#and the lighting in my kitchen isn’t like studio lighting

[boneless-mika]

*posts a picture of the ugliest food you’ve ever seen*

Delicious 🤤

[heejamas]

OUT OF TUNE ˖ 🎙◞⋆ (part 2)

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre:  enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 26k // warnings: not proofread, MDNI!! smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, making out, petnames, dry humping

author's note: you guys loved part 1 so much that i decided to drop part 2!! i wasn’t originally planning on posting this so soon, but all the love and reactions made me wanna share it with you asap. hope you enjoy <3 READ PART 1 HERE //

out of tune's playlist <3

The night was quiet, but Beomgyu’s mind wasn’t.

It had started with a question. A simple, stupid question that he never should have asked.

Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?

You had blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a soft laugh—so casual, so oblivious to what you had just done to him. "Yeonjun? No. God, no. He’s just—" You shook your head, still smiling. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Beomgyu had scoffed, looking away before you could see how tightly his jaw had clenched.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you weren’t with Yeonjun. It didn’t matter that you had laughed, like the thought had never even crossed your mind.

And yet, by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment that night, exhaustion was settling deep into his body, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He rarely did these days, not properly, anyway.

The hallway to his apartment was quiet, dimly lit, the familiar flickering of the overhead lights casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t a bad place. Spacious, modern enough. But it felt empty.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his bag onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. His shoulders ached from hunching over his desk all day, his head heavy from staring at screens for too long.

Still, instead of going to bed, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled Mom, but for some reason, hesitation rooted him in place.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that… sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didn’t hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.

When she picked up, her voice was soft, laced with the kind of exhaustion that came from being sick for too long. "Gyu-yah."

His chest tightened. "Hey, Mom."

"You’re calling late," she murmured, a small smile in her tone.

"You’re awake late," he echoed his earlier words to his brother.

She chuckled lightly. "Guess it runs in the family." Another beat of silence. "You’ve been working a lot, haven’t you?"

Beomgyu leaned against the counter, closing his eyes briefly. She always saw right through him. "Yeah. Big project."

"Hm. And how’s that going?"

He exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his temple. "It’s—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Harder than I thought."

"Isn’t it always?"

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

His mother’s voice softened. "What’s making it difficult?"

Beomgyu rolled his shoulders, shifting against the counter. He could lie, say it was just the usual stress of production, deadlines piling up, expectations weighing on him. That was part of it, sure. But there was something else. "She’s… challenging," he admitted before he could think better of it.

A pause. Then, amusement slipped into his mother’s voice. "She?"

Beomgyu regretted his wording immediately. "I meant the project is challenging." His mother hummed knowingly, and somehow that was worse than if she had outright called him out. He sighed, tipping his head back. "It’s just—I don’t know. I’m used to working on my own. Or at least, if I do work with other people, I don’t have to think about them all the time."

"All the time?"

He gritted his teeth. "Not like that."

His mother just laughed softly, as if she had already heard this story before. "That means they’re good, doesn’t it?"

Beomgyu scoffed. "More like they piss me off."

"That’s the same thing sometimes." He rolled his eyes, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does she make your job harder?" his mom asked after a moment, more thoughtful now.

Beomgyu exhaled slowly. "She makes my job better."

It was the truth. And he hated that. Because you did. Even when you were annoying, even when you were frustrating, even when you made him want to slam his head against the mixing console, you still made the music better.

And that should be the only thing that mattered. Should be.

His mother hummed softly, as if she could hear everything he wasn’t saying. "Some people just have a way of getting under your skin," she murmured. "And sometimes, that’s not a bad thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond to that. Because he wasn’t sure he liked where his thoughts were heading. After a while, he let her rest, hanging up the call and tossing his phone onto the couch. He should go to bed. But instead, he found himself standing in his kitchen, staring at the dark city skyline through the window, mind circling back to the same damn thing. To you.

To the way you had looked at him earlier, confused by his mood. To the way your voice had softened when you told him you weren’t having a good day. To the way you had laughed at the idea of being with Yeonjun, so casually, like it wasn’t even a possibility.

He didn’t know why that last part stuck with him the most. And he really didn’t like that he cared enough to wonder.

And now, standing in the middle of a crowded party, staring at you across the room, he realized: You had never really left. You were looking at him. Even with the haze of alcohol buzzing in his system, even through the blur of shifting bodies and flashing lights, Beomgyu felt it—sharp and unmistakable. The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.

And for the first time that night, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smirk or swear. Because he liked it. He liked that you were looking. He liked knowing that, no matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you denied it—there was something there. But then, you looked away. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like he didn’t mean anything. And something twisted deep in his chest, hot and sour. So, naturally, he did what he always did. He let his mouth run before his brain could catch up. "But don’t worry," he said, voice light, almost lazy, but aimed with precision. "I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker." The words landed exactly how he intended. He saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the way your lips pressed together. The way something flickered in your eyes, so fast that if he blinked, he might’ve missed it. Then he smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. And before he could second-guess himself, before he could let the alcohol-fueled honesty catch up to him, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and— No. You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. You needed to get out of your own head. You needed a drink. And after that, you needed Yunjin.

The party was still buzzing when you stepped back inside, the room warm and crowded, laughter spilling over the music. You spotted her near the bar, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, mid-conversation with some guy you didn’t recognize. You marched straight up to her, grabbing her wrist.

“I need to talk to you.” Yunjin barely had time to react before you were pulling her away from the noise, past groups of people, through the doorway leading to one of the quieter lounge areas.

Once inside, she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow as she took a slow sip of her drink. “Damn. No ‘hey, how are you?’ Not even a ‘you look great tonight, Yunjin’?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Not now.”

She studied you, then smirked knowingly. “This is about Beomgyu, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, completely unconvinced. “Go on…”

You exhaled sharply, slumping onto the couch, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Yunjin sat beside you, kicking off her heels, posture casual. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

You hesitated, staring at the floor, feeling strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. It took a few seconds before you found your voice. “I—” You stopped, frowning. “I don’t even know what I feel right now. I’m just… frustrated.”

She hummed. “At him?”

“At everything,” you admitted. “At this whole fucking project. At the way he gets under my skin so easily. At the fact that—” You cut yourself off, clenching your jaw.

Yunjin, sharp as ever, caught it immediately. “At the fact that what?”

You hesitated, gripping the edge of your seat. “I want his approval.” The words came out quiet. Frustrated. “I don’t know why. I just—I hate how much I care about what he thinks. Every time we work on something, I catch myself waiting to see how he reacts. Like, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need him to validate me, but then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “But then he does. And it fucks with me.”

Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. “Do you want his approval?” she asked. “Or do you want him?”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I mean, you’re so worked up over him, and yeah, some of it is because of work, but…” She tilted her head, giving you a look. “Is that all it is?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yes,” you said immediately. Yunjin just stared at you, unimpressed. You crossed your arms. “It is.”

Silence. Then she smirked, slow and knowing. “Liar.”

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “Oh my god, shut up.”

She laughed, nudging your foot with hers. “I mean, come on. This whole thing screams unresolved tension. You two have been circling each other for months, pretending you’re just rivals when clearly there’s more to it.”

You lifted your head, glaring. “There isn’t.”

“Okay,” she said, amused. “So if he kissed you tomorrow, you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life?”

Your brain short-circuited so violently that you actually choked on air. “What—”

Yunjin grinned. “Exactly.”

You scowled, but the damage was done. The thought was already planted in your head, unshakable. Beomgyu, close. Beomgyu, leaning in. Beomgyu, looking at you with that stupid, unreadable expression of his before—

Nope. You refused to entertain this. You grabbed her drink, downing the rest of it in one go, ignoring the way she laughed at you. “I hate you,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t,” she teased. “But you do have a thing for Beomgyu.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Shut up.”

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, babe.”

You groaned, sinking further into the couch, your mind an absolute mess. Because no matter how much you wanted to deny it, Yunjin wasn’t completely wrong.

The music pulsed through the party, deep bass reverberating in your chest as you let yourself sink into the moment. The weight of the conversation with Yunjin still lingered in the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside, focusing on your friends instead—on the warmth of Yeonjun’s arm slung over your shoulder as he dramatically belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing, on the way Taehyun shook his head at him, on Hueningkai laughing so hard at something that he nearly dropped his drink. You let yourself get lost in it.

And then, eventually, the night began to wind down. People started leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and goodbyes trailing after them. Your own friends were still lingering, but you were exhausted, drained from the long week, from the constant push and pull inside your head.

You needed sleep. You told them as much, earning dramatic protests from Yeonjun that didn't want to leave with you, a teasing “boring” from Yunjin, and an understanding nod from Taehyun. Hueningkai just patted your shoulder. "Get home safe," he said, voice warm.

Near the entrance, just a few feet away, Beomgyu stood against the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. He was just there, like he had been standing in that same spot for too long, stewing in whatever storm was brewing behind his unreadable expression.

And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of it—heavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?

The noise of the party faded into the background, drowned out by the heavy thrum of your own heartbeat. You didn’t know why you were still standing there. You didn’t know why the sight of him like this made something twist sharply in your stomach, something restless, something uneasy.

You exhaled sharply, breaking the moment before it could turn into something you weren’t ready to name. Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked out of the party.

You didn’t know what you felt.

But whatever it was, you hated it.

Just like you thought you hated Beomgyu.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

The kind of headache that pounded behind your eyes, the kind of dryness in your throat that made you regret every decision from the night before. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, willing the pain to go away.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Memories from last night filtered into your mind slowly, fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together at first. You remembered the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, the steady bass of the music vibrating through your chest, the feeling of actually having fun for once—until you saw him.

Beomgyu.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make the memory disappear.

Beomgyu, drunk and loose-limbed, flashing you that easy, lazy grin that made your stomach flip before you could even process why. Beomgyu being nice, too nice, his words softer than usual, his teasing edged with something warmer.

And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The shift. The way his smile dimmed when he saw you talking to Yunho. The way his fingers curled slightly around his drink, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. The way his gaze darkened, cold and distant again.

And right before he walked away, he had turned to you with that unreadable look in his eyes, that frustrating mix of amusement and distance, and had said— "After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker."

Your stomach twisted. You threw the blanket off you, forcing yourself to sit up, because if you laid here any longer, you were going to start throwing things.

The apartment was dead silent, except for the faint sound of someone snoring in the living room. You got up carefully, wincing at the headache that pulsed through your skull, and padded out of your room. Yeonjun was passed out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his face smushed into a pillow. You sighed, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him.

Then, as you turned toward the kitchen, you nearly tripped over two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Hueningkai and Taehyun. Both dead asleep, Kai using a hoodie as a pillow, Taehyun curled up in the most uncomfortable-looking position you had ever seen.

You stared at them for a long moment, then sighed again, rubbing at your temples. You needed coffee. You needed out of this apartment. That's why you decided to grab coffee somewhere else.

It was still too early for the world to feel real. The streets were quiet, the sky dull with that soft, overcast light that only came on hungover Sundays. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you pushed through the doors of the coffeeshop, craving caffeine more than you had ever craved anything in your life.

You were so focused on getting to the counter that you didn’t even notice him at first.

"So we really had the same idea, huh?" You blinked, turning toward the voice. Soobin was sitting at a corner table, hoodie pulled up over his messy hair, looking just as wrecked as you felt. His iced coffee sat half-finished in front of him, condensation dripping down the sides.

You stared. "Holy shit. You look like hell."

He scoffed. "Thanks. You’re glowing this morning."

You snorted, finally ordering your drink before sliding into the seat across from him. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

Soobin hummed. "Didn’t expect to be here. But I woke up with a headache from hell and figured coffee might bring me back to life."

"Same." You took a slow sip of your drink, wincing as the cold hit your stomach. "Last night was… a lot."

Soobin huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Some more than others."

You narrowed your eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He just smirked, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… Beomgyu was in rare form last night."

You stiffened slightly. If Soobin noticed, he didn’t mention it. "That drunk?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Drunk enough to be nice," Soobin mused. "Which, you know, is when you should be really concerned." You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Soobin watched you for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "You know," he said eventually, stirring his drink with the straw, "he’s not as much of an asshole as he tries to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me."

Soobin chuckled. "Yeah, he’s good at that. But—" He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "—he respects you."

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe that. You knew Beomgyu took you seriously, he wouldn’t compete so hard with you if he didn’t. But respect wasn’t the word that had been echoing in your head since last night.

Soobin leaned back in his chair. "And maybe he likes your work a little too much."

Your heart skipped, just once, just enough for you to feel stupid. You forced out a scoff, shaking your head. "Right. Sure. That’s why he spent half of the night treating me like shit."

Soobin’s smirk barely twitched. "I never said he handles it well."

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with you. But there was nothing teasing in his gaze, just knowing amusement, like he had already seen how this story played out before you even knew what page you were on.

You hated that. You hated that something about it made your stomach twist.

So, you stood up, grabbing your order. "I need to go before you start giving me life advice."

Soobin grinned, unfazed. "See you Monday, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, already heading for the door.

But even as you stepped out into the cold air, the caffeine still not fully kicking in, Soobin’s words stuck with you. Maybe he likes your work a little too much. Whatever that meant, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

The walk back to your apartment was slow, the cool morning air doing little to clear the fog still lingering in your head. The coffeeshop bag swung gently at your side, filled with coffee and a few pastries, not because you were feeling particularly generous, but because you knew the three idiots waiting for you would need it just as much as you did.

When you finally pushed the door open, the apartment was still a disaster.

Yeonjun was awake now, sprawled across the couch in the same position you had left him in, scrolling through his phone with half-lidded eyes. Taehyun and Hueningkai were still on the floor, looking like they had barely moved.

You let the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and all three of them flinched.

"Jesus," Yeonjun muttered, rubbing his face. "Not so loud."

You rolled your eyes, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. "Brought coffee. If any of you die, it’s not my fault."

Hueningkai groaned, blindly reaching for the bag without sitting up. "You’re an angel. A mean one, but an angel."

Taehyun sat up with effort, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Where’d you go?"

"Coffeeshop," you said simply, grabbing your own cup before sitting on the arm of the couch. "Needed air."

Yeonjun stretched his arms above his head, then let them drop dramatically. "Did we ever figure out what happened to Yunjin?"

"Yeah," Taehyun answered, taking a sip of his drink. "We got her home safe. She passed out halfway there."

"Typical," Yeonjun muttered, shaking his head.

Hueningkai yawned. "We were too drunk to go back to our own places, so we crashed here. Hope you don’t mind."

You shrugged. "I figured. You were taking up half my floor." You shook your head before speaking again. "Ran into Soobin there, in the coffeeshop."

That got their attention. Hueningkai snorted. "Damn, everyone had the same idea."

"Yeah," you mused, stirring your straw through your drink. "He looked just as bad as me. Maybe worse."

Yeonjun hummed. "He drank a lot last night."

"Yeah," you agreed, then took a slow sip of coffee before adding casually, "But he said Beomgyu was worse." You expected some reaction. A laugh, a sarcastic remark, maybe even an exaggerated groan. What you didn’t expect was the subtle way Yeonjun and Taehyun exchanged glances. You frowned. "What?"

Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "Nothing—just…" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."

You blinked. "What?"

Hueningkai nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. Not, like, a full fight or anything. But they were arguing. And it wasn’t friendly."

You sat up slightly. "Over what?"

Yeonjun shrugged. "No clue. Heeseung and I stepped in before it got worse, but they were both pissed."

Your mind raced, replaying the night. Yunho had been fine when you left, normal, flirty, acting like he always did. And Beomgyu? Beomgyu had been weird. The shift had been so sudden, one second he was being nice, playful, softer than usual. The next, cold, distant. And now, apparently, he had also picked a fight with Yunho. None of it made sense.

You drummed your fingers against your cup. "What did Yunho even say?"

Taehyun shook his head. "Dunno. But whatever it was, Beomgyu hated it."

You scoffed lightly. "So what? He was already pissed at me."

"Was he?" Yeonjun asked, raising an eyebrow.

You frowned, opening your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because, honestly? You didn’t know. He had been acting off all week, distant and unreadable. And then last night, he was the opposite, warm, teasing, close. And then, again, the shift, cold. Your head hurt just thinking about it.

"I don’t care," you muttered, standing up and stretching. "I’m taking a shower. If you guys are still here when I’m done, I’m kicking you out."

Taehyun smirked. "Love you too."

You rolled your eyes, but as you walked toward your room, the weight of Yeonjun’s words lingered. Whatever it was, it clearly got under Beomgyu’s skin. But why did that matter? And why the hell did you care?

The car ride to work on Monday was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.

Yeonjun was dropping you off like usual, his music playing softly in the background, but you weren’t really listening. Your thoughts were elsewhere, circling, looping, pulling you into an endless spiral of what the hell is going on with you and Beomgyu.

You had spent the entire Sunday trying not to think about him.

Trying not to think about the way he had been so warm, so teasing, so himself, until he wasn’t. Trying not to think about Yunho, about their argument, about the way Beomgyu looked at you when you left.

And yet, here you were, staring out the car window, still thinking about it. Because now you had to see him again. And you had no idea which version of Beomgyu you were going to get. The smug, infuriating one who lived to push your buttons? The cold, distant one who had barely acknowledged you all week? Or the version from the party, the one who looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to your head?

Which was exactly why you didn’t want to talk about this. Because if you said it out loud, then it would feel real. Instead, you just turned back toward the window, watching as the HYBE building came into view.

You made it to your studio without seeing Beomgyu. Thank god.

You hadn’t even realized you had been holding your breath until you shut the door behind you, exhaling slowly. The last thing you wanted was to run into Beomgyu in some awkward hallway moment, trying to pretend like everything was fine when clearly nothing was.

So you did what you did best. You threw yourself into work.

The hours slipped by, your fingers moving almost mechanically over your keyboard, your mind hyper-focused on mixing, arranging, tweaking. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that your work was all that mattered.

You didn’t see Beomgyu once. Not in the hallway, not in the break room, not even in the usual spaces where he always seemed to be. Maybe he was avoiding you too. You tried not to care. Tried not to think about it.

But then, just as the day was winding down, just as you were finally about to pack up and go home, there was a knock at your door.

You frowned, pushing your chair back. "Come in."

The door swung open, and standing there, looking as serious as ever, was Baekhyun. "Hey," he said, stepping inside. "Got a minute?"

You straightened slightly, your pulse kicking up for no reason at all. "Uh… yeah, of course."

Baekhyun shut the door behind him before turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, calm, neutral, but with a weight behind his eyes that made your stomach churn. You had a bad feeling about this.

"Listen," he started, crossing his arms. "I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else."

You swallowed. "O…kay?"

Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."

The words didn’t register at first. You just blinked at him, waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t. Because that was it.

You sat up straighter, confusion flashing across your face. "What?"

"He asked to be reassigned," Baekhyun clarified. "You’re the sole producer now."

Your stomach dropped. "He what?"

Baekhyun sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t about work. His excuse was weak as hell. He just said he ‘wasn’t the right fit for the project’ and left it at that."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process. Beomgyu, who never backed down from anything, had quit? Beomgyu, who had spent the last few weeks going head-to-head with you, challenging you, pushing you, had walked away?

Just like that? Your pulse roared in your ears. "Why?" you demanded.

Baekhyun shook his head. "I have no idea. And honestly, I don’t have time to figure it out. The album still needs to get done, and now it’s all on you."

You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was him.

The way he had been acting all week. The way he had been acting at the party. The argument with Yunho. The distance. The sudden shift. And now this.

Beomgyu didn’t just quit. Not unless there was a reason. But what the hell was it?

Baekhyun sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I have to run, but if you need anything, let me know."

You nodded stiffly, barely registering as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. And then you were alone. Alone with the news. Alone with the confusion. Alone with the sharp, twisting feeling in your chest that you refused to call anything other than frustration.

Your brain spiraled. Your hands clenched into fists against your desk, your pulse hammering in your ears. Beomgyu quit? Just like that? Without saying a word to you? Without even giving a proper reason?

It made no sense. None of it made sense. You sat there, staring blankly at your screen, but you weren’t processing anything. All you could think about was him.

You exhaled sharply, pushing back from your desk. You weren’t going to sit here and let your thoughts drive you insane. If he wasn’t going to come to you, then fine. You’d go to him.

The building was nearly empty. Most people had already gone home, leaving only a few scattered producers and trainees still working. The silence felt heavier somehow, like even the air itself knew something was wrong.

You walked straight to his studio first. Locked. No lights inside. Empty.

Your jaw tightened as you turned away, moving faster now. Fine. Maybe he was in the break room.

You checked there next, stepping inside and scanning the area. Nothing. Not even a half-finished cup of coffee or an abandoned snack, things that always seemed to be left behind whenever Beomgyu was around.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You were already walking before you had fully decided to, heading down the hallway toward the smoking area outside. You shoved the door open, stepping onto the dimly lit balcony. The cold air bit at your skin, but you barely noticed. Because the space was completely empty. He wasn’t here.

You let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. Where the hell was he?

After a few more seconds of standing there uselessly, you turned back around, forcing yourself to accept that you weren’t going to find him tonight. Maybe he had already gone home. Maybe he had been home this whole time, avoiding everything and everyone. Maybe you were wasting your energy trying to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be found.

Defeat sat heavy in your chest as you trudged back toward your studio, exhaustion sinking into your bones now that the adrenaline had faded. You should just let it go. Just let him go.

But when you stepped inside your studio—

You froze. Because there he was.

Sitting in your chair, arms resting on the desk, staring at you like he had been waiting. Like he had known you’d come looking. He had that look on his face. That stupid, pathetic, guilty expression—like a kicked dog, like he knew exactly what he had done, like he was bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.

You shut the door behind you harder than necessary, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Beomgyu swallowed, his hands tightening slightly where they rested on the desk.

"Listen—"

"Listen what?" Your voice snapped through the air, sharper than you even intended, but you didn’t care. Because after everything, this was what you got? A half-hearted listen? No. Not happening. You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "Go on, Beomgyu. I’d love to hear it."

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his jeans before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, hesitant, cautious. "I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking into his voice. "It wasn’t working."

"What wasn’t working?" you demanded. "Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that wasn’t working was you deciding to disappear without saying a damn word to me—"

"Would you just let me talk?" Beomgyu snapped, his voice cutting through yours.

You froze. He never raised his voice at you. Not like this. Not with something heavy sitting behind it, something too close to something real. You set your jaw, arms tightening over your chest. "Fine. Talk."

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You think I wanted to leave the project?"

You blinked. "You literally did."

"Yeah," he snapped. "And maybe if you weren’t so stuck in your own head all the time, you’d realize why."

Your stomach twisted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu scoffed, pushing himself up from your chair. "It means," he said, voice low, controlled, "that I warned you about people you let in in your life, and you didn’t listen."

And there it was. The shift. The argument that had started as one thing—the project, his sudden absence, your frustration, suddenly becoming something else. Your hands clenched at your sides. "This is about Seungcheol?!"

He let out a sharp laugh, running his tongue over his teeth. "Wow. Look at that. You do listen sometimes."

You took a step closer. "And what exactly is your problem with him?"

Beomgyu’s jaw ticked. "My problem," he muttered, "is that you’re so damn naive sometimes—"

"Excuse me?"

"You think everyone is exactly what they show you," he continued, voice rising slightly. "You think people don’t have their own reasons for the things they do, for why they pay attention to you—"

You felt something sharp crawl up your throat, something dangerously close to real anger. "And why the fuck does that matter to you?"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched, just for a second, just enough for you to see it. And then, just as quickly, his face hardened again. "It doesn’t," he said flatly.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Got it. So, you threw away an entire project, left me with all the fucking work, because you suddenly don’t care?"

Beomgyu’s hands curled into fists. "I left because I knew this was going to get messy."

"It’s already messy, Beomgyu!" you exploded. "You made it messy! I thought we were a team—I thought, for once, that maybe you weren’t just trying to be better than me, that maybe we actually worked well together, but no—of course not, because you had to fucking run the second it got complicated—"

"Are you even hearing yourself?" His voice was sharp, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I left because of the fucking project?"

You opened your mouth—then shut it. Because, no. You didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Because if this was just about work, then Beomgyu would’ve fought harder. He always fought harder.

Your breath was shallow now, your heart racing against your ribs. There was only a foot of space between you.

You could hear his breathing, sharp, uneven. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to do something. And you could feel it, how the air between you had shifted, thickened into something neither of you knew how to name.

This wasn’t just about work. This wasn’t just about Yunho, or Seungcheol. This wasn’t just about Saturday night. It was about everything. But neither of you were ready to say it. Neither of you knew how.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. "Then why did you?"

His jaw clenched. "I told you—"

"No," you cut him off, stepping even closer, your anger outweighing your restraint now. "You didn’t. You keep talking in circles, Beomgyu, but you haven’t told me shit. You just keep—acting like I’m supposed to read your fucking mind."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you don’t get it!"

"Then make me get it!" you snapped.

His eyes flashed, dark and burning. Then, suddenly—

"You drive me insane."

The words hit the air before he could stop them, before you could process them, and for a second, the room froze. Your breath caught.

Beomgyu’s lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it out loud. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he had been holding onto those words for too long, like they had just ripped their way out of him.

You felt your stomach twist, your skin heat, your pulse roar in your ears. Because he wasn’t looking at you with anger anymore. He was looking at you like you were something dangerous. Like you had the power to ruin him. Like you already had.

"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I haven’t been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and I’m already wondering what kind of mood you’ll be in, if we’re gonna fight, if we’re gonna work, if—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It’s you. It’s always fucking you."

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. This, whatever this was, it had been bubbling under the surface for so long, hidden under sharp words and competition and a rivalry neither of you had ever actually needed.

"You fucking ran." Your voice was quieter now, but not softer.

Beomgyu’s brows pulled together. "I had to."

"No," you countered, stepping closer. "You wanted to. Because it was easier than—than whatever this is. Because you can’t handle anything you can’t control."

Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, tongue running over his teeth. "You think I’m the only one running?" You hesitated. That second of hesitation was all it took.

Because then, suddenly, Beomgyu’s fingers curled around your wrist, not pulling, not forcing, just grounding, and you felt the warmth of his skin burn into yours. "You tell me to stop running," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then tell me to stay."

Your heart nearly stopped. The challenge in his tone, the weight behind it, felt like stepping off a ledge. You stared at him, your throat tight, your head light, your pulse a fucking mess. Because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan.

And yet, your fingers tightened slightly around his. Barely, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for something inside him to snap.

You barely had time to process it before Beomgyu moved.

His hands found your face first, warm, calloused fingers cradling your jaw like he needed to hold you in place, like he was afraid you’d pull away before he could do what he had been holding back for too long.

The space between you disappeared, and then his lips were on yours.

The first press was firm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d kiss him back, if this was something he was allowed to take. But then you gave in. A sharp inhale, a slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers fisted into his hoodie, yanking him closer. That was all he needed. Because once Beomgyu realized you weren’t stopping him, that you weren’t pushing him away, he lost it.

The kiss got harder, deeper, his lips parting against yours as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, fingers gripping your sides like he was pissed off—at you, at himself, at the entire world for making him wait this long.

You made a sound against his mouth, but it wasn’t protest. It was frustration, relief, disbelief that this was even happening. Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.

You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, just barely, just enough to make you gasp, and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss, pressing himself into you until your back hit the door behind you.

All you could process was him, his lips, his warmth, the way one of his hands slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could kiss you even deeper, even dirtier. Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.

A soft, frustrated sound that sent a thrill through your body, because you had never heard him sound like that before, had never imagined that you could pull that sound from him. And then, just when the heat between you had grown unbearable, just when his hands started to wander, gripping at your waist like he wanted to pin you there forever—

You both realized what was happening. Realized that this was you and him. That this was real. That this wasn’t something either of you could take back. So you pulled away first. Barely, just a few inches. Just enough to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go. Your chest heaved, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could. Because whatever line had been there before? You had just obliterated it.

His breath was uneven, and the silence between you both stretched longer than either of you had anticipated. The air in the studio felt thick now, charged with something neither of you quite knew how to handle.

Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice came out rough but firm as you looked at him. "You… you can’t just walk away."

Beomgyu’s hand twitched at your waist, his grip still there, like he was trying to hold onto something real in the middle of all the chaos between you two. His lips parted, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you expected. "You really want me to stay?"

You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat. It wasn’t that simple. But then again, it was. "I do," you said, your words coming out with an honesty you couldn’t take back.

The air seemed to crackle around you both, and Beomgyu finally let go of his tight grip around your waist, but not completely. He just let his hands fall to your sides, his touch lingering as though he was afraid of pushing too far.

And there it was. The line had been crossed. The weight of your words hung between you, settling like something inevitable. Neither of you moved, but there was something different now, something undeniable that shifted in the space you shared.

Beomgyu’s eyes softened for the first time, he leaned in again, his hand gently cupping your cheek this time, as though he was finally allowing himself to believe that this wasn’t just another fleeting moment, another mistake. His touch lingered for a moment longer, his hand soft on your cheek as though he were afraid that if he moved too quickly, everything would fall apart. His eyes searched yours, the intensity of the moment hanging between you, thick with unspoken words. His lips parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

For a long moment, all that was heard was the sound of your breaths, his shaky, yours quick. But then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Beomgyu pulled back.

The change was immediate. His hand dropped from your cheek, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost… regretful. You could feel the tension in his body shift, a quiet storm brewing in him that you couldn’t quite understand.

"Beomgyu…" you started, but before you could get another word out, he turned away from you.

Without a word, he walked toward the door. Your chest tightened, confusion and frustration flooding your senses as you watched him move. You didn’t know whether to call out, to beg him to stay, or to just let him go and pretend that this whole mess hadn’t happened. But no matter what, you felt a pit in your stomach, a weight you couldn’t shake off.

Beomgyu reached for the handle, his back still to you, and for a brief second, you thought maybe he would say something—anything. Maybe he would explain himself, finally tell you what was going through his head. But instead, he opened the door. The sound of the hinges creaking was like a cruel reminder of what was happening.

He stepped outside, and for a heartbeat, the door remained open, leaving you to watch him through the gap. His expression was unreadable, his body stiff. Then, without looking back, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room like the finality of everything.

And just like that, you were left alone.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat down, staring at the door, still hearing the faint click of it locking in your mind. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving you floating in the aftermath, unsure of what had just happened. What had changed? Why did it feel like you were left with nothing?

Everything was so… messy. You had never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet, Beomgyu had walked away without a single word. The silence that filled the room now was deafening. You wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers, but all you could do was sit there, trying to make sense of it all.

Had you been wrong to ask him to stay? Did you push him too far, too soon? Or was this all just another part of that complicated dance you two had been doing from the very start?

You didn’t know. All you knew was that the studio felt emptier now, quieter. And Beomgyu… Beomgyu had walked away. The silence in the studio was suffocating.

You sat there, unmoving, eyes still locked on the door even though Beomgyu was long gone. Your hands were trembling in your lap. The lump in your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a sharp, broken breath escaped you. Until the tears spilled over, hot and relentless, blurring your vision and burning your cheeks.

You sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You never cried over shit like this. Not over work. Not over him. You hated this. You hated feeling like this.

You blinked rapidly, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Your breath came out in uneven gasps, the weight in your chest growing heavier by the second.

You needed to leave. Your fingers scrambled for your phone, your vision still blurred with tears as you unlocked it and pulled up your messages. You barely even thought before typing.

[you]: can you pick me up The response came within seconds.

[yeonjun]: on my way. stay there.

You let out a shaky breath, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling.

The second you slid into Yeonjun’s car, the dam broke.

The moment the door shut behind you, the sobs you had barely been holding in ripped out of you, raw and unfiltered, shaking your entire body.

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t push. He just reached across the console, one hand on your back, grounding you. "Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and calm as he rubbed small circles. "I got you, okay? Just breathe."

You shook your head violently, pressing your palms into your eyes, trying, and failing, to stop crying. "I—I don’t—" A sharp inhale, a choked-out sob. "I don’t even know why I’m crying."

Yeonjun let out a soft breath, like he already knew that was a lie. You sucked in another shaky breath, leaning your head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Yeonjun just drove.

The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sound of your sniffles as you tried to get your breathing under control. Yeonjun didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. He just waited and held your hand while he drove. Slow, steady, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew you needed the silence before you could find the words.

And when you finally did, your voice came out small. Tired. "He quit the project." Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. "I don’t—I don’t get it," you said, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "I was working all day, and then Baekhyun came in and just dropped it on me like it was nothing. Like it was some casual decision Beomgyu made, and now I’m just supposed to deal with it—"

Yeonjun exhaled sharply. "Wait. He just left? No warning? No explanation?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Nothing. I—I went looking for him, but he wasn’t anywhere. Then when I finally gave up and went back to my studio, he was just there, like he had been waiting for me or something." Yeonjun frowned, but he didn’t interrupt. "And I was so fucking mad," you admitted, voice thick with frustration. "I just—I don’t understand him. He always has to push my buttons, always has to act like he doesn’t care about anything, but then he turns around and does this. Like it means something, but then he—he just—"

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest aching. "And then he kissed me," you whispered.

Silence. Yeonjun inhaled slowly. "What?"

