. “You’re just… you. And people love that. They eat it up.”

Eunbi mimics the movement beside her, her squat not quite as smooth but serviceable. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. But the chat was so supportive… like, weirdly supportive? I half-expected trolls, but they were sweet.” She pauses, glancing at Somi with a grin. “Kind of like you, always hyping me up.”

Somi straightens, laughing as she rests the kettlebell against her hip. “Of course I’m hyping you up. You’re killing it, Eunbi. You deserve all of it—the success, the love. And let’s not forget about your boyfriend. I swear, he’s like… the blueprint for ‘sweet and supportive.’”

Eunbi rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away. “Yeah, he’s pretty great. You should’ve seen him after the stream. I practically tackled him with excitement, and he just took it like a champ.”

Somi smirks, switching to lateral raises with a pair of dumbbells. “I bet. He’s head over heels for you—it’s obvious. You lucked out, girl.” She glances at Eunbi out of the corner of her eye. “And he’s cute. Just saying.”

Eunbi snorts, picking up her own weights and joining in on the raises. “Don’t let him hear you say that. His ego’s big enough already.”

“Mm, doubt it. He seems too grounded for that,” Somi says, her voice casual but carrying a playful undertone. She pauses, lowering the dumbbells. “But seriously, Eunbi… I’m glad you’ve got someone like him in your corner. Relationships are hard enough without the added… unique challenges of your job.”

Eunbi sets the weights down, exhaling as she stretches her arms over her head. “Yeah. It’s not always easy, but we make it work. Honestly, he’s been a lifesaver. I don’t think I could do this without him.”

Somi’s expression softens, and she leans against the rack, studying Eunbi for a moment. “You’re lucky. But so is he. You’ve always been brave, you know? Even when you first started… this whole thing, you owned it. And look where you are now.”

Eunbi chuckles, a hint of shyness creeping into her tone. “I don’t know if I’d call it brave. More like… desperate with a side of cluelessness.”

“Stop it.” Somi nudges her shoulder with a laugh. “You’ve got guts, and I respect that. Honestly, it’s inspiring. And maybe… I’ve been thinking about trying it, too.”

Eunbi freezes mid-stretch, blinking at Somi. “Wait. What?”

Somi shrugs, her braid bouncing. “Not, like, diving headfirst or anything. But I’ve been curious. You make it look fun. Plus…” She hesitates, glancing at Eunbi with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You and your boyfriend are both… ridiculously attractive. Just throwing that out there.”

Eunbi bursts out laughing, bending over to catch her breath. “Oh my god, Somi. Are you serious right now?”

“What?” Somi grins, unrepentant. “I’m just saying. If you ever wanted to collaborate… you know I’m game.”

Eunbi straightens, still laughing but with a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. “You’re insane. But I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Somi winks, picking up her dumbbells again. “You do that, princess. Now, come on. We’ve got one more set to crush.”

The two of them dive back into their workout, the conversation hanging in the air like a secret they’re both in on. It’s become routine now—Eunbi and Somi hitting the gym together, sweating it out between sets, always slipping into these raw, intimate talks where the masks drop. They’re best friends, no bullshit, just two girls who get each other completely. The gym’s their safe zone, a sweaty, clangy haven where they can flex their muscles and their honesty, laughing about life, love, and whatever wild ideas Somi’s cooking up next—no judgment, just vibes.

—

The door bursts open, and Eunbi and Somi stumble in, laughing so hard they’re practically leaning on each other for support. Both are flushed from the workout, faces glowing and slightly damp, strands of hair sticking to their foreheads. Eunbi kicks off her sneakers near the door without looking, while Somi collapses onto the couch, her braid swaying as she falls back with a dramatic groan.

You’re in the middle of wiping down the coffee table, a damp cloth in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. The faint scent of citrus cleaner fills the room. You glance up, eyebrows raised, as the two whirlwind into the apartment like they were in a park.

“Well, look at you,” Somi says with a teasing grin, sitting up and gesturing toward you with a lazy wave of her hand. “The perfect house boyfriend. Cleaning up while we’re out breaking a sweat. It’s adorable, really.”

Eunbi, still giggling, grabs a water bottle from the counter and takes a long sip before pointing at you with mock sternness. “Seriously, babe. You’re making the rest of us look bad. Stop being so domestic—it’s embarrassing.”

You straighten, crossing your arms, cloth dangling from one hand. “Excuse me for trying to keep this place from becoming a pigsty. Somebody’s got to do it.”

Somi leans forward, her elbow resting on her knee, and gives you a sly look. “Somebody’s gotta earn that ‘house boyfriend’ title, huh?”

Eunbi snickers, joining in as she sets her water bottle down. “He’s good at it, though. I should get him an apron.”

“I draw the line at aprons,” you deadpan, but there’s a flicker of amusement in your tone.

The laughter dies down, but there’s something in the air now—a faint charge, like static before a storm. You catch a glance between Eunbi and Somi, quick and loaded, followed by matching smirks. Suspicious. Very suspicious.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” Eunbi says, her tone light but her face too innocent. She grabs Somi by the arm, dragging her toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s make a snack before this ‘house boyfriend’ kicks us out for dripping sweat everywhere.”

You watch them disappear into the kitchen, your gaze lingering as they start pulling things from the fridge. There’s something about the way they move around each other, the subtle touches and shared grins. You shake your head, trying to dismiss it, but the thought sticks.

As you finish wiping the table, you hear Eunbi’s voice, quiet but not quiet enough to miss.

“So, should I tell him, or do you want to?”

Somi laughs. “Oh, I think you should warm him up first. Wouldn’t want to scare him off.”

Now you’re curious—and a little uneasy. You toss the cloth and spray bottle onto the counter and make your way toward the kitchen.

Eunbi’s standing by the cutting board, slicing apples, while Somi leans against the counter, munching on a carrot stick like it’s a cigarette. They both glance up when you walk in, and there’s that same look between them again.

“Alright,” you say, leaning against the doorway with your arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

Eunbi pauses mid-slice, looking at Somi for a beat before turning to you with a sheepish smile. “Okay, so… Somi said something interesting at the gym.”

“Interesting how?”

Eunbi sets down the knife and crosses her arms, mirroring your stance. “She said she might want to… collaborate with us. Like, on a video.”

“She wants what?”

Somi steps in, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “I mean, no pressure or anything. I just thought… you two are obviously comfortable with this stuff, and I’ve been curious. Plus…” She shrugs, flashing you a playful grin. “You’re cute. She’s cute. It seemed like a no-brainer.”

You blink, your mind scrambling to process this new development. “Uh… Somi, you’re… a friend. This is kind of… unexpected.”

Somi laughs, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “Oh, I get it. It’s weird, right? But hey, Yujin wasn’t exactly a stranger, was she?”

“That’s… different,” you say, struggling to find the words.

“Why? Because I know you better?” Somi steps closer, her smile softening. “Look, I’m not saying you have to decide right now. Just… consider it, okay?”

Before you can respond, she leans in, planting a quick kiss on Eunbi’s cheek, then yours. It’s light, playful, and far more disarming than it has any right to be.

Eunbi’s face lights up, a mix of amusement and something more as she watches your reaction. “Wow,” she says, nudging you with her elbow. “Looks like someone’s had their eye on us, huh?”

Somi winks, grabbing an apple slice from the cutting board. “What can I say? You two are hard to ignore.”

Eunbi laughs, her hand brushing yours as she reaches for another apple slice. “Well, babe, what do you think? Somi’s always been bold, but this might be her boldest move yet.”

You glance between them, the weight of their playful smiles making your head spin. “I… think I need to sit down,” you mutter, rubbing the back of your neck.

Somi’s laugh rings out, warm and teasing. “Take your time, house boyfriend. No rush. I’ll just… let that idea simmer for a bit.”

Eunbi grins, handing you an apple slice like it’s a peace offering. “Welcome to my world, babe. It’s never boring.”

You take the apple, biting into it as you watch the two of them exchange another loaded look.

Never boring, indeed.

—

Eunbi starts planting the idea subtly, like she’s threading a needle through the gaps in your resolve, pulling the thread just tight enough to make you notice but not enough to make you pull away. It starts with offhand comments, playful teases wrapped in casual conversation.

“You know,” she muses one night, sprawled out on your chest while idly scrolling through her phone, “Somi’s got this unreal body. Like, actually unfair.”

You glance down at her, raising a brow. “And this is relevant to me because…?”

She tilts her head up, lips twitching with amusement. “Because you have eyes? And also because I know you like a nice tight ass, and hers is—well, come on.” She flicks her screen, and suddenly, she’s holding it up to you, a picture of Somi in a tiny bikini dominating the screen. The straps are minimal, the fit snug, every curve accentuated by the sun-kissed glow of her skin, especially the cleavage of her breasts—god, those breasts...

You swallow. Hard.

“Okay,” you admit, trying to play it cool. “She’s hot. What’s your point?”

Eunbi grins, sensing the crack in your composure. She flips to another picture—this time, one of her and Somi at the gym, both clad in skin-tight leggings that leave little to the imagination. Somi’s in navy blue, Eunbi in lavender, their toned legs and hips pressed close together as they pose in the mirror.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. Eunbi notices.

“My point,” she continues, voice smooth as silk, “is that we’d look good together. Don’t you think?”

You exhale, pressing your head back against the pillow. “I think you like messing with me.”

She laughs, her breath warm against your collarbone as she shifts, draping herself over you like a cat basking in its favorite spot. “Obviously. But I also know you. And I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your silence is answer enough.

Eunbi doesn’t rush you—she never does. She lets the idea marinate, simmering on the edges of your thoughts, dropping little breadcrumbs every so often. A comment here, a lingering glance there. One night, she casually asks, “Wasn’t it fun with Yujin?” as she trails kisses down your neck. Another time, she accidentally leaves her phone unlocked on the bed, a chat with Somi open—Somi, who’s sent a winking selfie captioned, “So when are we making this happen? 😘”

You pretend not to see it.

But pretending doesn’t stop the thoughts. It doesn’t stop the way you start noticing Somi more—the way her tank tops ride up when she stretches, exposing that sliver of taut stomach. The way she playfully bumps your shoulder when she walks past, always just a little too close. The way her laughter lingers a second longer when she catches you watching her.

Then comes the night Eunbi corners you—figuratively, of course. She’s sitting in your lap, straddling you, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your shoulders.

“Babe,” she murmurs, lips inches from yours, “are you really gonna make me beg?”

You exhale slowly, hands gripping her waist. “This is crazy.”

She tilts her head. “Is it? You trust me, don’t you?”

That question hangs between you, heavier than the warmth of her body against yours. Of course, you trust her. That was never the issue. The issue was the part of you that already knew where this was heading.

You take a breath, slow and measured, but the weight of Eunbi’s gaze makes it feel shallow, like there’s not enough air in the room. She’s watching you, waiting, her fingers still tracing those absentminded patterns along your shoulders, nails just barely grazing your skin.

And then, finally, you exhale.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”

Eunbi’s lips curl into something victorious, but not smug—no, this is softer, warmer. She cradles your face in her hands, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as she studies you like she’s memorizing this moment.

“See?” she murmurs. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You huff out a laugh. “Says the woman who spent weeks working me over.”

She grins, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Your grip on her waist tightens slightly, enough for her to notice, enough for her to smirk as she leans in again, lips barely brushing yours as she whispers, “It’s gonna be fun.”

—

So the day finally arrives.

You're in your room, eyes glued to the laptop screen, hunched over the desk, a spreadsheet open, cells filled with numbers that look like they’re mocking you with their sheer volume. Eunbi’s earnings have skyrocketed since she started streaming, and between that and her other content, the bank account has become a lot healthier than you ever expected. It’s great—amazing, really—but it’s also overwhelming.

You mutter under your breath, adjusting a formula that doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Managing finances was never something you planned on doing full-time, but here you are, crunching numbers like you’re auditioning for an accountant job you don’t want.

The faint sound of Eunbi’s voice filters in from the living room, energetic and full of life as she wraps up another stream. You smile, proud of her. She’s thriving, and you love helping her behind the scenes, but… there’s still that nagging feeling. The one that whispers you’re not doing enough, even though she’s insisted a million times that you’re her rock, her partner, her everything.

Before you can spiral too deep into your thoughts, the door swings open with zero warning, and in walks Somi. No knock, no announcement—just an entrance like she owns the place. Her damp braided blonde hair clings to her shoulders, and she’s wearing what you generously call pajamas: a loose tank top that barely clings to her chest and shorts so tiny they might as well be a suggestion rather than clothing.

“Hey, house boyfriend,” she says, flopping onto the bed like a cat claiming territory. “What’s got you all serious in here?”

You glance up, trying not to let your gaze linger too long on the way her tank top shifts as she settles in. “Numbers. Money stuff. Trying to figure out what to do with all this cash Eunbi’s making.”

Somi tilts her head, propping herself up on one elbow. “Ooh, let me guess. She’s still hopeless with money?”

“Completely,” you reply, smirking despite yourself. “She tried to tell me her budget was ‘don’t buy anything unless it’s on sale.’”

Somi bursts out laughing. “Classic Eunbi. So what’s the plan? Stash it under the mattress? Blow it all on RGB lights?”

“Ha. Ha,” you say dryly, gesturing at the screen. “I was thinking investments. Something stable but with a decent return. Problem is, I’m stuck on this formula, and Google’s no help.”

She hops off the bed and strides over, peering over your shoulder. “Let me see.”

You lean back, letting her get a closer look. Her proximity is… distracting. The scent of her shampoo, light and floral, drifts into your space, and her damp hair brushes your arm as she leans in.

“Ah, I see the problem,” she says. “You’re trying to calculate compound interest on a rolling deposit. You need to nest the formula differently.”

You blink. “How do you even know that?”

Somi grins, tapping her temple. “Numbers are my thing. Did Eunbi ever tell you that I made money in high school by doing other students' math homework?”

“No, but now it makes sense why you’re so annoyingly good at everything,” you say, shifting to let her take the keyboard.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she quips, typing away with swift, assured keystrokes. Within seconds, the formula is fixed, and the numbers fall into place like obedient soldiers.

“There. Problem solved,” she says, stepping back with a flourish.

You stare at the screen, genuinely impressed. “Okay, that’s actually amazing. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” she says, flashing you a cheeky smile. “So, what are we investing in? Stocks? Crypto? A small island in the Caribbean?”

“Let’s start with something less risky, like index funds. We can work our way up to the private island.”

Somi nods sagely. “Smart. And when you get the island, don’t forget who helped you make the down payment.”

“Noted,” you say, leaning back in your chair.

She plops back onto the bed, stretching out like she’s lived here her whole life.

“So,” she says, her voice teasing, “you ready for tonight?”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. “I guess? Still wrapping my head around it, to be honest.”

“Relax,” she says, her tone softening. “It’s just us. Nothing’s going to change. I’m still Somi, Eunbi’s still Eunbi, and you’re still… well, house boyfriend.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you mutter, but there’s a faint smile on your lips.

She sits up, her expression unusually earnest. “I mean it. You don’t have to overthink this. We’re friends first, okay? The rest is just… extra.”

You nod. “Okay. Thanks, Somi.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, standing and stretching, her arms reaching above her head. She catches your gaze for a moment, a playful glint in her eye. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to raid your fridge. Got to fuel up for the big night.”

She saunters out, leaving the faint scent of her shampoo behind. You exhale, staring at the now-organized spreadsheet. Somi might be right about not overthinking, but something tells you this night is going to be anything but ordinary.

The hours pass and you’re sprawled out in your room when the door swings open with that familiar creak. Eunbi struts in, and fuck, she’s got that look—like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Her oversized hoodie’s slipping off one shoulder like always, showing off that thin strap of her tank top, and those soft black shorts are riding up just enough to make your brain short-circuit. She’s got this sultry little smirk, all suggestive and playful, as she leans against the doorframe. “Everything’s set for the recording,” she says, like she’s dangling something you can’t resist. You push yourself up from the chair, stretching a little, but there’s this hesitant buzz in your chest—like you’re excited but still wrapping your head around what’s about to go down. “How’d the stream go?” you ask, scratching the back of your neck, trying to play it cool. She lights up, bouncing on her toes. “Oh my god, it was awesome. Chat was hyped, I had a blast, and The Last of Us? I’m obsessed. Joel’s breaking my heart every five minutes.” Her energy’s infectious, and you can’t help but grin—she’s killing it, and you’re genuinely stoked for her. She steps closer, grabs your face with both hands, and plants a soft, quick kiss on your lips. “You okay, babe?” she asks, tilting her head, those big eyes searching yours. “Yeah, I’m good,” you say, nodding, and it’s true, even if your pulse is kicking up a notch. She flashes you that smile that always melts you, grabs your hand, and tugs you toward her room like she’s on a mission.

You follow her down the hall, her fingers laced with yours, and when you step into her space, it’s like walking into a different world. The RGB lights are dialed up, casting a soft purple-red glow over everything, and her streaming setup’s still warm from earlier. Somi’s perched on a stool by the desk, finishing her makeup, a little compact mirror in one hand and a fluffy brush in the other. She’s still rocking that barely-there tank top, the fabric stretched tight over her chest, and those tiny shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Her blonde hair’s loose now, falling over her shoulders in messy waves, and when she spots you, her face lights up like she’s been waiting for this all day. “There’s our star,” she says, tossing the brush down and hopping off the stool, all long legs and confidence. You give her a half-smile, feeling the air shift—thicker, heavier with whatever’s about to happen. You head over to the camera on its tripod, double-checking the battery. Green light’s solid—plenty of juice. Everything’s good to go, and you drop onto the edge of the mattress, rubbing your hands on your jeans, trying to shake off that nervous edge.

Eunbi doesn’t waste a second—she slides right onto your lap, straddling you, her thighs pressing against your hips. The weight of her feels so fucking good, familiar but electric with the vibe in the room. Somi plops down next to you, close enough that her bare knee brushes yours, and she leans in with this sly little grin. “Alright, let’s break the ice,” she says. Before you can even process it, Eunbi turns her head, grabs Somi by the neck, and pulls her into a kiss. Holy shit—it’s hot. Like, instantly hot. They’re both gorgeous, lips soft and glossy, moving against each other like they’ve done this a million times, even though you know they’re just good friends pushing boundaries. Eunbi’s hands slide up Somi’s arms, then cup her massive tits through that flimsy tank top, squeezing just enough to make Somi moan into her mouth—a low, needy sound that hits you right in the gut. You can see Somi’s nipples hardening, poking through the fabric, and your jeans are getting tight as hell. Your cock’s waking up fast, straining against the zipper, and you shift a little under Eunbi, trying to play it off, but she’s gotta feel it.

Somi’s not holding back either—her hands slip under Eunbi’s hoodie, pushing it up to expose the smooth curve of her waist and the edge of her tank top. She grabs Eunbi’s tits, thumbs brushing over where her nipples are probably hard as fuck under the layers, and Eunbi lets out this breathy little gasp that makes your head spin. The hoodie’s bunched up now, showing off her flat stomach, and the way they’re groping each other is straight-up pornographic—except it’s real, and it’s happening two feet from you. They break the kiss, both of them flushed, lips shiny with spit, and Eunbi turns to you, cheeks pink, eyes dark. “What’d you think, babe?” she asks, voice all husky. You swallow hard, throat dry as fuck. “Yeah, uh, I liked it,” you manage, and she smirks, shifting her hips just enough to grind against your boner. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and that smile says she’s loving every second of it.

Then Somi leans in, her hand resting on your thigh—way too close to your dick—and says, “My turn.” Before you can even think, her lips are on yours, soft and warm and tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss. You’re so fucking horny it’s ridiculous, and you kiss her back harder than you mean to, tongue slipping into her mouth, hands grabbing her waist on instinct. She’s pressing herself against you, her tits squished against your chest, and it’s like every nerve in your body’s on fire. Eunbi’s still on your lap, watching with this mesmerized, horny-as-hell look, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Somi pulls back, breathing fast, and you’re both a little wrecked—her hair’s a mess from your fingers, and you’re pretty sure your brain’s offline. Eunbi’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and teasing. “So? What’d you think of that?” You’re panting a little, cock throbbing under her weight. “Fuck, I liked it,” you say, and she giggles, leaning in to give you a quick, sloppy kiss—more tongue than necessary, like she’s staking her claim.

She slides off your lap, adjusting her hoodie, and claps her hands together. “Alright, we’re ready to start filming,” she says, all business now, but her eyes are still gleaming with lust. Somi’s smirking, wiping a smudge of gloss from the corner of her mouth, and you’re just sitting there, hard as a rock, trying to catch your breath.

Eunbi’s got that glint in her eye as she picks up the camera from the tripod, her fingers brushing yours as she hands it over. “You’re on POV duty, babe,” she says. The weight of the camera settles in your hands, solid and real, and you adjust your grip, already picturing how this is gonna look through the lens. Somi’s rummaging through the little box of props by the desk, pulling out this old black masquerade mask—the one Eunbi used to wear back when she was still anonymous. Somi slips it over her eyes, the elastic snapping into place, and it’s just these two thin straps of fabric cutting across her face, leaving her mouth and jaw exposed. The way it frames her cheekbones and makes her lips pop is unreal. Eunbi steps back, tilting her head to check her out, and grins. “Fuck, you look sexy as hell like that,” she says, all casual like she’s complimenting Somi’s gym outfit or something. Somi strikes a little pose, popping her hip, and smirks. “Yeah? Good, ‘cause I’m ready to fuck shit up.”

You adjust yourself on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, the mattress dipping under your weight. The camera’s in your hands, lens pointed down at your lap for now, and you can feel your pulse hammering in your throat. “Alright, I’m gonna start recording,” you say, thumb hovering over the button. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which is a minor miracle. You hit record, and the little red light blinks on. Eunbi and Somi drop to their knees between your legs, smooth and synced like they’ve rehearsed this shit. The carpet’s soft under their knees, and the RGB lights paint their skin in shifting hues—purple bleeding into red, then blue. Eunbi’s hoodie’s still bunched up from earlier, showing off that sliver of her stomach, and Somi’s tank top is clinging to her curves, the mask giving her this mysterious, badass vibe. You angle the camera down, framing them just right, their faces filling the shot.

Eunbi kicks things off, leaning into the mic moment like she’s still streaming to her chat. “Hey, everyone,” she says, all bright and charismatic, her voice slipping into that flirty, playful tone she’s perfected. “Got a special treat for you tonight. Say hi to my gorgeous friend here—she’s joining us for some fun.” She gestures at Somi, who flashes a wicked grin, lips glossy and parted. “Hey, y’all,” Somi says, her voice low and raspy, dripping with excitement. “I’m fucking pumped to be here—let’s make it a good one.” She doesn’t say her name, obviously—Eunbi’s keeping it vague, letting the mask and the vibe do the talking. The camera catches every detail: the way Eunbi’s hair falls messily over her shoulders, the slight sheen of sweat on Somi’s collarbone, the way their knees press into the carpet as they shift closer to you.

Eunbi’s hands move first, reaching for your belt with this practiced ease. The metal clinks as she unbuckles it, her fingers brushing your stomach through your shirt, sending a jolt straight to your dick. Somi’s right there with her, tugging at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a little flick. “Teamwork makes the dream work,” Somi mutters under her breath, and Eunbi snickers, the sound all throaty and real. They yank your jeans down together, a little rougher than necessary, the denim scraping against your thighs as it slides off. Your boxers go next—Somi hooks her fingers in the waistband and pulls, slow and deliberate, like she’s unwrapping something she’s been dying to see. Your cock springs free, already half-hard from all the buildup, and the air feels cool against your skin for about two seconds before their eyes lock on it.

Somi lets out this low whistle, leaning in closer, the mask making her look like some sexy bandit sizing up her prize. “Holy shit, dude,” she says, voice full of awe. “This thing’s even bigger in real life. The videos don’t do it justice.” Eunbi smirks, proud as hell, like she’s showing off her favorite toy. “Told you he’s packing,” she says to Somi, then glances up at you through the lens, winking. Your grip on the camera tightens, trying to keep it steady as they both reach out. Eunbi’s hand wraps around the base, her fingers warm and firm, while Somi’s slides up the side, her touch lighter, almost teasing. They stroke you together, not hard, just enough to make your breath hitch. The sensation’s fucking wild—two different rhythms, two different grips, and you’re already fighting to keep your shit together.

Eunbi leans in first, her tongue darting out to lick the tip, slow and wet, leaving a shiny trail that catches the light. She’s got this way of flicking her tongue that’s pure torture, and you angle the camera down to catch it—her lips hovering, her eyes flicking up at you through her lashes. Somi’s watching her like she’s taking notes, then dives in on the other side, her lips brushing the shaft, soft and sloppy. Her mask shifts a little as she moves, but it stays put, the black fabric stark against her flushed cheeks. They’re working you together now, mouths sliding over your cock like they’re sharing a goddamn meal. Eunbi’s sucking lightly on the head, her cheeks hollowing out, while Somi’s tongue traces a slow, lazy line up the side, her breath hot against your skin. You groan low in your throat, the sound rumbling out before you can stop it, and Eunbi hums in response, the vibration hitting hard.

Somi pulls back for a sec, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning like a kid who just stole candy. “This is fun as hell,” she says, voice all husky, then dives back in, her lips wrapping around the middle while Eunbi works the tip. They’re trading off, syncing up without even trying—Eunbi’s hand stays at the base, pumping slow and steady, while Somi’s tongue swirls around the shaft, messy and wet. Spit’s starting to drip, pooling on the carpet between your legs, and you can hear it—the slick, sloppy sounds mixing with their little gasps and moans. The camera’s catching everything: the way Eunbi’s hair sticks to her neck, the way Somi’s tank top rides up, showing off the curve of her hips, the way your cock glistens under the lights, slick with their spit.

Eunbi pulls off, her lips shiny, and looks up at you—or the camera, really—grinning like she knows she’s driving you insane. “Having fun up there, babe?” she asks, all coy, her hand still stroking you, keeping the pressure just right. Somi doesn’t stop, her mouth sliding lower, kissing and sucking along the base, her mask slipping a tiny bit and you catch a flash of her eyes—dark, wild, loving every second of this. You grunt out a “Fuck yeah,” voice rougher than you mean it to be, and they both laugh, the sound muffled against your skin. Eunbi leans back in, her tongue flattening against the underside, dragging up slow and deliberate, while Somi’s lips meet hers at the top, their mouths brushing each other as they take you in. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and so fucking hot you’re gripping the camera like it’s your lifeline.

Somi’s hand slips under your shirt, nails raking lightly over your stomach, and Eunbi’s free hand digs into your thigh, grounding herself as she works you harder. They’re all in—knees pressed into the carpet, bodies leaning into you, mouths and hands everywhere. The camera shakes a little in your grip, but you keep it focused, the POV lens is drinking it all in, every filthy detail lit up by the shifting RGB glow—purple washing over their skin, then red, then blue, like some horny neon fever dream. Eunbi’s on her knees, her messy bun bouncing slightly as she moves, and Somi’s right there with her, that black masquerade mask sitting snug over her eyes. It’s one of those fancy ones, like you’d see at a ball—curved and sleek, hugging her face, with little swirls cut into the edges that make her look like some mysterious seductress.

Eunbi shifts lower, her hands gripping your thighs as she ducks her head and goes for your balls. Her tongue’s hot and wet, lapping at one, then the other, slow and sloppy like she’s savoring every second. She sucks one into her mouth, gentle at first, then harder, her cheeks hollowing out as she pulls just enough to make your breath catch. The sensation’s insane—warm and tight, her spit dripping down. She’s humming against you, this low, needy sound that vibrates straight up your spine, and you can’t help but groan, the noise rough and loud in the quiet room. The camera catches her from above—her hoodie’s still on, bunched up around her shoulders, and her eyes flick up at you through the lens, dark and teasing, like she knows she’s got you by the balls, literally.

Somi’s up higher, her hands wrapped around your cock, stroking it slow and deliberate while her mouth does the real damage. She’s in love with it, you can tell—her lips slide over the shaft, kissing it like it’s her favorite thing in the world, her tongue darting out to trace every inch. She’s messy with it, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin as she works you. That masquerade mask makes her look dangerous, the black fabric stark against her flushed skin, and when she pulls back for a sec, panting, she grins up at you. “Fuck, this thing’s a masterpiece,” she says, before diving back in. Her tongue swirls around the tip, flicking over the slit, and your hips jerk involuntarily, pushing deeper into her mouth. She moans around you, encouraging it, her hands pumping the base while her lips suck you down, wet and tight.

They’re a fucking team, trading off like they’ve got a playbook. Eunbi’s still sucking your balls, her tongue rolling over them now, sloppy and warm, while Somi’s got your cock in a death grip with her mouth. Then they switch it up—Eunbi pulls back, licking her lips, and Somi dips lower, kissing along the base while Eunbi’s hand takes over the shaft, stroking you fast and slick. The camera’s shaking a little in your hands, but you keep it locked on them, catching the way Somi’s mask slips just a fraction, and the way Eunbi’s hoodie rides up, flashing more of her stomach. It’s raw, chaotic, and so damn hot your head’s spinning.

Then they do something that nearly fucking kills you. Eunbi slides up, her mouth brushing the side of your cock, and Somi leans in from the other side. They sandwich the tip between their lips, kissing each other around it, their tongues tangling as they slide over you. It’s wet, messy, and loud—spit everywhere, their moans mixing with the slick sounds of their mouths working you over. Eunbi’s tongue flicks against Somi’s, then against you, and Somi’s sucking hard on one side while Eunbi mirrors her on the other. Your cock’s trapped in this perfect, sloppy vise, and you can’t hold back the moan that rips out of you—low and guttural, echoing in the room. The camera catches it all: their lips pressed together, your tip caught in the middle, glistening with their spit, the RGB lights painting their faces in streaks of color.

They keep going, relentless, their mouths sliding back and forth, trading sides, kissing around you like they’re starving for it. Eunbi’s hands dig into your thighs, nails leaving little half-moons in your skin, while Somi’s fingers tease the base of your cock, brushing your balls every now and then, sending jolts through you. Your dick’s soaked now, dripping with their spit, slick and shiny under the lights. Eunbi pulls back for a sec, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, her eyes glinting up at you. “Look at that,” she says, smirking, nodding at your cock like it’s some kind of trophy. Somi giggles, her mask shifting as she leans back, her chin wet and gleaming. “Yeah, we fucking drenched it,” she says, sounding proud as hell.

Eunbi sits back on her heels, grabbing the hem of her hoodie and yanking it over her head in one smooth motion. It lands in a heap on the floor, leaving her in that white tank top, the fabric stretched tight over her tits, puffy nipples poking through like she’s been hard this whole time. Somi follows suit, peeling off her tank top and tossing it aside—her massive chest bounces free, skin flushed from the heat of the room, and she adjusts her masquerade mask like it’s a crown, smirking at you through the lens. They’re both kneeling there, their bodies glistening with a light sheen of sweat, ready to take it up a notch. You lower the camera slightly, framing their tits in the shot, knowing damn well they’re about to give you a titjob that’ll blow your fucking mind.

Then Eunbi’s hands move to the bottom of her white tank top, fingers curling under the hem. She peels it up slow, teasing, like she’s putting on a show just for you—and the lens. The fabric stretches, then slides over her head, her massive tits bouncing free as she tosses it aside. They’re fucking huge, round and heavy, nipples hard and pink against her pale skin, catching the shifting RGB lights—purple, red, blue—like some kind of pornographic kaleidoscope.

Eunbi shifts closer, her knees digging into the carpet, and she leans in, cupping her tits with both hands. “Ready for this, babe?” she asks, eyes locked on yours through the camera. You nod, swallowing hard, your cock twitching at the sight of her. “Fuck yeah, I am,” you say, voice rough, already imagining how those soft, warm mounds are gonna feel. She smirks, adjusting her grip, and presses her tits together, sliding your slick, spit-soaked dick right into the valley between them. The first touch is insane—soft, plush, and hot, her skin wrapping around you like a glove. It's a feeling that always surprises you, no matter how many times you've experienced it. She starts moving, slow at first, bouncing her tits up and down, the friction building as your cock slides through. It’s wet from all their spit, slick and slippery, and the sound—fuck, it’s filthy, this soft, squishing noise every time she squeezes you tighter.

“Goddamn, babe,” you groan, angling the camera to catch every bounce, the way her tits jiggle and press against each other, trapping you in that perfect pocket. She giggles, low and dirty, loving how wrecked you sound. “Feels good, huh? My big fucking tits all over your dick?” she teases, picking up the pace, her nipples brushing your stomach every time she dips down. You’re losing it a little, hips twitching up to meet her, and she moans softly, getting off on how much you’re into it. “Yeah, babe, fuck my tits,” she murmurs, squeezing them harder, her thumbs brushing her own nipples like she’s teasing herself too. The camera’s catching it all—her flushed cheeks, the way her hair swings, the little beads of sweat starting to dot her chest. You’re in heaven, no lie, those massive, soft mounds swallowing your cock like they were made for it.

Somi’s watching from the side, her own hands drifting to her chest, kneading her tits absentmindedly as she bites her lip. “Shit, that’s hot,” she says, voice all breathy, her mask slipping a tiny bit as she leans closer. Eunbi glances over at her, smirking, and slows down, letting your cock slip free for a second. “Your turn,” she says, scooting over, her tits still heaving from the effort. Somi doesn’t hesitate—she shuffles into place, long legs folding under her, and grabs her own breasts, pushing them together. Hers are just as big as Eunbi’s, maybe a little perkier, with darker nipples that stand out against her flushed skin. She wraps them around your cock, and fuck, it’s a different kind of tight—firmer, her skin cooler from the air, but still so damn soft. She starts moving, quick and eager, her tits bouncing hard as she slides you in and out.

“Holy fuck,” you groan, head tipping back for a sec before you force yourself to focus on the camera again. The POV shot’s gold—her masked face tilted down, lips parted as she pants, blonde hair swinging, and those huge tits working you like a machine. “You like this, huh?” she says, grinning up at you, her voice all teasing and sharp. “My fat tits fucking your big dick? Better than you dreamed, right?” She squeezes tighter, and you hiss, the pressure insane, your cock disappearing completely between her mounds every time she pushes up. “Fuck yes,” you manage, voice tight, “you’re killing me with those things.” She laughs, throaty and smug, and leans forward more, letting the tip of your cock peek out at the top, brushing her chin. “Good,” she says, “I wanna ruin you for anything else.”

Eunbi’s shifted to the side now, kneeling close, her eyes glued to Somi’s tits bouncing around your cock. She’s biting her lip hard, one hand slipping under her shorts, rubbing herself through the fabric. “Fuck, babe,” she breathes, voice shaky with heat, “you look so good like that. Somi’s tits are eating you alive.” She’s horny as hell, you can tell—her cheeks are red, her breathing’s all over the place, and the way she’s touching herself is making her squirm. “You loving this?” she asks, leaning in to kiss your neck, her lips hot and wet against your skin. “Yeah, fuck, I’m losing my mind,” you say as Somi keeps going, her pace relentless. Eunbi moans against your neck, her hand moving faster under her shorts. “God, I love watching her fuck you with those,” she whispers, her tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

Somi slows down a little, teasing now, letting your cock slide out halfway before burying it back between her tits. “You’re so fucking hard,” she says, looking up at you through that mask, her eyes dark and wild. “These big-ass tits making you crazy?” She jiggles them a little, playful, and you can’t help but laugh, wrecked as you are. “Yeah, Somi, they’re fucking unreal,” you say, and she beams, proud as hell, picking up the pace again. The camera’s shaking more now, your hands unsteady, but you keep it on her—those bouncing mounds, the way her skin glistens with sweat, the little smirk she throws you every time she catches you staring.

Eunbi’s practically panting now, her hand moving in tight little circles under her shorts, her other hand reaching out to grab Somi’s arm. “Switch back,” she says, voice needy, almost desperate. Somi pulls back, letting your cock spring free, slick and shiny from all the spit and sweat, and Eunbi’s on it in a heartbeat. She presses her tits around you again, faster this time, her movements hungry. “Missed this,” she mutters, her voice all breathy as she works you, her nipples dragging against your stomach. “Love feeling you between my tits, babe.” You groan, the heat of her skin driving you wild. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” you say, and she grins, all smug and turned on, her tits squeezing you tighter.

Somi’s not just watching anymore—she’s leaning in, whispering in your ear, her breath hot against your skin. “Bet you could fuck these tits all day, huh? Me and her fighting over your dick like this?” Her hand brushes your thigh, teasing close to your balls, and you’re so wound up it’s a miracle you’re still holding the camera. “Yeah, shit, I could,” you say, voice cracking, and they both laugh, loving how gone you are. Eunbi slows down, dragging it out, her tits sliding up and down so slow you can feel every inch of her. “You’re ours tonight,” she says, looking up at you, her eyes dark and possessive through the lens. Somi chimes in, “Damn right,” her fingers tracing little patterns on your leg, keeping you on edge.

It’s too much—those two massive pairs of tits, the teasing, the way they’re feeding off each other’s energy. You’re drowning in it, loving every second of their soft, warm skin all over you, their dirty talk bouncing around your head like a fucking echo chamber. The camera’s still rolling, capturing every bounce, every squeeze, and you’re just trying to hang on, lost in the best kind of chaos.

But Eunbi got this sixth sense about you—knows you’re teetering right on the edge, your breaths getting ragged, your grip on the camera tightening like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. She stops slowly, deliberate and torturous, letting your dick slip out inch by inch until it’s just resting between her breasts, throbbing against her warm skin. “Alright, babe, think we’ve teased you enough with these,” she says, giving her tits one last squeeze around you before letting go. Your cock springs free, hard as steel, and she sits back on her heels, smirking up at you through the lens ‘cause she knows she’s got you on the edge.

You clear your throat and stand up, legs a little shaky from the buildup. “Alright, ladies, on all fours.” Eunbi and Somi don’t even blink—they’re already peeling off what’s left of their clothes. Eunbi kicks her soft black shorts to the floor, revealing those curvy hips and thick thighs, her pussy glistening under the lights. Somi shimmies out of her tiny pink shorts, tossing them aside with a flick of her long legs, her tighter, rounder ass popping as she stretches out. They scramble onto the bed, giggling and shoving each other playfully, then settle on all fours, side by side, asses up and ready. The mattress creaks under their weight, and you adjust the camera angle again, ready to record every damn second of this.

You step closer, taking it all in. Somi’s taller, her body more defined—long, lean legs leading up to that firm, sculpted ass, tight and high like she’s been squatting for years. Her pussy’s peeking out, wet and pink, framed by those sharp tan lines from the gym. Eunbi’s softer, all curves and plushness, her ass rounder and juicier, jiggling a little as she shifts her weight. Her skin’s pale and smooth, her pussy just as soaked, lips puffy and begging for it. You can’t resist—your free hand swings down, smacking Somi’s ass first, the crack echoing in the room. She yelps, then moans, arching her back more. Then you slap Eunbi’s, harder than you meant to, and she gasps, her flesh rippling under your palm. “Fuck, babe,” she mutters, glancing back at you with a smirk.

“So,” you say, voice rough, camera panning over their perfect lineup, “who’s first?” Eunbi tilts her head, her messy bun wobbling as she nods toward Somi. “Guest gets the honors,” she says, all generous and teasing, her eyes flicking to Somi’s ass like she’s proud to share. Somi wiggles her hips, looking back at you through the mask, grinning. “Yeah, come on, big guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.” You don’t need more invitation than that. You step up behind Somi, lining yourself up, the camera in one hand catching the way her pussy shines, already dripping from the buildup. You grab her hip with your free hand, steadying her, and slide the tip of your cock along her slit—slow, teasing, feeling how wet she is. She shivers, pushing back against you, impatient. “Fuck, don’t play with me,” she groans, and you laugh, low and dirty, before pushing in.

Her pussy’s tight, hot, clamping around you as you sink in deep, inch by inch. The stretch is fucking unreal, her walls gripping you like a vise, and you groan loud, the sound bouncing off the walls. The camera’s right there, POV perfect, catching the way her ass presses against your hips, the little dimples in her lower back flexing as she adjusts. “Holy shit,” you mutter, pulling back slow, watching your cock slide out, slick and shiny, before slamming back in. She moans, sharp and needy, her elbows digging into the bed as she rocks back to meet you. “Yeah, fuck me hard,” she says, and you oblige, picking up the pace, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. Her ass jiggles with every thrust, tight and round, and you smack it again, leaving a red handprint that the camera zooms in on. She’s loud—gasping, cursing, loving every second—and you’re losing yourself in it, hips snapping, the wet squelch of her pussy driving you wild.

Eunbi’s right next to her, watching, her own ass still up, swaying a little like she’s jealous. “Fuck, babe, you’re killing her,” she says, laughing, but there’s heat in her voice, her fingers twitching like she’s dying to touch herself. You pull out of Somi after a few more thrusts, her pussy clenching around nothing as you leave, and she whines, glancing back with a pout. “Don’t stop,” she says, but you’re already moving, shifting over to Eunbi. You know this pussy—soft, warm, familiar—but it’s no less fucking amazing. You line up, camera steady, and push in slow, savoring the way she opens for you, wet and ready. “Oh my god,” she moans, head dropping to the bed, her voice muffled against the sheets. She’s softer inside, her walls fluttering around you, and you grab her hips, pulling her back onto you hard. The camera catches it—the way her ass ripples, the curve of her spine as she arches, her pussy swallowing you whole.

“Fuck, Eunbi, you feel so good,” you say, voice gritty, and she hums in response, pushing back against you, matching your rhythm. Her pussy’s sloppy wet, the sound louder than with Somi, all slick and messy as you fuck her deep. She’s quieter than Somi but just as into it, her breaths hitching every time you bottom out, her fingers clawing at the sheets. You smack her ass too, lighter this time, and she giggles through a moan, glancing back at you. “Harder, babe,” she says, and you give it to her, slamming in so the bed shakes, her curves bouncing under your hand. The camera’s got it all—her soft flesh, the way her pussy grips you, the little beads of sweat rolling down her back.

You can’t choose, though—why should you? You pull out of Eunbi, her groan matching Somi’s earlier one, and slide back into Somi, quick and rough. “Fuck, yes,” Somi gasps, her tighter pussy squeezing you as you pick up where you left off, pounding her hard. The switch is seamless, the camera panning between them as you fuck a little of each, back and forth. Somi’s ass slaps against you, firm and loud, then Eunbi’s softer curves take over, her pussy sucking you in deeper. You’re grunting now, lost in the rhythm, the way their bodies feel so different but so fucking perfect. “You’re both insane,” you say, laughing through a groan, and Somi throws back, “Yeah, and you love it, don’t you?” Eunbi chimes in, “He fucking lives for it—look at him go.”

You keep going, a few thrusts in Somi—her tight, athletic heat—then back to Eunbi’s softer, wetter grip, the camera catching every switch, every angle. Somi’s moaning loud, her mask slipping a bit, while Eunbi’s quieter, panting into the bed, her ass wiggling every time you leave her. You slap both their asses again, just because you can, and they yelp in sync, then laugh, egging you on. “Which pussy you like more, huh?” Somi teases, glancing back, and Eunbi lifts her head, smirking. “Yeah, babe, pick a favorite.” You just groan, shaking your head, too caught up to answer, fucking them both like you’re trying to memorize every inch.

You’re deep in the groove now, the camera trembling in your hand as you pull out of Eunbi’s pussy, her soft, wet heat clinging to you like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s panting into the sheets, ass still up, all plush and inviting, and you’ve got an idea brewing. You shift your grip on the camera, angling it to catch the way her curves glisten under the RGB lights—purple fading into red, her skin slick with sweat. “Babe,” you say, “gonna switch it up.” She glances back, her messy bun half-undone, strands sticking to her neck, and smirks like she knows what’s coming. You line up, the tip of your cock brushing her tight little asshole, and push in slow. She moans loud, this deep, throaty sound that hits you right in the gut, her body tensing for a split second before she relaxes into it. She’s used to this—loves it, even—and you can tell by how easily she takes you, her ass stretching around you, hot and tight as fuck.

