#and then i fixed it and then it did it AGAIN

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 21: June 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: DID CHARLES JUST REALIZE MID-INTERVIEW THAT HE FORGOT HIS OWN SISTER’S BIRTHDAY??? HELP LMAO

@/monacosfinest: "Wait… we forgot." Nah, Charles, YOU forgot. The whole damn family forgot. How do you ALL forget???

@/f1tea:The way Charles’ whole face DROPPED when he put the dates together… This is cinema.

@/isabellesimpgc: This man just short-circuited ON CAMERA realizing he forgot his little sister’s birthday. I would be in hiding.

@/horsegirlupdates: ISABELLE WAS AT THE MONACO GP. SHE CELEBRATED WITH THEM. SHE SAID NOTHING. SHE JUST LET THEM ALL FORGET. I’M SICK.

@/f1trolls:Charles: "Do you have my phone? I need to fix this." Bro, there is no fixing this.

@/girlinthepaddock: The fact that Isabelle hasn’t posted ANYTHING since Monaco…

@/charlesleclercfans:Charles, buddy, you’re not getting out of this one 💀

@/f1chaos:Charles really went from “living his childhood dream” to “realizing he was the worst brother in real-time” in under five seconds. Iconic.

@/monacoprincess:The way he literally STOPPED TALKING, STARED INTO THE VOID, and then went, "Wait… we forgot." BRO. YOU FORGOT. YOU.

@/paddockgirlies:Isabelle spent her whole life supporting her brothers and they couldn’t even remember her birthday??? She didn’t even TELL them they forgot, she just let them be happy while she suffered in silence. I’M SICK.

@/girlwhocriessports: Okay but imagine being Charles and realizing ON LIVE TV that you forgot your sister’s birthday while the entire world watches. This is worse than any DNF he’s ever had.

@/ferrariwoes: Charles, in Monaco: "This is the best day of my life!"Charles, two weeks later in Canada: "Oh my god, I forgot my sister’s birthday."

@/isabellesimp: She just kept quiet and let them all forget. She didn’t even correct them. She probably just went home alone and cried. Do you understand how HEARTBREAKING that is????

@/paddockinsider: Ferrari’s biggest strategy blunder this year wasn’t even on the track—it was the entire Leclerc family forgetting Isabelle’s birthday.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Not Charles Leclerc realizing DURING AN INTERVIEW that he forgot his own sister’s birthday… and then Arthur and Lorenzo probably finding out THROUGH HIM. This family is actually unbelievable.

🔗 Clip attached

@/GridGossip:So let me get this straight:

Isabelle was in Monaco the entire weekend.

She celebrated Charles’ win with him.

She didn’t say a word about her own birthday.

And not a single one of her brothers remembered.

They really just treat her like she doesn’t exist, huh?

@/TifosiDrama:Not a single post. Not a single mention. She was right there, and they STILL forgot. I don’t blame her for ignoring them now.

@/OversteerObsessed: So you’re telling me Isabelle’s birthday was on the same day as Charles winning Monaco for the first time ever, and they were so caught up in the win that they just… forgot about her?? I’m actually speechless.

@/FormulaShady: The Leclerc brothers are about to have the worst sibling PR disaster in F1 history. Isabelle is LITERALLY the forgotten Leclerc.

@/WheelyFastWAGs: Isabelle spent years supporting her brothers—showing up to races whenever she could, celebrating their successes—and they can’t even remember her BIRTHDAY?!

@/TyreDegAndDrama: No, but let’s really sit with this: she was literally there. Not far away. Not off somewhere else. She was in Monaco, with them, and not one person thought, “Oh hey, it’s Isabelle’s birthday.”

@/OvercutOverload: Charles’ brain loading like an old Windows XP computer when the journalist asked about winning on his sister’s birthday.

@/Lap1Carnage: I need you all to understand how humiliating this is. You are a public figure. You win Monaco. A journalist gives you the perfect setup to say something nice about your sister. And instead, you find out ON LIVE TV that you forgot her birthday.

@/TifosiTears: I would like to formally apologize to Isabelle for ever associating her with the rest of them. She deserved better.

@/ChaosMode: The fact that fans remembered her birthday but her own brothers didn’t… Yeah, I’d be ignoring them too.

@/PaddockClownery: Imagine your family finally realizing they forgot your birthday WEEKS LATER because a journalist had to remind them. The bar is in hell.

@/F1BurnerAccount: The way he didn’t even tried to play it off like “Oh yeah, we celebrated privately” or something. Just full, raw realization on live TV.

@/F1Shambles: The fact that Isabelle has been radio silent on social media ever since Charles’ Monaco win is crazy. Not a single like, comment, or post. Just pure, calculated silence.

@/F1Shambles: The worst part? She did congratulate Charles. She literally posted on her story, “So proud of you, Charles!” right after the race, and then? Poof. She disappeared.

@/TifosiTears: No, because the fact that Isabelle still took the time to post a congrats for Charles, even after they forgot her birthday, and then just vanished is so much worse.

@/Lap1Carnage: So you’re telling me she remembered her brother’s biggest moment, but not a single one of them remembered her birthday? Yeah, no, that’s insane.

@/PaddockDrama: She posted for Charles, probably waited the whole day for someone to remember, and then dipped. That’s actually heartbreaking.

@/FrontWingDamage: Okay, but like… does anyone know if she had people around her that day? Like, friends? A boyfriend? Someone who did remember?

@/TyreDegAndDrama: I need to believe that someone in her life actually gave her the love she deserved that day, because if she spent it completely alone while celebrating Charles?? I will LOSE IT.

@/LightsOutDrama: It’s actually insane that her whole family was busy celebrating Charles, and not one of them was like, “Oh wait, isn’t today also Isabelle’s birthday?”

@/PaddockGossip: At this point, I’m praying she has some secret friend group or a boyfriend who treated her like a queen that day, because her family really did nothing.

@/ChaosMode: We need a national investigation into Isabelle Leclerc’s inner circle. I refuse to believe that nobody took care of her that day.

@/WDCworthy: What if she’s actually in a happy, secret relationship and her boyfriend was the only one who celebrated her? Imagine the plot twist.

@/PaddockMess: I swear if she had to spend her birthday alone, while her whole family was out celebrating Charles, I’m gonna start swinging.

@/OvercutOverload: The fact that she stayed silent instead of calling them out makes it so much worse. She didn’t even fight them on it. She just… left.

@/TyreWhisperer: This whole thing is giving “quietly heartbroken but won’t let it show” energy, and I hate it here.

@/PaddockBanter: Honestly, I don’t even need her to forgive them. I just want her to be happy with people who actually appreciate her.

@/LightsOutSlander: Praying she has a secret billionaire boyfriend who flies her around on private jets and showers her in designer gifts, because her family clearly isn’t doing their job.

@/PaddockRoyalty: This woman is literally giving “soft-spoken princess energy.” I need her to have a rich, older boyfriend who treats her like absolute royalty.

@/IsabelleLeclercFanclub: Forget the Leclerc brothers. We’re officially in our Protect Isabelle at All Costs era.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: I just realised. I just—I can’t believe I forgot. Your birthday. Monaco. You were there. And we didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word.

Charles:You smiled at me. You waved. And I didn’t even remember it was your day. I’m so, so sorry.

Charles: Please call me. Please. I need to talk to you.

Charles: I didn’t mean to forget. I swear. I didn’t— God, Isabelle. Please just pick up.

[Incoming Call: Charles Leclerc → Belle Verstappen] Status: No answer. Call forwarded to voicemail.

Charles (Voicemail): Isabelle, it’s me. Please pick up. I know I don’t deserve that right now but I… I need to hear your voice. I need to know you’re okay. We messed up. I messed up. I forgot the one day I shouldn’t have. And I didn’t even notice. I don’t know how I let that happen. I love you. Please… just call me back. Please.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Max Verstappen 

Emilie: He finally realized. Charles. The birthday. Belle. It hit him. Live. On camera. Mid-interview. It was honestly Oscar-worthy.

Max: wait what

Max: CHARLES REALISED??

Emilie:  Karun Chandhok brought it up during the post-race interview and you could see the panic download into his brain in real time. I watched it happen. It was magnificent.

Max:Since when are you watching press conferences?? You once told me F1 was “cars doing ring-around-the-rosy with ego problems.”

Emilie: I still stand by that! But I had a feeling someone was going to slip. And I was right.

Max: Belle hasn’t texted me yet. 

Emilie: Same. I tried calling. Went straight to voicemail. I’m going over. She might not answer the door but I’m staying the night either way.

Max: Thank you. Really

Emilie: She’s my best friend. You think I’d leave her to spiral alone while the entire Leclerc clan is just now realizing they’ve been garbage?

Max: I’m so pissed, Emilie. They made her feel invisible. And now they’re shocked she walked away?

Emilie: They don’t get to play the concerned family card after a year of not seeing her. After missing her birthday.

Max: She was right there. In the garage. She waved at Charles.

Emilie: And he smiled right through her. I’ve never wanted to throw an expensive shoe at someone more.

Max: you should’ve I would’ve paid the fine

Emilie: Consider it noted for next time.

Max: Let me know when you’re with her Tell her I love her Tell her I am coming straight home. 

Emilie: I’ll tell her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Charles: guys GUYS we forgot Belle’s birthday

Charles: we forgot her birthday it was TWO WEEKS AGO she was IN THE GARAGE IN MONACO

Arthur: wait what …wait WHAT

Pascale: Charles, what are you talking about? We didn’t— … Oh mon dieu.

Charles: she didn’t say anything she just stood there and none of us said a word

Arthur: okay wait has anyone spoken to her since then?

Charles: I texted her about Canada no reply

Pascale: She hasn’t answered me either.

Arthur: I haven’t heard from her since I asked if she was coming to the factory visit. That was like… the week after Monaco?

Charles: she hasn’t answered ANY of us?? FOR TWO WEEKS??

Lorenzo: I just caught up. I’m going to her apartment. Right now.

Charles: please tell her I’m sorry tell her I didn’t mean to forget I didn’t—

Arthur: we all did, Charles don’t make it sound like it’s just you

Pascale: This isn’t about blame. It’s about fixing it.

Lorenzo: I’ll message when I get there. Don’t blow up her phone. Let me check she’s okay.

Charles: okay thank you

Arthur: tell her we love her please

Lorenzo: I’ll handle it. Let me talk to her. Just… give her space. Don’t crowd her all at once.

Charles: Okay. Please let us know when you get there.

***

Call & Message Log – Belle Verstappen’s Phone

(Missed Calls and Messages – All timestamps in Monaco Time)

Incoming Calls:

Charles Leclerc (19:02) – Missed Call → Voicemail Left

Arthur Leclerc (19:15) – Missed Call

Emilie Abadie (19:20) - Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (19:27) – Missed Call

Arthur Leclerc (19:39) – Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (20:01) – Missed Call → No voicemail

Arthur Leclerc: 19:17

Belle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise either. I don’t even know how we missed it. Please text me back. I’m freaking out a little.

19:22

Are you okay? Please just say something. Anything.

20:03

I’m so sorry. We were idiots.

Pascale Leclerc: 19:25

Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

20:12

We didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to forget. I love you, mon ange.