Your hands clenched in your lap. "I don’t even know how it happened. We were yelling at each other, and it just—it happened."

Yeonjun didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing as he processed what you just said. "And then what?" he asked, quieter now.

Your throat tightened. "And then… he left."

Yeonjun let out a slow, controlled breath. "What a dick." You let out a weak, wet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I mean it." He tightened his grip on the wheel before exhaling, forcing himself to soften.

Then, carefully, he reached over, his fingers curling around your knee, grounding you. "Hey." You sniffled, not looking at him. Yeonjun’s voice was softer this time. "Did it mean something to you?"

Your breath caught. Because, fuck. It did. It did, and you hated that. You let out a shaky exhale, running a hand over your face. "I don’t know," you lied.

Yeonjun hummed like he didn’t believe you for a second. He didn’t push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N… I don’t think Beomgyu ran because he didn’t care. I think he ran because he does."

Your chest ached. "Then why not just fucking say that?"

Yeonjun sighed, turning onto your street. "Because people are dumb. Men are dumb. And Beomgyu’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t care about anything. You think he’s just gonna wake up one day and admit that he cares about you?" Your breath stilled. Yeonjun just shook his head. "He’s an idiot. That’s all it is."

You let out a weak laugh, leaning your head against the window. "Yeah," you murmured. "That makes two of us."

Yeonjun pulled into your apartment complex, shifting into park before turning to you. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched you carefully, his eyes warm and steady. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re not an idiot," he murmured. "You just care too much, and you’re scared."

You scoffed. "No shit."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. He let that sit for a second before shaking his head. "You know what I think?" Yeonjun hummed, thoughtful. "I think he’s scared, too."

You stiffened slightly. "He didn’t seem scared when he left me standing there."

"Yeah?" Yeonjun mused. "Then why did he leave at all?"

You frowned, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Yeonjun sighed. "Think about it. If Beomgyu was just messing around, if this was just another game to him—he wouldn’t have left. He would’ve stayed. Would’ve laughed it off, made some cocky comment, pretended like it meant nothing." Your stomach twisted. Yeonjun turned toward you, his expression softer now. "But he didn’t, Y/N. He ran."

You let that sink in. Because maybe Yeonjun had a point. Maybe Beomgyu leaving wasn’t just some asshole move. Maybe he had been just as freaked out as you. The thought made your chest tighten all over again.

Yeonjun reached over, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. He gave you a small smile before reaching over, pulling you into a hug. "You’re gonna be okay," he murmured against your hair. "I promise."

You let out a shaky breath, gripping onto him a little tighter. You weren’t sure if you believed him. But for now, you needed to. You sighed, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. But even as Yeonjun turned off the car, even as you sat there, trying to steady yourself, one thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

Beomgyu had run. But what the hell was he running from?

The question rattled in your mind, looping over and over as you stepped into your apartment, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.

You barely remembered saying goodnight to Yeonjun. You barely even registered the moment you locked yourself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.

Steam filled the space around you, thick and hazy, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in your chest. You tilted your head back, letting the water soak through your hair, tracing down the curve of your spine. Your breathing was still uneven, your mind still too loud.

You were supposed to be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. So what if he had kissed you? So what if he had left? You and Beomgyu had been dancing around each other for years—this was just another part of the cycle.

Right?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. Then why does it feel different this time? Your fingers curled into fists.

You could still feel his hands on your waist, his breath against your lips. Could still see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes right before he pulled away. Could still hear the sound of the door clicking shut as he left.

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to push the memory away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to sit here, overthinking every second, every glance, every fucking thing about Beomgyu.

So instead, you stayed under the water until your skin was raw, until the ache in your chest dulled into something you could ignore.

And despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the weight in your head—you managed to fall asleep. But you woke up feeling like your body was still stuck in yesterday.

Your limbs were sluggish, your mind groggy, and the second you remembered why, your stomach twisted unpleasantly. You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, trying to will yourself back to sleep.

But outside your door, you could already hear Yeonjun moving around the kitchen. You forced yourself out of bed, padding into the living room to find him standing by the stove, frying eggs like he actually knew how to cook. You frowned. "What are you doing?"

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder. "Making breakfast."

"You don’t cook," you pointed out.

"Yeah, well, desperate times." He nodded toward the table. "Sit."

You sighed but obeyed, rubbing at your temples as you slumped into a chair. A minute later, Yeonjun set a plate in front of you, eggs, toast, and a coffee. You blinked. "You’re really committing to this whole overbearing best friend thing, huh?"

Yeonjun smirked, plopping down across from you with his own plate. "You love it."

You rolled your eyes but took a bite of the eggs anyway. They were… passable. Yeonjun watched you carefully between bites, waiting. You sighed. "I will be fine, you know."

He hummed. "Yeah, I know." He took a sip of his coffee, then added, "But are you fine right now?" Your fingers tightened slightly around your fork. You didn’t answer. Yeonjun just sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "You don’t have to be fine yet, Y/N."

Your throat tightened. So instead of answering, you just nodded, pushing your food around your plate. Yeonjun didn’t push. Just let you sit there, existing, until you finally managed to eat something.

When it was time to leave, he drove you to work again, filling the silence with easy conversation, talking about his projects, making fun of bad drivers, anything to keep your mind off of what was waiting for you at HYBE.

But the second you stepped out of the car, the weight returned. The anxiety crept back into your bones. Because today, you had to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what was going to happen.

You made it to your studio without running into him. You didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But instead of sitting there, drowning in your own thoughts, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed.

[you]: taehyun, i need to talk to you [taehyun]: About what? [you]: just… when you have a second. come by my studio [taehyun]: Be there soon.

You exhaled, setting your phone down. You didn’t know why you needed to talk to him. But right now, Taehyun felt like the only person who could give you some kind of clarity. And clarity was exactly what you needed.

It didn’t take long for Taehyun to show up. You barely had time to fully gather your thoughts before there was a soft knock at your door, and then he was stepping inside, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting slightly as he studied you.

"Alright," he said, shutting the door behind him. "What’s up?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because now that he was actually here, you weren’t sure where to start. Did you tell him about Beomgyu quitting? The fight? The kiss? Did you tell him about the way your heart had completely fallen apart when Beomgyu walked out of that room?

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "This is stupid."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, now I definitely wanna hear it."

You shot him a dry look, but he just crossed his arms, waiting. So you told him. Everything.

How you found out that Beomgyu had quit. How you had gone looking for him. How he was already waiting for you when you got back to your studio. The argument and then… And then the kiss.

Taehyun listened carefully, barely reacting at first. Just nodding, humming occasionally, letting you spill everything you had been holding in since last night. And when you finally finished, slumping back into your chair with a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You guys are exhausting."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it."

Taehyun was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "He’s an idiot," he said. You blinked. "He is," Taehyun repeated, sitting on the edge of your desk. "Beomgyu is… complicated. He’s impulsive, and reckless, and sometimes he doesn’t think before he acts. But he’s not bad, Y/N."

You frowned, shifting in your seat. "I never said he was bad—"

"You didn’t have to," Taehyun interrupted. "You’re pissed, and you should be. He left you with an entire project and just disappeared. That’s a dick move."

You scoffed. "Glad we agree on that."

"But," Taehyun continued, leveling you with a look, "you also know that if this was just about work, he wouldn’t have left."

You stiffened. Because, yeah. You did know that.

Taehyun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look… I’ve known Beomgyu for a long time. And I can tell you one thing for sure—he’s confused as hell about you." Your stomach twisted. "Beomgyu’s not used to… feeling things like this. You know him—he jokes, he messes around, he acts like nothing ever really matters to him. But this? You? This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesn’t know how to handle."

You looked away, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your desk. "He looked at me like…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like he regretted it."

Taehyun hummed. "Maybe he did." Your heart sank. Taehyun must have noticed your expression, because he shook his head quickly. "No—not like that. Not in the I wish I never kissed her way. More like… Fuck, what did I just do?"

Your breath hitched. Taehyun leaned forward slightly, watching you carefully. "Y/N… if Beomgyu didn’t care, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have pulled away. He wouldn’t be acting like this at all."

You swallowed hard. "Then why didn’t he just say something?"

Taehyun sighed. "Because he’s a coward."

You blinked. "Wow. That’s blunt."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Someone has to say it."

A short silence stretched between you, the weight of everything still settling in your chest. And then, Taehyun’s voice softened slightly. "I know you want to see him." You inhaled sharply, but before you could argue, he continued. "But you won’t," he said simply. "Not for a while, at least."

"What do you mean?"

Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck. "I overheard Baekhyun talking to some of the staff this morning. Beomgyu asked for a week off before getting reassigned to another project." Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Taehyun hesitated. "He’s not ot gone. Just… off the grid for a bit."

You swallowed hard. A week. You had a week without him. A week to focus on work. A week to stop feeling like this. A week to—

To what? Forget about him? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down?

You clenched your fists in your lap, nodding stiffly. "Okay."

Taehyun studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he sighed and reached out, squeezing your arm. "You’ll be okay," he murmured.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. "Yeah."

But as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, one thing was clear. You weren’t sure if that was true.

The first day without Beomgyu was easier than you expected.

Maybe because you were still fueled by frustration. By anger. By the exhaustion of the past few days. It was easier to channel all of that into work, to drown out the silence with layers of sound, synths, drums, melodies, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You convinced yourself that you didn’t need him here. Didn’t need his input, his annoying commentary, his stupid smirk when he knew he was right about something. And for a little while, you almost believed it.

But then the second day came. And the third.

And by Wednesday, you realized just how much space Beomgyu used to take up, physically, mentally, emotionally. The studio felt different without him. Too quiet.

You had spent so long being annoyed by his presence, by the way he was always around, always making some offhand comment, always pushing your buttons just because he could. And now it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like the silence was mocking you. You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the album, on the endless meetings with Baekhyun about tracklists, on your studio sessions with the Enhypen members.

Jake had mentioned that they were excited about the project. Jungwon had suggested a few ideas for the second track. Heeseung had even sat with you for over an hour, working through some of the melody transitions.

It was good. The work was getting done. Everything was moving forward. So why did it still feel like something was missing?

By Thursday, Yeonjun had stopped asking if you wanted to talk about it. At first, he had tried, little things, subtle attempts to get you to open up.

"You seem really focused on work this week," he had mused over dinner on Tuesday. "Trying to distract yourself?" You had rolled your eyes, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to avoid answering.

By Wednesday, he had simply given you a long, knowing look before sighing. "Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it."

And you didn’t. Because what was there to say? That you missed him? That you had caught yourself glancing at his empty chair during meetings? That every time you pulled up a demo, you could still hear his suggestions in the back of your mind? That you had started a dozen text messages, only to delete them before even finishing the first word? No. You weren’t going to do that.

You weren’t going to let Beomgyu live rent-free in your head while he was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.

So by Friday, you had convinced yourself that you were fine. That you were moving on. That you had finally, finally stopped thinking about him. At least, until you walked into your studio that morning.

And saw the letter sitting on your desk.

At first, you thought it was just another memo from Baekhyun. Or maybe some notes from one of the Enhypen members. But then you got closer. And you saw his handwriting.

For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the folded piece of paper like it might disappear if you blinked. Then, cautiously, you stepped forward. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was slightly creased, as if he had folded and unfolded it multiple times before finally deciding to leave it here. No greeting. No explanation.

Just one simple sentence, scrawled in messy, familiar ink.

i think this fits for track 1

Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes flicked down to the lyrics below. And the second you started reading, your breath caught.

Just the two of us, getting deeply moonstruck Oh, you make me go crazy over you, you, baby Let me hold you close, I want to feel you until the end of the night Fly this night above the rising moon Crazy over you, you, baby We can take it slow Moonstruck in ecstasy

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. This wasn’t just a song suggestion. This wasn’t just another track for the album. This was Beomgyu, talking to you the only way he knew how. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Because, fuck. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this meant. And now, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

You sat at your desk, gripping the paper so tightly it was a wonder it hadn’t torn yet. Your eyes kept flicking over the words, tracing the messy, slightly smudged ink of his handwriting. Moonstruck.

You read the lyrics again. And again. Each time, they felt heavier.

I'm so intoxicated, getting more and more into you, baby

What the fuck was he trying to say? You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had written it before everything that happened. But that didn’t make sense, did it?

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie as your mind looped back to that night. The way he had kissed you. The way he had run. And now, instead of an explanation, instead of a conversation, he left this? A song?

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push it aside. If Beomgyu wanted to talk in lyrics, fine. You would make sure they were heard.

The Enhypen members were already lounging around their practice room when you arrived. Sunghoon was sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Jungwon and Jay were flipping through notes on the album’s concept. Jake was throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Sunoo, who swatted it away with an exaggerated groan.

The second you stepped in, Heeseung perked up. "Oh, hey, you’re here. What’s up?"

You inhaled deeply, clutching the paper in your hands. "We have a song."

That got their attention. Sunghoon sat up properly. Jay leaned forward, brows raising. Ni-ki, who had been half-asleep in the corner, immediately straightened, eyes flicking toward you.

You placed the lyrics down on the table. "It’s called Moonstruck," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Beomgyu wrote it."

A beat of silence. Jungwon blinked. "Wait. Beomgyu?"

You nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

Jake leaned in, scanning the paper. "When the hell did he even—?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, arms crossing over your chest. "But it’s good. And I think we should use it."

They didn’t argue. Instead, they took the next few minutes carefully analyzing the lyrics, murmuring about which parts fit their vocal tones best.

"Pre-chorus has to be Ni-ki and Sunghoon," Jay noted, nodding to himself. "Their voices will carry this section perfectly."

Ni-ki grinned. "I do sound good under moonlight."

Sunoo groaned. "God, shut up."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "The first verse has a nice flow. Maybe Heeeseung and Jay can split it?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that works."

As they discussed vocal distribution, you quietly worked on the arrangement, playing with some of the melodies on your laptop. And as much as you hated to admit it, the song was beautiful.

The harmonies, the depth, the longing in the lyrics—it all weaved together into something intoxicating. Something that felt like Beomgyu. And, more terrifyingly, something that felt like you and Beomgyu.

You poured yourself into it. Every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering moment of that damn kiss, you put it all into the music. If Beomgyu wanted to communicate this way, then fine. You would answer him in the production.

By the time the first rough demo was put together, the entire room had shifted. The members listened intently, nodding along to the beat, already humming harmonies under their breath.

And when the final note played, Heeseung let out a low whistle. "Okay," he muttered. "That was… insane."

Jake leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. "This might be one of the strongest songs on the album."

Ni-ki grinned. "It’s sexy."

Jungwon rolled his eyes. "It’s romantic, you idiot."

Sunghoon smirked. "Both."

You stared at the screen, fingers still hovering over the controls, heart pounding in your chest. You had lost track of time, lost yourself in the production, in the process of turning Beomgyu’s words into something real.

Heeseung stretched his arms over his head, glancing over at you. "How the hell did this come together so fast?"

You hesitated. Then, before you could think too much about it, the words tumbled out. "Because Beomgyu wrote it."

The room fell quiet for a beat. You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed under their stares. You ignored the pointed looks, turning back toward the screen.

You had done what you needed to do. You had taken Beomgyu’s song and made it something real. And yet, as you sat there, staring at the lyrics again, one thought lingered.

This was his way of talking to you. But when—if—you finally saw him again… Would he have anything else to say?

The weekend arrived quietly, slipping in like a breeze through an open window. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to exist outside of work, outside of the chaos, outside of the constant hum of him in the back of your mind.

You spent Saturday sprawled across the living room floor, limbs tangled with Yunjin’s as she attempted (and failed) to beat Hueningkai in a Mario Kart tournament.

"HOW is this fair?!" she screeched, gripping the controller like it personally offended her. "This little shit has been in first place for the entire race—"

"Skill issue," Hueningkai mused, barely sparing her a glance as he executed yet another flawless turn.

Taehyun cackled from his spot on the couch. "Face it, Yunjin, you’re bad at this game."

"You’re supposed to be on my side!"

"I would be," Taehyun said easily, taking a sip of his soda. "If you were winning."

Yunjin let out an exaggerated wail, flopping back onto the floor in defeat as Hueningkai crossed the finish line with ease. You laughed, stretching your legs out, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadn’t all week.

This was nice. No tension, no overthinking, no lyrics folded neatly onto your desk like an unanswered question. Just this. Just them.

Yeonjun, who had spent the afternoon attempting to make cocktails, only to get tipsy himself after "taste testing" every single one. Hueningkai, who had somehow convinced everyone to build a fort in the living room, resulting in a half-collapsed mess of blankets and fairy lights that no one had the energy to fix.

Taehyun, who had made it his personal mission to bother you at all time, poking your cheek, stealing your hair tie, purposefully messing up your playlists just to get a reaction out of you. And Yunjin, who was now lying dramatically across your lap, still mourning her loss. "I hate this game," she mumbled into your hoodie.

"You say that every time you lose," Yeonjun reminded her, nudging her foot with his own.

She groaned. "Because I do."

You chuckled, resting your head against the couch cushions. For the first time in days, your mind felt quiet.

Maybe Beomgyu was just a phase. A storm that had come and gone, leaving only a few stray raindrops behind. Maybe by Monday, you would go back to work and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Maybe.

It wasn’t until Sunday night, when the apartment had finally settled into silence, that something shifted. Everyone had gone home. Yeonjun had retreated to his room, muttering something about a deadline he had been procrastinating. And you were alone.

The weight of it settled over you slowly, like an old sweater you hadn’t worn in years but still fit perfectly. You weren’t sure when you reached for your guitar. Hadn’t even realized you were doing it until you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers ghosting over the strings. It had been a while.

Too long since you had written something for yourself. Too long since you had let yourself sit in the mess of your own emotions, instead of tucking them neatly into productions meant for other people’s voices.

You plucked a few chords aimlessly, letting the melody come to you naturally. Something soft. Something slow. And then—without meaning to—you started to hum. A tune that wasn’t meant for the album. A tune that wasn’t meant for anyone.

The words slipped out like a confession, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You didn’t even think about them. You just sang.

Your fingers stilled. The room felt too small. You closed your eyes, exhaling through your nose. And then, with trembling hands, you picked up a pen and started to write. Not because you wanted to. But because some things were too heavy to carry in silence.

The first chord rang out soft and hesitant, barely louder than the steady hum of the city outside your window. You pressed your lips together, fingertips finding the familiar weight of the strings, the slightly worn frets beneath them.

And then, you started to sing.

This is the first day of my life Swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach

The words came slowly, carefully, like they had been waiting for you to let them out. Your voice was quiet, almost unsure at first. But as the melody settled into you, as the lyrics unfolded with each passing chord, something in your chest loosened.

Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go

Your breathing evened. Your fingers moved more fluidly. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was him.

The memories bled into the music, uninvited but unavoidable. The late nights in the studio, the sharp bickering that always gave way to something deeper. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he knew you, like he saw through every wall you had ever built and wasn’t afraid to push past them.

So if you wanna be with me With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides, maybe this time is different I mean, I really think you like me

The realization settled slowly, creeping in like the soft glow of headlights through your window. You missed him. Not just as a producer, not just as a coworker, not just as the person who had spent years getting under your skin.

You missed him. His presence, his voice, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when he looked at you. The way you had always convinced yourself that the tension between you two was nothing but competition.

But now? Now, as you sat here with a guitar in your lap and a song that tasted like confession on your tongue, you weren’t so sure anymore.

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. And for the first time in weeks, you stopped running from the truth. It wasn’t just a rivalry. It wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t even just a stupid, fleeting crush.

You liked him. And that was terrifying.

The car ride to work felt different today.

You weren’t as anxious as last week, your chest wasn’t as tight, your hands weren’t as clammy, but there was still something unsettled in you, something quietly nagging at the back of your mind.

Because today, Beomgyu was coming back.

And you had no idea what that meant. No idea which version of him you’d be facing. No idea if he’d pretend like nothing had happened, if he’d be cold again, or if he’d acknowledge it, that stupid, reckless, earth-shattering kiss. Or, if you'd even seen him today.

The HYBE lobby was already buzzing with early-morning energy. You kept your head down as you made your way toward the café, deciding that you desperately needed caffeine before facing the rest of the day. When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla filled the air, the quiet hum of conversation washing over you like white noise.

You spotted Taehyun near the counter, casually scrolling through his phone as he waited for his order. "Morning," you greeted, sliding into line beside him.

Taehyun glanced up from his phone as you slid into line beside him. "You’re here early," he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Figured I’d try something new. Maybe if I start my day with caffeine instead of stress, I’ll live longer."

Taehyun smirked. "Doubt it. But I respect the effort."

You hummed, stepping forward as the line moved. "What about you? Thought you weren’t a morning person."

"I’m not," he admitted, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "But some of us have obligations."

You snorted. "Right." You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for your phone. And just as you unlocked it, a notification popped up at the top of your screen.

[baekhyun (HYBE)]: meeting on the 18th floor. 10 minutes.

Your stomach twisted slightly. Taehyun must’ve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised an eyebrow. "Everything good?"

You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket. "Yeah. Just got called into a meeting."

He hummed, sipping his coffee. "Just you?" You nodded, grabbing your drink from the counter. Taehyun studied you for a beat before smirking. "Well. That’s suspicious."

You shot him a flat look. "Everything is suspicious to you."

"And yet, I’m usually right." Taehyun smirked. "Good luck, warrior."

You shot him a dry look before turning to leave. But as you made your way toward the elevators, your chest tightened slightly. You weren’t nervous. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, your breath caught in your throat. Beomgyu was already inside.

He stood toward the back, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, debating whether you should just wait for the next elevator, but then Beomgyu’s eyes met yours. And you couldn’t run. Not again. So, stiffly, you stepped inside.

The doors slid shut behind you, and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight. You swallowed. Beomgyu said nothing. You could feel him there, standing just a few feet away, but he didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the doors in front of him, his entire body wound tight.

The tension was unbearable. So, stupidly, you spoke first. "You’re back."

His lips pressed together slightly. "Yeah."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. The elevator climbed higher, the numbers blinking above the doors, but the silence remained.

"I saw the tracklist update," Beomgyu said, voice even. "You kept Moonstruck."

Your breath hitched. For the first time since you stepped inside, he looked at you. And suddenly, you were back there. Back in the studio. Back in the moment he kissed you like it meant something. Back in the moment he ran.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee cup like it could anchor you. "Yeah," you said, keeping your voice steady. "It’s a good song."

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered, just briefly, just enough for you to see something shift. But he didn’t respond.

The elevator slowed. And before either of you could say anything else, the doors slid open. 18th floor. You stepped out first, pulse hammering against your ribs. But just before the doors shut behind him, you heard Beomgyu exhale a quiet—

"See you around."

And fuck. You were not ready for this.

Your legs carried you toward the meeting room, but your mind was still in that elevator. Moonstruck. He had noticed. You didn’t know why that made your stomach turn. Why it sent a hot, prickling feeling down your spine.

You had convinced yourself that the song was just work, just another track, just another piece of the album puzzle. But hearing him say it? Knowing that he knew?

It made it real. And the way he had looked at you when he said it, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted an answer. But you didn’t have an answer. Because what were you supposed to say?

You inhaled sharply, pushing open the door to the conference room. And the second you stepped inside, you regretted it. Because sitting at the table, next to Baekhyun, was Seungcheol.

His eyes flicked up to yours immediately, and his lips curled into that same knowing smile he had given you at the HYBE party. "Ah," he mused. "Finally, our star producer has arrived."

Your stomach twisted. You forced a polite smile, slipping into the seat across from them. You had no idea what this meeting was about. But suddenly, you had a feeling it was going to be a lot.

You sat down, adjusting your posture, trying to ignore the sudden unease creeping into your chest. It wasn’t like you had anything against Seungcheol, he had always been perfectly pleasant whenever your paths crossed.

At the HYBE party, when Baekhyun introduced you, he was polite, curious, asked questions about your work that felt genuine. A few days later, in the hallway, he reinforced that same interest, saying he wanted to learn more about your creative process, that he admired what you were doing. It made sense, he was HYBE’s creative director, after all. It was his job to connect with the producers.

But then he happened. Beomgyu. With his endless stubbornness, his unwarranted judgment, his obvious disdain for Seungcheol.

He didn’t trust the guy. And he made that very clear, not just at the party when he interrupted your conversation, but later, in the hallway, with the way he threw out casual, cutting remarks, as if it was obvious that Seungcheol had ulterior motives.

You had ignored him. Because Beomgyu was always like that, poking, provoking, saying things just to get under your skin. But now, sitting across from Seungcheol, watching the way he smiled at you, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long, something inside you hesitated. And that was when you realized, that voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s Beomgyu’s. The thought irritated you. You didn’t need him planting ideas in your mind. Seungcheol had done nothing wrong.

He had never been inappropriate, never crossed any lines. If you were uncomfortable now, it was only because Beomgyu had convinced you that you should be.

Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "I was really pleased when I heard you’d be leading the production on your own," he said, his voice smooth, effortless. "I think you deserve it—this is a great step forward in your career."

You blinked, keeping your expression neutral. Something about the way he said it bothered you. Because the truth was, you hadn’t minded producing the album with Beomgyu. He was a good producer. One of the best, actually. And despite all your frustrations with him, you couldn’t deny that the work had been better when he was there.

You licked your lips, choosing your words carefully. "I never had a problem sharing the workload," you replied smoothly. "Beomgyu is incredibly talented. The album was going really well with the two of us working together."

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. Instead, he just smiled a little, as if he had been expecting you to say that.

Next to him, Baekhyun, who had been flipping through some papers, glanced up. "Beomgyu’s decision to leave was personal," he noted, sensing the tension. "He requested to be removed. It had nothing to do with the quality of your work together."

You nodded, but Seungcheol simply let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "That sounds like something he’d do," he murmured, almost to himself.

You frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Seungcheol met your gaze, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "He’s impulsive," he said simply. "Always has been. He doesn’t handle things well when they don’t go his way."

Your jaw clenched. Something about the way he said it bothered you. It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it. His tone was too calculated, his words too deliberate, like he was trying to implant something in your mind without directly stating it. And maybe you were being paranoid, but it almost felt like he was waiting for a reaction from you.

You kept your face carefully blank, but you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out. "Or maybe he just had a valid reason for leaving," you said, keeping your voice light but firm. "Whatever it was, he’s one of the best producers here. He always delivers, and he knows exactly how to handle pressure when it matters."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, like he was mildly surprised by your defense. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again. "If you say so."

Baekhyun cleared his throat, flipping to another page. "Anyway, now that you’re leading the project, we need to finalize some decisions about the album direction. We have to lock in arrangements before we move forward with recording."

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting back to work. The meeting had gone on longer than expected. You had been so focused on the album’s direction, discussing arrangements and potential changes to the tracklist with Baekhyun, that for a moment, you managed to forget about Seungcheol entirely.

Until you didn’t. Because at some point during the discussion, as you were leaning over the table, flipping through some production notes, Seungcheol’s hand landed on your arm.

Not aggressive. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to make your shoulders stiffen, enough to make your fingers freeze mid-page, enough for that cold, uncomfortable feeling to creep down your spine.

It was subtle, an easy touch, light pressure on your forearm as he leaned in slightly. "I really admire how dedicated you are," he murmured, his voice smooth, casual. "It’s rare to find someone so talented and hardworking."

Because now, you saw what Beomgyu saw. Maybe he had been dramatic. Maybe he had been exaggerating. But Seungcheol was flirting with you. And for the first time, you couldn’t ignore it.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes on the papers in front of you, pretending not to notice the way his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

This was work. This was a meeting. You weren’t going to make a scene. You shifted slightly in your chair, tucking your arm out of reach, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," you said, your voice carefully neutral.

If Baekhyun noticed anything, he didn’t react. He simply continued walking you through the album structure, his focus locked on the material in front of him. But your focus was gone. Because now, every single word out of Seungcheol’s mouth sounded different.

When he agreed with your ideas, it wasn’t just professional, it was deliberate. When he smiled at you, it wasn’t just friendly, it was calculated. And Beomgyu’s voice, the one you had sworn you wouldn’t listen to, was ringing in the back of your head, loud and unshakable.

You should be careful with him.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, you were exhausted, not from the work, but from everything else. You had barely finished stacking your papers when Seungcheol stood up, stretching his arms with an easy smile. "Well," he said, buttoning his blazer, "this was productive."

You hummed noncommittally, hoping that was the end of it. But as he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Oh, and by the way—" You looked up. "The invitation still stands," he said, that same smile playing on his lips. "You should drop by my office sometime. I’d love to go over more of your work."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you alone with Baekhyun. The second the door shut, you let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

Baekhyun sighed, setting his notes down. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I know that look. What’s on your mind?"

You hesitated for half a second before deciding—fuck it. If you didn’t say something now, you were going to explode. "Look," you exhaled, straightening. "You’re my boss. I respect you. I like working with you. But I need to be honest—"

Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

You licked your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "That whole meeting just made me really uncomfortable."

His expression shifted slightly, his features smoothing into something unreadable. "Because of Seungcheol?"

"Yes." You didn’t hesitate. "It’s not just today. It’s been happening for a while. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but now I—" You shook your head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know. The way he talks to me, the way he acts… It doesn’t feel like it’s just about work."

Baekhyun didn’t answer immediately. He watched you carefully, considering your words before finally sighing. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured as much."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputation—he doesn’t always separate work from… other things."

Your stomach sank. "So it’s not just me," you muttered.

Baekhyun hesitated before shaking his head. "No. It’s not just you."

You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, processing. Baekhyun watched you for a moment before continuing, his voice lower now. "Listen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll back you up. But I also know how these things can be tricky, so… what do you want to do?"

You stared at him. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected someone to actually ask. You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table. "I just… I just want to do my job."

Baekhyun nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll do."

And for the first time that day, you felt like someone was actually listening. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Honestly… I didn’t want Beomgyu to leave the project."

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, watching you closely. "Yeah, I figured."

You hesitated for a moment before continuing, choosing your words carefully. "It wasn’t perfect, working with him. We fought a lot. We had different approaches. But the album was better when we were both on it. And now, I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel the same."

Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "You know," he started, "when he asked to leave, I thought it was weird too."

Your brows furrowed. "Weird how?"

Baekhyun exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to recall the exact conversation. "For starters, the excuse he gave me was bullshit. He said he just had ‘other priorities,’ but it didn’t add up. He didn’t have anything urgent lined up. He wasn’t being reassigned yet. If anything, he was in the perfect position to stay on the project."

Your stomach twisted. "Then why did he do it?"

Baekhyun studied you for a moment before answering. "Because of you."

Your breath hitched slightly. "What?"

"He told me you were the perfect person for this album," Baekhyun said simply. "He said that if anyone deserved to take full control of it, it was you. That you understood the vision, that you had the best instincts for the sound, that this was your project."

You blinked. Baekhyun smirked slightly. "He also said he’d still be available if you needed anything—which was interesting, considering he was insisting on stepping away."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. "So… he didn’t leave because I was in the way."

Baekhyun raised a brow. "No. He left because he thought he was."

Your chest tightened, your fingers clenching slightly over your notebook. Beomgyu thought he was in the way? That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t how this worked.

You had spent years competing with him, matching his energy, pushing yourself to outdo him the way he pushed himself to outdo you. You thought he saw you as a rival, as someone to challenge, someone to beat.

This didn’t sound like someone trying to win. This sounded like someone stepping aside. And suddenly, for the first time since that damn kiss, you wondered— Had you misunderstood everything?

The meeting wrapped up soon after, but your mind was far from settled. Baekhyun left first, offering you a knowing look as he walked out. Seungcheol was already gone, thankfully, leaving the room feeling a little lighter.

You stayed behind for a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, thoughts still tangled in everything Baekhyun had just told you. Beomgyu thought he was in the way. He stepped back because of me?

The idea felt foreign, almost ridiculous. But the more you sat with it, the more you replayed every interaction, every lingering glance, every almost-argument that dissolved into something softer. Maybe it wasn’t ridiculous at all.

You exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as you gathered your things and made your way back to your studio. By the time you stepped inside, something had already shifted in you. Because for the first time in days, you wanted to write. Not because of deadlines. Not because of expectations.

But because something inside you was begging to be let out.

You locked the door behind you, took a deep breath, and crossed the room, fingers reaching for the guitar propped against the wall. It had been there for a while, untouched, gathering dust in the chaos of everything else. But the second your fingers curled around the neck, something inside you settled.

You didn’t know why, but you wanted to record this song you wrote on Sunday night. First Day of My Life. You knew it wouldn’t fit the album. It was too raw, too stripped-down, too honest. It wasn’t meant for Enhypen’s project—it wasn’t meant for any project.

But still. You adjusted the mic, positioned the guitar properly, and pressed record. And then, you played.

Your fingers moved over the strings carefully at first, but then muscle memory took over, and suddenly, it was effortless. The chords flowed easily, filling the quiet studio, wrapping around you like something safe, something familiar.

And then your voice followed. The words came soft, steady.

“Yours was the first face that I saw…”

You thought about the way he looked at you when he didn’t think you’d notice. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did.