“Goddamn, princess,” you grunt, sinking in deeper, the camera catching every inch as you bury yourself in her. Her ass jiggles with the intrusion, soft and round, and she arches her back more, pushing back against you like she’s begging for it. You start fucking her hard, no warm-up needed—she’s already loose enough, her hole gripping you like a vice as you slam into her. The sound’s filthy—skin slapping skin, her moans bouncing off the walls, the bed creaking under the force. “Fuck, yes, babe, pound my ass,” she gasps, her voice all wrecked, fingers clawing at the sheets. You grab her hip with your free hand, digging in, keeping her steady as you rail her, the camera shaking but locked on her bouncing ass, the way it swallows your cock over and over. The RGB lights paint her in streaks of color, her pale skin glowing, sweat beading down her spine.

Somi’s right next to her, still on all fours, her tighter, rounder ass swaying a little like she’s waiting her turn. She’s watching you fuck Eunbi, her masked face turned just enough to catch the action, and you can see the jealousy flaring in her posture—shoulders tense, hips twitching. “Hey,” she says, voice sharp and pouty, “don’t hog him. I want that too.” She wiggles her ass at you, firm and perky, the tan lines from her shorts making it pop even more under the lights. Eunbi laughs through a moan, glancing at Somi. “Greedy bitch,” she teases, but there’s no malice—she’s too caught up in getting her ass pounded. You pull out of Eunbi, slow and deliberate, her hole winking at you as you leave, and she groans, half-protesting, half-catching her breath. “Don’t worry,” you say, smirking, “plenty to go around.”

You shift over to Somi, camera in hand, lining up behind her. Her pussy’s still dripping from earlier, but you’re aiming higher now. You slap her ass first—harder than you did Eunbi’s—and she yelps, then giggles, arching her back to give you better access. “Come on, fuck my ass already,” she says, all impatient and bratty, glancing back through that masquerade mask, her eyes dark and daring. You press the tip of your cock against her asshole, and she tenses, not as used to it as Eunbi, but she’s horny enough from everything else that it’s not a total fight. You push in, slow at first, and she hisses through her teeth, her tight ring stretching around you. “Fuck, that’s big,” she mutters, voice tight, but she doesn’t pull away—instead, she rocks back a little, testing it. You groan, the heat and squeeze insane, tighter than her pussy by a mile, and start moving, shallow thrusts to get her used to it.

“Shit, Somi, you’re so fucking tight,” you say, voice gritty, the camera zoomed in on her ass as you sink deeper. She moans, high and needy, her long legs trembling as she adjusts, her firm cheeks jiggling with every thrust. You pick up the pace, fucking her harder, and she’s louder now, gasping and cursing. “Yeah, fuck me, wreck my ass,” she pants, her bratty tone melting into something desperate. The camera catches it all—her toned back flexing, the way her ass bounces against your hips, the sharp contrast of her tight hole gripping you compared to Eunbi’s softer give. You smack her ass again, leaving another red mark, and she squeals, loving it, pushing back harder.

Eunbi’s not just watching anymore—she’s shifted closer, her hand slipping between her legs, rubbing herself as she stares at you railing Somi. “Fuck, babe, you’re destroying her,” she says, voice breathy and hot, her fingers moving fast. “Looks so good.” You grin, too caught up to reply, and pull out of Somi after a few more thrusts, her ass clenching as you leave, a little gape left behind. She whines, glancing back, but you’re already moving back to Eunbi. “Your turn again,” you say, sliding into her ass easy this time, her body welcoming you like an old friend. She moans loud, her softer curves shaking as you fuck her hard, the camera panning between her jiggling ass and Somi’s tighter frame next to her.

You’re in a rhythm now—fucking Eunbi’s ass for a few deep, brutal thrusts, then switching back to Somi’s, keeping them both on edge. Eunbi’s looser, her hole taking you with this sloppy, wet ease, her moans low and guttural as you pound her. “Fuck, I love your cock in my ass,” she groans, her voice muffled against the bed, her hips rolling back to meet you. Then you’re back in Somi, her tighter grip making you work for it, her gasps sharp and needy as you stretch her out again. “Harder, fuck, make it hurt,” she begs, and you oblige, slamming into her so the bed shakes, her firm ass rippling with every hit. The camera’s catching everything—the way Eunbi’s softer flesh bounces versus Somi’s tight, athletic jiggle, the sweat dripping down their backs, the little red marks blooming on their skin from your hands.

They’re egging each other on now, too. “Look at her take it,” Eunbi says, glancing at Somi, her voice all husky as she rubs herself faster. Somi fires back, “Yeah, well, your ass is swallowing him whole, slut.” They laugh, breathless and wrecked, loving the competition. You keep switching—Eunbi’s plush heat, Somi’s vise-like grip—your hips snapping hard, the room filling with the sound of flesh smacking flesh, their moans blending into this horny symphony. The RGB lights keep shifting, painting their bodies in wild colors, Somi’s mask glinting every time she looks back, Eunbi’s hair a tangled mess swinging with every thrust. You’re grunting, sweating, too caught up to care how shaky the camera gets, just focused on fucking these two perfect asses like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

But viewers need more. A few more hard pumps and you slow down, giving her ass one last firm squeeze, your fingers sinking into the flesh. “Fuck, babe,” you say, voice rough and winded, “time for you to ride me now.” She moans, low and needy, her head dipping as she catches her breath, her messy bun swaying. You pull out slow, her hole clenching around nothing as you leave, and she glances back with a smirk, knowing what’s next. You shift, placing the camera on the tripod on the side of the bed for a new angle. You go back to bed, lying flat on your back, head propped on a pillow, cock standing tall and slick under the RGB lights. The bed’s a mess, sheets twisted, sweat stains blooming, but you don’t care. Somi and Eunbi are already moving, giggling like they’re plotting something dirty, their naked bodies glowing in the shifting colors—purple, red, blue.

Somi’s first—she straddles you quick, her long legs folding under her, that tight, round ass hovering over your hips. “My turn to fuck you silly,” she says, voice all bratty and hot, grabbing your cock with one hand and lining it up. She sinks down fast, her pussy swallowing you whole, tight and wet and so fucking good you groan loud, hands flying to her hips. She starts riding you hard, no buildup, just straight to it—her ass slapping against your thighs, her massive tits bouncing like crazy, the motion wild and free. The camera’s off to the side, catching her from an angle—those firm mounds jiggling, her toned stomach flexing as she rolls her hips, her blonde hair swinging loose. “Fuck, you’re so big,” she moans, tossing her head back, her mask glinting in the light. “Filling me up—shit, I love this.”

Eunbi’s not just watching—she’s all over you, her hands sliding across your chest, nails raking over your abs like she’s marking territory. “God, look at you,” she murmurs, leaning down, her tongue flicking out to tease your nipple. She sucks it hard, teeth grazing the edge, and you hiss, the sensation sharp and electric. Her fingers dig into your sides, her curvy body pressed close, her breath hot against your skin. “You liking this, babe?” she asks, voice dripping with heat, her lips brushing your ear. “Somi’s tight little pussy fucking you good?” She’s playing with you, egging you on, her hands roaming while Somi keeps bouncing, the slap of skin loud and rhythmic. “Fuck yeah,” you grunt, voice tight, “she’s killing me.” Eunbi laughs, sucking your nipple again, her tongue swirling as Somi rides you harder, her moans getting louder, her tits practically hypnotizing with every bounce.

Somi leans forward, hands braced on your chest, her nails digging in as she grinds down, her pussy clenching around you. “Shit, your cock’s perfect,” she pants, smirking through the mask. “Eunbi’s lucky she gets this all the time—bet she brags about it.” Eunbi pulls back from your nipple, grinning up at Somi. “Damn right I do,” she says, all smug. “He fucks me so good—wait ‘til you see him wreck me next.” Somi laughs, breathless, her hips slamming down faster. “Oh, I’m watching, bitch—gonna steal some moves.” Their dirty talk’s bouncing around you, filthy and raw, and you’re just soaking it in, hands gripping Somi’s hips tighter as she rides you like she’s trying to break you.

Then it’s Eunbi’s turn. Somi slows down, reluctantly climbing off, her pussy leaving you slick and throbbing as she flops beside you, panting. “Your girlfriend’s up,” she says, smirking, brushing her sweaty hair back. Eunbi straddles you quick, her softer, curvier frame settling over your hips, her big tits swaying as she gets comfy. She grabs your cock, guiding it to her pussy, and sinks down slow, letting out this long, shaky moan as you fill her up. “Fuck, babe,” she breathes, her voice all soft and needy, “always so good.” She starts riding you, her movements smoother than Somi’s, her hips rolling in deep, lazy circles that make her massive tits bounce, heavy and full. The camera’s still catching it—the way they jiggle, her nipples hard and pink, her pale skin glowing under the lights.

Somi’s not idle—she shifts closer, her hand sliding up Eunbi’s thigh, then leaning in to suck on one of her bouncing tits. Her lips wrap around the nipple, loud and wet, sucking hard as Eunbi moans sharper, her rhythm faltering for a sec. “Oh fuck,” Eunbi gasps, her hands tangling in Somi’s blonde hair, pulling her closer. Somi pulls back just enough to talk, her voice muffled against Eunbi’s skin. “Fuck your girlfriend, dude,” she says, glancing at you with that masked grin, “she’s dying for it.” Then she dives back in, sucking harder, her tongue flicking over Eunbi’s nipple as Eunbi rides you faster, her pussy squeezing you tight.

“Goddamn, babe,” you groan, hands gripping her hips, feeling the softer give of her flesh compared to Somi’s firmness. “You’re so fucking wet—love watching you bounce on me.” She smirks down at you, her eyes half-lidded, all lust and heat. “Yeah? Love your cock splitting me open,” she says, Somi’s right there, her mouth switching to Eunbi’s other breast, leaving the first shiny with spit. “Shit, look at her go,” Somi mutters between sucks, “fucking your girl like a pro.” Eunbi laughs, breathless, grinding down harder. “He’s mine, but I’ll share—just keep sucking my tits like that.”

“You’re so fucking hot riding him,” Somi says, pulling back to slap Eunbi’s ass lightly, making it jiggle more. “Bet he’s losing his mind.” Eunbi fires back, “He fucking loves it—look at his face.” And she’s right—you’re gritting your teeth, groaning, caught up in the heat of her pussy, the bounce of her tits, Somi’s mouth all over her. Your hands roam, sliding up Eunbi’s sides, brushing Somi’s arm, keeping them both close as they tease and fuck you senseless. Then Eunbi slows down, rolling her hips a little more on your cock before pulling out and passing the turn to her friend.

Somi’s still buzzing from her last ride, her skin flushed and sweaty as she climbs back onto your lap, that mischievous glint in her eyes flashing through the masquerade mask. “Yes! My turn again,” she says, grabbing your cock with a quick, firm grip. “And this time, I’m taking it in my ass—I fucking loved that shit earlier.” She’s not messing around, already lining you up, the tip brushing her tight hole. You groan as she sinks down slow, her ass stretching around you, hotter and tighter than before, her long legs trembling as she adjusts. “Fuck, yes,” she hisses, tossing her blonde hair back, her firm, round ass pressing against your hips as she takes you all the way in. The sensation’s unreal—her walls clamping down hard, her moans sharp and needy as she starts moving, slow at first, testing it, then picking up speed. Her massive tits bounce with every roll of her hips, the slap of her skin against yours loud in the room, the RGB lights painting her in wild streaks of color.

You’re lying flat, hands gripping her thighs, but your mind’s already racing ahead. You glance at Eunbi, who’s kneeling beside you, her curvy body glistening, her pussy still dripping from riding you earlier. “Babe,” you say, voice rough, “sit on my face—I wanna eat you out.” Her eyes light up, a dirty smirk spreading across her lips. “Fuck, yes,” she says, scrambling over quick, her thick thighs straddling your head. The camera on the tripod next to the bed is angled masterfully—a perfect side shot of Somi riding your cock in her ass and Eunbi lowering her pussy onto your mouth. The red light blinks on, capturing everything as Eunbi settles in, her wet, puffy lips brushing your mouth, her scent hitting you hard—sweet and musky, all sex and heat. You dive in, tongue lapping at her folds, tasting her, and she moans loud, her hands bracing on your chest as she grinds down.

Somi’s riding you harder now, her ass bouncing fast, the tight grip driving you wild as you thrust up to meet her. “Shit, your cock’s stretching me so good,” she pants, leaning forward, her tits swaying with every move. Eunbi’s rocking her hips on your face, her juices coating your chin, and you suck on her clit, making her gasp, her fingers digging into your skin. “Fuck, babe, eat me—don’t stop,” she groans. The camera’s got it all—Somi’s toned frame slamming down on you, her ass jiggling, Eunbi’s softer curves grinding on your mouth, her big tits bouncing as she rides your face. The side angle’s perfect, the lights shifting from purple to red, their bodies glowing like some X-rated art piece.

Then it gets hotter—Somi leans forward, grabbing Eunbi’s face, and they crash their lips together, kissing sloppy and deep. Their tongues tangle, moans muffled against each other’s mouths, and their hands are all over each other’s tits, squeezing hard. Somi’s fingers pinch Eunbi’s nipples, tugging them just enough to make her whimper into the kiss, while Eunbi’s hands cup Somi’s bouncing mounds, kneading them rough. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” Somi mutters between kisses, her voice wrecked, her ass still slamming down on your cock. “Love watching you ride his face,” she adds, smirking against Eunbi’s lips. Eunbi pulls back just enough to gasp, “Yeah? Love how he’s fucking your tight little ass—slut.” They laugh, all breathy and lust-drunk, diving back into the kiss, their hands groping harder, their moans syncing up.

You’re in deep—Somi’s ass is relentless, squeezing you with every thrust, her rhythm fast and brutal, her firm cheeks slapping your hips. Your tongue’s buried in Eunbi’s pussy, lapping at her clit, sucking hard, her thighs trembling around your head as she grinds down. “Shit, babe, you’re killing me,” Eunbi moans, her voice hitching, her nails raking across your chest. Somi’s not letting up either, her hips rolling faster, her ass taking you deeper. “Fuck, he’s so big—feels insane,” she groans, glancing down at you, her masked eyes wild with heat. The camera’s catching every second—Somi’s blonde hair swinging, Eunbi’s messy bun bouncing, their tits pressed together as they kiss, the wet sounds of your tongue and Somi’s ass mixing with their gasps and curses.

“Goddamn, you two are filthy,” you mumble into Eunbi’s pussy, your words muffled but enough for them to hear. They break the kiss, laughing, Somi slapping Eunbi’s ass playfully. “Says the guy tongue-deep in his girlfriend while I fuck his cock,” Somi fires back, grinning, her hips grinding down harder, making you groan into Eunbi’s clit. Eunbi shudders, her hands gripping Somi’s shoulders now. “Keep going, babe—fuck, I love your mouth,” she says, her voice all raw and needy, her pussy soaking your face as she rocks faster. Somi leans in again, kissing Eunbi’s neck this time, sucking a little mark there. “He’s fucking you so good with that tongue, huh?” she teases, her hands squeezing Eunbi’s tits again, thumbs flicking her nipples.

Their dirty talk’s bouncing off the walls, all around you—Somi’s bratty edge cutting through Eunbi’s softer, desperate tone. “Shit, Somi, squeeze her harder—she loves that,” you say, pulling back just enough to catch your breath before diving back into Eunbi’s pussy, your tongue circling her clit fast. Somi listens, pinching Eunbi’s nipples rough, and Eunbi yelps, her hips bucking harder on your face. “Fuck, yes—like that,” she gasps, her voice breaking. Somi’s riding you like a damn machine now, her ass slamming down so hard the bed’s creaking loud, her moans turning into sharp little cries. “God, I’m gonna—fuck,” she stutters, her hands braced on your thighs as she grinds down, her ass clenching tight around your cock.

Eunbi’s right there with her, her thighs shaking around your head, her pussy pulsing against your mouth. “Babe, don’t stop—fuck, I’m so close,” she pants, her voice high and frantic, her hands tugging at Somi’s hair now, pulling her back into a messy kiss. Their lips crash together, tongues sloppy, moaning into each other’s mouths as they grope and squeeze, their bodies trembling. You feel it—Somi’s ass tightening hard, Eunbi’s pussy quivering against your tongue—and then they’re both gone, hitting it together. Somi’s hips stutter, her moans turning into a loud, “Fuck, yes!” as she shakes on top of you, her ass gripping you like a vice. Eunbi’s right behind, her thighs clamping down, her juices flooding your mouth as she cries out, “Babe—shit!” her whole body shuddering, her tits bouncing wild as she grinds through it.

The camera’s still rolling, catching it all from that side angle—Somi’s firm frame shaking, Eunbi’s softer curves trembling, their lips locked, hands all over each other’s tits, the RGB lights flashing over their sweaty, spent bodies. They break the kiss, panting hard, laughing through the aftershocks, Somi slumping forward a little, her ass still on you, Eunbi catches her breath while stroking your hair, her pussy still hovering over your mouth. “Fucking hell,” Somi mutters, grinning, “that was insane.” Eunbi nods, breathless, “Best ride ever, babe.” They’re a mess, and you’re right there with them, soaked and grinning.

finally Somi climbs off you, her ass leaving your cock slick and throbbing, and Eunbi slides off your face, her pussy dripping down your chin. You’re sprawled on the bed, chest heaving, the RGB lights pulsing over their flushed, trembling bodies—purple bleeding into red, then blue, like some kind of filthy rave. “Alright, babe,” Eunbi says. “time to make you cum—give us that fucking load.” Somi’s already nodding, her masquerade mask glinting as she brushes her sweaty blonde hair back. “Yeah, dude, we’re draining you dry,” she adds.

You sit up quick, grabbing the camera off the tripod with a shaky hand, flipping it back to POV mode. The little red light is still on, and you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, planting your feet on the carpet. Your cock’s standing tall, slick with their juices, twitching under the lights, and the girls don’t waste a second—they’re on their knees between your legs, a perfect mirrored pair of lust-drunk chaos. Eunbi’s softer, curvier frame presses close on your left, her huge tits brushing your thigh, while Somi’s taller, tighter body slides in on your right, her firm mounds already nudging your skin. They’re a sight—Eunbi’s pale skin glowing, her nipples hard and pink, Somi’s tan lines sharp, her darker nipples perked up, both of them sweaty and glowing, ready to finish you off. You angle the camera down, catching their faces—Eunbi’s sultry smirk, Somi’s masked grin—then lower, framing their tits as they scoot closer.

“Gonna give you the best fucking double boobjob of your life,” Eunbi says, her voice dripping with heat as she cups her tits, squeezing them together. Somi mirrors her, pressing her own boobs tight, her fingers digging into the flesh. “Yeah, these big-ass tits are gonna milk you stupid,” she chimes in, smirking up at you through the mask. They slide in sync, each pair of breasts hugging one side of your cock—Eunbi’s soft, plush mounds on the left, Somi’s firmer, perkier ones on the right. It’s a goddamn dream, your cock swallowed whole between them, the heat and pressure insane as they start moving. They bounce together, slow at first, finding a rhythm—Eunbi’s tits jiggling more, Somi’s staying tight and controlled, the contrast driving you fucking wild. The camera’s catching it all—the way your cock disappears between their sweaty, bouncing flesh, the little beads of sweat rolling down their chests, the wet squish every time they press tighter.

“Fuck, look at that,” Somi mutters, glancing down at your cock sandwiched between them. “Our tits are eating you alive—bet you’re dying to blow all over us.” Eunbi laughs, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. “Come on, babe, give it to us—paint these fat fucking tits with your cum,” she teases, squeezing her mounds harder around you, her nipples brushing your shaft. You groan, your hands gripping the camera tighter as they work you, their movements syncing up—up and down, slow then fast, their spit and sweat making it slick and messy. “Goddamn, you’re so hard,” Somi says, her tone needy, almost whining, “fucking love feeling you throb between my boobs—cum for us, please.” Eunbi leans in closer, her breath hot against your cock as it peeks out the top. “Yeah, we’re your dirty little whores—begging for that thick load all over us,” she purrs, her eyes locked on yours through the lens.

They’re relentless, tits sliding faster now, the friction building, your cock trapped in this perfect, sweaty vise. Eunbi’s softer flesh molds around you, Somi’s firmer grip keeping it tight, and the combo’s got your head spinning. “Shit, you two are unreal,” you groan, voice cracking, the camera shaking as you fight to keep it steady. “These tits—fuck, I’m in heaven.” Somi smirks, leaning forward so her chin brushes the tip of your cock on the upstroke. “Heaven, huh? Wait ‘til you cum—gonna drown us in it,” she says, her hands squeezing her tits tighter, making you hiss. Eunbi’s not letting up either, her fingers tweaking her own nipples as she moves, her voice all desperate and slutty. “Come on, babe, give us that fucking cum—we need it, want it all over these big, juicy tits—please, fucking please.”

It hits hard—your whole body locks up, a growl ripping out of you as the first spurt shoots out, thick and hot, splattering across Somi’s right tit, then Eunbi’s left. They moan together, loud and pornographic, their tits still bouncing, milking you as you unload. “Fuck, yes!” Somi cries, her masked eyes wide as cum streaks over her chest, dripping down between her mounds. Eunbi’s gasping too, “Oh my god, babe—keep going, coat us!” and you do—spurt after spurt, ropes of it flying, hitting their tits, their necks, a stray shot catching Somi’s chin, another splashing Eunbi’s collarbone. It’s a fucking mess, white and sticky, pooling between their breasts, dripping down their stomachs, and they don’t stop—still sliding their tits around you, slower now, dragging it out.

“Shit, so much,” Somi mutters, her voice wrecked, her hands smearing the cum over her tits, rubbing it in like lotion as she keeps moving, her nipples shiny with it. Eunbi’s right there with her, her own chest a canvas of your load, her fingers scooping some up, grinning at you through the camera. “Fuck, babe, you hosed us—look at this mess,” she says, her tone all proud and filthy, her tits still pressed against your cock, milking every last twitch. Your eyes roll back, a groan escaping as they keep going, relentless, their soft, cum-soaked flesh squeezing you dry. “Goddamn, this is so fucking good,” you rasp, barely coherent, the overstimulation hitting hard as they wring out every drop, their hands slick, their moans echoing.

Then they shift—Somi leans over, her tongue darting out to lick a streak of cum off Eunbi’s tit, sucking her nipple clean with a wet, sloppy sound. Eunbi gasps, giggling through it, then returns the favor, her lips wrapping around Somi’s cum-covered nipple, sucking loud and messy. “Fuck, you taste good with his cum on you,” Somi mutters, smirking, her hands kneading Eunbi’s chest as she licks more, their tongues swapping your load back and forth. Eunbi moans, “Yeah? Then eat it all, you greedy whore,” and dives back in, her tongue lapping at Somi’s tits, both of them giggling and groaning, lost in the naughtiness. The camera’s catching every second—their slick, shiny bodies, the way they’re devouring each other, cum streaking their lips, dripping off their chins.

Finally, they pull back, panting, grinning, their chests heaving as they kneel there, a cum-drenched mess. Eunbi wipes her mouth, smirking at the camera, and leans into Somi, who adjusts her mask with a playful wink. “Well, fuck, that was wild,” Eunbi says, her voice all warm and cheeky, “hope you guys enjoyed the show—thanks for watching us get fucking wrecked.” Somi nods, giggling, “Yeah, you pervs—hope you came as hard as he did. See ya next time!” She blows a kiss, and Eunbi waves, all cute and bubbly despite the filth, their cum-streaked tits still front and center. “Bye, loves!” Eunbi chirps, reaching over to hit the stop button, ending the video with their naughty, beaming faces etched in the frame. The room falls quiet, just their heavy breaths and your pounding heart.

You slide the camera onto the nightstand, the little red light finally off, and flop back onto the bed, your body still buzzing from the insane high. The sheets are a tangled, sweaty mess beneath you. Eunbi and Somi are already up, giggling like kids caught doing something naughty as they rummage through the drawer by the desk. Eunbi pulls out a pack of wet wipes, ripping it open with her teeth, and tosses a couple to Somi. “Alright, cleanup crew,” she says, stepping over to Somi with a smirk. They start wiping each other down, the wipes gliding over their cum-streaked tits, leaving their skin shiny and clean. Somi’s giggling hard, swiping at Eunbi’s chest, her fingers brushing her nipples just enough to make Eunbi yelp and swat her hand away. “Fuck, stop teasing, you perv,” Eunbi laughs, smearing a wipe across Somi’s collarbone, chasing a stray drip that’s trickled down from her chin.

“So,” Eunbi says, tossing a used wipe into the trash by the bed, “what’d you think, Somi? First time getting railed on camera with us—rate it.” Somi pauses, peeling off the masquerade mask slow, revealing her full face—sharp cheekbones, big eyes, a grin that’s equal parts smug and dazed. She tosses the mask onto the desk, shaking out her blonde hair, and flops onto the bed next to you, her head landing on your chest like it’s her personal pillow. “Fucking loved it,” she says, stretching her long legs out across the sheets. “You two are hot as shit—like, I knew it’d be wild, but that was next-level. My ass is still tingling, and those titjobs? Goddamn.”

Eunbi laughs, grabbing her phone off the nightstand and sliding onto the bed beside you, her warm, soft body pressing against your side. “Glad you had fun, you little freak,” she teases, nudging Somi’s leg with her foot. Then she turns to you, her head resting on your shoulder, her messy bun tickling your neck. “What about you, babe? How was it?” You stretch out, one arm sliding under her, the other resting on Somi’s back as she snuggles closer. “Fucking awesome,” you say, grinning up at the ceiling, your voice still rough from all the groaning. “Hands down the best titjob of my life—those four massive tits all over me? I’m dead, bring me back just to do it again.” Eunbi snickers, her hand tracing lazy circles on your stomach, her nails grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. “Yeah, we fucking killed it,” she says, all proud and smug, her breath warm against your collarbone.

Somi shifts, reaching over to the nightstand and snagging her vape, the sleek little device glinting under the lights as she takes a long pull. She exhales a cloud of sweet-smelling mist—strawberry or some shit—and settles back, her head on your chest again. “You know,” she says, her voice all mellow now, “we should do this again. But like, no cameras next time—just us, fucking for the hell of it. Pure pleasure, no script.” She smirks, blowing another puff of vapor toward the ceiling, the haze curling in the shifting lights. Eunbi hums in agreement, her fingers still wandering over your abs. “Fuck yeah, I’m in,” she says, glancing up at you with a lazy grin. “No pressure, just us getting nasty—sounds perfect, right, babe?” You nod, your hand sliding down her back, resting on the curve of her ass. “Hell yeah, count me in. Cameras are fun, but sometimes you just wanna fuck without the spotlight.”

Somi’s grinning now, taking another hit from the vape, the tip glowing blue as she inhales, then passing it to Eunbi, who waves it off with a laugh. “Nah, thanks—I'm into fitness now,” she says, snuggling closer to you instead. Somi shrugs, keeping it to herself, the faint buzz of the device humming as she lounges there, her long legs dangling off the edge of the bed. The room’s settling into this cozy, post-sex vibe—everyone’s loose, sweaty, satisfied, the tension melted away into something softer. Eunbi’s thumbing through her phone now, her head still on your shoulder, and suddenly her eyes light up, a little gasp slipping out. “Oh shit, check this,” she says, holding the screen up so you and Somi can see. It’s an Instagram DM from Sana—profile pic all sultry and artsy—inviting Eunbi to her podcast later this month. “Hey babe,” it reads, “loved your last vid—wanna come chat on the pod? Yujin told me a lot of good things about you and your boyfriend. You’re blowing up, girl.”

Somi leans over, squinting at the screen, her vape forgotten for a sec. “Wait, who’s Sana?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she props herself up on one elbow, her hair spilling over your chest. Eunbi grins, scrolling up to show Sana’s profile—tons of followers, clips of her podcast episodes, and a few spicy TikToks that Somi instantly recognizes. “Oh, she’s another adult content creator,” Eunbi explains. “Super hot, super chill—does solo stuff mostly, but her podcast’s huge. Talks about the industry, sex, all that jazz. Gets big names on there too.” Somi nods, her eyes lighting up. “Oh fuck, yeah—I’ve seen her on TikTok! That one where she’s in the red sexy dress, vibing to some trap beat? She’s fire.” She takes another pull from the vape, exhaling slow, then grins at you both. “Damn, you guys are legit climbing the ranks—congrats, you sexy fuckers.”

Eunbi’s beaming now, her cheeks pink with pride as she sets her phone down and curls up tighter against you, her hand slipping to rest on your thigh, casual but possessive. “Thanks, babe,” she says to Somi, then looks up at you, her eyes soft but sparkling. “It’s fucking wild, right? Like, we’re actually doing this—people are noticing.” You squeeze her ass, pulling her closer, your chest swelling with that same excitement. “Hell yeah, it’s dope,” you say. “You’re killing it, Eunbi—proud of you.” She smiles, all shy for a sec, then kisses your neck, her lips lingering like she’s savoring it. Somi watches, smirking, blowing a playful ring of vapor your way. “Aw, you two are cute—gross, but cute,” she teases, then settles back, her head on your chest again, the vape humming as she takes another hit.

And you’re lying there, a little smirk on your face, feeling good about finally saying yes to the threesome. At first, you weren’t sure—thought it might be awkward, maybe mess up what you and Eunbi had. But now, with them both next to you, all sweaty and chill after that insane session, you’re glad you went for it. It didn’t feel weird at all—just worked, like they both fit right in. Somi brought the crazy, Eunbi kept it familiar, and it was honestly a blast. No regrets—turned out way better than you figured.

The three of you are just crashed out, all tangled up, The RGB lights keep changing, throwing colors on the ceiling, and it’s a nice wind-down—relaxed, cozy, everyone still feeling it. Eunbi’s messing with your skin, drawing little shapes, Somi’s head’s on your chest, breathing slow, and you’re just taking it in. Eunbi’s rising fame mixes with how wild tonight was. It’s a solid night—real solid—and the idea of doing it again, cameras or not, lingers thick in the air like the sweet haze from Somi’s vape.

[mononijikayu]

wildflower— nanami kento.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—” “Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?” Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.” “Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—” “You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?” His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, marriage, loss, emotional distress, hatred, resentment, domestic, confessions, getting together, friends, slice of life, childhood friends, distress, cheating, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, grief, trauma, pregnancy, explicit birthing scene, illness, post-partum depression, bodily fluids, children, therapy, explicit depiction of birthing, depiction of bodily fluids, depiction of post-partum depression, mention of blood, mention of birthing, mention of bodily fluids, mention of depression, actor! nanami, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 18k words

NOTE: this took a while and im a bit sick all the sudden but i realized i have to put this out so i just decided to go on and post this. anyway, i hope you enjoy this. ready the tissue for this, its a crier. i love you all so much <3

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the good life ― masterlist.

IT WAS HARD NOT TO KNOW WHAT EVERYTHING MEANS AFTER TWENTY YEARS OF MARRIAGE. After all that time, wouldn’t you know much about the person you were married to? This moment was not an exemption, of course. You were his wife, you knew everything about him. You just had to know.

So, as you stood there, looking at him, you knew that look. That look in Kento's caramel eyes as he’s putting on his suit. The quiet resignation. The practiced ease of sliding the tie around his neck, smoothing down his shirt, adjusting the cufflinks. Like a man preparing to go to war — except it isn’t war. It’s something worse. You knew that much.

You hum softly, curled up on the couch, and watch him from across the room. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on making himself presentable. Like it matters. Like any of it matters. You know where he’s going. You’ve always known.

It’s something you never said out loud, not in the past twenty years, not when the nights stretched long and lonely, not when his touch began to feel like an apology instead of love. You haven’t said a word, and he hasn’t either.

But you know all about it already.

There was no need for such words.

There was no need for anything else.

You know because when he turns around, there’s that smile all over again. That smile you fell in love with all those years ago. It was that loving, gentle smile. Strained by the weariness, the tired, and the painfully distant bitterness that dwelled over time on his face. 

And then besides that, he lies. 

He always has to know how to lie.

He was an actor by trade, after all.

"I’ll be home late, baby." he says like it means nothing, like it’s any other day. His voice doesn’t crack. His eyes don’t betray him. But you see it. You always do. And it kills you a little more each time. 

You know he loves you. It’s never been a question of love. It’s always been a question of truth. And the truth is, love doesn’t stop him from leaving. The truth is, love doesn’t make him stay. The truth is, he’s already gone before he’s out the door.

And sometimes you want to kill him for it. Even if you don’t want to, you think about it often. You think about wanting to just be angry and let yourself loose into the madness of it all. You wanted to go and have something for yourself. Even if that was a life, even if it was his life. After all that you had suffered and endured, don’t you deserve it? Don’t you deserve to take his life?

For the silence. For the way he pretends. For the way you let him. For the way you can’t bring yourself to break it all apart because maybe —just maybe— if you keep pretending, too, it’ll hurt less.

You don’t say a word when he leans down to kiss your temple as gently as he could, as lovingly as he could. You don’t flinch, you don’t cling. You don’t beg him to stay. You just hum again, quieter this time, and watch him leave like you have a hundred times before. 

And when the door closes behind him, the sound is deafening.

You stare at the door long after he's gone. Like if you watch long enough, he'll come back. Like if you sit still enough, you'll hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway. But silence is all that answers you. Silence, and the faint hum of the clock that ticks louder with every passing second.

Your hands twitch against your lap, curling into fists before releasing again. You wonder if tonight it'll be different, if he'll come home and tell you the truth. If he'll break, just once, and tell you what you already know. That there’s someone else. That his heart no longer belongs here, with you.

But it never happens. It’s never happened.

You get up after a while, wandering through the house like a ghost. You pass by the photos on the walls. The framed moments of happiness frozen in time. His smile in those pictures looks real. Like he didn’t know back then what would become of you both. You touch one of the frames, trailing your finger down his face. It feels cruel now, looking at those captured memories.

The bed feels colder when you climb in alone. You face his side, the sheets still perfectly made, undisturbed by the weight of his body. You press your face into his pillow, breathing him in. You think, for a fleeting second, that if you cry hard enough, he might feel it from wherever he is and come home.

But you don’t cry. You’ve already wasted too many nights crying. Instead, you just wait. 

Because that's all you know how to do now. Wait. And love him. And hate him a little, too.

THE STORY STARTS EVEN BEFORE THAT. You and Nanami Kento grew up together. Two kids from two very different worlds — he is filled with wealth and privilege, you were with struggle and scarcity. His parents lived in a grand, pristine house, while you lived in a cramped apartment that barely stayed warm in the winter.

His clothes were always crisp and clean, and yours were worn out and patched up. From the moment you realized just how different your lives were, you knew people like you didn’t belong in his world.

And the world didn’t hesitate to remind you of that. The neighborhood kids who ran in the same circles as Nanami never let you forget it. They whispered when you came around, made faces when you approached, and laughed when you walked away. 

“Why do you let her hang around you?” they’d ask him. “She doesn't fit in with us.” 

But Nanami Kento never wavered. Not once. Not ever.

“She’s my friend.” he’d say, firm and unwavering.

And that was all it took.

It didn’t matter if your shoes had holes or if your hands were rough from helping your family with chores. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have expensive toys or that you couldn’t bring lunch to school some days. 

Kento always shared this with you. He always liked making sure you were as full as him. So he would go and split his neatly packed bento in half and hand you the bigger portion without a second thought. 

You’d protest, of course, but he’d only shrug and say, “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.” 

You knew it was a lie.

Even back then, he always lied.

And he smiles all the same.

He always did that, giving without asking for anything in return, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you valued him more than anything because of it. But what you didn’t realize was how deeply it had settled in your bones. The way you looked at him, the way you cherished him, the way you loved him.

It wasn’t like one day you just woke up and decided to love Nanami Kento. No, it was a gradual thing. Like the warmth of the sun slowly rising over the horizon. It happened on the days he’d sneak away from his house to find you playing in the dirt, unbothered by the stares of his so-called friends. 

It happened when he’d walk you home after school, insisting it was just on the way when it wasn’t. It happened when you were crying after your father came home drunk again, and Nanami held your hand quietly, letting you cry into his shoulder without a word.

It happened every time he chose you.

And because of that, because he never treated you like you were less than him, because he never made you feel like you didn’t belong — you fell in love with him. Quietly. Deeply. Hopelessly. Truthfully. 

But you never said a word about it. How could you?

You were still just you. You were unimportant, rough around the edges, struggling to keep your life from falling apart. And he was Nanami Kento, brighter than the sun itself. He was polished, brilliant, and destined for a life far better than the one you could ever give him. 

Loving him felt like holding sunlight in your hands. 

It was beautiful, but impossible to keep.

And so you stifled it, you swallowed it down. 

You smiled when he spoke of his future. Of traveling abroad, of making something of himself — and you ignored the ache in your chest. You told yourself it was enough to simply have him in your life, even if you could never have his heart. But deep down, you knew.

One day, he’d leave. 

He’d outgrow this town. 

He’d outgrow you. 

You’d be left where you always were. You would be standing in the shadow of his light, loving him from a distance. You knew that even if he leaves, even if he doesn’t stay. You would love him all the same.

WHEN THAT DAY CAME, YOU HADN’T EXPECTED IT. You were sixteen when Nanami Kento told you he was leaving. He had gotten accepted into a prestigious school overseas. One that would guarantee him a promising future. His parents were thrilled. His friends envied him. 

Everyone around him kept saying to him — You’ll do great things, Nanami. You’re destined for success.

But all you could hear was the sound of your own heart breaking. Yet you didn’t want it to be broken down out loud.  So, you decided to go and smile all about it. It was better this way, you think to yourself. He, after all, deserved better than you.

He found you later that evening, sitting on the rusted swing set in the small park where you two always met. You already knew what he was going to say. You could see it in his eyes — a mixture of excitement and guilt.

“I’m leaving.” he finally said, voice quiet. “I got accepted into a school in Denmark.”

You forced a smile, ignoring the lump in your throat. “That’s… that’s amazing, Kento. Really. I’m happy for you.”

But you weren’t. 

God, you weren’t.

“I’ll only be gone for a couple of years, you know.” he tried to reassure you. “I’ll visit during the holidays. And we can write letters—”

“Yeah, I know.” you cut him off, still smiling. “We’ll stay in touch. Like we used to.”

But deep down, you knew better. People like you didn’t get to stay in the lives of people like him. Nanami Kento was destined for bigger and better things, all these things that didn’t include you. And you hated yourself for thinking that way.

So instead of breaking down, instead of begging him to stay, you spent your remaining days together trying to memorize everything about him. The way his blond hair would fall over his forehead when he was deep in thought. 

The sound of his laugh when you said something ridiculous. The warmth of his hand whenever it brushed against yours. You burned it all into your memory, knowing it was the closest you’d ever get to having him. 

And then like the wind, that day came in a sudden push.

You didn’t cry when you said goodbye to him at the train station. 

You didn’t flinch when he pulled you into a tight hug and whispered, “I’ll see you soon.” 

You didn’t break down when you watched the train pull away, carrying him farther and farther from you. But that night, when you were alone in your bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling — you sobbed until your throat was raw. Because you knew.

You knew that he’s not coming back.

Maybe not intentionally, maybe he would write you a few letters, maybe he would visit during the holidays but eventually, the distance would settle in. He’d meet new people, make new friends, build a new life. 

And you? You’d still be here, stuck in the same town, living the same hard life you always had. You didn’t blame him. How could you? He deserved better. Yet you told yourself that you’d get over him. That the ache in your chest would eventually fade. That you’d move on.

But you never did.

The letters came at first. Handwritten, neat, and always signed, Kento. 

He’d tell you about the classes he was taking, the places he was visiting, the new friends he was making. And you’d read every word, trying to picture him in that new world of his — a world you didn’t belong to. You always write back, of course. But your letters were never as exciting. What were you supposed to say? 

Hey, I’m still working two part-time jobs to help my mom make rent. Our fridge broke again last week, but it’s fine. I’ve gotten used to eating once a day. 

No. Instead, you lied. You told him you were doing fine, that life was okay, that you were just happy to hear from him. But as the months went on, the letters became less frequent. And then, eventually, they stopped altogether. And that was it.

Nanami Kento became a part of your past.

He was just another thing you had to let go of.

Yet you think about it now, you should have let go.

You should have let it all be.

IT WAS QUITE A SURPRISE, NOT ONE WHICH YOU HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT. You didn’t know he became an actor. The Nanami Kento standing in front of you now. He was still quite as polished, poised, and impossibly handsome as he was.

And yet, he was a far cry from the boy you used to know. But it was still him, he was all the same. Same deep voice. Same gentle gaze. Same presence that made the world feel a little less heavy.

And yet, there was something else too. A distance. 

Like he didn’t quite belong here anymore.

It was like he had outgrown this town, just as you always knew he would.

“Kento, oh wow….” you managed, trying not to let your voice shake. “I… I didn’t know you were back.”

His smile faltered slightly, like he was trying to keep his composure. “Just for a few days. I had some… time off.”

You didn’t miss the way his caramel eyes swept over you. From your wrinkled convenience store uniform to the worn-out shoes on your feet. It was subtle, but you saw it. And it made your stomach twist in shame.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, carefully. Like he was afraid of the answer.

You forced a small laugh, waving a hand. “You know… same old, same old. Nothing much has changed.”

Lie. Everything had changed. You were still here, yes. You were still in the same town, still in the same life — but it felt different now. Colder. Like the weight of the world had settled heavier on your shoulders after he left. And it didn’t escape Kento’s notice.

You were supposed to be somewhere else. He knew that. Out of everyone he’d ever known, you were the smartest. You were the sharpest, the most capable, the one who always dreamed bigger than the town could ever hold. 

You used to talk about it all the time — the places you wanted to go, the life you wanted to build. You were supposed to go to college. You were supposed to do great things. And yet here you were. Stuck. In this town. Wearing a faded uniform and a name tag, working a dead-end job.

Why? Why are you still here, suffering like this?

“So, uh….” you cleared your throat, forcing a smile. “How’s Denmark? Or… wait. Are you still there?”

“No, no. I don’t live there.” he answered, his voice quieter now. “I, uh… I moved to Tokyo. For work.”

“Work?” you tilted your head.

And that’s when you saw it. The subtle shift in his stance. 

Like he was bracing himself for something.

“...I’m an actor now,” he admitted, almost sheepishly.

You blinked. “Wait — like… on TV?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking a little uncomfortable. “Film, mostly. I’ve done a few series too.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding.”

He chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. “I’m not. It just… happened, I guess.”

Of course it did, you thought bitterly. Because that’s what people like him did. They left, they made something of themselves, and they became untouchable. Meanwhile, people like you stayed exactly where they were rooted in place, forgotten, ordinary.

“That’s… amazing, Kento. Really.” You smiled, even though it burned your throat. “I’m happy for you.”

But Nanami Kento couldn’t find it in himself to smile back. 

Because all he could think about was how wrong this felt.

You’re supposed to be the one out there, he thought. You were always the brilliant one. You were supposed to leave this town — not me. You were supposed to make something of yourself.

Instead, you were still here in this wretched place. In a store that smelled faintly of stale bread and cleaning supplies. Ringing up snacks for high schoolers who would eventually leave you behind just like everyone else did.

“You’re still working here?” he asked softly, his voice careful.

“Yeah. Been here for a couple of years now.” You shrugged like it was nothing. “Pays the bills.”

His stomach twisted at your words all the sudden. “What about school?” he asked. “You… you were supposed to go to college, right? Didn’t you get accepted somewhere?”