***

The sun had dipped low behind the Monaco rooftops, casting the living room in honeyed gold. The windows were cracked open, letting in the hum of the sea and the occasional passing scooter. The only sound inside the apartment was the faint, rhythmic purr of cats.

Belle was asleep on the couch, curled sideways with a throw blanket tangled around her legs. One of Max’s hoodies was pulled over her tank top, far too big on her and smelling faintly of motor oil and cedarwood. Sassy was curled on her feet, Lilly sprawled along her hip like a guard, and Jimmy had claimed the pillow beside her head, face pressed dramatically into her hair like he paid rent.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She’d only meant to rest her eyes.

But the last few days had caught up with her: the tension, the silence, the weight of being both forgotten and known too well.

The buzz of the apartment buzzer stirred her cats but not her. Only when Emilie let herself in—quietly, using the key Belle had given her months ago—did Sassy finally stretch and jump down, tail flicking as if to say you’re late.

Emilie padded through the flat on socked feet, arms full of a canvas tote bag stuffed with snacks, a fuzzy blanket she’d stolen from Belle’s apartment once and never returned, and a bottle of overpriced juice she insisted helped with “emotional hydration.”

She spotted Belle still asleep, cats half-glued to her like warm, fuzzy armor, and her heart cracked open.

Of course Belle had fallen asleep like this. Of course she hadn’t answered her phone.

Emilie set the tote on the coffee table and sank to her knees beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair from Belle’s face.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sleeping Beauty.”

Belle blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was husky and quiet.

“Mm. What time is it?”

“Almost eight.” Emilie smiled gently. “You missed Max’s win.”

Belle sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes as Lilly gave a sleepy grumble and re-settled herself in her lap.

“He won?”

Emilie nodded. “Dominated. It was very on-brand. I texted him back for you. Said congrats and that you were passed out under a pile of cats.”

Belle huffed a breath of a laugh. “Thanks.”

“He asked if you were okay.”

“I’m…” Belle paused. “Better, now.”

Emilie hesitated, then sat down beside her fully, the cushions dipping slightly. “Charles realised.”

Belle’s body stilled.

“During the post-race interview. Karun Chandhok mentioned Monaco. Said something about your birthday being the same day as his win. And you could see it—click. Like his brain got punched in the face.” Emilie’s voice was flat. “He didn’t realise, Belle. Not until someone reminded him you exist.”

Belle exhaled slowly, hands curled in the fabric of the hoodie. “And now he’s spiraling?”

“Of course. Called you. Texted you. Voicemails. I think Arthur’s panicking too. Pascale’s probably mid-emotional breakdown.”

Belle looked over, finally meeting her best friend’s eyes. “You’re watching press conferences now?”

Emilie shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Lando made a joke on Twitch last week that press media days are ‘elite chaos.’ I got curious. Stayed for the spectacle. Didn’t expect it to turn into a soap opera starring your brother.”

Belle blinked. Then grinned—softly, genuinely—for the first time in days. “You’re watching F1 now because of Lando Norris?”

Emilie lifted her chin. “It’s not serious. It’s anthropological.”

Belle laughed, the sound cracking slightly at the edges, but real.

“I’m also staying here tonight,” Emilie added, pulling a blanket from the tote and draping it over them both. “Because I love you. And because Max will kill me if I leave you alone.”

Belle rested her head against Emilie’s shoulder, voice small. “You don’t have to fix it.”

“I’m not here to fix it,” Emilie murmured. “I’m here so you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Belle closed her eyes again.

The texts from Charles buzzed softly on the coffee table. She didn’t reach for them. She didn’t need to.

Not tonight.

She had Emilie. She had Max. She had a stuffed lion upstairs and cats who loved her without question. And when she was ready—on her terms—she would decide if the rest of them deserved her again.

But for now?

She ignored the buzzing.

And let herself be held.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: He figured it out. CHARLES FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT.

Lando: WAIT WHAT SOMEONE PLEASE CONFIRM

Daniel: Karun said it was Belle’s birthday during the Monaco win and you could see Charles’ soul leave his body in real time. It was glorious

Carlos: He needed the right trigger (also I am still mad)

Lewis:  He was fully smiling at first Then hit the mental brick wall of oh no

George Russell: The smile-drop was cinematic. Might’ve been the most emotional acting we’ve seen all season.

Alex: Does anyone have the clip? For science?

Nico H.: I have it bookmarked.

Sebastian: He really didn’t realise until that exact moment? Not even a whisper before?

Zhou: I still can’t believe it took someone else saying her name for him to remember she has a birthday.

Logan: No, no, let’s all take a moment: He had an entire win In Monaco In front of his family And forgot his sister’s birthday

Oscar: SHE WAVED AT HIM.

Carlos: IN THE GARAGE IN FERRARI RED

Fernando: Imagine forgetting a sister who treats you like that.

Lance: My jaw is still on the floor. He spiraled like he was trapped in a washing machine

David: Live PR disaster. I actually winced.

Sergio Pérez: Dios mío. Max is going to be furious

Nico R.: Max doesn’t need to say a word. His existence is already revenge enough

George: Speaking of Max: Has anyone checked if he’s okay?

Oscar:  He’s not. But he’ll be home soon. 

Valtteri: This chat is giving Drive to Survive a run for its money

Lando: IMAGINE BEING BELLE Standing there. Birthday. Monaco. Forgotten. AND secretly married to Max Verstappen???

Daniel: Plot twist: she should dropped the wedding photos on Charles’ birthday Just for symmetry

Carlos: Don’t give me ideas I will do it

Oscar: He didn’t remember Until someone else reminded him she existed.

George: True.

Lewis Hamilton: Justice for Belle.

Daniel Ricciardo: Justice. And snacks. And ten thousand cats. She deserves it all.

Fernando: And peace. Away from that chaos.

Kimi: Took him long enough. 

***

Lorenzo stood at the foot of Isabelle’s old apartment building, staring up at the cream-colored stone façade like it might blink back at him. The shutters were open on the third floor—her floor—but nothing inside looked familiar. No string lights. No potted herbs on the windowsill. No pale curtains drifting in the breeze the way they used to when she’d leave the balcony door cracked open for the sea air.

He buzzed the door anyway.

Once. Then again.

No response.

The hallway was quieter than he remembered. Less lived-in. The echoes of memory were louder than the footsteps on the stairs as he climbed, more out of muscle memory than belief. He reached her old door and knocked.

No answer.

He stood there, unsure of what to do. His hands itched to call someone—Charles, Pascale, anyone—but that wouldn’t fix this. Not yet.

Then the door across the hall creaked open.

“Looking for Isabelle?” a warm, vaguely amused voice asked.

Lorenzo turned. An older woman stood in the doorway, wearing a robe and holding a mug of tea. Madame Fortier. He remembered her vaguely—Belle used to bring her pastries sometimes when she baked too much.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly unsure of his voice. “Is she home?”

The woman smiled, kind but surprised.

“Darling, she moved out almost a year ago.”

Lorenzo froze.

“What?”

Madame Fortier nodded. “Lovely girl. Packed everything very neatly. She left a plant on my windowsill as a thank-you.”

A beat passed. Lorenzo’s pulse ticked strangely in his throat.

“Where did she go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The woman sipped her tea, then tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Oh, she moved in with her boyfriend,” Madame Fortier said, smiling warmly. “Lovely man. Very polite. Treated her well, from what I saw. Always held the door. Picked her up in that fancy little car. She seemed happy.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped.

Moved in with her boyfriend.

 A year ago.

And none of them knew.

“Right,” he said, the word catching slightly in his throat. “Thank you.”

He walked back down the hallway slowly, like his legs were moving through water.

Outside again, the sunlight felt harsher than it had minutes ago.

Belle had always been the quiet one. The background Leclerc. Never the loudest voice at the table, never the one asking for attention. But she'd been the glue. The calm. The one who remembered birthdays. Who showed up at Arthur’s karting meets with water bottles and quiet encouragement. 

Who texted Lorenzo before his exams just to say you’ve got this.

And she hadn’t told them.

Not about the move.

Not about the boyfriend.

Not about… any of it.

It wasn’t just out of character. It was completely, utterly un-Belle.

She didn’t let people she loved run into walls like this. She didn’t let them go blind into guilt and panic. Unless—

Unless she’d stopped expecting them to see her at all.

Lorenzo felt that thought like a punch to the chest.

Had they really made her feel that invisible?

And someone else—some quiet, polite boyfriend in a fancy car—had known her better than any of them did.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Lorenzo: Update. She doesn’t live at her old apartment anymore.

Arthur: what?

Pascale: What do you mean she doesn’t live there anymore??

Charles: Lorenzo please tell me that’s not what it sounds like

Lorenzo: Her neighbor says she moved out. Almost a year ago. Moved in with her boyfriend.

Arthur: SHE HAS A WHAT

Charles: SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND??

Pascale: Since when?! She never said anything! She never brought anyone to dinner—did you meet him??

Lorenzo: No. None of us did, clearly.

Arthur: what if he’s the reason she’s not answering what if something happened

Charles: don’t say that don’t even think that she’s just mad at us right?

Arthur:  no but— think about it she hasn’t answered in two weeks. she didn’t say a word about moving. not a single thing about this guy. what if she’s not okay?

Pascale: She would’ve told us. She always told us if she was scared. Or uncomfortable.

Lorenzo: Not if she doesn’t trust us anymore. Not if she thinks we stopped listening.

Charles: no. no. no no no. I saw her in the garage. She smiled. She waved.

Arthur: people smile when they’re drowning, Charles

Pascale: I’m calling her again. Right now.

Charles: Already did. Straight to voicemail. I’ve texted. I’ve DMed. Nothing.

Arthur: what if something happened

Lorenzo: We don’t know that. Don’t spiral. But we do need to find her.

Charles: I can ask someone at Ferrari. Maybe they know where she’s been.

Pascale: No. No more waiting for her to come to us. We go to her.

Arthur: but we don’t know where she is

Charles: She has a boyfriend we didn’t even know about She moved out a year ago She’s not answering She’s not talking to any of us

Lorenzo: Then we find someone who has seen her recently.

Charles: Who? Because it’s clearly not us.

***

Charles sat by the window, motionless. The clouds blurred past beneath them, soft and ghostlike, but he didn’t see any of it. His phone rested in his hand, screen black, battery threatening to die with a solemn 9% glaring up at him. He hadn’t put it down since they’d left the tarmac.

No new messages. No calls. No Belle.

He’d left voicemail after voicemail. Texts that felt like fragments of apology and panic, all swallowed into silence.

Across the aisle, Nicolas Todt had his laptop open and his phone pressed to his ear, murmuring in rapid-fire French. Every few minutes, he would pause, pinch the bridge of his nose, and mutter something like “catastrophe” or “this is a PR disaster.”

Which, to be fair, it was.

“No, non, it wasn’t intentional,” Nicolas said sharply into the phone. “Yes, we’re working on a statement. No, she hasn’t responded.” 

Belle’s name had been trending since the post-race interview. Not because she’d done anything. But because Charles had forgotten her. On her birthday. In Monaco. While she stood right there in the garage, smiling like she didn’t want to be seen and knowing no one had remembered.