“I think I was blind before I met you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you kept going, pouring yourself into every note, every word. The melody washed over you, unfiltered and vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You were just feeling. And when the last chord faded into silence, you opened your eyes slowly, exhaling shakily. You sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking red light on the recorder. Then, without hesitating, you saved the file.

You stared at the tape sitting on your desk. And it stared back.

You had written a post-it, your handwriting slightly messier than usual, because your hands had been shaking when you wrote it.

wanted the opinion of the best songwriter i know.

Your stomach twisted. This was stupid. It was so stupid. And yet, you grabbed the tape before you could overthink it.

The hallways of HYBE were quieter now, most people already heading out for the evening. You didn’t know where Beomgyu was, but you hoped, prayed, that he wasn’t in his studio right now. Because you weren’t ready to see him. Not yet.

Your footsteps were light as you reached his studio door. It was closed, the small light inside turned off. Empty. Good. You slipped inside quickly, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the tape down gently on his desk, smoothing the post-it out with your fingers. And then you stepped back. You stared at it for a moment longer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you weren’t running. You were giving him a chance.

You were late.

Not catastrophically late, but late enough that you were definitely pushing it. Yeonjun had texted you when he woke up, asking why the apartment was unusually quiet, only for you to send back a half-panicked “I overslept, don’t judge me” before practically rolling out of bed.

You hadn’t meant to stay up so late the night before. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few days in your mind?

That was apparently more important than sleep.

By the time you rushed into HYBE, coffee was your only priority. You barely had time to breathe as you dodged people in the hallway, some of them calling your name, others trying to get your attention.

"Y/N, do you have a second?" "Hey, I sent you that file, did you get a chance to look at it?" "Oh, Y/N—can you check in with the Enhypen team later?"

The words blurred together, the weight of everything pressing against you as you nodded, mumbled vague acknowledgments, and kept walking. Because, in the end, none of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when the only thing on your mind was getting to your studio and catching your breath before the day swallowed you whole. You reached your door, exhaled sharply, and pushed it open.

And froze. Because there, sitting casually in your chair like he belonged there was Beomgyu. Holding the tape.

Your stomach dropped. The scene was so eerily familiar that for a split second, you thought you had hallucinated it. The way he was slouched slightly in the chair, the way his fingers turned the tape over slowly, like he was still processing it.

The way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and how, in that exact moment, you saw it. You saw the feeling written across his face. Soft. Open. Maybe even a little wrecked. You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, shut the door behind you. A beat of silence passed.

"You wrote this," Beomgyu murmured, his voice quieter than you expected.

It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

His fingers tightened around the tape slightly. "Was it for the album?"

You shook your head. "No. It doesn’t fit the concept. I just… wanted to record it."

Beomgyu exhaled, slow and measured. "It’s beautiful."

The words hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You blinked. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t throwing in a sarcastic remark, or a smug smile, or anything that would make this easier to brush off. He just meant it.

And it made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, gripping your coffee cup a little tighter. "You listened to it?"

Beomgyu nodded, still looking down at the tape. "Twice."

Your breath hitched. "Twice?"

His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"

Your fingers curled slightly over your cup, heat pressing into your skin. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. You licked your lips, shifting your gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at him. "I don’t know. I guess I just… needed to."

Beomgyu studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze settling over you like something heavy. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he says: "It felt like something you needed to say."

Your heart stumbled. Because maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you were hearing things that weren’t there. But the way he said it, like he understood, like he knew.

Beomgyu’s fingers drummed lightly against the tape, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar leaning against the wall. The silence between you felt fragile, like if either of you moved too fast, it would shatter. Then, without a word, he reached for the guitar. You raised an eyebrow as he adjusted it on his lap, fingers testing the strings before looking up at you again. "Pass me the chords?"

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and jotting them down quickly. When you slid it across the desk toward him, his fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending something electric up your spine.

Beomgyu studied the chords for a moment, then started playing. Slow, tentative, like he was feeling out the song in his own way. And before you even realized what you were doing, your lips parted—

"This is the first day of my life…"

The words came out softer this time, more intimate. You weren’t just singing anymore, you were sharing something. Beomgyu kept playing, his eyes locked onto you now, his expression unreadable.

"Swear I was born right in the doorway…"

You swallowed hard, voice faltering slightly when you saw the way he was looking at you. Like there was something he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just kept playing. And so you kept singing.

"Yours was the first face that I saw… I think I was blind before I met you."

Something shifted in the air. You weren’t sure if it was you, or him, or just the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two for so long.

But for the first time, it felt like neither of you were trying to fight it.

When the song finally came to an end, the last note fading into silence, Beomgyu exhaled slowly, letting his fingers rest against the strings. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it—

"I’m sorry."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. "For what?"

He looked down at the guitar, running his thumb absently over the wood. "For dropping the album."

Your chest tightened. "You didn’t have to," you murmured. "I never wanted you to."

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I thought… I thought you’d work better without me."

You frowned. "That’s not true."

Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didn’t want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way."

Your breath hitched. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you asked— "What feelings?"

Beomgyu tensed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say it. Like he might say it. But then something closed inside him. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the guitar a little tighter. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. More distant. "It’s hard for me."

You furrowed your brows, confused. "What is?"

Beomgyu swallowed, looking down. "This. Talking. Saying things out loud." His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a soft, humorless laugh. "It’s easy to write about it. To turn it into lyrics. To make it rhyme and feel poetic and beautiful."

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "But when it’s real? When it’s not just a song?" He shaked his head. "In real life, it’s harder."

You stared at him, heart twisting. Because this was him. This was Beomgyu without the smirks, without the teasing, without the carefully crafted walls. And for the first time, you realized, maybe this wasn’t just difficult for you.

Maybe he didn’t run because he didn’t care. Maybe he ran because he did.

Your heart pounded, your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "What did you mean by that?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Beomgyu let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Y/N."

There was something in his voice, frustration, exhaustion, something too tangled up in itself to pull apart. You frowned. "I don’t want to assume."

"Right," he muttered. "Because assuming things with me has always worked out so well."

Your chest tightened. "Beomgyu—"

"I—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then finally, finally, looked up at you. And god, you hated the way it made your breath catch. The way his eyes, dark and searching, made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something.

Like if you took one more step, there’d be no turning back. But before you could say anything—before he could say anything—the door creaked open.

Both of you turned at the same time.

"Hey," a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Think I left my pen with you earlier."

Seungcheol. His voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unexpected. He stepped inside, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the scene—the guitar in Beomgyu’s lap, the tape on the desk, the way neither of you seemed to be breathing.

You turned toward the doorway, blinking as he leaned against the frame, his usual easy confidence settling into the room like he belonged there. Beomgyu’s entire posture shifted. It wasn’t obvious, no clenched fists, no outright glare, but you saw it anyway. The slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled subtly against the guitar.

You exhaled, stepping toward your desk. "Yeah, I think you did."

Seungcheol grinned. "Knew it."

You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was worse than before. You turned back to Beomgyu, and immediately knew something was off. He put away the guitar, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight. "You going along with him?" His voice was sharp, cutting.

You frowned. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said, eyes locking onto yours. "You going along with his shit?"

Your frown deepened. "No. What the hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you not to trust that guy."

"And I didn’t," you snapped, "I just gave him back his damn pen."

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his frustration spilling out in waves. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should know what your old friends are saying about you before you act like I’m being dramatic."

You stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, like he was trying to decide if he should even tell you. But then, his eyes darkened, and whatever hesitation he had burned away. "You remember Yunho?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered Yunho. Beomgyu didn’t wait for your answer. "After you left the party, he came up to me," he said, voice tight. "Started making conversation—asking if I worked at HYBE, shit like that. And then, out of nowhere, he says he knows Seungcheol."

Beomgyu watched your reaction closely, but he didn’t stop. "And then, Yunho tells me he used to fuck around with you," he continued, voice growing harsher, "but dropped you because, in his words, you were ‘too desirable.’"

You flinched. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing against your skin. "What?"

Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheol’s been waiting for his turn. ‘Dying to get a piece,’ is what he said."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your heart pounded. "You’re lying."

Beomgyu’s gaze snapped to yours, sharp, furious. "I fucking wish."

You felt sick. But Beomgyu wasn’t done. "And then," he continued, voice low, "this motherfucker—this piece of shit—starts talking about how he doesn’t go for ‘girls who get around’ because he has standards." Your breath hitched. "That’s what he called you," Beomgyu said, voice flat. "A girl who gets around."

A sharp, ugly silence settled between you. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, rage and humiliation coiling together in your stomach like poison. "You fought him."

Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head. "No. We talked."

You frowned. "Talked?"

"Yeah," he said, jaw tight. "He was acting like he had some kind of moral high ground," Beomgyu went on, voice sharpening. "Like he wouldn’t go for a girl who’s ‘too easy’—but oh, Seungcheol? Seungcheol was dying for a chance with you. And the way he talked—" Beomgyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It pissed me off."

You swallowed hard, something ugly and bitter crawling up your throat. "So what, you argued with him?"

Beomgyu’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. His expression darkened. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like it doesn’t bother you," he snapped. "Act like it’s nothing when people say shit like that about you. I know you, Y/N."

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t about to admit that. The air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered. You should’ve let it go. Should’ve walked away. But something about the way he was looking at you made something snap inside you.

You shook your head, frustration burning beneath your skin. "You’re exhausting," you muttered, voice sharp. "One second you’re quiet, then you’re nice, then you’re picking fights, then you act like I’m just some coworker—"

Beomgyu’s expression flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes. "You think I treat you like that?"

"You tell me, Beomgyu," you snapped. "Because I have no fucking clue what you want from me."

The words hung in the air like a threat. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he said, voice rough. "Act like this is just me playing games—like I’m trying to play with you just for fun."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Aren’t you?"

Beomgyu’s entire body tensed. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I’m fucking serious!" You took a step closer, rage bubbling up from every place you had been shoving it down. "You kissed me, Beomgyu. And then you disappeared for a fucking week. No texts, no calls, nothing. And then you show up at work like it never happened—like I should just be fine with that."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what the fuck was it like?"

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands, like he was trying to pull himself together. "I needed time."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Beomgyu scoffed. "Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?"

"You’re not the fucking victim," you shot back. "You don't get to kiss me like that, make me think—"

You cut yourself off, biting down hard on the words before they could spill out. But it was too late. Beomgyu was already looking at you like you had just punched the air out of his lungs. Like he knew exactly what you were about to say.

The air between you was too thick, too charged, suffocating and electric all at once. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You think I don’t fucking feel it too?" His voice cracked slightly, rough and raw. "You think this is easy for me?"

Your breath caught. "Then why do you keep running from it?"

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, something desperate in his gaze. "Because I don’t know what to do with it!"

Silence. His confession settled between you like an exposed wire, dangerous and crackling with heat. His jaw clenched, like he hated admitting it, like he hated feeling this much. But then, his expression shifted, morphing into something sharper, something wrecked.

"Fuck, Y/N," he muttered, voice strained. "You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it."

"Then make me get it!" you yelled, frustration boiling over. "For once in your goddamn life, just say it!"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

"Because I can’t fucking want you this much and still pretend it doesn’t matter!"

Your entire body locked up.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I can’t—" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I can’t pretend that this thing between us doesn’t fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it." Your heart was a wildfire in your chest. Beomgyu let out a sharp laugh, one that sounded more like frustration than amusement. "I don’t know how to fucking want you without ruining everything else."

The words hit harder than they should have. The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was why he ran. Why he pushed, pulled, disappeared, came back. Why he kissed you and then left.

Because he wanted you. But he didn’t trust himself with you. The realization sat heavy in your chest. And for the first time, you saw it, the fear beneath the anger, the hesitation beneath the frustration.

Beomgyu didn’t just want you. He was terrified of wanting you. And you didn’t know what scared you more. The fact that he was afraid. Or the fact that you weren’t.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was stretched too thin, humming with something neither of you knew how to control. Then, Beomgyu exhaled, deep, uneven. His gaze flickered downward, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

"I’m sorry," he said.

The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of something long overdue. You swallowed. His lips parted, then closed. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he didn’t even know where to start. "For kissing you," he murmured. "For leaving. For not talking to you for a week like a fucking coward." His jaw clenched. "For making you think that it didn’t mean anything."

You stared at him, heart pounding. "And did it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Beomgyu lifted his gaze then, something wrecked behind his dark eyes. "You already know the answer to that."

Your breath caught. He was looking at you differently now. Not with frustration, not with hesitation, but with a kind of certainty that sent heat curling in your stomach.

Then, before you could even process it, he took a step back. "Come with me," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

Beomgyu turned, already heading toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, glancing back at you. "I wanna show you something to prove it."

Something in his voice made your pulse jump. Still, you hesitated. "Show me?"

He didn’t answer. Just held the door open, waiting. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, your feet started moving.

The walk to his studio was silent. Not tense, not uncomfortable, just charged. You could feel it, the way he was holding something back, something big. His pace was quick, purposeful, like if he didn’t move fast enough, he’d lose his nerve.

When you reached his studio, he pulled out a keycard and swiped it, unlocking the door before stepping inside. You followed hesitantly, eyes flickering over the dimly lit space.

Beomgyu didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the soundboard, pressing a few buttons, adjusting the controls. A small red light flickered on in the recording booth.

Your stomach flipped. "What are we doing?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I want you to hear something."

And then, he pressed play. A soft, melancholic guitar filled the room. Your breath caught immediately. You recognized it before he even started singing. Moonstruck.

But it wasn’t the version you had heard before. It was him. Beomgyu’s voice. Low, warm, just slightly raspy—vulnerable.

Your mind had barely caught up to the fact that he had recorded this himself when he spoke again. "I think you know why I wrote this," he said, voice quiet, steady. Your head snapped toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at the recording booth. And then, he moved. Slowly, purposefully, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, nodding his head for you to follow. "Come here."

Your pulse stuttered. You should’ve stopped. Should’ve said something, anything to break whatever the hell was happening right now. But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I don’t want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.

Your breath caught. The air inside the booth was thick, the music still playing softly through the speakers. Beomgyu took another step forward, and this time, you didn’t move away. "You know what this song is about," he said, voice lower now.

You swallowed hard. "Beomgyu—"

"You know," he repeated, softer.

You couldn’t breathe. Because he was right. You knew. You had known since the first time you read the demo, since the first lyric. This was about you. And now, standing here, locked inside a booth with him, his voice bleeding through the speakers, warm and raw and real, you had never been more aware of it.

Beomgyu reached up then, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A question. A hesitation. You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, there wasn’t space between you anymore. His hand slid up, over your wrist, your forearm, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. Your lips parted slightly, breath uneven, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered down to your mouth. And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t messy, just slow, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. His fingers curled tighter against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to let himself drown in it.

And you let him. Because right now, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the fear, not the things left unsaid. Right now, there was only this. Only the music, still playing softly in the background. Only him.

The kiss deepened before you even realized it was happening. Beomgyu wasn’t hesitant anymore. He wasn’t uncertain, wasn’t holding back, he was in it, pressing into you with a kind of desperation that made your head spin. His fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted, his lips parting against yours, taking.

Your back hit the wall of the recording booth, and he was on you in an instant, one hand braced against the panel behind you, the other sliding down, grazing the side of your neck, the bare skin of your arm, like he needed to feel you.

You barely had a second to breathe before he kissed you again, harder this time, almost rough, a low sound slipping from his throat as you pressed up onto your toes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice already wrecked. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

Your breath hitched. "Then why did you run?"

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, his fingers tightening around your waist. "Because I’m a fucking idiot," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your jaw, then lower, dragging his lips along your neck. "Because I didn’t know if you—"

You cut him off, pulling him back to you, kissing him harder, more insistent. Beomgyu groaned against your lips, his body pressing flush against yours now, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, hiking it up against his hip. His touch burned, warm and firm, like he needed you closer, needed to close the space that still existed between you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his mouth trailing down, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I will."

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into his back. "I'm not telling you to stop."

That was all it took. Beomgyu made a low, almost guttural noise, like something inside him had just snapped. The next kiss was different. Messier. Hungrier. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under the hem of your shirt, skimming over bare skin, gripping your waist tight enough to leave bruises. Your body arched into his touch, your breathing uneven, heat pooling deep in your stomach as his fingers dug into your hips.

"Say it," he muttered against your lips, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite place. "Say you want me, too."

You let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. "I want you, Beomgyu."

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours for a split second before kissing you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he wanted to drown in it. Then, suddenly, his grip tightened. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the small ledge of the booth, your legs wrapping around his waist, his body slotting between your thighs like it was meant to be there.

Your pulse roared. He was so close now, every inch of him pressed against you, his breath uneven, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered, his lips brushing over yours between each word. "I can’t think straight when I’m around you."

You barely had time to process that before his mouth was on your throat again, biting, sucking, dragging his lips down and down and down. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his hips pressing forward on instinct. The friction made you gasp, your legs tightening around him. "Shit," Beomgyu swore, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing was uneven, your body burning, your skin thrumming with heat where he touched you. Then, slowly, Beomgyu lifted his head. His gaze met yours, dark, unreadable. His hands flexed against your waist, like he was trying to ground himself. "I don’t want to fuck this up," he murmured, voice strained. "Not with you."

Your chest ached. Because he wasn’t saying I don’t want this. He was saying I don’t want to ruin it. Your fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck, your breathing still shaky. "Then don’t," you whispered.

Beomgyu swallowed hard. "I’m trying." He was still close. His forehead was still resting against yours, his hands gripping your waist, his body pressed between your legs like he wasn’t ready to pull away yet.

Your breathing was uneven. So was his. And then, like some invisible force snapped between you, his lips were on yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he was finally letting himself have what he had wanted for so long. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you against him, his body heat swallowing you whole as his mouth moved against yours, deep and urgent.

You gasped slightly when he tilted your chin up, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue teasing against yours just enough to make your stomach tighten.

You felt like you were burning. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he pressed, lit up. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, almost desperate sound against your lips. His hips pressed forward, instinctive. "Beomgyu—" you breathed against his mouth, barely able to think.

"Mm?" He didn’t stop. Just kissed along your jaw, down your neck, biting down lightly at the sensitive skin there before soothing it with his tongue.

A shiver ran down your spine. "We should—"

He kissed you again, cutting off your words, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you steady against him. "Say it later," he muttered, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. "Say it after I kiss you again."

And then he did. Harder this time. Deeper. Your body arched into his without thinking, heat curling in your stomach, your hands gripping onto his shirt to keep yourself steady. You could feel everything. His heartbeat, heavy and uneven against your chest. The way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. The low, unsteady sounds he made every time you moved against him, every time you kissed him back just as desperately.

It was too much. You broke away first, chest rising and falling, trying to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move. He stayed close, lips still brushing against yours, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Your fingers were still curled in his hair. His hands were still gripping your waist.

"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, we’re— We’re at work. It’s not even noon."

Beomgyu let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fuck." He still didn’t move. You could see it, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes flickering over your lips like he was debating whether to listen to you or keep going anyway. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against your shoulder for half a second before stepping back. "Yeah." His voice was strained, rough. "You’re right."

The air felt thin without him against you. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of your pulse, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzed from his touch. His fingers brushed over your thigh before he pulled away completely, straightening his shirt, raking a hand through his hair.

You slid off the ledge, steadying yourself as you smoothed out your clothes. "I should get back to work," you muttered, voice still slightly breathless. "The album—"

Beomgyu gave a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Right. The album."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked at each other. Because you both knew, work was the last thing on your minds right now. But still, you turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. "I’ll see you later," you mumbled.

Beomgyu hummed in response, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah."

You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because what the fuck was that? Not the heat, not the urgency, not the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your knees weak, but something softer. Warmer. Something that made your stomach tighten in an entirely different way.

Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward slightly, like he could see the way your brain had short-circuited. "Go work," he murmured.

You blinked. "Right." And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart still pounding.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in your studio. Hours passed. You barely noticed.

The only thing grounding you was the music, the way it pulsed through your headphones, the way it filled every inch of your studio. The way it made everything else, the tension, the heat, the weight of Beomgyu’s touch, fade just enough for you to breathe.

Your fingers moved instinctively, layering melodies, adjusting levels, smoothing over instrumentals. Every track you touched felt electric, the ideas spilling out of you faster than you could process them. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, you let it take over.

The hours blurred together, stretching into one long, unbroken moment of creation. A new beat took shape, fast, sharp, pulsing with urgency. You molded it into something heavier, something alive. You adjusted the bass, the synths, the vocal layers, adding a deeper texture, something that ached in all the right ways.

Then another track, smoother, melancholic, intimate in a way that made your chest tighten. You let the guitar linger in places it normally wouldn’t, let the reverb stretch out just enough to make it feel like the song was breathing.

Another, this one bold, unrelenting, filled with heat and confidence. It demanded attention, crackled with something fierce. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Your eyes flickered to the screen as the tracklist took shape in front of you:

XO (Only If You Say Yes) Your Eyes Only Hundred Broken Hearts Brought The Heat Back Paranormal Royalty

A solid foundation. A damn good foundation. By the time you finally leaned back in your chair, exhaustion was creeping in, settling into your limbs, but there was a different kind of satisfaction sitting beside it. Because you had done it. Most of your work was done. And maybe, just maybe, you had needed this. The music. The escape. The chance to turn everything swimming in your head into something real.

With a deep breath, you saved the files, powered down your setup, and began gathering your things. Your jacket, your bag, your phone, shoving everything into place as you checked the time. Late.

The sun had already set by the time you stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streets quieter now, the city humming with the distant sounds of life. You exhaled, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you turned toward the metro station.

And then—

"You took your time."

Your steps faltered. Beomgyu was waiting. Leaning against the side of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched you.

Your brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Beomgyu smirked. "Told you I had until the album dropped for you to change your mind."

You blinked. "Change my mind about what?"

His smirk widened. "About getting a drink with me."

You stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. "You spent the whole day in that studio. You need a break."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between irritation and something closer to amusement. "And you decided you’d be the one to provide it?"

Beomgyu shrugged. "Obviously."

You shook your head, exhaling. "I was planning to go home."

"Okay," he said easily. "You can still go home."

You frowned. "What?"

"After one drink," he clarified. "Then you can go home."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head again. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he mused, rocking back on his heels, "you’re still standing here, considering it."

Your jaw clenched. Because he wasn’t wrong. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, something that made you hesitate, something that made you want to say yes. Beomgyu noticed.

And so he tilted his head, lowering his voice just slightly. "Come on, Y/N. Just one."

You stared at him for another long moment. Then, before you could stop yourself, "Fine."

Beomgyu smirked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he led the way. "You know," he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "you’re a lot more fun when you don’t overthink things."

You scoffed. "I’m not overthinking anything."

He grinned. "Then why do you look like you’re already regretting this?"

You huffed, shoving your hands into your jacket. "I’m not."

Beomgyu just hummed, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he turned down a quieter street, leading you toward a bar tucked between two buildings, a cozy-looking place, warm light spilling from the windows, the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air.

You hesitated. "This is where we’re going?"

Beomgyu glanced at you, amused. "Why? You don’t like barbecue?"

Your stomach growled at the thought. You sighed. "I do, a lot."

He just smirked, pushing open the door. Inside, the atmosphere was just as inviting as the smell. Low, warm lighting. Laughter. The quiet clinking of glasses. The faint crackle of meat sizzling on the built-in grills at the tables. It was comfortable. And you hated that it made you relax a little.

Beomgyu led you toward an open table near the back, sliding into the seat beside you instead of across from you, leaning back like he had done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "You come here a lot," you muttered, glancing around.

He grinned. "I have good taste."

You rolled your eyes. A server appeared, and Beomgyu barely had to glance at the menu before ordering beef short ribs, pork belly, a few side dishes, and two cold beers.

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for me now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, tapping his fingers against the table. "You like barbecue. You like beer. I connected the dots."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "What if I suddenly decided I hate all those things?"

Beomgyu smirked, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at you. "Then you’d be lying." You narrowed your eyes at him.

The beers arrived first. Beomgyu picked up his glass, tilting it slightly toward you. "To finishing most of the album in one day."

You huffed, clinking your glass against his. "To having nothing better to do than drag me to a bar."

Beomgyu just grinned before taking a sip. The beer was cold, smooth, the kind that went down easily after a long day. And as much as you hated to admit it, this, the warmth of the place, the comfort of the food, the quiet hum of conversation around you, felt nice.

You set your glass down, glancing at him. "Alright," you muttered. "You win. This isn’t terrible."

Beomgyu smirked, leaning in slightly. "High praise coming from you."

You scoffed, taking another sip. "Don’t get used to it."

And then, the food arrived. Plates of sizzling meat, steaming side dishes, the aroma so good that your stomach twisted with hunger. Beomgyu grabbed a pair of tongs, flipping the short ribs on the grill, moving with too much ease.

You eyed him. "You really come here a lot."

He smirked. "Told you."

You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, sipping his beer. "What, you want me to feed it to you, too?"

You scoffed. "I can make my own wrap, Beomgyu."

"Yeah, but I already did it." He nodded toward the plate. "So eat."

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, biting into the warm, flavorful wrap. You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the hunger, or the fact that Beomgyu was sitting so close, watching you eat with an amused expression, but something about this moment made your chest feel too full. You pushed the thought away.

"So?" he asked, watching you chew.

You swallowed, setting your chopsticks down. "It’s fine."

He snorted. "You are so bad at compliments."

"No," you corrected, taking another sip of beer. "I just don’t like boosting your ego."

Beomgyu grinned. "Too late for that."

The conversation flowed easier after that. The second beer turned into a third. The food disappeared, leaving just the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional glance that lingered too long, the way your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to reach for something.

Somewhere between another drink and another teasing remark, you realized something: You were having fun. And Beomgyu knew it. His smirk never wavered, his eyes never left yours for too long, his voice never dropped that teasing lilt that made your pulse stutter more than it should. And maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.

But as you sat there, half-listening to him ramble about some ridiculous story, you realized, you didn’t really want the night to end. And by the time the last plate had been cleared and the third beer had been emptied, you were warm all over. Not drunk. Just loose.

The world felt a little softer around the edges, your limbs lighter, your thoughts slower but comfortable. Beomgyu, across from you—no, beside you, because he had sat next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world—was in the same state, his body relaxed, his usual sharp-edged energy dulled by alcohol and good food.

You tapped your fingers idly against the table, staring at the condensation on your glass. "So," you muttered, "you never told me—what do you think of the album name?"

Beomgyu blinked, then frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you properly. "What album name?"

You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head. "The one Baekhyun’s thinking about. ‘Files of Romance.’"

His reaction was instant. Beomgyu made a face like you had just told him the worst news imaginable. "Nah, not my personal taste."

You raised an eyebrow. "You hate it that much?"

"Hate is a strong word—" he paused, reconsidering. "—but yeah, I fucking hate it."

You laughed. "Why?"

Beomgyu turned in his seat, facing you fully now, one arm resting on the back of your chair. "Because it sounds like some 2010 Wattpad fanfiction. ‘Files of Romance’—what is this, a collection of love letters? A secret diary? An unfinished manuscript?*"

You smirked, tilting your head. "It’s poetic."

"It’s cheesy," he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of beer. "Okay, then what would you call it?"

Beomgyu hummed, thinking for a moment. Then, he looked at you. And something in his gaze shifted. His smirk faded, not completely, but enough for you to notice the way his expression softened slightly. "Romance: Untold."

The words settled between you like something heavy. Your fingers stilled against your glass. "Untold?"

He nodded. "Because that’s what this album is, isn’t it? All these songs, all these stories—" he tapped his fingers against the table, voice dropping slightly. "It’s about things people don’t say out loud. Feelings left unsaid. The in-between moments, the things you can’t admit, the things you only let yourself feel when no one’s looking."

Suddenly, this wasn’t about the album anymore. Beomgyu wasn’t looking at you like a producer talking about work. He wasn’t critiquing an idea, wasn’t just throwing out another title. He was talking about you and him.

Your lips parted slightly, heart picking up speed. "That’s…" you hesitated. "That’s actually not bad."

Beomgyu grinned. "Not bad? Come on, admit it—you like it."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"And you’re predictable," he countered easily, taking another sip of his beer. "You act like you hate everything I say, but deep down, you know I’m right most of the time."

You scoffed. "Most of the time?"

"Mm-hmm." He leaned in slightly, his smirk turning just a bit more smug. "Like right now."

Your eyes narrowed. "Beomgyu—"

"Say it," he murmured, voice lower now, the playful edge still there but thicker, like something else was creeping beneath it. "Say you like the name."

You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. He was so annoying. But also, he was right. You sighed. "Fine. It’s… a good name."

Beomgyu smirked, triumphant. "See? I always win."

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. "You don’t always win."

"Pretty close to always," he teased, nudging your leg under the table. "And anyway—" his gaze flickered over you briefly before settling on your lips. "I get the feeling you like it when I win."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat, trying to ignore the way your skin felt hot under his gaze. "You’re drunk."

Beomgyu smirked. "Tipsy."

"Same thing."

"Not even close." His fingers tapped against his glass, his smirk lingering. "You just don’t wanna admit I’m fun outside of work."

You snorted. "Fun is a strong word."

"And yet," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you’re still here."

He wasn’t wrong. You could’ve left at any time. You could’ve said no to this drink. You could’ve cut this conversation short the second it started feeling like more than just talking. But you didn’t. And now, sitting here, so close to him, so aware of every movement he made, every glance, every shift in his voice, you couldn’t pretend that it was just because of the album anymore.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away. "We should probably head out soon."

Beomgyu hummed, like he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t feel like calling you out on it. "Yeah, yeah."

Neither of you moved. Instead, he let his arm stretch across the back of your chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, easy rhythm. "Romance: Untold," he repeated, more to himself now. "Yeah. I like it."

You exhaled. "Me too."

And somehow, you knew, this wasn’t just about the album. This was about you and him. The story neither of you had told yet. But one that, deep down, you both knew was already being written.

The night air was cooler now, a crisp contrast to the warmth still buzzing under your skin from the drinks. The street outside the bar was quiet, only the occasional car passing by, headlights flickering against the pavement.

Beomgyu stretched his arms over his head, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Alright, let’s get you home."

You raised an eyebrow. "You’re not driving."

"Obviously not," he said, rolling his eyes. "I’m not a fucking idiot."

You let out a breathy laugh. "So what’s your plan?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, smirking. "Gonna take the subway with you."

You blinked. "You don’t have to do that."

"I know." He started walking. "Come on."

You hesitated, but ultimately followed, falling into step beside him. The subway station wasn’t far. The streets were quieter here, the hum of neon signs flickering against the damp pavement. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Like the two of you had slipped into something easier than usual.

The train arrived just as you stepped onto the platform. You both boarded, sliding into a seat near the back of the car. "So," you mused, resting your head against the window. "Tell me something I don’t know about you."

Beomgyu hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Something good or something stupid?"

"Good," you said. "And don’t say something obvious."

Beomgyu smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "I’ve wanted to do music since I was ten."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." He leaned back, gaze flickering up toward the train ceiling like he was remembering something. "I used to listen to my older brother’s CDs all the time—Nirvana, Radiohead, The Strokes, My Bloody Valentine. I’d sit in my room with those shitty little wired headphones and just obsess over the sounds, the production, the way the lyrics hit different when you were alone in the dark."

You tilted your head, watching him. "I never took you for a rock band guy."

Beomgyu scoffed. "What, you think I only listen to industry shit?"

"I mean… kinda."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. The disrespect."

You laughed. "Okay, okay. What’s your favorite album of all time?"

Beomgyu exhaled, tapping his fingers against the seat. "Damn. That’s hard."

"Come on," you nudged his knee with yours. "You’re a music guy. You have to have a number one."

He thought for a second. "‘Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine."

Your brows lifted. "Shoegaze?"

"Shoegaze," he confirmed. "That album changed me."

You smirked. "Oh, so it’s that serious?"

"It’s life-changing serious," he said. "I mean, listen to ‘When You Sleep’ and tell me that shit doesn’t make you wanna dissolve into the floor."

You chuckled. "Okay, fine. I’ll listen."

"You better."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Beomgyu rambled about different albums, breaking down the exact moment he fell in love with certain sounds, which producers he admired, which live performances made him feel something real.

And you listened. Really listened. Because even though he talked a lot—too much, sometimes—this was different. This was Beomgyu talking about the thing he loved. And it made you want to know more.

By the time you reached your stop, the train car was nearly empty. The streets were quieter now, the air even cooler. Beomgyu walked beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his usual smirk still tugging at his lips. And then, without warning, his arm slung over your shoulders.

You stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

Beomgyu grinned. "Relax. You looked cold."

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away. "You just wanted an excuse to be annoying."

"And?" he teased. "Is it working?"

"Always."

Beomgyu chuckled, squeezing your shoulder lightly before letting his arm stay there, draped over you like it belonged there. And, for some reason, you let it. By the time you reached your apartment building, the air between you had shifted again, lighter, charged, something humming just beneath the surface.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his smirk softer now. "Well, that was fun."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You admit I’m fun now?"

"I didn’t say that." He grinned. "I said that was fun."

You rolled your eyes, stepping toward your door. "Whatever."