You froze. For a brief moment, the smile cracked on your face. But you stitched it back together quickly. “Ah, yeah… I did. But, you know. Life happens.”

Lie, again, huh?

The truth was that you did get accepted. To a top university in Tokyo, actually. But your mom lost her job the same week you got the acceptance letter. Rent fell behind. Bills piled up. And you did what you always did — you stayed. 

You got a job, dropped out before you even started, and spent the next few years trying to keep your family afloat. You did everything you could to help your family to survive. You abandoned everything to survive. But you didn’t tell Kento that. You couldn’t.

“Anyway, uh….” you deflected, forcing some cheer into your voice, “I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be. Don’t let me keep you.”

But Nanami Kento didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because he couldn’t stop staring at you. He couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong this was. The person he loved most in this world, the one who deserved everything was still here, stuck, while he was out there living a dream he never even wanted in the first place.

And he hated it. 

God, he hated it.

“…Have dinner with me, at least.” he blurted out suddenly.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Dinner. Tonight.” His voice was steadier now. “I want to catch up.”

You hesitated. “Kento, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His gaze softened. “Please.”

And maybe it was because you were too tired to argue. Or maybe it was because, despite everything, you still loved him. So you gave in. “…Okay. Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”

And for the first time since he left, Kento felt like he could breathe again.

That night, he picked you up from your small apartment. You tried to dress nicer, but you didn’t have much to work with. It was just a worn-out dress you hadn’t touched in years. When you opened the door and saw him standing there in a tailored coat and polished shoes, you almost told him to forget it.

But Kento only smiled and said, “You look beautiful.”

And God, you hated how much you still loved him.

Dinner was… nostalgic. You talked about old memories, laughed about stupid things you did as kids. But Kento couldn’t stop noticing how guarded you were. How carefully you danced around your life now.

Never mentioning anything too personal, never hinting at how hard things really were. And when the night was over, when he walked you back to your door, he couldn’t help himself.

“…Why did you stay?” he finally asked.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob. “…What?”

“You were supposed to leave this town, you know.” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You were supposed to go to college. Travel. Do everything you always talked about. So… why didn’t you?”

You hesitated. But then you smiled soft and hollow. “Someone had to stay and take care of things.”

And before he could ask what you meant, you gave him one last smile and said. “Goodnight, Kento.”

Then you closed the door. And Kento stood there, staring at the chipped paint on your doorframe, his heart breaking all over again. Because the person he loved most in this world was still stuck in a place she was never meant to stay.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

NOT A WINK OF SLEEP THAT NIGHT ONCE AGAIN. After you closed the door on Kento, you leaned against it, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest.

You could still feel the warmth of his gaze, still hear the tenderness in his voice when he said you looked beautiful. It was like he still saw you the way he did when you were kids. Like time and distance hadn’t changed a thing.

But it had.  You weren’t the same girl you used to be. And he wasn’t the same boy who once shared his lunch with you. He was Nanami Kento now, an actor, a star, someone the world adored. And you? You were still here. Working a dead-end job, carrying the weight of your family’s survival on your back, and holding onto the ghost of a love you never confessed.

So why did it feel like he was still yours?

Why did it still hurt like hell to let him go?

On the other side of that door, Kento didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there, still staring at the door you closed between you two and felt his throat tighten with a kind of pain he hadn’t experienced in years. 

Because no matter how much you smiled that night, no matter how light you tried to make your voice sound, he saw it. The exhaustion in your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The carefully crafted responses designed to keep him from knowing the truth. You were struggling. And it killed him.

Because you were the smartest person he knew. You were supposed to be miles away from this town, pursuing the future you always dreamed of. You were supposed to be untouchable, unstoppable, radiant. But instead… you were here. Tired. Small. Dimming under the weight of a life that never stopped asking more from you.

And Kento couldn’t stand it. The thought of going back to Tokyo, of returning to his world of flashing cameras, scripts, and fame while you were stuck here, surviving day by day, made him physically ill.

I should have taken you with me, he thought bitterly. I never should have left you here.

And that’s when he decided — he wasn’t leaving without you this time.

He didn’t care what it took. He didn’t care if you pushed him away. He didn’t care if you convinced yourself you didn’t belong in his world anymore. He would break down every wall you built around yourself if it meant pulling you out of this life.

Because the truth was he never stopped loving you.

And he’d be damned if he lost you a second time. The next day, you were working your usual shift when the doorbell chimed and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. You felt it before you even saw him. 

“…Kento.” You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “What are you doing here?”

He looked painfully out of place in the small convenience store. He was dressed in a dark coat, hair perfectly styled, standing taller and broader than you remembered. It was almost laughable. This man who graced movie screens and magazine covers standing in the middle of your dusty workplace like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Thought I’d stop by today.” he said simply. “I was hoping to see you.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. Don’t do this, Kento.

“I, uh… I’m working on the floor.” you stammered. “Can’t really chat right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I’ll wait until your shift is over.” he said, completely serious. “Then we’ll grab dinner. My treat.”

“Kento—”

“Don’t say no.” His voice was soft, but firm. “Please.”

And God, you almost did. You almost told him no. You almost told him to leave you alone, that you didn’t want him to see you like this anymore, that you couldn’t handle standing next to him and being reminded of how far apart your lives had become.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you still craved him.

You craved his voice, his touch, his presence. 

Even if it hurts you just do it all over again.

“…Okay.”

The night air was cold, but his coat was warm. Somewhere between dinner and walking you home, Kento had shrugged off his expensive wool coat and draped it around your shoulders without hesitation. You tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“Don’t argue with me about this, please.” he murmured, his hand lingering against your arm a little too long.

It was dangerous being this close to him again. 

But you couldn’t pull away from him.

“So….” you forced lightness into your voice. “What’s it like being famous?”

He scoffed. “Overrated.”

You laughed softly. “Oh, come on. You’re on billboards now. You can’t tell me it’s not a little amazing.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” His voice was distant. “Not if you’re not there to see it.”

Your steps faltered. “…What?”

Kento stopped walking — turning to face you, his expression unreadable. “I thought about you every day.” he confessed, his voice raw. 

“Kento—”

“The entire time I was gone. I kept wondering what you were doing, if you were okay, if you were happy.” His throat bobbed. “And every time I came back home, I hoped I’d see you, but you were always gone. I… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again.”

You felt your heart crack open. “Kento…”

“Why didn’t you tell me you stayed?” His voice broke slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me you never went to college?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—”

“Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?”

Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.”

“Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?”

His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

“No, I don’t.” you snapped, tears finally spilling over. “Look at me. I’ve been stuck in the same place since you left. I’m still living paycheck to paycheck. I didn’t finish school. I’ve done nothing with my life. And you—” your voice cracked painfully. “You’ve become everything you were meant to be.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

“I didn’t want any of it.” His voice was barely a whisper.

You froze. “…What?”

Kento swallowed hard. “I didn’t want fame. The career. The spotlight. I didn’t want any of it. The only thing I ever wanted was you—and I thought… I thought if I made something of myself, you’d still be here when I came back.” His voice cracked. “But you weren’t. And I hated myself for leaving you behind.”

Your knees almost buckled.

“And now that I’m here, with you.” his voice broke. "I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Tears poured freely down your face. “Kento, don’t—”

“Come with me.” He took a step closer, his hands trembling as they cradled your face. “Come to Tokyo. Stay with me. I’ll pay for your school, I’ll—”

“No!” you sobbed, pulling away. “I’m not your responsibility, Kento—”

“You’re not a responsibility, nor a liability.” his voice cracked. “You’re the love of my life.”

Your heart shattered. And before you could protest again, his mouth was on yours. Desperate, burning, like he was trying to make up for every single day he spent without you. His hands cradled your face, his kiss messy and filled with heartbreak. When he finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Please.” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Let me take you away from here. Let me love you the way I always should have.”

For the first time in years, you let yourself sob in his arms.

Because despite everything, you loved him more than anything in this world.

Despite the distance, the pain, and the time lost, you never stopped loving him either.

And maybe… just maybe… he could still save you.

YOU COULD REMEMBER THE WAY IT RAINED WHEN YOU GOT MARRIED. Not a heavy storm — just a soft, steady drizzle, as if the sky itself was quietly weeping with joy. You stood in a small, intimate venue with that beautiful smile on your face.

Both of you of you surrounded by only a few close friends and family, wearing the simplest white dress you could afford because despite Kento’s insistence that he’d buy you the most extravagant gown in Tokyo, you refused.

“I don’t need anything fancy, you know.” you told him. “I just need you.”

And so there you stood with your fingers trembling, heart racing as Kento watched you walk down the aisle like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His jaw was tight, his caramel eyes glassy with unshed tears, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe, after all those years apart, you were finally becoming his wife.

When you finally reached him, his hand grasped yours like a lifeline. 

His thumb trembled as it brushed against your skin, and when he whispered, “You’re beautiful.” his voice cracked.

And when the officiant asked if he took you as his wife, Kento didn’t hesitate one bit as he looked at you with the warmest gazes. “I do.” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I always have.”

Kento never let you go after that.

You moved into his apartment in Tokyo. It was a spacious, light-filled place with floor-to-ceiling windows and a breathtaking view of the city. It was bigger than anything you’d ever lived in, and it almost made you uncomfortable at first.

But Kento never let you feel like you didn’t belong.

“This is our home now, hm?” he told you softly one night as you stood by the window, still struggling to wrap your head around it all. “Not just mine. Ours.”

And you believed him. Because every time he came home from a shoot, tired, disheveled, and smelling like expensive cologne — the first thing he did was find you. 

\Whether you were in the kitchen, the bedroom, or curled up in the living room studying, he always sought you out, kissing you like it was the first time every time.

“My wife.” he’d murmur against your lips, as if the words themselves tasted sweet. “My beautiful wife.”

And every time, your heart would ache with disbelief. Because this was real. You were really married to him. You really woke up to him every morning. His arm draped around your waist, his face buried in your neck and he really loved you like you were the most precious thing in the world. But Kento wasn’t done giving you the life you deserved.

“Tokyo University.” he said one night, casually, like it wasn’t the single most outrageous thing you’d ever heard.

You froze mid-bite. “…What?”

“I want you to apply, like you did a long time ago.” he said simply, sitting across from you at the dinner table. “You always wanted to study chemistry. Now’s your chance.”

Your throat tightened. “Kento… I can’t. I haven’t been in school for years. I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was firm but gentle. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known. Don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “But the tuition—”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Your head snapped up. “Kento, no—”

“Yes.” His gaze was unwavering. “I’ll pay for every single yen. I’ll cover your tuition, your textbooks, your lab fees. Everything. You won’t have to worry about anything.” His voice softened. “Please. Let me do this for you.”

Tears burned your eyes. “I don’t want to feel like a burden to you, Kento.”

“You’re not a burden, never will be.” he said fiercely, already pushing his chair back so he could kneel in front of you. His large hands cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “You’re my wife. Everything I have is yours. My money, my time, my life. It’s all yours. And if it means giving you the future you always dreamed of, then I’ll do it a thousand times over.”

And with that, you broke down. You sobbed into his chest, clutching him like your life depended on it, because you realized Kento meant it. Every word. Every promise. He was going to build you a life so beautiful, so far removed from the pain you endured, that you’d never have to feel unworthy again.

So the next day, you applied. And Kento wrote the check without blinking an eye. 

You could still remember months later, the day you got accepted into Tokyo University, you burst into tears. You were in the kitchen when the letter arrived, your hands trembling as you tore it open and the second you saw “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted!”

You collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

“Kento, Kento!” you choked, clutching the letter like it was your lifeline. “I got in! Oh god…. I got in!”

Kento was on you in seconds, kneeling beside you, his face crumpling with pride. “I told you. I told you, baby!” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I told you you could do it.”

And that night, he took you out to dinner, something extravagant, something you never would have been able to afford on your own. When the waiter congratulated you, Kento beamed like he was the one who got accepted.

“Her, it was her who got in.” he told the waiter proudly. “That’s my wife. She’s going to Tokyo University for chemistry. Smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

And when you glanced at him, with those eyes glassy, heart full, you realized he wasn’t just proud. He was in awe of you. Like he always had been. 

And for a while, it was perfect.

Life slipped into something sweet and steady. You were a university student again, just like you’d always dreamed. You spent your days attending lectures, taking meticulous notes, and spending long afternoons in the library surrounded by textbooks and the faint smell of old paper. You were learning again. Living again. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you.

And Kento? God, he was your biggest cheerleader.

Every morning before you left for class, he kissed you on the forehead and said, “Knock ‘em dead, love.” 

Every night when you came home, exhausted but fulfilled, he had dinner ready and waiting. When you showed him your test scores, perfect marks, one after another. Your husband would beam with pride like he was the one who’d aced the exam. 

When you complained about a difficult professor or a tedious lab experiment, he’d listen intently, rubbing circles into your back, and say, “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

And every night, when you fell asleep beside him, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. But then —slowly, quietly— the loneliness crept in. Because Kento wasn’t home most of the time.

At first, you didn’t notice. You were busy, after all. You were drowning in lab reports, study sessions, and back-to-back classes. But then you started realizing how quiet the apartment felt when you got home. You’d unlock the door, expecting to hear the hum of the television or Kento’s soft humming in the kitchen but it was always silent. Always empty.

You told yourself it was fine. That was just how it was going to be sometimes. Your Kento was working hard, just like you were. It was only temporary. But weeks passed. Then months. And Kento started coming home later and later.

At first, it was 8 PM. Then 9. Then 10. And soon, there were nights where he didn’t come home at all, just a brief, apologetic text. “Late meeting. Don’t wait for me. Love you.”

And you tried to be understanding. You tried. After all, Kento was the one supporting you. He was paying your tuition, your textbooks, your transportation — everything. He was shouldering the entire financial weight of your dream without a single complaint. The least you could do was be patient.

But good god, it was so lonely.

You’d eat dinner alone most nights, your plate growing cold as you stared at the empty seat across from you. You’d do your assignments at the kitchen table, hoping to hear the jingle of his keys at the door  but it never came. You started sleeping alone more often than not, his side of the bed cold and untouched.

And worst of all you missed him.

You missed Kento. You missed the man who used to laugh with you until your stomach hurt. 

The man who used to kiss you breathless in the middle of the kitchen just because he could. 

The man who used to touch your belly every night and whisper. “I can’t wait to meet our baby.” 

The man who promised you. “I’ll always put you first.”

But now? You were starting to feel like you’d lost him. And then came the night that broke you.

It was well past midnight, and you were curled up on the couch, your textbooks sprawled around you. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait up for him, but you did. You always did. Hours passed, and still — no sign of him. Finally, at 1:27 AM, you heard the door unlock.

“Kento?” you called, your voice cracking.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally stepped into the living room, his tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, and the exhaustion in his eyes was so deep it made your chest ache.

“Hey.” he murmured, already walking past you toward the bedroom.

And something in you snapped.

“Seriously?” you blurted. “That’s all you have to say?”

Kento froze, his hand still on the doorframe. “…What?”

You stood, your heart pounding. “You’ve been gone all day again. And you just walk in like I don’t even exist?”

He turned to you, confused. “I—I’m sorry. Work ran late—”

“It always runs late, Kento!” your voice cracked, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Every night, I sit here alone. I eat alone. I sleep alone. Do you even realize how lonely it is to come home to an empty apartment every single day?”

Pain flickered across his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m doing this for you, love. I’m working so you can go to school—”

“I never asked you to do that!” you shouted, and the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Kento blinked, stunned. “…What?”

Your chest heaved. “I never asked you to throw your entire life away for me, Kento! I never asked you to quit your project, or work insane hours, or pay for everything. You just did it. And now it’s like I don’t even have a husband anymore. I just have this… ghost who comes home at 2 AM and leaves before I wake up!”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Kento’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “…You think I want this?”

You froze. “…What?”

“You think I like working sixteen-hour days?” his voice cracked, raw and strained. “You think I enjoy being away from you? Missing dinner, missing sleep, missing everything…..you think any of this is what I wanted?”

Your throat tightened. “Kento—”

“I did it for you, you know that.” he said bitterly. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to worry about money. I did it so you could chase your dream without worrying about bills or tuition. I did it because I thought it would make you happy.” His voice cracked. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tears blurred your vision. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he laughed hollowly, running a hand down his face. “I work until I can’t see straight just to keep everything together and you still think I’m not doing enough.”

“That’s not true at all!”

“Then what do you want from me, love?” his voice finally broke, desperate and shattered. “Tell me. Please. What do you want?”

And the answer was so painfully simple, it tore you apart.

I just want you.

But you couldn’t say it. Because how could you ask that of him when he’d already given you everything? When he was breaking his back just to keep you afloat? When he’d already sacrificed his career, his sleep, his time, his life for you?

So instead, you just cried and cried.

And for the first time in your marriage, Kento didn’t comfort you.

He just turned away, defeated, and said, “I’m going to bed.”

And you realized somewhere along the way, you and Kento had become strangers for the first time.

And it hurts like hell to live with that thought.

But of course, it wouldn’t be the last time.

THINGS DID NOT GET BETTER.  If anything, they got worse. You were pregnant. And everything was hurting. It was a different kind of pain now, not just the crushing weight of your depression, but something more physical, more suffocating. 

Your body aches constantly. Your back screamed from the weight of your growing belly. Your feet were perpetually swollen. Your nights were restless, spent tossing and turning as the baby kicked relentlessly inside you, reminding you always reminding you — that there was no way out of this life you didn’t want. And it was killing you.

You thought hitting rock bottom would come with some kind of clarity. Like one day, you’d cry hard enough or sleep long enough or starve yourself numb enough that your body would finally break through the darkness. You thought there would be some moment, some visceral breaking point that would force you to finally start healing.

But it never came.

Instead, you just… sank.

Deeper and deeper, like trying to breathe underwater with lungs already half-filled. Every day you woke up was a fresh kind of misery. You couldn’t get out of bed without feeling like your bones were made of lead. 

You couldn’t stomach food without wanting to throw it all up later. You couldn’t look in the mirror without despising the reflection. You see a bloated, pale, hollowed out, a shell of the woman you used to be.

And the baby never stopped kicking.

You hated it.

God, you hated it.

You hated the way it never let you sleep. You hated the way your body no longer felt like yours. You hated the constant, suffocating reminder that soon, almost all too soon, you would be responsible for a life you never asked for. A life you were already failing before it even arrived.

But the worst part?

You hated yourself for hating it.

Because what kind of mother resented her own baby before it was even born? What kind of woman laid in bed, day after day, clutching her belly and wishing god, please just make this stop  instead of feeling love? What kind of wife watched her husband sacrifice everything for her and still felt nothing but numb, bitter emptiness?

And Kento.

God, Kento.

You couldn’t even look at him anymore without feeling like the most wretched person alive. He was still trying — still holding everything together, still waking up every morning and kissing your forehead, still whispering, “I love you. I’m here.” 

But you could see it now — the slow, painful unraveling of the man you loved. The exhaustion in his eyes, no longer just from work but from you. The hesitation in his touch, like he was afraid you’d pull away — and sometimes, you did.

The way his voice cracked when he said, “How are you feeling today, love?” and your answer was always “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t fine.

And Kento knew it.

You could see it every night when he crawled into bed beside you and held you close. The way his hand cradles your stomach, his thumb tracing soft circles over your skin. You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to keep you here. Like if he let go for even a second, you’d slip through his fingers entirely.

And you hated that too.

Because you knew you were killing him. Slowly. Quietly. Without even trying. You could see it in his slumped shoulders, in the way his voice grew quieter, in the way he looked at you like he was losing you and didn’t know how to stop it.

And you wanted to scream — Stop loving me. Stop trying to save me. I’m already gone.

But you didn’t.

Because how could you say that to the man who dropped his entire career for you? The man who worked twenty-hour days just to pay for your tuition, your food, your life? The man who still kissed you goodbye every morning and told you, “I love you, always.”

So you did the only thing you could.

You kept shrinking.

You stopped eating. Barely touched your dinner when Kento brought it to you. The smell made you nauseous anyway, and even when it didn’t, you could barely stomach the idea of keeping yourself alive, let alone another human growing inside you.

You stopped leaving the house. Your classes had already been dropped; you told Kento it was temporary, just until you felt better. But deep down, you knew you weren’t going back. Tokyo University had suddenly become a distant dream once again, like a life that belonged to someone else entirely. And you were too far gone now to reach for it again.

You stopped responding to your friends. They texted you constantly, trying to check on you. You know they mean well. You know they just want to be there for you. And that they were excited. But you were having a hard time accepting their well wishes.

“How’s the baby? How’s school? We miss you!” 

But the thought of replying made your stomach churn. What were you supposed to say, that wouldn’t come out as a horrible thing? 

“I’m miserable. I don’t want this baby. I don’t want this life.” 

Would have that gotten you some mercy?

So you ignored them. Deleted their messages. Let your phone die and don't bother charging it. And then you stopped talking to Kento. Not entirely. But enough.

Later on, Kento halted the work on his upcoming project the day after you broke down. No warning. No hesitation. One phone call to his manager, another to his agency, and it was done. His voice was steady, almost unnervingly calm when he said: “I’m taking a break for now. My wife needs me.” 

And that was it. He dropped it all like it meant nothing. A project he had poured months of his life into, had gone in seconds. You tried to protest when you found out, but he wouldn’t hear it. His mind was made up before you could even form the words —“Don’t do this for me.”

And then he stayed.

Every single day, he stayed. Morning turned to night, and there he was. Bringing you water when you couldn’t stomach food. Sitting on the edge of the bed while you stared blankly at the ceiling. Holding you through the nights when your body trembled from crying, or worse, the nights when you didn’t cry at all, just lay there like a ghost in your own skin.

He was patient. Devoted. Unwavering.

But it didn’t fix anything.

Because the damage was already done.

You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to tether you to the earth. In the way his voice,  soft, pleading, loving had seemed to echo against the walls of your hollowed-out chest, never quite reaching you. 

In this way you could still feel the crushing weight of your own failure suffocating you, no matter how many times he whispered “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

And the worst part?

You wanted him to leave.

Because it hurt too much to see him like this. Abandoning his career, his life, his future, for someone who couldn’t even muster the strength to get out of bed. You resented the way he sacrificed everything for you. 

You hated how the look in his eyes shifted from affection to concern, from admiration to pity. You despised yourself for being the reason his world was crumbling alongside yours. And deep down, you knew. Kento could stay forever, and it still wouldn’t fix what was already broken.

And after that, you stopped going to school.

At first, you told Kento it was temporary,  just a leave of absence until you felt better. But weeks turned into months, and soon your professors were emailing you: “If you do not return, you will have to re-enroll next semester.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth was, you didn’t care anymore.

Your stomach was huge now. You could barely walk up the stairs without losing your breath. Your back ached. Your feet were swollen. You couldn’t sleep through the night because the baby was always kicking, and every morning you woke up with the same suffocating thought.

"I don’t want this life."

And the guilt ate you alive.

Because you loved Kento. You loved your baby. But you hated your life. You hated what it had become. You hated the fact that you were no longer a student at Tokyo University. You were just a pregnant woman, a pregnant housewife. You hated the fact that you no longer had a future — you just had motherhood. You just had this house, his status as a wife.

And Kento saw it. He saw how you’d spend hours just sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib with dead eyes. He saw how you stopped studying, stopped watching TV, stopped doing anything. It was like you were fading away.

And it killed him.

You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged a little more each day, as if the weight of watching you deteriorate was slowly crushing him. In the way he tried to hide the bags under his eyes from sleepless nights spent worrying about you. 

In this way his voice would crack, just barely, when he’d sit next to you and say, “Talk to me, love. Please.”

But you had nothing to say. What were you supposed to tell him? That you hated the life you were about to bring into the world? That you regretted everything — the pregnancy, the wedding, the choices that led you here? That sometimes, when you laid in bed at night, you imagined what it would be like if you just… didn’t wake up?

So you said nothing. Nothing at all.

And Kento tried to be strong for both of you. God, he tried.

He started cooking your favorite meals, hoping that if he made something delicious enough, you’d actually eat. He read parenting books late into the night, convinced that if he just learned enough, he could do this whole thing for the both of you, carry the weight, make up for the pieces of you that were falling apart. He took you on walks when he could get you out of bed, holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to hope.

But it was never enough.

It was never going to be enough.

Because the truth was — you weren’t just sad. 

You were grieving everything that had come to pass.

You were grieving the life you lost, the person you used to be. You were grieving the dreams you once held so fiercely. Finishing university, traveling, building a career as a chemist on the international level. All of it now reduced to a hazy memory of a different girl. A girl you didn’t even recognize anymore. A girl you resented for being so foolish, for thinking she could have it all.

And you were grieving the love between you and Kento — or rather, the version of it that existed before the pregnancy. Before everything became tainted by your guilt, your depression, your ever-growing resentment for the life you didn’t want.

You knew that Kento saw it too.

He saw how you flinched when he touched your stomach,  not out of pain, but because it reminded you of what you were trapped in. He saw how your kisses grew colder, how you turned your head when he tried to kiss you goodnight. He saw how you stopped saying your i love yous first — how sometimes, you didn’t say it at all.

And still, he stayed by your side. But it was breaking him whole. 

You could hear it in the way his voice cracked one night when he thought you were asleep.

He sat beside you in bed, his hand resting gently on your belly, and you heard him whisper back to you. “I don’t know how to fix this.” His voice trembled. “I don’t know how to help you.”

And that was when you realized — you weren’t the only one grieving. Kento was grieving too. He was grieving the wife he used to know. The one who laughed too loud at his jokes, who kissed him in the morning just because, who fell asleep on the couch with a textbook still in her lap. 

He was grieving the life you both dreamed of late nights studying, early mornings rushing to class, careers that would take you far. He was grieving the love that used to be effortless, the kind that didn’t require whispered prayers in the middle of the night, hoping that tomorrow would hurt less than today.

And the worst part?

You were the one who did this to him.

At least that’s how you saw it all now.

You were the one who dragged him down into this suffocating darkness with you. You were the one who made him abandon his project, his career, his life. All for a woman who could barely look at herself in the mirror without breaking. 

And every day he stayed, every day he kissed your forehead and said “I’m here”, you hated yourself a little more.

You hated yourself so much that you started to wonder if maybe — just maybe — Kento would be better off without you.

And that thought never really left.

Even when he painted the nursery walls soft yellow and smiled like he wasn’t dying inside.

Even when he held your hand in the middle of the night and promised, “We’ll get through this. I swear we will.”

Even when he looked at you with a love so devastatingly pure, it only made you ache more.

Because you couldn’t shake the feeling. That Kento deserved a better wife. And your baby deserved a better mother. And you? You didn’t deserve them at all. Around your seventh month, you completely broke.

Kento found you in the bathroom at 3 AM all alone as you were sitting in the empty bathtub, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing silently. You looked miserable with your hair disheveled and your face contorted into this look, full of grief and suffering.

“Baby?” His voice cracked. “Oh my god, baby, what’s wrong?”

And you just shook your head. “I hate this so much.” you gasped through your tears. “I hate my life. I hate my body. I hate everything. I don’t want to do this anymore, Kento. I can’t…..I can’t breathe.”

And Kento completely fell apart at the sight of your tears, falling over and over again.  “Baby, no— no, no, no.” he dropped to his knees beside the tub, his hands shaking. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’m here now. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better, so—”

“You can’t!” you screamed, your voice raw and cracked. “You can’t fix this, Kento! I’m already ruined! My life is already ruined!”

And Kento? Kento completely broke. Because he realized you weren’t talking about the pregnancy. You were talking about yourself. And you were gone. All there was left now was the shell, that shell he didn’t recognize.

“I should’ve never gotten pregnant, Kento.” you sobbed, your body shaking. “I should’ve never gotten married. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve never left the countryside. I should’ve……I should’ve never let this happen.”

And Kento completely lost it. “Don’t say that.” he begged, his voice cracking. 

He climbed into the bathtub with you, fully clothed, and wrapped his arms around you. “Don’t say that, baby, please— please don’t say that. You’re not ruined. I swear to god, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t give up on me. Please don’t give up on me.”

And you just sobbed.

Because deep down, you already had.

You were right to feel that way.

It was only a matter of time when the labor came early.

You had never expected it — not this soon, not like this.

It was just around thirty-five weeks then. The baby wasn’t supposed to come yet. You still had time. Weeks. You weren’t ready. Your hospital bag wasn’t packed. The nursery still smelled like fresh paint. You hadn’t even washed the baby’s clothes yet. You weren’t supposed to go into labor yet.

But the universe didn’t care.

Your water broke in the middle of the night — and you knew instantly that something was wrong. The pain hit fast and hard, unlike anything you’d ever felt. Sharp, blinding contractions ripped through your abdomen, so intense that it stole the breath from your lungs. 

You barely managed to shake Kento awake, your voice cracked and choked, “Kento — my water……it broke—”

And the moment he saw the panic in your eyes, he moved. Kento didn’t even ask questions. He sprang out of bed, grabbing his phone with one hand and you with the other, already calling for an ambulance. 

His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the terror behind it. “Yes, my wife is thirty-five weeks pregnant. Her water just broke — she’s in pain — please send someone—”

But the contractions were coming too fast. One after the other, barely a minute in between, and by the time Kento helped you into the back of the ambulance, you knew. The baby was coming now. And the baby would have no mercy on you.

“No, no, no!” you sobbed, clutching your belly as another contraction ripped through you, your body already beginning to push despite your desperate attempts to stop it. “It’s too soon — it’s too soon—”

Kento was right there beside you, his hand in yours, his voice cracked and desperate. “You’re okay, love. You’re gonna be okay. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

But you didn’t feel okay. You felt like you were dying. And by the time you reached the hospital, you were already fully dilated. The doctors barely had time to wheel you into labor and delivery before you were screaming through another contraction, your body forcing you to push despite your terror.

And Kento was there. The entire time — he was there. His hand never left yours, his voice never stopped murmuring reassurances in your ear. “You can do this, love. I know you can. Just a little longer. Just hold on for me.”

But you couldn’t.

Because something was wrong.

You could feel it in your bones. In the way your body fought itself with every push, in the way your vision kept blurring, in the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath no matter how hard you tried. And then, in the middle of a push — you felt it.

A sudden, hot gush between your legs. But it wasn’t amniotic fluid this time. It was warm. And sticky. And you didn’t have to look down to know. You were bleeding. A lot. You could feel how it echoes down, heavy and brutish.

“Kento—” your voice cracked, raw with pain. “Something’s— something’s wrong—”

And then you heard it.

The doctor’s voice, sharp and urgent. 

“She’s hemorrhaging. We’re losing her.”

And that’s when Kento lost his fucking mind.

“What?” His voice snapped, pure, raw panic flooding his face. His grip on your hand tightened like a vice. “What do you mean you’re losing her?!”

“Her blood pressure is dropping! Massive uterine hemorrhage. Doctor,  she’s losing too much blood—”

“No — no, no, no—” Kento stumbled forward, his voice cracking as his hands shook. “Do something! Save her! Save them both!”

“We need to get the baby out now or we’re going to lose them both, Mr. Nanami!”

And suddenly it was chaos. Nurses shouting. Machines beeping. Someone calling for blood transfusions. And you — fading. You could feel it. Your body was giving out, your vision was growing dim, and the only thing you could focus on was Kento.

“Kento.” you rasped, your voice so faint, so weak. Your body felt like it was drifting. “I—I love you—”

“No!” Kento screamed. He screamed like something inside him was tearing apart. His hands clawed at the hospital bed, his body lunging toward you as the doctors tried to pull him away. “No, stay with me! Stay with me, love! Don’t you fucking do this—Don’t you dare leave me!”

But you were already slipping.

The last thing you heard was his voice, raw and broken.

“I can’t do this without you. Please! Please don’t leave me. Please—”

And then, darkness.

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. Nanami Kento couldn’t do anything but collapse in the hallway. The moment they pulled him out of the delivery room. The moment the words the doctor said, all of that rang in his ears like a death sentence. He was sure that something inside him snapped.

And when the door slammed shut behind him, separating him from you, Kento’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard. Hands splayed out against the cold tile, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming. He didn’t even realize he was still screaming until two nurses rushed toward him, trying to pull him up, trying to calm him down, but it was useless.

Because he could still hear it. The frantic shouts of the doctors. The horrifying words “Massive hemorrhage. We’re losing her.” The sound of your screams cutting off too abruptly. And worst of all — the unbearable silence that followed.

“No—” Kento howled, his voice breaking like glass. His hands clawed at his hair, his entire body wracked with violent, gut-wrenching sobs. “No, no, no— I killed her. I fucking killed her—”

“Sir, Mr. Nanami.” one of the nurses knelt beside him, reaching out. “You have to breathe, you’re hyperventilating—”

But Kento didn’t hear her.

He couldn’t hear anything.

He didn’t care to hear whatever that was.

All he could think about, all he could see was you. Your face twisted in pain. The absolute terror in your eyes when you realized something was wrong. The way you sobbed I don’t want this, Kento, I’m not ready. And he did this. He did this to you.

His body convulsed with the force of his grief, his head slamming against the tile as his sobs tore from his chest like a wounded animal. “I killed her. I killed her. I made her hate her life and now she’s gone. She’s gone—”

“Sir—” The nurse was trying to hold him down now, his entire body thrashing against the floor as he screamed. “Sir, please, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“LET ME GO!” Kento roared, his voice so raw it barely sounded human. “She’s dying in there. Do you understand me?! She’s fucking dying in there and I……”

Another contraction of sobs wracked his chest, and his fists slammed into the floor so hard that his knuckles split. Blood smeared against the tile, but he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

“I made her hate her life.” his voice cracked, his chest seizing with suffocating grief. His hands curled into his hair again, yanking hard as if trying to punish himself. “I did this to her. I made her want to die. And now she’s gone and I’m still here. ”

“Stop, please.” the nurse’s voice broke, her own eyes glassy as she tried to steady him. “She’s not gone. They’re trying to save her in there, with the baby.”

“No.” Kento’s head snapped up, his face twisted in a horrifying mix of rage and agony. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, utterly devastated. “You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it.” His voice cracked so sharply it sounded like it physically hurt him to speak.

“She wanted to die, to be free of that misery. Don’t you see?” he choked. “She hated her life. And it’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault—”

And then his body gave out.

His chest collapsed onto the cold tile floor, his forehead pressed into it as his entire body shook. Choked, gasping sobs clawed from his throat, so violent that he could barely breathe. His lungs were burning, his vision was spinning, and he was sure, so fucking sure, that this was it. That they were going to come out and tell him you were dead.

And it was his fault. 

All of it was his fault.

Because he saw it. 

He saw it every single day. The way you sat in the nursery with dead eyes. The way you stopped smiling. The way you couldn’t even say I’m excited without your voice cracking. The way your love for him was slowly being choked out by the sheer weight of your depression.

And he didn’t stop any of it. Instead, he told you to keep going. He told you to hold on. He let you suffer in silence because he thought that’s what you needed but you didn’t. You needed help. You needed saving. And instead, he trapped you in a life you never wanted.

And now you are dying.

All because of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Kento sobbed, his forehead slamming against the tile again, his blood smearing across the floor. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please….please, I’ll do anything. Just let her live. Please.”

And that was the first time in his life that Kento Nanami prayed. He prayed like a man possessed. Like a man who had nothing left to lose. His bloody fists clawed at the tile, his nails cracking against it as he begged.

“Take me,please.” he sobbed, his voice mutilated from screaming. “Please….just take me instead. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. Just…. Please don’t take her. Don’t take my wife. Don’t take my baby. I’ll do anything.”

But the silence stretched on.

And he was certain that you were already gone.

Hours continued to make mockery of him.

Agonizing, torturous hours passed — and Kento was still on the floor.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right. Didn’t think. His body was stuck in that same position. Still face down, forehead pressed against the cold tile, hands trembling as he clenched them into bloody fists. His chest was heaving in short, sharp gasps, his entire body quaking as he sobbed.

He was certain you were dead. He felt it. He felt the moment your soul left the room. He felt the moment the light in his life snapped off like a switch. 

He was convinced that at any second, the doctor was going to come out, look him in the eyes, and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Nanami. We couldn’t save her.”

And he would never forgive himself.

Because he killed you.

His fault. His fault. His fucking fault.

He was still gasping, still clawing at the ground, still praying like a desperate man when he finally heard the door open. Kento’s head snapped up. His bloodshot, swollen eyes immediately locked onto the doctor walking toward him, his scrubs covered in blood — your blood — and Kento’s entire body seized.

“Mr. Nanami—”

“Where is she?” Kento screamed. His voice cracked, broke, his entire body lunging toward the doctor like a caged animal. His hands fisted the man’s scrubs, yanking him forward. “Is my wife alive? Tell me, damn it? Is she alive?”

The doctor barely had a chance to respond before Kento screamed again. “Tell me you saved her, goddamn you!”

And the doctor’s mouth opened — and Kento swore the entire universe stopped spinning when he finally said,  “…She’s alive.”

Kento’s entire body collapsed. His legs gave out. His grip on the doctor’s scrubs slipped. And then he didn’t realize that he had hit the floor. A gasping, broken sob ripped from his throat. The kind of sob that came from a man who was seconds away from losing everything and his entire body convulsed as he wept.

“Oh my god…..” Kento choked, his hands flying to his face, clawing at his own skin like he was trying to ground himself. “Oh my god. She’s alive. She’s alive!”

“Her condition is critical, Mr. Nanami.” the doctor warned, his voice low but steady. “We had to perform an emergency c-section and a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding. She lost over forty percent of her blood volume. We had to resuscitate her twice on the table—”

“Resuscitate?” he gasped, his vision swimming. His stomach lurched. “You mean she….she died?”

“Clinically, yes. Twice.” The doctor’s face softened with pity. “But we got her back. She’s stable now — unconscious, but alive.”

And that was all Kento needed to hear.

He ran. He didn’t even think. His legs moved before his brain could catch up, his entire body sprinting down the hall, his bloody knuckles slamming into every door he passed until he finally found your room.

The second he stepped inside, he broke.

Because there you were.

Unconscious.

Your body was completely limp, hooked up to a ventilator, your skin so pale it looked blue. Tubes were coming out of everywhere. From your arm, your nose, your mouth and there were fresh surgical dressings covering your abdomen where they had cut you open to get the baby out.

Kento couldn’t breathe. A strangled, animalistic sound tore from his throat like something between a sob and a scream and then he collapsed beside your bed. His hand shot out, desperately clutching yours, his entire body wracked with gut-wrenching sobs as he shook.

“I’m so sorry…..oh my god, I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” Kento’s voice shattered, his head dropping onto your hand as his body convulsed. His chest was heaving so violently that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I did this. I did this to you and I….”

He couldn’t stop sobbing. His forehead pressed against your limp hand, his body rocking as he cried like a child. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry….” he choked. “I made you hate your life and I trapped you. I killed you…. oh my god, I killed you….”

And the guilt hit him like a sledgehammer. 

Because it was true. All of it.

He saw the way you suffered. The way you faded every single day. The way you stopped smiling. The way you stopped living. And instead of saving you, he kept telling you to hold on. Just a little longer, love. We’re almost there. Just a little longer.

But you weren’t okay. And Kento didn’t listen. And now you were lying there. Pale, lifeless, barely hanging on. All because of him. And the weight of it crushed him whole. He felt like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.

And then finally, you woke up.

“…Kento?” your voice cracked.

“Baby.” he sobbed, grabbing your face, pressing desperate kisses all over your skin. “Oh my baby…..you’re awake. You’re awake. I thought I lost you. I thought….”

“…Where’s the baby?”

And Kento completely broke. “The baby’s fine, don’t worry.” he choked. “She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. But you….you scared the shit out of me, baby. Please don’t ever do that again.”

And when they finally brought your baby girl in and you held her for the first time — you did something you didn’t expect. You cried. And then you sobbed. Because for the first time in nine months — you finally felt something coherent. Something good.

“…She’s beautiful.” you gasped. “I didn’t think I’d love her. But I do. I love her so much.”

Kento just collapsed against your hospital bed, sobbing. “I knew you would. I knew you would.”

But things are like the weather.

They were bound to change.

You should have known.

THE FIRST MONTH WAS HARD, BUT AS TIME WENT ON, IT GOT WORSE. You came home from the hospital physically intact but mentally, you were gone. You still didn’t go back to school. You didn’t touch your textbooks. You didn’t even mention chemistry. The once-brilliant student who dreamed of working in a lab was now just… a mother. And you hated it.

Every single day felt like a fog. You were exhausted but it wasn’t the baby’s fault. You knew that much. It was you that was malfunctioning. You didn’t know how to connect with her. Every time she cried, you felt nothing.

Every time she smiled, you felt nothing. Every time Kento handed her to you and said something to praise your beautiful daughter, you didn’t know how to react. You just nodded and let it go.  And Kento noticed. God, he noticed.

Kento stayed home for a month. He refused to leave your side. He didn’t take calls, he didn’t attend meetings. He just stayed home. But his contract required him to go back to work eventually. And you… you told him to go.

“Go, you have to.” you whispered, your voice dead. “You have to work, Kento. We have bills. You already missed so much.”

But Kento didn’t want to.

“Baby— no. I don’t give a shit about work. I’m not leaving you like this.”

And you forced a smile. “I’m fine, Kento.”

But you weren’t.

You weren’t.

And Kento knew it.

But eventually, he had to go. He had no choice. His manager was calling nonstop. His agency was threatening breach of contract. He had a new film that needed him and Kento was the lead role. So he left. And the guilt burned a hole in his chest.

The first day he was back on set, he couldn’t focus. His co-stars were talking to him, the director was giving him instructions but all he could think about was you. Home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. Kento hated himself. 

He was filming a scene when his phone buzzed in his pocket — and when he saw your name pop up, he immediately froze. 

“CUT!” the director barked. “Kento, you okay?”

“…Yeah, director.” he croaked. “I just— I need five minutes.”

And then he ran.

He ran behind the trailer, shaking, and picked up the phone. “Baby?” he gasped, panic echoing in his voice. “What’s wrong? Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”

Silence. “…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

And Kento’s heart completely shattered.

“Baby…..” his voice cracked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…..” you gasped, voice shaking. “I mean I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom. I don’t love her, Kento. I don’t—I don’t feel anything for her. I just feel empty. And I know she deserves better. I know you deserve better. I think….I….I just….”

Your voice cracked. “I think I ruined my life.”

Kento collapsed. “No, baby. No. Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.” He was crying now, gasping into the phone. “You didn’t ruin your life. You didn’t. I promise I’ll fix this. I’ll come home right now—”

“No, you won’t.”

Kento completely broke. “Baby, please.”

“No, Kento. You have to work. We need the money. We need—”

“I don’t care about the fucking money!” Kento sobbed, clutching his hair. “I care about you! I care about our family! Please don’t give up on me, baby. Please don’t give up on her.”

But you just hung up.

Kento completely lost it.

He didn’t go back on set. He stayed behind the trailer, sobbing into his hands, shaking, thinking: “I ruined her life. I did this to her. She was supposed to be in college — not stuck at home with a baby.”

And that thought ate him alive. The next few weeks were worse. Kento was dying. Not physically but mentally, emotionally and spiritually, he was. Every single day he walked onto set, it felt like he was leaving you behind. And it was killing him.

Because all he could think about was you. Alone. Depressed. Hollowed out. Not wanting the baby. And he wasn’t there. He was never there. Every single time he put on that suit, stepped in front of the cameras, smiled for his co-stars. He was dying.

Because he knew. He knew the second he came home, you would be worse. Every day it got worse. Every fucking day.