Charles swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

Across the cabin, Arthur sat slumped beside Alexandra. His arms were crossed tightly, mouth drawn into a hard line. He hadn’t said much since boarding. But his silence didn’t feel defensive. It felt heavy. Like guilt.

Alexandra was the only one not pretending to be calm.

“You forgot her birthday,” she said. Again. Quietly, but without softening the blow.

“I know,” Charles rasped, eyes fixed on nothing.

“No,” she said sharply, “you don’t. You forgot, Charles. All of you did. She was there. In the garage. And no one even looked at her properly.”

Arthur flinched beside her, but didn’t respond.

From the aisle, Joris Trouche—normally calm, endlessly competent, the kind of man who could manage a logistics meltdown without raising his voice—was pacing with thinly veiled fury. He’d tried sitting down twice. Failed both times.

And now, he stopped in front of them, tone clipped. Controlled. But barely.

“I’ve known Isabelle since she was thirteen,” Joris said, staring them down. “She sent me homemade cinnamon cookies when I was stuck in the hospital with a stress fracture. She used to ask how my mum was doing.”

He turned to Charles. “And you—she waved at you in Monaco. On her birthday. And you smiled like she was anyone.”

Charles opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Joris’s voice wavered—angry, but undercut by something else. Something personal.

“I’m angry at you,” he said quietly. “But I’m angry at myself too. I should’ve remembered.”

In the front cabin, Joris was pacing. He’d been quiet since takeoff, but now his temper was burning through the thin layer of professionalism that usually cloaked him like armor.

“I should’ve remembered,” Joris said suddenly, sharply. “I should have reminded you. I always remind you. And I—I forgot too.”

Arthur stirred. “We didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Joris snapped his gaze toward him. “You don’t have to mean it. You did it anyway. You only noticed her absence when it became public embarrassment. That’s not love, that’s damage control.”

Nicolas finally ended his call and shut the laptop with a soft but definitive click. “If anyone has a prayer of salvaging this, it’s not through spin,” he said. “It’s through action. Apologies. Honesty. Real words. Not just statements.”

Charles didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Belle hadn’t responded to a single one of his messages. She hadn’t returned his call. She hadn’t even opened them.

And she always used to answer. Even when she was mad. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

He stared out at the clouds, jaw clenched, fists curled against his thighs.

He’d won in Monaco.

And lost the only sister he’d ever had.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Charles:Where is my sister? Does anyone know where Isabelle is???

Charles: I’ve called. I’ve texted. She’s not answering. She’s not at her apartment. Her neighbor says she MOVED OUT A YEAR AGO. She’s GONE and I don’t know where she is!!!

George: Charles. Deep breath.

Carlos: She’s safe.

Charles: YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS???

Carlos: Yes. She’s not missing. She’s just not talking to you.

Charles: And YOU KNEW THAT??  You ALL knew she moved out and didn’t say anything???

Carlos: You forgot her birthday, Charles. You don’t get to have an opinion. 

Charles: You KNEW?! You KNEW and you didn’t tell me?? You remembered her birthday and let me humiliate myself in front of the world?!

Carlos: She told me not to say anything because she didn’t want pity cupcakes. Her words.  She asked for one thing. I respected that.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Carlos: Then maybe you should have treated her like that.  

Oscar: Charles. Stop.

Charles: No, Oscar, he LET me forget!

Oscar: No. You forgot. YOU. He just respected her boundaries. She didn’t want a spotlight apology. She wanted to be seen before she disappeared. And none of you did.

Oscar: Belle asked Carlos not to tell you. Because she knew you’d make it about yourself.

Charles: Excuse me??

Oscar: YOU forgot her birthday. You smiled right through her in Monaco. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she disappeared. And now you’re mad at Carlos for respecting her boundaries?

Charles: I have a right to be upset!

Oscar: Belle has a right to protect herself. You’re upset because you’re losing control. She’s not missing, Charles. She’s finally choosing herself. And you can’t stand that it wasn’t you who got to decide when or how.

Lando: ...wow

Daniel: Oscar just cleared the entire grid.

George: No survivors.

Charles: Wait. Wait—how do you ALL know where she is?

Charles: Wait. WHAT ARE YOU NOT TELLING ME

Pierre: wait why does this chat feel like everyone’s in on something except me

Lando: She’s fine. She’s not alone. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.

Charles: HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT??

Oscar: Because she’s home.

Charles: What does that mean??

George: ...not our story to tell

Carlos: Exactly.

Yuki: What is happening. I feel like I skipped an episode.

Lando: Welcome to Drive to Survive: Emotional Damage Edition.

Oscar: Charles, stop texting. Start listening.

Charles: I need to fix it.

Carlos: Then don’t make this about you.

Lewis: And maybe… for once… Try earning your sister’s forgiveness instead of assuming you’re entitled to it.

Daniel: All I’m gonna say is… maybe next time don’t wait until post-race interviews to remember the people standing in your corner.

Lewis: And maybe sit with this one for a while before demanding answers.  Sometimes silence is the only language people have left.

Charles: … I just want to fix it.

Oscar: Then stop trying to own her pain. And start listening.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon and Lance Stroll)

Oscar: I might’ve gone too hard. But also I really don’t think I did.

Lewis: Nope. You didn’t. You said what needed to be said.

Carlos: I’ve been biting my tongue for two weeks. Thank you for saying it out loud.

George: You cleared him so thoroughly I think I need to book you for emotional landscaping.

Lando: You had him pacing like a dad who just realized he missed Parent-Teacher Night. It was glorious.

Daniel: Honestly? That was better than Spa 2021. You lapped him emotionally.

Alex: Did you see Pierre and Yuki’s confusion??  They looked like they opened Netflix halfway through season 3.

Oscar: They’re still trying to figure out why we all suddenly act like Max Verstappen is Belle’s guard dog husband.

Zhou: Wait. Should we add Pierre and Yuki to this chat? Like a prep class before the meltdown?

Logan: Absolutely not. They’ll trigger Charles into another “WHERE IS MY SISTER??” monologue and I’m emotionally out of snacks.

Esteban: Pierre would tell Charles. 

Mark: Back to the point—Oscar, you did good. He needed the mirror held up. Guilt isn’t the same as accountability.

David: And accountability isn’t the same as entitlement. He forgot that. You reminded him.

Sebastian: You all know what gets me? She didn’t even leave angry. She left quietly. And that says more than shouting ever could.

Carlos: That’s what kills me. She still doesn’t want us to fight over her. She just wanted to be seen.

Lewis: And now she finally is. By the one person who actually looked before it was too late.

George: Max is probably already privately planning to change his will and tattoo her name on his chest. 

Lando: He's in full "mine" mode. He’ll probably growl at anybody that comes close to her for the remainder of the week. 

Daniel Ricciardo: Wait until Charles finds out. About the wedding. About the “Mr. and Mrs. Verstappen” monogrammed towels.

Oscar: He doesn’t deserve to even have a fucking opinion about it. And he doesn’t get to drag Belle through more of his guilt spiral.

Lewis: And if he does?

Oscar: Then we remind him. She’s not invisible anymore. And she never has to be again.

Sebastian: Long live Belle Verstappen. She deserves peace.

Carlos: And we’re making damn sure she keeps it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: I just saw the clip.  Charles finally realized, didn’t he?

Victoria: I want to throw my phone through a wall. How did it take a live interview for it to click??

Victoria: Is Belle okay? Please tell me she’s okay. Tell me you’re with her.

Max: I’m flying back tonight. Emilie’s with her now. She’s safe. Quiet. But… not okay. Not yet.

Victoria:  Of course she’s not. She was standing there in the garage and smiled at him, and he didn’t remember. I don’t know how she held it together.

Max: Because that’s what she’s always done. Hold it in. Make it easier for everyone else.

Victoria: Not anymore. She doesn’t owe them that. She never did. And if Charles tries to guilt her into “moving on,” I swear to God.

Max: He won’t get the chance.

Victoria: Good. And when you get home—hold her tight, okay?

Max: Always. I’ve got her, Vic. She’s not alone anymore.

Victoria: She better not be. Because if any of them make her feel small again, I will drive to Monaco and handle it myself.

Max: You’ll have to get in line behind me.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Jos: Just saw the clip. The post-race interview.

Max: He only realized because Karun mentioned it. Didn’t even remember on his own.

Jos: I want to drive to Maranello and punch something.

Jos: You tell me—right now—is she okay?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says Belle’s sleeping. Quiet. She hasn’t messaged me yet. But I’m heading home. 

Jos: Good. Don’t leave her alone with that silence. She’ll pretend she’s fine. She’ll say it doesn’t matter. But this? This hurt her. You can see it in the way she vanished.

Jos: Belle doesn’t demand space. She disappears when she feels like no one wants her in the room.

Max: I know. She doesn’t have to say it for me to hear it.

Jos: I’m proud of her. She stood up for herself the only way she knew how. By walking away.

Jos: But I swear to God, if that brother of hers ever makes her feel like that again— I don’t care if he’s a Leclerc. I will make sure he never forgets who she is again.

Max: You’ll have to beat me to it. I’m not letting them near her until she says she’s ready. If she ever is.

Jos: That’s my boy. You take care of her. And tell her this family—the one she chose—has her back. Always.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: I just watched the interview.

Sophie: Max… he forgot her birthday. She was standing in the garage. She smiled at him. And he didn’t even blink. Like she was nobody.

Max: He remembered live on camera. Karun said something about Monaco and her birthday, and it hit him mid-answer. You could see it crash into him.

Sophie: God,  I hope it crushes him.

Sophie: How is Belle? Have you spoken to her?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says she’s safe. Sleeping. Quiet.

Sophie: She’s always quiet when she’s hurting. Always. You remember that, Max. The softer she gets, the harder she’s holding herself together.

Max: I know. That’s why I’m coming home.

Sophie: Good. She needs you. Not the Max who wins races. You.  The one who holds her hand when she’s anxious. The one who brings her tulips on Thursdays because she mentioned liking them once.

Sophie: Because the people who were supposed to protect her? They failed her.

Max: I’ll never let her feel like that again.

Sophie: I know you won’t. Because you see her. And that’s the most anyone can give someone who’s spent their whole life being overlooked.

Sophie: You tell her I’m coming by next week. No pressure. Just lunch. And she can sit on the balcony and not say a word if that’s all she wants. I’ll just be there.

Max: She’ll love that. She loves you.

Sophie: I love her. And if her family can’t act like it, she’s more than welcome in ours.

***

Max sat in his seat, elbow propped against the armrest, forehead resting against his knuckles as the private jet hummed through the night. The win from earlier that day already felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t celebrated. Not really. He’d shaken hands, answered the questions, smiled on the podium because it was muscle memory now.

But the second the press conference ended, the weight had dropped onto his chest.

Charles had realized. Finally.

Live. On camera. Because someone else—Karun, of all people—had mentioned Belle’s birthday.

It had taken that long. Two weeks.

Max had replayed the press clip on his phone once—watched Charles’ face shift in slow motion from charm to dawning horror. Watched him falter, then spiral. And Max hadn’t felt a drop of pity.

Because Belle had stood in that garage. She’d smiled. She’d waved. And her own brother had looked through her.