But before you could reach for the handle, Beomgyu caught your wrist. You turned. And suddenly, he was right there. Closer than he had been all night. The teasing was gone from his face. His eyes flickered between yours, his fingers still wrapped loosely around your wrist. And then, he leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving you time to stop him.

But just as his lips were inches from yours, the door swung open.

"Well," Yeonjun’s voice rang out, amusement laced through every word. "What do we have here?"

Your stomach dropped. Beomgyu’s entire body went rigid. Yeonjun grinned, stepping onto the porch, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. "I was just taking out the garbage, but this is much more interesting."

You groaned, pulling away from Beomgyu instantly. "Yeonjun."

"What?" Yeonjun feigned innocence, looking between the two of you. "I didn’t know we were having late-night meetings outside the apartment."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Great timing, dude."

"I try my best." Yeonjun smirked. "So… are you gonna kiss, or should I give you some privacy?"

"Yeonjun, I swear to God—"

"Alright, alright, I’m going!" He held up his hands, stepping off the porch with a laugh. "But we will be talking about this later, Y/N."

You shot him a glare as he disappeared down the walkway, humming to himself. The second he was out of earshot, you huffed. "Unbelievable."

A beat of silence passed. "So…" Beomgyu shifted, glancing at you. "Where were we?"

A slow smirk tugged at Beomgyu’s lips. His head tilted slightly, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, just for a second, just enough for your breath to catch. He was waiting. Waiting to see if you’d push him away, if you’d roll your eyes and disappear inside, if you’d cut this tension off before it turned into something real.

But you didn’t. And that was all he needed. Beomgyu took a slow step forward, closing the space between you with the kind of confidence that sent your heart slamming against your ribs. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant for only a moment before he tilted his chin down, leaning in. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent or rough or anything close to what you had before. It was gentle. Soft in a way that made your stomach flip, slow in a way that made your knees feel weak, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way you felt beneath his lips. Beomgyu wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t taking. He was giving. And you let yourself take it.

Your fingers curled against the front of his jacket, tugging slightly as you kissed him back, sinking into the warmth of it, the quiet rightness of it. Beomgyu let out a soft sound against your lips, half a sigh, half a laugh, before tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.

His hand came up, brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to remember this. Like he had wanted this for too long. You could feel his smile against your mouth, feel the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he wanted to pull you closer but was holding back.

And then, someone cleared their throat. Loud. Pointed. Beomgyu stilled for half a second, then pulled back, blinking like he had just been shaken out of something. Slowly, almost painfully, you turned toward the sound.

Yeonjun. Standing in the hallway. Arms crossed. Smirking. "Really?" he mused. "Right outside the door?"

Your stomach dropped. "Yeonjun—"

"You guys didn’t even wait five minutes after I left?" he continued, shaking his head. "Damn, Beomgyu. You work fast."

Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "For the love of God—"

Yeonjun just grinned as he stepped inside. "Don’t let me stop you. I was just coming back."

You wanted to die. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before taking a small step back, running a hand through his hair.

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. "I should go inside."

Beomgyu looked at you, his expression unreadable for half a second before he smirked. "Yeah. Probably."

You hesitated. "Goodnight, Beomgyu."

He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Y/N."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in one last time. A quick, teasing peck against your lips. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it sent your stomach spiraling.

Then, before you could even react, he turned toward the stairs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "See you at work," he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared.

The second the door shut behind you, your back met the wood, and you let out a sharp breath. What the fuck just happened? Your fingers hovered over your lips, the ghost of Beomgyu’s kiss still lingering, the warmth of his touch still burning on your skin. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning, and—

"Oh, this is so good," Yeonjun’s voice cut through your spiral, full of glee.

You groaned. "Please. Shut up."

author's note: i hate to do this… but we’re getting a part 3. there was just too much to fit into this chapter, and things are about to get tense next time. if you want to be on the taglist for the next part, let me know in the comments!

ALSO i wrote this fic way before beomgyu even announced PANIC 😭😭 so pls go give him all the love bc he looks AMAZING the song is perfect and i swear the beomgyu i wrote is the same beomgyu who wrote panic did i just win????? 😭💘

taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys

part 1 // part 2 // part 3

[theetherealbloom]

It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just,  I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.” 

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,  

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

[peachversace]

calvins or nothing?

[nsfw-ish] ; bakugou katsuki x reader — domestic fluff, slight horniness, bakugou katsuki being a cute little bean (but also a sexy phenomenon), slight humor <3

♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖📸.𖥔 ݁ ˖♡

notes: this is inspired by the bad bunny x calvin klein ad that came out a few weeks ago. i’m ovulating and had this in my drafts. enjoy 😃

Your grumpy Pro Hero boyfriend—the one who hates cameras, hates media circuits, hates anything remotely resembling a brand deal—somehow got talked into doing an ad. That, in itself, is already enough of a shocker. The man rolls his eyes at the mere mention of Instagram. His idea of PR is grunting his way through one-word answers at press conferences.

So, yeah. When Katsuki says he’s doing a shoot, you're caught off guard.

The announcement isn’t even some grand confession—it’s a casual mumble, like he’s commenting on the weather. He says it while washing the dishes, fingers soapy, sleeves of his tee pushed up to his elbows, the evening news humming in the background. You're sitting on the counter, half-listening to the TV, half-watching the muscles in his back flex through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Gonna do a shoot in a couple days,” he mutters like it’s nothing. Like the sky’s blue. Like he’s not about to detonate your entire sense of reality.

You pause mid-sip of your water. “A shoot?” you echo, blinking at him.

He doesn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

You slide off the counter and walk toward him, disbelief coloring your voice. “Wait, seriously? You? Doing a shoot? Like… willingly?”

He finally cuts you a glance, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck would I joke for?”

“I don’t know! Because you hate this stuff?” You raise a brow. “Last week you growled at a guy just for taking a picture of you at the market.”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Agent wouldn’t shut up about it. Said it’s a good deal. Said it’d make my numbers spike.” He grinds his teeth. “S’bullshit.”

You grin, stepping even closer, your hands brushing against the hem of his shirt. “So what is it, huh? Sportswear? A cologne campaign? Let me guess, something with black-and-white aesthetics, all ‘I’m brooding and mysterious and I could kill you but also model for Givenchy.’”

His glare sharpens. “I ain't tellin’ you,” he mutters, and then smears a soapy hand across your face.

You yelp, eyes widening in shock before laughing, pushing him back with a dish towel, and just like that, the kitchen descends into a sudsy, chaotic mess—water splashing, laughter echoing, and your annoyed, grumbly boyfriend cracking the faintest smile as you attack him with bubbles.

You forget about it after that.

He goes to the shoot a few days later, grumbles about how stupid it was, comes home smelling faintly of sweat and photo studio, and promptly takes a nap on the couch with his face buried in your thigh.

End of story—or so you think.

Until the ad airs.

And the entire world explodes.

You’re not even the first person to see it. You wake up to six missed calls from Kaminari, seventeen texts in a group chat with Amanai and Hanari, and three DMs from stylists you’ve only ever worked with once, all saying something along the lines of:

IS THAT BAKUGOU???
Please tell me that’s YOUR man.
why didn’t you warn me???

You groggily pull up the video link with one eye open, barely processing the thumbnail—just muted greys and harsh lighting—and then hit play.

And then the world stops.

The screen fades in, and the first thing you see is concrete—cold and industrial, metal beams and stark shadows. The lighting is sharp and stylized, the kind of aesthetic that screams high-end minimalism, and then—

There he is.

Katsuki.

In nothing but tight black briefs, leaning against a concrete wall, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. His scars catch the light. His tan skin looks like it's been kissed by some god. His abs—hard and defined, with that perfect cut down his sides—flex slightly as he breathes. There’s sweat glistening faintly on his collarbone.

And his expression?

That look. The one he gives when he’s about to fight someone and knows he’s already won. That heavy-lidded, lazy gaze that screams dominance and confidence. His jaw is tight. His mouth is parted just slightly, teeth catching on the fabric of his own tank top as he lifts it with one hand, revealing the full line of his torso—slow and unbothered, like this means nothing to him.

You gasp. You physically clutch your phone like it might explode in your hands.

Is this a fucking fever dream?

The ad keeps going. Transitions shift—now he’s outside, in some open-air gym setup, hanging from a pull-up bar in white briefs, his body tense and glistening, thighs flexing as he hooks his legs around the metal, inverted and still steady. The camera pans slowly, sinfully, down the line of his waist, his back muscles moving with effortless control.

You are floored.

And then—then—he’s sprawled in a plush lounge chair, still in briefs, arms behind his head, legs spread in that arrogant, casual way that only he could pull off. He’s completely relaxed, like he doesn’t know the entire planet is watching this ad and forgetting how to breathe.

You drop your phone on the bed and bury your face in your hands.

“What the fuck,” you groan into your palms. Your heart is pounding. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Katsuki, your grumpy, camera-hating, blunt-as-hell boyfriend… just dropped the hottest underwear ad of the year. And you had no idea what he was shooting until now.

You scramble to your feet, pacing your bedroom, mouth still open, heart pounding in your chest like war drums.

Your phone still lies face down on the bed, but you’re pacing like the floor might cave in. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, your body thrumming with something between disbelief and desperate, carnal desire. There’s a burn low in your stomach. A buzzing heat behind your eyes.

Because the ad isn’t done. It gets worse—so much worse.

The music shifts, something darker now, heavier—bass rolling like thunder. And then the screen cuts to him again. Katsuki. In jeans this time.

Low-rise. Washed-out. Loose around the thighs but slung criminally low on his hips.

And those goddamn white briefs are peeking out above the waistband like it was staged in a dream. His hand glides lazily over his stomach, fingers tracing the defined V of his hips, brushing right past the thick trail of hair under his navel. He stops there—lingers there—just barely grazing the hem of the briefs before his thumb tucks in, teasing the edge. His gaze flicks to the camera.

And he smirks.

Not his usual cocky grin, no. This one’s lazy. Lopsided. Something slow and dangerous that makes your knees buckle. Like he knows what he’s doing. Like he planned this moment for you and you alone.

You gasp. You clutch your chest. "Oh my God."

And then—as if that wasn’t enough—the music picks up and the scenes start layering: cuts of him against the concrete, muscles flexing under the strain of his pose; transitions to the gym, his thighs clenching, his expression loose with exertion; cuts to that plush chair, where he’s lounging like sin incarnate, and finally, back to the jeans, with his hand still teasing that waistband.

It’s not an ad anymore. It’s a weapon. A visual threat. A public sex dream.

You stand there, completely dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth parted, blinking like you’ve been smacked upside the head with a wet towel.

And the comments?

Oh. The comments.

@takxmi291_: raw. next question.
@abersiw.3: Good lord what a great day to be alive.
@BIGPAPA.EJI: FLASH US ‼️‼️‼️
@numbber1.lemilionnn: giggling at 3am
@angelzkiss: GOOD GOD IM GIDJDJFNNFHDNDNDJDNCN🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦
@hyurhio008: YEP IM GETTING HIM PREGNANT
@Cello_Zumazz: damn now my screen's all sticky :/
@bpxrndeku: I FEEL LIKE A MAN IN THE 1800S SEEING AN ANKLE FOR THE FIRST TIME.
@lennysqqie: don’t be scared. take em off.
@dynazaddy98: i wanna GAGGGG on that huge COCK—
@stareandfanfic: look at em TITS AWOOGAAAA

You can’t even think. You’re vibrating. Your brain is gone. You’re standing there, still in pajamas, while your very private, very grouchy, very hot boyfriend just broke the Internet in his underwear.

You can’t let this slide.

So you bide your time. You wait until he’s home from patrol—freshly showered, hair damp and messy, wearing his black hoodie and sweatpants that clings to him a little too well. He’s sitting at the kitchen table now, chopsticks in one hand, steam rising from the shabu shabu you made. His brow is furrowed as he eats, and he's grumbling about how some new sidekick forgot to file a report properly.

You sit across from him with your phone in hand, not saying anything.

And then, casually, you clear your throat and say in a bright voice:

“Explosively warm, and snug. Dynamight wears the new Iconic Cotton Stretch. Now in stores.”

Katsuki freezes mid-bite.

His chopsticks pause, a slice of beef and mushroom still dangling, and you see it happen—the moment it registers. His shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens. And then slowly, as if the food can save him, he stuffs it into his mouth.

You try not to laugh. You fail.

“What the hell, Katsuki?” you grin, voice breathless with amusement. “Why didn’t you tell me?! That ad launched three hours ago and I’ve seen your dick print more times than I’ve seen my own reflection today.”

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you.

“Honey, you looked insanely good. Like… I’m not even sure it was legal.” You lean forward over the table, voice dropping slightly. “You were so hot. And that grin?” You tap your phone. “That was cute, baby.”

His ears go bright red. A slow, creeping crimson that crawls up his neck to his cheeks.

He finally glances at you, scowling faintly. “S’just a stupid ad. Ain’t that important.”

“Oh, it’s important to me,” you murmur with a knowing smirk.

He huffs and looks away again, stuffing another bite in his mouth. But his jaw’s twitching. He’s so clearly flustered, you can barely take it. A tiny, pleased smile tugs at his lips even though he’s fighting it with everything he has.

And you realize—this is why he didn’t tell you. Because deep down, Katsuki knew. He knew how hot he looked, how big the reaction would be, how much people would thirst over it.

But more than anything, he knew you would look at him like this—like he hung the goddamn moon. And he wouldn’t know what to do with that.

“Sh’ddup,” he mutters under his breath, cheeks now fully flushed.

You grin like a wolf, biting your lip as you lean over the table, eyes glinting.

“No. I’m not gonna shut up. In fact, I’m gonna print out a poster. Hang it in the hallway. Right across from the bathroom.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls—but it’s soft. There’s no heat behind it. Just embarrassment and affection and that little smirk he only wears when he’s happy in spite of himself.

And you?

You’re head over heels in love with this absolute menace of a man. Horny and obsessed and ready to make him flustered for the rest of the night.

Later, the apartment is warm, and quiet, the soft hum of the city alive behind the windows—but in here, it’s just you and him.

The scent of the shabu shabu still lingers faintly in the air, and the clinking of dishes is rhythmic, almost soothing. Katsuki stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms slick and glistening. His hands are buried in a sink full of suds, scrubbing out the plates he insisted on washing since you cooked.

You’re perched on the counter next to him, legs swinging slightly, phone in hand, face lit up with mischief and fondness. The grin on your face is damn near criminal. You can’t help it—you’ve been giggling all night. Ever since the ad dropped, you’ve been glued to the internet, reading every unhinged, thirsty, downright feral comment about your boyfriend. And oh, they are so good.

Katsuki grumbles under his breath every time you so much as snort at your screen, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. Not really. Because he secretly loves the sound of your laugh—especially when it’s because of him, even if it makes him wanna throw himself into the damn sink.

You scroll through your phone, eyes twinkling, then grin wider. “Should I read you the comments next?”

He groans. “No.”

But you’re already doing it. “@yoqnoak24 says: i’m wet, ready, and stretched out to g—”

Before you can finish, a wet, soapy hand slaps gently but firmly against your face.

“Katsuki!” you squeal, laughing in full as the bubbles smear across your cheek and jaw, eyes crinkling with delight.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he growls through a grin of his own, already tugging you off the counter with one hand on your waist.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders instinctively as he leans in, pressing a messy, grinning kiss against your lips. It’s hot, breathless, teeth clicking together for a second before he pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You’re smiling so wide you can barely kiss him back properly, giggling like a teenager. “Probably fuck me stupid, since you’ve already got half the world begging for it.”

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his ears are burning where they brush your jaw. But he’s smiling. You can feel that too. It’s hidden, buried in the press of his mouth against your collarbone, but it’s there. That secret softness only you get.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles.

“No,” you say, tugging gently at his hair as you press a kiss behind his ear. “I’m the best. I’m your number one fan.”

“Damn right you are.”

You laugh again, and he chuckles too—quiet, low, warm in your chest.

This. This is your life with him. This ridiculous, heart-melting mix of domesticity and chaos. You and him in your kitchen, covered in soap and laughter, still buzzing with the aftershocks of an ad he didn’t even want to do. You and him trading kisses like secrets, teasing and tugging, wrapped around each other like you’ve always belonged this way.

God, you love this man. More than anything.

And the best part?

He loves you back just as hard.

[studioeisa]

what the fuKCKENFR IM SO MAD I CANT REBLOG YOUR POSTS OR MSG U ON MY SIDEBLOG RN COS ANOTHER??? HOZIER??? FIC????

(work song next WHHAT WHO SAID THAT)

so full of love (i could barely eat) 🍒 seungcheol x reader.

★ established relationship, pet name ['baby'], inspired by hozier's work song. viv, i know this was supposed to be in response to worship in the bedroom (and not really a serious request), but the thought of cheol x work song did not let me go. a little gift for u. <3 word count: 755.

It’s nearly two in the morning when Seungcheol gets home. 

One of those days, he likes to call it. He had been out of the apartment before the sun rose up, had jumped from one schedule to another with something akin to reckless abandon. Fan meet. Radio show. Practice. Meeting.

When he’s busy, the exhaustion is kept at bay. There’s no time to think about the phantom ache behind his knee, the pesky soreness of his thigh.

But then he walks through the front door and it all comes crashing down on him. Suddenly, he is Atlas, bearing the heavens on his shoulders. 

He toes off his shoes with a soft sigh. Evidence of you is apparent from the entryway. The kitchen light has been left on. The humidifier is spewing one of his favorite scents. A collection of sweet nothings, none of which he thinks he deserves.

Had he even texted you today? Seungcheol isn’t certain. He remembers seeing your texts light up his screen, though. Gentle reminders from morning to evening. 

Don’t forget your vitamins. 

Grab lunch. 

Bundle up. It’s snowing, and your bones are weak to the cold. 

Seungcheol had listened at each turn, whether or not he realized it. A multivitamin from Seungkwan. A sandwich hurriedly eaten on the way to the studio. The scarf you had given him, the one that still faintly smelled like you.

He knows there’s probably food waiting for him in the microwave, knows you’ve likely set aside a plate in anticipation of his late arrival. Seungcheol bypasses it in favor of heading for your shared bedroom. 

Sure enough, you’re already asleep. He’ll realize a little later that you texted about that, too— a message of might be asleep when you get home, I love you— but for now, he only lingers by the doorway as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. 

He feels everything then. The gnaw of guilt. The overwhelming affection. The urge to protect and provide. 

As quietly as he can manage, Seungcheol crosses the room. He can already predict how you’re going to react to him sinking into bed and sliding underneath the covers with you. 

You stir in your sleep at the feeling of Seungcheol snaking his arm around your waist. Despite being half-awake, you have the wits to mumble, “You’re still wearing outside clothes.” 

Bingo. 

Seungcheol knew it, and the thought of that— of correctly predicting what you might do or say— fills him with an odd sense of pride. He doesn’t give voice to it, though, not wanting to rouse you more than he already has. 

“I’ll change.” His voice is a murmur even though there’s no other soul in the apartment besides you two. Something about the early hour and the low light makes him feel like he should tread carefully, like the moment is as fragile as ice on a lake. “Just wanted to hold you for a bit, baby.” 

You grumble something incoherent, the words lost to the way you bury your face into the front of Seungcheol’s shirt. And suddenly Seungcheol can’t help himself. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Then one to your forehead. Then one to your temple. Then—

“Cheol.” You whine out his name, your tone edged with exhaustion. You never did take kindly to your sleep being interrupted. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffs. 

He kisses the tip of your nose for good measure. 

It’s one of those days. Seungcheol is bone-tired, and home late, and he missed you. If he were a stronger man, a better man, he’d let you sleep. Stalk off to eat his microwaved dinner and change into his pajamas so you don’t gripe about dirty sheets in the morning. 

Seungcheol decides: He’s not a good man. And so instead he holds you a little tighter, leaves a couple more kisses across your face, allows his body to let go of the day’s weight. 

After his nth kiss to your face, you let out another low grumble. He’s about to apologize, about to tell you that he’ll finally, finally let off, when you tilt your head up to lazily slot your lips against his. You’re barely coherent, and yet you’re still giving him exactly what he wants needs. 

Soft, sleepy, sweet. His, his, his.

Seungcheol’s eyes flutter close. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, to ask for more than what you can offer. 

In your arms, he feels a little less like Atlas. 

In your arms, he’s just Seungcheol. 

There's nothin' sweeter than my baby I'd never want once from the cherry tree 'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She'd give me toothaches just from kissin' me

[starsewl]

Weekend Getaway

pairing: BestfriendModel!Mingyu & Dancer!Hoshi & Athlete!Dokyeom x Novelist!Reader

rating: 18+ | word count: 4.1k

summary: You join your longtime friend Mingyu and his two equally irresistible friends, Hoshi and Dokyeom on a quiet weekend getaway to a secluded villa. What begins as an innocent escape quickly turns into a night of unleashed lust. When the men discover your writing inspired by them, they decide to help your “research”—taking you through a wild, unrelenting night of overstimulation.

tw/cw: explicit sexual content, 4some, overstimulation, squirting, cigarette, piercing, harsh words

That weekend means nothing. No birthdays. No events. Just another two days in the calendar when Mingyu suddenly invites me to a getaway with him and his two friends. I say yes right away—I mean, who says no to spending a weekend with three stupidly attractive men?

Mingyu is a model. Not just “IG pretty”—he’s billboard, magazine cover, can-make-anything-look-luxury kind of gorgeous. The camera worships him. Every pose is deliberate, every angle flawless.

Hoshi’s energy hits different. He’s a dancer, owns a studio, and his body moves like it’s speaking a language only muscles and rhythm can understand. There’s power in every step, and joy in every spin.

Then there’s Dokyeom. A national swimmer. Tan lines, muscle lines, the kind of sunny smile that makes you think maybe the world isn’t all that bad. He’s friendly, comforting, and ridiculously built. He glows.

“You need healing,” Mingyu tells me, his deep voice wrapping around my bones like velvet. “I invited Hoshi and Dokyeom too.”

“They’re coming?” I sip my iced coffee, glancing over at Mingyu sprawled on my couch. His white t-shirt stretches across his chest like a second skin, and the shorts? They show off those lean legs way too easily. I swallow.

“Scared?” he teases, lips curving. He toys with my hoodie string, slow, seductive, like he knows.

“So confident.” I try to hide behind my coffee glass. “Why would I be scared?”

“Good.” He chuckles low. “We all need a break.”

I’ve known Mingyu since we were kids, growing up on the same street, fighting over swings and comic books. But this Mingyu? The man with the body, the voice, the look—he’s dangerous now. And still my best friend. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Maybe I’ll get some writing inspiration,” I shrug, though my last novel was already a thinly disguised fantasy involving these three men. They don’t know. Only they know I write adult romance. Everyone else just thinks I’m a writer.

“Bring your laptop,” Mingyu says as he stands and walks closer. Each step is slow, like he’s stalking something. “You might get new ideas.”

He stops beside me, towering. I tilt my head to meet his eyes. He smells like cologne, cedar, and something warmer—his skin maybe? My mouth goes dry.

“This weekend, okay?” he murmurs, eyes locked to mine. “Don’t forget.”

***

Two days later, Mingyu's car drove slowly along a narrow path framed by tall pine trees. The rows of sturdy trunks formed a kind of green tunnel, wrapping the road in natural shadows that made this place feel like another world. After the last bend was passed, a two-story wooden villa appeared in front of our eyes—looking like a house from a romcom movie: a spacious terrace with wooden chairs, large windows welcoming light, and a backyard directly bordered by dense forest. Fresh air. The sound of birds and wind whispers through the leaves.

“Wow, this is so cool!” Hoshi bursts out first, running toward the front door with arms stretched like a kid.

“It’s way too close to the forest,” I mutter. “What if someone tries to kidnap us?”

“They’d give you back for being too loud,” Dokyeom laughs, pulling bags from the trunk.

“Asshole,” Hoshi fires back, still grinning.

Inside? Oh god. Wooden walls. Dark floors that creak just right. A stone fireplace. A soft L-shaped sofa facing the forest view. Kitchen gleaming with marble and metal. A huge table in the middle—thick wood, perfect for late dinners... or something else.

“There are three bedrooms,” Mingyu says, tapping the door code. “One downstairs, two up.”

“Perfect,” Hoshi says, flopping onto the sofa. “So how are we splitting?”

“Room with me,” Dokyeom answers instantly.

“Okay!!” Hoshi chirps, no hesitation.

***

Night settles in like a blanket. Hoshi insists on cooking—claims he makes “god-level ramyeon,” even though he’s clearly never touched a kitchen in his life. We don’t argue.

The result? Surprisingly good. Spicy, hot, with soft-boiled eggs and dumplings Dokyeom makes from scratch. We sit around the massive wooden table, laughter echoing through the room, stories tossed around like old shoes.

“You never talk about your novel,” Hoshi says suddenly, giving me a sly look over his chopsticks. “Mingyu said you write hot scenes.”

I choke on broth. “I didn’t say that!”

“But you did,” Mingyu smirks, handing me a tissue. “Over lunch. Last month.”

“What genre is it exactly?” Dokyeom asks, tone too innocent.

“Romance,” I reply quickly. “Just… normal romance.”

“What kind of romance?” Hoshi leans forward, elbow on the table, mischief in his eyes. “Vanilla? Or with a little spice?”

My face burns. They can’t know the truth. Can’t know my last draft is basically them—but naked and tangled in sheets.

“A little spicy,” I mumble, heart thudding.

“A little?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you tell me it made you hot while writing it?”

Fuck. Did I really say that?

“I want to read it!” Hoshi perks up.

“You brought your laptop, right? C’mon, share it!”

“No,” I protest fast. “It’s not done. Still a mess.”

“So when it’s finished?” Dokyeom smiles. “You’ll let us read it, right?”

My chair scrapes back. “Anyone want dessert? I saw ice cream.”

“She’s running away…” Hoshi whispers to Dokyeom, just loud enough for me to hear.

***

After dinner, everyone returns to their rooms except for me. I am alone in the living room. The atmosphere is calm. I sit on the long sofa in the living room, laptop on my lap, a glass of wine on the side table. Only a small lamp in the corner of the room is on, creating a dim atmosphere perfect for writing. Outside, the sound of wind and night birds can sometimes be heard, interspersed with the creaking of wood.

I continue my pending novel draft. This chapter is really difficult to write, not because I don't know what to write, but because it is too... intense. The main female character in my novel is trapped in a situation similar to mine now—in a remote place with three guys who make her breathless.

"Five minutes passes in torturous silence. She can feel their gazes like physical touches on her skin. His hand slips in, his breath heavy in my ear. Amid the beating, I can only surrender. Surrender to their bodies drawing closer—three men, three scents, three tongues, three sins."

I stop typing. Take a deep breath. Somehow my fingers move uncertainly over the keyboard. I sip the wine slowly, trying to calm myself. But the images are already clear in my head—three pairs of hands, three pairs of eyes, three...

"So this is how you write your steamy scenes?

A familiar deep voice. I turn, and there—Mingyu, standing half-leaning against the wall near the kitchen, wearing a thin, slightly wrinkled t-shirt, loose boxer shorts. His hair is messy and his eyes half-sleepy.

"Shit," I hurriedly close the laptop. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not spying. You're sitting in the middle of the room, how could I not see?" he says casually, sitting at the end of the sofa, near my feet. "I'm just curious. Who's that about?"

"It's not about anyone, it's fiction." I answer quickly.

"But the inspiration must come from somewhere."

He leans back, his large shoulder almost touching my bare leg. "You're writing a scene with three guys, one girl, in the middle of the night. Coincidence?"

I open my mouth to answer, but a sound from the direction of the stairs cuts off our conversation.

"Oh, you're both still up?" Hoshi appears walking casually, but his eyes immediately go to the laptop on my lap.

"You're writing?" He walks closer and immediately sits on the sofa back behind me, bending down from above, his chin very close to my head. "Can I read it?"

"No," I answer quickly.

"Then you must be writing a steamy scene, huh," he replies with a laugh. "You're really... it's always the innocent one."

Before I can hit him with a pillow, one more person appears from the room hallway, Dokyeom. His hair is messy, his voice hoarse typical of someone who just woke up.

"Why is it noisy here? I thought someone was fighting."

“Our little writer here’s working on a threesome,” Mingyu says, poking my leg.

“Insane,” I mutter, pinching his thigh.

Dokyeom just grins and sinks to the carpet in front of me. “Tell us what it’s about.”

Three pairs of eyes on me. I freeze.

Mingyu leans in, voice low. “If you don’t want to tell us…”

His fingers brush my thigh.

“…maybe show us instead.”

 I don’t know when the laptop slides under the table. Maybe it’s when Hoshi’s fingers tug at the back of my shirt, making that slow, drawn-out creeeek sound, like old wood cracking under pressure. Too suggestive. Too real. Or maybe it’s Dokyeom—now sitting on the sofa beside me, one hand curled around my calf, the other gliding up the inside of my thigh. Those fingers? Big. Warm. Deliberate.

My thoughts are gone.

Mingyu’s hand finds my cheek, brushing a strand of hair away. “Do you write like this every night?”

His voice drips with something darker now. Closer. He already knows the answer.

“No…” I whisper, breath catching. “Only when I’m… needy.”

He leans in, lips grazing my ear. “Are you needy now?”

I don’t answer with words. I kiss him.

Soft. Slow. Wet. His lips crush mine like he’s been waiting years. His tongue slides over mine, coaxing, tasting, controlling. The wine on his mouth mixes with the heat in my blood.

“Mmhh…”

My moan is the spark.

Behind me, Hoshi chuckles. “I want my turn too.”

He dips down, mouth meeting the side of my neck. His lips are warm, tongue bold, tracing fire along my skin. Then—Dokyeom. His hand is no longer idle. It slides under my shirt, palms my breast through the fabric, thumb brushing my nipple until I shudder. He kisses my shoulder. I gasp.

They lift me.

I don’t resist. Don’t question.

Mingyu and Dokyeom each take a side, lifting me like I weigh nothing. They carry me toward the thick wooden dining table. Hoshi follows, steps silent but intent sharp in his gaze. They set me on the edge, the cool wood shocking against the backs of my thighs. My shirt is half off already, crumpled around my arms. Hands strip the rest—tugging, sliding, exposing me fully. I’m left in nothing but thin black panties. Breathless. Goosebumps everywhere.

“You guys…” My voice trembles. “…I’ve never—ahh…”

Hoshi steps forward, eyes flicking down. His tongue peeks out—and that’s when I see it. The piercing. Silver. Gleaming on the tip of his tongue.

“You like what you see?” he teases, licking his lips. “Wanna know how it feels… on your pretty pussy?”

His hand wraps around my throat. Gentle, firm. Seeking permission. When I nod, barely—he moves.

His tongue trails from my collarbone to my chest. Slow. Deliciously slow. He doesn’t suck. Not yet. He teases. The cold metal of his piercing circles my nipple, sending shocks through me. I arch, hips bucking.

“H-hoshi…” I moan, louder now.

“Don’t hold back, princess,” Dokyeom whispers, behind me. His voice rumbles like thunder. “I want to hear you.”

Mingyu kisses my stomach. His hands rest on my thighs, spreading me wider. The kiss lowers. Each one more unbearable than the last. Behind, Dokyeom unclasps my bra. He doesn’t kiss. He blows. The cold air hits wet skin—Hoshi’s tongue still dancing—and I nearly break.

“S-shit…” I cry out. “Feels good…”

“Do you know…” Hoshi murmurs, still licking, “…I’ve imagined painting your body with my tongue… one line… all the way down…”

I’m writhing. Moving without meaning to.

Then Mingyu’s fingers slide inside my panties.

They don’t move at first. They just… rest. Pressing against soaked heat. Then—he starts. A slow rhythm. Deep strokes. His knuckles graze the soft lips between my thighs and I lose it.

“Ahh—fuck… Gyu…” I choke on the moan.

“Damn,” he grunts. “You’re leaking.”

He kisses below my navel, tongue dipping down, lower. Dokyeom’s hands are everywhere—palming my ass, guiding my back into his chest, whispering filth into my ear.

“You've been thinking about this, huh? Getting ruined by all three of us?”

“No—I—fuck—”

I didn't finish the sentence. Hoshi’s still sucking, piercing grinding my nipple. Dokyeom now on his knees behind, kissing the small of my back. Mingyu lowers, mouth nearing the place where his fingers just were. He peels the panties down—slowly. So slowly. Until I’m exposed. He doesn’t hesitate. He eats. Tongue first. Broad. Heavy. Licking up every drop. His lips seal over my clit, sucking hard.

“Akh—fuck!”

My whole body arches. I grab the edge of the table, the wood creaking beneath my grip.

“Time to make some material for a new chapter,” Mingyu growls between licks.

I moan. Loud. Unrestrained.

Hoshi’s hands work my chest. Dokyeom kisses the shell of my ear, still whispering.

I lose track of time. My orgasm crashes through me like a wave. Legs trembling. Breath gone. My panties hang off one foot. The table is a mess of sweat and slick.

And they’re not done.