At first, it was subtle. You were tired. Distant. Quiet. But then the days started stretching into weeks, and suddenly you weren’t just tired, you were empty. Your smiles were forced. Your voice was flat. You didn’t ask about his day anymore. You didn’t kiss him when he got home.

And Kento tried to justify it. It’s just the hormones. She’s overwhelmed. She’ll come back to me soon. She’ll come back to me.

But you didn’t.

And Kento broke down again.

Because the more days that passed, the less of you he saw.

You stopped eating dinner with him. You stopped holding the baby. You stopped getting out of bed. You wouldn’t look at him. And the worst part? You didn’t even cry. You just… stared. Blank. Numb. And Kento couldn’t handle it.

He fucking hated himself. Every single day he drove to set, his stomach would turn. He’d clench his jaw the entire time, his hands shaking as he held the steering wheel because he knew. You were at home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. And he wasn’t there. And the guilt was going to fucking eat him alive.

One night, Kento came home early. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was on set, trying to read his lines, but his hands were shaking. His mouth felt dry. His mind kept screaming to him: She’s alone. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. Go home right now.

So he left. He didn’t even tell his manager. He just ripped off his mic and drove home. And when he walked through the door….You were just… sitting there. On the couch. Completely catatonic. Your body was slumped forward. Your eyes were glazed over, completely hollow. You weren’t blinking. You weren’t moving. You weren’t alive.

Baby?” His voice shattered.

Nothing. Kento’s heart slammed into his throat. He dropped his keys, his coat, everything, and sprinted toward you, falling to his knees in front of the couch.

“Baby, please….” his voice cracked. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs trembling as they brushed over your cheeks. “Please talk to me. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

But you didn’t blink.

You didn’t look at him.

You just… stared at the wall.

Kento’s stomach lurched.

His throat closed.

And then you finally spoke.

In a voice so dead, so hollow, that it didn’t even sound like you anymore. “…I don’t want to be a mom anymore.”

“Baby,” his voice broke. He practically collapsed against you, his forehead pressing to your lap as his hands clutched yours. “Please don’t say that. Please, god—”

“I don’t.” you said flatly. Your voice didn’t even crack. It was just… dead. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want her. I don’t want anything.”

Kento’s entire body convulsed.

“Baby, no.” His voice split down the middle. His hands squeezed yours so tight his knuckles went white. “Please don’t talk like that. I know it’s hard. I know you feel alone. But I love you. I love our baby. We can fix this, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Because the truth was — you didn’t want him to fix it.

You didn’t want help. You didn’t want therapy. You didn’t want him to stay home from work. You didn’t want him to coddle you or tell you it would get better.

You just wanted your old life back. You wanted school. You wanted chemistry. You wanted the future you spent years building. But instead, you were just Keiko’s mother. And you fucking hated yourself for it.

“I never wanted this.” you whispered numbly, your eyes glazed over. “I didn’t want to have a baby. I didn’t want to give up school. I didn’t want this life. And now it’s all I have.”

Kento couldn’t breathe. His chest split open. His hands shook violently as he tried to pull you closer, his head buried in your lap. “Please, baby….” his voice splintered. “Please don’t talk like that. I need you. Our baby needs you. We love you.”

But you didn’t respond.

You just kept staring.

Kento sobbed heavily.

His entire body convulsed. His shoulders shook. His throat ripped open as gut-wrenching sobs tore out of him. “I’m so sorry.” he gasped. His face buried into your lap, his tears soaking your clothes. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

And you didn’t comfort him. You didn’t hold him. You didn’t wipe his tears. You didn’t say anything. Because deep down, you hated him, too. You hated that he got to have a life. You hated that he still had his career. You hated that he still had a future.

And you, who you once knew?

You were just a mom.

You were trapped.

And you resented him for it.

YOU WENT AWAY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. It was a shut-in therapy. Somewhere far. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that felt detached from the life you had been drowning in. Kento made the arrangements. You didn’t ask him to but he just did it. One night, after finding you curled up in the corner of the nursery, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe, he made the decision himself. 

You don’t even remember how it happened — one moment you were screaming I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this life anymore, and the next, your husband Kento was quietly helping you with packing your bags.

“Baby….” his voice cracked, his hands trembling as he folded your clothes into a suitcase. “You need help. You need real help. And I can’t—” his throat choked up. “I can’t keep watching you like this. I can’t keep coming home to you like this. I need you to get better, baby. I need you.”

You didn’t fight him.

Because deep down, you knew.

You needed help.

And when you left, Kento didn’t cry. He didn’t break down. He didn’t beg you to stay. He just kissed your forehead, buckled you into the passenger seat, and drove you there himself. The drive was silent. But when you arrived and it came time for him to leave, you felt him break.

Kento clutched your hands so hard you thought he might shatter them. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice splintering as he begged. “Please come back to me. Please get better. Please..... I don’t care how long it takes, just please don’t give up on us.”

And then he left.

And you stayed.

And the first few weeks were hell.

You fought everything. The therapy. The group sessions. The self-reflection. The constant “how are you feeling?” The exposure therapy to bond with your baby. The “you’re not alone” pep talks from strangers who did not know you.

And every single night, you thought about calling Kento. You thought about screaming into the receiver I’m done, come get me, I can’t do this anymore, please just let me go home.

But you didn’t.

Because somewhere deep, deep, deep down, you wanted to get better. And slowly you did. It wasn’t linear. Some days were good. Some days were awful. Some days you held your baby in your arms and felt nothing. Some days you sobbed so hard that you thought you’d vomit. Some days you sat in the therapy circle, refusing to speak, refusing to participate, refusing to care.

But then some days, you looked at your baby and felt something. Not love. Not joy. But something. A tinge of warmth in your chest. A pang of protectiveness. And slowly, slowly, something began to grow. And then six months later, you came home. Kento was there, waiting for you.

The second you stepped through the door, his entire body crashed into you. His arms crushed you against him, his hands cradling the back of your head, his chest heaving as he sobbed harder than you had ever seen him cry.

“Baby!” he gasped into your hair, his voice cracking. “God, I missed you….I missed you so fucking much! I thought you’d never come back to me and Keiko.”

And you sobbed too.

Because you missed him. God, you missed him.

And that night, when you walked into the nursery and you saw your baby again for the first time in months. You cried harder than you ever had in your life. Because for the first time in a long while, you wanted her. And you didn’t hate her anymore.

But… the thing was, your relationship with Kento. It was never the same. You wanted it to be. You tried so hard. Kento tried, too. He was so patient. So gentle. So loving. But something between you both felt… off.

You had a hard time touching him. Being intimate with him. You couldn’t explain why but every time Kento kissed you, really kissed you, or ran his hands down your waist, or tried to pull you into his lap, your body would freeze.

Kento noticed. But he never pushed. He never said a word. He just waited. God, he waited. But the truth was you didn’t know how to give him that part of you anymore. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. You did. You loved him so much. You adored him. You cherished him. You owed him your life.

But every time you tried to make love to him, it felt like you were reopening the wound. It felt like you were back there again. Heavily pregnant, crying yourself to sleep, suffocating in a life you didn’t want. And you hated it. You hated that your body betrayed you. You hated that you wanted to be with Kento, but the second he kissed you, you’d tense and apologize and turn away.

One night, he finally brought it up.

It was subtle. Careful.

“Baby…..” he murmured as you both laid in bed, his fingers brushing over your bare shoulder. “Do you… not want me anymore?”

And your heart dropped. “What?”

Kento swallowed thickly, his voice small. “You never touch me anymore. You never kiss me first. You… you flinch when I touch you sometimes. And I just…. I don’t know if it’s me or if you just… don’t want me anymore.”

“No — no, Kento, I do.” you sobbed, immediately turning to clutch his face in your hands. “I love you. I love you so much. I just…..I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to….. to be close to you. I want to. I really do. I just….”

Kento shook his head. “Baby, no.” his voice splintered. “It’s not your fault. God, it’s not your fault.”

But you still hated yourself for it.

Because every time Kento looked at you with that softness, that adoration, that undying love — all you could feel was guilt. Guilt for what you put him through. Guilt for resenting him. Guilt for pushing him away. And the fullness of the intimacy, it never really came back.

You tried.You forced yourself sometimes, letting him kiss you, letting him touch you — but it felt wrong. Not because of him. But because your body wouldn’t let you have it. Your body still remembers the trauma. Kento never blamed you.

But it killed him. Because every night he’d roll over in bed, aching for you but he wouldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t dare. He knew if he tried, you’d flinch. You’d shut down. And he couldn’t handle that. So, instead all he could do was just… love you from afar.

But how has that ever been enough?

THE FIRST TIME YOU FOUND OUT ABOUT KENTO’S CHEATING, IT WAS PURELY BY ACCIDENT. It must have been years later. After the therapy, after the recovery, after you slowly started piecing your life back together. Your daughter Keiko was already walking, already talking. You had gone back to school part-time, slowly finishing your chemistry degree. 

And your intimacy with Kento? It had started to come back. Well, not fully. Not like it used to be. But you were trying your hardest with everything. You wanted to make sure that you could do it again. Your husband was waiting, and he deserved it. He deserved your love so much more than anyone. 

You started off small. You started to hold hands and then you started kissing him again. You started letting him touch you again. You even started making love again. Though it still wasn’t what it once was. You didn’t initiate it. You didn’t crave it. You just… let it happen. Because you wanted to be close to him. You wanted to fix what was broken.

Yet, Kento was still distant. Not in the obvious way, no. Kento still loved you. Fiercely. Deeply. His hands were still gentle when he brushed your hair behind your ear. His voice was still soft when he murmured his devotions to you every morning. His kisses were still warm when he kissed you goodbye.

But in his eyes, you could see his eyes so clearly. His eyes always looked starved. Like he was still reaching for something you wouldn’t give him. Like no matter how hard you tried, it would never be enough. And deep down, you knew. You would never be able to give that to him ever again.

You saw it. Every night when he rolled over, half-hard in bed, but he wouldn’t touch you. Every morning when he’d linger in the shower, his back to you, his hand clenched into a fist. Every time you let him inside you, and you could feel the heartbreak in his touch, like he was still waiting for you to love him the way you used to.

And you hated yourself for it.

But you never thought…….

You never thought he’d cheat.

Until one day,  you saw the message.

You were on his phone. It wasn’t intentional. His phone was sitting on the coffee table while he was in the shower, and it buzzed. You didn’t think much of it at first — just a glance, a mindless reflex. But then you saw the notification. A text message. From a number you didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was married.”

And your blood ran cold instantly.

You froze as your pupils dilated.

Your hand shook as you unlocked his phone. His password was your anniversary, for fuck’s sake and when you opened the message thread… It was all there. The proof.

It was from months ago. At least half a year. Some random woman. The messages were fragmented. But clearly, Kento had deleted most of them. But there was enough. Enough to piece it together.

The first message was from her. “Hey, I had fun last night :) Let me know if you ever want to do it again.”

And then his response — curt. “I can’t continue on with this. I’m married. I love my wife. And….I have a daughter.”

Then her response. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.”

And that was it. But it didn’t fucking matter. Because the implication was there. The truth was there. Kento had slept with her. He had fucked her. He had cheated on you. He decided to go on with this, swallowed by the need and by lust. 

And you just… You just sat there. Staring at the message. Feeling like the ground was ripped from beneath you. And the thing that destroyed you most was that you weren’t even surprised. Because you knew. You always knew.

You saw it in his eyes every single day. That hunger. That emptiness. That quiet, unspoken need for something you weren’t giving him. And you thought you were fixing it. You thought you were trying. But clearly… clearly it wasn’t enough. 

You didn’t confront him immediately. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You didn’t throw his phone at him the second he walked out of the bathroom. You didn’t do anything. You just… sat there. And thought about it.

And the longer you thought about it, the more it made sense.

Of course he cheated.

Of course he did.

You deprived him for years. You denied him your body. You made him watch you suffer, made him sleep beside you every night knowing he couldn’t touch you, made him ache for you in ways you never fulfilled. That’s the worst part. You understood. You understood why he did it. That was the part that made you nauseous.

Because the truth was you had already broken his heart long before he ever stepped out of your marriage. You had pushed him away for so long, turned cold for so long, denied him for so long — that at some point, he just stopped waiting.

And you didn’t blame him.

You hated him. God, you hated him.

But you understood.  And you still loved him.

What a foolish game for a wallflower to grow on.

And when he finally came out of the bathroom, his hair still damp, towel slung over his shoulder, flashing you that soft, tired smile. You didn’t say a word. You just kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Like you hadn’t just been crushed to death by your heartbreak.

You grabbed his face, pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his like you were trying to rewrite history. Trying to pretend like you didn’t know what you knew. Trying to convince yourself that he was still yours. Kento froze for half a second, shocked by your sudden affection but then his hands snapped around your waist and he melted into you.

“Baby….” he gasped against your mouth, his voice needy, aching. “Fuck….. what’s gotten into you?”

You don’t say a word to him. Instead, you just clung to him. Like if you held him tight enough, like you could somehow undo the fact that he had already been touched by someone else. You let him take you that night. Hard. Rough. Desperate.

You let him fuck you like he hadn’t been able to for years, you let him do as he pleased. You let him crumble into you. His mouth on your neck, his hands fisting your hair, his voice breaking as he gasped over and over —“I love you. God, I love you.”

And you let him. Because in some fucked up way, you felt like you owed it to him, after making him suffer for so long. You spent years starving him, depriving him of life. So it was only fair that he found his comfort somewhere else.…Right?

Yet you stayed up after all that love making, alone.

No, you knew the correct answer all along.

But you were just too much of a fool to say it out loud.

AND JUST LIKE THAT, IT HAPPENS ALL OVER AGAIN. Once again, you were pregnant with your second child.  It wasn’t planned. You never wanted any more children, after all that had happened. But it happened. Yet it wasn’t that surprising. In some ways, this was the only way you could find yourself taking revenge against him. To make him just as miserable as you again.

Just weeks after you found out about his cheating, after you spent night after night letting him have you in every way he wanted, desperately trying to reclaim him, trying to erase the touch of another woman from his skin. You found yourself standing in the bathroom again, clutching a positive pregnancy test. And your stomach dropped.

Because the second those two pink lines stared back at you, you knew. The cycle was about to repeat. The suffocating weight of motherhood. The slow erosion of your identity. The same cold distance that once consumed your marriage was about to happen all over again. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame anyone but yourself.

Because you let him touch you again. You wanted to feel wanted, and to take revenge. You wanted to erase every part of every other woman’s palm on his. You opened your legs for him, night after night, desperate to keep him anchored to you, desperate to make him forget about the other woman and now, you were paying the price.

And when you told Kento, he broke. But not in the same way he did the first time. Not with pure, unfiltered joy. Not with a beaming smile and hopeful eyes. No, this time, Kento’s face crumpled. Yet you know that look on his face. It was just like the first time.

“Baby—” his voice cracked. “You’re….. oh my god, you’re pregnant again?”

And the heartbreak in his voice killed you. Because you knew. You knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking we’re not ready. He was thinking not again. He was thinking I just got her back. And now, it is happening again. Yet, you just knew in the back of his mind, he was thinking this was his punishment. This is what he gets for being the worst man on the earth.

The sleepless nights. Postpartum depression. The intimacy issues. The slow unraveling of your marriage. And you could see it,  the fear in his eyes. Yet, your husband Kento pushed it down. Because he was Kento fucking Nanami. He was a husband. A father. A provider. And regardless of how horrified he was, he refused to let you see it.

So he smiled.

Or at least, he tried to.

Yet you both knew the truth.

That smile felt like the biggest lie.

“That’s amazing, baby.” he choked, his voice strained. “Another baby. That’s… that’s incredible.”

And then he kissed you, soft and hesitant, like he was forcing himself to be happy. And you felt it. You felt the hesitation. The dread. The underlying regret. But you didn’t say anything. Because you were the one who let it happen. And just like that, the cycle began again.

Kento started working more. He said it was to provide for the baby, but you knew better. You knew it was because he was terrified. Because he was already bracing himself for what was about to come for you to spiral again, for you to shut down again, for you to stop loving him again.

You tried not to fall into the same pit you did last time. You tried to stay upbeat. You tried to keep loving Kento — loving him hard enough to make up for the fact that he once touched another woman. You tried to be a good wife. You tried to be excited about the baby.

But slowly… it just happened again.

The nausea. The fatigue. The aching loneliness when Kento came home late. The bitterness when you saw happy women on campus who still had their futures. The slow, creeping resentment every time you looked at your growing belly and thought I didn’t want this.

And worst of all, you started pulling away from Kento again. Not on purpose. But your body remembered. Your body associated pregnancy with trauma, with pain, with suffering and so it shut down. You couldn’t help it. Every time Kento touched you, your skin crawled. Every time he kissed you, you flinched. Every time he tried to make love to you, you just froze.

Kento felt it.

He felt you slipping away.

He felt your body turning cold again.

He felt the weight of your touchless nights,

He felt your silent dinners, your empty stares again.

And you knew.

You knew it was happening all over again.

But this time — it was worse.

Now you couldn’t stop thinking about her. The woman he had slept with. The one he turned to when you couldn’t love him the way he needed. And every time Kento touched you, you couldn’t help but lay there and wonder over and over again.

Did she feel warmer than you?

Did she kiss him like she wanted him?

Did she make him feel loved in a way you never could?

Kento could see it.

He could see the way you recoiled when he reached for you. He could see the distance growing between you again. He could see the guilt burning you alive. And he hated himself. Because the truth was, he never stopped loving you.

Even when he cheated. Even when he fucked another woman. It was never about love. It was never about you. It was about the ache. The desperation. The years of feeling like he was losing you and just needing something to hold onto. Now he felt like he was losing you again.

And deep down, he knew.

You were never coming back to him.

Not fully. Not the way you used to.

And Kento was slowly breaking under the weight of it.

Because no matter how much he loved you, it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough to keep you from falling out of love with him.

This is the world you gave birth to Nanami Kenshin.

LIFE GOES ON AS THEY USED TO SAY. Twenty five years, two whole decades and a half of that since you and Kento had first stepped into this chaotic life together. And somehow, despite everything, you made it.

You had raised two kids, a boy and a girl. Your Keiko and your Kenshin. They were both smart, both stubborn, both carrying that unmistakable sharpness in their eyes that mirrored your husband as much as their compassion had been garnered from your heart.

In all that agony you had come to know in your life, the pair kept you busy with almost everything they could think of. Troublemaking, homework, soccer games, dance recitals, late-night fevers. Everything about it is the messy, beautiful chaos of parenting that somehow keeps you moving forward.

And then there was Kento’s career, near thirty years as a veteran in the industry. He had gone from being the promising newcomer to a household name. Red carpets. Magazine covers. Award ceremonies where his face shone on giant screens as he walked up to accept yet another trophy. The world adored him. Respected him. Envied him.

And you were right there beside him for all of it.

The photographers always wanted you in the frame. His beautiful wife, standing gracefully at his side, draped in sleek designer dresses and glittering jewelry. They loved the way you smiled for the cameras, how your hand always rested delicately on his arm, how you played the part of the elegant, unwavering woman who had supported her husband through it all.

And for a while, you convinced yourself that this was enough. 

That this life, this carefully curated image of family perfection, was what happiness was.

You learned to smile in interviews, to talk about Kento’s dedication as a father and how proud you were of him. You learned to navigate the world of high society — dinner parties with producers, mingling with other industry wives, slipping into that role of effortless charm and poise.

But behind all the glitz and glamour, it was lonely.

With two kids to raise, and a husband to care for, there was little for you.

There was no room for you to be the woman you are.

Kento was rarely home. Always on set, always in meetings, always flying across the country for some event or another. And when he was home, he was exhausted. Conversations grew shorter. His kisses felt rushed. The intimacy you’d once fought so hard to reclaim began to fade again — not because you didn’t want him, but because he was never there.

You kept yourself busy. Raising the kids. Managing the house. 

Smiling at galas, posing for cameras, over and over again. 

Playing the part of the perfect wife in a perfect marriage.

But sometimes, when the house was dark and the kids were asleep, you’d sit alone in the living room clutching an old photograph from years ago, back when Kento’s hair was still short and his smile still reached his eyes and wonder if this was all there was left.

And maybe it wasn’t enough.

But you told yourself it had to be.

Because you had already sacrificed too much to turn back now.

So, you didn’t think of anything when it broke out in the headlines.

Kento Nanami, the beloved actor, devoted husband, father of two had allegedly been caught cheating again after nearly twenty five years of marriage.

You sat at the kitchen table, having breakfast like normal. The morning sun spilled through the windows, the smell of eggs and coffee filling the air, and the faint sound of the television humming in the background.

“Sources say the woman in question is a production assistant from his latest drama series—”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look up.

You just kept stirring your coffee, like the words meant absolutely nothing to you. Kento, on the other hand, was frozen. Fork halfway to his mouth. Face pale. Chest rising and falling like he was trying not to hyperventilate. And then, slowly, ever so carefully,  he turned his head and looked at you.

“…Are you alright?” His voice cracked.

And that’s when you smiled.

You smiled, soft and easy. Like none of it mattered. Like you weren’t currently listening to the entire nation gossip about your husband’s infidelity. Like you weren’t being branded the foolish, pathetic wife who stayed after her husband cheated twice. Like you weren’t dying inside.

And with a voice far too calm, you said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kento’s entire face crumpled.

Because he knew.

He fucking knew.

That wasn’t real. That smile. 

That sweetness. That unbothered facade.

It was performative.

It was the same smile you gave him after your first child was born, when you were drowning in postpartum depression but still told him “I’m fine” over and over again.

It was the same smile you gave him one hundred times when he told you he was going to be late at home tonight, when he didn’t have to be. 

And now, now you are doing it all over again. Feigning nonchalance. Feigning strength. Feigning normalcy. And it destroyed him to bits beyond what he could stand.

“…Baby.” his voice cracked, his fork clattering against his plate. “You don’t have to…. I mean, we can talk about it if you want. I’ll….I’ll explain everything. I swear to god, it’s not what they’re saying—”

You laughed so heartily.

A soft, almost amused laugh.

And you took a sip of your coffee, still smiling. “I don’t need you to explain anything, Kento.”

His stomach dropped. “Wh–what?”

You met his gaze and your smile never wavered. “It’s not the first time, is it?”

And fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Kento’s mouth fell open. “Baby….no. It’s not like that….I swear I—”

“It’s alright.” You cut him off smoothly. Calmly. Almost too calmly. “Really. I don’t want an explanation.”

Kento visibly flinched. His heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it. “…You don’t?”

You shook your head, taking another bite of your eggs. “No. I’m just glad you had fun.”

And Kento lost it. 

“Baby….” His voice cracked violently, his chair scraping against the floor as he immediately dropped to his knees beside you, clutching your thigh like his life depended on it. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out again. Please, baby. Please yell at me. Cry. Scream. Break things. Just…. don’t act like you don’t care. Please. Please, baby, I know you care—”

You laughed again.

But this time — it was hollow.

“I don’t.” you said plainly, popping a piece of toast into your mouth.

And that broke Kento completely, you were sure.

“No, no, that’s not true.” his voice shattered, his grip on your thigh desperate. “You love me. I know you do. You still love me. Please don’t….don’t act like you don’t….. I’ll fix it, baby. I swear to god, I’ll fix it, I’ll—”

“Fix it?” you echoed, your voice soft. Curious. “Like you did the first time?”

Kento fucking froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Because you never talked about it. Ever. After his first affair, you never once brought it up. You forgave him in the silence. Or at least, you pretended to. You shoved it down, pretended it never happened, and let Kento crawl back into your arms without consequence.

Now you were smiling at him like he was nothing more than a pitiful stranger. “Your ears work fine, don’t they?”

“…I don’t know what to say.” he choked. His hands were shaking. His throat constricted. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please….please just tell me what to do. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you asked softly, tilting your head.

The look in your eyes killed him.

“Don’t leave you?” you continued, your voice sickly sweet. “Don’t abandon you like you abandoned me when I needed you the most? Don’t make you feel like I loved someone else the way you made me feel for years?”

Tears burned his eyes. “Baby, please—”

“It’s fine, Kento.” You smiled again. “Really. I’m not mad.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You sipped your coffee. “I’m not anything.”

And Kento completely unraveled.

Because he could see it.

The way you looked at him now. Like he was just a man. Not your husband. Not your Kento. Not the love of your life. Just a man who happened to share your bed, your house, and your children. And it killed him.

“Do you still love me?” he finally choked out, his voice so small.

And you froze.

Just for a second.

But then you smiled again. 

Just as soft, sweet, cold as before.

“Of course, I do.”

And that was the sick part, wasn’t it?

You did. You still loved him. You loved him with your entire fucking soul. You loved him so much that it hurt. You loved him and you hated him with equal intensity. It was two sides of the same coin and it was tearing you apart.

And yet even if you do love him, you know what should be.

Kento didn’t deserve that love anymore.

And even if you have to act like you don’t love him, so be it.

Let him suffer the amount of suffering you had over that time.

So you kissed his forehead, brushed his hair back, and whispered. “You should finish your breakfast. You have work later.”

And then you stood up from your seat, cigarette on your lips.

And left him sobbing on the kitchen floor, lamenting.

You had errands left to run, after all.

A wife has too much to do, you know?

[nikkento-writes]

Babysitter - Part 1

Pairing: dad!Toji x babysitter!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.7k

cw: age gap (reader is 21, Toji is in his 30s), language, cheating, smut – PIV sex (doggy style), breeding kink, daddy kink

Summary: You're hired to babysit little Megumi for the summer, but you end up taking care of his father, Toji, as well.

Author’s Notes: This is repost from my old blog! I initially got this as a request and it became my first Toji fic ever, and certainly not my last lol. I'm posting this again because I actually wrote a Part 2, check it out! Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

You stand in front of a quaint house, checking your watch for the time. It’s been almost ten minutes now since you knocked, no answer. You gave the number from the listing a call, still nothing. Rolling your eyes, you take a seat on the steps leading to the door, waiting.

It’s the summer before you head back to university for your senior year. In an attempt to make some extra cash, you took a job as a babysitter through local ads in the paper. The first two clients were completely normal; this one is already leaving a bad taste in your mouth. 

Fifteen minutes have passed. You try once more, pounding on the door with your fist as loud as you can. Heel turned, ready to leave, it suddenly swings open, revealing a muscular man with black hair, glaring at you. “What the fuck do you want?” 

You step back, startled by his intimidating presence. Stuttering, you answer, “I’m the babysitter.”

He continues to stare at you, eyes following your body up and down, studying it. “Babysitter?”

Before you can explain any further, you hear a car rolling into the driveway. A woman in professional attire steps out quickly. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” She rushes towards you, holding her hand out to shake yours. “We spoke on the phone. I got stuck in traffic, I’m so sorry.”

You smile at her. “It’s okay.”

She faces the man, expression switching from cheery to dreary in an instant. “Toji, where is Megumi?”

He scratches his head. “Huh?”

“Megumi. Our child.”

He sighs. “Right. Uh, I’ll go get him.” 

While he’s gone, the woman pulls you aside, speaking in a hushed voice. “That’s Toji, my husband and Megumi’s father. Unfortunately, he’s a complete deadbeat. That’s why I want to hire you. I started my new job and I need someone to take care of Megumi while I’m gone during the day.”

She swallows hard, blinking to fight off oncoming tears. “I have no one. I’ve been shunned by my family, my husband doesn’t give a shit about ours, and I’m all alone trying to give Megumi a good life. I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m desperate. This is just until I can save enough money to hire a full-time nanny.”

She grips onto your wrist with both her hands, begging for help. Truthfully, it’s a lot to unravel, more drama than you anticipated. But the anguish in her eyes tugs at your heartstrings. Plus, knowing it’s temporary doesn’t make it seem so difficult. How bad can it be? “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Relief washes over her. “Oh thank god. Thank you. Thank you. Let’s go inside and I can give you a tour.” She leads you through the entrance, removing her shoes as you follow her. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Toji is home most of the day, but he’s always couped up in his room, doing god knows what. Just leave a meal or two outside his door twice a day. That should be enough.”

“Huh?!” 

She glances at you with a nervous smile on her face. “Yeah. I told you, he’s good for nothing.”

You don’t respond while you maneuver through the house, barely paying attention while she shows you around. It almost sounds like you’ll be babysitting two children…

~~~

The first two weeks of your new job go by smoothly. Megumi is an adorable baby; he’s almost two-years-old with hair as black as his father’s. While he never really smiles, he doesn’t cry either, expression usually stern, unless he needs a diaper change. He’s self-sufficient, always immersed by his own toys until it’s time to eat. Overall, he’s easy. 

Toji, on the other hand, is another story. 

You follow his wife’s instructions, leaving two meals outside his door, breakfast and lunch. And this asshole has the audacity to critique it! The bread wasn’t toasted enough. The eggs were too runny. There wasn’t enough seasoning on the meat. All this criticism while each plate is licked clean, not a crumb to spot. He’s never even uttered a simple thank you. 

But what he lacks in social skills or personality, he makes up for in his physique. In between meals, he works out in the living room lifting weights, doing push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups at the frame of the door. It lasts for over an hour, and by the end of it, he’s shirtless, dripping with sweat. You’ve done everything in your power to avoid staring but it doesn’t prevent your mind from conjuring all types of lewd thoughts about him. You’re ashamed to admit that he is physically attractive, only because everything else about him is utter trash. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look, right?

On the third week, there’s a shift in energy between you two. When he isn’t working out or going out to meet with his sketchy friends, he’s usually couped up in his bedroom, ignoring you and Megumi. This morning, he actually joins you in the kitchen. You stare blankly at him, stunned by his sudden appearance. Megumi is unfazed by his father as he tries to pull your wrist towards him to get a spoonful of mushed up peas. 

When he catches you, Toji glares. “What?”

“Um, nothing. Just surprised to see you here.” You clear your throat, focusing back on the baby. 

He rolls his eyes. “This is my house. I can do whatever I want.”

“Yes, of course. Sir.”

For some reason, this triggers him. He stands up abruptly, stepping to you, leaning his face towards yours. The scar on the corner of his lip twitches when he gives you a wicked grin. “That’s right. I’m in charge here.”

You flinch from him, scared, maybe even slightly aroused. He’s intense, that’s for sure. But part of you finds it exhilarating to be in his presence. 

Megumi whines for more food, to which Toji grabs the utensil from your hands to start feeding him. “Damn kid, he’s hungry all the fucking time.”

You sit up in your seat, regaining your composure. “You shouldn’t curse in front of children.”

He faces you, chuckling. “Curse? Seriously? What are you, five?”

You cross your arms, answering, “I’m twenty-one.”

“Interesting.” There’s that naughty smirk again, as if he’s thinking something obscene in that twisted head of his. And while you should be turned off, you’re not. You squeeze your legs together, pussy throbbing between your thighs. And of course, he notices this. He must, because he leans forward, lips grazing your ear, whispering, “Come by my room whenever Megumi is taking his nap. That’s an order.”

~~~

This is bad. Very, very bad. 

You're supposed to be better than this. Clearly, you aren’t, because you’re currently getting railed by your employer’s husband while his child sleeps peacefully in the next room.

“Fuck, this pussy is tight,” he groans, pumping his thick cock in and out of you. You’re bent over the edge of the bed, his hips smacking against your ass as he thrusts into you. He’s got a tight grip on your hips, nails digging into your flesh, pounding away at your greedy pussy, absolutely drenched with arousal and lube. Your face is sticky with perspiration, pillow soaked with sweat and drool. It’s a fucking mess, but it doesn’t matter, because all you can think about is Toji fucking you until you’re seeing stars. Until your head is empty and nothing but his fat cock is occupying your thoughts.

“God, you’re squeezing me so fucking hard, princess. You gonna come again?”

You nod erratically, reaching your fingers to your clit. He smacks it away, doing it himself, his thumb flicking against your swollen bud. “Fucking come on my cock then. Make it nice and creamy for me, got it?”

His cock is buried deep inside you, hitting your sweet spot over and over until you unravel, gushing around him once more. You’ve lost count on how many orgasms you’ve had in this short amount of time. 

After your climax, he doesn’t pull out, fucking you even rougher. Your body is pliant around him, yielding to his every touch like putty. You’ve lost control of yourself, completely enraptured in the intense pleasure he surrounds you with. 

He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, lips brushed to your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Give Megumi a little brother or sister. Would you like that?” He’s crazy. Completely unhinged. Absolutely fucking psycho. 

“Fuck yes, I want that,” you moan. “Give it to me, daddy. Breed me.” 

And apparently, so are you. 

“Oh fuck yeah, take my fucking cum then,” he growls. The bed creaks violently below you, his backshots brutal and frantic now, cock desperate for release. “I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant. Make you mine.”

He shoots his hot load inside you, stuffing you full of his cum. He doesn’t stop until he’s fucked it deeper into your pussy, watching with that sexy look on his face as his creamy cum leaks out of your slit.