Across the aisle, Lando was sprawled in his seat with a blanket half-pulled over his face, earbuds in, legs stretched into Oscar’s personal space. Oscar had given up fighting it and was half-asleep against the window. Daniel was flipping through something on his iPad, likely pretending not to watch Max out of the corner of his eye.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. But Max’s mind was anything but.

Daniel had commandeered the seat across Max and was watching the proceedings like a therapist in a sitcom.

Finally, Lando broke the silence.

“Sooo…” he said slowly, cautiously, “how’s Belle?”

Max didn’t even look up. “Emilie’s with her. She said she’s okay. Belle was sleeping. Under the cats. Emilie said she looked peaceful.”

Lando hesitated. “Right. So… you know… she’s safe?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re still brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Max muttered.

Daniel leaned over the seat, grinning. “Oh, you are. Brooding with intensity. I haven’t seen this level of moody since Lando ran out of oat milk last week.”

“Hey,” Lando protested, “that was a crisis. And also—can we talk about how terrifying Emilie is?”

Daniel burst out laughing. “So your crush is confirmed.”

Lando went pink. “I do not have a crush.”

Oscar stretched, deadpan: “You stalked her on instagram and accidentally liked a post from 2019.”

“That was admiration! That’s different.”

Max finally glanced over, managing a small smirk despite the pressure in his chest. “You are a brave man,” he told Lando sagely, who glared at him. 

Lando groaned, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Why did I say that out loud?”

Daniel looked way too delighted. “Because you’re into emotionally terrifying women with sharp cheekbones and moral clarity. Honestly? Taste.”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “Elite taste.”

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Oscar yawned.

Max’s smile faded again as he looked back at his phone. The moment passed, quiet settling again like dust.

Lando, quieter now, asked, “Do you think Belle’s okay?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He was thinking of her curled on the couch. Of Emilie sitting beside her. Of their cats acting like tiny sentinels. He thought of the unopened texts, the unreturned calls.

“I think,” he said eventually, “she’s tired. Of being forgotten. Of being an afterthought. Of being quiet and still never heard.”

The other three fell silent. Even Daniel looked serious now.

Max looked down at the screen. Still nothing.

“But she’s not alone,” he added. “Not this time.”

Oscar nodded. “You’ll be home soon.”

Max’s voice was soft but certain. “Yeah. And when I get there, I’m staying. No more paddock games. No more silence. She doesn’t have to carry any of it alone anymore.”

Lando peeked out from his hoodie. “You’re like… scarily romantic for someone who once said feelings were ‘a distraction’.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Turns out she’s the only distraction I want.”

Daniel wiped an imaginary tear. “Beautiful. Print that on a mug.”

Oscar: “Tattoo it on your neck.”

Lando: “Put it on team merch. Limited edition.”

Max smiled faintly, then leaned back, still clutching his phone.

Let them joke.

Because the second they landed, he was going home. To her.

And this time, he wasn’t letting anyone—not a team, not a calendar, not even her family—make her feel invisible again.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra: Hey, Isabelle. I know it’s late. I just… I wanted to say I’m thinking about you.

Alexandra: Charles realized during the post-race interview. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so gutted. I wish it hadn’t taken that for him to see what he missed.

Alexandra: I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m sure a lot of people already have. But you didn’t deserve to be forgotten. You never have. And I’m sorry.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Alexandra: Hey. Just a heads-up before it hits you through someone else: We forgot Belle’s birthday.

Charlotte: …what?

Alexandra: All of us. Her entire family.

Charlotte: No. No way. It was during Monaco, wasn’t it?

Alexandra: Yes. She was in the garage, Char. Waved at Charles. Smiled at all of us. And not one of us remembered.

Charlotte: Oh my god.

Alexandra: Charles realized during a post-race interview today. The interviewer mentioned her birthday and I watched it hit him like a truck.

Charlotte: Is Isabelle okay?

Alexandra: She hasn’t answered anyone. Not even Pascale.

Charlotte: That’s not “okay.” That’s Isabelle shutting the world out.

Alexandra: Exactly. And the worst part? She didn’t say anything. She let us all forget. She didn’t expect us to remember.

Charlotte: Because we’ve done it before. Not like this. But still. God.

Alexandra: I texted her. No reply. She might answer you if you try. You’ve always been gentle with her.

Charlotte: I will. Thank you for telling me. And for not pretending it’s less awful than it is.

Alexandra: She deserves more than silence and spin. She always has.

Charlotte: I’ll try to reach her tomorrow. Even if she doesn’t answer… she’ll know someone tried.

Alexandra: That’s all we can do now. Try. And mean it.

***

The apartment was quiet when Max stepped inside.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the hardwood. The cats didn’t rush to greet him—they were already curled up in their usual spots, half-asleep and full of judgment. Sassy lifted her head briefly from the back of the couch, flicked her tail in acknowledgment, and went right back to sleep.

Max dropped his duffel gently by the door, kicked off his shoes without a sound, and padded into the hallway. Every step closer to the bedroom felt heavier. Not with dread. But with something deeper. Something like relief tied up in knots of worry.

He pushed the door open quietly.

There she was.

Belle, curled on his side of the bed, her frame barely a ripple beneath the duvet. One of his old shirts hung off her shoulder, too big and soft and completely hers now. Her hair was a mess, her breathing slow and steady.

He’d spent days missing her. And now, seeing her like this—peaceful, untouched by the storm her family had just realized they created—he nearly broke.

Max crossed the room slowly, sliding into bed behind her without a word. His hand found her waist beneath the blanket, fingers curling gently. His nose tucked into her shoulder, lips brushing against the skin just below her ear.

She stirred.

“Mm?” she murmured sleepily, voice raspy and warm. “Max?”

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m home.”

Belle rolled toward him without hesitation, arms winding around his middle, burying her face in his chest like she hadn’t seen him in months. He held her tighter. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other tracing slow, soothing lines down her spine.

“Did Emilie let you in?” she mumbled.

“No. She left me a note that said ‘fridge is stocked, don’t screw it up.’” He paused. “Also, she stole my last protein bar.”

Belle huffed a sleepy breath of laughter. Then: “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Max said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were puffy, tired—but clearer than he expected. The ache he saw in them was quieter now. Calmer. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently beneath one eye.

“They all texted,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“And called. Voicemails. Messages. Even Alexandra, I think.” Her voice was neutral, but her fingers had curled into his shirt. “I shut off my phone. I just… I can’t deal with them right now.”

“You don’t have to.”

She exhaled slowly. “They forgot, Max. Not just my birthday. Me. And now they’re panicking, but not because they miss me. Because they feel guilty. It’s not the same.”

Max didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it settle between them, warm and safe and honest.

“They’ll say sorry,” he said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean you have to forgive them all at once. Or at all. That’s your call.”

Belle swallowed. “I just… I don’t know if I want to let them back in. Not after this. Not when it took two weeks and an interview for them to notice.”

Max leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything.”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in. His presence. His steadiness. The way he never told her what she should feel—just made space for what she did.

“You always see me,” she whispered.

“Always,” Max said. “Every day. Every version of you. Even the one who hides under a blanket and ghosts her whole bloodline.”

Belle laughed, watery and real. “I love you.”

Max smiled, burying his face in her hair. “I love you more.”

They stayed there, wrapped in warmth and honesty and quiet defiance.

Her family could wait. The texts could sit unread. The apologies could pile up.

Right now, she had Max. And that was enough.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Lorenzo had barely slept.

After learning Isabelle hadn’t lived in her old apartment for nearly a year, he’d paced half the night in his kitchen, replaying every memory, every text, every moment he should have noticed and didn’t. His phone was full of unanswered group chat pings and hollow apologies. 

By morning, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He needed answers.

So he went to the one place he knew she would be at 8 am on a Monday morning. 

Her job. 

Atelier Renard Architects.  

Clean glass facade, minimalist signage, nestled on the edge of the marina like it had always been there. Isabelle used to say she loved that building more than half her portfolio—it knows exactly what it is and makes no apologies for it.

The receptionist didn’t recognize him at first. He introduced himself politely—Lorenzo Leclerc, Isabelle’s brother—and tried not to notice the pause.

Then the woman gave a hesitant smile. “Oh… Isabelle. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“I just wanted to stop by,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s not answering her phone. I thought maybe she was working, or—”

“Oh.” The woman’s expression faltered. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

Lorenzo blinked. “What?”

“She… quit. Months ago. November, I think? Maybe early December. It was quiet. No big announcement. She just cleared out her office in one evening.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped. “Did she say why?”

The receptionist grimaced. “There were some internal issues. She seemed calm. Almost… relieved.”

Lorenzo stepped back slightly, reeling.

Quit.

She’d quit the one job she had fought tooth and nail for. The one thing she always lit up talking about.

And no one in her family had noticed.

Not one of them.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said gently. “I assumed you knew.”

Lorenzo nodded stiffly. “No, thank you. You’ve been kind.”

He left quickly. Didn’t wait for anything more.

Outside, he leaned against the edge of a planter and braced both hands on the cool stone, breath catching.

Isabelle hadn’t just moved.

She hadn’t just gone quiet.

 She’d walked away from everything they thought they knew about her.

And no one—not a single one of them—had been close enough to notice it happening.

She’d untethered herself from them all.

And now?

 Now they had no idea where she stood.

 If she was hurt. If she was gone.

For the first time in years, panic didn’t just flicker in Lorenzo’s chest—it bloomed, wide and wild.

He pulled out his phone. Called her again. Straight to voicemail.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Emilie Abadie

Alexandra: Hey Emilie. I just wanted to check in. Do you know how Isabelle is doing?

Emilie: She’s resting. She’s emotionally exhausted. And no, she’s not answering anyone right now.

Alexandra: I figured. I wasn’t going to ask you to make her talk, I just… Wanted to make sure she’s okay. Truly.

Emilie: You all want to make sure she’s “okay” now. Where was that energy six months ago? Or a year ago? Or on her birthday?

Alexandra: I know. You’re right. We failed her. I’m not pretending we didn’t. I’m just trying not to make the same mistake twice.

Emilie: Then don’t turn this into your redemption arc. Belle is not your apology vessel. She doesn’t owe anyone grace she hasn’t given herself yet.

Alexandra: …Okay. That’s fair. I’m not trying to earn points. Just… trying.

Emilie: Trying is good. But don’t expect updates or access. She gets to choose who gets that now. And when.

Alexandra: Of course. Is she alone?

Emilie: No. Her boyfriend’s with her. He’s been looking after her. And he likes taking care of her.

***

Max blinked his eyes open just as Belle shifted in his arms and pushed herself up slightly, hair tousled and sweater slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes were tired, but calmer now. Clearer.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” he murmured back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”

She hesitated. “Better. Now that you’re here.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Belle sat up a little more, folding her legs under her. Max followed, still close, watching her carefully.

There was something in the way she looked at him now. Like she was on the edge of a cliff, heart in her throat, trying to trust the air would catch her.

“I have to tell you something,” she said softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve.

Max stilled. “Okay.”

“I was going to wait,” she said. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone, or in the middle of all the… noise. But you’re here now, and I don’t want to keep it from you.”

“Belle,” he said gently, “you can tell me anything.”