Dokyeom had already returned to sit on the previous sofa. He leaned back casually but full of dominant aura. Legs spread wide, his hoodie already gone. His body was already completely naked, one hand patting his left thigh, signaling me to climb up and sit on his lap.

"Come on," he said slowly. But his voice was sharp.

"I want to feel you on my thigh."

"Thigh?" I was still panting.

"Practice everything you write."

And somehow, my body immediately responded to that command. Without asking. Without thinking. I got down from the table, walked slowly toward him. My legs were trembling, not because I was afraid. Rather... because I was curious. Because I imagined the hardness of his thigh—just looking at it, the muscles were as sharp as carvings. Especially when he sat like that, the position of his legs was very enticing. Big. Hard. Solid. Like covered in concrete.

I climb up. Slowly. One of my legs passed over his thigh, and my butt landed right on top of Dokyeom's left thigh. I leaned against his chest, hands resting on his shoulders for balance.

And when I moved a little... "Ah, fuck." I immediately moans loudly. I felt the hardness of his muscles parting between my legs. The friction immediately hit the most sensitive point.

"Enjoy it." Dokyeom leaned back, his eyes half-closed. But his hands went up to my waist, holding, directing the movement. "Move slowly first."

I start to move. A little. Up and down. Rubbing back and forth. "Mmmh... unghh..." my moans got louder, more uncontrollable.

Every time I rubbed forward, he deliberately hardened his thigh muscles. When I moved backward, the wet feeling from my own fluids made the friction even more slippery. My hands start to tremble, my nails pressing into his shoulders.

"Feels good... Dok-yeom... ahh... so good...shit!" I moaned in his ear, making him squeeze my hips harder.

When I looked behind, Mingyu and Hoshi were sitting not far away, in chairs across from us. They were busy watching the movement of my hips while stroking their own.

"Do you see her hips, Gyu?" muttered Hoshi to Mingyu, eyes not leaving me. "Fuck... I'm so hard."

Mingyu didn't answer. But his hand was clearly licking the tip of his finger, then stroking himself. His eyes focus, sharp, shifting to look from my lips, to my chest, to my hip movements that were getting wilder up and down. Dokyeom grins, tightening his thigh, making the pressure brutal. “Faster,” he whispers, slapping my ass. “Soak me.”

I whimper. I grind harder. Loud. Wet. The sound of skin and slick fills the room. Just as I’m about to explode—

“Not yet,” Mingyu growls.

I cry out in frustration. He stands in front of me. Hard. Thick. His cock hovers near my lips.

“Open,” he orders.

I do.

He slides in. My lips wrap around the head. His taste is salty, hot. His hand grips my hair while Dokyeom moves behind me. His hand still grabs my waist. I feel him shift slightly—then I hear it.

A soft click. I glance back. A lit match glows between his fingers. A cigarette rests between his lips. My breath catches.

“Do you mind?” he asks, the flame dancing near his face. Calm. Controlled.

Fuck. That’s so fucking sexy of him.

I shake my head, slow. No way in hell I’d stop him. He smiles—lazy, sinful—and lights it. The tobacco scent fills the air, thick and expensive with a hint of mint. He exhales upward, smoke curling around the soft lamp light, casting shadows on the ceiling.

Then Hoshi moves in front too. Replaces Mingyu. He pushes in deep. His piercing scrapes my lip as he moans, the smell of mint and smoke filling my lungs as I gag around Hoshi’s cock. Then he pulls back, smirking. “Time to show you what this tongue ring can really do.”

He drops down, squatting in front of me. Dokyeom’s hand flies to my back, steadying me so I don't fall from the shift. Hoshi's face is now right in front of my cunt, his eyes gleaming mischief.

“Pull her legs wider,” Hoshi tells Dokyeom. “I want to see everything.”

Dokyeom obeys immediately, his large hands hooking behind my knees and spreading me open, obscenely wide. I have no shame anymore—it's gone. Completely. Too good to care. Hoshi starts kissing my thighs, soft, barely there. Moving up, inch by inch, taking his time. He pauses at my center, blowing softly. My entire body jolts.

“You want to feel it?” he whispers, flicking out his tongue to flash the metal glint. “Been thinking about this since I met you.”

Before I can answer, his tongue touches down. Oh fuck— the cold metal meeting the heat of my cunt punches a moan from my throat that I can't swallow. That tiny barbell moves with wicked precision, gliding, pressing, circling all the right places, stealing the air from my lungs.

My head falls back against Dokyeom’s chest. He’s still smoking, still impossibly calm, his fingers threading through my hair. “Feel good?” he whispers, blowing warm smoke into my ear.

“Nnghh…” That's all I can manage. Because Hoshi’s piercing is dancing, up and down, cold in the middle of all that hot wet. His tongue’s a weapon. That metal? Unfair.

Mingyu’s still standing nearby, eyes dark and locked on me. His hand’s moving on its own, stroking, his breath short and shallow.

“Want to switch?” Dokyeom offers, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke.

Mingyu nods, taking a seat. I’m shifted, lifted from Dokyeom’s lap to Mingyu’s thighs. Hoshi doesn’t stop—his head still buried, tongue still working, god, that fucking piercing. Dokyeom stands, approaching. His eyes low, hungry. He unzips, cigarette hanging loose between his lips. The smoke swirls, thickening the air, choking it with tension.

“Open your mouth again,” he says, standing before me.

I do it without hesitation. Not because I’m scared—but because I want it. Desperately. His cock pushes past my lips, and the taste of mint and tobacco from his breath set me on fire.

Below, Hoshi goes feral. His tongue presses, swirls, that piercing spinning like a toy built for my destruction. My hips jerk on their own. I’m drowning in sensation.

“She’s about to cum,” Hoshi mutters, watching my thighs quiver. “Look at her tremble.”

“Don’t hold back,” Mingyu whispers, his hand tightening around my waist. “We want to see you lose control.”

Dokyeom removes his cigarette, blowing smoke up, lazy. “Show us,” he whispers, thrusting deeper into my throat.

And I break. Hoshi’s cold tongue, Mingyu’s warm hands, Dokyeom’s deep thrust and smoke curling through the room—it blends, it explodes, and my body shakes violently. Moans trapped in my stuffed mouth, tears leaking from my eyes as my orgasm rips through me.

Dokyeom collapses onto the sofa, his cigarette spent. Hoshi’s head rests against my thigh, that damn gleaming metal catching the light. Mingyu is still behind me, steady hands holding my shoulders.

My body’s wrecked. I’m trembling on the table, limbs limp, cunt soaked and twitching. I’ve lost count—Mingyu’s tongue, Hoshi’s piercing, Dokyeom’s fingers—it’s all just a blur of brutal pleasure. My lungs can’t keep up. My hair’s stuck to my face, sweat-slicked, my skin humming.

Then Mingyu leans close, breath brushing my ear, voice deep, cruel, so fucking composed.

“You look done, baby,” he says. “But we haven’t even fucking started.”

My stomach tightens. I try to move—protest? beg?—but my body’s shot. I don’t even notice until he grabs my hips, yanking me to the edge of the table, legs forced wide again.

Hoshi’s voice cuts in, thick with amusement. “She looks ruined.”

“She’s not ruined,” Dokyeom says behind him, voice like thunder. “Not yet.”

Mingyu’s cock presses to my entrance, thick, hard, slick with my own cum—and then he slams in. No warning. My scream tears loose, hoarse and raw. My whole body jolts, fingernails clawing at the table, grasping for anything. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause. Just pounds into me, merciless.

“Still fucking tight,” he groans, dragging out, slamming back in to the hilt. “Even after soaking the whole table.”

Then—fuck. Hoshi’s there again, sliding beneath me, mouth open, tongue already out.

“No! no, fuck—don’t—” I gasp, too sensitive, too much—

But he dives in, licking where Mingyu’s cock’s plunging in and out, flat tongue, cold metal tapping my clit. I scream again. My body’s spasming, unable to escape, unable to breathe. Mingyu grips tighter, using me like a fuckdoll, cock pounding.

“She’s already shaking,” Hoshi laughs, face glossy with my slick. “Sensitive little thing.”

“Make her cum again,” Dokyeom growls, lazily stroking himself in the shadows. “I want to see her break.”

Mingyu’s rhythm intensifies. The sound is filthy—wet, deep, messy. The stretch is brutal. Every thrust slams into something that makes me cry out. And that piercing—fuck—it flicks, circles, devastates my clit without pause.

And then I lose it.

My hips seize, my body jerks, and a burst of liquid sprays out, soaking them both. I scream into the wood, legs twitching, my pussy clamping around Mingyu’s cock so hard he groans. He pulls out. Cock twitching. Still not done.

“Clean it,” he commands.

Hoshi obeys instantly. Mouth open, licking up Mingyu’s shaft, dragging his tongue through the slick mess. I’m barely conscious. Then I feel breath—warm and heavy—by my ear. “Our turn.”

It’s a blur. Everything is soaked, ruined, twitching. My brain’s melting, cunt leaking, but I’m not empty for long. Hands find my hips—two pairs. One set is Hoshi’s—playful, familiar. The other? Big, rough, possessive. Dokyeom.

“Please…” I whisper, no clue who I’m begging. “More…”

Hoshi bends over my back, chest to mine, whispering in my ear. “Think you can take both of us, slut?”

I don’t answer. Just arch, spread my legs wider, that fluttering hole inviting them in. Dokyeom groans, low and hungry. “She’s still fucking leaking.”

They both press in. Hoshi first—curved, smooth. Then Dokyeom, thicker, his head nudging the same soaked entrance. They slide in together, side by side, stretching me impossibly.

“Oh god—oh fuckfuckfuck—” I can’t speak. The stretch is overwhelming. My pussy fights it, then yields, takes them both in like it’s what I was made for.

“Look at her,” Hoshi whispers. “Taking both of us. So fucking greedy.”

“She was made for this,” Dokyeom growls, gripping my hips. “She’s sucking us in.”

Once they’re both balls-deep, they start to move. Slow. Together. Fucking me like one monster cock.

I scream. Loud. Raw. Mingyu watches lazily, stroking himself. “You wanted inspiration, right?”

No answer. I’m too far gone.

The pace picks up. The wet slap of hips, the obscene sound of their cocks rubbing inside me, the feeling of being stretched to my limit—it rips me open. Juices pouring, thighs shaking, everything soaked. I’m clamping down on them, trying to trap them inside.

“Gonna cum,” Hoshi pants. “Gonna cum inside her—”

“Not yet,” Dokyeom growls. “Make her squirt first.”

They fuck me harder. My body locks up. Nerve endings burning. And then—boom. Another jet sprays out, harder than the last. Splattering everything. My scream’s already half dead, but I make some sound. I can’t even tell what. They don’t stop. They hold me down. Ride me through it, through the aftershocks, until I feel their own groans building.

“Fuck fuck fuck—cumming—”

“Me too—take it—take all of it—”

They slam in together one last time. Their cocks pulse, spilling thick, hot cum inside me, so much it leaks out immediately, white rivulets dripping down my legs. They stay buried for a moment, twitching, before they finally pull out. I collapse, limp, stretched open, cum pouring out.

And then—Mingyu leans close, presses a kiss to my cheek, and murmurs with a smirk—

“Ready for round two?”

[csprint]

Y/N is Jungkook’s American neighbor and the walls between their apartments are paper-thin.... and I think you can come up with the rest iykwim

━━━━━━

kookinglikeachef: There’s just something about neighbor!Jungkook hearing you get off that’s so hot to me and the language barrier is even hotter.

“Hi, hello” - English

‘’Bye, goodbye’’ - Korean

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The scent of the Ramyeon takeout bagged in Jungkook’s hands is enough to make his knees buckle. It’s been a long day of straining his muscles from difficult choreography and leaving the studio to realize he left his keys inside and had to climb six flights of stairs again because the elevator was out of order.

He can practically hear his sofa calling his name, can taste the cold bottles of beer that sit in his fridge. He’s a twenty-seven-year-old K-Pop star and he’s spending his Saturday night alone with a takeaway.

Someone who isn’t doomed to the same sad fate is Y/N, his neighbor who’s all dressed up in something that compliments your skin perfectly, as you’re locking the front door and shoving your keys into the tiny clutch you’ve got hanging from your shoulder on a thick silver chain when you noticed him.

“Oh, hey,” you greet softly in Korean, offering a bright and friendly smile. Jungkook smiles back when he hears it, chest swelling. You’re beautiful, there’s no denying that. But hearing you try to speak his language is what sends him over. Even if your pronunciation wasn’t great.

He’s never seen you dressed in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt or your work uniform. He’s never been given the opportunity to see you in an elegant manner, to notice new parts of your body he can suddenly imagine himself gripping.

He clears his throat and smiles wider.

“Hello. You.. look.. lovely, very beautiful,” he compliments you kindly in English, fingers fiddling with his keys to keep him busy. He watched you blush at his comment, how you pursed your lips to hide your shy smile and it makes him fucking throb.

You knew who he was, of course, you did. You bumped into him six months ago when he was moving in next door. You didn’t recognize him at first, not until you were at his apartment door trying to welcome him to the building and LA that you stared at him with wide eyes and a breathy, “oh wow, aren’t you that guy from that really popular Korean group?”

Okay… so maybe you didn’t know who he was, but you were on the right track.

“Thank you,” you broke from your trip down memory lane and take him in.

He had his usually dinner in hand and his body slightly slouching from exhaustion. You rarely seen him out with friends but your schedules were usually very different.

You hummed, trying to remember in your choppy Korean, "You want come on me and my friends?”

Jungkook bites his lip ring and looked down at the floor, laughing. You stared at him, confused, but still could not help smiling at his attractive laugh.

“No..” he looked back up, still giggly. “No come.”

You nodded, shrugging your shoulders. “Goodnight, then.” You say in English as you waved your hand softly in a bid of goodbye.

“Be safe,” Jungkook says tenderly, a wholesome smile on those pink lips. He waited until you rounded the corner before he unlocked his door and kicked off his shoes.

Jungkook gently tossed the takeout bag on the coffee table on his way to the kitchen, grabbing bottles of beer by their necks with his looped fingers, kicking the fridge closed behind him. His entire apartment is dark but he doesn’t see the point in turning any lights on when he knows the TV works just fine.

There’s only an ounce of loneliness for Jungkook when he eats his dinner alone and watched some sappy rom-com k-drama on Netflix when he turned the television on. He doesn’t long for his friends but a secret part of him craves for his neighbor.

He wondered what it’d be like for you to be cuddled into his side as you’d both watch the movie. Wonders if you’d laugh at certain parts and crane your neck up to pepper soft kisses to his pink lips. Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to rid the thoughts of you from his mind.

But it’s proven a little more difficult when he takes to his shower and the water is running down his tense and naked body. He struggles to not think about you on your knees, touching and kissing up his thighs.

He has to swallow back the lump in his throat and blinks away the urge to touch himself to the thought of you. He refused to be that kind of guy. So instead, when his hand still starts to wrap around his hardening cock, he thinks of the most disgusting thing he can and gets out of the shower.

Jungkook plays the guitar for a bit of the evening, humming along to tunes to pass the time away. Somewhere through singing “baby we two distant strangers, I know you don't speak my language”, he catches sight of the clock on the wall and he’s confused as to how it’s already a little past midnight.

It’s when he’s locking his door and crawling into bed that he hears a soft giggle muffled from the wall behind his head. He knows that giggle to be of yours and it’s only just occurring to him that perhaps your bedroom is mirroring his.

He’s kicking off his sweats as he throws his cover over his almost naked body and he can hear another sweet giggle fall from your lips. He tries not to let the sound affect him, he knows what’s about to go down past midnight for you.

You’ve brought someone home.

He can hear soft moans slipping from your lips but there’s a high, robotic voice that announces the Bluetooth is successfully connected and he knows he’s about to hear your fuck playlist. The thought sends a thrill through his body and he knows he’s unlikely going to get any sleep tonight.

He’s about to get up, to move to the sofa in the living room, to not be disrespectful and a perv by listening to you getting off with some one night stand, but he hears a familiar low sounding synthesizer and bass muffled through the paper-thin walls and his eyes are bulging.

“Feelin' like I'm floatin'. Something's in the air tonight.”

You’re giggling again and he can hear your body fall to the bed – the bed that’s very clearly pushed up against the same wall that his is and he hears it creak under your weight, feels the wall tremble slightly as your bedframe knocks against it.

His hand finds its way in his boxers before he can fully comprehend what he’s doing. He’s rock fucking hard, and he kicks off his boxers and his sheets, leaving him sprawled on his back, completely bare.

Jungkook hears your soft whimpers, can hear your hum in appreciation even over the thumping of his song. He doesn’t know what’s turning him on more.; the fact that he can hear you getting off and moaning out, or that you’re listening to him while another man fucks you.

Either way, his hand is wrapped tight around his length, thumbing over his oozing tip. He thinks of how you must be, how you’d look completely naked and sprawled out on the bed for him. Jungkook imagines himself on top of you, kissing every inch of your body and wrapping his lips around your swelling nipples. He thinks he can taste you on his tongue, can feel your fingers tugging at his hair.

“Oh, shit,” you gasped through the wall. He can imagine your eyes rolling back when he finally sheathes himself inside you, can see the look of ecstasy on your face when your jaw falls slack and your body quivers. He knows you’d feel him deep in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he pants out breathlessly. He’s tugging at his dick, spitting down on it to get it a little wet. He knows you’re so much wetter on the other side of the damn wall. Jungkook’s head is thrown back in his pillow, eyes shut tight and he knows he’s breaking a sweat that’s dotting at his hairline.

Everything feels surreal, like he’s in his own personal heaven with a touch of hell. You’re crying out for more, begging for it deeper, harder, and he finds himself fucking into his fist the way you’re desperate for.

Jungkook can’t focus on anything other than your sweet fucking cries that sounds fucking otherworldly against his song. It’s when he stops singing that you really let yourself go, filthy fucking moans and whines and God he wishes he could watch you.

You’re trembling and begging as the instrumental plays out, and Jungkook can’t handle it.

Gruff moans are slipping past his lips and he does nothing to try and conceal them. His tatted arm is burning a naked fire in his muscles but he fucks his cock harder, his other hand fondling with his lonely balls and he wants to feel them slap at your ass as he pounds you into your creaky mattress.

He can feel the coil tightening in his stomach, the way his cock starts to twitch. His imagination grows wild and it’s like he’s on top of you, hand around your throat as he shoves his cock in you repeatedly, senselessly. He thinks he can taste your tongue on his. He thinks he can feel your nails scratching down his back.

Jungkook’s mind takes him to sinful places. He can see himself spitting on your tongue, see you swallowing it. He can hear your voice echoing through his ears like a fucking prayer.

“Please. JK!” Even through your cries, your imperfect Korean was the hottest he’d ever heard. Your bed is creaking louder than before and he knows your thighs are fucking trembling as you came around the stranger’s cock. Jungkook’s got his hand and thighs covered in thick ribbons of white arousal and when his eyes flutter open, through blotched white vision, he can see you kneeling between his thighs and licking him up.

He’s completely fucked as he hears his song mellow out and you aren’t moaning anymore. Instead, he can hear your breathless, pretty giggles and your little pants for breath. He stays where he is for a second, eager to see what else he can hear. Your bed creaks again and he supposes the stranger has got up to clean themselves off. But he doesn’t hear you anymore and the song changes to complete and utter silence.

He doesn’t hear the bed creak again or any other noise from your side of the wall, and when it nears 1 am, he figures you two are sleeping.

Jungkook doesn’t sleep the entire night. He can’t. He’s kept awake with the thrill and guilt of listening to his neighbor have sex through the bedroom wall. Or is it with the thrill and guilt of pretending that it was him? He isn’t sure, even after thinking about it all night.

He’s been in the living room, strumming notes on the guitar and plucking inspiration out of his frazzled brain. He doesn’t hear anymore movement from your apartment or the hall for the rest of the night. The narcissistic part of Jungkook wants to catch who the stranger is. Wants to know if his song playing while you had sex, was a coincidence or if your lover for the night holds any resemblance to him.

But as closely (and creepily) as he listens, he doesn’t hear any sign of someone sneaking out and he wonders if maybe it’s not a stranger and perhaps you’d been seeing someone? He doesn’t know why but the thought makes his jaw tick.

It’s 6 am when he’s going downstairs to check his little mailbox, doing something to pass the early morning and to possibly sneak a peek at the stranger. Jungkook thinks 6 am is a reasonable time to sneak out of a brief lover’s arms. And he thinks he’s about to hit the jackpot when he’s about to unlock his door and yours opens.

You’re yawning as you tug your jacket on your shoulders; wearing your work clothes. He frowns with a smile when you notice him.

You’re alone.

His heart is hammering in his chest because you had no idea he heard every word you muttered last night.

“Good morning, Jungkook,” you say in Korean. And he’ll try to respond in English. It’s kind of a thing between you two. And the only thing.

“Good morning.” He smiles. “Um.. fun.. night?” He asks.

“Amazing… uh… night.” You tried.

“Night,” he says in Korean.

“Night.” You repeated. “Amazing night.”

A proud smile spreads over his pierced lips.

“Lucky night,” his smile turns cheeky.

You stifle a loud laugh, playfully hitting his shoulder.

He wonders if you think he’s being nosy, being creepy. Or maybe if you’ve realized that he heard you. But your friends have embarrassed you in front of Jungkook enough times in passing for that statement to be absolutely normal between the two of you—always joking about how lucky you get with guys from the bar.

He was usually still at the studio by the time you’d come home for him to find out if it were true.

“Not a chance. Came home alone, went to bed alone,” you spoke carefully for him to understand and blushed inwardly.

Jungkook just nods along with a smile still resting on his lips and he doesn’t say anything back, his eyes are too glued to your own lips, the sound of your moans still ringing in his ears.

Then… a beat.

You came home alone and went to bed alone? But by the sounds that Jungkook remembers, you were definitely doing something with his voice filling your ears and room… unless…

Oh…

Oh.

[w1w2]

A Taste of Love

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 4k

Synopsis: Yn brings homemade food in Jennie's studio.

Requested by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows of Y/N’s cozy apartment, casting a warm glow over the kitchen. The gentle clinking of utensils and the soft hum of an old favorite playlist filled the air as Y/N meticulously prepared a special meal. Today wasn’t just any ordinary day—it was a day she had set aside to surprise Jennie, her lover, with a home-cooked meal after weeks of intense work on her solo album.

Y/N stirred the pot of soup gently, inhaling the comforting aroma that filled the space. The rich scent of kimchi stew—spicy, tangy, and deeply savory—wrapped around her like a warm embrace. The broth bubbled gently, small ripples forming on the surface as steam curled upward, filling the air with a homey essence. She reached for a wooden spoon, giving the stew a careful taste. The balance was just right, the spice level perfect—not too overpowering, but strong enough to bring a satisfying heat to Jennie’s palate.

Turning to the cutting board, Y/N’s hands moved with practiced ease as she sliced fresh fruits into delicate pieces. The blade slid smoothly through ripe strawberries, their sweetness releasing a subtle fragrance into the air. Golden kiwi, its vibrant hue glistening under the light, joined the neat arrangement. Crisp apple slices, perfectly fanned out, completed the edible mosaic. She reached for a small container, carefully layering each fruit with precision, ensuring a visually appealing presentation. Jennie always appreciated the little details—Y/N knew that well.

Next, she moved on to plating the side dishes. The tteokbokki sat in a deep bowl, the rice cakes bathed in a thick, fiery-red sauce that clung to their smooth surface. A sprinkle of sesame seeds and finely chopped green onions added the finishing touch, making the dish look as appetizing as it smelled. A separate container held fluffy white rice, its warmth radiating through the container as Y/N carefully packed it. Beside it, a small dish of homemade kimchi sat, its deep red color hinting at the bold, tangy flavors within.

As she wiped her hands on a dish towel, Y/N paused to admire her work, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. The sight of the neatly packed meal filled her with a quiet sense of joy. It wasn’t just food; it was a piece of home, a reminder for Jennie to slow down and take a moment for herself amidst the chaos of her work. Y/N knew how much her girlfriend loved her cooking, but more than that, she knew that this meal was an expression of love in its purest form—one Jennie would understand without words.

Her thoughts drifted to Jennie, as they often did. Y/N could still picture the soft crease in Jennie’s brow when she talked about her album. This solo project was everything to her, a culmination of her talent, effort, and dreams. Late-night texts filled with song ideas, the endless hours she spent in the studio, and her drive to create something truly special—it was all evidence of Jennie’s passion and dedication. But it came at a cost.

Y/N frowned slightly, recalling how tired Jennie had sounded the last time they talked. Her voice, usually so bright and lively, had carried an edge of exhaustion. She’d joked about surviving on caffeine and protein bars, brushing off Y/N’s concerns with a laugh. But Y/N knew better. Jennie might be fiercely independent, but she had a habit of neglecting herself when she was deep in her work.

That was why Y/N was here now, standing in her kitchen, determined to remind Jennie that she didn’t have to carry everything alone. Y/N’s gaze fell on the small note she’d written earlier, now resting atop one of the boxes. The words, scrawled in her neat handwriting, were simple but heartfelt:

“To my Jendeuk, You’re doing amazing, and I’m so proud of you. Please remember to take care of yourself, too. Love you always. – Y/N”

The corners of Y/N’s lips curved upward as she slipped the note into the bag. It was a small gesture, but one she hoped would make Jennie smile, maybe even give her the strength to push through another long night in the studio.

Y/N carefully adjusted the lid of the boxes one last time, ensuring it was sealed tightly. She wrapped the containers in a soft kitchen towel, tucking them securely into the tote bag. The bag itself was simple but cute, adorned with small heart patterns, a detail that Y/N hoped would make Jennie smile.

Satisfied with her preparations, Y/N slipped into her favorite sneakers and reached for her coat. The cool, crisp air outside hit her as she stepped onto the street, and she drew her jacket tighter around herself. It was a quiet evening, the kind where the city seemed to breathe a little slower. The faint hum of distant traffic mixed with the rustling of leaves, creating a peaceful atmosphere that mirrored Y/N’s calm but focused mood.

She made her way to her car, pausing for a moment to glance at the tote bag in her hand. Y/N placed the bag gently on the passenger seat and started the car, the engine humming softly to life.

As she drove, Y/N allowed herself to relax, the familiar route to the studio giving her time to think. A soft playlist played in the background, and she smiled as a song Jennie loved came on. It was one of those tracks that Jennie always hummed absentmindedly while doing mundane things, like tying her hair or scrolling through her phone. Y/N found herself humming along, the melody stirring a warmth inside her.

Her thoughts wandered to the beginning of their relationship. Jennie had always been so radiant, so captivating, that Y/N often wondered how she managed to catch her attention in the first place. She recalled their first date, a simple coffee shop outing where Jennie had ordered an iced latte, even though it was the middle of winter. "I like the contrast," Jennie had explained with a sly grin, and Y/N had laughed, completely charmed.

Those early days felt both vivid and distant now, like a golden blur of laughter and stolen glances. Over time, they’d grown closer, learning to navigate each other’s worlds. Y/N had learned to find joy in Jennie’s quirks: her obsession with her pets, the way she’d suddenly burst into song while cooking, and her habit of curling up like a cat whenever they lounged on the couch.

More recent memories bubbled to the surface. Y/N thought of the mornings when Jennie would groggily pull her back into bed, mumbling, “Five more minutes,” as she clung to her like a sleepy koala. Or the evenings when Jennie would surprise her with takeout, claiming she “just happened to pass by” Y/N’s favorite place, even though it was miles out of the way.

But tonight wasn’t about reminiscing, it was about being there for Jennie when she needed it most. Y/N’s smile softened as she turned into a familiar street, the studio building coming into view. Its tall, modern structure loomed against the dusky sky, the warm glow of its windows cutting through the twilight. Jennie was inside, no doubt immersed in her work, her focus so intense that she’d likely forgotten to eat again.

Y/N parked the car and turned off the engine, letting the quiet settle around her. For a moment, she sat there, looking at the bag in the passenger seat. Her fingers brushed over the strap as a wave of fondness surged in her chest.

“Here we go,” she murmured to herself, grabbing the bag and stepping out into the cool evening.

The walk to the entrance was short, but every step carried a mix of anticipation and excitement. Y/N’s mind raced with images of Jennie’s reaction, how her tired eyes would light up, how she might laugh and call her “too sweet” before pulling her into a hug. It wasn’t much, but Y/N hoped it would remind Jennie that she wasn’t alone in this journey.

Reaching the doors, Y/N took a deep breath, clutching the tote bag a little tighter. With a determined smile, she pushed them open, ready to bring a moment of love and warmth into Jennie’s busy night.

The faint buzz of music filled the sleek lobby as Y/N entered the studio building, her tote bag securely slung over one shoulder. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of studio equipment. A few staff members milled about, some reviewing clipboards while others chatted casually. The warm, familiar atmosphere put Y/N at ease.

As she approached the front desk, Minji, the receptionist, immediately lit up. “Y/N! Long time no see!”

Y/N grinned and leaned on the counter playfully. “Hey, Minji. How’ve you been?”

“Busy as usual, but not as busy as Jennie,” Minji replied with a chuckle. “You here to check on her? She’s been practically living here.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Y/N said, holding up the tote bag. “She’s overdue for some real food. Don’t tell me she’s been surviving on just coffee again?”

Minji sighed, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “You know her too well. She’s in Studio 3, probably hasn’t budged from her seat in hours.”

“Thanks, Minji,” Y/N said, giving her a small wave as she made her way toward the hallway.

As Y/N walked through the building, a few staff members greeted her with warm smiles. She was a familiar face here, and Jennie’s colleagues had grown used to seeing her drop by.

“Y/N! What’s in the bag this time?” one producer called out, his tone teasing.

“Tteokbokki, stew, and a side of love,” Y/N shot back with a laugh, making the man chuckle.

“You’re spoiling her, you know,” another staffer added with a grin.

“That’s the plan,” Y/N quipped, her pace quickening as she approached the quieter section of the hallway.

The noise faded as Y/N reached the doors to Studio 3. Through the small glass window, she could see Jennie sitting at the control board, her slender frame illuminated by the soft glow of the equipment. Jennie was in her zone, headphones covering her ears as she leaned forward to adjust the sliders on the mixing console. Her lips moved slightly as if silently singing along to the track playing in her ears.

Y/N paused for a moment, watching her girlfriend in her element. Jennie’s focus was magnetic, her passion radiating from every movement. But even in the dim light, Y/N could see the faint signs of exhaustion etched into her face, the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the way her shoulders dropped slightly as if carrying an invisible weight.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N pushed the door open quietly, stepping inside with practiced stealth. She set the tote bag down on a small table near the entrance and leaned against the wall, watching Jennie work.

Jennie’s head tilted slightly, her attention fully on the music. Her hand moved to adjust a knob, her brows furrowed in concentration. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the sight, it was moments like these that reminded her of how much Jennie loved what she did.

Finally, as if sensing the presence behind her, Jennie turned. Her eyes widened in surprise before softening into a radiant smile. She pulled the headphones down, letting them rest around her neck.

“Y/N?” Jennie’s voice was warm but tinged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Y/N stepped forward, shrugging playfully. “Checking on my favorite superstar. Heard she’s been skipping meals again.”

Jennie raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a wry grin. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, I have my sources,” Y/N teased, crossing her arms. “And I’ve got proof too. You’re looking a little too thin, Jendeuk.”

Jennie rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped her. “I’m fine, really.”

Y/N shook her head, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from Jennie’s face. “You’re amazing, but you’re not invincible. That’s why I brought this.”

Jennie’s eyes followed Y/N’s gesture toward the tote bag, her curiosity piqued. She stood and walked over, peeking inside before letting out a soft gasp.

“Tteokbokki? Stew?” Jennie’s voice rose slightly with excitement. She turned to Y/N, her tired expression brightening. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did,” Y/N said, smiling. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t starve while you’re making history.”

Jennie chuckled, stepping closer to wrap her arms around Y/N’s waist. The hug was warm and grounding, and Y/N felt Jennie’s head rest lightly against her shoulder.

“You’re too good to me,” Jennie murmured, her voice muffled.

Y/N kissed the top of Jennie’s head. “I just love you baby. That’s all.”

Jennie pulled back slightly, her gaze tender as she looked up at Y/N. “You’re going to make me cry,” she said with a playful pout.

“Well, before you do that, why don’t you eat?” Y/N teased, poking Jennie’s cheek lightly.

Jennie laughed, her tiredness momentarily forgotten as she grabbed Y/N’s hand and led her to the table. “Okay, let’s see what you made. I’m starving!”

Y/N sat by a small table in the corner of the studio, away from the clutter of Jennie’s workstation. The soft glow of the equipment lights cast a cozy ambiance in the otherwise quiet room. Jennie leaned against the console, watching with unrestrained curiosity as Y/N carefully unpacked the tote bag.

One by one, Y/N placed the dishes on the table. First, the tteokbokki, its fiery red sauce still steaming as Y/N removed the lid. The glossy rice cakes gleamed under the soft lighting, sprinkled with sesame seeds and tiny green scallions. Then came the rice, perfectly fluffy and fragrant, followed by a container of soybean paste stew, its aroma earthy and comforting. A small side dish of homemade kimchi completed the savory spread. Finally, Y/N retrieved a box of neatly arranged fruits. Jennie’s jaw dropped slightly as she took in the sight of the feast before her. “Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed, stepping closer. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Y/N, this looks amazing.”