Lifting you up to lay comfortably on the bed, he rolls beside you, kissing you sloppily until Megumi’s whimpers blare through the baby monitor, indicating that he’s awake. Toji laughs, smacking your ass as you crawl over him to return to your real job. 

~~~

You spend the remainder of your summer employed at the Fushiguro household until you have to go back to school. You and Toji continue to fuck each other silly every day that you’re working. 

The day before you leave for college, you say your goodbyes to the family. Megumi’s mom, who remains blissfully unaware of your sins, hugs you tightly. “Thank you so much for all your help. I’ve finally saved enough money to afford a full-time nanny, so we’ll be fine.” 

“It was my pleasure. I had a lot of fun. With Megumi,” you clarify, avoiding Toji’s gaze as he watches from the kitchen. 

“Seriously. You’re a good person. I hope you know that.” She smiles, truly grateful. “And thank you for taking care of my good for nothing husband too.”

As the guilt of this dirty, filthy secret eats away at you, Toji stares at you from across the room, smirking. 

[littlelamy]

title: catching him cheating

warnings: 18+, language, angst, part 1 part 2 part 3 (mon)

your fingers trace the tiny locket sewn into the soft fabric of his ralph lauren sweater, the little heart stitched onto the chest like a secret. you’d spent hours threading it in, thinking of how cute it would be when rafe saw it—how he'd smirk, maybe tease you, then kiss your head murmuring 'i love you' because, despite everything, he was soft for you.

except he wasn’t. not really. because when you push open the door to his house, already grinning, already calling his name, all you hear is the wet slap of skin against skin, a low groan that is unmistakably his.

“fuck—sofia—”

it’s a wrecking ball to the ribs, a sharp inhale that never makes it out. you stand frozen in the doorway, your hand still mid-air from where you'd been about to wave, like an idiot. like the world hadn’t just caved in beneath your feet.

sofia is bent over the couch, hands gripping the leather, her back arching as rafe pounds into her, his fingers digging into her hips so hard they’ll leave bruises. she moans his name, and his head is thrown back, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, lost in the pleasure of it, of her.

then he sees you.

“fuck.” he rips himself away so fast sofia stumbles forward, making a choked noise. but your eyes are on him, the way his pupils blow wide in something that is almost fear but not quite—more like the horror of being caught, of knowing exactly how bad this is but being powerless to rewind time.

“baby—no, no, please, it’s not—”

you don’t hear the excuse because your ears are ringing, heartbeat a war drum against your ribs. the blood drains from your face, leaving only cold, only static, only the unbearable weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest.

sofia scrambles to gather her clothes, half-stammering apologies as if she weren’t just moaning his name, but she isn’t the problem here. he is.

“you don’t get to call me that,” you whisper, voice shaking but sharp enough to cut. you swallow hard, jaw tight. “you don’t get to fucking call me that.”

rafe moves toward you like he actually thinks he can fix this, like he can close the distance and make you forget the image already seared into your mind. “please, you have to let me explain—”

“explain what?” your voice cracks, eyes burning. “that you’re a liar? a fucking cheat?”

“it was a mistake,” he swears, desperation creeping in. “i fucked up. i'm drunk, i—”

“no.” your laugh is humorless, sharp. “you don’t just trip and land inside someone, rafe.”

his face twists, frustration curling at the edges, and suddenly the remorse cracks, something uglier slipping through. like a switch flipping.

“fuck, fine,” he snaps, raking a hand through his hair, voice laced with irritation now. “you wanna be a drama queen about this? go ahead. but don’t act like you’re fucking perfect.”

it’s laughable. disgusting. you shake your head, staring at him like you don’t even know him anymore. maybe you never did.

“you are such a fucking coward,” you murmur, voice quiet but scathing. you take a step back, one foot already out the door. “don’t ever speak to me again.”

and for the first time, he looks scared. really scared. because he knows you mean it.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

[niwaart]

FAMILY WITHOUT LIGHT

[#part1 #part2 #part3]

Dick panicked, he gripped his phone tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.

《This number is unreachable, please try again later.》

Dick let out a scream of anger and impatience, he had been trying to call Y/N for over 5 hours, just to get an answer. Why did she leave the house?… All this happened when he was in his Nightwing costume doing a normal nighttime mission after tying up criminals, a newspaper with Bruce’s picture caught his attention, Dick wondered what new drama the journalists were talking about this time, as soon as he grabbed the newspaper he felt like the air was being sucked out of him. It took him over a minute to process what was being said…

##Bruce Wayne and Y/N Wayne divorced after more than 15 years.##

No... that's a lie, just another rumor, it can't be true, maybe Bruce doesn't care about Y/N but Y/N wouldn't leave the house... after all he saw her love for Damian and Tim, and how she cared for them... so this is just a rumor... right?....

Dick took the newspaper with him and quickly ran to his apartment... He needed to make sure.. He had to get to his apartment to call Y/N.. She would tell him the truth, reassure him, tell him that everything was okay.... As soon as he got to his apartment window, he opened it and entered after entering the access code. His dog Haley approached him, he gave her a few pats before he reached his phone and called Y/N... But she didn't answer his calls.... He tried and tried and tried... But no answer... Could it be true?... Did Y/N leave the house?... Why?....

He was going to call Bruce but he was mad at him for not stopping Y/N from leaving and that he might be the reason Y/N left. So he decided to call Alfred who immediately answered, "Mr. Dick, how may I help you?" "Hello Alfred... Sorry to bother you now... The thing is... I..." Dick hesitated... He was afraid to hear the answer...

“I just called Y/N and she didn’t answer… so I was wondering if everything was okay…” Dick answered, praying with all his might that there was an excuse other than the divorce… “Oh… Mr. Dick… I don’t know how to tell you this… but… Y/N and Bruce have been divorced for three months now…” Alfred’s answer was like a knife slicing into his chest… well maybe deep down he knew the divorce was real… but… three months ago?… and no one told him?… “How… why?… why the divorce, and why didn’t anyone tell me?” Dick’s voice was muffled, he tried not to cry, he tried to control himself a little… “I’m sorry Mr. Dick… it was such a shock to everyone that I forgot to tell you… as for the divorce, Y/N chose that herself… unfortunately…” Alfred’s voice was filled with pain, making it even harder for Dick to hold back his tears… Y/N had left them… she had left them…

Dick hung up the phone after thanking Alfred and collapsed on the floor crying… His dog Haley was beside him trying to comfort him… But it didn’t work… It took Dick maybe half an hour to calm himself down… He tried to take deep breaths in and out… Then he hugged his dog Haley who had already settled happily in his lap. Dick was sitting on the floor leaning his head on the bed behind him while looking at the ceiling of his apartment. He couldn’t help but remember all the memories with Y/N. Dick may not have said it out loud before, but he considered Y/N as his mother… She always took care of him, he still remembers the first time he came to Wayne Manor after his parents died, he was full of anger and wanted revenge, Bruce was trying to channel his anger in a good way to fight the bad guys, but Y/N allowed him to vent his anger, by crying and getting all his feelings out and not holding them in, he remembers that he was mean to her at first, thinking that she was trying to be his mother, but after a while, it turned out that she was just trying to help him, she helped him decorate his parents' grave, buy new things, and when he fought with Bruce she took his side… and even now she still against Bruce and side with Damian, he loved the stories she told, she helped him and encouraged him to speak his mind and thoughts and not hold them in… even when he had a big fight with Bruce and decided to leave the house to be independent… She called him every night, asking him how he was, and if he tried to lie she would know and ask him to tell the truth, which he actually couldn't resistance, so he was always honest with her, Dick was used to being a leader and a good big brother, everyone depended on him… and Y/N was the one he could count on, she was the light of his life, she was family, until recently she used to call him and check on him, now he knew why she hadn't called in three months… He sighed and looked down to see that Haley was asleep, he picked her up and put her in her bed. Even if Y/N had left the house, she still loved them, he was sure, maybe if he went back to Gotham and talked to her he would understand, yeah, maybe she had left the house, but she wouldn't leave them, she still loved them. He was sure

In Gotham... specifically at Wayne Manor, Tim was suffering from a headache and back pain, he was lying in his bed... well maybe not his bed, but in Y/N's bed and room. His work and the pile of papers were almost competing with the towering mountains... when did paperwork become so stressful and tiring? He didn't remember this ever being a problem for him, he wouldn't lie to himself, he knew that Y/N's departure was the reason for the work to be doubled, the sleep to be less, and the pain to be more, Y/N used to do almost all the work for him, so he could rest, but now he couldn't balance his sleeping time, eating, doing all the work, solving cases, and becoming Red Robin, it was too much, Y/N was managing it so well, she did his work, made sure he ate and drank enough before she literally dragged him from the Batcave to the palace to sleep against his will, she always carried him like a baby, he always wondered how she could carry him so easily, okay he'd admit that when he first came to the palace he was a very skinny baby, but he grew up and became muscular, maybe not like Dick or Jason but he sure wasn't light, anyway that didn't concern him now... The problem here is that he hasn't slept in... two days? He doesn't know, maybe it's been three days... He hates that Y/N used to carry him to his room and stay by his side until he fell asleep, and he hated that she knew that sometimes he pretended to sleep, so she wouldn't leave until Tim was completely asleep... Sometimes Tim couldn't sleep easily, like when there was a mission or a case on his mind but Y/N carried him to his room before he could finish it, so he would complain and sometimes beg Y/N to finish the case, that it wouldn't take long, but Y/N always refused... And he couldn't sleep because of the case that consumed his mind, so Y/N would sometimes tell him stories... And it worked to make him sleep... He wondered if Y/N's stories were real, because they didn't seem imaginary at all, her stories were strangely realistic, to the point that all Tim's attention was only on the story until he fell asleep. And so Tim became forced to sleep because of Y/N, food and water, when he should take a break and when he should finish the case, Y/N was organizing his life, he didn't remember getting tired or exhausted from this organization, on the contrary, he was getting enough sleep and food to renew his energy, and even after he came back from his break he would come back with more energy and his solving of cases was at an amazingly higher rate than before, it was very useful, Y/N was the only one who knew how to organize him amazingly with all the work he had. But Y/N wasn't just organizing his life, she even hid his mistakes. Sometimes he would come back from missions with some wounds. Tim didn't like to say that he was injured, it made him weak, and he didn't want to be weak, but Y/N would discover every wound he had, even if it was hidden. The good thing was that she never told Bruce about the injuries, and if the injuries were serious, she would make an excuse for Tim not to go on the next mission. She would cover up all his failures and mistakes in silence... and he was grateful to her. He still remembered when Damian first came and took the Robin costume from him, she would comfort him and stay by his side and tell him that Robin wasn't the one wearing the costume, Robin was the one who protected the children of this city.

It really helped him… he remembered when he asked her advice about his new costume and name, and she encouraged him… she was proud of him, he saw it in her eyes, and when Batman disappeared and everyone thought he was dead and Dick was about to put him in Arkham, Y/N was the first to protest and the first to hit Dick… well that problem was solved a while ago and Y/N was so mad at Dick, it took Dick over three weeks to try to get her to forgive him… it was funny to Tim. She got mad for him. For him… he missed her… she was his whole life, now he couldn’t sleep or work, even his appetite was gone… he could barely survive on coffee now. That’s why he moved into her room a few weeks after she left, he wouldn’t say he slept well, but at least he did, now her scent, her warmth, even her voice and her look at him were gone. When he moved into her room he had a fight with Damian about it, that was the first and last fight they had since Y/N left. Damian wouldn't like it if Tim was the one taking over Y/N's room, and it was a long, tiring fight, in which Damian gave in for the first time ever, letting Tim sleep in Y/N's room. Tim knew very well why Damian was angry, that he missed Y/N too, Damian had changed dramatically after her departure, he barely spoke inside the house, and even on missions he didn't have the same enthusiasm as usual, and he didn't blame Damian for that, he missed her himself... but he had to thank his position as CEO of WE for that which helped him see Y/N a lot, he had multiple meetings with Y/N's family company under the pretext of resuming relations again, just to see Y/N, and one of the meetings was always cancelled due to circumstances, whether from his side or Y/N's, and the first meeting that finally happened was last night, and after more than three months he saw Y/N again, when she entered the meeting room she automatically patted him on the head and asked him how he was and that his appearance looked bad and he should eat and sleep well... Tim was silent, he felt a lump in his throat, if there weren't other people in the room he would have collapsed and hugged her and asked her to come back, but he remained silent looking down Trying to breathe slowly, after the meeting ended he wanted to catch up with her, and talk to her alone and tell her that he needed her back, he hadn't slept in a long time, but because of some old businessmen that Tim was planning to throw out who blocked his way with some questions, invitations and failed offers that caused Tim to be late to catch up with Y/N, but it's okay, he will have another meeting with her, and he will ask her to go home.

Tim sighed as he tried to sleep for the sixth time and was about to fall asleep this time but the knocking on the door woke him up. He grumbled and cursed under his breath at the person at the door unless that person was Alfred, Tim got up lazily and opened the door to be surprised by Damian standing at the door... "Oh? Damian? What's wrong?" Tim noticed Damian's eyes were puffy from crying, he wasn't surprised, ever since Y/N left Damian had been crying a lot, not that anyone would tell him that was obvious. "I want you to find me two people, they're from my school, and they call Y/N my aunt." Damian said calmly without any arrogance. Tim looked at him in confusion for a while, could it be that Damian was after Y/N now? "And before you say anything I know that you're trying to get Y/N back through the meetings you request from her family's company." Damian continued crossing his arms. Tim tensed for a moment, he didn't know that it was obvious, then sighed in surrender. "Okay, come in."

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[mssishipi]

my boyfriend's in a band —pjs

SYNOPSIS: One second, you were telling a little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the whole school thought you were dating Park Jongseong—the cold, untouchable, and ridiculously hot guitarist. What started as a desperate move to boost your reputation took a wild turn when Jay decided to go along with it. Now, you’re caught up in nonstop gossip, awkward moments, and a fake relationship that feels a little too real��especially with Jay showing a surprisingly sweet side that no one, including you, saw coming.

content tags: fake dating, lots of fluffs, comedy, slight angst, strangers to lovers, reader is in 11th grade while jay is in 12th, (but both of them are over the age of 18) reader is short, jay smokes vape in the middle of the story, jay hates everyone lol. warning: profanities, mentions of sex, mild smut. WC: 14.7k

song used: same ground by kitchie nadal

note: thank you for the 95 followers!

You were a simple girl.

Simple, average, ordinary. Not the type to snag straight A's in every class, but not failing either. You were the kind of girl teachers barely noticed—just another name on the roll call, another face in the crowd.

You liked pink—just enough to keep it cute, but not the over-the-top glittery kind.

You didn't obsess over fandoms or have bags covered in pins and but you have figurines. Your style wasn't edgy or pastel chic or anything that made you stand out. You were... balanced. Plain. Normal.

Your high school life reflected that. Simple. Average. No exciting detours.

You weren't a sports star who got their name chanted in the bleachers. You weren't a science geek impressing everyone with your brainpower. You weren't a mean girl, a party kid, or a cheerleader.

Oh, but you wanted to be a cheerleader.

You wanted to wear that uniform, flip through the air, feel the rush of the crowd. You wanted the applause, the way everyone's eyes followed them when they walked the halls.

But no one cared about a normal girl trying out.

Reputation was everything in high school, and yours? Too simple. Too... forgettable.

You could cheer. You could dance. You could pull off a backflip, a split, the whole routine. You had the skills. What you didn't have was the image.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" one of the cheerleaders asked, her voice dismissive as you landed your final jump during tryouts. You stood there, panting, sweat dripping down your face after nailing the routine.

"A boyfriend?" you repeated, blinking, stunned. What did that have to do with anything?

"From football? Hockey? Maybe Math Olympiad?" she continued, her smirk curling like she already knew the answer.

You froze. Of course you didn't have a boyfriend. You were an NBSB—No Boyfriend Since Birth kind of girl. But how was that even relevant? You were here to cheer, not audition for a dating show.

"We'll let you know if you're accepted... or not," another cheerleader chimed in, her voice dripping with boredom. She wasn't even pretending to care about your performance.

You stood there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing, gripping your bag so tight your knuckles turned white. The sting of their indifference burned in your chest as you turned and walked out of the gym, sweaty and defeated.

Reputation doesn't matter, they always said. What a joke. High school was all about reputation—who you dated, who you were seen with, who you weren't.

And being a simple, average, normal girl? That just wasn't good enough.

It was a warm afternoon when you found yourself face-to-face with them again—the cheerleader tryouts.

So, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:

"My boyfriend is Park Jongseong."

The world seemed to stop for a second. All the cheerleaders froze, wide-eyed, jaws dropping like a scene from a poorly-scripted teen drama.

"Wait—Park Jongseong?!" one of them shrieked, her voice climbing several octaves. "The hot guitarist in the band?"

You nodded, keeping your expression sweet and innocent, careful not to let your fabricated lie crumble.

"Oh my god!" Another cheerleader nearly jumped out of her skin. "He's, like, the hottest guy in school! And so... mysterious."

"He's so cold, though," another chimed in, tilting her head suspiciously. "How did you even—"

You cut her off, spinning your web of lies before she could unravel it. "Oh, it just... happened," you said with a casual shrug, as if it were no big deal.

"We met at this café off campus. He asked me about my drink order, and, well..." You let out a dreamy sigh, painting a picture so vivid you could almost convince yourself it was real.

"He's so sweet. He cares about me so much. Like, he cooks for me when I'm tired, aftercare after sex, kisses me goodbye every morning, and—" You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice to a whisper. "He even lets me touch his guitar."

The gasps that followed were almost deafening.

"No way!" one of them shrieked, clutching her chest in disbelief. "Park Jongseong doesn't let anyone touch his guitar!"

You nodded solemnly, as if sharing a sacred truth. "Well, he lets me."

For a moment, you thought you'd pulled it off. You were a star in their eyes, a girl who'd managed to capture the unattainable Park Jongseong's heart.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

Park Jongseong hate everyone, especially you. And honestly? You didn't blame him.

The first time you'd crossed paths, it had been a disaster.

You'd been drinking water at your locker when he appeared out of nowhere, walking right past you. Startled by his sudden presence, you'd choked, spraying water directly into his face.

His jaw had clenched, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to lose his temper.

"Sorry!" you'd squeaked, your face burning with humiliation.

And then, like the socially awkward creature you were, you'd bolted down the hallway, leaving him dripping and furious.

Then there was the incident in the music room.

You'd been poking around the instruments out of boredom, your fingers grazing the strings of a random guitar when—CRASH. Your foot caught on something, and the stand holding his prized guitar tipped over, sending it sprawling to the floor.

Right at that moment, the door swung open, and in walked Park Jongseong.

You froze like a deer in headlights, your heart dropping to your stomach as his gaze landed on his guitar, then on you. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.

"Uh... sorry?" you muttered, holding up your hands in a weak peace sign. Before he could say anything, you darted out of the room. You ran away, again.

And who could forget the volleyball incident?

You'd been practicing serves in the gym when he and his friends walked in. Your focus wavered for a split second, and the ball sailed in the wrong direction—straight into his face.

You gasped as blood began dripping from his nose. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you stammered, panicking as he grabbed his face, clearly in pain.

Without thinking (or, honestly, with too much thinking), you did what you always did. You ran, again.

And now, standing here, spinning lies about a romance that didn't exist, you had to fight to keep your composure.

"Wow," one of the cheerleaders gushed. "I can't believe you and Jongseong are, like... a thing!"

"Yeah," you said with a forced laugh, clutching your bag tightly to hide how sweaty your palms were. "He's... amazing."

But in the back of your mind, all you could think about was how Park Jongseong would react if he ever found out about this.

And...The story spread faster than you could have ever imagined.

One second, you were fabricating a harmless little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the entire school seemed to think you and Park Jongseong were soulmates—or worse, a thing.

And not just any kind of "thing." No. The rumors had grown legs, arms, and a whole personality.

"Is it true that Park Jongseong is... like, huge in bed?" one girl whispered as you passed her in the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.

You choked on absolutely nothing, gripping your bag as if it might save you from spontaneously combusting.

Another girl caught up to you, practically skipping alongside you. "Oh my God, how was it? You know, with him? Is he all intense and broody like he looks, or does he have a soft side?"

You stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"He's... uh... great?" you stammered, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so unconvincing.

Her jaw dropped, and before you knew it, a crowd of girls—yes, the famous girls—was swarming you, each one louder and more persistent than the last.

"I can't believe you got him to date you!"

"Wait, wait, wait—did he really let you touch his guitar? Because I heard he doesn't even let his bandmates touch it."

"What's his favorite food? Does he let you steal his hoodies? Is he ticklish?"

"Is he actually the silent-in-public, wild-in-private type? Tell us everything!"

Your head was spinning. They were everywhere, and you couldn't escape. You tried smiling naturally, nodding here and there, but the panic bubbling inside you was threatening to explode.

"Oh my God, you're not even in the cheerleading pep squad yet? How dare they still not accept you!" one girl exclaimed dramatically. She flipped her hair with a loud scoff. "I mean, I saw your audition, and it was fucking amazing."

You blinked. She definitely had not seen your audition.

"Y-yeah, um... thanks," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter and taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

It was still early, but the hallway was packed. The questions kept coming, the voices growing louder, and you were just about ready to melt into the floor.

And then it happened.

You let out a tiny squeak as someone grabbed your arm, yanking you out of the circle of girls. You stumbled, blinking in shock, and turned to see who your savior—or captor—was.

Your heart nearly stopped.

It was him.

Park Jongseong!

Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than your worst nightmares, and hair falling messily across his forehead like he just stepped out of a photoshoot.

Except he didn't look like a model. No. He looked angry.

Like, furious.

Oh, you were so, so dead.

"S-see you later, girls!" you called out, your voice cracking as you tried to sound cheerful. You gripped his arm like your life depended on it, forcing a smile as he dragged you through the hallway.

The crowd erupted behind you.

"Oh my God, they're really together!"

"I knew it!"

"They're so cute! Look at how she holds onto him!"

Your face felt like it was on fire. You could feel every pair of eyes in the hallway locked on you as Jongseong stormed forward, his grip firm but not painful. You tried to match his pace, but his legs were longer, and you were practically jogging to keep up.

You tried to focus on breathing, but the more they talked, the more you wanted to just curl up and disappear.

Meanwhile, Jongseong hadn't said a single word. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Uh, Jongseong—"

Before you could finish, he yanked open the door to a small storage room, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you with a loud click.

"Hey—what are you—"

"Shut up," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.

You blinked, startled. The room was small, cramped, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dusty boxes surrounded you, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.

Jongseong leaned against the door, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a frustrated sigh.

"What the hell?" he said finally, his voice laced with irritation.

You swallowed hard, gripping your bag like a shield. "I... I can explain?"

"Yeah, you'd better," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees feel like jelly.

"Why is everyone in this school convinced we're dating? And why," his voice dropped lower, "did I just hear someone asking if I'm good in bed?"

You winced. "Okay, so... it might've gotten a little out of hand."

He let out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"

You hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Look, I was just trying to impress the cheerleaders! They don't think I'm cool enough to make the squad, so I might've... um... made up a story."

His jaw tightened. "A story? About me?"

You gave him a weak, apologetic smile. "I didn't think it would blow up like this! I thought they'd just forget about it after tryouts!"

"Oh, yeah, because rumors about me always disappear quietly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You bit your lip, your embarrassment growing by the second. "I'm really sorry. I'll fix it. I promise."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "How exactly do you plan to fix this? Everyone already thinks we're a couple. You should've thought about that before you opened your mouth."

"I know, I know!" you said, your voice rising slightly. "But I didn't think people would actually believe me! I mean, look at you! You're, like... you, and I'm just... me."

He stared at you, one eyebrow twitching. "What does that even mean?"

"It means no one would ever think you would date someone like me!" you blurted out.

There was a brief silence, Jongseong blinked, his expression unreadable.

"Wow," he said finally, his tone flat. "That's... depressing."

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"

"Yeah," he said bluntly.

You peeked at him through your fingers, your voice small. "Can you... just not kill me, though?"

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering throwing you out the door, but instead, he leaned back against it, running a hand down his face.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said finally. "You're going to go out there, tell everyone you lied, and make sure my name is out of their mouths by the end of the day."

Your eyes widened. "I can't do that! If I tell them the truth, I'll look like a total loser! They'll never let me on the squad!"

"Not my problem," he shot back.

"Please!" you pleaded, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Just... let me ride this out a little longer. I'll figure out a way to fix it without dragging your name through the mud, I promise!"

He stared at you for a long moment. He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Do whatever you want," he said finally.

Your eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Don't make me regret this," he added,

"I'll do anything!" you said quickly, your relief overwhelming your sense of pride.

His eyes flicked back to yours, and you swore you saw a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Anything?"

You hesitated. "Uh... within reason?"

He smirked, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pushing off the door and opening it.

"Wait, where are you going?" you asked, panicked.

"Class," he said simply, walking out and leaving you standing there, still clutching your bag like it might protect you from the fallout.

"Oh my God, they just came out of the storage room together!" someone squealed.

Your blood froze as a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled down the hallway.

"No way! They're so freaky!"

"They couldn't even wait until after school? A quickie in the storage room?!"

"That's so wild!"

You bolted out of the storage room, your face burning so hot it was probably visible from space. "It's not what you think!" you stammered, waving your hands frantically. "Nothing happened! I swear!"

But your protests only seemed to make things worse.

"Did you see her face? She's totally guilty!"

"God, no wonder he's so obsessed with her. She's probably insane in bed."

"Wait, so does this mean she's, like, not lying about them being a couple?"

The crowd erupted into a chorus of giggles, whispers, and scandalized gasps, and you felt your soul leave your body.

At the end of the day, you got the news: you were officially part of the cheerleading pep squad.

This wasn't exactly how you pictured it, but hey, you'd finally made it. You thought practice would be all about jumps, flips, and cheers, but instead, it was questions. Endless questions.

All about your "boyfriend."

By the time practice ended, you were convinced the squad cared more about Park Jongseong than they cared about cheerleading. It was exhausting. They made him your whole personality.

Now, you stood outside the music room, foot tapping nervously as you psyched yourself up. You needed to talk to him. Jongseong—Jay—walked out with his guitar slung over his back, his expression colder than a freezer. His eyes landed on you, sharp and annoyed.

"Why are you here?" he asked, as blunt as ever.

You forced an awkward smile. "Hi! Because... you're my boyfriend?"

Jay scoffed, walking past you like you didn't exist. Panicked, you scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

"H-hey! Wait!" you called, gripping the edge of his jacket. "I'm Y/N! Please, for the second time, just hear me out!"

He stopped, turned, and stared at you with the kind of look that could burn holes in concrete. "What do you want now?"

You fumbled with your bag, your cheeks burning. "I just... I wanted to talk about—"

"Fuck off," he snapped, making you flinch and throw your hands up like you were bracing for impact.

"I'm sorry!" you squeaked, your voice small.

Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. For a second, his eyes softened—but not enough to let you relax.

"I already let you use my name. What else do you want from me?" he asked, voice low and sharp.

You bit your lip, tapping your foot nervously. You'd practiced this speech in your head a hundred times, but the words suddenly felt scrambled.

"I just... I got into the cheerleading squad, but they keep asking me questions about you, and—"

His glare deepened. "After you spilled water on me, crashed my guitar, and hit me in the face with a volleyball, what more do you want?"

You gasped, offended. "E-excuse me?! Those were accidents!" you said, emphasizing the word with dramatic hand gestures.

"I didn't spill water on you on purpose! And I didn't crash your guitar—it fell! And your nose? Total accident!"

Jay's expression didn't budge. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

He turned to leave, but you panicked again, grabbing his arm and walking beside him as fast as your shorter legs could go.

"Please, just help me for a little while longer!" you pleaded.

He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at you, looking like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest trash can. "You got what you wanted. Tell them we broke up or something."

You shook your head frantically. "No, no, no! I know I'm a loser for using your name, but I need to keep this up for a few more months!"

Jay's jaw tightened. "What now?"

"I just... need some information about you," you said, your voice small. "Like, your favorite color, or your hobbies, or—"

He cut you off with a groan. "Just make something up. You're good at that."

"But it sounds fake!" you whined, stomping a little like a frustrated child.

Jay stopped walking and turned to glare at you again. "And the story about the café and me being good in bed doesn't sound fake?"

Your cheeks turned crimson. "I-I didn't say anything about you being good in bed!" you squeaked, waving your hands defensively. "I just said you were good at, uh, aftercare! They're the ones who assumed the rest!"

Jay stared at you, his face unreadable, but the way his lips twitched told you he was this close to laughing.

"So, you want more information about me so you can answer their next stupid questions?" he asked.

You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Exactly!"

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Like if I'm huge?"

Your brain short-circuited. "N-no!" you squealed, stepping back as your cheeks burned even hotter. "It's not like that!"

Jay smirked, adjusting the strap of his guitar as he stood up straight again. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Good luck with your cheerleading squad, girlfriend."

And with that, he totally walked away, leaving you standing there, red-faced and humiliated. But you weren't about to give up.

No way. You'd come too far and sacrificed too much pride to back down now. If groveling got you this far, then maybe going lower would get you what you needed.

So, you became... everywhere.

After his chemistry class, there you were, waiting outside the door with a bright smile and an awkward wave. "Hi! How was class? Did you learn anything interesting?"

He barely looked at you as he walked past, muttering, "I don't know, did you?"

At his band practice, you somehow sweet-talked your way in. His bandmates, thinking you were his girlfriend, welcomed you with open arms.

"Jay never told us you were so supportive," one of them said, grinning.

"Y-yeah! That's me! Super supportive!" you laughed nervously, while Jay sat in the corner, tuning his guitar, looking like he was plotting your demise.

But you stayed anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him play with stars in your eyes. He was good—like, really good—and for a second, you almost forgot how much he hated you.

After practice, you walked out with him, chatting non-stop about your cheerleading routine. "So then Karina said I should try a - "

Jay, walking ahead of you, sighed heavily. "Do you ever stop talking?"

You froze for half a second before jogging to catch up. "Not really!" you said cheerfully, ignoring the withering glare he shot you.

During break time, you plopped down beside him in the cafeteria, chatting away about your practice. You didn't even realize you were rambling until he looked at you, his expression blank.

"Do you ever run out of words?" he asked, deadpan.

You blinked. "Uh... no?"

He groaned, rubbing his temples.

It wasn't long before your cheer squad started noticing things, too.

During one break, Yunjin leaned over, lazily plucking at her nails. "Your relationship seems so... one-sided," she said casually, enough to make your stomach drop.

"Eh?" you squeaked, your chest tightening with nerves. "W-what do you mean?"

Yunjin shrugged. "We never see you guys together. And when we do, he looks like he's about murdering someone."

You forced a laugh, your hands sweaty. "W-well, he's just... had a lot of bad days lately!"

"Jay's always having bad days when he's with you?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"And you two don't even kiss in public," Karina added, leaning her chin on her hand.

Your throat went dry. "Uh, well, he doesn't like PDA," you said quickly.

The two of them exchanged looks but eventually shrugged, letting it go. You let out a quiet breath of relief, only to freeze when Karina clapped her hands.

"Y/N, you said you can do back handsprings, right?"

You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Do you need me to—"

"Great!" Karina stood, surveying the gym with a critical eye. "We need you to cover the entire formation during lifting. Can you do five in a row?"

Your eyes widened. "F-five?"

"Yeah, starting from over there." Karina gestured to the far side of the gym.

You forced a smile and walked to the starting position, nerves rattling in your chest. Everyone's eyes were on you.

You took a deep breath and started your back handsprings, nailing five in a row. When you landed, slightly dizzy, you raised your arms triumphantly.

"Hmm... it doesn't cover the right side," Karina said, tapping her chin. "Y/N, try seven this time."

Your smile faltered. "S-seven?"

They nodded.

You did as they asked, pushing through the dizziness, only to hear them call for more.

By the fourth round, you were practically collapsing mid-air. Ten was far too much, and by the end, your knees hit the floor hard, sending pain shooting up your legs.

"Oh, perfect!" Karina said, clapping her hands. "That covered the whole area. Great job, Y/N! But you need to work on your posture."

You winced, clutching your bruised knee as you shuffled to sit beside the others. The pain was sharp, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced a smile, trying to keep it together.

"I'm kind of craving boba tea," Karina said suddenly, standing up. "Who wants some?"

"Oh, me too!" Giselle chimed in, followed by the rest of the squad eagerly raising their hands.

"Perfect!" Karina said, pulling out a notepad. "Let's make a list."

A moment later, she shoved the list into your hands. "Here. And here's the money. You can go get it for us."

You stared at the list, dumbfounded. "Wait... me?"

"Yeah! Thanks, Y/N!" she said brightly, already turning to talk to Giselle about something else.

You blinked, standing stiffly as pain radiated from your knees. You didn't even have the energy to argue. Instead, you hobbled to the restroom first, tears spilling over as you washed your knees.

Violet bruises were already forming, and the cold water stung as it ran over the tender skin.

This wasn't what you'd imagined when you dreamed of joining the cheer squad.

You thought it would be glamorous—flipping in the air, cheering under bright lights, and finally belonging to something cool.

Instead, here you were, limping to a nearby boba shop with bruised knees and teary eyes.

Still, you told yourself it was okay. You were part of them now. You weren't just a simple girl anymore—you were a cheerleader. Their friend. It was normal to run errands and do things for your friends, right?

So why did it feel so awful?

As you stood in line, you checked the money Karina had handed you earlier, only to realize it was short. Way short.

You panicked for a moment, but what could you do? You had no choice but to pay for the rest out of your own pocket, all while swallowing the lump in your throat.

By the time you were walking back to school, holding a bunch of boba cups in flimsy plastic bags, you were crying. Pathetically.

Tears streaked your face, and your lips wobbled as you sniffled, trying not to let the world see how pitiful you looked.

But it wasn't their fault, you told yourself. They weren't bullying you. You were just having a sensitive day. Your knees hurt from all that back handspring practice, and the money situation had just been bad luck.

That's all.

You furiously wiped at your cheeks, determined to look normal before you made it back to the gym. But then, a voice startled you out of your thoughts.

"What happened to you?"

You nearly dropped the boba.

"Jay!" you yelped, turning to see him standing there with his guitar case slung over his back, his sharp gaze flicking from your tear-streaked face to the plastic bags in your hands—and then to your bruised, purple knees.

"I—uh—hi!" you stammered, forcing an awkward smile.

He didn't return it. "You didn't visit the music room today."

"Oh!" you exclaimed, caught off guard. "I was busy with practice. I completely forgot! I'm sorry!"

He didn't respond, just reached over and took the plastic boba bags from your hands.

You blinked at him, muttering a quiet "thank you" as he carried them down the hallway beside you.

"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone firmer this time.

You scratched the back of your head, feigning cluelessness. "Uh, what do you mean?"

He gave you a look, and his voice dropped. "Why were you crying? And why do you have bruises all over your knees?"

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was staring at you like he could see right through every lie you'd prepared.

"Uh, just... girl stuff!" you blurted, laughing awkwardly. "You know, sensitive day!"

"And your knees?" he asked flatly.

"Oh, that?" You waved a hand as if it were nothing. "They made me practice back handsprings today. I just, uh, had a bad landing. But I'm totally fine! See?" You gave him a shaky thumbs-up, forcing another smile.

Jay didn't look convinced. His gaze flickered back to your knees, then to your face.

"Why? Do you care about me?" you teased, lightly bumping his shoulder with yours.

He rolled his eyes, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he gestured toward the gym door.

"You first."

You laughed nervously, pushing the door open and walking inside.

"Oh, Y/N," Karina called out from across the gym. "Coach said we're not allowed to have boba anymore since she's strict about our diet. Did you already buy it?"

Your face fell. "Yes..."

"Oh crap!" Giselle smacked her forehead. "I texted you, but I guess it didn't go through!"

"But the boba? The money?" one of the girls asked, holding out her hand expectantly.

You hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. "I already bought it," you said quietly, glancing nervously at Jay.

Before you could say anything else, he walked past you, heading toward the bleachers. Without a word, he dropped the bags of boba onto the bench—hard. The cups jostled, some of the liquid spilling over the edges.

"J-Jongseong?!" Karina stammered, her confident tone faltering as she gulped nervously.

Jay stood there, his sharp glare slicing through the room. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice calm but dangerous.

Karina shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. "W-we didn't mean for her to actually buy them—"

"Yeah?" he cut her off. "Because it looks like you had her running errands like your personal delivery service."

"Jay, it's not like that!" you blurted, defending them instinctively, though your voice wavered.

The room went silent. None of the girls dared to speak as Jay's gaze swept over them, so sharp.

"Is your practice over or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because none of you look like you're doing any cheers anymore."

Giselle quickly nodded, her voice high and nervous. "W-we're on a break!"

Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, making Giselle shrink under his gaze.

Finally, he turned to you, and his expression softened just enough to make your chest feel weird—like relief, or maybe something you couldn't quite place.

"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door.

"H-huh?" you stammered, blinking up at him.

"Let's go," he repeated, already turning away.

Before you could argue, he noticed the way you hesitated, the way you winced with every step. His eyes flicked down to your knees, bruised and swollen, and without a word, he leaned down and effortlessly scooped you up into his arms.

"W-what are you doing?!" you gasped, your face burning red as you scrambled to hold onto him.

The squad collectively let out a series of audible gasps behind you.

"Oh my God, she's not like, totally lying," Karina whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Jay didn't acknowledge them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you out of the gym.

"Jay, I can walk!" you protested weakly, even though your knees were very much not in walking condition.

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he adjusted his grip on you.

You clung to him in stunned silence, trying to ignore the burning stares from the squad still watching as the door swung shut behind you.

Your heart raced, and whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, you didn't want to think about it.

"You're going to stop running around like this," Jay said firmly as he walked. "If they want boba, they can get it themselves."

"But I'm part of the team now," you mumbled, your voice small.

"You're not their errand girl," he shot back, his eyes flicking down to you.

You shut your mouth, letting him carry you to the clinic as the nurse tended to your bruised knees.

He leaned casually against the wall, watching the whole process like he was supervising. Every time you dared to glance his way, he raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to say something stupid. You wisely kept quiet.

The next day at practice, things hadn't gotten much better.

The girls were still bombarding you with questions—except now, Jay had inadvertently raised your popularity to new heights.

"He's sweet but terrifying," one of them whispered, watching you stretch. "Maybe you should get him to smile for once. He's always glaring."

"Yeah, but it's kind of hot," another one added, fanning herself dramatically. "It's like he hates everyone except her."

You snorted at that, almost choking on your own air. If only they knew the truth. But you couldn't even laugh properly because someone tapped your shoulder, pointing toward the gym doors.

"Y/N, look!"

You turned and nearly choked on your own spit. There he was—Jay—walking toward you.

The girls squealed, whispering loudly as they quickly backed away to give you "privacy."

Your stomach flipped as he approached, his dark eyes scanning the gym before locking on you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, gripping the edge of the bleachers.

He ignored your question, dropping his bag and kneeling in front of you.

"How's your knee?" he asked, his tone softer this time as his eyes flicked to your legs.

"I'm fine! What are you doing here?" you repeated, feeling heat crawl up your neck as the gym filled with the sound of squeals and whispers.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out something.

"I bought you knee pads," he said simply, holding them up.

Your jaw dropped. "What—why?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your leg, his hands warm as he began securing the knee pad in place.

"He's so sweet!" one of the girls whispered loudly.

You tried to ignore the growing crowd of gossipers, your face burning as you stared down at him. "You really didn't have to—"

"Stop moving," he interrupted, his focus entirely on your knee as he adjusted the strap.

You sighed, crossing your arms. "Jay, seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I'll watch your routine," he said casually, moving to your other knee.

"What? No!" you exclaimed, flailing slightly. "What do you mean, you'll watch?"

He glanced up at you, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "You watch me practice at the music room. It's only fair I watch yours."

"That's different!" you sputtered, your face heating further.

"How is it different?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because—because I'm not good at this yet!" you said, flustered. "What's your deal?"

"What do you mean?" he said, his voice light with amusement. "I just want to support my girlfriend."

You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—

"W-what did you just say?" you stammered, your voice cracking.

"Girlfriend," he repeated smoothly, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you keep telling everyone I am?"

You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The giggles and gasps around you didn't help, either.

"You can't just—" you started, but he cut you off.

"Relax," he said, smirking as he turned to walk away. "Good luck with practice, babe. I'll be watching."

You watched him head toward the bleachers, still reeling from the fact that Park Jongseong, the untouchable cold Jay, just called you his girlfriend in front of everyone.

If you hadn't been blushing before, you were definitely on fire now.

The routine begins with a burst of synchronized cheers, the squad moving in perfect unison. You jump, spin, and dance, throwing in a split and a clean back handspring. When the lifting section comes, you step onto their hands with, you stick the landing, holding your pose as they lower you carefully.

You finish the routine without letting your bruised knees slow you down, your chest heaving as sweat drips down your temples.

The coach claps, giving feedback to the squad, but all you can think about is sitting down and catching your breath.

Unconsciously, you find yourself collapsing onto the bleachers—right next to Jay. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a water bottle and towel out of his bag, as if he'd been expecting you to need them.

"Here," he mutters, handing them over.

"Thanks," you say, too exhausted to overthink it. You take a long sip of water before draping the towel over your shoulders.

"How's the performance?" you ask him, still catching your breath.

"You're good," he replies simply.

You pause, blinking at him. "No, like... us. The cheering squad. How did we look?"

Jay shrugs, leaning back slightly on the bleachers, his gaze fixed ahead. "I don't know," he says, his tone casual. "I only had my eyes on you."

The water bottle in your hand almost slips from your grasp.

"W-what?" you stammer, turning to look at him.

He doesn't meet your gaze, his expression cool and indifferent, but there's a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "You heard me," he says, his voice even.

Your face heats up, and you're not sure if it's from the workout or his words. Before you can respond, one of your squadmates calls your name, pulling you back to reality.

"I—uh, thanks," you mumble, scrambling to stand.

"Don't fall," Jay says, glancing at your knees briefly before leaning back and pulling out his phone, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.

Your heart races as you jog back to the squad, Jay's words replaying in your mind. "I only had my eyes on you."

What was that supposed to mean?

Over the following weeks, something shifted. Jay did seem to like you—no, that would be too strong—but he definitely didn't hate you anymore. If anything, it felt like he had resigned himself to your presence.

Your schedules matched perfectly: you'd stop by the music room before your cheer practice, watching him play with quiet awe. After his practice ended, you'd walk together to the gym, where he'd drop you off with a gruff nod.

And during those walks, you talked. A lot.

Jay didn't interrupt or roll his eyes at your endless stream of words, but he didn't say much either. He'd let you ramble about random things—your favorite stories, songs, foods, or some obscure fact you'd read online.

One day, while rifling through your bag in frustration, you whined, "Crap, I always forget to bring an extra shirt!"

Jay didn't respond, just kept walking. You assumed he wasn't even listening.

But the next day, when you showed up for your routine walk to the gym, he handed you a neatly folded shirt.

"Here," he said, his tone flat, as though it wasn't a big deal.

You blinked, staring at it. "Wait, is this for me?"

"No, it's for the bench," he replied dryly. Then, seeing your expression, added, "You said you forget yours. Just take it."

Your heart skipped as you took the shirt, muttering a soft "thank you."

On another day, after practice, you grinned at him. "I really want a spicy ramen—like, with crab sticks and shrimp! Let's go get some!"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a one-way ticket to high blood pressure," he deadpanned.

You pouted, whining dramatically. "Come on, Jay!"

Yet not long after, you found yourselves seated at a small ramen shop. You happily slurped your noodles, your feet swinging slightly under the table. Jay glanced down at your feet before looking up at you, finding you smiling as you focused on your bowl.

"What?" you asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his own noodles.

Spending time with Jay made you lose your guard in the best way.

You weren't as self-conscious anymore, and little things just felt... natural. Like the time you were walking together, mid-laugh, and he suddenly pulled your arm to stop you.

"Look both ways," he mumbled, his hand lingering on your arm as you gripped it instinctively.

You giggled, wrapping your hand around his. "Okay, Dad."

He didn't respond, but his lips twitched ever so slightly.

Another habit of his? Waiting for you after practice, leaning against his motorcycle with his usual nonchalant expression. He'd nod for you to hop on, offering you his spare helmet.

It felt normal now—holding onto him as he drove, the wind whipping around you as the city lights blurred by.

Sometimes, Jay and you didn't even talk. Like when you'd share a cup of ice cream on a bench after practice, the two of you just staring at nothing. He'd sit beside you, watching as you bit down on your spoon absentmindedly.

"You look dumb," he'd say eventually, breaking the silence.

You'd laugh and stick your tongue out at him. "Thanks, Jay. Love the confidence boost."

Jay's attention to small things surprised you most when it came to your ketchup obsession.

It started when you were both sitting at your usual fast-food joint—a chain with a bright red logo and the smell of fries and fried chicken wafting through the air.

You'd always order the same thing: chicken nuggets and fries. But what made you stand out (to Jay, at least) was how you hoarded ketchup packets.

You never even used them at the restaurant. Instead, you'd stuff them into your bag, mumbling something about "saving them for later." Jay didn't ask at first, but the mystery was solved when he saw you in their practice one day, pulling out one of those packets.

You ripped it open quietly, then tipped the packet to your mouth and slurped the ketchup straight out of it.

A week later, during a break, Jay casually handed you a small stack of ketchup packets.

"Where did you get these?" you squealed, your eyes sparkling as you grabbed them from his hand.

"My bandmates ordered fries," he said with a shrug. "They don't like ketchup, so I took them."

You stared at him, your heart doing an annoying little flip. "Jay, you get me," you said dramatically, clutching the packets to your chest like they were a bouquet of roses.

"Don't make this weird," he muttered, already turning away.

You ripped one open immediately, slurping the sweet and tangy ketchup with a grin. "Thanks, Jay!"

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—his almost-smile.

Then there was the time in the cafeteria when he handed you a tissue.

You stared at him, confused. "What's this for?"

"Your lip gloss," he said simply, his tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.

You blinked, dumbfounded, as heat rose to your cheeks. How did he even notice that you always wiped off your lip gloss before eating?

You muttered a shy "thanks," taking the tissue as your heart thumped in your chest.

And then there were even smaller things.

Like how he bent down to tie your shoelaces without a word when they came undone during your walk.

Or how he fixed your hair once, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a quick, almost annoyed motion.

Or how he straightened your uniform when it got wrinkled after a particularly rough practice, muttering something about how you looked like "a mess."