“I have something for you.”

Max blinked. “Is this a surprise-I- am-mad-at-you gift or a I-love-you-so-here’s-something-cute gift?”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her lips curved slightly. “The second one.”

“Good,” he said. “I was going to guess that anyway.”

She opened the drawer of her bedside table and pulled something out of it, only to placed it gently in his lap.

A lion plush.

Max looked down at it, brows drawing together. It was small, soft, slightly chubby around the middle with a fuzzy, mane and button eyes. Not something he’d seen before.

He ran a hand over its head slowly, confused but already fond of it. “Where did this come from?”

“I bought it the day after you left for Canada,” Belle said quietly. “I was shopping for a gift for Victoria’s baby, and I saw him. And I couldn’t put him back.”

Max looked at her, then back at the lion, frowning slightly in thought. “For Victoria’s baby?”

She shook her head. Her voice was soft, but steady. Belle’s eyes met his.

“For ours.”

The words hit him like a gear shift in slow motion. He blinked, heart thudding, mouth parting, but no sound coming out. He looked at her, really looked at her—at the hoodie draped over her shoulders, at the hand resting on her stomach without thinking, at the way her eyes shimmered but didn’t waver.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re pregnant?”

Belle nodded. “Twelve weeks, now. I thought it was the anemia at first. I went in for a check-up and they… they did an ultrasound.”

Max’s hand found hers without hesitation, fingers lacing tightly. “And everything’s okay?”

She nodded again, breath catching this time. “There was a heartbeat. A strong one. I saw it.”

He stared at her in awe, overwhelmed, his brain scrambling to keep up while his heart surged forward.

The plush lion sat between them on the bed, quiet and steady.

Max looked down at it, then back at her. “You’re serious?”

Belle’s voice cracked then, just a little. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted it to be here. With you. Home.”

And Max—Max didn’t even realize he was crying until she touched his cheek, brushing the tears away with the gentlest smile.

“You’re having our baby,” he said, the words tumbling out of him like something sacred.

Belle’s breath caught.

And then Max let out a shaky laugh—half in disbelief, half in awe. “You’re having our baby.”

She bit her lip. “Is that… okay?”

“Belle,” he said, looking at her like she’d just given him the universe, “it’s perfect.”

He looked down, then up at her again.

“Twelve weeks?” he said. “So that means…”

“December,” Belle murmured. “Right before the new season.”

His grin was slow, bright, and stunned. “A Verstappen off-season baby. We’re so on-brand.”

Belle laughed, soft and teary.

Max reached past her, picked up the lion, and pressed it to her stomach with gentle reverence.

“Hey, little one,” he said quietly. “I can’t wait to meet you.”

***

[ssahotchnerr]

My friend told me this story about her going golfing with her fiancé and she was like omg he is so attractive the whole time so i assume that what reader feels like all the time being with Aaron lol

a little off course

OMG i'm continuing with the golfing concept because YES cw; fem!reader, established relationship, playfulness and suggestive content <3

"Next time you go golfing with Dave," As Aaron was lounging on the couch, your arms had wrapped around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. "Can I tag along? Please?"

A double take was necessary when you asked, the request far out of your character. You've never expressed interest in golf before, and he was exceedingly surprised. Maybe it was just another way for the two of you to spend time together. Maybe you thought it would be more exciting than it actually was. You were on some kind of agenda.

Regardless, the next free sunny Saturday, you were sat in the golf cart as he and Dave made their way through the course.

But, that's all you did. You had no clear intentions of playing; you plainly sat in observance, and Aaron felt your eyes following his every move. It was almost intimidating; he wanted to do well for you.

Little did he know that while he feared you were bored, you were thoroughly entertained; present for your own indulgences.

"Sweetheart." His eyes were squinting from the sun, Dave teeing off behind him. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

You offered him a smile, and he took a second to admire how cute you looked in your sun visor, casting a shadow across the bridge of your nose. "I'm absolutely sure."

"Since when are you into golf?"

"I'm very," You paused mid-sentence, watching him (or rather, his hands) as he fixed his glove, adjusting and retightening the hold it held. "Into golf."

Only, Aaron playing golf was what you were interested in.

He and Dave played a few weekends ago, and when Aaron returned home, you found yourself regretfully wishing you accompanied them. Just when you thought he couldn't possibly be more attractive; a new genre of Aaron was unlocked and never to be concealed again.

Crisp and clean in proper golf attire - fresh khakis, a polo shirt, a newly produced, light tan gracing his skin. And now being present, the way his broad back stretched and forearms flexed as he lined up for a shot, his chest heaving in a deep exhale after hitting. Could there be a better sight?

His eyebrows crinkled adorably. "But you're just staring at me?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I see." Aaron's lips pulled into a combination of a smile and a smirk - he should've known. His hand was resting on the cart's overhead as he looked down at you. His voice remained low, to prevent Dave from overhearing. "You're just here to undress me with your eyes, aren't you?"

"Yes and no." You defended, failing miserably at keeping your caught smile at bay. "I'm here because I love you. The undressing is an added perk."

His furrowed brows relaxed in amusement. "Is it?"

"I'll jump at any opportunity to spend time with you. It's a beautiful day, you're within arm's reach." You reached out, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. "And I get to swoon over you being sweaty and strong in the meantime. Besides, I'm also here to ward off any club members who think they may have a shot at you. You're on full display out here for anyone to see."

"Aren't you sweet." A breathless laugh escaped him - as if anyone had a chance when he had you. Aaron leaned down to kiss you gently, craning his neck slightly due to the obstruction of your hat. "Thank you, darling."

You grinned, crossing a leg over the other.

His stare hidden behind his sunglasses, Aaron's eyes involuntarily fell to your legs, seeing that your slightly-too-short skirt had slid up and exposed most of your thigh. Maybe you had a point.

"Do you want to give it a try?" He asked as Dave finished his shot, returning to the parked cart himself.

"Really?"

"Sure, I'll teach you." Aaron took your hand, helping you step off the golf cart before grabbing his driver from his bag.

He guided you to stand in front of him; his biceps were at your shoulders, his arms firmly around you and allowing little to no room for movement.

Caged in, you felt a flutter in more places than one, the weight of his chest against your back intimately familiar. Muscle memory.

A blush filled your cheeks. Not from the heat of the afternoon, but at the rate this innocent lesson (you were beginning to infer, this hadn't been innocent to begin with) had heightened. There was no way you'd successfully hit this ball now, even with Aaron's direction - being highly distracted.

"Hands here," he instructed with quiet command, moving your hands along the grip to the correct positioning. His lips were touching the shell of your ear. "Square your shoulders for me."

"Like this?" Only, you pushed your ass directly into his crotch. Aaron's hold on your wrists immediately tightened.

He barely managed a hum in confirmation, swallowing hard. "Just like that."

"Okay you two," Dave lectured from afar, a mix between amusement and slight disgust visible on his face. "Keep it PG on the green, please."

[nadvs]

the power play (part five)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

You haven’t spoken to Rafe since he angrily left your dorm three nights ago.

You’re sitting in your booked study room, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if he’ll be regretful of your argument or be ready for round two or pretend it never happened.

Either way, you’d prefer to make light of it and move on. He may no longer be your fake boyfriend, if he really meant what he said, but you’re still going to be seeing him every week.

You hope that you can just give him back his jersey and leave what happened in the past.

The guilt that Rafe has been running from catches up to him once he walks in and sees you. He blew up the other night and you met him with understanding he’s never been given before, softness he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Let’s just get it out in the open,” you say as the door clicks shut behind him. “We fought. I was expecting a bouquet of apology roses, but maybe they got lost in the mail?”

He huffs. Typical of you to make a joke about it.

He sits down, slouched back as he unpacks his things, his long legs stretched out beneath the table. He doesn’t know what to say and is relieved, for once, that you fill the silence.

“I get why you got annoyed,” you say, “but I haven't changed my mind. This doesn’t have to be weird. No hard feelings, right?”

His jaw tenses as he sets your copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle on the desk. He got through it quickly. And he actually didn’t hate it.

He’s sure it was only because reading killed the time he’d normally had spent training, but he figures this is a good enough topic to start with.

“I finished it,” he murmurs, looking down at the paperback. “It was good.”

“Oh. Wow,” you say, perking up. “You liked it?”

He nods, earning a prideful smile from you.

“Because…?”

“It was short,” he says.

“You walked into this room, I think a month ago to the day, and looked insulted when I asked you if you liked reading,” you say. “And now you’re telling me you enjoyed a book. That’s huge. I need way more than it was short.”

“You’re being a lot right now.”

“I know.” Your smile doesn’t falter. You motion for his laptop, he hands it to you, and you open a new document. “Keep talking. What did you like about it?”

“It got to the point.”

“The prose is very clear,” you agree, typing in the note. “What’d you think of the twist at the end? Did you see it coming?”

“No.”

“This is why I love this class. It introduces you to books you might’ve never picked up,” you gush, then take a breath. “You better not be trying to trick me. You knew I’d get excited about this and forget that we argued. But I’m already over it. Okay, I’m talking too much. Your turn.”

The relief of seeing you act like you normally do has lifted the weight that’s been sinking into Rafe since the night he snapped at you.

Now that he’s with you again, confined in a room he didn’t think he’d ever not mind being in, there’s no avoiding the fact that you have an effect on him.

Against his expectations, he cares about what you think. About how you feel. And he just wants to fix this.

“You don’t know what my fights with her used to be like,” he says. “I’ve heard it all.”

You still for a moment, then rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand as you gaze at him through compassionate eyes.

You can sympathize that not knowing what Emma said is irritating him, but you couldn’t repeat her cruel words, even if you wanted to.

“I understand,” you say, “but I can’t bring myself to tell you something that’ll just hurt you.”

“That’s my point,” he scoffs. “It won’t hurt me.”

“It could.”

Rafe sinks into the realization that he’ll just have to take the loss here. You’re not going to tell him what he wants to know, because you don’t want to wound him. Even though he kind of deserves it for his outburst.

“I know I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know I didn’t have to lose it on you like that the other night.”

“Yeah,” you breathe a defeated chuckle. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fans through the book just to have something to do with his hands.

You take in the remorse etched into his handsome face and you admire that even though he can be rash, he tries to clean up the messes he makes, pushing aside his ego when he needs to.

“We’re past it,” you conclude. You look at the laptop screen again, glad this will be a clean break. “Let’s write what we can about this book first and then go back to the other essay. What else did you like?”

Rafe expected that you’d bounce back after your rift. Your positivity is so relentless that it almost tires him out. But he needs to make sure you know he uttered those words out of disingenuous impulse.

“I didn’t really mean that we should end it,” he clarifies.

You look at him again, a crease formed between his brows.

“Are you trying to un-break up with me?” you tease. “This is awkward. I already started pretend-dating one of the other guys I tutor.”

“You tutor other guys?” he asks before thinking.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you play along.

Rafe’s chest pinches. He doesn’t know why he assumed you exclusively tutored him. He thought he was the only one you see like this, the only one you ramble to and nag and joke with. Why does he hate that he’s not?

“Come on,” he murmurs, shoving past the unwelcome thought. “I know you miss me.”