Y/N grinned, clearly pleased by Jennie’s reaction. “Only the best for my Jendeuk,” she replied, pulling out a pair of chopsticks and handing them over.

Jennie accepted them with a playful pout. “You’re setting the bar way too high. How am I supposed to go back to cup noodles after this?”

“You won’t have to,” Y/N quipped, sitting down across from her. “Not if I keep showing up with meals like this.”

Jennie laughed, a sound that made the room feel warmer. “You’re going to spoil me,” she said, though her teasing tone couldn’t hide the gratitude in her voice.

“Good,” Y/N shot back with a wink. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Jennie didn’t need to be told twice. She picked up a piece of tteokbokki, the sauce clinging to the soft rice cake as she took a bite. Her eyes fluttered closed as she chewed, a soft hum of appreciation escaping her lips. “This is so good,” she murmured, savoring the flavor.

Y/N rested her chin in her hand, watching Jennie with a fond smile. “I knew you’d like it. You’ve been talking about craving tteokbokki for weeks.”

Jennie opened her eyes, a mock-serious expression on her face. “That’s because you make it better than anyone else,” she declared, pointing her chopsticks at Y/N for emphasis.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Y/N replied, laughing as Jennie reached for the stew next.

As they ate, Jennie’s initial excitement gave way to a quieter sense of contentment. Her shoulders, which had been tense and hunched from hours of work, gradually relaxed. She alternated between bites of rice, tteokbokki, and the rich, savory stew, her hunger evident but her pace unhurried.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Jennie said softly after a while, glancing at Y/N with a mixture of gratitude and guilt.

“I did,” Y/N replied, her tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working so hard, Jendeuk. I just wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself, even if you won’t do it on your own.”

Jennie’s expression softened, and for a moment, she seemed lost for words. She set her chopsticks down and reached across the table to take Y/N’s hand. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Y/N smiled, squeezing Jennie’s hand lightly. “And you’re even more amazing. I’m just here to remind you of that.”

Jennie let out a soft laugh, her gaze dropping briefly as she composed herself. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she admitted quietly.

“Well, for starters, you’d probably be eating instant ramen right now,” Y/N teased, lightening the mood.

Jennie laughed again, the sound bright and genuine. “True. But you know what? I think you’re more addictive than any tteokbokki.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed at the compliment. “If this is your way of convincing me to make this a weekly thing, it’s working.”

Jennie grinned and picked up a piece of strawberry from the fruit box. Holding it up, she leaned forward slightly. “Open up,” she said, her tone playful.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are we really doing this?”

Jennie tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What? I just want to share.”

Suppressing a laugh, Y/N leaned forward and let Jennie feed her the strawberry. The sweetness of the fruit was matched by the teasing smile on Jennie’s face. “You’re ridiculous,” Y/N muttered as she chewed.

“And you love it,” Jennie shot back.

The lighthearted exchange continued as they worked their way through the meal. Jennie fed Y/N more fruit, laughing every time Y/N playfully protested, and Y/N retaliated by sneaking extra pieces of kimchi onto Jennie’s plate. The room seemed to fill with their shared warmth, the earlier tension of Jennie’s workday melting away completely.

Eventually, they slowed down, both full and content. Jennie leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “I don’t think I’ve been this full in weeks,” she admitted, her voice drowsy with comfort.

“That’s what happens when you don’t eat properly,” Y/N teased, starting to pack up the empty containers.

Jennie watched her with a soft smile, her earlier playfulness replaced by something gentler. “Thank you, Y/N. For everything. Not just the food, but… for being here. For caring.”

Y/N paused, looking up at her. “Always,” she said simply, her voice filled with sincerity. “That’s never going to change.”

Jennie’s eyes glistened slightly as she reached for Y/N’s hand again. “You’re really the best thing in my life, you know that?”

Y/N chuckled, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Jennie’s forehead. “And don’t you forget it.”

Jennie laughed, her cheeks pink as she leaned into the touch. For the first time in days, she felt truly rested, her heart lighter than it had been in a while.

Jennie sat back in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her cheeks were still faintly pink from laughing, and her hands rested on her lap as if she were trying to savor the comfort that had settled between them. “I don’t even know how to thank you, Y/N,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost shy.

Y/N, who was tidying up the remnants of their meal, glanced at Jennie with a playful smile. “You could start by eating like this more often. I can’t have my superstar girlfriend surviving on caffeine and willpower alone.”

Jennie laughed softly, shaking her head. “I don’t deserve you.” Her gaze softened, and she added, “But I’m so glad I have you.”

Y/N studied her for a moment, noticing the way Jennie’s posture had shifted, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze lowered. She recognized that look. It was the one Jennie wore when she was trying to carry too much on her own.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Y/N asked gently.

Jennie exhaled slowly, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on the table. “I just…” She paused, pressing her lips together before looking up at Y/N. “I’m scared.”

Y/N’s heart clenched. She reached across the table, resting her hand over Jennie’s. “Scared of what?”

Jennie swallowed, her eyes searching Y/N’s as if trying to find the right words. “Of disappointing everyone,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “My fans, my team… you.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and she squeezed Jennie’s hand. “Jennie, love… you could never disappoint me.”

Jennie let out a small, humorless laugh. “You say that now, but what if this album isn’t good enough? What if people hate it? What if—”

Y/N cut her off by bringing her hand up to Jennie’s cheek, cupping it tenderly. “Hey. Stop that,” she whispered. “You’re incredible, Jennie. You always have been.”

Jennie blinked, and Y/N could see the glimmer of doubt in her eyes.

“You work so hard,” Y/N continued, brushing her thumb gently over Jennie’s cheek. “You put your heart and soul into everything you do. That’s why people love you—not just because of your talent, but because of the passion you pour into your music.”

Jennie bit her lip, looking away for a moment. “But what if it’s not enough?”

Y/N tilted her head, waiting until Jennie met her gaze again. “Then I’ll be right here to remind you that it is. That you are.”

Jennie let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around Y/N’s. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

Y/N smiled softly. “Because I know you, Nini. And because I love you.”

Jennie’s smile grew, small but genuine, and she reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s face. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Maybe,” Y/N teased lightly, her tone softening. “But seeing you smile like that? That’s all the thanks I need.”

The moment lingered, a shared stillness that felt heavy with meaning. Finally, Jennie pulled Y/N into a tight hug, her arms wrapped securely around her waist. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she murmured against Y/N’s shoulder.

“I know darling,” Y/N replied, her voice laced with gentle humor as she hugged Jennie back just as tightly.

After a while, Jennie pulled away, her energy visibly restored. “I feel like I can take on the world right now,” she said, her eyes sparkling with determination.

“Good,” Y/N said, standing up and stretching. “But maybe start with one track at a time, yeah? I’ll save the ‘taking on the world’ part for later.”

Jennie laughed, shaking her head. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep bringing me those meals.”

“Done,” Y/N said, flashing her a grin as she grabbed the tote bag. “But remember, studio visits come with conditions now. No skipped meals, and no falling asleep in the control room.”

Jennie rolled her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “I’ll try my best.”

“No, you’ll do it,” Y/N corrected, wagging a playful finger. “Otherwise, I’ll show up with a megaphone and drag you out of here myself.”

Jennie burst out laughing, the sound rich and unrestrained. “I don’t doubt that for a second,” she said, still smiling.

As Y/N walked toward the door, Jennie followed, lingering in the doorway as if reluctant to let her leave. “Thank you again, Y/N,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “For being here. For knowing exactly what I need even when I don’t.”

Y/N turned, her expression tender. “That’s what I’m here for, Jendeuk. To remind you that you’re not alone in any of this.”

Jennie’s lips parted as if to respond, but instead, she stepped forward, cupping Y/N’s face with both hands and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. When she pulled back, her smile was radiant, her eyes filled with gratitude and love.

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” Jennie said finally, her tone lighter but still warm.

“You’d better,” Y/N replied with mock sternness. “And don’t even think about pulling an all-nighter.”

Jennie raised a hand in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

With one last wave, Y/N stepped into the hallway, glancing back over her shoulder as she left. Through the small glass window in the door, she could see Jennie already back at her station, her headphones in place and her hands moving confidently across the console. But there was something different now, an ease in her posture, a brightness in her expression.

As Y/N walked out into the cool evening air, she felt a sense of quiet pride. The city lights twinkled above, and the hum of distant traffic filled the air, but her thoughts were focused on Jennie. She could already imagine the music Jennie would create tonight, music filled with the same passion and brilliance Y/N saw in her every day.

“I’ve got you, Jendeuk,” Y/N whispered to herself, a small smile on her lips. She adjusted the bag and headed home. She was already looking forward to the next time she could surprise Jennie again.

Because loving her? That was the easiest thing in the world.

[97linelover]

From heartache to happiness- Kim mingyu

summary: taking care of Mingyus niece was a highlight for both of you, but realizing that in 4 years the two of you could not get pregnant made you tired.

Seeing him with the little munchkin made you happy but also devastated.

But what if it all will turn out alright?

content: Idol Mingyu x Non Idol reader, mentions of failed pregnancys, pregnancy,angst, happy end,fluff, mentions of endometriosis

wc: 2.6 k

a/n: I´m really sorry if you´re going through something like this... I just got the Diagnosis myself endometriosis.. How to handle something like that? I really don´t know.

“Danbi, don’t run! I’ve told you a thousand times!” Minseo’s voice echoed urgently through the corridor.

You watched her from the doorway, observing as she struggled to balance several bags of baby supplies. “Hectic day?” you asked with a playful giggle.

“Oh yes,” she replied, exhaling wearily as she gently patted her very prominent belly. “Baby Ahri isn’t making it any easier. She’s so active these days!”

“I can imagine,” you said, leaning down and speaking in a high-pitched, playful tone. “Her due date is in just two weeks, you know. We’re all eagerly waiting to meet you, Baby Ahri.”

Minseo nodded with a tired smile, then asked, “Is Mingyu still not home?”

You glanced towards the window where Sooyoon, who had been waiting by the car, waved at you. “No, he’s still at the studio,” you replied. “But he texted me that he’ll be home soon and that he can’t wait to see his niece.”

Minseo rolled her eyes with a smirk. “He’s totally smitten with her. Sometimes, I think he’s more excited than I am!”

“Well, who can blame him?” you said with a reassuring smile. “Every kid can be a handful, but as long as she’s sweet with us, we’ll manage.” You pulled her into a warm hug. “Thanks again for everything, Y/N.”

Minseo smiled gratefully. “Enjoy your time in Busan!” she called as she headed toward the car, her hands full of baby supplies.

As you closed the door behind her, you called out, “Danbiii! Where’s my sweet little bean?” Your eyes scanned the room until you spotted her small pink slippers peeking out from beneath the curtain.

This had become a cherished ritual between the two of you. Whenever Danbi visited, you’d play a little game of hide-and-seek.

“Mmm, my little bean is hiding so well,” you said, feigning frustration. You heard a faint beep from the direction of the curtain. “Oh, I’m getting closer,” you said, tiptoeing toward it.

With a dramatic flourish, you pulled the curtain aside and exclaimed, “Got you!” You lifted Danbi into the air, and her delighted squeal filled the room.

“You found me, Auntie Y/N!” she shouted joyfully, wrapping her tiny arms around your neck.

“I always find you, my sweet little bean,” you said, pressing a gentle kiss to her head. “Are you hungry, Danbi?” you asked as she clung to you like a koala. “Shall we make some dinner for Uncle Gyu?”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Yes! Let’s cook for Uncle Gyuu!” she clapped her small hands together in delight.

“How about we make meatball pasta?” you suggested, knowing it was her absolute favorite.

“YESSS!!” she cheered. You carried her into the kitchen, where she eagerly grabbed her plastic cutlery. Together, you began preparing the meal, Danbi’s concentration evident as she helped with the ingredients.

As you danced around the kitchen to your favorite tunes, you heard the door open. “Oh Danbi, who is this?” you asked twirling her around in your arms.

“My Unclessss!” she said with a giggle, spinning in excitement. Just then, Mingyu walked in, his face lighting up as he saw Danbi.

“Uncle Gyuuu!” Danbi squealed, racing towards him.

Mingyu scooped her up in his arms, his face beaming with joy. “My princesssss,” he said affectionately, his eyes crinkling with happiness. You laughed softly and set the plates on the dining table.

“Mmm, that smells wonderful,” Mingyu said, his gaze appreciating the meal. He walked into the room, holding Danbi tightly. The little girl, who was clearly fascinated by him, snuggled into his embrace.

You watched them with a smile, thinking, “Same here, little one. Same here.”

“Did you two make this?” Mingyu asked, his eyes twinkling with pride. Danbi nodded enthusiastically.

“Hey, my love,” Mingyu said, carefully setting Danbi down and leaning in to kiss you softly.

“Hi, baby,” you replied, gently stroking his cheek. “How was work today?”

He sighed with a mix of exhaustion and relief. “It was a long day, but I’m glad to be home and have a few days off,” he said, looking over at Danbi. “Now, Dan Dan, how is my favorite girl doing?”

Danbi threw her arms around Mingyu’s neck. “Good—I missed you!” she said, her voice muffled as she clung to him.

Mingyu set her down gently, and you all took your places at the table. The three of you began to enjoy the meal, sharing laughter and stories as you savored the delicious pasta that Danbi had helped prepare.

After dinner, as the kitchen is tidied up, Mingyu and Danbi begin their bedtime routine. Danbi, now in her pajamas and holding her favorite teddy bear, snuggles up against Mingyu as he gently lifts her up.

“Time for your bedtime ritual, sweetheart,” Mingyu says lovingly, carrying her upstairs.

You follow them to the cozy, softly lit bedroom, decorated in gentle pastel colors. The room is lovingly arranged, with colorful pictures on the walls and a bed adorned with fluffy pillows and blankets.

Mingyu carefully sets Danbi down on her bed and sits beside her. “What story would you like to hear tonight?” he asks as Danbi settles into her blankets, her eyes already heavy with sleep.

“The story of the brave little animals!” Danbi replies with a sleepy smile.

Mingyu nods and retrieves a picture book from the shelf, which tells the adventures of the brave little animals. He begins reading aloud, his voice calm and soothing. He brings the characters to life with expressive tones and gentle inflections, weaving a tale that gradually eases Danbi into slumber. Her eyelids grow heavy as she listens to the story of the brave little animals and their adventures.

You watch from the doorway, feeling a mix of warmth and bittersweet emotion. The love and tenderness Mingyu shows Danbi are heartwarming, and you find yourself reflecting on your own dreams and challenges.

As Mingyu finishes the story and gently closes the book, he strokes Danbi’s hair and kisses her forehead. “Goodnight, my little adventurer,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams.”

Danbi murmurs a sleepy goodnight and drifts off, her teddy bear hugged tightly. Mingyu quietly stands up and walks over to where you are standing, a soft smile on his face.

“You know,” he begins, his voice low and sincere, “I just want to tell you how proud I am of you.”

You look up at him, surprised by his words. “Proud of me? Why?”

Mingyu takes your hand in his, his expression filled with warmth and affection. “For everything you do, for being so wonderful with Danbi and for always supporting me. I know things haven’t been easy, and I admire your strength and love. You bring so much joy into our lives.”

His words touch you deeply, and you feel a mix of emotions welling up inside you. “Thank you, Mingyu,” you say softly, your voice trembling slightly. “That means a lot to me.”

Mingyu gently squeezes your hand. “You’re an amazing person, and I’m so grateful to have you in my life. I just wanted you to know that.”

With a final, loving smile, Mingyu pulls you into a warm embrace. You hold onto him, finding comfort in his support and the shared moments of love and understanding. As you both stand there, the quiet of the night settles around you, filled with the promise of brighter days ahead.

The next morning, you wake up early, eager to start the day. You decide to make it special by preparing a delicious breakfast. The kitchen soon fills with the tempting aroma of pancakes as you whisk the batter and pour it into the hot pan.

Just as you’re cooking the first pancakes, you hear the soft patter of little feet behind you. Danbi, still a bit sleepy but excited, wanders into the kitchen, clutching her favorite teddy bear.

“Good morning, Auntie Y/N!” she calls out cheerfully, her eyes bright as she takes in the sight of the pancake batter.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” you reply with a warm smile. “Would you like to help me make the pancakes?”

Danbi’s face lights up with enthusiasm. “Yes, please! I want to help!”

You hand her a small bowl with a bit of batter and a tiny spoon. “You can stir the batter here while I cook the pancakes. Just try not to make too much of a mess!”

Danbi nods eagerly, carefully stirring the batter with a look of intense concentration. Occasionally, she glances up at you for reassurance. A tiny splash of batter lands on the countertop, and Danbi giggles.

“Oh, Auntie Y/N, look! I’m almost as good as you!” she says proudly, her excitement evident.

You smile and nod. “You’re doing great, Danbi. These pancakes are going to be fantastic thanks to you!”

After breakfast, which turns out to be delicious thanks to Danbi’s help, you all get ready for a fun outing to the zoo. Danbi, now dressed in her favorite outfit—a colorful animal-themed T-shirt and jeans—bounces with excitement.

As you arrive at the zoo, Danbi is practically vibrating with joy. She points out every animal she sees, her face glowing with wonder. You and Mingyu follow closely, sharing her enthusiasm and marveling at the different animals with her.

When you reach the monkey enclosure, Danbi looks up at both of you, her eyes full of affection. “Auntie Y/N, Uncle Mingyu, I love you both so much!” she says, her voice filled with sincerity. “You’re the best aunt and uncle ever!”

Mingyu kneels down to her level, his eyes softening with emotion. “We love you too, Danbi. You’re the best niece anyone could ask for.”

You watch the interaction, feeling a surge of warmth and gratitude. The simple, genuine moment of love between you all fills your heart with happiness.

The day continues with laughter and discovery as you explore the zoo together. You visit the giraffes, lions, and penguins, and enjoy ice cream cones as a treat. Danbi’s joy is infectious, and you all share many smiles and moments of connection.

As the sun starts to set, you head back home, tired but happy. You and Mingyu reflect on the day’s adventures and the special moments shared. When it’s time for Danbi to go to bed, you both help her get ready and tuck her in.

As Mingyu reads Danbi a bedtime story and gently closes the book, he leans in to kiss her forehead. “Goodnight, my little explorer. Sweet dreams.”

Danbi murmurs a sleepy goodnight and drifts off to sleep, hugging her teddy bear. You and Mingyu quietly leave the room, feeling happy with how the day went.

A day after the joyful day at the zoo, the time comes for Minseo to pick up Danbi. The farewell is heartfelt and filled with affection. Minseo gives Danbi a tight hug, and the little girl clings to her teddy bear.

“How was your day, sweetheart?” Minseo asks lovingly as she helps Danbi into the car.

“It was the best day ever!” Danbi replies with a beaming smile. “We had so much fun!”

Minseo smiles warmly and looks at you and Mingyu. “Thank you so much for taking care of Danbi and making her day so special. It means a lot to us.”

You hug Minseo. “It was our pleasure. Danbi is such a joy to be with. Safe travels, and we’ll see you soon!”

As Minseo drives away with Danbi, you and Mingyu watch them leave, feeling a mixture of contentment and nostalgia.

A few weeks later, you begin to feel unwell and decide to take a pregnancy test on your own, as Mingyu is away at work. With a mixture of hope and anxiety, you wait for the results. After what feels like an eternity, the test reveals a positive result.

Your heart races as you process the news—you're pregnant.

As you got the diagnosis endometriosis you were devastated, you wanted kids so badly, but your doctor said that this would be pretty hard.

And you were in for a long journey, besides the horrific pains you always endoured the dream of being a mother seemed far away.

Mingyu was your biggest support trough this time, he helped you with all the treatments.

Mingyu and you took every chance to have sex, for your luck the two of you were obsessed with each other. He knew your body well and knew which position worked without being in pain.

Determined to make this moment special, you begin preparing a surprise for Mingyu. You carefully plan an intimate evening at home. You decorate the living room with soft candles, fairy lights, and a “Welcome to the Family Baby Kim” sign. You also prepare a special dinner—his favorite dish.

When Mingyu arrives home that evening, he's immediately struck by the warm, inviting atmosphere. The candles flicker softly, and the table is set with care.

“Wow, this looks amazing,” Mingyu says, looking around in wonder. “What’s the occasion?”

You smile, feeling a flutter of excitement and nerves. “I have a surprise for you. Please, sit down.”

As Mingyu takes his seat at the table, you bring out the dinner and sit across from him. After a few moments of enjoying the meal and making small talk, you finally take a deep breath and reach into your pocket. You pull out a small, neatly wrapped box and place it in front of him.

Mingyu looks at the box curiously and then at you. “What’s this?”

“Open it and find out,” you say, your voice trembling slightly with anticipation.

Mingyu carefully unwraps the box and opens it to find a tiny pair of baby shoes inside, along with a note that reads: “We’re going to be parents!”

His eyes widen in shock as he processes the message. A mixture of disbelief, joy, and emotion floods his face. He looks up at you, his eyes brimming with tears.

“You’re… you’re pregnant?” he asks, his voice choked with emotion.

You nod, tears of happiness streaming down your cheeks. “Yes, we are.”

Mingyu stands up and rushes over to you, enveloping you in a tight, loving embrace. His tears of joy fall freely as he holds you close. “I can’t believe it. I’m so happy. This is the best news ever.”

He twirled you around and you sobbed "when did you find out?" he asked looking at you "in the morning, I had this weird feeling in my tummy and I thought let´s do it" he kissed you softly.

"We´re gonna be parents" he whispered, his eyes red and full of tears "god I am so happy" he beamed with joy.

"I need to tell the boys, they need to know" he said grabbing his phone "we could tell them at the company dinner on Saturday" you suggested and he nodded excited "oh I cant wait to see their faces"

The two of you made your way towards the small Greek Restaurant hand in hand while Mingyu carried your bag.

He was dressed in a Dark Blue Dress shirt, combined with some Black slacks and some black dress shoes.

You wore a matching Dark Blue Satin dress with some heels.

"who do you think will be the most excited?" Mingyu asked "I think Wonwoo, but he wont show it too much, probably Seungkwan and Josh, they´re gonna cry, oh and Debby will cry, and then she will tell Wonwoo to show some emotion" you giggled at the thought.

As the group of over 20 people ate in peace the smell of the Moussaka suddenly went not to well with your stomach.

Your chair screeched along the floor as you rushed towards the toilet, you hated this.

After you were done Mingyu gave you the small toothbrush from your Bag for emergencies and you quickly brushed your teeth.

The two of you walked back to the table and Seungkwan looked at you with concern written all over his features.

"are you okay?" he whispered and you nodded "actually we wanted to tell you all some exciting news" you smiled and Debby gasped.

"we´re going to be parents" Mingyu and you said grinning.

and they all gasped "NO WAY" Joshua got up and Seungkwan directly began to cry "oh my god finally" all of them hugged you and you saw Wonwoo wiping some tears away.

"nonu" you said feeling the tears sting your eyes.

and he opened his arms "I´m so happy for the two of you, you fought so long for this" he kissed your head and you hugged him tight.

"actually Wonu, I wanted to ask you something" Mingyu said giving him a small box, Wonwoo took it with furrowed eyebrows. His slightly shaky hands pulled the lid off and he gasped looking at his best friend with wide eyes.

"no way" the tears in Wonwoos eyes were getting more and more "of course Gyu" he hugged him tight.

the little box asked him 'do you wanna be my godfather? - Baby Kim'

Wonwoo pulled you into the circle and you could not stop the tears.

"I´m so happy for the two of you, baby Kim will have the best parents" he said.

And he was right, you and Mingyu became a incredible duo.

[eclipixels]

Homesick

Rafayel x Reader

Content: For some reason, you can't help but feel connected to Rafayel's paintings of Lemuria

A/N: I wonder if anyone can figure out which quote from my favorite book series I referenced.

[1,026 words]

      "You seem oddly fascinated by all my paintings of the deep blue," Rafayel remarked, his voice carrying from the kitchen as he prepared two cups of coffee. The early sunlight streamed in through the windows of his studio-turned-home, casting a warm glow over everything. The view of the vast ocean beyond the windows made the space feel even more intimate, like the world outside was folded into the room.

      You stood before his collection of ocean paintings, your gaze lingering on the turbulent seascapes. Rafayel had just finished explaining a place called Lemuria, though your mind felt strangely detached from the details.

      "Yeah, it just… looks so familiar," you mumbled, tracing the dark brushstrokes of one of the stormier pieces. Rafayel’s ears perked up at your words.

      "Really? Tell me more."

      You hesitated, the strange pull in your chest growing stronger. "I don’t know. It's like I feel homesick when I look at it. Not that it's my home, but like it’s a place that’s always been a part of me, even though I’ve never been there. Something about it feels like it's taken a part of me, but I don’t know what that part is." You exhaled slowly, your fingers lingering over the canvas. "It’s like this place isn’t mine, but it holds something of mine forever. And for some reason, I feel so angry about it."

      Rafayel’s voice softened as he took in your words. "That’s interesting."

      “Really? How come.” You ask.

      “Because I was thinking of Lemuria when I painted those,” He confessed.

      "Do you miss it?" you inquired, though the moment the words left your mouth, you immediately realized how obvious the answer would be. Of course, he missed it. It was a silly question, but you couldn’t help it.

      He paused for a moment, lost in thought. He had shared a few fragments of it before, describing the place he once called home and his identity as a Lemurian.

      He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on something beyond the kitchen, a small, wistful smile forming on his lips. You watched him carefully, wondering what was going through his mind in that quiet moment.

      He approached you with two cups in hand, offering one to you before both of you settled near the large glass window. You gazed out at the sparkling sea, the peaceful view stretching endlessly before you. He leaned back, his palms resting on the floor behind him, eyes fixed on you. His gaze was soft and intense as he took you in, just as you were taking in the painting just a few minutes ago. It stung a little whenever he looked at you. A part of him was in you, lodged in a place so deeply familiar to him, a piece of his heart quietly nestled within you. And you didn’t even know it.

      "It's funny," you began, your voice soft, as if revealing a secret you'd been holding onto for a long time. But something in you felt different now, like this was the right moment to finally say it. You felt safe enough, as though he wouldn't laugh at you or call you crazy.

      "Hm?" Rafayel responded, his attention fully on you.

      You took a deep breath, gathering the words that had been lodged in your chest for so long. "It's like… I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like your face has been carved into my heart, and I don’t remember when or why, but the scar is there, and I can’t make it go away. It won’t heal. I can’t get it to fade." You let out a small, nervous laugh, almost expecting him to think you were being ridiculous too. But instead, you were met with a heavy silence.

      When you turned your head at him, the air in the room shifted. Something had fallen to the ground, and the sound was sharp, unexpected. Delicate white beads scattered across the floor, catching the light. That’s when you saw it. The unmistakable glistening in the corner of his eyes—pearls, slowly calcifying as hot tears began to spill over.

      "What's wrong?" you asked, the question barely above a whisper. Your heart twisted in your chest, unsure how to process the raw emotion that seemed to suddenly flood him.

      His eyes were fixed on you now, he didn’t speak immediately, as though weighing the weight of your confession. The steady hum of the sea outside seemed to fade into the background as everything in the room focused on the space between you.

      He didn’t look away. His eyes softened, and you noticed the way his jaw tightened, a sign of restraint—or maybe he was simply processing the vulnerability that had just unfolded in front of him.

      “I've always felt homesick for the longest time.” Rafayel's voice cracked as he spoke, each word heavy with an unspoken weight. He reached his palm out towards your face, gently caressing it before his fingers fell to your chin. “Since you, I haven’t felt that."

      His eyes lingered, not in pity or concern, but with an almost unbearable intensity, as if he was struggling to find the right words. There was an undercurrent to his silence.

      It was almost as if he was afraid that if he spoke, if he let too much slip, it would all crumble—like a fragile house of cards teetering on the edge of collapse. The way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers twitched nervously at his sides, it all suggested a tension far deeper than the moment you shared. Something inside him was holding back.

      His gaze softened for just a moment, as if he was considering something. But then, with a quiet sigh, he looked away, his eyes dropping to the scattered pearls at his feet. The shift was subtle, but it was there, like a door closing before you could step through it.

      the edge of something deep like a kelp bed. Grief and heartbreak colored his face, but so did love and hope. It was bittersweet. You wondered if he knew something you didn’t. A truth he was keeping locked away behind those sunset eyes, too painful or too dangerous to reveal.

[enmi-land]

ʬʬʬ 𝓨OUTUBE.COM ▹ NOW PLAYiNG . . .

ⓘ THE M iN MiLA STANDS FOR MEME MATERiAL . . .

(˶ˆᗜˆ˵) FANMADE. #2023. ꗃ PREViEW A compilation of Mila’s fairly recent funny moments.

CLIP 1, WEVERSE LIVE

“Hello everyone, welcome to my special Weverse live.” Mila stands in front of the camera, which is set up in the kitchen of what appears to be a hotel room, wearing a fuzzy hoodie with bear ears and matching shorts. “‘Mila you’re so cute’?” she reads out while squinting. She shakes her head and waves her finger. “No, no—I am not cute. Today, I am a chef.”

Mila takes a few steps back and holds her arms out. “That’s right, everyone. Today, I’m in the kitchen because I’m going to be learning to cook braised stew for my future husband.” She smiles and throws her hands up in a cheering motion. “Yay!”

As Mila prepares her ingredients and utensils while reading the recipe on her phone, she answers comments from viewers, which all seem fascinated with her sudden decision to cook stew.

“I’m training,” Mila answers, “So I can make my future hubby lots of yummy food and be a good daughter-in-law.”

But five minutes later, and she doesn’t seem to be doing so well.

“Everyone, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Mila says as she transfers the pot of (burning) food to the counter. “If my husband loves me, it won’t matter if I can’t cook, right guys?” She smiles as she holds two thumbs up. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Which, yeah, but also—good food would still be really nice to have too.

CLIP 2, YOUTUBE SHORT

Mila decides to prank Heeseung while he’s in the studio filming a Weverse live at the company building. She watches his live and approaches the room he’s in, before turning the lights off in the hallway. She then makes a loud banging noise on the door and, upon seeing Heeseung about to stand up through his live feed, immediately starts to sprint off, recording the whole thing on her phone.

She giggles quietly as she runs, her camera’s focus moving erratically. But halfway through her escape, Mila tropes and ends up falling to the floor with a loud “AeGH!”

Thankfully, it isn’t live since she would worry Engenes (or be mocked for it by her boyfriends), so Mila simply laughs and rolls over. But at that moment the lights turn on, and Heeseung appears, causing Mila to jump back screaming, “YOU SCARED ME!”

“What are you doing?” Heeseung asks, both confused and concerned.

To this, Mila immediately jumps off the floor and runs off, hiding her face as if Heeseung didn’t already recognise her.

“Milana,” he calls out down the hall as she flees, “where are you going?”

She doesn’t turn back and instead yells, “It’s not me!” in a voice that totally sounds very much not like her, at all. (It’s totally her.)

CLIP 3, WEVERSE LIVE

“I like ass-thetics too,” Mila says in response to the comment. But Kiara ends up choking on her drink as she registers her pronunciation of the word, turning to Mila with a surprised expression.

“Wait—say that again,” the older female says.

Mila blinks. “Ass-thetics?”

Kiara very visibly smothers a laugh as she turns to the camera, before turning back to Mila. “You mean ‘aes-thetics’?”

“That’s what I said,” Mila replies, looking confused. “Ass-thetics.” 

Kiara bursts out laughing, and has to lean her head on the table to hide her face from the camera. Mila, on the other hand, turns back to the camera and flips her hair over her shoulder with a judgemental expression. “Anyway, like I was saying…” 

Mila reads out another comment, this time, more confidently than before. “‘I like Mila’s ass-thetic’,” it reads, causing Mila to respond with, “Thank you. I have a very nice ass…thetic.”

The pause between the two syllables of the word, paired with her pronunciation, causes Kiara to almost fall off her chair with laughter. Her shoulders shake and she has to hold on to Mila’s arm to stop her from leaning back too far. All the while, Mila simply ignores the older female and nods sagely at the camera.

“It’s true,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have a nice ass—”

CLIP 4, BEHIND THE SCENES SKETCH

“How do we know where the center is?” Kiara asks the choreographer when they’re told to practice without a marker for their Sweet Venom choreo, which starts slightly off-centre.

To this Mila replies confidently, “the center is wherever I am.”

And then she has a sassy expression as she ticks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m the center.”

Period.

CLIP 5, WEVERSE LIVE

Mila is talking to the camera when she receives a text. As she picks her phone up, she gasps and announces to Engenes that Sunghoon and Jake are on their way. After a while of deliberation, she decided, “Hold on, I’ll lock the door.”

She giggles to herself as she leaves the frame for a bit and comes back to sit down, before putting a hand to her lips. “They won’t be able to get in.”

Just as Mila is about to continue with her live, there’s a loud sound coming from the door. Mila looks over and her jaw practically unhinges, before she’s covering her mouth with her hand.