They weren't grand gestures. Jay wasn't the type for big declarations or sweeping acts of romance. But it was always the small things that left you breathless—the way he noticed you, the way he cared without saying much.

And maybe, just maybe, the cold, untouchable guitarist didn't hate you as much as he let on.

"That's Park Jongseong's girlfriend!"

"Park Jongseong's girl is so pretty!"

"I didn't know Park Jongseong's girlfriend is so good at dancing!"

But honestly? You weren't sure how to feel about it anymore.

People didn't want to know you. They wanted to know him. Even when someone started a conversation with you, it always led back to Jay.

"How did you two meet?"

"What does he do when he's bored?"

"Does he even smile around you?"

You started noticing how Jay wasn't immune, either. People would corner him in the halls, asking invasive questions about your "relationship," and he'd glare at them in that trademark way of his until they got the hint and left. He never complained, never said anything about it to you, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched tighter these days.

You weren't cool. You weren't special.

You were just someone who had made a stupid, selfish decision to drag his name into your mess. And now? You weren't sure if you could keep it up any longer.

It was a quiet afternoon in the music room. Jay sat across from you, strumming his guitar in the golden light of sunset. Normally, this was when you'd ramble on about whatever random topic popped into your head, but today, the words felt too heavy to come out.

Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the floor.

"I'm sorry if I always bother you," you said suddenly, your voice barely audible.

Jay's fingers stilled on the strings, his head tilting slightly as he glanced at you.

"I... I really don't have any friends," you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. "I think I'm too crazy for the good girls in my class, too dumb for the nerds, and way too soft for the mean girls."

He didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you.

"But, you know," you continued, your voice shaky, "you're the first person who's ever... tolerated me. And I really appreciate that."

You laughed weakly, even though it wasn't funny. "Thank you, Park Jongseong, for listening to me go on and on about dystopian movies. For putting up with me when I get loud and excited. For not judging my weird ketchup obsession."

Jay leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, as you let out a long sigh.

"I thought dragging your name into the cheer squad thing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere," you said, your voice breaking. "But it hasn't. If anything, it's just made me feel worse. Like I'm not enough for them. Like I'll never be enough."

Your chest tightened as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, unable to meet his gaze. "And... I feel like I've dumped all these responsibilities on you because of one stupid little lie I told. It's not fair to you."

Jay stayed silent, but you could feel his presence, heavy and quiet.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I think... I think it's time we break up."

Jay's hands froze on the guitar, his entire body going still. His gaze sharpened.

"Break up?" he repeated, his tone even but taut, like he was holding something back.

You nodded, your throat closing up. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble already. I think... I think it's better if we just end it. It'll be easier for you."

Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the guitar as he stared at you. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with something you couldn't place.

Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bring yourself to say what you really wanted to say. So instead, you nodded.

"Yes," you whispered, barely audible.

The silence that followed was unbearable. You expected him to agree, to maybe sigh in relief or tell you that you were right. But instead, he just stared at you, his gaze unreadable.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "Alright."

Your heart sank at the word, even though it was what you'd asked for. You forced yourself to stand, forcing a shaky "thank you" past your lips as you made your way toward the door.

But just as you reached it, his voice stopped you in your tracks.

"But you should know," he said, "that if you think you're not enough, you're wrong."

You froze, your breath hitching. Slowly, you turned to face him.

He wasn't looking at you anymore. His gaze was fixed on his guitar, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, but there was a softness in his voice that you weren't used to.

"You don't have to try so hard to fit into their world," he said quietly. "You already stand out. You don't see it, but you do."

Your throat tightened as tears pricked at your eyes. "Jay..."

He looked up at you then, his dark eyes piercing but calm. "If you want to end it, I'll let you go," he said, his voice steady. "But don't do it because you think you're causing me trouble. That's just you overthinking, as usual."

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, and for a moment, you thought about staying. 

But the weight of your emotions felt too heavy, and you bolted, muttering a weak "thanks" as you ran out of the room, tears already spilling down your cheeks.

You didn't look back, but as you closed the door behind you, you swore you heard the faint sound of his guitar strings—soft, steady, and full of something you didn't quite understand.

By the time you reached the bathroom, you were a mess.

You locked yourself in a stall and let it all out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried—and failed—to convince yourself this was what you wanted.

"It's not even real," you muttered, your voice cracking. "We're not a thing. We were never a thing. Why am I crying like an idiot?"

But no amount of reasoning stopped the ugly sobs from wracking your chest. You clutched some toilet paper, blowing your nose dramatically and telling yourself to get it together.

When you showed up to practice later, your eyes were swollen and red, your nose a little too pink to hide what had happened.

"Y/N, are you okay?" Karina asked, looking concerned.

You forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Oh, by the way..." You paused, sniffling slightly. "Jay and I broke up."

The words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, but you didn't have time to process them before the room erupted.

"What?!" Giselle gasped, clutching her water bottle.

"No way!" Yunjin exclaimed, already pulling out her phone.

Within hours, the news spread across the school faster than you thought possible. Everywhere you went, you could hear whispers and murmurs about the "breakup."

And Park Jongseong?

He was still Park Jongseong.

You spotted him in the hallway, his face set in stone, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as ever.

He walked like he was on his way to commit murder, every step filled with tension. People gave him a wide berth, whispering things like, "He's even scarier than usual," and, "God, she must've really broken his heart."

But when your eyes met his for a split second, he looked away, his expression you can't read.

Your chest ached painfully every time you passed him. And when you were finally alone at night, you curled up in bed and cried yourself to sleep, the pain in your chest refusing to fade.

By the time your classmates dragged you to karaoke, you were on emotional autopilot. You didn't want to be there, but they'd insisted.

"It'll help you get over him!" Sunoo had said, practically shoving you into the room.

It wasn't helping. At all.

Sunoo grabbed the mic, singing passionately as the lyrics flashed across the screen. "That's why I don't understand... why I'm feeling so bad now, when I know it was my idea."

You froze, staring at the lyrics like they'd personally attacked you. Your lips twitched, but you refused to let the tears fall.

Ni-ki leaned forward, grabbing the mic dramatically. "I could've just denied the truth and lied... why am I the only one, standing, stranded on the same ground?!"

You let out a choked laugh, trying to brush off your growing emotions, but then Sunoo turned to you with wide, knowing eyes. "Oh my God, what happened to you?!"

"Shut up," you muttered, pulling your cardigan over your face to hide the tears forming in your eyes.

The room erupted as Ni-ki wrestled the mic away from Sunoo. "My love, it's been a long time since I cried and left you out of the blue." Ni-ki sang into the microphone.

You couldn't help it—the tears started spilling as you wiped them furiously with your sleeve, hoping no one would notice.

"It's hard leaving you that way... when I never wanted to!"

Your classmates were belting out the lyrics, screaming into the mic with way too much passion. And somehow, the chaos made it worse.

"Self-denial is a game!" Ni-ki shouted, practically falling to his knees. "It's strange, I never would've wanted it until there was you!"

You sniffled, wiping your cheeks again, but the tears wouldn't stop.

"Y/N, are you crying?!" Sunoo gasped dramatically, leaning closer, his voice high-pitched enough to rival a whistle.

"No!" you wailed, burying your face deeper into your cardigan. "It's just—the lyrics are so stupid!"

Jungwon, ever the responsible one, grabbed the remote and immediately switched the song. "Okay, we need a vibe shift. No more heartbreak songs."

The opening beat of Apple Bottom Jeans blasted through the room, and everyone burst into cheers and laughter.

You couldn't help but laugh, sniffing back the last of your tears as Ni-ki grabbed the mic and jumped onto the couch.

You felt a little lighter. Sure, your heart was still aching, but at least now, you now had friends who made it a little easier to breathe.

The next day, you were required to attend the university baseball game. Every student was, but as part of the cheerleading pep squad, you had absolutely no excuse to skip.

The stadium was packed with thousands of students from your university and the rival school, the energy buzzing in the air. You tugged at the hem of your uniform skirt, your face burning with embarrassment. "Is it really this short?!" you whined, glaring at Giselle.

She shushed you with a wave of her pom-poms. "Relax. It's normal!"

"You don't have to be awkward about it," Karina added, flipping her hair. "Your legs look great!"

Your coach, however, was far less delicate. "We're making it look longer because your legs are short," she said bluntly, not even looking up from her clipboard.

You gasped, utterly dumbfounded. "I—should I be offended, or...?"

The coach just shrugged, moving on with her notes.

Before the game officially began, your squad performed a short routine to hype up the crowd. The music blared through the speakers as you stepped forward, executing a clean front handspring. The crowd roared with approval, but your face burned as your skirt rode up mid-flip.

When the routine ended, you cringed, tugging your skirt back down as you returned to your seat at the front. You waved your pom-poms enthusiastically, shouting the university yell every time your team scored, even if you were still mortified from earlier.

When the game finally ended and the crowd began to thin out, you found yourself standing near the bleachers, clutching your pom-poms and phone. The cheer squad was preparing to take pictures, but you hung back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.

That's when someone approached you.

"Hi," a voice said, warm and slightly out of breath.

You turned to see a guy standing in front of you, wearing his baseball uniform. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from the game, and his smile was boyish and shy.

"I'm Heeseung," he introduced himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to say your routine was really cool. And, uh... I was wondering if I could get your number?"

You blinked, your brain stalling. Wait, what?

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a loud voice called out from across the field.

"Y/N! Hurry up!" Sunoo waved his arms dramatically, yelling over the crowd. "We're taking pictures!"

Your face turned even redder as you looked between Heeseung and Sunoo. Panicking, you muttered a quick, "Sorry, I've gotta go!" before rushing off toward your squad, clutching your pom-poms.

By the time you reached your squad, you were out of breath and flustered, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

You grabbed your bag, rummaging through it in search of a shirt to change into. The crowd had mostly cleared out, and the stadium lights were dimming, but you were too busy muttering to yourself to notice.

Of course, you didn't have a spare shirt. Why would you?

You sighed heavily, dropping your pom-poms into the bag and staring at the empty space inside. Without thinking, you mumbled, "I miss Jay."

The words hung in the air, surprising even you. You froze for a second, realizing what you'd just said out loud.

It had been months since you'd ended things—or whatever it was you'd had—with Jay. And somehow, instead of feeling lighter, you felt worse.

The more you saw him in passing, the more you missed him. The more you craved him. The ache in your chest refused to fade, no matter how much time passed.

Sometimes, you still cried yourself to sleep, clutching your pillow as memories of him flooded your mind.

You hated how much you missed him.

And then there were moments when your body moved on its own, as if drawn to him.

You'd find yourself standing outside the music room, staring at the door like you were waiting for something—or someone—to pull you inside.

But you never went in. You just stood there, your heart heavy, before walking away again.

Or you'd sit at your favorite bench, the one where you used to share ice cream with him after practice. You'd sit there alone, biting the spoon absentmindedly and staring at nothing, replaying old conversations in your head.

It was during one of those quiet moments, as you sat with a half-melted scoop of vanilla in your hand, that the truth finally hit you.

You liked Jay.

No, you more than liked him. You missed him so much it hurt. And the worst part? You had no idea if he missed you, too.

You bit down harder on your spoon, frustration bubbling in your chest.

Why had you been so stupid? Why had you pushed him away when, deep down, he'd been the only one who ever made you feel seen?

Maybe you were too late. Maybe you'd ruined whatever connection you had with him.

But one thought kept circling in your mind, no matter how much you tried to shake it off.

What if you weren't too late?

"Do you party?" Sunoo asked casually, flopping onto your bed like it was his own.

You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide your skepticism. "Not really. I mean, I've been to a few, but it's not my thing. Why?"

"Let's go to a party this weekend! You know Sunghoon, right? The baseball player? He's hosting!"

You laughed, waving him off. "I'll think about it, but probably not."

Sunoo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but you brushed him off, fully intending to stay home.

But when the weekend came, your plans to stay curled up in bed went out the window.

Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki just barged into your house.

"Why aren't you dressed?!" Sunoo exclaimed, throwing open your closet as Jungwon inspected your makeup drawer.

"What are you doing?!" you shrieked, clutching a pillow like it was a weapon.

"You are going to this party," Ni-ki said, arms crossed like he was your older brother instead of one year younger. "Get ready. Now."

With no way out, you reluctantly threw on a simple crop top and shorts, tying your hair into a ponytail and doing clean, light makeup.

When you arrived at the party, the atmosphere immediately overwhelmed you. The music was loud enough to shake the walls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air.

You stuck close to Sunoo as he handed you a red cup with some drink you didn't recognize.

"Just take a sip!" he shouted over the music.

"Excuse me for a second," you said, escaping to the balcony.

The moment you stepped outside, you exhaled deeply, the fresh air calming your nerves. The cool night breeze felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat inside.

But then, you stiffened.

Sitting in one of the chairs was someone you hadn't expected to see—someone you hadn't seen up close in months.

Jay.

He sat with one foot tapping rhythmically against the ground, a vape in his hand. The dim light from the balcony highlighted his sharp jawline, his pointed nose, and the effortless way his hair slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt under a blue Nike jacket, but somehow, he looked stunning.

Your chest tightened painfully as his head turned, his dark eyes meeting yours.

"Oh," you said awkwardly, frozen in place.

He stared at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his vape.

Without knowing why, you found yourself walking over to him and sitting quietly beside him, your gaze fixed on the stars above.

"I didn't know you actually smoked," you said softly, breaking the silence.

He hummed, his head tilting slightly as he exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction, making a point to avoid letting any of it near you.

"I don't. Not usually. I don't smoke at school."

He shifted in his seat, sliding the vape into his pocket and straightening his posture.

"Why'd you stop just now?" you asked, glancing at him.

He didn't hesitate. "Your nose is sensitive to strong smells."

Your breath caught, his simple answer hitting you harder than you expected. That was Jay—always quiet, always watching, always knowing without making a big deal of it.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable.

"I'm sorry," the words came out from your mouth.

Jay's gaze snapped to yours, his expression neutral.

"For what?" he asked evenly.

"For just leaving," you said, your voice shaky. "For everything you've done for me, and then me just... walking away. I didn't know what I was feeling back then. I was hurt and scared because... you're you, and I'm just me. I'm not good enough for you—"

Jay didn't respond immediately. His gaze softened, though his expression remained guarded. "And what are you feeling now?"

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I... I miss you, Jay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I miss everything about you. The small things, the way you cared, even if you acted like you didn't. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for being stupid."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.

"You're really stupid, aren't you?" he said, his voice calm but laced with a faint humor that made your heart ache.

You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I am."

Jay exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.

"I thought you'd like me and never break it off because that's what happens in those books you always talk about, right?" he said, his voice softening. "But somehow, I fell harder than I ever expected."

Your breath hitched as he let out a quiet laugh—so rare, so warm, it made your chest ache. He finally looked at you, his eyes glinting with something vulnerable.

"I've always waited for you," he admitted, his voice low. "Waited for you to stop standing outside the music room and just walk in. But you never did."

Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face.

"I saw you," he continued. "Every time you sat on that bench, on our place... I saw you at a distance, sitting there, staring at nothing. And I waited. I always waited for your eyes to look at me the way I was looking at you."

Tears began to swell in your eyes as you took in his words.

Jay leaned closer, his movements gentle.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For being such a coward. For not walking up to you when I wanted to. I told myself I'd wait, but waiting just hurt more because all I could do was think about you. About us."

He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his hand warm and grounding. "I'm hurting. I've been hurting since you left. Do you feel the same way?"

The tears spilled over, warm and slow, streaking down your cheeks. You placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch as you nodded. "I do, Jay. I've been hurting, too."

He watched you closely, his eyes softening as you smiled at him through your tears.

"You're crying," he murmured, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb.

"Yeah, well, that's your fault," you whispered, laughing through the tears.

Jay shook his head, his lips tugging into the faintest smile. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice affectionate.

"And you're annoying," you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.

But neither of you moved away.

The balcony felt smaller, quieter, as Jay's hand lingered on your cheek. His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief second, and your heart jumped, but he didn't move, waiting instead for you to close the gap.

So you did.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips softly to his, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. His lips were warm and hesitant at first, but then he shifted, tilting his head slightly as he kissed you back.

His hand slid into your hair, his fingers brushing lightly against your scalp as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, your lips moving in perfect sync.

When you pulled back just slightly to catch your breath, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered mere inches away.

His voice was low, and soft as he whispered against your lips, "Don't ever think of yourself like that. You're more than enough."

His words struck you deep, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. "But... you're you, and I'm just me," you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Jay didn't let you finish. His lips captured yours again, silencing your insecurities. When he pulled back, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath hitch.

"I like you for being you," he said simply.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with emotion. "But you're like a big star," you said, holding up your fingers to make the shape of a small star, "and I'm just... a little star."

Jay's lips curved into the softest smile before he leaned forward again, kissing you gently.

His voice was tender when he murmured against your lips, "A little star that shines brightest in my eyes."

Your cheeks burned, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered laugh, lightly hitting his chest. "How come you always know how to get my heart?!"

Jay chuckled, kissing your forehead as he hugs you.

Jay just wanted to play guitar. That was all. He didn't ask for the reputation, the attention, or the corny nickname the school had slapped on him—the "cold, untouchable hot guitarist." God, how he hated that.

Every day felt the same: girls cornering him in the halls, asking for his number or accidentally brushing their hands against his arms or guitar case. His eyes would glare like knives as he gritted out, "Don't touch me."

He hated it—the fake admiration, the empty attention. Everyone seemed to care about him for all the wrong reasons. And when they annoyed him too much?

"Fuck off," he'd mutter, his tone so cold it practically froze people in their tracks.

But you? You were different.

Jay remembered the school festival three years ago. He'd been sitting in Jake's booth, tuning his guitar lazily while Jake served spicy noodles to an occasional brave (or dumb) soul willing to risk their stomach for the thrill.

It was supposed to be a chill afternoon, but then you showed up.

You were the only person who kept coming back to Jake's booth. Every hour.

"I swear, you're going to burn a hole in your stomach," Jake had told you, half-laughing as he handed you yet another bowl of his stupidly spicy noodles.

"Totally worth it," you'd chirped, your voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Do you have a permanent shop? I'd eat there every day!"

Jay had glanced up from his guitar, staring at you through the slits of the tent. You were completely oblivious to his presence, happily slurping noodles as Jake made small talk with you.

Later, Jake stormed into the tent, tossing his apron onto the chair. "We're sold out," he'd announced. "And it's her fault."

Jay had raised an eyebrow. "Her?"

Jake pointed outside. "The spicy noodle girl. She's been coming back all day. We sold out because of her."

Jay hadn't said anything, but his lips had twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming before he went back to tuning his guitar.

Jay hated everyone. He hated how they tugged at him, how they fawned over him for no reason. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hate you.

He remembered the little things—moments that no one else seemed to notice.

Like the time you walked down the hallway with that cute little bag, the kind of bag that didn't really suit a high schooler but looked perfect on you.

It had a figurine hanging from it, neatly wrapped in a plastic pouch, and you carried it like it was your most prized possession.

Then, just days later, he'd found you outside the lost and found office, whining and crying. You'd lost the figurine, and you'd spent an entire lunch period pacing back and forth in front of the office, waiting for someone to turn it in.

Or the time he saw you clapping and cheering during a cheerleading pep squad performance, smiling so brightly that it felt contagious. You weren't even part of the squad back then, just a spectator, but you looked so genuinely happy that even he couldn't look away.

Then there was your PathFit (PE) class. Jay hadn't meant to stop by, but he'd found himself standing near the open door, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, as his eyes drifted toward you. You were on the floor, legs stretched into a perfect split, your forehead pressed to the ground as you stretched.

Jay once again noticed you searching frantically for a notebook you'd dropped in the hallway. You were crouched on the floor, mumbling to yourself, "This is why I can't have nice things."

He'd spotted the notebook a few feet away, picked it up, and placed it on the bench beside him.

When you found it moments later, you gasped, "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"

You always said you were just a simple girl. That no one really noticed you or cared about someone like you.

But in Jay's eyes, you were the opposite of invisible.

And every time he thought about you, he realized the same thing.

You stood out more than anyone else ever could.

When you'd spilled water all over his face.

His first reaction wasn't anger or annoyance, but something that surprised even him—he noticed how beautiful you looked up close.

Your wide eyes stared at him in shock, your pouty lips forming a small gasp as you muttered incoherent apologies. The faint, sweet floral scent of your perfume hit him, and for a second, he forgot the cold water dripping down his face.

Jay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he tried to take in more of that intoxicating scent, grounding himself. But before he could say anything, you bolted, muttering a quick "Sorry!" as you sprinted down the hallway.

He almost laughed when you tripped on your knees, scrambling awkwardly to escape. He stood there for a moment, wiping the water off his face with his sleeve.

The second interaction was you crashing out his guitar. He almost didn't notice his guitar on the floor because his eyes were locked on you.

Slowly, you raised two fingers in a peace sign, your expression a mix of guilt and panic.

"Uh... sorry?" you muttered before immediately backing out of the room.

Jay stood there, staring at the empty doorway, blinking in disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even laugh, but the sound never left his throat. You were gone before he could even start a conversation.

And then there was the volleyball incident.

Jay didn't even see the ball coming. One second he was walking into the gym with his friends, and the next, a sharp pain hit him square on the nose.

"Shit," he hissed, dropping to the ground and clutching his face.

When he opened his eyes, you were hovering over him, your face inches from his. Your hair framed your face like a curtain, and there it was again—that scent. Sweet, light, floral.

He blinked up at you, stunned into silence. For a split second, he forgot about the pain, about the blood dripping from his nose. He was too focused on you—your soft features, your panicked expression, the way your lips trembled as you tried to form words.

Before he could open his mouth to tell you he was fine, the blood started pouring out of his nose.

"Crap!" you yelped, standing up quickly, flailing in panic. "I—I'll get help! I'm so sorry!"

And then you ran. Again.

Jay lay there, groaning as Jake handed him a tissue, snickering the entire time.

"Shut up," Jay muttered, even though Jake don't even say anything.

The breaking point came when Jay heard about the rumor that he was in a relationship.

He was furious. Annoyed didn't even begin to describe it. He hated how his name was constantly dragged into things, but this? A fake relationship? With some girl he didn't even know?

Storming through the hallways, he cornered one of the guys he'd overheard spreading the rumor. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he slammed him against the lockers.

"Tell me who started it," Jay demanded, his voice low and sharp. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes boring into the boy's.

"I-I don't know! I swear!" the boy stammered, flinching under Jay's glare. "They said it was some girl—Y/N! Y/N told the cheerleaders about it!"

At the mention of your name, Jay froze. His grip loosened slightly.

For a moment, he couldn't believe it. Of all people, it was you.

Releasing the boy with a shove, Jay stepped back, his emotions in a whirlwind. He should've been angrier—should've been ready to confront you and demand answers. But instead, he found himself... curious.

He should've been irritated. He should've hated you for dragging his name into a mess.

But somehow, he didn't.

Instead, he felt something he couldn't quite place. And he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the rumor itself or the fact that the thought of being tied to you didn't bother him as much as it should have.

“Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Did they just come back together?!”

Whispers followed the two of you as you walked hand in hand down the hallway. 

Jay’s tall frame dressed in his usual all-black outfit. His guitar case was slung over his back, the strap resting effortlessly against his shoulder, and his hand held yours with an ease that made your heart race.

Every head turned to look at you. It wasn’t just the sight of Jay—cold, untouchable, and intimidating—but the sight of him with you, a cheerful and bubbly cheerleader.

You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice as you whispered, “Do you think a guitarist and a cheerleader is a weird combination?”

Jay glanced down at you, one eyebrow raised, his expression softening. “No,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You and me? We’re a perfect combination.”

You let out a laugh, lightly bumping your shoulder against his arm. “God, you’re so cheesy.”

He smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the corners of his lips tugging upward in amusement.

Park Jongseong as a fake boyfriend was good.

But Park Jongseong as a real boyfriend? He was so much better.

You used to think of him as just the guy with the sharp jawline, the deadpan expression, and those sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to shoot lasers at anyone who got too close. He was the “fuck off” and “shut up” guy, the untouchable guitarist who kept everyone at arm’s length.

But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, you realized how wrong you’d been.

Jay wasn’t just sweet—he was unbelievably sweet.

You remembered all the little lies you’d told about him when you were trying to fit in with the cheer squad.

“He’s so sweet,” you’d said back then, fabricating stories about how he’d treat you like a princess.

But now? Those stories felt laughable because the reality of being with Jay was so much better.

When you were tired, he’d carry your bag without a word.

“Let me take it,” he’d say simply, slipping the strap off your shoulder.

He opened doors for you—every single time. If you walked through a doorway together, you didn’t even have to reach for the handle because Jay would already be holding it open, waiting patiently for you to step through.

Once, when you were getting into a car, you’d bumped your head against the roof. From that moment on, Jay always, always put a hand over your head to make sure it didn’t happen again.

“Careful,” he’d murmur, voice low but gentle.

You’d joked about him cooking for you once, completely unaware of how true it would become.

One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jay had brought you to his house. “You’re tired,” he’d said. “Let me make you something.”

You hadn’t expected much—maybe instant ramen or a sandwich at most. But then you’d watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and sautéing everything.

“Do you cook often?” you’d asked, leaning against the counter as the delicious aroma filled the room.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Jake says my food is too good for him, though.”

You laughed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him. Jay, the sharp-tongued guitarist, was making you a home-cooked meal. And it wasn’t just good—it was amazing. 

Then there were the kisses.

You’d made up a story once, saying, “He kisses me goodbye every morning.” You thought it was the perfect romantic lie to impress the cheerleaders.

But now? Jay had made it a reality.

Every morning before he left for his own class, he’d touch your cheek lightly, his fingers brushing against your skin.

Then, he’d lean in, his lips meeting yours in the gentlest, softest kiss.

“See you later,” he’d say, before turning and walking away.

Each time, your heart would flutter uncontrollably, your fingers brushing against your lips as you watched him go. 

"Aftercare after sex"

Except now, the real thing had turned out to be even better.

“Jay!” you whined, your hand gripping his hair as your hips moved uncontrollably against his mouth.

His tongue worked magic against your clit, circling and sucking gently while his long fingers moved inside you. His fingers curled just right, hitting your sweet spot effortlessly, and you gasped, your jaw going slack from the overwhelming sensation.

Your stomach tightened as the heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself getting closer with each passing second.

Jay let out a low hum, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His free hand moved up to intertwine with yours, grounding you even as you felt like you might fall apart.

“Feel so good,” you sobbed, your eyebrows furrowing together in pleasure. “Don’t want to stop.”

Jay pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening as he murmured, “Are you close, baby?”

You nodded frantically, your breathing erratic.

He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on him, your tongue meeting his as the kiss grew messy and desperate. His fingers didn’t slow for a second, pumping relentlessly inside you as you gasped against his mouth.

When you broke the kiss, your eyes were teary, your chest heaving. Jay looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his own breathing labored as he took in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his lip as he moved back down between your legs. Without hesitation, he latched onto your clit again, sucking hard.

Your body jolted, your hands clutching at the sheets as you screamed his name. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum—”

Jay hummed in approval, his tongue working in perfect sync with his fingers, coaxing you to the edge. His free hand squeezed yours gently, the small gesture making your heart flutter even as your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.

“I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I love you, I love you—”

Your back arched as the tension inside you snapped, and your vision blurred with stars. You cried out, your body shaking as you came, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.

Jay stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers slowing to help you ride out the waves. When you finally slumped back against the bed, exhausted and trembling, he moved up beside you, brushing the hair from your face.

He kissed you softly, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he fixed your shirt and wiped you down with gentle care.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, soothing. “You did so good.”

Jay was definitely good at aftercare.

“Is it true that Park Jongseong is… like, huge in bed?”

You flushed instantly, your thoughts flashing to the one time you’d seen him fully exposed, when he’d let you take him in your hand.

Yeah, he was definitely huge.

"Did he really let you touch his guitar?"

You stared down at the sleek Stratocaster electric guitar now resting gently in your lap. Jay handed you a white marker, his eyes soft as he watched your expression shift from confusion to awe.

Your fingers lightly brushed over the strings and the smooth, glossy surface of the guitar’s body. “What’s this for?” you asked, holding up the white marker he had placed in your hand.

“I need you to sign your name on my guitar,” he said casually.

Your eyes widened as you looked between the guitar and Jay, who was now sitting beside you. “W-wait,” you stammered, your voice rising slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it—”

“Baby,” he interrupted, “you’re not ruining it.” He leaned closer, gently pointing at a spot near the edge of the guitar’s body. “Right there. That’s where I want it. Sign it for me, hmm?”

You swallowed hard, this wasn’t just any guitar—it was his guitar. The one he cherished.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding as you carefully uncapped the marker.

You hovered the pen above the guitar for a moment, practicing your signature in the air as your nerves fluttered.

Jay chuckled softly beside you, his voice warm. “You’re acting like you’re signing a million-dollar contract.”

“This is more serious than that,” you shot back, your lips curving into a nervous smile.

Finally, with a deep breath, you pressed the tip of the marker to the glossy surface, your hand moving carefully as you signed your name. The white ink glided smoothly across the black body, and when you pulled the marker away, you stared at the result with wide eyes.

“Perfect,” Jay murmured.

You turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered on the guitar. His usual sharp, stoic expression was replaced with something softer, his eyes shining as he traced your signature with his finger.

He looked up at you, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full of warmth. Then, leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

Your cheeks burned as you gripped the marker tightly, unsure of what to say.

Jay pulled back slightly, his smile still in place. “Now it’s perfect,” he said simply, taking the guitar from your lap and standing up.

You watched as he adjusted the strap and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved instinctively to the strings, testing a few chords, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering to your signature.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the pride beneath it.

“It does,” you said softly, your chest feeling warm and full.

It was the school festival again, and you couldn’t contain your excitement. Still wearing your cheerleading uniform from your earlier routine, you tugged at your cousin’s arm, practically dragging her through the bustling crowd. The stadium was alive with energy—students cheering, music blasting from nearby booths, and the smell of snacks wafting through the air.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it!” you squealed, your ponytail bouncing as you hurried forward, your pom-poms tucked under your arm.

Your cousin groaned dramatically, trailing behind you. “You’ve been talking about this all day. Who are we even going to see?”

“My boyfriend!” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “My boyfriend's in a band!”

“Boyfriend?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”

You turned to her with a mock gasp, clutching your chest like she’d insulted you. “Excuse you. I’ve had one for months now.”

Your cousin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, then. Let’s see this mysterious boyfriend of yours.”

The two of you found seats near the front, and you craned your neck, scanning the stage as the band members set up. The noise of the crowd grew louder, students and visitors alike cheering as the festival program officially began.

And then he appeared.

Jay stepped onto the stage, standing out against the bright festival decorations. The strap of his guitar rested comfortably on his shoulder, the instrument gleaming under the stage lights—and there it was, your signature on its glossy surface.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, a giddy smile tugging at your lips as you clapped your hands together in excitement.

“Okay, but which one is your boyfriend?” your cousin asked, squinting at the stage as if trying to piece it together.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pointing toward Jay, you said proudly, “The guitarist. His name is Park Jongseong. That’s my boyfriend.”

Your attention was locked on Jay as he adjusted his guitar strap and tested a few chords. His sharp, eagle-like eyes scanned the crowd, his usual stoic expression giving him an air of effortless cool. But then, something changed.

His gaze stopped on you.

Jay’s piercing eyes softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see. It was small, barely noticeable to most, but you knew it was for you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to hide the giddy grin that threatened to take over your face. Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced as he looked at you.

After a brief moment, Jay’s gaze dropped to his guitar. He adjusted the tuning, his fingers moving skillfully over the strings, but you could tell his mind wasn’t entirely on the music. He stole one last glance at you before focusing on his task, a quiet confidence radiating from him as he prepared to play. 

Your cousin, still in shock, nudged you. “Okay, he’s hot. How did you—like, how did you—end up with him?”

You laughed, brushing her off as you continued to watch Jay. “It’s a long story,” you said, your voice dreamy.

As the band began their set, the crowd’s cheers grew louder, and Jay’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The sound was mesmerizing, and your chest swelled with pride as you watched him command the stage.

And as you sat there, smiling like an idiot, you realized once again how lucky you were to call him yours.

perm taglist: @fancypeacepersona, @immelissaaa

[clockwayswrites]

Bird Cuddles Part 26ish

Masterpost

This is hardly a full scene, though a stopping point. But I'm feeling positively dismal today so wanted to share something. Enjoy, hopefully!

-

Bruce sighed.

It was all that he could do when his two oldest were standing in front of him, both trying to laugh as quietly as possible. Dick’s fist was basically stuffed in his mouth to keep quiet where as Jason was using sheer force of will (and a good amount of smugness) to stay quiet.

“Be nice,” Bruce mouthed silently.

“No.” Jason mouthed back gleefully.

Bruce had the distinct urge to bury his face into the soft wings and simply ignore his sons even being in the room with him. He didn’t give into that urge because he was sure if he did, neither would ever let him live it down. Even as he was thinking that, Dick pulled out his cellphone and snapped a photo.

Bruce felt his phone vibrate a moment later.

He sighed again.

Luckily, Cass swept in a moment later (apparently it was to be a full house at dinner), kissed Bruce lightly on his temple, and went over to her brothers. She looked at Dick’s phone, nodded at the picture, and then took each of the boy’s hands and led them out of the room.

Jason left with one last smirk, but at least the door was closed behind them with a definitive latch.

Bruce still waited a long moment before he picked up his phone and unlocked it.

The picture certainly looked incriminating.

When Danny had fallen asleep, likely exhausted from soothing the boys, the panic attack, and the general drama of the day, he had nodded off sitting upright. When the boys had left, Damian had tasked Bruce with ‘seeing it that Dr. Fenton stayed well’. It was shortly after that when Danny had started shifting, as if trying to get comfortable with the wings, and ended up tilting over.

Once he had settled, Danny had ended up curled across Bruce’s lap with his knees on one side of Bruce and his head on the other. One of the wings was tucked up against Bruce’s chest while the other wing, limp with sleep, stretched out along Bruce’s leg and down to the floor.

Bruce ran his fingers lightly over the white feathers. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his horde of children, but Bruce was completely unbothered by having someone nap on him. The thing that he was bothered by, despite his best efforts to separate himself from the nightlife, is how comfortable he was about that someone being Danny.

Really, there was relatively little that they knew about Danny. The biggest point in Danny’s favor was that Lucius trusted Danny—trusted Danny enough to consider bring Danny in to work with the Bats. The biggest point against Danny were the same wings that Bruce was running his fingers over.

Not that Bruce would ever judge someone negatively for being a meta. Almost all of Bruce’s closest friends were or became metas, after all, even if some of them were now also rogues. The meta status was almost easy to handle. The concerning part were all of the little details that Danny had hinted at about how he had become a meta: neglectful parents, a lab accident at a young age, extensive scaring. Bruce touched the faint Lichtenberg scars lightly. It made Bruce worry about what had triggered the change in Danny. After all, some of Bruce’s closest friends where now also rogues.

It was unfair to compare Danny to Harvey.

It was hard not to.

The fact that it was hard not to compare Danny to Harvey was concerning in itself. Bruce’s track record in the people that he found alluring was far from ideal. It felt almost like dooming Danny simply by the fact that Bruce had taken note of him. Already Danny was getting caught up in the turmoil of their lives and suffering for it.

That was perhaps too harsh. Danny had handled himself more than admirably, wings and all. Danny’s actions made sure that the boys had time to get to the safe room, stayed safe once there, and that the assault ended with minimal bloodshed. Bruce just wished that the change it caused hadn’t left Danny in a state of panic.

Bruce sighed. Maybe he had to remember that Danny wasn’t someone that Bruce was responsible for; Danny was a competent adult who could clearly protect himself from at least lower level threats. It wasn’t fair for Bruce to try and make decisions for Danny, even in an effort to protect him from the craziness of being near the Wayne family.

[sinofwriting]

I ❤️ MILFS - Max Verstappen

Words: 9,747 Summary: Max wasn’t too sure who the woman was that was always with Logan, but he was sure that he wanted to get to know her. Note(s): Sargeant Reader, Age Gap, Older!Reader, Logan and Oscar are both 20 during the 2023 season, not 22. The 2023 driver standings are different (I am giving Logan the season he should have had). Reader has the nickname Pan (short for momma panther). Logan is sweetheart, Max is head over heels in love. I’m gonna be honest I never thought this fic would get written or finished. I got the idea for it back in December but only started writing it on March 16th. And it would have never happened without @burningcupcakefire & @pucksandpower. Thank you both so much for all your help. (also if anyone wants to see more of Max and Pan, let me know)

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

Max remembers the announcement of Oscar’s arrival to F1, the drama and hilarity of it. Sometimes he sees the kids name and has to stop himself from laughing. No nineteen-year-old had any business being that funny.

Max doesn’t remember much of Logan’s announcement to F1. Only that he was young as well, being the first American in forever, and Williams' quick admission that they hadn’t wanted to sign, had wanted to wait another year.

He wishes now that he had paid more attention.

There’s a woman standing in the William’s garage, on Logan’s side. She’s clearly there for him, with the similar pass that his trainer has around her neck, and the way her eyes intently follow Logan’s movements around the garage as he talks to the mechanics and engineers.

She also happens to be the most beautiful woman Max has ever seen.

—

She can’t help but clutch at Benny’s arm the whole race, terror gripping her along with pride.

Benny chuckles when the race comes to an end, Logan doing his cooldown lap and she finally lets go. “And just think you’ve got over twenty more races of this.”

Her nose wrinkle and a hand goes over her heart that’s thudding. “Please, Benny.”

He chuckles again but pats her shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

“Not gonna tell me it gets easier?”

He snorts. “No. This is far worse than F2 or F3 and we still were both scared watching him out there. We’ll never know a day of peace now.”

She sighs, watching the screens as it shows the top three getting interviewed and in the background you can see some of the drivers getting weighed. “He’s going to be sore and in pain.” It makes something clench inside her, the knowledge that Logan would be in pain. It was part of the job, the aches and the bruises, but it didn’t make it any easier for her to know.

“I’ve already got everything set up as soon as he’s back and debriefs are done.”

Her eyes catch on the screen showing where all the drivers placed and tears prick her eyes and she shakes her head. “Twelfth in his first grand prix. I can’t believe it.”

The garage is filled with chatter as the team celebrates getting their first points of the season and their rookie driver performing better than they expected. The way they don’t even try to whisper it makes her jaw twitch. She was grateful that Williams was giving Logan his dream, but she didn’t like how they were going about it. Quickly and publicly stating that they didn’t want to sign Logan yet, wanted to wait a year. And now this.

A light nudge to her ribs makes her unclench her jaw and she gives Benny a grateful smile.

Both of their attention is quickly drawn however to the two Williams drivers entering the garage, the space filling with cheers.

She smiles as Logan grins at the team, basking in the smiles they have on their faces for him and Alex, the pats on the back he’s getting. The grin turns to a beam when he spots Benny and her and he quickly bounces over to them.

A laugh leaves her at the way Benny pulls him into a bear hug, lifting him off his feet a little. “Proud of you, kid.” He murmurs.

She can’t hear what Logan says, but he’s put down and it’s her turn.

She wants to bundle him up in her arms, hold him and not let go, but doesn’t want to embarrass him in front of his team, so she raises a hand and pushes his hair out of his face. “You did amazing, baby.”

He smiles at her, all bright and shiny eyes and then he’s wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tight and she’s quick to return it, rubbing his back.

“You did so good, Logan. So good. I’m so proud.” She tells him again, pressing a kiss to his sweaty head.

“Thank you, momma.” He tells her, hugging her tight for another moment before letting her go.

She smiles up at him and god, that makes her heart ache. Her son, her baby, taller than her somehow. She woke up some days and still wasn’t sure where the time had gone and how he was taller than her shoulders. “Go shower and debrief and then Benny and me will take care of you, yeah? And I’ll get your favorite ordered to the hotel, ready as soon as you get there.”

He beams at her again, darting forward to press a quick to her cheek before starting to rush away. “Best mom ever!” He calls over his shoulder and she laughs.

—

Y/N Sargeant will never forget the first time she held her son, only then at nine years old, he had been her cousin.

Logan was small, wrinkly, pink skin, and full of small cries. She could remember staring at him with furrowed eyebrows, trying to understand how he could be what her baby dolls were made to be like. She remembers her mama having her sit on the couch after asking her if she wanted to hold him and how she had quickly nodded, hoping that maybe holding him would somehow make him look better.

She remembers the sudden nerves that built in her stomach as her mama started to hand him to her. Remembers being scared that she would drop him, remembers thinking how stupid it would be if he was still weird to look at like this.

And she remembers finally holding that and it disappearing. His small cries, no more, his wriggling calmed down, and his wrinkles no longer looked weird but cute. She remembers holding him for the first time and feeling unconditional love for the first time in her life.

—

She’s twelve when she realizes that her uncle and aunt don’t like Logan much. It didn’t make sense to her then, still doesn’t know. Because they liked Dalton just fine, but not Logan.

She remembers asking her dad about it. Asking him why they didn’t love Logan, but loved Dalton and worse, she remembers the pained look in his eyes as he realizes that his child picked up on what he and his wife had as well.

It’s the first hard adult conversation she has with her parents and it’s fitting that it’s about Logan, as they sit her down and talk to her about how not all parents love their kids, and how sometimes that includes them only loving one child and not the other.

—

She remembers clearly the first time Logan calls her mom.

It’s her fourteenth birthday and she’s got the four-year-old in her lap as she sits in a rocking chair, reading her English essay aloud for him. Logan’s eyes are closed, head resting on her chest, over her heart, and his little fingers of his one hand are curled in her shirt right by his head.

She wants to sit there forever, reading to him as she rocks back and forth. But she wants another slice of cake before Martha puts it away and Logan needs to sleep in his bed where he can stretch out fully and drool on his pillowcases and not her shirt that Martha will surely tut over but then smile fondly when she sees Logan doing it all over again.

Setting the essay down on her dresser, she runs her now free fingers through his blond hair. “C’mon Logan, time for bed.”

He grumbles, fingers tightening on her shirt and she can feel it being pulled slightly.

“You can put on your new race car jammies, cuddle with Ello.”

He shakes his head, squirming a bit in her lap as he tries to shove himself closer. “Stay with you.”

“Oh, baby.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Y’know I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

His head shakes again and she has to bite her lip as his head hits her collarbone. “Want cuddles, momma.”

Her heart thuds painfully in her chest at the name he called her, tears pricking her eyes. “Okay, baby. Let's get you in jammies, grab Ello, and you can stay with me tonight.”

—

She’s only been eighteen for ten hours when she asks her father for the near impossible.

“I want custody of Logan. I want to adopt him. And I need your help to make that happen.”

He stares at her, no expression on his face, not even shock.

“He’s,” She pauses, jaw twitching and tears springing to her eyes. “He wants to do karting, just like Dalton. And he’s good at it. I’ve taken him. They told him no. They haven’t bought him clothes in two years. They don’t know a single thing about his school, his grades, his teachers. He hasn’t called David dad since he was six and he hasn’t called Madelyn mom since he was four.” Her hands are formed into fists, nails digging into her palms as she speaks. “I have money, I can provide for him. I’ve got my shares of the company now and I’ve got my inheritance from Grandma Talls. But I know that a judge won’t sign off without some influence.”

“Madelyn and Daniel?”

She leans forward in her seat, a spark of hope filling her. “I already talked to them, they’ll do it.”

One of his hands comes up to rub at his mouth, sighing. Then it drops to open up one of his desk drawers and he’s pulling out a bunch of papers, dropping them on the desk in front of her.

“I figured this was gonna happen and I knew after you talked to them and they called me. They signed away their rights three hours ago. Michael and Lily are waiting outside to come in so you can sign the papers.”

Tears slipped from her eyes, joy wrapping itself around her entire being from his words, the fact that he called their family lawyer to be on standby, that he and her mother were so supportive. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He smiles at her. “I couldn’t say no to you. Not when it comes to Logan. I’m way too young to have a grandkid, let alone one that’s eight, but I made my peace with that years ago.”

“Thank you.”

—

Max watches the free practice session coverage intently as they focus on the Williams garage, nose wrinkling when they focus on Logan’s trainer, Benny and then James Vowles. Could it really be possible that they never once caught a shot of her? He starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach that he's gonna have to go on Twitter when the camera moves and suddenly she’s there and he’s scrambling for the tv remote, pressing the pause button just before the camera switches to an overhead shot of the Bahrain track.

His heart skips a beat as he gets his first good luck at her. Her pretty eyes and smile. His eyes then travel down, wanting to know her name and his heart drops.

Y/N Sargeant, Mother of Logan Sargeant.

Fuck.

—

“Momma Panther!” Oscar greets to the confusion of other drivers as Logan and a woman enter the room.

Lando’s eyebrows are raised as he watches Oscar stand. Watching as his teammate claps Logan on the back, before giving him an actual hug. Before he then hugs the woman as well, whispering something to her that makes her laugh.