You laugh. His typical brand of humor is detached and blunt and it’s nice to see another side of him, a playful side that makes him seem warm.

“I have to think about it.” You shrug. “Okay. We’re back together. I had a feeling you were just being mean the other night anyway.”

Rafe’s lips fall into a guilty frown. Without thinking, he scratches the back of his neck, grimacing and letting out a sharply exhaled fuck as his shoulder stings in pain.

“Are you okay?” you ask, serious now.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“Convincing,” you say. “What is it?”

He sees no reason to hide it. You did tell him that he can vent to you and if there’s anyone he’d complain to about this, it’s you.

He’d rather not tell anyone on the team. Not even his closest friends. He doesn’t want to look weak.

“My shoulder’s fucked up,” he admits.

“Is it from that board check the other night?”

He nods and says, “Physio said it’s a strained muscle.”

“How bad?”

“I’m benched. He’ll look at it again before game two.”

“You mean you can’t play the first game of the championship?” you surmise.

Rafe’s tight expression tells you that you assumed correctly. You grimace sympathetically.

“Did he say if you can use anything to help with the pain?”

“Heat when it gets bad,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” you say.

He watches you rush out, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Moments later, you come back with an instant hot compress and place it on the desk in front of him.

“The library has a bunch of first aid kits,” you tell him, sitting back down.

“How’d you know that?” Rafe squeezes the package in one hand, the subdued pop cracking through the small room. “You really like it here that much?”

“A student of mine got a papercut once,” you explain with a laugh. “But yes, I do enjoy being surrounded by books.”

“Right,” he huffs, still in disbelief of how different you two are. “Thanks.”

He rests the package on top of his shoulder, comforting heat spilling through his t-shirt.

When Rafe lets out a velvety, satisfied groan, you find yourself flustered within half a second. Your mind sprints away from you. A mere sound has never made every inch of you tense like this before.

Your imagination can’t keep doing this to you, but it feels impossible to ignore the physical pull you’re starting to feel towards him.

You swallow hard and look at the laptop again, blinking.

This is bad.

You’re crossing the line and you need to yank yourself back into rationality. Rafe is a friend and all the affection he’s given you has been a sham and it’s disconcerting that you keep having to remind yourself of that.

You know he could never give you what you need in a relationship. The last time you saw him was cold, hard proof of that. He’s much too volatile to make a good boyfriend.

And that’s accompanied by a very big if he even likes you like that, which you highly doubt, given how easily you frustrate him. You refuse to overthink, to tumble into infatuation with another man who’ll just hurt you.

“Anyways,” you say, your eyes locked on the screen. “We really should get to work.”

════════

With ten minutes left of the session, Rafe’s laptop dies. You slide it towards him, disappointed you couldn’t upload the essay you’d just finished before the battery drained.

“Make sure to submit it before midnight,” you say. “Oh, and Lyla and Beck’s parents are hosting their birthday party on Saturday, so consider me unavailable for fake girlfriend duties that night.”

Rafe opens his backpack, pushing his laptop in as he mulls over your words. That sounds like the type of event you’d want him to come to.

“Do you need me there?” he asks.

“You were invited,” you say, “but I’ll say you were busy. You’d hate it. It’s an hour away, with a bunch of strangers you’d have to impress, and there’s obviously no way your ex would be there. I can do this on my own.”

Rafe stills before he speaks again.

“Do you need me there?” he repeats, more evenly.

It riled him up to see Emma leave the last party with another guy. To see his arm around her at the game. He hoped he’d be able to count on you to be by his side if he sees them together again this weekend.

But mostly, and more importantly, picturing you at that birthday party alone, in the same room with the guy who hurt you, all because you didn’t want to make Rafe feel forced into going, gnaws at him.

You stare at him, trying to make sense of his tight expression. It’s confusing that he’s still even in this room, asking if you want his help after you’ve given him an out.

“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re positive you’d be fine without him, but he’s sort of become a security blanket.

“I’ve… seen her around with some guy,” he tells you. “It’d be good to get away from campus. And I owe you for losing my cool the other night.”

“Do you even have a cool?” you chuckle.

Rafe glares at you, but it’s proven disingenuous by the small, dimpled smirk he chooses not to stifle.

“I hope I’m with you the next time you see them together,” you say. “Anyways, we can drive up together, then?”

Your eyes brighten with your smile. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that, purely and truly excited to spend time with him.

“A bunch of friends from high school will be there, and obviously Beck and Lyla’s parents, who basically consider me their daughter,” you continue, “so we’ll need to be convincing. It’s a casual dinner, then we’ll just hang out as long as we want. Can you pick me up at five?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stands up, pulling his bag over his good shoulder. “See you.”

You watch him pace towards the door, relieved that you’ll have him there, grateful that he's doing this for you even though you’re certain he really doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” you mumble. He looks at you again. You motion to his injury. “Be careful with your shoulder. And… you’re going to call me corny, but I’m really glad you’re coming.”

A few seconds of silence pass between you.

“You’re corny,” he replies.

You share a smile before he steps out of the study room into the quiet library.

Emptiness abruptly digs into his chest once he’s not with you, growing deeper the farther he walks away.

You’re unlike anyone he’s known. You don’t try to hide how much you care about him and you see things in him he didn’t know were there and you combat his temper with humor and with tenderness and with reassurance that makes him feel like he’s not irreversibly fucking up all the time.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the void he’s always trying to fill isn’t bottomless after all.

════════

Your exhale is shaky as Rafe exits the freeway with only a few minutes left of the drive to Beck and Lyla’s home.

You pull down the sun visor, gazing at your reflection. You’re suddenly quiet and fidgety after you’d chattered for most of the ride.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “And why the hell do I have to ask?”

You chuckle, catching his implication that you typically blab about what’s bothering you without him having to check in.

“I don’t know how I’m going to look their parents in the eye and lie.”

“It’s that hard to pretend to like me?” Rafe murmurs. He’s glad there’s no edge to his tone, glad he can hide that your words stung him a little.

“No,” you chuckle. “When you’re being nice, I like you. Just not like that, obviously.”

Obviously. It’s happening again, the painful crook in his core, the tangled feelings that just keep twisting together.

He used to not care if you liked him. Because he didn’t like you. But your last conversation did something to him, something that was already quietly building up, something that he needs to strip before it sticks.

After every fight he had with Emma, he sensed the palpable cracks forming between them. With you, things felt stronger once you moved past your argument.

Fuck. Why is he thinking about you like you’re his actual girlfriend, comparing his last relationship? This is the last thing he needs.

“It just feels… official. Like I’m bringing a boy home,” you continue. “Nobody’s seen me in a relationship before and they might question your intentions and I don’t want it to be weird.”

You look in the mirror again.

“And I think I’m having a bad hair day. And a bad face day. And I kind of hate my outfit.”

Rafe can’t take your nonsense. Insinuating that you’re anything short of beautiful is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard you say.

He shuts the visor and utters, “You’re doing that overthinking shit again.”

“Okay, so, that’s a perfect example of you not being nice,” you laugh.

You know if you really liked him as more than a friend, his curtness would hurt you. It’s reassuring, the realization that your attraction to Rafe will never be more than physical.

You breathe a sigh, anticipating being with your friends again after you’ve parted ways to different colleges. You wonder if anyone’s changed in the few months since.

You glance over at Rafe.

“What were you like in high school?” you ask.

“The same,” he answers.

“So, just as warm and cuddly?” you tease.

He smirks. You smile like you do every time you crack his facade. It always makes you feel a little proud.

“Better when I started playing hockey,” he relents. “How about you?”

You purse your lips in thought.

“What do you mean better?” you prod.

Rafe’s in no mood to elaborate, stiffly repeating, “How about you?”

You roll your eyes. It’s like pulling teeth, getting this man to share anything.

“I haven’t really changed much,” you reply. He finds himself thinking that it’d be a shame if you ever did.

Rafe follows the GPS to pull into a quiet suburban street. He slows down in front of the house and parks. You gaze out your window to see helium balloons surrounding the front door and reach for the handle.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You turn your head to meet his eyes.

“You don’t need to freak out. We got this. And you…” He looks away. “You look good.”

The words are tight coming out of his mouth, like he really didn’t want to have to say them.

You start to thank him, but he’s already stepping out of the car.

════════

The party is so busy that you and Rafe disappear in the crowd. He stands close by as you catch up with your friends, remembering details about where they’ve gone after graduation, asking questions, making jokes.

When it’s time for dinner, you sit next to him at the table, diagonal to Beck, who has done nothing but flash you awkward smiles here and there.

He’s hardly spoken to you. You wish you weren’t doing it again, second-guessing if he really is jealous.

You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I didn’t get a chance to say hi,” Lyla’s mother says. You smile at her and sit up to give her a hug.

“There’s a lot of people,” you say understandingly.

“My kids are too social,” she jokes quietly, leaning over. She looks over at Rafe. “You must be…?”

“Rafe,” you say. His smile is faint, but believable.

“I hope you know I have to grill you a little,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says, glancing at you. “She warned me.”

He’s playing it entirely cool. You’re relieved. You had nothing to worry about. He has this handled.

“How’d you meet?” she asks.

“I’m his tutor,” you tell her.

“Always been a smart one,” she replies, squeezing your hand. “Is that what made you like her?”

Your eyes land on Rafe again, nerves pricking your spine.

“It’s… one a lot of things, yeah,” he says.

“What else?”

Rafe’s heart thrums.

“I don’t know anyone like her.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, the amusement in them replaced by a depth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses, when his guard slips a little. “And she has a good heart.”

“She does,” Lyla’s mother says, straightening to stand. “You better treat her right.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. When she steps away, you nudge his knee with yours.

“That was amazing,” you say. Your praise gives him a high.

“I’m a great liar,” he replies.

You nudge him again, laughing.

“I don’t care,” you say. “You can’t take any of that back.”

He wouldn’t want to anyway. It was the truth.

════════

After dinner, Beck and Lyla’s mother brings out an ornate cake, prompting the room to break out in song. You watch Beck and Lyla blow out the candles as everyone applauds.

“I’ll never forget what the nurse said the day you two were born,” their father announces as he stands by the head of the table, holding a glass up. “Even when they’re big, you’ll picture them this small. And it’s true.”

He looks down, nodding curtly, lips twisting.

“Here we go again,” Lyla laughs.

“He cries every year,” you explain to Rafe in a hush.

He gazes at your profile as their dad continues his toast. He was aware you knew Beck for a long time, for years, but seeing this makes it real.

He can picture it now, you spending your adolescence in this house, making memories with this family, falling for the guy sitting on the other side of the table who brushed you off, who’s blind to how happy you make everyone around you.

The night you sat on that kitchen counter in that frat house back on campus, your eyes deepened with a sadness that hardly ever comes across your face, and you told him what you saw in Beck. What made you fall for him.

Fun. Kind. Nice to everybody.

And it’s a reminder of why this fire that’s growing inside Rafe for you needs to be put out. He’s the antithesis of the guy you’re in love with. You’d never want him like that.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” their father continues. “Happy birthday.”

Rafe looks down at his plate, wishing he’d been prepared for the wave of pain that’s crashing down on him as the sounds of conversation and dishes rattling and joyous laughter ricochet across the room.