“H-how did you get in?” Sunghoon and Jake approach her and she moves back, using the rolling wheels of the chair that she’s seated on. “I locked the door…”

“Why did you lock the door?” Sunghoon asks, and uses his foot to stop her from moving away any further. His expression isn’t visible since he’s not facing the camera, but his hands are in his pockets and his eyes are looking down at Mila.

Jake throws an arm around Mila’s chair and brings her back to the center of the camera frame as if nothing’s wrong, a smug smirk on his face as she addresses the Engenes watching their live. Sunghoon’s hand is seen resting on the back of her chair, but Engenes notices that he subtly reaches up or grip the back of her neck, before leaning down towards the camera.

Through it all, Mila is staring at the camera, expressing a wide range of emotions from “did that just happen?” to “I’m so screwed.” Engenes don’t know what happens after, but they do know her unadulterated look of complete bafflement will forever be funny to them.

The woman is just too stunned to speak.

CLIP 6, WEVERSE LIVE

“Mila, there’s something behind you,” someone says in the comments. Mila clicks her tongue and gives the camera her best look of disgusted judgement.

“Gurl!” she says, holding up a finger and doing a ‘no-no’ motion, “You’re not fooling anybody.”

She then goes back to reading comments, not noticing that there is in fact something behind her. It may not be a person, but something nonetheless.

Mila looks to the side for a second, but probably catches movement in her peripheral vision, because she’s whipping around on her chair to face the spider that’s been dangling from the roof for the past five minutes.

Mila immediately lets out the most unholy screech she’s ever managed, and flies backward in her chair, followed by a loud bang as she (presumably) falls to the floor.

“Gah, get it out!” The fans don’t see anything except the sight of Mila throwing random things into the air, even long after the spider is gone. She eventually resurfaces in front of the camera, eyes wide with panic. “Everyone, is it gone?”

Like, yes girl, it’s gone—gone to the afterlife.

CLIP 7, WEVERSE LIVE

“We met an Engene today!” Mila says excitedly to the screen, as she narrates the events of her day to viewers. “We were walking down the street together, and she came us to us like ‘Oh my gosh, I’m a huge fan,’ and I was like, ‘Awww thanks!’ And we took a picture together.”

“Right,” Riki says, nodding along.

“She was really pretty, too,” Mila adds.

At this point, no one knows if Riki even heard anything Mila just said, because he’s still staring at the camera, licking his lips as he nods—though it seems more like out of habit than for any real meaning. To the viewers at least.

Mila clearly doesn’t think the same because all of a sudden, her head turns to him at the speed of lightning. Riki looks at her and makes eye contact, before asking, “What?” 

Mila opens her mouth to say something, but then decides against it and just turns to the screen. This time, it’s clear she’s in a bad mood, because she doesn’t have a hint of a smile on her face. Instead, she puckers her lip and gives Riki a harsh side-eye, and then turning to take a sip of her drink… very loudly.

For the rest of the live, she continues to give telling side glances at Riki, as well as loudly sipping on her drink, which Engenes will never forget to edit using a “bombastic side-eye” audio in the background.

(Riki, please tell your girlfriend she’s pretty, too.) 

CLIP 8, EN-LOG

When Mila has to go through a haunted house with Kiara, she busies herself by dancing and signing random songs to hide just how scared she is.

“JUST WANT TEN MINUTES,” she sings loudly, before jumping when one of the actors jumps out before her. “OH LAWD—“ she hands her head down and scurries off, continuing to sing the lyrics of her song. “NAE GEOSO DONEUN SIGAN—!”

It gets to the point where she’s switching between songs and dancing free wrong choreography because all she wants to do is get out of this place. But of course, she ends up being scared so badly she screams and falls to the floor, before completely passing out.

Well, pretending to, anyway.

“Yah! Get up,” Kiara says, shaking her still body on the floor.

“Can’t I just stay here?” Mila asks. “I’m already dead anyway.”

Kiara almost says something like, “Think of your boyfriends!” But, fortunately for Mila, she doesn’t.

CLIP 9, PRESS VIDEO

Mila is working along the streets when a reporter approaches her, asking her to pose for some photos.

“Uh, I don’t know, I’m a bit busy,” Mila replies nonchalantly while wearing a pair of sunglasses. However, as soon as she says this, she’s striking a not-so-subtle model-like pose in the middle of the street. A second later, she’s walking again and confines talking: “I might not have time to take photos.”

Yet, she, immediately after saying this, spins and stands next to a bouquet of flowers on display in front of a florist shop on the side of the street, doing at least three different poses to show both it and the name of the florist off like the professional voluntary brand ambassador that she is.The photographer doesn’t say anything, though, and simply takes the photos with quick shutters of the camera.

“Like I said,” she says as she continues walking as if nothing happened, “these days are very busy.”

She nods to herself and struts off with an exaggerated catwalk, stopping every meter or so to strike a random and quite frankly ridiculous pose. But what can she say? It’s difficult multitasking.

CLIP 10, FANMEET

Mila is listening intently to a fan as she spills all the tea, before her expression turns into one of progressive disgust the longer the fan goes on about this particular subject. Mila promptly puts her hand on the fan’s face, before looking her deeply in the eyes.

“Unnie, listen to me,” she says, as the fan stutters on their words. “He’s just a man—a really trashy one, too. You can do better. Just leave him.”

CLIP 11, SEND-OFF EVENT

“Mila, can you sign my photocard?” Mila is happy to oblige the request, until she looks at the photocard in question. She is absolutely flabbergasted at the confession and stares at the Engene in front of her with absolute betrayal. The fan has the decency to feel bad, and starts to apologise. “I’m sorry! I just—hahahaha!”

Mila holds the photocard to the fan’s camera to show off the photo, which is of Mila when she was younger. A very unflattering photo of her, if you ask Mila, since her hair is a mess, her clothes are a mish-mash of colours that don’t go well together, and there’s drool on the corner of her mouth. 

“Seriously?” she asks the fan, her hand on her hip. “Of all the pictures—you know what, I’m just going to take this.”

The fan gasps. “NAURRRR!”

“Fine, fine, give it here,” and then Mila proceeds to pull a pen from her bra, an action which has the fan screaming her lungs out, causing Mila to once again look at her with the same look of disbelief from before. “Girl, are you okay?”

CLIP 12, WEVERSE LIVE

“‘Jay sounds like a father,’” Mila reads out the comment after Jay scolds some Engenes for staying up too late. “Right? He acts like one, too.” She turns to him and says. “Daddy.”

Mila doesn’t realise the weirdness of her statement until after she states it out loud, and burst out laughing when Jay turns his head at breakneck speed. Mila covers her mouth and leans against the desk to hide her expression, but her shoulders start to shake from her laughter.

When she looks up again, her face has both a look of embarrassment and amusement at the same time, as Jay continues to stare at her with a hard gaze. As soon as she locks eyes with him, though, her smile drops. She looks between the camera and him, and realising that he isn’t as amused, presses her lips into a thin line and awkwardly fiddles with her hands.

“Sorry,” she says. And when Jay finally looks away from her and changes the topic, her eyes look around the room awkwardly. “So, anyway—!”

CLIP 13, FANMEET

“Mila, why did you cut your hair?”

Mila gasps at the question, as if remembering something, and covers her mouth. “You won’t believe it!”

She leans closer to the Engene in front of her as she recounts her tale, which starts during a night out with her friends. “We were walking around somewhere, but I really don’t remember where because I was drunk—anyway! I got home and was knocked out as soon as I went to lie on my bed. But when I woke up in the morning and went to brush my hair, I noticed I couldn’t run my hand through my hair! A piece of gum got stuck there!”

The Engene gasps. “So what happened?”

“I tried to get it out myself by cutting it, but I didn’t realise how hard it would be to cut gum out of my hair, so I ended up just cutting all my hair off… I had to get it straightened out by a hairdresser and it ended up really short like it is now.” Mila nods solemnly, before cracking a smile. “My hairstylist cried, though—it was kind of funny.”

CLIP 14, EN-O’CLOCK

It’s during the episode when there playing billiards. Mila has to sit on the side of the pool table to get a clearer shot, and is aiming the cue stick when she suddenly flips her hair over her shoulder. She then leans down exaggeratedly, revealing the slope of her neck to the camera.

Jake does a low whistle of appreciation, and the others laugh.

“Ooh, sexy!” Kiara cheers, clapping her hands.

“What even?” Jungwon says with a smile. “Excuse me, this is a family-friendly show!”

“Oh, sorry sorry!” Mila sits straight again and takes her shot. But immediately after, she leans against the pool table and poses saucily for the camera again. “Paint me like one of your French girls.”

“What even?” Sunoo asks, covering his mouth as he watches Mila’s antics. “What is she doing?”

Nobody really knows anymore—not even Mila herself.

© ENMI-LAND, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, REPOST.

taglist⠀( OPEN ! ) ⦂ @em1ejiee @menichoi @dracoslovergirl @rosas-in-the-garden @blossominghunnie @lovelypham @cornenhapovs @nee-issaire @jwnstars @tommina @queenriki7 @onlyuyu

[papathe5th]

The weather is currently nasty where I live. Imagine spending a rainy morning staying in & getting intimate with Papa V.

Well, what do you know? My Sunday morning was rainy and I did spent it writing about getting nasty with V.

I do have to warn you that it isn’t straight-up smut and I did add a bit of angst by inserting some of my own head canons about V as a youngster.

Thank you for sending me this prompt and I hope you enjoy reading it!

Pairing: Papa V Perpetua x GN!Reader

Words: 1400

Rating: 18+

It was ten in the morning when Papa V Perpetua woke up, but it might as well have been ten in the evening. The world beyond his window was gray, gloomy and wet with no sun or other star in sight.

He rolled over on his back and stretched out his arm on the other half of the bed. Your half of the bed. And he was disappointed not to find you or your lingering warmth there.

His new house didn’t feel like a home until he got the smell of your on his brand new sheets. The log cabin doubled as a recording studio which the Clergy had prepared for the Ghost frontman to live in between tour dates. He doesn’t stop being a rockstar when he's off-stage, but he can focus solely on you while on break.

Speaking of, where were you on this stormy Sunday morning?

Slipping on his royal purple silk robe, he stepped out of the bedroom with sleep still stuck in his eyes. Sleep and black eyeliner.

He arrived late last night and couldn’t wait to get his silver claws into your soft thighs. He didn’t even bother getting all the face make-up off in the shower you took together.

He found you by following the smell of freshly grinded coffee beans. You were in the kitchen preparing breakfast for two. The domestic scene stopped him in his tracks.

He’d never witnessed it as a child, and, as a younger man, he never allowed himself to linger with a lover for long enough to share with them a moment like this.

Things were different with you. You’ve both felt the pull to the darkness and let yourselves be consumed by it. The Ministry shed light on what your souls have known all along. And you found faith in each other.

“Good morning, Papa,” you smiled wide, your eyes as bright as the sun that is currently behind a curtain of storm clouds. “Two spoons of sugar, right?”

Papa took his coffee black with a sprinkling of something sweet. Honey would do just as well, but he felt like having a taste of you this morning.

He followed you as you set the cups on the coffee table next to the breakfast that was still steaming. You could’ve chosen to sit on the leather couch next to him, but you settled on the fur rug.

With your back to the fireplace, you had a glow about you that was not unlike a halo from where he was sitting.

“Thank you,” he finally spoke, his worn throat in dire need of that coffee you lovingly prepared for him.

“I also prepared some honeyed tea,” you smiled.

“Tea?”

“For your voice,” you swallowed a bite before answering. “For the new demos the Clergy sent in yesterday,” you reminded him of his daily schedule, as it was your duty.

“Copia is trying to get me to ruin my voice,” he grumbled, his throat feeling like gravel. “It’s my first day off in months and he wants to put me back in the recording booth? Today?”

You swallowed a lump in your throat. It looked to him as if you were biting your tongue.

“He wants to put me in the recording booth today, doesn’t he?”

You nod, looking into your own coffee cup as he gulps down his own.

“That’s a shame,” he sighs dramatically, loud enough to overpower the record player. “I’m not stepping anywhere near a microphone today.”

It’s the first record he ever owned. He played it in the store he worked at in the 1990’s when they were already going out of style.

“How did you turn it on? Did you even know what a record player looked like before I showed you?”

He was teasing you, as he always does, about the age difference between the two of you.

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” you answered him, rolling your eyes. “And you are not that old.” You teased him back, the smile never leaving your face, but your eyes remained out of his sight. “You kept me up last night.”

You went back to innocently sipping your coffee, while he felt his boil in his veins. The music you made together the other night couldn’t compare to whatever his brother sent over. He had tortured you with his teeth and healed you with his tongue, playing you like a fiddle. Now the thought that his bite marks might’ve turned purple on your thighs wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Show me,” he said faintly like he was surrendering his last breath. “Show me how I kept you up last night.”

He leaned in, forearms on his knees, watching your smile turn wicked as you let the black bathrobe slip off your shoulders. Leaning back on your elbows, you spread your legs before him. And he would’ve dove between them if it weren’t for the coffee table standing in his way.

Rising from the couch, his cock rose with him, picking a purple silk tent. When he made it between your thighs, he was still standing, scrutinising the teeth marks and claw scars along your legs.

“I’m still sore,” you confess, your teeth clenching as you raise your foot to drag up his leg, catching the robe and exposing his thigh. “This is what an old man did to me, Papa. Imagine what a young man could’ve done.”

A young man wouldn’t know what to do with a radiant being like you. And Papa would never admit that he would’ve called Mr. Psalterian to take you back to the Ministry if he were still the scared, stupid young man he was when he played Stairway to Heaven backwards trying to find an answer to the darkness inside him.

What he said instead was what he feared his younger self would’ve said. “He would’ve ruined you.”

Seeing your eyes widen and your mouth fall slack was the invitation he had been waiting for.

Grabbing your ankle, he kneels between your legs and places the foot on his shoulder. If he were still young, he would enter you dry, but he knows better now. Wetting his index and middle finger, he teases your entrance with his warm spit. His mouth was watering for you, so there’s plenty where that came from.

“Papa,” you pleaded, pushing against his fingers. You were ready to make more music with him.

“He wouldn’t hold back,” he breathed through his nose, teeth clenched as the head of his cock stretched you. Then, he slammed inside, flesh slapping against flesh.

You made a pained noise that you tried to muffle with your hand.

“No,” he snatched your hand away, pinning it next to your head as he hovered over your body. Your leg was up to your chest, still suspended on his shoulder. “Don’t you hold back either.”

When he started moving, pulling himself out and pushing himself back in, you allowed your whines to flow freely.

“I want it all. I want your screams, your praises, your curses,” he was panting, pistoning into you, losing himself inside. “I want it to hurt. I want to hurt you,” he hears his own raspy voice, but can’t understand the words they’re roaring. That young man was still inside him and he was hurt you weren’t in the world when he needed you.

“It hurts so good,” you scream for him, gifting him your every breath as he knocks it out of your lungs with each snap of his hips. “Papa, you hurt so good.”

He steals your air anyway, holding your throat with the tenderness only the man he was today could. And he kisses your breath away as he slams into you for the final time.

The silk was stuck to the sweat running down his spine as he climbed off of you, laying on his back onto the fur rug. His eyes closed as he listened to the delicious sounds you made as you tried to move. The ache must’ve been just as tasty to you.

When he opened his eyes for the second time that morning, you were laid next to him. He stretches his arm and wraps it around you, pulling you against his sticky chest. As your heart finally settles, he raises to his elbows to look into your sleepy eyes as the turntable plays the last notes of Led Zeppelin IV.

“Fuck Copia and his demos,” he cleared his voice. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

[dprvivi]

DATING P1HARMONY HEADCANONS :)

Ot6 x reader

Warnings: none really but some are a bit suggestive

Note: this is my first time posting, feedback is appreciated:)

THEO:

would be hesitant about intruding you to the other members but would love to introduce you to his parents early

he would probably brag about you all the time to his members

when you finally do meet the members he would be nervous, not about you but about them because he knows that they can be a lot

not very into pda but when you are alone he has his hands on you at all times

his favorite kind of date is probably something simple like gabbing coffee or having dinner

I think he wouldn’t mind you paying for dinner or dates but would always offer for him to pay first

wouldn’t want you to be involved in his work at all and would probably like to keep private and work separate

would still insist on always making you listen to new songs and then asking how you like his parts

not the biggest texter but likes to check in at least Daily no matter how busy he is

would send you Songs he likes

compliments you but likes it more when you compliment him

probably a big tease

will sing 24/7 especially in the car

is into showering together but never at the dorm and only at your place

would love to play his guitar for you whenever you are at the dorm and would practice love songs to play for you

texts you after every concert to tell you how it went but is pretty hard on himself

I think he would like to FaceTime when he’s away from home for longer, he likes FaceTime more then calls because wants you to see his face

KEEHO:

Theo sings 24/7… keeho sings 25/8

like seriously if you don’t like that you are dating the wrong person

is into pda, not too much tho like he would want to make out in front of others but definitely would like small touches and a kiss

loves going out together

especially when you go somewhere and dress up like fancy dinner

would be all gentleman about dates: pick you up, open the car doop and definitely pay

idk why but I feel like he makes awkward compliments, not awkward with the meaning but awkward because he brings them over awkwardly or at random times (but in a cute way)

would def introduce you to the members quickly but that’s mostly because he would want you at the dorm A LOT

very much into long and heavy make out sessions but only behind closed doors ofc

he is into nicknames like baby and babe

likes when you compliment his style or specific outfits he wears on stage

takes pictures of you when he thinks the lighting or background somewhere is good and would probably be very serious about it like you are a model for vouge

definitely wants you to meet his parents and if you don’t have plans for Christmas he will ask you to go to Toronto with him

always tells you about how he wants to make your relationship public but isn’t allowed to

would love it if you are backstage waiting for him at concerts

JIUNG:

the definition of boyfriend material fr

definitely shows you off anywhere (he is a proud bf)

he is the type that dates to marry so he will probably start imagining how his last name suits your first name since day 1

Calls you nicknames like darling

would love it when you are at the studio or at concerts with him but would definitely like to keep things light in front of others

but if you are alone in the dressing room or studio he would have his hands all over you telling you how much he loves seeing you at his work

Shows you new lyrics and songs all the time but expects you to be honest with him

cares for you and about you so much, like he enjoys taking care of you when you are not feeling well and checking in on you throughout the day

would also like you at the dorm

I see him wanting to cook with you like making dinner for the other members together

or sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night to make some kind of dessert which will lead to a super sweet make out session in the kitchen

compliments your mind and intelligence over your body

he is the type of guy to move strands of hair out of your face and look you deep in the eyes

cheek kisses>>> giving and receiving

LOVES watching romantic movies with you and holds you close the entire time, when s sad scene comes on the will hold you a bit tighter

would recommend you books and movies

when he’s on tour he would like too call every other day or so

will cry if he misses your birthday or your anniversary because of tour

plans the cutest dates ever for important days like that

INTAK:

we all know he’s a golden retriever

loved pda and loved showing other people how much he loves you

cannot wait for you to meet the members

will ask keeho what he thinks of you but will only accept good answers

he likes going shopping with you and he would go insane if you let him pick out stuff for you to try on

compliments you so much just because he cannot let you forget how perfect you are

SHOWERS you in kisses

loves it so much when you call him nicknames

i think he would actually stop breathing if he saw you in a hoodie or t-Shirt if his

likes dates but prefers staying in

when he talks about you to his friends he has the biggest smile on his face

he will ask you to come to the studio when he’s alone and show you new choreography’s that he is working on

would slow dance with you at any time and would probably nearly cry because he can’t believe how lucky he is

he would be so nervous when it comes to meeting your family or friends because what if they don’t like him

hates fighting more then anything in the world and hates it so much when you are mad at him

he will apologize so much and probably be in tears

loves cuddling and will always ask you to stay over for the night even if you have school/work in the morning

loves words of affirmation like he just loves hearing that you love him or that something he did made you feel good stuff like that

likes talking to you but could also hear you talk for days

SHOTA:

loves physical touch especially when you initiate it

Likes holding hands or having arms interlocked or leaning against each other

would love to game with you

builds you minecraft worlds even if you don’t play Minecraft

staying in bed and gaming/ watching YouTube is probably his ideal evening with you

loves texting during the day

he would probably enjoy if you would tell him random and small things without context

sends you his little symbol emoji’s 24/7

since you are probably still in school or maybe Uni he would try to help you with homework if studying but distracts you more then anything

would remember when you have tests and text you good luck

buys you stuffed animals all the time or wins them for you at arcade games (will name them too and call them your children)

dreams about taking you to japan and always tells you about all the places you have to visit once you two are there

will get all shy when you compliment him on anything

Shows you his dance moves very proudly but will definitely be nervous about your opinion

would be sooo flustered when you wear something more revealing around him but would love it and he will let you know

Probably likes the relationship to move slow because he doesn’t want to make it feels rushed or make you feel pressured

just a cutie

JONGSEOB:

so shy at first but as soon as you are together he is all yours and so open

incredibly nervous about you meeting the members because he just knows that they will embarrass him

Not to big on pda but loves holding your hand when he’s nervous

doesn’t like making first steps but just because he’s never sure with the timing

brings you into the studio at night all the time and loved spending time with you there

writes lyrics for you and sends them to you

loves listening to music with you

likes going out and staying in

I see him enjoying movie dates and shopping in vintage stores

He is OBSESSED with talking pictures of you with his camera

he will show the pictures to jiung or Theo and won’t stop talking about how cute you look

you are definitely his muse

also likes gaming together, Mario cart against him will lead to making out one way or another

he likes when you stay over for the night because he loves walking up next to you

will text you a lot and gets excited about seeing a text from you pop up on his phone

Blushes when you compliment him

he is hard on himself with his music so he appreciates it so much when you tell him you like something

Loves late night calls

his love language is sharing headphones

he is so interested in you, he wants to know everything’s and could listen to you all day without cutting you off once

[kykyonthemoon]

Hey! If this isn’t too much too ask can you do a chapter with like it’s the mcs birthday and they celebrate it with rafayel

Dear Anon-san,

It might already pass your birthday, but I do hope you enjoy this piece. Happy (belated) birthday! And thank you for sending me this ask 💙 I had a magical time writing it.

A Day In The Heart Of The Ocean

It was your birthday, and Rafayel brought the entire ocean to you.

── .✦ Rafayel x Reader (MC)

♡︎. Tags: fluff, birthday fluff, magical, Rafayel in his merman form, a really short fic.

♡︎. Word count: 687w

── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic - closed for the time being.

You had no clue why Rafayel insisted on you staying the night at his house until you awoke the next morning and found yourself in some mystical realm.

There were numerous flower petals of all sorts scattered over the bed and floor. They created a carpet beneath your feet. You remembered sleeping in a room that was not like the one you were seeing: a genuine aquarium with walls that recreated the ocean. You reached out a hand. What a surprise! The front wall was actually made of water! You even felt tickled as the tiny fish swam across your fingertips. You rubbed your eyes. Were you dreaming still?

Following the flower carpet spread on the floor, you left the room. Everything out there was even more magical. It was as if Rafayel's entire mansion had sunk to the bottom of the ocean while you were asleep. While admiring the water from the window, you pondered what was going on here.

You must find Rafayel. From the living room to the kitchen and his studio; everything was vacant. You wanted to go out to the garden to find him, but the main door was locked. At that time, panic struck you.

“Rafayel? Where are you?!"

You kept calling his name. In response, there was only the sound of the ocean chanting lullabies. Everything was blurry as if you were in a dreaming state. You squeezed your arm till it ached. No. You were not in a dream. Then why were you here?

At that moment, there was a light tap on one of the windows. There was no one outside, only a school of jellyfish passing by. One of the two doors was ajar, but not a drop of seawater spilled inside. You moved closer and pushed both windows open.

The most melodious song ever to your ears was played. It seemed far away, yet so close. You glanced around, searching. Rafayel's garden was completely submerged in water. And then, you found him.

That was not Rafayel as you knew. In front of you was a merman.

Feeling your presence, Rafayel turned around and smiled. His eyes sparkled a soft blue. His ears had been replaced with those of a mythical creature undersea. And his legs had vanished, leaving only a long merman tail with each layer of scales emitting an aura. He instantly swam to your side, leaning on the window sill. His face and bare chest leaned inside the room to be close to you.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

You were still astounded by Rafayel's merman form. You had seen him like that before, but this time it was entirely different. He took your hand and asked:

“Are you ready?”

"Huh?"

“This is my gift to you,” Rafayel explained. “Today is your birthday after all.”

You let out a loud "oh". You did not even remember that it was your birthday. Rafayel had given you such a big surprise. You stammered:

“You... remember?...”

“Of course I do, silly!” He laughed. “Who do you think that could prepare all this for you in just one night?”

“How did you?...” You could not find any words to describe this place anymore. 

"Exceptionally surprising, isn't it?" Rafayel smiled triumphantly. “This is the very first time you celebrate your birthday with me. Of course I have to make it a laaaaaaaaasting memory you won't ever forget!”

“Thank you… Rafayel…” You were so touched that you could start to cry.

“Follow me,” Rafayel gently squeezed your hand. “The entire ocean today will be yours alone, your highness the princess.”

Rafayel placed a kiss on your hand, and before you could do anything, he pulled you into the sea water. You battled for a long while, fearing that you might drown. Then, you were surprised to discover that you could open your eyes and breathe normally in that environment. 

You glanced at Rafayel. He clutched your hand firmly while you were both floating above the garden. Even though his lips did not move, strangely, you could hear his voice clearly. He was singing in Lemurian.

“Happy birthday to you, my beloved.”

[meltinglikeasugarcube]

Can you write a fic where Taylor is having a bad day and tries to push reader away, but reader keeps doing things for her anyway? Then like Taylor thanks reader whether it be fluffy or smutty (whichever you prefer)

Title: MAKE IT EASY

Word Count: 683

Pairing: Taylor Swift x Female Reader

“I made some tea,” you say gently, stepping into the living room where Taylor sits. She barely glances up, too caught in the frustration simmering beneath her skin. You know her well enough to recognize when she’s in a mood like this—annoyed, restless, scribbling furiously in her notebook because something in the studio didn’t click today. A track for Reputation isn’t sounding right, and she hasn’t figured out why yet.

You also know better than to bother her when she’s like this. You have your own creative process, your own battles with perfectionism, so you understand. But you’re only in New York for the day, and it stings that you won’t get any real time with her before you have to leave for the European leg of your tour.

Still, you don’t push. You set the warm mug down on the coffee table in front of her and quietly retreat, casting one last glance her way. Furrowed brows, fingers tight around her pen, headphones on—she’s deep in it, probably listening to whatever isn’t working on loop.

In the kitchen, you sigh and scoop Olivia up for a cuddle, running a hand through her soft fur as you think. You want to help. You start small—tidying up the kitchen, nothing drastic, just giving yourself something to do. Then, you move to her closet, pulling out a pair of her favorite soft shorts and a worn, comfy t-shirt, laying them neatly on the bed. You head back to the kitchen.

Food. Maybe food will help.

You decide on creamy garlic parmesan chicken with pasta, something hearty but easy to eat. It takes nearly an hour, but Taylor doesn’t once step into the kitchen.

When everything’s ready, you return to the living room. She still looks just as frustrated.

“Hey,” you say softly. “I made dinner.”

“Mm,” she hums, not looking up. “I’m not hungry right now.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“I’m fine,” she sighs, fingers dragging through her hair. “I need to get this done, okay? This track isn’t working, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe if you take a little break—” you suggest, gentle.

“No, just let me be, okay?” she groans, voice quiet but sharp.

You blink, momentarily stunned, but swallow down your frustration. Instead of arguing, you return to the kitchen and eat alone, chewing through irritation as much as the meal.

Then, another idea comes to you.

You start running a bath, filling it with her favorite oils and salts, lighting the candle she always burns when she needs to unwind. The water turns a soft, welcoming pink, steam curling into the air. When it’s ready, you plate up her food and return to the living room, this time with more resolve.

You stand in front of her, silent, waiting. After a few seconds, she finally looks up, sighing at your persistence. You hand her the plate.

“Eat,” you say firmly.

“I don’t—”

“Take those off," you nod toward her headphones. “And eat.”

She exhales sharply, eyes narrowing for a beat, but then she gives in. She takes the plate, and you step away to pour her a glass of wine, setting it down on the table beside her before leaving her to it.

You busy yourself cleaning the kitchen. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, you sense her behind you. She sets her empty plate and glass on the counter, then rests her head against your shoulder.

“Sorry I was so rude,” she murmurs.

Relief makes your entire body relax. You sigh, turning to her, brushing your thumb along her cheek. She tilts her head slightly, catlike, leaning into your touch.

“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Come with me.”

You take her hand and lead her to the bathroom. Her expression shifts the moment she sees the bath, the tension in her shoulders easing.

You trail your hands down her arms, then cup her face, pressing a slow kiss to her lips.

“My sweet baby,” you whisper. “Relax.”

“But it’s hard,” she whines, and you chuckle, kissing her again.

“I’ll make it easy for you.”

[senditcolton]

It Would've Been Sweet...

...if it could've been me.

summary: there was no good reason for you to be in TD Garden during a Game 7 Stanley Cup Final Game. especially when the only connection you had to the sport was your ex-boyfriend Joel Edmundson, who you had left in St. Louis six months ago. but here you were. what were you doing here? song inspo: The 1 by Taylor Swift word count: 8.8k warnings: time jumps [past is in italics], argument scene, language, angst with a bittersweet ending Disclaimer: Reading/creating content for married players isn’t for everyone. Please don’t read if you don’t vibe with it, but don’t attack me or others!

What were you doing here?

That was the question running on loop through your mind as your eyes stay glued to the ice a few dozen feet below. There was absolutely no reason for you to step foot in this arena. There was no good reason why you shouldn’t be in your studio apartment on Newbury Street right now, curled up under your blankets, watching re-runs of bad reality TV.

When you received a text earlier that day from an old friend, asking if you had any plans, you knew what she was going to propose. You had seen the news. You had felt the energy go up in this east coast sports city. And you knew why your friend – a friend who you hadn’t seen since you moved 1,200 miles across the country – was in the city you now called home and had asked you to join her at this place on this night of all nights.

You knew all of this and could list all the reasons why you shouldn’t have responded; why you should’ve ghosted her like you had everyone else you left in St. Louis. But despite all that, you texted her back.

That was how you found yourself sitting in a clubhouse suite in TD Garden, trying desperately to only focus on the black and yellow jerseys of the Boston Bruins zipping around the ice.

Trying not to look over at the other end of the rink. Trying not to look at the white jerseys with blue and gold detailing. Trying not to scan the sea of players for the one person you should’ve forgotten by now.

Trying not to have your eyes land on the number six emblazoned on your ex-boyfriend’s back.

What were you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.

But we were something, don’t you think so?

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The unfamiliar voice sounding from behind you tears you out of the peace you were taking in the quiet kitchen, causing you to spin around. You were ready to tell whoever it was off, ready to confront the person who was so bold as to say where you did and did not belong. However, the face that greets you, the owner of the voice, is not what you expected.

His head of chestnut brown curls was messy, his stunning hazel eyes sparkling as they rake up and down your body and his lips, surrounded by a light scruff, were twisted up into a small smirk. He was cute. Like, really cute. It also didn’t hurt that he was clad in swim trunks and a t-shirt that was cut short, exposing his muscular midriff.

You tighten your hand around the beer bottle you were holding as you lean back against counter, your face shifting from annoyance to mirror his casual bright expression.

“And why is that?” you ask, taking a small sip.

“Because,” this stranger starts, “this is Dunner’s party. And the Dunner I know would have never invited someone so gorgeous to his house and without hanging over her shoulder the entire time.”

You let out a light laugh, the compliment not escaping your notice.

“Oh really? How do you even know I was invited by Vince? Maybe I snuck into my neighbor’s house in the hopes of meeting a hot single man. Maybe this is the first step in my evil plan to make a professional hockey player to fall madly in love with me.”

“And how is that working out for you?”

“You tell me.”

The man in front of you lets out a big laugh, causing a genuine smile to grace your face. You liked the sound of it, the sight of his head being thrown back, his smile so bright it almost blinded you. He looked back at you, the grin still on his lips.

You hold out your hand to him, giving this stranger your name as an introduction and hoping he sees your somewhat formal greeting as an awkward indication of your interest. He gladly takes your hand in his, shaking it gently as he gives you his name in return.

“Joel.”

You two stand there for a moment longer, simply looking at each other and you are trying not to focus on the warmth of his palm and the energy that seems to be flowing between you.

“So, why are you here?” he asks, dropping his hand from yours and you try not to let your face fall in disappointment at the loss of his touch.

“My friend invited me,” you say, gesturing towards the crowd of people in backyard. “What you said earlier – that Vince would be draped over some gorgeous girl – you are right about that. It’s just that my friend Daphne is who Vince is attached to.”

Joel hums and softly nods hid head in understanding. He walks a few steps until he is resting his body against the counter right next to you, his arm slightly brushing the bare skin of your own.