Pulling away from her, Oscar grins when her hand comes up to pat his cheek for a second. “Thank you for the invite, Os.”

“Of course.” He sends a fond look to Logan, who's standing awkwardly by the table.

“Y’know Logan and you are always welcome.”

She makes a humming noise.

“C’mon, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Turning around, he smirks at the table. “Everyone, Logan.”

Charles lets out a laugh, as the others chuckle.

He gestures to her, “This is Momma Panther or Pan.”

“Y/N or Pan.” She corrects, playfully shaking her finger at Oscar. “I only let the F2 boys call me Momma Pan.”

He sighs. “Okay, this is Y/N. Logan’s mom.”

Lando coughs, water going down the wrong pipe. Fernando’s eyes are wide as he looks at her. Charles, George, and Alex are all nodding. Max has a weird expression on his face and Carlos looks dumbfounded.

“She,” Carlos points at her. “Is his,” he points at Logan. “Mother?”

Logan moves away from the table to stand by his mom, easily melting into her side at all the attention. The action makes Oscar smile, all too used to the easy affection between the mother and son. “I got pretty lucky right?”

She shakes her head. “I’m just happy you weren’t a difficult child.”

Logan both blushes and preens at the same time.

Carlos shakes his head, disbelief still clear.

“Please, sit.” George says after a moment. “We haven’t ordered yet.”

The seasoned drivers and her watch amused as both Oscar and Logan usher her to sit first. Oscar easily then lets Logan sit next before sitting beside the American. The two of them sharing a grin after.

It makes her shake her head as she turns her attention to the menu, tuning out the sound of conversation picking back up.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing makes her glance to her left.

The current two time world champion smiles a bit awkwardly at her. “Have you been here before?”

She shakes her head, turning her head a bit to look at him better. “No. To Australia of course, for Logan’s races and to visit Oscar once, but not here.”

He nods and she can’t help but notice the way he swallows harshly. “We started coming here in 2021, it’s good food. Good drinks.”

She laughs, “good gin and tonic?”

He flushes a little, but laughs. “Yes. Very good. Heavy on the gin.”

She nods, “I think I’ll have one of those then.”

Her eyes drift back to the menu, not even wincing at the prices next to the dishes. This was nearly cheap compared to where she had been forced to eat growing up.

“Momma, can we,”

“Yes.” She answers before Logan finishes, already knowing what he’s asking. “Also you two, no hard liquor. We have plans tomorrow.” She continues, still looking at the menu.

They wouldn’t get drunk from a few drinks, but she had a feeling that Lando would try to instigate something again with Oscar, making the poor kid so drunk he could barely walk, again. And she didn’t mind people thinking that she was overbearing with Logan and even Oscar. The boys knew that if they really wanted to do something they could, even if she said otherwise. It was one of the nice things about being an adult.

Logan wrinkles his nose, glancing at the drinks part of the menu, before grinning. “They have it.”

Oscar glances at what he’s pointing at, shaking his head. “You and your goddamn obsession.”

“We come here like once a year.” Logan defends. “And no other country sells it.”

It’s not until after the server leaves, all of their orders taken, that conversation starts again.

“So, Mrs. Sargeant,” Lando starts.

“Just Y/N or even Pan.” She sends a fond look to Oscar who had made that nickname stick. “And I’m not married.” She says, amused.

“Ah.”

“Not married.” Fernando shakes his head. “Now that doesn’t sound right.”

She looks at him amused. “Don’t believe in premarital sex?” She teases.

The older driver laughs and so do the others. “No. Just hard to believe that you aren’t married. You are a very gorgeous woman.”

“Thank you.”

“So,” Lando starts again, giving Max a weird look seeing how his friend is gripping his glass of water. “Will you be coming to all the races?”

She nods. “Yes, I have since Logan started his career. Haven’t missed one.”

Logan shakes his head, grinning at her. “Nope, not one.”

“Your work allows you to do that?”

Her lips press together for a second to try and hide her smile at the gentle but obvious fishing they are doing. “I have shares in some companies and a very generous inheritance. So, no true, real work.”

“You do some work for Grandpa when we’re in the states.”

“I organize his desk for him, which he then messes up as soon as he sits back down at it.”

“You do not mind the constant travel? It is quite tiring.” Charles asks, curious.

“No. And once I got Logan in karting, I promised him that I’d make it to all of his races. Maybe in a few years, I’ll stop going to all of them, but I am part of his team as well.”

“Manager?”

“God, no.” She shakes her head at Carlos’ assumption. “Cook slash nutritionist. Benny, his trainer is amazing, also doubles at being a physiotherapist for Logan, but he doesn’t know how to cook to save his life. So I make their meals.”

“Mine as well.” Alex pipes in. “They’re truly amazing, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you make mine again?” Oscar asks, leaning over Logan a bit to look at her. “I’ve missed having them.”

“Sure.” She laughs. “Get me your new sheets before the next race, yeah?”

“Done.”

—

Max watches from the corner of his eyes as she takes her first sip of her gin and tonic. Her brows raise a bit when the drink hits her tongue and he has to force his eyes up, to not focus in on her lips, to think about them and what they’d feel like on, he shakes his head. Forcing the thoughts, the ideas away.

“Very heavy on the gin.” She whispers, turning a bit to look at him.

He rubs his hands against his jeans. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice.” She smiles.

Relief fills him. “Good.”

He continues to look at her, wanting to tear his eyes away but being unable to. She was simply lovely. And getting this closer look at her, he can’t believe that she’s a mother, or at least a mother to a twenty-year-old. It didn’t seem possible. She looked barely older than him. Not at least thirty-five. She was probably more like Fernando’s age as well and he glances at the fellow two world champion, more disbelief filling him. Because how could the two be close in age at all?

—

Logan sighs as he collapses face first onto Oscar’s bed. Laying there for a solid minute before groaning and turning his head.

“Dinner was nice.”

Oscar hums and he can feel the bed dip beside him.

“You seemed a bit more relaxed.”

“No media, and you and Pan were there. A bit more relaxed.”

Logan scoffs. “Yeah, because you were so tense with media before.” As he speaks, he reaches out to lay a hand on Oscar’s thigh, giving the muscle a squeeze. “It’s nuts, isn’t it? I mean we all got told that the media was so much more, so different, but…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Oscar sighs and then he’s laying beside Logan, the American luckily moving his hand off and away from the other’s thigh before he lies on it.

“Y’know I have no personality, apparently.”

Logan snorts, eyes opening when he hadn’t even realized he had closed him. The Australian driver also has his head turned so they’re looking at each other. “What? Have they never seen a Prema video?”

He shrugs as best as he can.

“I’d take that over my apparent frat boyness.”

“You? A frat boy?” Oscar laughs.

Logan sighs as he thinks a bit more about it, the mood turning a bit serious. “I just hope momma hasn’t seen it.”

“What happened?”

“She’s just worried. Thinks I haven’t noticed, but she’s wondering if she did a good job with me, done enough for me. And she’s given me everything y’know. I can’t imagine what I’d be like with them as my parents.”

Oscar moves a bit closer, just a few inches between their faces now. “You’d still be amazing, still great. Maybe a frat boy.”

The American rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“I think Fernando has a thing for her. For Pan.” He clarifies.

“What?”

“I mean, just during the dinner y’know, he kept looking at her. And him calling her gorgeous.”

“Well, he’d be dumb and blind to not notice that.” Logan scoffs, rolling onto his back and turning his head to the side, keeping his eyes on Oscar.

“I’m being serious.” The younger laughs, poking him lightly. “I think Alonso has a thing for her.”

Logan’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Dude, no. That’s gross. Momma isn’t even thirty and Fernando’s like forty-three. And isn’t he dating that journalist?”

Oscar’s brows press together. “What journalist?”

“The one that gave Fred shit.”

“I thought she died?”

The two look at each other, both baffled.

Logan thinks again of the journalist he’s seen around Fernando and the one that all of the Prema drivers, former and at the time current, had avoided or given shit statements too. They did look a bit different now that he really thought about it. Fernando’s journalist slash girlfriend didn’t have a fucking complex.

“Different journo.” Logan mutters. He then blinks, “wait, she died?”

“Mate, you didn’t hear about that?”

“No!”

“She was supposed to be at Spa, remember. And we all were relieved when she wasn’t there. She died, car crash or something, I can’t remember.”

“How do I not remember this?”

Oscar shrugs as best as he can while laying down. “I don’t know.”

It’s silent for a moment, “you don’t think,”

“No.” Oscar shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “I mean, yeah no.”

“Right.” He looks up at the ceiling.

“Okay, so Fernando is out of the running.”

Logan groans, “Os, no.”

“Look he clearly has eyes, but if he’s dating someone he’s out. He wasn’t the only one looking.”

“Oscar, please, it’s my mom.”

“She’s like my mom too, which is why we have to talk about this.” Oscar insists, wriggling closer to Logan. Their sides completely pressed together and when Logan turns his head to look at the other, their noses nearly brush.

He looks at Oscar’s face, all earnest and caring and sighs. “Fine. Charles was looking, but he only dates one type, so safe from him.”

“Lando was looking.”

Logan snorts, “I thought this was for potential dates, not another kid.”

He laughs, their noses brushing together from the movement. “Okay, no Lando. Max.”

“He kind of looked weird when you introduced her.” He frowns.

“I saw that too.”

“But he also got all blushy when they talked.”

“The drivers do know, I mean Alex knows that she didn’t like birth you, right?”

Logan’s frown deepens. “Of course. I mean, it’s not super well known, but it’s a little hard to believe that she naturally had a kid twenty years ago.”

“Thought so.” Oscar then chuckles. “Imagine, them thinking that she did, though. Just thinking she’s got some sort of insane skin care routine.”

—

“How in the hell does she look like that with a twenty-year-old kid?”

“I know right?” Alex says, looking at Carlos. “It’s insane.”

Charles pokes at his own cheek. “I think I need to ask her for advice, what products she uses. I want to age like her.”

“We all want to age like her.” George agrees.

“What are you saying?” Fernando frowns.

A few of them share a look, but Charles and Max share a different one. “Mate, you’ve got wrinkles and all these lines.” Max says. “I mean those are natural, but look at her. The skincare helps.”

Fernando frowns, “Lines?”

Charles touches at his own lines, “see lines. From smiling, laughing, frowning. All good things, very nice. Just not uh,” his brows furrow drawing a blank.

Lando snorts at his struggle. “You just want to help your skin. Keep it healthy.”

The older driver makes a humming noise, considering.

—

Her breath is caught in her throat, eyes wide as she watches the screen. Her heart feels like it is beating in double time. She wants to look away, doesn’t want to watch in case something horrible happens, but she can’t. Because Logan just overtook both Magnussen and Ocon in the same lap. Logan is in 9th. Logan is in a point scoring position with only five laps of the race left. Logan might score his first formula 1 points at his home race, at his actual home race, at his first ever home race.

Her hands are shaking, fingers locked together as she presses them against her mouth, trying to breathe, praying that Logan won’t fall back out of the points.

She doesn’t even notice that he’s lessened that gap to Pierre until suddenly he’s overtaken the other French driver, just three laps later. “Oh my god.”

“Fuck.”

“Benny,” she whispers, and one of her hands is dropping so she can clutch at the older man. “Benny, I think,”

“He’s gonna do it.”

And sure enough he does it. Logan holds his place in front of Pierre and finishes in 8th.

“Yes!” The whole garage is cheering and she’s wrapping her arms around Benny, laughing when the trainer lifts her.

“He did it! He did it!” She cheers.

The garage quiets though as Gaetan starts to speak on the radio.

“Logan, you are on your cooldown lap.”

“Got it. Where’s Alex?”

She winces at the question, one of her hands grips at Benny’s shoulder as he sets her back down, the other holding onto her headphones that miraculously didn’t get thrown off her head or disconnected when celebrating. “Alex is P14, P14.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’m sorry we didn’t get any points today, next race is ours right? The car felt great.”

Both of her hands fly up to her mouth.

“Logan.” Gaetan’s voice is full of disbelief and laughter. “Mate, you finished P8. You got us points. You got your first points.”

She can see him react to the news, the car jerking underneath him for a second, before he wrangles it back under control.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You finished in P8. Clean race, finished ahead of both Alpines and Magnussen.”

“Holy fuck.”

The garage fills with laughter at his reaction and tears start to build in her eyes.

“You guys,” his voice breaks. “Thank you guys so much. This was you guys, the car felt great, really.”

She watches as James hops on the radio. “This was you as well, Logan. Amazing drive today.”

“Thank you, James. Thank you so much for this.”

His mechanics, Benny and her, quickly go over to where the cars are parking, watching as Logan slots it into place. He’s a little shaky as he gets out of the car and he’s about to dart towards them but someone from the FIA, is ushering him to the scale.

His reluctance is clear even with his helmet on, but he goes. Letting them take his weight and as soon as it’s written down, he’s stepping off and away, fumbling with his gloves and then his helmet.

There’s an awed grin on his face, tears in his eyes, and seeing it makes the tears that have built in her own fall.

His gloves and helmet tumble to the ground as his mechanics and Benny surround him, celebrating his points.

Logan laughs when they finally let them go and his eyes light up when he sees her and he darts to her and she easily welcomes him into her arms.

“I’m so proud of you.” She tells him, squeezing his sweaty body close before running a hand through his hair. “You did amazing.”

“I did it, momma.” His voice is weak and she can feel tears hit the skin of her neck where his head is buried.

“You did it.”

—

“Logan did amazing, it was a good drive.”

She blinks in surprise at the voice, turning in her barstool to look. “Max?”

He smiles at her, cheeks flushed. “He did really well.”

“He did.” She agrees before patting the stool next to her.

His smile widens as he takes the seat.

“I didn’t realize that Red Bull was in the same hotel.” Maybe she should have since she had spotted a few Red Bull polos, but she figured it was fan gear.

“I think Aston is here as well. You aren’t celebrating with Logan?”

She shakes her head. “We already celebrated. Him, Oscar, and a bunch of his friends here are throwing a party. I wasn’t really interested in watching them all get wasted, so this,” she gestures to the hotel bar, “is me having a drink to celebrate before going up to my room and ordering some room service.”

“Could I join you?” His cheeks redden at the words, at the way her eyebrows raise. “Not like that. But for food? I’ve never actually eaten anywhere in Miami that wasn’t catering.”

She stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. And I have the perfect place to take you.”

—

“Did I actually score points yesterday?”

“You did.”

“Sweet.”

“Very. How’s the head?”

Logan shrugs, “I mean, I drank a lot, but like I’m just dehydrated.”

She shakes her head, “That will change in a few years.”

“Not gonna tell me to not drink underage?” He teases, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek before grabbing her glass of juice and draining it.

She snorts. “We’re in Europe most of the time and I gave you your first drink. I don’t think I have a leg to stand on. And you were celebrating.”

“True.”

He sits across from her, refilling the glass and taking another drink from it before setting it down and starting to help himself to her pancakes, which she just pushes closer to him. “How was your night? You could have joined us. We wouldn’t of minded.”

“I’m your mom, Logan.” She laughs. “I think the me going to your friend's parties ship sailed a few years ago.”

“Yeah, but you're awesome. We like having you around.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I wasn’t in the mood to watch all of you get wasted.”

“Fair.” he says around a bite of pancake, which she sends him a look for and he quickly swallows the food. Giving her a smile that says sorry.

“So, how was your night?”

“It was good.” She tells him, spearing a piece of fruit with her other fork. “I came back to the hotel, had a drink, and then got dinner with Max.”

His brows press together. “Max?”

“Verstappen.” She clarifies. “Red Bull is staying here as well, he saw me at the hotel bar and asked if he could join me for some food.”

“You went on a date?”

Her eyes narrow at him. “It wasn't a date.”

“You went on a date.” He scrambles for his phone. “Oscar is never gonna believe it.”

“I go on dates.”

“Momma, you’ve gone on like five dates. And two of those were before you turned eighteen.”

She scowls at him. “It wasn’t a date. We just got dinner.” She insists.

“Uh huh.” He says, clearly not believing her. “Did he pay?”

“Yes.”

“Pull your chair out, help you with your coat, anything like that?”

Her mind flashes back to Max helping her get out of his car, his insistence on opening doors for her. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean,”

Logan continues. “Did he walk you to your hotel room? Say that he had a good time and he’d like to do it again?”

“Oh.”

Logan grins at her, smug, as he finishes typing out a text to Oscar. “You went on a date last night.”

“I went on a date last night.” And she doesn’t mention the fact that a new number resides in her phone.

—

“Logan!”

He stops at the sound of his name, turning to look behind him, where Max Verstappen is nearly jogging to catch up with him. “Max.” He greets, when the older driver is next to him, nerves filling him at the eyes of said driver on him, along with how a few other drivers are also looking at the pair, shock and surprise clear on their faces.

“Hey.” Max grins. “How are you feeling about the track?”

He looks at the older driver in confusion. They had just left the drivers briefing, why was he asking him this? Alex had already spoken about how the team was feeling about Monaco. “The car won’t be the best here, but we said that in Miami, so we’re hoping to repeat that here. Alex has a good chance at ending in a point scoring position.” He reiterates what he's been told and what he’s been telling the press.

“But how are you feeling about it?”

Logan stares at the Dutchman, eyes flickering around trying to see if cameras are there, if his momma is there, but there isn’t anyone. The other drivers are already gone, so are the FIA people. It’s just him and Max. “Y’know you don’t have to talk to me because you went out with my mom.”

He expects relief, like that one dick Jase, and really who puts that on a birth certificate, but Max just frowns. “I know, I don’t have to.”

Logan swallows around the lump in his throat, “right.” Turning around, he starts to walk, somehow knowing that the other driver will join him. “It’s a tricky track, it’s Monaco. I was here last year and I barely got in the points.”

“P10 and P9.”

He throws the driver a look, because that was too much to know, but Max is just looking at him, encouraging him to continue. “The car isn’t suited for it. I mean it wasn’t for Miami, but this is different. And I’m still not managing my tyres correctly, so even if I did manage to gain positions, I’d get called in to pit and lose them.”

Max huffs out a laugh. “You are a rookie in a Williams, it’s impressive that you’ve already gotten points. If you could manage your tyres, when sometimes even I struggle, well I’d put you in Checo’s seat.”

“Not yours?”

He laughs again, “No. I’m a bit better at it than Checo.”

Logan couldn’t really deny that.

“Do you want some advice? On the tyres?”

Logan quickly nods. “I’ll take anything I can get.”

“Don’t fight the car too much on the turns. If you need to get it to turn properly or without going on the brakes too soon, fight it. But when you don’t, let the car be stable, keep it fluid. When you come out of the corner, press harder. It might feel like you’ll go into the wall, but you won’t.”

“And if I go into the wall?”

Max laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think you're a better driver than that mate.”

—

“How are you doing that in the turns?”

Logan looks up from his notebook, where he’d been scribbling a bunch of random words. Looking at the screen, he watches his own onboard. He thinks about saying that it was Max that told, but no one at Williams liked hearing about Red Bull, especially with Alex in the room. “Just something I thought I’d try.”

“Well, it was good, continue doing it. We may have ended up out of the points, but we got close.”

Logan nods. Even with his five-second penalty, he had still kept fourteenth, and Alex ended up in twelfth. “Will do.”

—

Max had thought about her in his apartment a lot, an embarrassing amount. He had also pictured it very differently. A nice dinner, wine, even though a majority of it made his nose wrinkle, perhaps some kissing on his couch as a movie plays that they both don’t care about.

He hadn’t expected lunch, with juice that he’s trying to figure out how he’s never had it when he’s lived in Monaco for so many years, and a somewhat serious conversation, though maybe he has been expecting that one or rather anticipating it.

“I like you, Max.”

He flushes, “I like you too.” He really did, even though his mother was going to have a heart attack when she found out how much older Pan was than him.

“And I want to continue doing this.” She gestures between them with her free hand that isn’t being held in his.

“So,” sensing that there’s something she wants to say.

“I’m a mom.”

He blinks at her words, panic starting to fill him. He thought he’d made that clear that he knew that, understood that. He always made sure to ask about Logan. He even had Logan’s number now after talking to him about how he felt about the Monaco track. “I know.”

“Logan is important to me.”

Oh, god, did Logan not like him?

“The most important thing to me. And if we're going to continue to do this, I just need you to know that. He’s always going to be my first priority.”

“Of course.” Relief fills him, his heart slows from its frantic beating. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She stares at him, trying to gauge how truthful he’s being before nodding. “Okay.”

“Did you think that I didn’t know that?”

She shakes her head immediately. “No, it’s just. I don’t really do this.” She laughs. “Dating, relationships. Logan pointed that out to me, so I don’t really know how this goes and I just had to make it clear, put it on the table now.”

“I don’t really do this either.” He hesitates to ask his next question, but does. “Logan’s father. What was your relationship with him like?”

Her face screws up in disgust. “Ew.”

He laughs, not expecting that reply or that word to sum up a relationship. But fair enough.

“I mean the idea of a relationship between me and Logan’s father is gross. Logan’s,” she pauses, seeming to settle on a different word. “Birth parents are my aunt and uncle.”

“His what?” He could have sworn she said birth parents, but that couldn’t be right.

“His birth parents.” She looks at him, concerned. “I adopted Logan when I turned eighteen. Did you think I gave birth to him?”

“No.” He says, shaking head and clearing his throat. “Of course not.”

She stares at him, lips pressed together.

He sighs, slumping in his seat, eyes closing. “I may or may not have thought you were just a really, really young looking forty-something year old woman.”

She immediately bursts into laughter and his eyes fly open at the sound. “You thought?”

“The graphic for the race footage says you are his mother, I did not think otherwise. I just thought you looked great for your age.” He defends, a little embarrassed, but delighted by the expression on her face and her laughter that is still filling his ears.

“I am his mother, just adopted.”

“Not that either of you see it that way.”

“No.” She shakes her head, laughing one last time before calming down.

“No. Logan’s mine, he’s been mine practically since he was born. It just wasn’t seen that way legally until I was eighteen and custody got signed over to me.”

“Of course.” He then flashes her smile, “So can I ask how old you are?”

She laughs, nodding. “Yes, Max. I think just this once it’s better to ask a lady her age than assume it.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

He looks at her with new eyes, the age making much more sense. “I would’ve said twenty-five.”

“Really? I think you would’ve said forty-something.”

“How was I to know?” He throws his free hand in the air at the tease, his other still holding hers.

—

“Hi, baby.” She greets when Logan stumbles out of his room, practically still asleep, as he drops onto the couch.

“Momma.” He whines, resting his head on her lap and turning his face to press it into her stomach, trying to block out the sun.

Her fingers brush through his hair as she forces her body to stay relaxed. It was always a fight when he did this.

She hated that her body didn’t bear any signs of being pregnant before, no stretch marks around her belly. She hated that she hadn’t actually gotten to carry Logan no matter how impractical it was, unless of course she was as old as Max had thought she was. She smiles at the memory of how flustered Max had looked when he realized her actual age.

He mumbles something and she turns his face away from her stomach.

“What?”

“How was your date last night?”

Her smile widens. “It was good.”

“Yeah?”

She nods.

“Did you see Jimmy and Sassy?”

“No.” She runs her hand over his forehead, knowing that he’s thinking of Sooty. “We should talk though after you’ve had some breakfast.”

“About what?”

“Breakfast first.”

“What do we need to talk about?” Logan asks nearly thirty minutes later, his fruit bowl all gone and his coffee on its way to be there as well.

She swallows, hands flexing. “Max.”

“What about Max?”

She sighs. “Well, baby, him and I talked about becoming serious last night. But that’s not gonna happen until I know how you feel.”

“You know, I’m okay with it.”

“I know you're okay with me dating, but this is a bit more complicated. Max is on the grid with you and we’re talking about a relationship.”

Logan eyes widen a bit at the word relationship. “I mean, how does Max feel about it? About being with someone who has a kid on the grid?”

He asks knowing it will give him time to figure out how to tell her how he feels and because he wants to know, he kind of wants Max to be okay with it. He likes Max, and not just as a driver. The older driver is kind and funny, he also looks at his mom like she’s the sun, he makes her happy and that’s enough to put him in Logan’s good books. His mom deserves the best and he thinks from what little he’s seen, from how much more happy his mom has been (and god that was weird, because it wasn’t even like she wasn’t happy before) that Max might be the best for her. And Max now every time he sees Logan is always stopping to talk to him even if it’s just for a second to say a quick hi.

“Max is good with it. He knows that you're my number one and that’s never going to change.”

Logan flushes at the words.

“He also likes you, thinks you're a good kid.” She lets out an amused huff as the word kid leaves her mouth. It was odd to hear Max describe Logan that way, with only five years between them. But at the same time she knew it came from being practically a veteran in the sport. Max was coming up on ten years in Formula 1 despite his young age.

He flushes even more. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “He always asks about you, it’s really sweet. And he knows to that if you aren’t comfortable with this or need more time then that’s what will happen.”

“I am an adult.”

“You are.” She was sadly well aware of that fact. “But you are my baby, my kid. I couldn’t be in a relationship with someone if you didn’t like them or if it made you uncomfortable.”

He nods. “I’m okay with it. Max makes you happy, he’s nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

—

She lets out a giggle as arms wrap around her from behind, lips pressing against her cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Another kiss is pressed to her cheek. “Can I help?”

She glances down at what she’s finishing up. “No. You could set the table, though?”

“Done.” A kiss is pressed to her temple and then the blanket of heat that covered her back is gone. “What cabinet?”

“First one entering the kitchen on the left.” She says, turning her head a bit to watch as Max pulls the dishes out.

Her mouth goes a little dry as she watches him. His t-shirt is tight around his biceps and chest. His skin is a little tanned after their date a few days ago on a friend's yacht. She forces her eyes to not look at his hands, instead trailing them up to his strong shoulders and neck and then to his face. Max, she thinks as he starts to put the plates on the table, is unfairly attractive. Before he can catch her staring, she checks on the final thing on the stove. “Perfectly done.” She mumbles with a smile.

The sound of the front door opening makes her smile grow wider as she grabs a pot holder.

“Am I late?”

“Just on time.” She tells Logan as he steps into the kitchen.

“Can I,”

She stops him before he can continue. “No, go wash up.”

“Alright.” He bends a little to press a kiss to her cheek before turning on his heel, offering a wave to Max. “Hi.”

“Hi, Logan.”

Picking up the pan, she shakes her head as Max goes to try and take it from her.

“Logan and you are both going to get on too well.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, a twinkle in his eye.

“You both don’t like when I lift anything.”

“What’s the point of having a son or a boyfriend, then?” Logan says, clapping Max on the shoulder as he comes back.

Max grins at the younger, delighted as he claps him back. “Exactly. We feel a bit neglected.”

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, though a smile is stretching across her lips.

—

Max watches amused as the mother and son argue.

“Mom, it would be for two races, two, that’s it.”

“One race, really.” Max chimes in, smiling when she glares at him. “Spa is nice, but Zandvoort is really what I consider my home race.”

“See, it would be one race. Max wants you in his garage.” Logan says, looking at the other driver, begging for him to help but at the last sentence Max shakes his head.

“I never said that. Well, I would like to see Pan in my garage, not for the whole weekend, or even a day. She’s part of your team.”

Logan looks at him, bewildered. “But, it’s your home race.”

He shrugs. “I’d like for her to stop by, you as well. I already have it cleared with the team. Staying for even a whole session though just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t need her on my side of the garage to know that she’s supporting me, wanting me to do well, not when you are on the grid.”

“Are you sure?”

Max smiles at Logan, because yes he was sure. Did he want her there, supporting him? Maybe even dressed in something with his number? Of course. But, he liked seeing her in Logan’s garage. Supporting him, wearing his merch, being a mom. “I’m more than sure.”

“Besides,” she says, drawing both of their attention. “Max and I haven’t gone public yet. Or really told anyone yet.”

—

“Well, this is a bit of an odd one.” Laura says as they stop in front of the Red Bull garage.

The cameraman focuses on what she’s looking at.

“Both Logan Sargeant and his mother, better known as Pan from Formula 2 fans, are in the Red Bull garage, currently talking with our current championship leader Max Verstappen, his engineer GP, and Daniel Ricciardo.”

“Shall I see if I can steal one of them away?” Will asks, smiling at the camera as he holds the F1 TV microphone loosely.

“Please.” She gestures.

Will steps towards the garage smiling at the small group hovering just inside. “Could I steal one of you for a quick minute?”

The five exchange a look and Will stops himself from rolling his eyes at the way they all look annoyed at the idea, but Logan nods. “Sure.”

“Thank you.”

He watches as Logan says something quietly to them, getting nods from them all. His brow furrows when Max squeezes his shoulder before the younger driver gives his mom a quick hug, making him shake his head. Logan Sargeant was an absolute mommy’s boy and it was embarrassing as all hell to see. He couldn’t imagine being twenty and hugging his mom in public, let alone all those videos and photos of him reaching for her hand.

Will ignored the part of him that did think it was sweet and felt bad for the kid. He couldn’t look all sappy while filming, especially not when in front of the Red Bull garage.

“Hi everyone.” Logan greets, taking the third mic from the newest crew member.

“Hello, Logan. How are you feeling about this weekend?”

He smiles at Laura. “I’m feeling okay, I’ve raced here before, obviously not in an F1 car, but I do have some experience with this track.”

“And you and your mum’s visit to the Red Bull garage, should we expect an announcement of you switching teams?” She teases.

“No.” He laughs. “No, uh, just visiting for personal reasons. Saying hello to Daniel, wishing Max a good home race.”

“I mean, I’m not sure, he needs it.” Will jokes, gaining a few laughs. “So, no business to be done at Red Bull? Just saying a hello and wishing a good race to a fellow driver.”

“Yeah,” he pauses, looking back at the garage where it’s just Max and his mom standing now watching him with smiles on their faces. It’s only that he continues when his mom gives a brief nod, one barely able to be seen by the camera. “And I wasn’t just wishing a fellow driver good luck.”

“Oh?”

Logan grins, looking pleased with himself. “I was wishing my new dad good luck.”

—

“Carlos Sainz is a cunt.”

Max freezes at her words, hand still on the doorknob from just stepping into the room.

“Hi, schat.”

“Carlos Sainz is a cunt.” She repeats.

His brain is scrambling because what exactly had Carlos done but also why was it so attractive to her say the word cunt. It had to be the accent, he decided quickly, still trying to figure out the Carlos thing. “And why is Carlos a cunt?” He finally asks, releasing the door knob and stepping further into the room.

She’s on her laptop, rapidly typing something, and he can feel anger radiating off her.

“That bullshit he spewed, blaming Oscar’s inexperience.” She scoffs, pausing her typing as she shakes her head. “It was an incident, a racing incident, something he knows a lot about. There was no inexperience fault.”

“Oscar’s okay?” He already knows that he is, but knows it's good to ask.

“He’s good. He knows that it's a racing incident.”

Max winces. Wonders for a second if he should warn Carlos to keep his mouth shut, but shrugs. It wasn’t his fault that Carlos was getting in trouble because he couldn’t watch his mouth or correctly look at footage. “Can I help?”

She sighs, hitting close on whatever she was writing in. “No.” She then closes her laptop, turning to face him, with a smile. “Hi. Congrats on the win.”

“Thank you.” He bends to kiss her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just,” she waves her hand at her laptop, “stuff.”

“Anything I can help with?”

She starts to shake her head no as he sits on the edge of the bed, but she stops.

“Actually, could I get your insight on something? Not just as a driver, but as someone who lives and breathes racing, loves data, really knows how the sport works.”

“Of course. What’s going on?”

Another sigh leaves her, hand coming up to rub at her mouth for a second before it drops. “Why would a team not resign a driver?”

His eyebrows furrow, because she knows the reasons, but he answers. “Not performing well, they want out of the team or sport, sponsorship issues.”

“The driver wants to stay in the sport and the team.” Her lips turn downwards a bit at the word team. “And the driver brought new sponsorships to the team.”

“They have to be not performing well.”

“They’re a rookie in a back marker team.”

“They have to be really performing badly.” Max says, trying to think of who in Formula 2 or 3 she’s talking about.

“They already have six points and have placed ahead of their experienced teammate three times.”

His mind is scrambling again, trying to find a reason, because what? “How many does his teammate have?”

“Nine.”

“I have no idea. Not unless there’s conflict within the team.”

She shakes her head.

“Is there potentially a more experienced driver for the spot?”

She shakes her head. “They’re looking at another rookie or maybe someone who stepped away from the series for a year, though they’d rather take a rookie than him.”

“I don’t have an answer for you. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

She nods, expression falling and she’s rubbing at her face.

“What’s going on?” He asks, standing up just to crouch down in front of her, taking her hands in his.

“The driver’s Logan.”

“What?”

“Williams isn’t sure they want to offer Logan another year.”

Max stares at her. “How?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, laughing. “There’s talks of them signing whoever wins this F2 championship or even the runner-up depending on who it is. Logan’s making too many mistakes.”

“He’s costing them too much money.” Max fills in the blank, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t take a rookie if you can’t afford it. You are supposed to account for the worse. And he’s doing well. It’s not his fault that they built a shit car.”

“I don’t know what to do.” She admits, voice just a whisper, and his heart clenches painfully at the sound of it, at the tears in her eyes. “This is his dream. I don't know what to do if that gets taken away from him.”

“It won’t. We’ll figure something out.” He tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

—

“I think I’m spoiled.” Max says, watching as she gets ready for bed. A faint feeling of arousal pooling his gut as she pulls on one of his shirts. He absentmindedly wonders if it would be weird to wear it tomorrow to the track, the scent of her lotion clinging to it.

“Why’s that, honey?”

He smiles, cheeks a bit pink, and that arousal builds a bit more at the pet name, at the way she shifts in the vanity chair to loosen some tension in her back. “You come to every race, you see me win, you celebrate them, you got to see me win my third championship today.” Those words feel weird off his tongue, today, but totally sober to celebrate. He wants desperately for tomorrow to come, for the race to finish so they can celebrate, him, her, Logan, the team.

“I guess you are a bit spoiled.”

He gasps, clutching at his heart, making her giggle.

“That’s okay though.” She says, getting up and moving onto the bed, straddling him. “I think I like you spoiled.”

He groans as she dips her head, pressing a kiss to the flutter of his pulse. “Schat.” It's a warning to stop and a plea for more.

“I know.” She kisses the spot a bit firmer. “Celebrations will have to wait just a day longer.” She then rolls off him, his arm immediately lifting so she can press against his side.

“It’s cruel to win with a sprint race.”

She snorts, “A sprint race never stopped us before.”

“It’s cruel to win with a sprint race in Qatar.” He amends.

“Very true.”

He sighs, staring at the ceiling as he calms down, luckily the feeling of her fingers tapping along his stomach not making it harder.

“How’s Logan feeling?” Max asks, remembering how pale he looked when they got dinner.

She sighs, moving somehow closer. “Not great. No fever, but his stomach is still a bit upset.”

He winces. “He gonna be okay tomorrow?”

“I hope so. The team knows that he’s sick, they’ll make the right choice.”

“I hope so.” He echoes, wishing that Logan felt better, hoping that he feels better by the time the race starts.

—

“We are confident in him.” Max scoffs, tossing his phone aside.

“I know.”

“Logan still wanting to do his new routine.”

She nods, lips pursed.

He shakes his head. “He did good.” It wasn’t the rookie season that Oscar had, but it couldn’t be. Oscar got lucky enough to get a seat in a near top team, while Logan got one with a back of the grid team that was sometimes midfield.

Logan scoring ten points, getting himself to sixteenth in the standings, tied with Bottas in the standings, was very good for a rookie. It was a shame that Williams seemed to think he could’ve and should have done better. At least, Max thinks, the 2025 grid was wide open for possibilities.

“Are him and Oscar still joining us?”

She throws him a look. “Us?”

“You.” He amends, knowing that despite him joining her, he’d get caught up in Redline and different things. He was just happy she didn’t mind that.

“Only for a few days and then they both are off to Australia.”

“Will Logan be joining us for Florida?”

“Yes. My mom has been asking the next time she’s going to see her only grandchild.”

Max laughs at the eye roll. “So, Belgium first, then Monaco,”

“You go to Milton for a day after.”

He nods, “then Greece, Florida, Monaco.”

“Not bad for the first few weeks of winter break.”

“Not bad at all.” He agrees, wrapping his arms around her waist, chest pressed against her back.

It’s quiet between the couple as Max sways them.

“Max.”

“Yes?”

“Your mom, she does know that I’m not in my forties right? Or thirties?” She figured that the woman did, but she also had only briefly gotten to meet her at the one race, and there had been an odd expression on her face when Max introduced her as his girlfriend.

He freezes.

“Max.”

“I knew I forgot something.”

@ohtous @cixrosie @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @quackquackhun @rewmuslupin @copper-boom @stopeatread @crashingwavesofeuphoria @jointhehunt67 @namgification @asphalstead @poppyflower-22 @racingheartsposts @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @hiireadstuff @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 12.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

YEAR: FEBRUARY, 2018

You don’t think you’ve ever felt more scared than you do at this current moment. No screams from your mother, preparation for a big exam, nothing. None of it compares to the way your hands tremble, your heart racing faster by the second, followed by a sinking feeling in your stomach. You gulp, sweat falling down and stinging your eye, but you don’t wipe it. All you’re focused on is the tiny, white stick in your hand. The even tinier two lines stare back up at you, laughing in a taunting way that almost makes you hurdle it across your room. 

Pregnant.

You’re fucking pregnant. 

“God…oh…oh my god, no…no, this can’t be—”

“Y/N! Did you not clean the rice like I asked?!”

Your mother’s angry voice snaps you semi-back into reality. You gasp with a jolt,  head swiveling around. “Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter to yourself in a dazed panic, hearing the approaching steps of hers coming to the bathroom door. Without any other solution, you lodge the pregnancy test into the pocket of your sweats, flattening out your oversized sweater and praying to whatever gods that are watching that it doesn’t slip. You open the door just as she’s about to yank it open. “Sorry, I…I forgot.”

She eyes you with suspicion, her sharp gaze flickering over your face. "Forgot?" she repeats, arms crossing over her chest. "What could possibly be more important than doing what I asked you to do?"

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes despite the suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. "I just—I'm not feeling well," you lie, trying to keep your voice steady. "I was gonna do it in a minute."

Her frown deepens. "Not feeling well?" She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "You're always holed up in here, wasting time. Get out of the bathroom and go wash the rice before my date gets here."

You nod quickly, brushing past her, heart hammering so hard you're sure she can hear it. The test in your pocket feels like a burning secret, each step making it press heavier against your thigh. You rush to the kitchen, hands clammy as you reach for the bag of rice.

Pregnant.

The word echoes in your mind, taunting, terrifying. You grip the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut. This isn't happening. It can't be. You don't realize your breathing has turned shallow until you hear the faintest of footsteps behind you. "Y/N," your mother's voice is sharper now. "Why are you just standing there?"

Your eyes snap open. You force your fingers to move, pouring the rice into the bowl, submerging it in water. The grains slip between your fingers as you swirl them around, but your mind is far, far away. “Sorry, Mom.”

She scoffs and walks over to plop onto the couch. 

What are you going to do? And the better question is, how in the fuck are you going to tell Satoru?

You remember going over to his that night, considering his parents were once again out of the country for business. Even driving there, you felt the need to pull over because your wobbly hands were inhibiting you. Somehow, you persevered and made it to his estate. Quickly hopping out of the busted-down 2001 Toyota pick-up truck, striding over to the front door. He must’ve seen you through the window, opening it before you could knock, with his usual smile. “Hey, baby, I mis—”

You push past him to go inside, scrubbing a hand over your face. 

Satoru pauses mid-sentence, blinking as he watches you storm inside. His usual playful demeanor falters when he catches sight of your expression—wide, panicked eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “Uh… okay?” he mutters, shutting the door behind you. He turns, arms crossing as he watches you pace back and forth in the grand foyer, your hands running through your hair like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start guessing?”

You stop abruptly, looking at him. Your throat tightens, and your nails dig into your palm. Just say it. Get it over with.

But the words refuse to come out.

Satoru’s brows furrow. His teasing lilt is gone now, replaced with something softer—concerned. He steps toward you slowly, hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Y/N… what happened?”

You take a deep breath, fingers curling around the pregnancy test still hidden in your pocket. Your heart pounds so loudly that you swear it echoes off the expensive marble floors. Your eyes water, but you force yourself not to shed any tears. Not now, at least. “I…there’s something I have to t-tell you, Satoru.”

He tilts his head slightly, white lashes fluttering as he studies you. The concern in his expression deepens, but there’s something else—anxiety, maybe. You’re not sure, and you don’t have time to analyze it. Your fingers tighten around the test like a lifeline, the plastic digging into your palm. Your entire body is tense, stiff like a tightly coiled wire that could snap at any moment. The air between you is thick—too thick—like the walls of the estate are pressing in on you, suffocating you beneath their weight.

Satoru notices. He always notices.

His hands fall to your shoulders, firm yet gentle, his thumbs grazing over the fabric of your sweater in slow, soothing motions. “Y/N,” he says your name again, softer this time. “You’re scaring me.”

You swallow hard, willing yourself to look up at him. His gaze is piercing, searching for something in yours, and it only makes this harder. He looks so young, so unburdened, like he hasn’t even considered the possibility of the life-altering news you’re about to drop on him. And that makes you feel even more terrible. Your breath hitches as you pull the test from your pocket, your hand trembling as you hold it out between you. The two little pink lines stare up at him, just as they had at you hours before.

Silence.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He just stares, like his brain is struggling to process what’s right in front of him. His lips part slightly, then close again. The usual easy confidence, the endless supply of teasing remarks—it all vanishes in an instant. His hands slip from your shoulders, falling uselessly to his sides. “...Is…is this real?” he finally breathes out, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

His eyes dart back to the test, then back to you, something unrecognizable flickering across his face. For the first time since you met him, Satoru looks… lost. The strongest man you’ve ever known, the boy who never seems to falter, suddenly looks like a scared kid. That terrifies you even more.

“Shit,” he murmurs in thinly veiled panic, grabbing the test from your hands and looking closer. As if doing that will magically make the two lines revert to just one.

You almost want to scoff at his initial reaction. Shit. The word you say when you do something wrong or when you make a mistake. Though, you’re not surprised. How could you be? Why would he be happy right now? Why would he want a child at just twenty-one with someone like you, of all people? But the reality starts to sink in even more as you gauge his reaction. The furrow of his brows, the way his lip pulls downwards, the agitated hand he runs through his messy hair, then the shaky exhale he lets out when he looks at you. Nothing is said, not that it needs to be. Your eyes blur with tears, and your heart twists at the fact that he looks this close to telling you to get rid of—

“What do you want to do, Y/N?” 

His voice cracks slightly, low and steady, but the tension in it is unmistakable. The words hang in the air between you, heavy, unspoken fears weighing on both of you. It’s not a question of blame—there’s no accusation in his tone. But there’s a raw vulnerability in it, as though he’s searching for an answer he doesn’t know himself. You swallow hard, struggling to find your voice again. You almost don’t want to answer. You don’t want to say the words out loud because hearing them could make this all feel too real. Too permanent. Your eyes drop to the test in his hand, the two lines mocking you like they were always meant to be there, unyielding, undeniable.

You don't know what to do. You don’t know what the right choice is, and that's the part that terrifies you the most. 

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice cracking on the words. It’s the truth. You don’t know what you want. What you can want when the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting, crumbling. But you should know, right? You know, having a kid right now is the last thing you should ever think of, especially with a boy you’ve only been dating two years. So then, why are you still hesitating? 

The silence stretches long, and all you can hear is the rapid pounding of your heart, the heavy rhythm of his breath matching yours. You watch him closely, his gaze flickering between the test and your face, eyes searching, unsure. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening with the weight of something neither of you wants to confront but both of you can’t avoid. For a second, he doesn’t speak, just looks at you. He seems to be considering something, maybe weighing every possible outcome, every potential consequence. Then, as if making up his mind, he shifts closer to you, his presence overwhelming, his warmth enveloping you. You didn’t expect it, but the way he steps into your space feels grounding—like he’s silently promising to bear this weight with you.

“I’ll be here,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Whatever you decide... I’m here. We’ll figure this out.”

His words feel like both a relief and a burden, and you can’t help the hot tears that sting your eyes as you look up at him. You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But there's a part of you that feels like this is the moment where everything could fall apart. The moment where reality finally crushes everything that was once easy between you two. “I don’t know if I can do this, Satoru,” you confess, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't even know if I want to." The weight of your words crashes down on you both. You never expected this. You never thought you’d be here, standing in front of him like this, unsure of everything.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he gently squeezes you tighter, his grip steady and warm. It’s all he has to offer for now. And, somehow, it’s enough. For the first time, you realize he’s not trying to force an answer out of you. He’s just... here. And for the moment, that might just be the thing you need the most.

The air feels charged, thick with unspoken promises.

Satoru takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” he says, but his voice cracks at the end, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to comfort you.

But you feel it in your chest—the fear, the doubt, the uncertainty of everything. “I just… I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, your breath hitching with the weight of it all. "I never thought this would happen. I never thought—god, we’re so stupid, so…so fucking stupid. If my mom finds out—"

“She’s not going to find out,” he cuts off your rambling, his hands cupping your face. A mix of uncertainty and determination is written on his face. “She…she won’t okay? You, um—you stay here until we figure things out. The guest house in the back, it’s yours for now. I’ll make up some shitty excuse to my parents, and you do the same for your mom. O-okay?” 

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of his words as they rush past you. His hands on your face are warm and grounding, but you can feel the tremble in his fingertips. His words, though filled with urgency and a bit of fear, somehow settle inside you like a strange, fleeting comfort. He’s offering you a solution, a way out of this terrifying uncertainty, and yet the weight of it still feels like it could break you at any second. 

"I don’t... I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing, Satoru," you whisper, your voice cracking at the end. "This isn't... this isn’t how I imagined it. I can’t even look at my mom, I—" Your voice trails off, caught in the overwhelming mess of emotions swirling inside of you. The fear of disappointing her, the panic over the future, the terror of doing something you might not be able to undo.

He shakes his head, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears still trailing down your cheeks. His touch is steady and soothing in its own way. “I know, baby. I know,” he says, his voice low, as if the words themselves are meant to protect you. He presses a soft kiss to your lips. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out, okay? Together.”

But even as he says it, you can see the doubt in his eyes, the fear that lingers beneath the surface of his reassuring words. You don't know what’s worse—the fact that you two got yourselves in this predicament or the way Satoru looks at you like he’s already bracing for the worst. You want to believe him, you want to believe that this—all of this—can somehow work out, but you're not sure how to convince yourself. Satoru’s hands move from your face to your shoulders, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together. "I won’t let you face this alone," he mutters against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "We’ll figure this out. I don’t care how hard it gets...we’ll get through it. You and me."

For a long beat of silence, all you can do is hold onto him, the only thing you know you can rely on right now. The tears continue to fall, but this time, you don’t feel as alone. You don’t feel as scared. But the reality still sits heavy in your chest, and you can't push away the nagging feeling that nothing will be the same after tonight. 

PRESENT TIME:

Satoru wakes with a small groan, the morning sunshine rays doing their duty of rousing him from a very deep sleep. The first thing he feels is an annoying crick in his neck. The second thing he feels is the reason for that crick. You lay on top of him, a cover hiding both of your bodies from the rest of the world. Your hair tickles at his nostrils, causing him to wiggle his nose a bit. Legs tangled with one another, his arms rested securely around you, one hand on the small of your back and the other on top of your ass. The way your sleeping face is positioned has made him sleep most of the night with his head turned to the left. Usually, he would’ve been annoyed. But all he feels now is a deep sense of reverie—happiness. 

He lets out a wistful sigh, shifting carefully so he can get a tiny look at your face. It’s relaxed. Though there’s a small crease in between your eyebrows, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about. He spends a few more minutes just looking. In any other situation, this would’ve probably been creepy. 

Technically, it still is.

But can you blame him for wanting to admire your beauty?

His thumb hovers, reaching out to soothe the skin between your eyebrows before a tiny, stifled giggle catches his attention. He looks to his left. There stands Koji, still clad in his matching pj’s. Holding his two hands to his mouth, but he can still make out the way his lips upturn at the edge, the hint of his dimple peeking out, and how his eyes crinkle with delight. His hair is messy; he must’ve just woken up.

He looks like you when you used to deny having witnessed him do something so utterly embarrassing like missing a step when walking up the stairs. 

God, I’m in heaven.

“And what are you doing, huh?” Satoru asks, keeping his voice low so as to not wake you. His tone is still tinged with a raspy sleepiness, however, he still laces it with a faux annoyance at his son. “Spying on us?”