He hates to admit it to himself, but Beck has everything he wants, down to a father who’s proud of his son.

He glances over at you again, but you’re still looking at Beck, your smile both happy and sad, your eyes trained on the one person you’re doing all of this for.

════════

The party moves to the rec room after Beck and Lyla’s parents wish everyone a good night.

Rafe’s hand is in yours as you lead him down the carpeted stairs, then settle on the plush sectional couch next to him as you chat with your friends.

He always hated his impulsivity. He was just telling himself to put out the fire, but he only throws fuel onto it when he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you closer the moment Beck walks in.

You nuzzle in, shifting to look at him again, your noses nearly bumping from how close you are.

“It’s the other shoulder?” you confirm softly, making sure you aren’t putting pressure on where he’s hurting.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod and absorb yourself back into the group’s conversation. Your back is pressed against his chest and he hopes you don’t feel how hard his heart is pounding.

But he knows that the way you make him feel isn’t unique to him. He sees it now that you’re with your friends. You make everyone feel this way, like you want them around.

Drinks start getting passed. You look at Rafe again.

“I’m staying sober tonight,” you tell him. “Thought I should reassure you that I won’t be inviting myself over for another sleepover.”

He wants to ask why that’d be such a bad thing and it’s like he left his sanity upstairs, because now he’s wondering what the hell he’s doing wanting to flirt with you.

“Everyone’s playing,” Lyla announces as she places a box in the middle of the coffee table. “And nobody’s allowed to sit out. You legally can’t say no to the birthday girl.”

“It’s my birthday, too,” Beck says.

“Who cares?” Lyla jokes, opening the box. “It’s truth or dare. We’ll take turns picking a card and reading it out loud and if you won’t do either or you fail at a dare, you have to drink.”

“Oh, no,” you whisper to Rafe.

“Just be happy you found a way to read at a party,” he replies.

You crack a genuine laugh. His lips pull into a smile as he watches you, gratified that the joy you’re feeling right now is entirely because of him.

You feel Beck’s stare on you from his spot on the couch a couple of people away. You look up at him and he looks away and it’s like a discombobulating shove into the past, reminding you of when you’d catch him staring and let your mind run away with daydreams.

The feeling of Rafe’s arm tightening around you grounds you in reality, but it also sends a rush of heat through you and you hate that it does that.

“Truth: what's something you're glad your family doesn't know about you?” Lyla reads out. “Or dare: keep your eyes closed for three full minutes. Easy. Dare.”

She closes her eyes, then points to her right. The game continues around the circle and when it’s your turn to pick, you select a card, feeling everyone but Lyla’s stare on you.

“Truth: what’s the last excuse you used to cancel plans? Dare: don’t laugh or smile until your next turn.”

“Worst dare you could’ve gotten,” Rafe murmurs.

“You’d never manage,” your friend, Marcus chuckles.

You laugh, then laugh again when you realize you just proved both of them right.

“Damn it,” you say. “You know what? I’ll take the dare.”

You put the card down on the table and exhale deeply, trying to focus.

Rafe’s eyes flit to Marcus, whose eyes stay on you longer than he’d like them to.

“Your turn,” you say to Rafe, stone-faced.

He’d rather not play this, but he’s supposed to be acting like a good boyfriend. Besides, there’s something about disappointing you that makes him feel worse than disappointing anyone else.

He leans forward, his arm lifting off of you for a moment, and picks up a card. His hand settles on your hip again as he reclines, his bicep hard against your back.

He’s only staring at the card, so you tilt your head back to read it aloud for him.

“When was the last time you cried? Or, let someone in the room write whatever they want on you with a permanent marker.”

You look at him, holding back your smile, knowing you’re both thinking the same thing. As his girlfriend, it’d make sense that you’d be the one to mark his body.

He would never admit to crying, especially to a group of strangers. The reminder of Emma’s words, of how she’d said he called her in tears, makes your stomach drop. Suddenly, not smiling doesn’t take any effort anymore.

“Dare,” you answer for him. “I need a marker.”

“I’ll get it. Someone help me,” Lyla says, her eyes still shut as she stands. She feels for her way around the room as one of your mutual friends stands up to accompany her. “Keep playing!”

The next person starts their turn, and you take Rafe’s free hand and rest his arm across his lap, gently to not tug too hard and strain his shoulder.

It’s a shock how instinctually you did it, how touching him is natural now, yet still manages to make your heart race a little faster every time you do it.

“I’m going for a meaningful one. I’m thinking my name,” you tease, running your finger up the length of the inside of his forearm, eyes travelling over the faint lines of veins, “from here to here. Sound good?”

“No,” he answers gruffly. You crack a smirk. “And you lost your dare.”

“Don’t tell,” you mumble, forcing your smile away. “You know I can’t hold my alcohol.”

When both girls come back downstairs, Lyla blindly hands you the marker. You meet Rafe’s stare before you look down at his arm.

“The card said whatever I want,” you say quietly, mischief in your tone.

He watches you lean in, eyelashes fluttering as you blink, lips pursing in thought. The wet ink hits the inside of his wrist and his stomach goes numb when you start to slide the smooth, thin end of the marker over him, your thumb gently pressing into his skin as you hold him steady.

Rafe stares as you concentrate, and he starts to breathe a little deeper simply because the way you smell has become a comfort now, a familiarity, a hit of dopamine.

You sit up seconds later. He looks down to see Room 205 written in small, black characters. Your study room.

“You’ll never forget where to go,” you say happily. “Well, until it washes off.”

You finally meet his eyes again. He’s wearing the same concentrated look you’ve seen before, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What, did you really expect I’d write something that bad?” you say as you snap the cap back on the marker.

The group continues with the next round, and when it’s your turn again, you have to choose between sharing your biggest insecurity or whispering a secret to someone in the room.

“Dare,” you decide, putting the card on the table and leaning back, lifting your chin to whisper into Rafe’s ear.

He slightly angles his head so that nobody can read your lips, shivers spreading over his skin from the feeling of your cheek on his.

“You’re probably my favorite student that I’ve ever tutored,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Even with all his flaws, Rafe has given you something you’re not sure anybody else would have. He came into your life at the perfect time, came up with the perfect idea, and you’re deeply grateful for it.

He hastily cups your jaw, his hand so large it covers your cheek completely, as he tilts your head so he can tell you something, too. His lips brush over the shell of your ear.

“Just probably?” he whispers back. “That’s bullshit.”

You pull back, laughing, your eyes lingering on him.

“Don’t start making out, please,” Lyla teases.

You roll your eyes and look at the group again.

“I’ll spare you all the PDA,” you reply.

“Why start now?” a friend jokes.

“Yeah,” Beck quietly huffs. An ache of confusion rattles through you.

The game carries on, but Beck’s eyes linger on you. He’s never looked at you like this before. And it makes you believe what Rafe has been telling you this entire time.

════════

You leave the party holding Rafe’s hand and untangle your fingers from his the moment you’re out of the house, the moment there aren’t any eyes on you.

Rafe’s palm is cold now that your touch is gone.

Again, he’s powerless to the way his heart does whatever it wants and doesn’t give his head a chance to catch up.

He wasn’t supposed to like you.

He never expected to.

But when he looks at you as you tread towards his car together and the hushed moonlight bathes your features in its glow and you offer him that smile that makes his heart splinter in a way it never has, he yields to the truth, unable to put up a fight any longer.

He’s hopeless. You’ve pulled him under. And he had no choice but to let you.

(to be continued)

>>> new parts drop every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

author’s note and the yearning (that eventually turns mutual) begins 🙂‍↕️

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[4linos]

the letter pt. 2

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & miscommunication, emotional cheating undertones.

wc: 8740

[the letter part. 1]

Acceptance didn’t come with a sudden epiphany.

It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.

At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.

But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.

You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.

“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”

Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.

You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.

You wanted someone to call yours.

A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.

And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.

But dreams change.

And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.

A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.

You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.

But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.

More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.

Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.

“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”

You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.

Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.

Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.

You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.

This baby was yours.

And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.

At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The letter.

That goddamn letter.

It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.

The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.

Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.

Maybe it was an apology.

Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.

He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.

He was angry.

Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.

So no, he didn’t open it.

He refused to.

The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.

He moved around it. Literally.

Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.

Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.

Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.

Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.

And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

So why write?

What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?

He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

And he didn’t.

Not until he started dreaming about you again.

Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.

He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.

Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.

“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”

He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.

He never meant to lose you.

He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.

The dreams came harder after that.

Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.

If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.

What if it was a goodbye?

What if it was closure?

The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.

Still, he didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because once he did, there’d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.

Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.

Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.

Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.

-

He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.

It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.

But still, he scrolled.

A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.

His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.

Jia’s post.

A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.

Laughing.

Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

You looked happy.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.

And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.

Smiling.

And not at him.

Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.

The drawer creaked.

That drawer.

He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.

He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.

You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.

He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.

The letter rested in his hands.

And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.

A rush of something hot surged in his chest.

Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.

It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.

You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?

His grip tightened.

The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.

He was going to rip it.

Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.

He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.

The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.

But something stopped him.

Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.

What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?

It came quietly. It always did.

Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.

Because something was wrong.

Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.

The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.

And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.

Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.

And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.

And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.

At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.

You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.

But no one told you how lonely it would feel.

How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.

And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.

You weren’t bitter.

You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.

It was Jia who brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.

“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.

“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”

Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”

“No. Chan.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”

Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know that.”

“And emotional.”

“I know, Lana.”

Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”

“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”

“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”

“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”

Reluctantly, Lana agreed.

So now here you were.

Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—

A tap.

Soft. On your shoulder.

You turned.

And there he was.

Chan.

The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.

He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”

The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.

Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.

Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.

You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”

You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”

He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”

That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.

He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.

“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.

Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.

You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”

Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”

“So did I,” you said quietly.

He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.

You felt like you again.

And that… that felt like breathing.

Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.

Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”

Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.

“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”

“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”

“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”

Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”

Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.

You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.

“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”

Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.

“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”

Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”

You nodded. “I could use the walk.”

“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.

“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.

The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.

Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”

He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.

It meant you.

You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.

But you didn’t talk about Jisung.

You didn’t need to.

Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.

Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.

“Have you thought of names yet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”

You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”

Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”

You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”

“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”

You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.

Just care.

And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.

You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.

Just… you.

And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.

Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.

He thought he was finally past it. Past you.

It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.

But then he saw the photo.

You. Laughing.

Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.

You looked so… okay.

That was what struck him the most.

You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.

He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.

The possibility made his stomach twist.

He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.

His hand hovered over it.

Six months.

What if he’d missed something important?

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.

And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?

He could barely breathe.

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.

And he hadn’t listened.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.

The man in the picture.

And that look on your face.

He thought about what it meant.

What it could mean.

And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.

What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?

What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?

He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.

His heart thundered.

The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.

But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.

-

The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.

He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh.

Your laugh.

For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.

It echoed again, closer this time.

He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.

And there you were.

Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

You weren’t alone.

The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.

You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

And it hit Jisung like a truck.

Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Something cracked deep in his chest.

It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.

You had left him and this was why?

You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?

His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.

Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that he needed answers.

Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.

You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.

The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.

For a second, no one said anything.

You stared at each other.

The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.

You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”

But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.

The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.

“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.

Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”

Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”

The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.

“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”

Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.

“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.