“Okay, so that’s the reason why you’re at this party. But, why are you here?” he asks, lightly gesturing around the empty room before glancing over to you. You sigh, looking out the large glass windows facing the backyard, watching the rest of the party mingle on the grass or splash in the pool, their laughter dancing on the late summer breeze. And here you were, hiding in the kitchen.

“I thought it would be fun. Not sure if I was right,” you explain, your hands going to fiddle with the loose corner of the beer label. “But Daphne is always trying to get me to go out with her.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It just really isn’t my scene. I did the whole party life thing in college and now, it’s just kind of lost its appeal.”

Joel lets out another hum, his eyes focused on you. He glances back at his teammates, acting loud and rambunctious as always. It was a lot to take in, he realized, especially if you weren’t exposed to it for over half the year like he was. He looks back at you, your fingers still fidgeting with the damp paper, your eyes far away.

You were beautiful. The thought was in Joel’s head before he could even process what it meant. And he knew instantly that he didn’t want to see you worried, that he wanted to see you smile again.

“So, you aren’t trying to get an attractive, wealthy hockey player to fall in love with you?”

You let out a laugh, your eyes connecting with his once again. The sparkle in his irises tells you he is joking with you, trying to make you feel comfortable. But there is also another emotion behind it. You can see it trying to swim to the surface, a desire that hadn’t been directed your way in a long time.

“Well, never say never,” you quip back. “Do you happen to know someone who would be willing to be infatuated with me?”

Joel tilts his head back, his hand going to stroke the facial hair on his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

“There is this one guy…” he starts, trailing off to catch your reaction. You turn towards him, the playful smile still on your face.

“He plays on the same team as Dunner. He’s also defenseman as well, number 6. A decent hockey player. Funny, chill, and pretty good-looking, if I do say so myself.”

You hum in thought, your fingers tapping a small rhythm against the top of the marble island before nonchalantly shrugging your shoulders.

“He seems promising. Do you think he would like me?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Joel replies almost instantaneously, causing a small giggle to fall from your lips.

“Well then, point me in his direction!” you declare, catching Joel smiling at you out of the corner of your eye. “The next step would be to trip dramatically and fall into the pool, which will cause him to dive in after me to save my life. That is where our romance will begin!” you continue, throwing out your hands for additional affect.

“Or…” he says, gently grabbing your hand out of the air, his thumb brushing against the soft skin. “I could just give you his phone number. It might save you some time. And bodily harm.”

You smile, jolts of electricity racing through you from his touch.

“I suppose that works too.”

In my defense, I have none for digging up the grave another time.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You hear Daphne’s voice next to you and you finally tear your gaze away from the ice. She is staring at you, a hint of genuine concern in her eyes. The light-washed blue denim of her jacket stands out in the sea of black and gold and you spy the number 29 proudly displayed on her shoulder. Somehow, the sight of it makes you feel self-conscious that you’re only wearing an oversized grey sweater with a small Blues logo over the left breast. But then again, what else should you be wearing?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head, trying to erase the fantasy of you wearing a customized jacket out of your brain. “It just feels a little weird to be here, that’s all.”

Daphne turns to look around the box, all the other Better Halves excitedly talking and mingling. A few had come over to greet you, almost to welcome you back into the chosen sisterhood that developed between you all. But they knew it was only for one night.

Anyone could see how messed up this situation was; you coming to the biggest game of your ex-boyfriends’ career, hanging out with the ladies that you had grown close to in those six months you and Joel were together. Willingly placing yourself into this moment, as if nothing happened.

As if there was no break-up, as if you didn’t move halfway across the country and ghost all of them just to avoid anything that would remind you of his smile, his hazel eyes, his contagious laughter.  

Daphne sighs as she returns her gaze to you, your chin resting in your upturned palm, your eyes now focused on the giant screen hanging above the ice.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. Not that I don’t want you here,” she quickly backtracks. “I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you. We all missed you, trust me. But, you know, if it gets to be too much, you don’t have to stay. Everyone would understand.”

“Why would I turn down the opportunity to see a Stanley Cup Final game? Especially a Game 7.”

Daphne looks at you, a disapproving glint in her eyes. She knows that you’re trying to make light of the situation, make it a joke, and ignore the real reason you said yes. She knows exactly what made you agree to come meet her after months, even if you weren’t ready to admit it to yourself. And it sure as hell wasn’t a free ticket.

She turns away from you, her eyes following your gaze to the now pristine and empty rink. The lights dim and the roar from the hometown crowd goes up. But the sound and the energy buzzing through the stadium wasn’t enough to stop you from hearing Daphne’s last spoken words.

“He would be happy to know you’re here.”

You look down at the ice as the players step out, now allowing yourself to find the one person that you refused to acknowledge since you stepped foot in the arena.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

And if you wanted me, you really should’ve shown.

He was late. Again.

You sigh, as you continue to pace around your kitchen, your heels clicking gently on the tile floor. It had been almost two hours since Joel was supposed to pick you up for a date. But instead of sitting in an upscale restaurant, drinking good wine and eating decadent meals, you were left waiting in your best dress, watching the hands on the clock circle.

Although, you weren’t sure why you were still waiting.

The reservations you two had were definitely cancelled by now and at this point in the night, it was too late to even think about doing anything other than lying in your bed, watching whatever was airing on The Game Show Network until you fell asleep.

But you stayed, hoping that your boyfriend would walk through the door. Because you were pissed. You wanted to make him feel guilty for leaving you stranded like this. It wasn’t healthy – you knew that – but you weren’t sure what else to do. Lately, it seemed like Joel was more interested in… well, anything that wasn’t you.

When you two first started dating, it was like something out of a cheesy rom-com. He was attentive and caring and you had honestly never felt more loved. But before you knew it, the fire between you two started to dwindle.

In the back of your mind, you knew it was coming. Everyone talked about the honeymoon phase and its inevitable end. You just weren’t prepared for it to end when it did.

It also didn’t help that that conclusion of that lavender haze just happened to coincide with the St. Louis Blues’ worst losing streak, landing them in last place, not just in the division or the conference, but within the entire league. And the playoffs were just over the horizon.

Glancing back at the clock, you sigh. You are ready to give up, call it quits and change back into your comfy old sweatpants when you hear the doorknob turn. Your boyfriend’s laughter echoes around your apartment, the voices of Colton and Robert also filling the quiet evening.

You exit the kitchen and walk into the living room, your eyes landing on Joel, his arms slung over Colton and Robert Bortuzzo’s shoulders respectively. He doesn’t notice you at first, his eyes focused down as he attempts to kick off his shoes. You cross your arms and clear your throat and it is that noise that brings his attention up to you.

“Babe!” he shouts, his face flushed and eyes hazy.

“Hey,” Colton greets you as he supports his teammate’s weight. “Sorry, he got drunk tonight. We tried to take him home but he insisted we bring him here.”

You let out a small hum, the anger boiling in your stomach as you take in Joel’s inebriated state. Instead of moving toward him, fawning over him or laughing at him like you normally would, your feet stay glued to the floor. Out of the corner of your eye, you see both Colton and Robert look you up and down, taking in your dress and heels. The tense atmosphere is palpable and not even Joel’s incoherent babbling can stop them from realizing that the drunken man between them had royally fucked up.

You let out a heavy sigh, gritting your teeth, your body sinking in defeat. This was not the situation that you had planned for the night and you had half a mind to throw him out. However, you were never the one to cause a scene and you weren’t about to get into it with Joel when he probably couldn’t even walk straight, let alone think straight.

“You can take him to the guest bedroom,” you say. “Down the hall to the left.”

You can almost feel the relief that came off in waves from Robert and Colton as they started to half walk, half drag Joel down the hall, you following close behind. Joel didn’t seem to understand anything happening around him until they guided him towards the guest bedroom and away from yours.

“Wait, where are we going?” he mumbled, trying to move his body back in the direction of your bedroom. “This isn’t the way to bed, guys. And I should know. I’ve been there a bunch of times.”

You fight back the urge to scream at Joel’s not-so-subtle innuendo, already feeling embarrassed about the situation he had put you in. Instead, you help shove him onto the mattress of the guest bed, watching as your boyfriend flounders against the covers. Joel tries to lift himself up but both Robert and Colton push him back. His eyes dart from his friends over to you, those hazel irises wide as he looks up at you like a neglected puppy dog. It takes all your effort to keep your icy demeanor.

“Babe, why can’t I sleep in your bed?”

“I don’t want you puking all over my sheets,” you say cooly, even though everyone else in the room knew the real reason why he was being banished to the guest bedroom. Joel doesn’t notice your coldness and instead shoots a goofy grin in your direction, his head hitting the pillow, curls flying wildly as he mumbles that he promises not to. You roll your eyes, having heard enough of his so-called promises in the past few weeks.

Robert clears his throat and you turn to him and Colton, awkwardly standing in the room next to you. You sigh, walking away from Joel and leading them out into the hallway and back to your front door.

“Thanks for getting him here safe boys,” you say, holding the door open for them as they walk over the threshold and out into the hallway.

“Of course,” Colton says, shooting you a sympathetic smile. You start to close the door but just before it shuts completely, you hear the small chirp that leaves Robert’s lips.

“Not sure how safe he’s going to be in there.”

You fasten the lock on your front door before you let your head fall forward, gently hitting your forehead against the wood, the anger still radiating from your tense body. Bortz doesn’t know how right he is. To say you are livid is the understatement of the year. You want nothing more than to tear Joel a new one but you know that doing that now would be pointless.

So instead, you take a few deep breaths in through your nose and out your mouth. Then you turn back into the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it with cold water from the Brita filter in your fridge. After grabbing the small case of Tylenol from your purse, you wander back to the guest bedroom.  

Joel is curled up on the bed, still completely dressed except for the shoes that he managed to remove at your front door. You hate the way your heart softens as you take in his sleeping face, his lips slightly parted and his curls wild against the pillowcase. Moving over to the nightstand, you place the glass of water and aspirin down and move to leave when Joel reaches out and manages to grab your hand. You look down at him, his eyes now half opened and his thumb gently caressing the skin on your wrist.

“Come to bed,” he mumbles, slightly tugging you towards him. You gently remove your hand from his grasp and take a few steps back from him.

“Not tonight.”

You reach the threshold of the room, ready to leave when you hear Joel’s voice call your name and you turn your body, your eyes connecting with his.

“You look really pretty,” he murmurs.

Normally, a smile would tug at the corner of your lips in response to his compliment. But your face stays frozen in its apathy as you watch Joel’s eyes close once more. You are silent as you push yourself out the door and walk into the peace of your own bedroom. It isn’t until you are curled under the covers, your dress exchanged for pajamas and your face scrubbed free of makeup, do the tears finally start to fall.

In my defense, I have none for never leaving well enough alone.

Everything about this situation was stressing you out.

The hockey fan in you was stressed because you had just sat through 20 excruciating minutes of the Blues getting almost no time in the offensive zone and you practically screamed every time Jordan was forced to make a save.

The other part of you was stressed because you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be this worried about the boys.

It was still true that you cared about the team and wanted nothing more than for them to win this. You wanted to hug Devon and Dayna when Jay scored a goal that deflected off Ryan’s stick, getting the Blues on the board first. You wanted to scream and jump with Jayne when Alex scored in the last 10 seconds of the first period. And you definitely felt the thrum of pride run through you when Joel laid down in front of a shot by Sean Kuraly, potentially preventing a Bruins goal.

But it felt almost wrong to care this much.

The only reason you got into hockey was because of Joel. You learned the game for him, cheered for him, celebrated every win and mourned every loss. With him. And now, you were no longer his.

It wasn’t right for you to act like you were still a member of this group. Because you would just be lying to yourself. And it would just make it that much harder to leave.

You couldn’t let yourself fall into that comfortable complacency, pretending that everything was alright. That everything was different.

You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.

You woke up, your heart heavy and your eyes puffy. It took a moment to shake off the groggy haze that hung over you, to remember the reason why your heart felt like it had gone five rounds in a boxing ring, but eventually, the events of last night came flooding back to you.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall. Your feet aching in your heels. Joel’s slurred words. The way his hand felt intwined in yours. Your tears falling onto the pillowcase.

You didn’t want to face him but he was in your apartment, sleeping a few doors down from you. There wasn’t no way to avoid the inevitable confrontation.  With a huff of breath, you raise yourself from your bed, the sheets falling from your body, your bare feet connect with the cold hardwood floor.

You quietly open the door and walk down the hall, ignoring the urge to walk into the guest bedroom and check on Joel. Instead, you pad into your kitchen and start to make your morning cup of coffee. It is when you are standing in front of the machine watching your mug fill, do you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

“Mornin’” you hear Joel mumble into your shoulder as his lips press against your bare skin. Every fiber of your body wants to melt into his embrace but you resist, choosing instead to shrug yourself out of his grasp. You take your mug from the machine and walk over to one of the stools at the end of your island, sitting down so your body faces him. You take a small sip, still not acknowledging Joel standing stunned in the place you left him.

“Babe?” His questioning voice causes you to look up and you can feel a flare of anger appear at the sight of his confused expression painted on his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

His ignorant question is the breaking point and you practically slam your mug onto the cold marble in front of you, some of the hot liquid sloshing over the side. Your eyes connect with his as the vindictive rage you had been holding in for almost twelve hours finally starts to pour out of you.

“Do you really have to ask that Joel?” you spit out, not even attempting to hide the pure venom in your voice. “Let’s start with the fact that last night, I spent almost two hours waiting for you in this goddamn kitchen. Do you remember why? It was because we had a date. You were supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to go out to that cute little bistro by the river.”

You see his eyes widen as he takes in the information, remembering the plans that the two of you had. His reaction makes your wrath feel righteous. Joel’s mouth opens as if to say something, perhaps an apology, but you cut him off before he can even utter a sound.

“And then, the moment I was about to call it quits, to give up and go to bed and call you in the morning, after trying to call you multiple times that night, what happens? You come stumbling into my house, practically being carried by Parayko and Bortuzzo. So, instead of spending a beautiful night with your girlfriend, you decided to what? Get drunk with your friends? And then insist that they bring you here so I can take care of you?”

“Babe I’m so sorry, I –” Joel starts to say but you stop him.

“I’m not your maid, or you mother, or your fucking side-chick, Joel. I’m your girlfriend. I am not some shiny thing that you can play with when you get bored and then toss to the side when something new catches your interest.”

You see his eyes darken at your words and Joel takes two long strides over to where you were sitting.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he grits out, now towering over you. In any other situation, you might shrink and back down, always the mediator. But this time, you are just too livid to care.

“What it means is if you want me, you need to start giving a shit about me. That means keeping your promises and showing up when I fucking ask you to.”

“I’m sorry, alright. Is that what you want to hear?” he says, his voice raising in frustration.

“I want to hear why you chose getting shit-faced with your friends over picking me up for the date we had planned for weeks.”

“Jesus, it slipped my mind. We were just hanging out and Bortz suggested we drink and it just got out of hand. We were all stressed about the team and it just seemed like the best thing to do. You understand that we are in last place!? If we don’t start winning games, we can kiss any chance of the playoffs goodbye. Part of my fucking job is to try and fix that, but I can’t do that when you are demanding all of my attention.”

Your mouth drops open, a scoff leaving your lips as your brain registers Joel’s accusation.

“Excuse me? I’m demanding all of your attention? I’m not the one who showed up drunk on the doorstep, begging to be coddled like a child.”

“Oh, get over it. I showed up, didn’t I? I remembered you. You know how many girls I could get, how many are lurking in my DM’s waiting for their chance. You’re lucky that even though I was drunk, I didn’t run to one of them. Although, maybe I should’ve. They would’ve taken care of me and they definitely wouldn’t be busting my balls right now.”

His words take you aback, cutting through you down to your core and you can feel the sting of tears in the corner of your eyes. Joel knew all your insecurities and here he was, using that knowledge to hurt you deeper than anyone else could.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my house,” you grit out, your chest heaving as you try to control your breathing. Your voice is quiet but hard as you stare down the man in front of you. Although you will for it not to happen, a tear escapes you, rolling down your cheek and you see Joel’s eye dart to it, the color draining from his face as he realizes what he’s said.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, I swear,” he babbles, dropping to his knees in front of you, reaching for your hands. You rip them away from his grasp and let the floodgates open. The tears flow freely now and the hurt that had settled in your sternum tickles up your throat.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare imply that the girls in your DM’s care more about you than I do. They’re not the ones who make your pre-game meals and drive you to practice and let you rant about anything: trade rumors or ice times or bullshit calls. They don’t give a fuck about you, Joel. All they care about is your looks and the price tag attached to your name. But fine. If you want someone who’s only good for a night, someone who’s not going to tie you down and hold you accountable and challenge you while still caring about you and loving you… then we’re done. Now there’s nothing stopping you from getting what you want.”

You lift yourself off the stool and walk back towards your bedroom, leaving Joel kneeling on the floor. The door latches behind you and you wait. For what, you aren’t entirely sure. It’s only after you hear the echoing of the front door shutting, do your knees give out and you drop to the ground, your sobs racking through your now empty apartment.

That is where you stay until you have no tears left, your energy completely drained. You are sure your heart has broken into a million little pieces and if someone were to cut you open, the crimson flood would pulse out, staining everything around you. But the worst part would be that it would beat out to the rhythm of one phrase, the one phrase that you had never said to anyone else;

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you.

You couldn’t do this.

Somehow you managed to sit through another period and every time Joel stepped out onto the ice, your eyes were glued to him. You watched as he continued to play his game, dumping pucks into the offensive zone, blocking shots, helping puck movement, setting up multiple opportunities for his teammates to score.

When you watched him on the ice, you understood why you fell for him. He was kind and unselfish. He wanted to help the team even if it didn’t mean any glory for him. That was the type of person he was.

And when the buzzer sounded signaling the end of the second period, you felt your heart reaching out to him as he exited down the tunnel towards the locker room.

You couldn’t do this.

You jump from your seat and push your way past the other Better Halves, out of the suite. It takes a while for you to find a semi-secluded staircase in the winding corridors of the club level but when you do, you sink onto the carpeted stairs, ready to hide for the rest of the game in your makeshift oasis. Your head falls into your upturned palms as you try to calm your breathing. You are so caught up your emotions that you don’t notice a body crouch down in front of you.

The soft call of your name bounces off the walls and you look up to lock eyes with Jayne Pietrangelo, a sympathetic expression painted on her face.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice.

“Bullshit.”

The quiet conviction in her voice startles you at first but her steady gaze causes your walls to crumble. Before you can even blink, she has you wrapped in a hug, squeezing you tight as if she could make everything better by just holding you. You aren’t ashamed to say that is almost worked.

Jayne was one of the first people to welcome you into the group and you were pretty sure she thought that you and Joel were end game before that idea even crossed your mind. She became like a big sister to you and when you ended things with Joel, she was one of the few calls you picked up in the days after.

She lets you push your face into the denim jacket she was wearing as she gently strokes your hair. After you manage to compose yourself, she pulls back from you, forcing you to lock eyes with her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she softly demands and you almost let out a laugh at her demeanor. Alex’s captain tendencies must have rubbed off on her because here she was, ready to coach you through anything.

“I just can’t do this,” you sigh out, your head shaking as your eyes dart to the ceiling.

“Can’t do what?”

“Be here. Watch him. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Do you want to leave?”                                           

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

All Jayne does is let out a small hum as she comes to sit next to you. You two stay there in quiet contemplation, your mind racing a mile a minute as you wait for her to say something, anything that will make you feel better.

“I’m not going to stop you from leaving, if that’s what you want to do,” Jayne says, her eyes sliding over to connect with yours. “But I think you are ignoring the real question. Instead of asking yourself if you’re allowed to be here or if you even want to be here, you need to understand why you’re here. Why did you decide to come to a place where you knew you were going to re-live some painful memories? You knew what you were walking into and yet you still came.”

She turns to you, her hands reaching out to grip yours as she stares at you, her eyes cutting you open and laying out your soul like the pages of an old book.

“So, tell me. Why are you here?”

Her question rattles around your brain as you search for the answer. The lies are easy to think of, ready to fall from your lips: it’s a Stanley Cup Final game, you didn’t have anything else to do, Daphne asked you to come, you wanted to see all the girls again.

But you knew the real reason you said yes; the real reason you found an old oversized Blues sweatshirt in the back of your closet that still smelled faintly of cologne, the real reason you walked to TD Garden after spending months trying to forget about anything that reminded you of St. Louis. And he was sitting in a locker room a few dozen feet below you, with only 20 minutes left in a game that most players dreamed about, hoping that he would be able to hoist the greatest trophy in sports.

“I wanted to be here for him. Win or lose,” you say, the words still a little unsteady after being locked in your heart for six months. You take a deep breath and let yourself continue, allowing the confession you had been denying every time it appeared in your head fall from your lips.

“Because I love him. I still love him.”

Jayne says nothing for a few moments, letting your words hang in the air before she shoots you a gentle smile.

“That’s enough of a reason for you to stay.”

She gets up, holding out her hand to you. Looking up at her, you allow yourself to smile, the first genuine grin flooding your face. You take her hand and let her lift you off the staircase and lead you back to the suite where the rest of your friends were waiting.

And if you never bleed, you’re never gonna grow.

You were a wreck since your fight with Joel. He had tried to call you multiple times but you let it go to voicemail every time. And as the days passed, the calls became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether.

A week later, you came home to find a small box sitting on your doorstep. Inside was all the things you had left at Joel’s place with a small note sitting on the top.

“I’m sorry.”

You had never cried more in your life than you did that evening.

After laying in your bed for hours on end, binge eating chocolate, and binge watching the same three TV shows, you finally decided it was time to stop wallowing in your sadness and try to move on. The next day, you cleared out everything in your house that reminded you of Joel and let yourself get lost in the effort of forgetting him.

It wasn’t easy.

You still sometimes woke up before the sun, your body telling you it was time to get Joel to practice. When you had a bad day, you found yourself making his favorite meal, as if his sadness had melded with yours. Whenever you turned on the news, you always managed to catch it in time to hear the sports section. You found yourself listening to how the Blues were winning again, pulling themselves out of last place and continually pushing themselves towards the playoffs. You resisted the urge to dial Joel’s number, still stored in your phone, and congratulate him after every win or console him after a loss.

As a distraction, you threw yourself into your work, getting tasks done at a breakneck speed and being more productive than you had ever been. You managed to have the best work quarter of your life and your reviews were through the roof. Although, you didn’t really take note of it because you weren’t trying to impress your boss or the company. You were simply trying to stop your mind from focusing on something else, like the feeling of freshly washed curls between your fingers and a smile that outshined the stars.

So, the day your boss called you into her office, the last thing you were expecting her was a promotion. And you certainly weren’t expecting to pack your things and move to Boston after accepting said promotion.

But part of you was relieved to be leaving. It would be much easier to forget about Joel in a city where most people didn’t even know his name. When you landed in Boston, you thought that this would be the place where everything you left behind would fade away.

And you were right. At least, for a few months.

You made new friends and went out to bars and brunches. You continued to work your ass off at your job, now working to prove yourself instead of just working to forget. You didn’t realize that Joel hadn’t even crossed your mind for a long time.

Then one night, when you were out dancing with friends, a handsome stranger pulled you into his lips. And it felt good. You felt free for the first time in a while, believing that your heart was finally mending after everything it had been through.

But that night, after you went home alone and crashed into your bed with your head pounding from the alcohol in your veins, you dreamt of Joel. Of him holding you tight and hearing his heartbeat pound in his chest.

You woke up the next day with the most exquisite ache in your chest and a desperate desire to be wrapped up in his arms once more. Then, when you were walking home from the grocery store that same day, you thought you saw him standing on the corner.

It wasn’t him, of course. But just the mere possibility of seeing him again had you almost dropping your bags onto the sidewalk and rushing into the arms of a complete stranger who just so happened to look like your ex-boyfriend.

That was the moment you knew you were fucked.

Soon, you found yourself turning on the TV, watching hockey games for the first time in months. And when the Bruins won the East and the Blues won the West, you realized that your two worlds were colliding. The world with Joel and the world after him were crashing together and you would be caught up in the carnage. But you were ready for it.

So, when you received a text message from Daphne, who you hadn’t spoken to since you left St. Louis, you answered it. And when she mentioned that Yana couldn’t make the games as she had just given birth to Vladi and hers second son, your heart waited for her to ask the question you hoped to hear. And when she asked if you wanted to come to Game 7 with her, the tug in your heart had made the decision long before you got the words out.

If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?

That was how you found yourself standing in the suite with all the other St. Louis Better Halves, watching as the final minutes of the final period counted down.

After Jayne pulled you back to the seats, you decided to let yourself go. No more holding back your emotions, no more resisting the feelings that had been churning inside you since you stepped foot in the arena. Instead, you screamed with the rest of the girls when Brayden scored another goal to put the Blues up three to nothing. You held breath, squeezing Daphne’s hand as you all watched Vince lead a three-man breakaway, silently praying for something good to come from that opportunity. And you jumped and hugged the girls when Zach scored a fourth goal with less than five minutes left.

And now, you were on your feet, one hand clasped in Daphne’s and the other clasped in Jayne’s, your heart pounding as you watched the clock on the scoreboard in front of you drop to seconds as the final minute of play began.

You could see the bench, the boys on their feet and as every second ticked by, they grew closer and closer to victory. Your eyes looked for Joel, wanting to memorize every minute of his reaction when the final buzzer sounded. It took you a little while to locate him in the crowd but once you did, your eyes never strayed from his body.

He was bouncing with excitement, the anticipation buzzing through him. You could see him slowly realize that this was going to happen, that he was going to be a Stanley Cup champion and when Jaden shoots the puck towards the blue line and it sails past Krejci, onto the other side of the rink, you watched him leap over the bench, throwing his gloves and stick into the air as he rushed to the goal, slamming into the pile of his teammates, all cheering because they finally, finally achieved what they had been working their whole life towards.

You almost collapse under the pure excitement rushing though you, the screams of the other girls echoing around the box and they celebrated. They were hugging and cheering but you kept your eyes on the ice, watching as the boys embraced each other. You felt tears welling in your eyes and it wasn’t until Jayne pulled you into a hug did you tear your focus away from the sweaty mop of curls.

“They did it!” she screamed and pulled you into a bone-crushing hug. You hugged her back and found yourself going around to the other girls, who celebrated with you like nothing had changed. Because nothing had changed. Just because you weren’t with Joel didn’t mean that these girls weren’t your friends. You had become a part of their lives and you were ready to celebrate with them for as long as they would have you. You hoped that would be a long time.

Daphne held you tight as the two of you jumped up and down, screaming incoherently at the fact that this did indeed happen. That Vince was a Stanley Cup Champion. That Joel was a Stanley Cup Champion. That the St. Louis Blues were Stanley Cup Champions.

All the girls turned their attention to the ice as the Conn Smythe trophy was presented and you swore that almost everyone jumped into Dayna’s arms when Ryan’s name was announced over the loudspeaker. It was a few moments until finally, the Stanley Cup was carried out onto the ice. You watched the boys, lined up, arms wrapped around each other as they took in the trophy that was finally theirs.

And when Alex skated forward and hoisted the Cup over his head, you cheered louder than you had in your entire life.

You watched as the Cup made its way down the lineup, passing between players, each one of them unable to contain their excitement and joy. Daphne pulled you close when Vince had his turn, lifting it above him and you could see the tears in her eyes as she watched the man she loved celebrate. And she held you next to her when Joel finally got his hands on the Cup.

The joy in your heart was indescribable as you watched him carry the 35-pound trophy, cheering and pressing kisses to the silver metal. It was exactly the moment you had wanted for him since you first started dating. It was what you dreamed about at every home game, his name and number proudly displayed on your back. It was what you had hoped for when you watched him on your television for the previous six games of the finals. And it was everything you had wished for ever since you walked into TD Garden almost two hours ago.

The girls were moving, picking up their things and heading out of the box, presumably to go down to the ice to congratulate their men on a hard-fought victory. A wave of doubt settled over you and you shifted your weight between your feet, unsure if you should, or were even allowed, to go down with them. It wasn’t until Daphne grabbed one hand and Jayne grabbed the other did you start to move.

You all make your way down the corridors, pushing past people and flashing your security passes. Your heart rate increases once you reach the end of the tunnel. The lights were still shining bright, causing the ice to blind you as you step onto the rink. The three of you carefully shuffle across the ice, the atmosphere still electric with the energy buzzing off the players and staff.

Jayne was the first to break away from your group, running towards Alex who was currently being interviewed. You see the reporter notice Jayne hurrying over and give Alex a nudge in her direction. His face instantly brightens the moment he sees her and he skates over, embracing her.  

It wasn’t long before Vince spotted Daphne. As soon as his eyes land on her, he was rushing towards her and she dropped your hand to meet him halfway. You watch as he pulls her close to kiss her deeply, her hands tangling in his hair.

As happy as you were for all of them, both the players and your friends, their joy and intimacy left you feeling awkward as you stand alone in center ice. You weren’t exactly sure what you were supposed to be doing, if anything. While the girls welcomed you with open arms, you weren’t that close to the other players or staff. Most of them hadn’t seen you since you ended things with Joel.

It was when you caught the eye of Colton Parayko did you really feel like a deer in headlights.

Colton’s eyes flicker behind you, looking for Joel, wondering if he had seen you. Glancing back at you, he stood there a moment longer, taking you in. Then, that familiar crooked smile broke out on his face and the breath you didn’t know you had been holding rushed out of you. You mirrored his grin, your body relaxing as he gave you a small wave. You laughed and returned his gesture before he skated away, going to celebrate with his family.

His quiet reassurance was all you needed to feel certain that you were meant to be here.

You slowly spin, finally taking in the joy surrounding you, letting it soak into your skin. You watch Vladi sit on the edge of the rink as he calls Yana, see Laila walking over to Colton and see him wrap her into a giant hug, look over towards Patty lifting his son Anthony onto his shoulders, still shouting and pumping his fists in the air.

You were so caught up in enjoying the moment that you didn’t notice a pair of eyes attach to your frame. It wasn’t until you completed your circle did your gaze fall on Joel, his gaze already locked on you.

A towel was slung around his neck, the Stanley Cup Championship hat perched on his head. And he was staring at you as if he had seen a ghost. You were sure you looked the same way.

You both stand there, a few feet away, simply drinking in the sight of seeing one another in person for the first time in months.

You feel your heart swell as you take him in, the joy still emulating from his body. Words couldn’t describe how happy you were for him. Even if he was no longer a part of your life, you were happy to see him succeed. You wanted him to know that.

Part of you would always love him, that much you were certain of. But part of you knew that maybe you two just weren’t meant to be. And for the first time, that thought didn’t send a jolt of pain straight to your chest. Instead, you felt the warm wave of acceptance wash over you.

You let a small smile dance onto your face, connecting your eyes with his and silently sending all the care and admiration you had for him across the ice. And when you looked into his hazel eyes, the ones that you missed waking up to every morning, you let only one thought reverberate within your mind:

I love you.

And when he smiled back, his eyes sparkling like they always did, you knew that he was thinking the same thing.

But it would’ve been fun, if you would’ve been the one.

You had never felt happier than you did in this moment. The sky was a perfect blue above you, the sun shining on your bare skin, its light refracting off the soft waves on the lake.

You lean back, your feet gently kick in the water off the end of the boat and your eyes close as you let the peaceful contentment soak into your bones. You feel a form settle behind you, a pair of arms coming to wrap around your waist and pull you close. Eyes opening, you glance back to see Joel, a light sun-kissed hue now dusting his nose and cheekbones. A soft smile makes its way onto your lips, causing him to grin back at you.

“Hey pretty lady.”

“Hi,” you softly whisper out.

“What are you doing back here?” he asks, pulling you even closer, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You lean your head against him, taking a deep breath.

“Nothing. Just relaxing.”

Joel just hums in reply, letting the silence return as your bodies press against each other, simply supporting the other’s weight and taking in the moment.

When Joel mentioned his captain’s idea of taking a couple of boats out to Lincoln Lake with the team and their better halves for some bonding and relaxing before the season started and the hectic schedule pushed everyone in different directions, you had to admit you were unsure whether you should go. You had only just started dating Joel. But as soon as you made it out onto the water, you found yourself laughing with the other girls, as if you had known each other forever.

“I’m happy you decided to come,” you hear Joel mumble. And when you glance back, you can see the pure love pouring from his hazel irises. You let yourself lift your head up towards him, connecting your lips to his. You can smell the sunscreen on his skin, taste the rosé on his lips. Your fingers tangle into his sun-bleached curls, and in that moment, you realized that you never wanted to let him go. You pull away from him, your lips still gently upturned as you bring your eyes back to his.

“Of course I came. Where else would I be?”

a/n: if you've been here since the inception of this blog, you might recognize this story. however, I no longer write for the original player that starred in this fic. but I am very proud of this fic plus, I think this was the start of my trademark bittersweet endings, so i couldn't just let it disappear. so, here is another rewrite now starring my favorite crop top king who i miss terribly.

taglist: @laurenairay @fallinallincurls @ sorlos-world @svexhenthusiast 

sign up for my taglist here! support my work through Ko-fi here!