“Noooo,” Koji replies, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m watching.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“You and Mama are sleeping together.”

“We are.”

“Why?” 

“Because it was too late to go home yesterday, so Mama let me stay.”

“But Mama usually sleeps in her room.”

He sighs. Damn curiosity. “She does, but things can change too sometimes.”

Koji makes an “oh” sound, nodding. He pads his tiny feet closer, craning his neck to get a look at you. His hand reaches out in an effort to touch your face, but Satoru stops him short. 

“Careful, buddy. Mama’s sleeping. Will you be gentle?”

“I’ll be gentle,” Koji pouts, wiggling his hand in his father’s grasp.

“And quiet?”

Koji pauses for a moment, his tiny white brows knitting as he considers the request. “Like a ninja?” he whispers, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of his new plan.

Satoru lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand loosening just enough to allow Koji to slip his small fingers free. “Exactly like a ninja,” he says with a grin.

The little boy nods vigorously, his excitement evident in the way his body practically vibrates with energy. He tiptoes closer to the couch, his steps exaggeratedly careful as he approaches you. Satoru watches him, both proud and amused, as his son carefully reaches out, his fingertips brushing lightly against your cheek. You stir slightly at the touch, your face softening in the way it always does when Koji’s close. Koji freezes, holding his breath for a second before smiling at the success of his mission.

Satoru watches the scene unfold with warmth in his chest, his mind replaying everything that’s led to this moment—how, after everything, this is what he has now. It’s not perfect, far from it, but it feels right. He looks down at you, his heart full. He could get used to this. "Good job, ninja," Satoru whispers, his voice full of pride.

Koji beams, looking back at his father. "I didn’t wake her up."

"You didn’t," Satoru confirms, his eyes flicking back to you, your peaceful face still nestled in sleep. "Now, let’s keep it that way, okay?"

"Okay, Papa!" Koji whispers enthusiastically.

Koji climbs onto the couch, settling down on Satoru’s free side. His father sighs, playfully rolling his eyes and wrapping an arm around Koji to stabilize him. Koji watches you sleep, and they’re each lost in their own thoughts. Satoru rests his chin on top of Koji’s head, the weight of his emotions settling in quietly. Life is a bit of a mess, but moments like this? That is everything. He’s already dreading the time you wake up, plus the inevitable conversation you two will have about last night, but he’ll greedily enjoy this while it lasts. 

You woke up to the sound of pots clanking together and bacon sizzling on the stove. Normally, you’d question why Satoru was up, let alone cooking for you, but after last night, it felt more like a silent offering—maybe a ‘thank you’ or an attempt at normalcy. Whatever the reason, you had more pressing matters to focus on.

Stepping outside, you lean against the cool railing of your apartment floor, phone pressed to your ear. In your free hand, you toy with the sleek black business card, running your thumb over the gold-embossed lettering. Evelyn Carlisle. The name alone carries weight. Your stomach tightens as the dial tone rings, your finger tapping anxiously against the back of your phone in sync with the robotic sound.

For a moment, you think the call won’t go through—until a woman’s voice answers, curt and businesslike.

“Who am I speaking to?”

You clear your throat, straightening up instinctively. “Uh… Y/N L/N.”

There’s typing on the other end, quick and efficient. You hear the faint sound of gum popping. “And your business for today?”

“I’m trying to reach Ms. Carlisle. She gave me this number about a job opportunity.”

A pause. More typing. You grip the railing a little tighter.

“Uh-huh,” the woman drawls, followed by the unmistakable crack of her gum. There’s another beat of silence, long enough for doubt to creep in. Did you dial the wrong number? You glance at the card again just as the woman speaks up.

“Ms. Carlisle has a meeting in thirty minutes. I’ll be redirecting you, but use your time wisely.”

You barely have time to process her words before the line clicks and the dial tone starts again—only for a familiar voice to answer almost immediately.

“Evelyn speaking.”

Your breath hitches.

“Oh, hi,” you start, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “This is Y/N. I’m not sure if you remember me, but you gave me your business card not too long ago…”

Evelyn doesn’t respond right away. For a split second, you think she might not remember you, but then she hums in acknowledgment. “Y/N,” she repeats your name as if testing how it sounds on her tongue. “Yes, of course. I remember you. The woman from the café.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I wasn’t expecting your call so soon,” Evelyn continues, her voice smooth and professional. “But I’m pleased you reached out. Are you still currently employed?”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “But… I’m looking for a change, better opportunities.”

“Good,” she says, as if that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. “Well, yes, as I mentioned briefly before, we’re currently hiring for a personal secretary position. Given the nature of our clients, discretion and adaptability are crucial. With experience in service, that tells me you may be able to handle fast-paced environments, but I’d like to know—how comfortable are you with high-profile clientele?”

High-profile. Meaning rich. Possibly powerful. Maybe even dangerous.

You grip the railing tighter, thinking about your answer. “I’m comfortable,” you say, steadying your voice. “I’ve worked with all kinds of people for many years now.”

“That’s what I gathered.” There’s the faint sound of papers shuffling on her end. “I won’t waste time with formalities. If you’re interested, I’d like you to come in for an interview. How does tomorrow sound?”

Tomorrow? So soon?

You swallow. This is happening fast—faster than you expected. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’ll hopefully be moved in completely within the next couple of weeks, and if you can secure this job now, that’s even better. “That works,” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Good. I’ll have my assistant send you the details. Be prepared, Y/N. This is more than just a desk job. I’ll explain everything when we meet.”

And with that, the call ends, leaving you staring at your phone. More than just a desk job? Everything seems so vague, and that doesn’t do very well to reassure you. You’ve never exactly been a secretary before, especially for a company as luxurious as this one. 

Your fingers tighten around the phone as you glance down at the business card again. The elegant gold lettering seems to mock you, reminding you that this isn’t just some ordinary job opportunity. You’ve worked in fast-paced environments before, dealt with demanding customers, and handled your fair share of stress—but this feels different. More exclusive. More… intense.

What exactly does she mean by more than just a desk job?

A part of you wonders if you should be cautious, if maybe this isn’t the right move. But then you think about your dwindling savings, the past bills stacking up, the debt collectors calling nonstop, and Koji’s future. Stability is a luxury you can’t afford to second-guess.

With a deep breath, you tuck the card away and turn back toward your apartment. Whatever this job entails, you’ll find out soon enough. But for now, you have a morning to get through. 

You step back into the apartment, closing the door behind you. Koji is in the living room, playing with his action figurines and little playhouse. Glancing to the left, Satoru is washing your dishes. He must’ve cleaned up in the short time you’ve been outside. The sight is domestic—cute, even. You did always have a thing for men doing household chores. 

With a determined nod, you walk over, standing beside him, ensuring your voice is not too loud for the nosy child to hear. “Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to.”

Satoru glances up at you with a soft smile, a dish towel draped over his shoulder. His movements are fluid, like he’s done this countless times before, even though he’s far from being a regular guest in your home. “No problem,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a light, teasing edge. “Figured I’d help out after crashing your place all night.”

You nod, your arms folding across your chest. “I didn’t ask you to. But…” You hesitate for a moment before continuing, your gaze drifting back to Koji, who’s deeply engrossed in his playtime. “It was… nice.”

He looks over at Koji, too, before focusing back on you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, that familiar smirk of his appears. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to try so hard to be charming, you know. It’s a little much.”

He chuckles, the sound light but genuine. “I’ll tone it down for his sake.” His eyes flicker toward Koji again before meeting yours. “But seriously, if you ever need help, just ask. I can’t exactly be around all the time, but I can make myself useful when I am.”

A small part of you wants to brush it off, to remind him of the boundaries between you, but the other part of you—the part that’s constantly stressed about everything and everyone—feels comforted by the offer. Not to mention, you two have already crossed said boundaries in just the span of a night. You nod once more, slower. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gives you a quick, half-hearted salute, returning to the dishes with a hum. The atmosphere between you two is light and easy, but there’s something heavier hanging in the air. The space between your words says a lot more than either of you care to admit.

Satoru clears his throat, breaking the silence that was settled too thick. “So… what’s next for you today?” he asks, clearly trying to keep things casual.

You consider the question for a moment, still distracted by the thoughts swirling in your head about the job opportunity and everything that comes with it. “Nothing much. I guess just prepare for a meeting I have tomorrow,” you finally reply, your voice steady but the unease barely hidden. “With someone who could… offer me a job.”

Satoru glances at you over his shoulder. “A job, huh?” His tone is light but curious, and you can’t tell if it’s genuine or just his usual flippant nature.

“Yeah,” you reply, your gaze flicking back to Koji. “It’s nothing permanent, yet. Just something to help out.”

Satoru doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel his eyes on you, but when you look back, he’s already back to the dishes, like he’s trying to give you space without making things awkward. Still, there’s a noticeable tension in his shoulders—something he’s not letting show.

Which reminds you…

“Hey, so…” you start off, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have a little question for you.”

“Mhm?” He hums, turning the sink off and drying his hands, body facing you now as he gives you his full attention. 

You tilt your head, a little unsure of how to bring this topic up. “The company it’s for, it’s called Carlisle & Harlow. Have you heard of it?” Play dumb, play dumb. 

He blinks, then nods. “Yeah, I have. Why?”

“Well, I was looking through their website and saw they’ve been in partnership with the Gojo Group for a good few years now.”

“They have been.”

You bite your lip. His nonchalance is annoying you a little bit, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s feeding you just the right amount of information on purpose. Maybe he knows something you don’t? “Well, she—Evelyn—approached me during my shift a while back and gave me her business card. That’s how I got this opportunity in the first place.”

His hands reside in his pockets, eyebrows raising with a small hum. “Wow, that sounds like a lucky offer.” His tone is light, like he’s trying to make a small joke. You make a noncommittal chuckle, eyeing his reactions. 

But he’s giving you nothing. 

Maybe you really were just being superstitious about this all. 

“It’s just…it seemed a little too good to be true, you know? Almost like someone put in a good word for me.”

You force a small laugh, hoping the remark can ease him into revealing a possible clue. However, you start thinking to yourself: Would it be better to know that Satoru played a part in getting you a job with his business partner? Would that make you feel more inadequate of your own abilities? Would it just lead to another argument about him doing something without considering your feelings first? Or would you rather be left in the dark?

Satoru’s eyes meet yours again, but this time, there’s a flicker of something you can’t quite place. He leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed, though there’s a quiet tension in the way he watches you. For a second, it feels like he’s weighing something in his mind. “You’re a hard worker,” he says, his voice still light but with a hint of something deeper, like he’s carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think you need someone to put in a good word for you. If you’re getting an offer like that, it’s because you’re capable. Simple as that.”

You nod, your eyes lingering on him, not quite convinced by the simplicity of his answer. But he’s always been the type to brush things off with a smile, to make everything seem like it’s no big deal. Still, there’s that nagging feeling at the back of your mind, the thought that he knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe he didn’t have a hand in it. Or maybe he did, and he’s just not ready to tell you because he knows you better than anyone else. 

You’ll take things at a surface level—for now.

“I guess,” you mutter, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But it still feels… a little too perfect, you know? I mean, why me? Of all people?”

Satoru’s smile softens a little, and there’s a quiet intensity in the way he looks at you now. He steps closer, closing the distance just enough that you can feel the heat of his presence. For just a split second, your heart skips a beat, but you quickly brush it off. “Maybe it’s just your time,” he says softly, his voice low, like he’s trying to soothe you. “Sometimes, things just fall into place when they’re supposed to.”

You nod again, though it doesn’t really make you feel any better. It’s just too easy, too convenient, like someone’s pulling strings behind the scenes. But you can’t quite figure out who. Or why. 

Silence follows, and you practically force yourself to tear your eyes away from him because you can already feel the magnetic pull they have on you.  You clear your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Well,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone, “guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

Satoru hums, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s watching you again, that unreadable look back in his eyes, and you hate how easily it makes your stomach twist. You should be used to this by now—the way he always seems to see right through you, the way his presence alone makes you feel like you’re standing too close to a flame. 

And, of course, there’s still the silent, lingering question of when you two will discuss what happened last night. However, even saying that question out loud makes you nervous—guilty even. Like you’re coming to terms with the fact that you did something you know wasn’t the best thing. It complicates things even more, and you distinctly remember him saying something along those lines to you a while back—back when you tried kissing him. 

You’re feeling the embarrassment all over again. But the embarrassment starts turning to fascination when your eyes rove over the way his shirt fits so perfectly around his waist—his biceps. He opted for just putting on one of the old shirts you still had of his from years ago, waving off your protests of how it hasn’t been washed. 

Black does look sexy on him. 

And if you look closer, you can even make out the slight perkiness of his—

“We should head out soon.” Satoru’s voice snaps you back into reality. “Got to drop off the donation stuff in the car and head to my place to grab some of Koji’s things.”

“Right, right,” you respond, a little breathlessly, shaking your head free of lewd thoughts. “I’ll go get ready.” You turn on your heel, eager to put some distance between yourself and the weight of his gaze. It’s frustrating—the way he manages to make you feel so self-conscious without even trying. It's almost like he’s waiting for you to bring it up first, like he knows you won’t.

The moment you step into your bedroom, you let out a slow exhale, pressing your palms against the dresser. Get it together. Last night happened. You can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t change it. But you can control how you handle it moving forward. You two are grown adults who can hash out their shit maturely and respectfully.  You rummage through your drawers, pulling out something casual but presentable. Something that makes you feel like yourself—whoever that is these days. As you slip on your shoes, you hear the faint sound of Koji’s laughter from the other room, followed by Satoru’s easygoing voice, and it tugs at something in your chest.

This fragile balance you’ve built—it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Because every time he fits so seamlessly into your life, it becomes harder to remember why he shouldn’t.

That thought stays with you longer than you’d like. It lingers as you pull your coat on, as you grab your bag, as you catch your reflection in the mirror before heading out. There’s something unsettling about the way things feel almost… natural with him again. Like muscle memory, like something you once knew by heart but tried to forget.

Now, if that isn’t the truth. 

You step back into the living room, and Satoru is crouched beside Koji, helping him tie his tiny sneakers. His voice is light, patient, as he guides him through the motions, and Koji is beaming up at him like he’s the whole world, nodding along to his father’s explanation of the great process of tying your own shoelaces.

It makes your throat tighten.

Satoru looks up just then, like he can feel your eyes on him, and for a second, neither of you speaks. There’s an understanding there, something unspoken but felt. Then, he straightens up, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “You ready?” he asks, voice even.

You step closer. “Yeah.”

Koji cheers, raising his arms as Satoru effortlessly lifts him, settling him against his hip. It’s so natural, so easy, and you hate that your heart aches at the sight. How you start imagining how it would’ve been coming home to Satoru holding an infant version of Koji. 

It is dangerous. 

And yet, you still follow them out the door. 

Your smile doesn’t feel forced as it slowly creeps its way onto your face. You don’t flinch away from the hovering of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you to his parked car. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s a nice, sunny day out. Or, the more optimistic side of you, believes that it’s a possibility that maybe things don’t have to be as complicated as you make them out to be. That for once, you can just exist in this moment without thinking too hard about what it means.

The drive to Satoru’s place offers you enough time to sit back on your current decisions and more so, trying to decipher whether or not he was just lying to your face. Because no matter how smoothly he played it off earlier, there was something about his reaction that didn’t sit right with you. The way he barely blinked at the mention of Carlisle & Harlow. The way he didn’t seem surprised at all. Almost like he already knew. You glance at him from the passenger seat. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. Sunglasses perched on his nose, shielding his eyes, making it impossible to read him. Maybe it’s best not to dwell on things and just enjoy the opportunities that have been cast your way. 

Before you know it, he’s parked and carrying Koji out his car seat, plopping him down onto the ground and holding his hand while he leads you two up the way to his penthouse, a route that’s becoming vaguely familiar to you now. 

You’ve already dropped off boxes of donations to your local thrift store in order to make enough space to fit whatever was left at his place into his car. Inside the elevator, Koji chatters excitedly about something—you’re not entirely paying attention—his small hand still wrapped securely in Satoru’s. The sight of them together, so natural and effortless, is something you’re still working toward getting used to. Your mind wanders to six months ago, fascinated just over how much things have changed. For the better, yes. But there are also some things or people you wish hadn’t entered your life.  You keep your eyes trained on the ascending floor numbers, trying not to let your mind spiral. It’s too easy to overthink, to read into every little thing, to get caught up in what-ifs and maybes. But as you steal another glance at Satoru—still effortlessly cool, still impossible to read—you can’t help but wonder if you’re the only one doing that.

When the elevator chimes, doors sliding open, Koji tugs on Satoru’s hand eagerly, practically bouncing on his feet. “Can I see the big TV again?”

Satoru chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, buddy. I’ll put on whatever you want.”

You exhale softly, following them down the hall and inside his place. It still looks the same, you haven’t been here since you slept over. 

The familiarity of it all unnerves you. The faint scent of his cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with something warm—probably the remnants of whatever coffee he drinks. The living room is neat, save for a few stray items Koji must’ve left behind during his last visit. A toy car sits near the edge of the coffee table, a small sweater draped over the back of the couch. It’s the kind of lived-in mess that makes the space feel less like a showroom and more like… a home.

You hesitate in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, watching as Koji makes himself comfortable, already climbing onto the couch, eyes lighting up as Satoru turns on the massive flat-screen TV.

“Want anything to drink?” Satoru asks, his voice casual, as if you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You shake your head. “I’m good.

He nods, but his eyes linger on you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s waiting for you to say something more. Maybe you should. Maybe you should bring up what happened the last time you were here. Rip the bandage off before it festers into something worse. But instead, you cross your arms, glancing toward the hallway.

“I’ll, um, start packing up Koji’s things,” you say, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

Satoru doesn’t argue, just hums in agreement before following you toward the spare bedroom, where most of Koji’s stuff is still tucked away. “There’s a couple things in my room too, I’ll come help after I’ve put his show on.”

“Got it.” You shrug off your jacket and turn around, walking down the long hallway and into the room where your son’s toys reside. 

The room is neatly organized but still carrying traces of Koji’s presence. His small clothes are folded in the drawers, and one of his favorite stuffed animals is sitting on the bed like it’s waiting for him to return. You let out a quiet sigh as you step inside, running a hand over the soft fabric of his tiny hoodie.

This shouldn’t feel so strange. You should be used to this by now—the quiet moments, the back and forth between two spaces. But standing here, gathering your son’s things from a place that feels more and more like a second home, there’s a weight in your chest that you can’t quite shake.

You hear Satoru’s footsteps before you see him. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You alright?” he asks after a beat.

You force a small smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He hums, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room. “Thinking about?”

You hesitate. Because how do you explain this feeling—the unease of being in limbo, of not knowing where you stand with him, of feeling like you’re caught in a current you can’t control? 

Instead, you opt for something easier. “Just how much stuff he has,” you say, motioning to the half-packed bag on the bed. “I swear it multiplies when I’m not looking.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching down to help you pack. “Yeah, well, that’s kids for you.”

You work in silence for a while, folding clothes, stuffing small toys into the bag. It’s easy—too easy, the way you move together in sync, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

“He doesn’t even stay here that much, and he has so many things. Maybe I should donate some of these toys, he doesn’t use them anymore,” you comment, picking up a figurine from one of his favorite TV shows he hasn’t watched recently. 

Satoru glances at the toy in your hand before shrugging. “You could, but you know how kids are. The second you give it away, he’ll suddenly remember it’s his favorite.”

You huff a small laugh, rolling the figurine between your fingers before setting it aside. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

He zips up one of the bags, sitting back on his heels. “If it makes you feel better, it’s not that bad. Koji having a bunch of stuff here just means he’s comfortable, yeah?”

You pause at that, fingers lingering over the next item you’re about to pack. It’s such a simple statement, but something about it makes your chest tighten. Koji is comfortable here. He has space here. Enough for his clothes, his toys, his laughter to fill the rooms. And maybe, a quiet part of you wonders, that’s why it’s starting to feel like you do, too. You shake the thought away, focusing on finishing up the packing. “I guess that’s true. But I still think I need to cut down on the clutter. When we get to the new place, I really want to emphasize cleaning with him.”

Satoru smirks. “Good luck. Just don’t expect me to help if he throws a tantrum about his missing toys.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully. “Some protector you are.”

He grins, the easy warmth of the moment settling between you. But underneath it, there’s still that lingering feeling—that nagging question you’re not ready to ask. And finally, after more minutes of pure silence and bags rustling, you decide to bite the bullet. Your lips pursed with a big sigh escaping you, turning to face him wordlessly. He feels your gaze and simultaneously looks over. 

Just do it, before you pussy out. 

“Look, I—” you scratch your neck. “I really don’t…like all this weird tension between us. And it seemed we came to a good agreement yesterday. But I…I just want to know if—if what happened between us…changed anything.”

Satoru's expression flickers—just for a second. So quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. But you don’t. You see the way his fingers pause in their movements, the slight shift in his posture, like he’s bracing himself. Then, just as quickly, he exhales, a slow, measured sound as he leans back on his hands, tilting his head slightly. “Changed anything, huh?” he repeats, almost like he’s testing the words on his tongue.

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. And then, “Did you want it to?”

Your stomach twists. Because he’s throwing the question back at you, forcing you to answer first. Classic Satoru. Never giving anything away unless he absolutely has to. But the way that question has heat pooling in your stomach, like he’s testing the waters, just barely revealing his true thoughts, it makes you wonder if it has changed things for him. 

You shift awkwardly, arms crossing over your chest. “I—I don’t know.” It’s the truth, as frustrating as it is. “I just… I don’t want things to get complicated.”

Satoru lets out a small, humorless chuckle. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “I just need to know where we stand, Satoru.”

Something in his expression changes then. Softens, just a little. He exhales through his nose, sitting up straighter. “We’re still us,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “Whatever that means.”

“I need a better answer than that,” you admit. “We’re supposed to be doing this for Koji, not our own selfish desires. I want to be on an equal playing field with you, but we can’t have that if we’re….ya know.”

Satoru watches you carefully, his gaze sharp beneath the shadow of his lashes. You’re asking for clarity, a definitive line in the sand, and yet… you don’t even know what you want the answer to be. His lips press into a thin line, tongue running over his teeth as he considers his response. “So what, you think we’re being selfish?” His voice is even, but there’s something unreadable lurking beneath it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I think this—whatever it is—could make things messy. And Koji is the most important thing in all of this.”

Satoru hums, rubbing his palm over his chin in thought. “And what if I said I don’t think it changes anything?”

You frown. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” he says simply. “You and I? We’ve been complicated from the start. One night doesn’t change the fact that we’re still trying to figure things out. It doesn’t change that I want to be in Koji’s life—or yours, for that matter.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you hate the way your pulse flutters at his words. “Satoru…”

He leans forward then, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know what you want me to say. That it meant nothing? That I regret it? I won’t, because that’d be a lie. But I also know we can’t afford to lose sight of what really matters.”

You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt. It’s not a declaration of love, not some grand confession, but it’s honest. And that almost feels a tad bit worse.

He sighs, raking a hand through his snowy hair. “Look, if you want to draw a line, I’ll respect it. If you want to figure this out, I’ll meet you halfway. But I won’t pretend like nothing happened, and I sure as hell won’t act like I don’t care.”

His words sit heavy between you, the weight of them pressing into your chest. The choice, as much as you hate it, is yours. That should be a good thing, right? He should be letting you take control, steering your “relationship” into wherever the hell you want it. But the pressure of it all feels more drowning by the second. “What about Himari? What happens when she finds out?”

Satoru's jaw tightens just slightly, the only visible crack in his composure. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the wall, as if trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. “What about her?” he finally says, voice low.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by his casual response, confused. “What do you mean, what about her? She’s your girlfriend, Satoru.”

His fingers tap idly against his knee, a slow rhythm, measured. “She and I… it’s complicated.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Sounds like your favorite word.”

Satoru huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.” He turns his head to look at you then, eyes sharp. “You think I don’t know how messy this is? That I don’t realize what this means? But you keep asking me where we stand, and I’m trying to tell you—we’ve never been simple, and I don’t think we ever will be.”

“But what if I just want to be simple for once?”

“Then we can try.”

We. Your throat feels tight. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Satoru watches you for a moment before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “When—if—Himari finds out, I’ll handle it.”

There’s a finality in his tone that makes your stomach churn. Your eyebrows furrow, pushing for more. “Handle it how?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flickering away for a second before landing back on you. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

That should bring you some relief, but instead, it just unsettles you further. Because deep down, you know Himari will find out eventually. And when she does, the consequences won’t be something either of you can just walk away from. You run your hands through your hair, shaking your head as you stand to your feet. “I’ll go get the rest of the stuff from your room.”

Satoru doesn’t stop you as you step around him, making your way down the hall toward his bedroom. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching your retreating figure, like he wants to say something but chooses not to. The air in his room is cool, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the space. Koji’s things are tucked neatly in the corner: some folded clothes, a few toys, his favorite blanket. You bend down, gathering them into your arms, but your mind is still racing.

What happens when Himari finds out?

Satoru’s words replay in your head. You don’t need to worry about her.

But you do worry. How can you not? Satoru might not think much of it now, but Himari isn’t just going to sit back and accept this. She’s from his world—a world that doesn’t take kindly to secrets or betrayal. And whether you like it or not, you’ve just stepped right back into it.

You hear the sound of glass crunching under your shoe, which momentarily halts your running mind. Peering down slowly, you remove your shoe from the shards. The sight you’re met with makes your mouth dry instantly, stomach dropping. A picture stares up at you. But not just any picture. The one of you and your son on one Christmas back then, the same picture you specifically remember framing before wrapping it into a small gift for him. 

Then why is it on the floor?

Why is the glass of the frame broken?

Why is the picture itself dirtied, the mark of a footprint staining right on top of your face, the side with your son crumpled?

You look up, a disbelieving scoff sounding from you. You’re then met with the sight of his king-sized bed. But the sheets are all rumpled, the pillows thrown about. And if you focus hard enough, there are a few noticeable stains that could really only mean one thing. 

You look between the bed, the picture on the ground, the bed, the picture, the bed, the picture, and before you know it, you’re calling him in. “Satoru.”

No response. 

“Satoru!” 

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall before he appears at the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “What?” he says, though there’s something in his voice—something hesitant, wary.

You bend down, picking up the shattered frame, holding it up for him to see. “Care to explain this?” Your voice is tight, barely holding back the storm brewing inside you.

His eyes widen, brows furrowing as he steps forward, blue eyes flickering between the picture in your hands and the mess of his bed. Then, something shifts in his face—realization, maybe, or something darker. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“T-That’s all you have to say?” You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “This was a gift. A gift, Satoru.” Your fingers tighten around the cracked edges of the frame. “And it’s stomped on. Crumpled. What the fuck happened?”

He exhales sharply, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know. I didn’t—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “I didn’t do that.”

“You didn’t do it?” you repeat back, incredulousness in your voice. “That’s the excuse you’re coming up with?” 

He stays quiet, a look of confusion and anger present on his face. But for some reason, it’s only making you even more pissed. You scoff and push past him, but he grabs your arm. “Y/N, I’m serious. I didn’t do this.”

“Then who did?” You attempt to yank your arm back, glaring up at him with eyes of fury. “I–I gave you this as a gift. I did this for you, I—and you just treat it like it’s nothing? How could you?”

Satoru’s grip tightens on your arm as you try to pull away, his eyes not meeting yours as he steps closer. His expression shifts again, like he's processing something, but it’s not a calm reaction—it’s frustration, maybe guilt, and it's doing nothing to calm the storm inside you. “Y/N,” he says, his voice lower now, like he's trying to de-escalate the situation. "I didn’t stomp on it. I didn’t break the frame. You think I would do that?” He doesn’t let go of you, but the way his thumb rubs over your wrist is almost soothing—almost, but it doesn't make the anger fade.

“You didn’t do it. Then who the hell did?” you snap, tugging your arm again, but his grip holds firm.

He exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with the effort to keep himself calm. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it again, his hand falling from your wrist as if he’s choosing his words carefully, but you’re not in the mood for careful right now. The room is thick with tension, and you can barely stand to be near him, especially when his presence is only making everything feel more complicated.

“Maybe you didn’t do it,” you say, your voice shaking with suppressed rage, "but something about this—this situation—it doesn’t…."

He looks at you for a long moment, then seems to give in, running a hand over his face as if tired. “I don’t know what’s going on, Y/N. I swear, I didn’t touch the damn picture. Please just listen to what I’m telling you, I didn’t—.”

“Then who did?!” You swiftly cut him off.

He exhales deeply, trying to tone down the situation. “...I don’t know for sure. But I think I do.”

You bite your lip, your fingers still wrapped tightly around the broken frame, your heart pounding. “You think, you think?” You shake your head, momentarily looking up. “You’re the one who keeps making things more complicated,” you reply softly, glaring at the crumpled picture again, the smile you once wore in it now tainted with every bit of the hurt you feel.

Satoru’s face softens, but the regret doesn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it only makes everything more confusing. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, though it doesn’t exactly reach your heart.

You set the frame down carefully on the dresser, not trusting yourself to hold it any longer. “Then why does it feel like you’re always doing it, even when you’re not trying to?”

Satoru stays quiet for a long moment, looking between the bed and the shattered picture, the distance between you growing as the weight of everything hung heavy in the air. His lips twitch, as if he’s about to say something else—but you don’t need more words right now. You need actions.

“Just fix it,” you finally whisper, your voice raw. "I can't do this anymore, Satoru."

You turn to exit the room, feeling hot tears sting behind your eyes. You barely make it two steps before he’s once again hauling you back to him, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and delivering a sweet, but firm kiss to your lips. He swallows your surprised squeak. However, it’s short-lived, and you didn’t even have the chance to reciprocate. He pulls back, looking down at your widened eyes with his own set of determination. Leaning down to rest his forehead against yours and you almost hate the way you tilt your head up, a sad attempt to chase after his lips.

“I'll fix things. For us.”

The lights above cast a soft glow, but nothing about the setting seems to calm the sharp edges of her demeanor. Himari is flanked by assistants, one adjusting the hem of a sleek, modern black dress while another fusses with her hair, tugging at the strands to give them more volume. But Himari’s patience is thin, and her mouth, a thin line of frustration, shows no sign of softening. She pulls at the fabric around her waist, glaring at the assistant. "This doesn’t look right. It’s too tight here,” she snaps, voice laced with annoyance.

The assistant hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with her tone, but follows her orders. "We can adjust it, Ms. Nakamura, just a few more minutes."

“No," she cuts in sharply. "I told you last time. I don't like anything that pinches or restricts me.” She lifts her hand, a clear signal that she’s done with the discussion. “Start over. I’m not going out like this.”

The assistant stammers out an apology and steps back, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes to fetch another dress from the rack. Himari’s eyes shift to the mirror before her, taking in the sharp lines of her reflection—perfect, poised, and controlled. It’s the version of herself she’s always put forward, a product of her family’s brand, her father's influence, and the high standards that come with it.

Her gaze flickers briefly to the phone on the nearby counter, buzzing with an incoming message. Her eyes narrow slightly as she sees the name. Gojo. A smirk plays at the edge of her lips, but it's cold and calculating. She’s been holding her ground, making sure that he knows she’s still here, still the one in control. Yet, a small, insidious part of her can't help but feel a twinge of unease, something she won’t admit even to herself.

“I should be the one to get everything right, not them,” she mutters under her breath, frustrated, as she adjusts herself in front of the mirror. The moment passes, but the irritation lingers in her sharp expression.

She has half a mind to just throw a fit in the middle of the studio, no matter what other pompous bitch is here for the same reason she is. Everyone here should know by now that when Himari visits, there’s no time for screw-ups. She whips out her red lipstick, reapplying some in the mirror just as the assistant and stylist come back. Himari’s eyes flicker over the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick with deliberate, steady strokes, her fingers so controlled it’s almost an art form. She’s not looking at herself, not truly. She’s too busy calculating—how she can assert her dominance here, how she can make everyone bend to her will.

The assistant and stylist stand quietly in the corner, their movements hesitant, trying not to disturb the storm brewing in Himari’s gaze. The silence between them stretches, thick with tension, before Himari finally breaks it.

"You should have known better," she snaps, voice sharp as a blade. "I’m not here to babysit, I’m here to be seen, and seen perfectly. Do you get that?" Her tone makes it clear there’s no room for mistakes. The weight of her presence, her reputation, presses down on the studio like a vice.

The assistant tries to salvage the situation, taking a few cautious steps forward. "I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Nakamura, we just—"

"No excuses," Himari interrupts, eyes flicking to the stylist, who’s now stepping forward with a different outfit. "This had better be right. If you can't get it together, I’ll find someone who knows how to make me look good."

The stylist immediately holds up the new dress, his fingers trembling slightly. "This one is different, I made sure the adjustments were perfect this time."

Himari doesn’t even look at him, just taps her finger on the counter impatiently. "Put it on me, then. I don’t have all day to waste here."

The assistant exchanges a quick glance with the stylist before moving to remove the current dress from Himari. The whole room feels like it’s walking on eggshells now, every movement a little too slow, too careful, as if they’re afraid to provoke her. Himari watches it all unfold, satisfaction curling in the corner of her lips. She relishes in this—being the center of attention, holding the power. But under all the poise and control, there’s that small, gnawing voice. The one that wonders if her grasp on Gojo’s attention is starting to slip, even if only slightly. She pushes it down quickly, focusing on the next move. The game isn’t over. Not yet. 

“Shit!” she gasps, pushing away the stylist. “You just pricked me, you idiot!”

The stylist stumbles back, his face paling as he fumbles with the needle in his hand. "I-I’m so sorry, Ms. Nakamura," he stammers, eyes wide with fear. "It was an accident, I—"

“An accident?” Himari hisses, her voice sharp with venom. She reaches up to press a finger to the small puncture mark on her arm, staring at him like he’s the source of all her frustration. "You people can’t even do the simplest things right." Her voice oozes contempt as she glares at the poor man, who is frozen in place.

The assistant, clearly distressed, starts to panic. "Please, just let me get you something to stop the bleeding—"

“I don’t need your help!” Himari snaps, her eyes narrowing. She turns away from them both, walking toward the mirror. "Just fix the damn dress, and keep your hands away from me. If you mess up again, I’ll have your job. Do you understand me?"

The stylist, his hands shaking now, nods vigorously. "Yes, of course. I’ll be more careful."

She sneers at his response before looking at herself in the mirror, rubbing her arm as if the sting of the prick is the least of her concerns. But deep down, there’s a simmering unease, a feeling of being off that she can’t quite shake. Everything has to be perfect, especially today. She’s had enough of feeling like things are slipping through her fingers.

She fixes her gaze back on the assistant and stylist. "I’m not leaving here until I look flawless. Fix it. Now."

The assistant and stylist exchange nervous glances before scrambling to comply, working as quickly as possible to avoid the wrath of the woman who could ruin their careers with a single word. Himari watches them with a predatory calmness. 

“Such a shame my father pays you,” she scoffs, eyebrow raising as the stylist kneels by her side to focus on the hem. 

The stylist’s hands tremble as he adjusts the fabric of her dress, trying to avoid eye contact. "I'm just doing my job, Ms. Nakamura," he murmurs, not daring to look up from his task.

Himari rolls her eyes dramatically, letting out a sharp sigh. "Your job is to make sure I look perfect, not to give me excuses." She takes a step back, examining herself in the mirror again, as if she can already sense the imperfection of the dress lingering in the air. "But I suppose that’s what happens when you hire amateurs desperate for dimes and nickels."

The assistant, sensing her frustration, hurries over, offering a forced smile. "We’re doing our best, Himari. The fit will be flawless in no time."

Himari doesn’t even glance at them. She crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "Best? Best doesn’t even come close. Don’t make me regret bringing my business here."

The assistant’s face flushes, but he keeps his voice steady. "Of course, Ms. Nakamura. We’ll make sure it’s exactly what you want."

Her gaze shifts from her reflection back to the stylist, who looks like he might crumble under the pressure. "You should be thankful my father is paying for this. He could have gone elsewhere, but he chose you. Don’t waste his generosity." Her voice drips with sarcasm as she smirks, watching the man scramble to finish his work. The tension in the room thickens, and for a moment, it feels like the entire studio is holding its breath, waiting for her next move.

“Mr. Gojo! It’s nice to see you again.”

The name snaps her out of her stupor in the blink of an eye, and she whirls around. Oh, he looks so sexy today. Satoru doesn’t even bother greeting the worker who called out, his steely gaze focused solely on her. Usually, she would’ve been flattered, joyous even that she’s being spared the accurate amount of attention she so desperately needs. But today feels different.

He feels different, looks different. 

“Satoru,” Himari puts on a charming smile, nonchalantly pushing the stylist to the side, holding her arms out. “You’re here, you didn’t tell me you were comi—”

“What the fuck did you do?” his cold voice startles her, his hands pushing her inviting embrace away with not much of a care. 

Himari blinks, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. She gulps and shakes her head. “I…what are you talking about, Satoru?”

“Don’t play dumb right now, because I have zero patience for you,” he cooly grits back out.

The studio quiets, the stylist and tailor awkwardly going silent at the public display of an argument between their client and her boyfriend. The two look away, though that’s not saying much. Himari’s lip trembles, biting down on it. “Satoru, I really don’t know—”

“You come into my place, you trash my bed, and then you leave the evidence all over the floor.” Satoru steps closer, invading her personal space. She’s forced to take a small step back, wide eyes staring back up at the man who’s looking at her like she’s worth nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. That thought angers her more than she’d like to admit. “I let you get away with a lot of things, Himari. A lot. More than I should. So why shouldn’t I have you arrested for breaking and entering?”

Himari gasps, eyebrows shooting up. “W-what?! You’d never.”

“Keep trying me, and I will.”

Her face pales, her throat tightening as a mix of guilt and frustration rises within her. “You can’t—no, you’re being ridiculous. That frame… it’s just a thing! A stupid, insignificant thing of you and that—that leech!” She forces a laugh, though it sounds hollow and brittle. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not like I—”

“Not like you what?” Gojo steps forward again, closing the space between them. His towering figure looms over her, eyes locked with hers, piercing through her, tilting his head. “Not like you’re jealous? Because from where I stand…” he leans his neck down, voice lowering, “it looks like you’re trying to erase the one thing you’ll never be."

Himari’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes flashing with anger, but her lips remain tight. The words he’s throwing at her feel like daggers, each one sharper than the last. She doesn’t want to admit it—doesn’t even want to acknowledge it—but the sting of his words is undeniable.

She forces herself to stand tall, pushing down the fluttering in her chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spits, a slight tremor in her voice betraying her. “You think I’m jealous of her?” The words come out in a cruel laugh, but it’s weak. A façade. “Please. She’s nothing. You should’ve let her rot in impoverished obscurity. I never wanted anything to do with her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, his posture unwavering. “But you still do, don’t you? You can’t stand that she’s still a part of my life. That she’s always going to be a part of it.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, suffocating in its intensity. Himari’s chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, her fingers flexing at her sides. The reality of the situation is dawning on her—this isn’t about a broken picture frame. It never was. This is about something deeper, something she refuses to confront. The jealousy she’s spent so long hiding. The truth she’s tried so hard to bury. She forces a smile, trying to mask her vulnerability with arrogance. “You think I’m scared of her, Satoru? You think she matters to me? She’s just some pathetic little woman you got caught up with. A mistake you’re too proud to admit. But I will be the one who gets everything you’ve worked for. I’ll be the one standing beside you. I’m the one you chose, remember?”

Her words feel empty, hollow. She doesn’t believe them anymore. And Satoru knows it.

He steps back, his expression unchanged, cold and calculating. “If you’re so sure of that, Himari, then why don’t you start acting like it? Because right now, you look like a jealous little girl throwing a tantrum. And I’m done with it.”

Her breath catches again, and for a moment, she feels small. Smaller than she ever wanted to feel. Her fingers twitch with the need to lash out, but the weight of his words keeps her still. He’s right. Her limbs shake. 

“You’ll never be her,” Satoru adds, his voice low, almost pitying. “And that’s something you’ll have to live with.”

Himari’s eyes flash with something unreadable, and for a second, the mask she’s worn for so long falters. But she quickly regains control, lifting her chin with a defiant snarl. “I’ll make you regret this, Gojo. I’ll make you regret ever even meeting me with the shit I’ll send your way if you do this to me.”

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react. He simply turns on his heel, walking toward the door. “You already are,” he says over his shoulder, the words hanging in the air between them like a final nail in the coffin.

Her breath hitches, fingers curling into her palms. “C-Come back here….you’re—you’re not doing this! You’re not breaking up with me, Satoru! You’re not! I won’t allow it!”

But he says nothing, continuing to walk, and then, he’s gone.

Himari stands there, rooted to the spot, the silence around her deafening. The anger, the humiliation, the fear—they all swirl inside her, a storm she can’t control. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something she won’t dare admit.

She’s lost him.

A gut-wrenching scream sounds out through the floor, with employees flinching. The stylist and assistant cover their ears, grimacing and not even daring to look her way. 

But the reaction of a white haired woman, holding back a laugh, differs from all. Looking at herself in the floor-length mirror, the elegant, silk purple dress was not nearly as satisfying as the dramatic scene she had just witnessed. She’s glad she decided to indulge this very fine afternoon. 

Things are getting good, she thinks to herself, pressing the button on her phone to stop the voice recording. 

Very good.

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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[icanimagine08]

Whipped

Summary: Yoon Jeonghan gets teased by the rest of seventeen for being whipped for his girl.

Warnings: none! Just Fluff.

Word Count: 773

I couldn't wait to post so here is another Yoon Jeonghan fic. Hope you guys enjoy this! and if you have any requests for any other members/people/characters feel free to request/ask me anything and I'll see what I can do! Happy reading! :)

Yoon Jeonghan of Seventeen wasn’t usually the type to wear his heart on his sleeve—at least, not when it came to romance. He was clever, always a step ahead, and had a teasing streak as wide as the Han River. But since he started dating you six months ago, Jeonghan’s members had noticed a... shift.

And they were having the time of their lives teasing him about it.

It started during a lazy afternoon at the dorm. The group had finished their schedules for the day, and the members were sprawled across the living room, half-watching a drama on TV. Jeonghan, who usually dominated conversations with his witty comebacks, was unusually quiet. His phone was in his hand, and he was smiling at the screen in a way that made the others take notice.

"Oh, would you look at that," Seungkwan said, his voice laced with mock surprise. "Our Hannie hyung is smiling. At his phone. Again."

Minghao leaned over from the couch, trying to catch a glimpse of Jeonghan's screen. "Is it her?"

Jeonghan’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced with an annoyed pout. He locked his phone and turned it face down on the table. "Mind your own business, Minghao."

But the damage was done. The members perked up, sensing an opportunity to torment their usually unflappable hyung.

"Oh, it’s definitely her," Joshua chimed in, grinning. "Jeonghan only smiles like that when it’s about her."

"What did she say?" Woozi asked, though the slight upward tilt of his lips gave away that he was more amused than genuinely curious.

"Nothing," Jeonghan mumbled, slumping into the couch like he could disappear into the cushions.

"Nothing?" Vernon repeated, his eyebrows shooting up. "You were practically giggling."

"I don’t giggle," Jeonghan shot back, but the redness creeping up his neck betrayed him.

"Sure, sure," Seungkwan said, waving him off. "Hyung, we all know you’re whipped. Just admit it."

"I am not whipped," Jeonghan insisted, but his voice lacked its usual conviction.

"You absolutely are," Mingyu said, chuckling. "Remember last week when you asked the manager if you could get off early so you could take her to that café she likes?"

"That’s called being a good boyfriend," Jeonghan retorted, sitting up straighter. "Maybe you should take notes, Mingyu."

"A good boyfriend who’s whipped," Dino added, earning a high-five from Seungkwan.

Jeonghan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I regret introducing you all to her."

That wasn’t true, and they all knew it. From the moment you and Jeonghan had made your relationship official, the members had been nothing but supportive. They’d even gone so far as to declare you "the perfect match" for their mischievous angel, as you somehow managed to keep up with Jeonghan’s antics while also bringing out his softer side. But their enthusiasm also meant they saw every little way Jeonghan’s walls had come down, and they weren’t going to let him live it down.

"You’re so good for him," Seungkwan had told you during a group dinner a month ago, while Jeonghan had gone to get drinks. "It’s like you’re his kryptonite. He’s so soft for you."

Now, as Jeonghan endured their teasing, he couldn’t help but think of you and the way you’d probably laugh if you saw this. You’d tell him he deserved it, and honestly, he’d have to agree.

"Alright, that’s enough," Jeonghan said, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Yes, I’m dating someone amazing. Yes, I like doing nice things for her. Can we move on now?"

"Not yet," Seungkwan said, leaning forward with a sly grin. "Hyung, did you text her goodnight last night?"

"Of course I did," Jeonghan replied, without thinking.

"Aha!" Seungkwan pointed dramatically. "See? Whipped!"

The room erupted in laughter, and even Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle. He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself.

"You’re all children," he muttered, but his tone was fond.

Later that evening, when the teasing had finally died down and the members had dispersed, Jeonghan found himself back on the couch, phone in hand. He opened your chat and started typing.

Jeonghan: Remind me why I put up with them again?

Your reply came almost instantly.

YN: Because they love you. And they’re right, you are kinda whipped.

Jeonghan groaned, but he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. He typed back quickly.

Jeonghan: You’re lucky I love you.

YN: I know. ;)

Jeonghan set his phone down, leaning back against the couch, he closed his eyes with a content smile. If his members wanted to play, they’d better be ready for Jeonghan to play back