“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”

“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.

He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.

“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.

Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.

“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”

Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.

You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.

“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.

You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.

You didn’t mention the letter.

You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.

And he still had no idea what he had missed.

All he knew now was this:

You had moved on.

And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.

You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.

At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.

You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.

Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.

You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:

Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.

You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.

The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you��d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.

It felt good. Almost normal.

You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.

“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.

“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”

You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—

You heard your name.

That voice.

That damn voice.

Your body went cold.

It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.

You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.

Jisung.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.

And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.

He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.

Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.

And you saw it.

The flicker of realization.

He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.

The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.

You hadn’t even told him it was his.

You didn’t want to.

Not like this.

Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.

The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.

And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.

You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.

And you meant it.

When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.

You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.

Because if you did, you knew it would break you.

You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.

Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.

He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Your lip trembled.

And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.

But then the tears came.

Without warning.

You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.

Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.

You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.

All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.

The betrayal of being forgotten.

The fear of being a single mother.

The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.

You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.

He just held you. Like you needed.

Like you deserved.

Like Jisung never did.

It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.

Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.

You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.

He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.

The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.

When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.

Chan didn’t seem to mind.

He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.

“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then… you laughed.

Just a little.

Soft and tired, but real.

You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.

“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.

You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.

You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”

That was all you needed to say.

He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”

You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”

Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”

You looked down at your stomach.

The guilt crept in again, slowly.

The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.

“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Chan looked over.

“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”

You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.

“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”

He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.

Because that didn’t matter. Not now.

Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”

You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.

And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.

He made you feel like you weren’t broken.

Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.

Still worthy of being held.

Still worthy of being chosen.

It had been hours since he saw you.

Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.

But it was still echoing.

Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.

You were pregnant.

And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.

And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.

He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.

He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the envelope.

The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.

He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.

For a moment, his hand trembled.

He could read it.

He could finally read it.

But then his mind flashed back to earlier.

The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.

And then came the anger.

All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.

His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.

“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”

He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.

He needed it to be true.

Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…

No.

He couldn’t think about that.

Couldn’t handle it.

So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.

And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.

The sound that left his throat was ugly.

Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

He didn’t even feel like he was crying.

But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.

You were gone.

You had moved on.

And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.

And still… he didn’t know the truth.

Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.

He sat like that for a long time.

The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.

Because the truth, the real truth was gone now.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[the letter taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets ..]

[navybrat817]

Seb's new Variety photoshoot did things to me Navy, and now thots of sucking the living shit out of his cock consume me.

UNTIL I MEMORIZE EVERY VEIN 🥵

TRULY. And I have to use the image you sent me.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: Over 660

Warnings: Implied smut, implied oral sex (m. receiving), implied vaginal and anal sex, dirty talk, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

Banner credit to @cafekitsune

Okay, but imagine. Bucky taking a shower after a long day. Maybe he worked up a sweat fixing his car or bike. He wants you because, well, he always wants you, and you were sweet enough to leave him be and not tease him. Not that he would’ve complained if you did strut around to distract him, but his want for you only increases since you left him alone. Covered in sweat and grime though, he wants to be a gentleman and shower first so you don’t have to deal with the mess. 

There will still be a mess, but that’s beside the point.

Sighing under the spray of the water once he’s undressed, he can’t help but picture you as his eyes slip shut. He thinks of your lips on his skin as you kiss down his body, taking your time to worship and drive him crazy. He can practically feel your hands move up his thighs once you’re on your knees. Licking his lips, he can imagine the feigned innocence so clearly in your eyes before you wrap your hand around his hard cock and dart your tongue out to taste him.

Your sinful mouth was made for his cock to ruin, just like the rest of you.

“And what has you all hot and bothered?” 

Bucky tilts his head and opens his eyes, smirking when you push the curtain open more to join him, your clothes on top of his on the floor. Your nipples are already hard and he doesn’t have to touch you to know you’re wet. “You,” he says, unashamedly stroking himself as he fully faces you. “It’s always you.”

How could he want anyone else when he has you?

You hum and run a finger along his arm, chasing a droplet of water. “Were you thinking of anything in particular?”

“I was picturing you sucking my cock,” he answers, smirking again when he hears your breathing pick up. “You always take me so well.”

“Is that right?” you smile, placing your hand over his to help him stroke himself. “Well, we both know I have a dirty mouth made for fucking, and you have a gorgeous cock made for sucking.”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, stroking faster.

“Maybe I should get on my knees so you can fuck my throat right here. Make that daydream a beautiful reality,” you suggest, leaning in close enough for your lips to touch. “Look up at you with tears in my eyes as your soul leaves your body.”

Bucky’s eyes almost rolled back. If anyone could suck the soul out of him, it was you. Each of your holes took him to a kind of heaven he didn’t know existed.

“But before your soul leaves your body, I want to memorize every vein. I want my throat molded to the shape of your cock,” you continue, letting your tongue move along the seam of his lips. “And when you’re done, I want you to wreck my pussy the way I deserve.”

A growl escapes and Bucky’s proud he doesn’t come then and there. “Greedy thing, wanting me to ruin your pussy, too.”

And Bucky will. He’ll fuck your throat and watch as tears spill over when you take him deep in your throat. He’ll fuck your pussy until the only thing you remember is his name. 

“Yeah, I’m greedy when it comes to you.” You wait a beat before you smirk. “So, you should probably fuck my ass for good measure.”

Bucky’s hand freezes because he knows he’ll blow his load if he doesn’t stop. “What did you say?”

“I said you should fuck my ass, big boy,” you repeat, and Bucky wonders how he got so lucky to find you. “If you’re up for it.”

Bucky is more than up for it.

And just when he thinks he can’t love you more, you go in for the kill. “Oh, and fuck me bare. I want you to drip out of me later.”

Okay, lovelies. Go about your business! Nothing to see here! Love and thanks for indulging me in my nonsense! ❤️

[scion-connoisseur]

Also, the best apologies = (taking accountability for what you did + saying what was wrong about what you did + saying what you will do to prevent it from happening again). It is optional to express outright that this person is important to you if that is true and you don't want to ever purposefully hurt or neglect them. You could also explain your thought process but I would not recommend it.

Example: I call someone the wrong pronoun. "Hey, I am so sorry I called you the wrong pronoun. [<- the accountability] + Although it was a mistake, it could have been interpreted as rude and invalidating to your gender. [<- why I'm apologizing/why what I did was wrong] + I will consciously try to use your preferred pronouns more often. [<- what I'm going to do to fix this]. I am not trans but I imagine this is how that apology would go. Of course, this sort of apology needs to be followed by meaningful action. Yell at me in the tags if I'm wrong, I will listen.

If you accidentally hurt someone or cross their boundaries and they make you aware of this, literally all you have to do is apologize and stop. You don't have to beat yourself up internally for months. You don't have to hate yourself for fucking up. You don't have to feel like a horrible person. No one benefits from any of that - and at worst, such an extreme reaction will make the person in question less likely to speak up around you in the future, cause even if your negative reaction is directed at yourself and not at them, it's still unpleasant for everyone involved.

[sluttapes]

⌞ 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 ⌝

christoper owen & matthew bernard sturniolo

𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹ㆍ𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 (𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺.)ㆍ𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬ㆍ𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴ㆍ𝘤𝘶𝘮 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦ㆍ

you didn’t speak about it when the car pulled into the triplets’ driveway.

no one said a word.

not about what happened. not about how far it had gone. not about how far it almost went. the three of you just got out of the car like nothing happened, the silence tight between you, humming with something unfinished. and maybe it was easier that way—pretending the heat from the drive hadn’t followed you home. pretending you weren’t still pulsing with it.

inside, everything was familiar. matt’s room was still messy from the day you guys left—hoodies on the chair, a half-empty water bottle tipped on his nightstand, rumpled blankets he didn’t even bother to fix before collapsing into them. it was unusual for him, but leaving for the weekend was a rush, so neither of you really bothered with cleaning anything. not you at your place, not them two at theirs. matt just dropped onto the bed like gravity hit him harder than usual, face buried in the pillow. you hovered for a second in the doorway, unsure if you should crawl in too.

but he reached back blindly, fingers curling around your wrist and tugging you in without a word. like it was normal. like nothing had changed. so you napped there, the quiet warmth of his room settling over you both, thick and heavy like the rain had been earlier. matt fell asleep fast, his arm slung across your waist. your heart beat a little too fast for your own comfort, but the exhaustion won eventually.

chris had gone to his room. nick wasn’t home, which made the silence in the house even louder. and when you finally woke up, your body still half sore from the car ride and the weird adrenaline of the day, everything felt… suspended.

like the moment wasn’t over. just paused.

the three of you eventually found yourselves in the living room, sprawled out across the couch and floor. pillows. phones. silence. the tv was on but muted, some random tv show playing reruns you weren’t watching. no one was talking. no one knew what to say. your phone screen glowed in your hand, thumb scrolling with no real attention. but you could feel it.

matt kept glancing at you.

you could feel chris looking too—casual and sideways, eyes flicking up between long blinks. and then… they locked eyes. just for a second. like they’d been circling the same thought all afternoon and finally crashed into it at the same time. their expressions didn’t change much. but you felt it. the shift.

your spine straightened slightly. lips parting like your body knew something before your mind did. matt raised an eyebrow, just barely. the kind of expression that said you thinking what i’m thinking?

chris’s lips curved. not a smile. more like an agreement.

you looked between them slowly. and suddenly your phone felt heavy in your hand. because the air was different now. something was coming. and they both knew it.

you didn’t speak. none of you did. but the look that passed between matt and chris—it said everything.

and the way their eyes kept coming back to you? it said the rest.

your stomach flipped, heat curling under your skin again like it never really left. it had just been waiting for a spark. and now it was everywhere. thick in the room. dense in your lungs. matt leaned back first, arms stretched over the back of the couch, his eyes dropping down your frame with casual ease. his fingers tapped along the fabric behind you, like he was weighing something. deciding.

then chris sat forward slightly on the floor, elbows on his knees, phone long forgotten in his lap as he looked up at you. and you could tell by his face—he knew. he knew you were thinking about it. about both of them. about what it meant. what it could become.

matt’s voice cut into the silence, low and calm. “so… we gonna talk about it?”

your heart kicked up.

you glanced between them, pulse hammering in your throat. “talk about… what?”

his mouth pulled into the faintest grin. “you know.”

chris didn’t let you look away for long. “you liked it. don’t pretend you didn’t.”

you swallowed. your voice barely came out. “you don’t even know what i’m thinking.”

“no?” chris asked, eyes dragging slowly down your body, then back up. “i think i do.”

matt’s arm shifted—closer now, the side of his hand brushing your shoulder like an invitation. “you weren’t stopping either of us.”

you sat there, motionless, frozen between them. between choices. between the way matt looked at you like he already had you, and the way chris looked like he wanted to prove you 'belonged' to neither of them. or maybe both. the tension was unbearable now. and yet… you didn’t move. you didn’t want to move.

chris tilted his head, voice quieter. “you ever thought about it before, sweetheart?”

your lips parted. “about what?”

“both of us,” matt said. “at the same time?”

your heart stuttered. there it was. said out loud. no more circling around it. no more careful silence. you could barely breathe.

“you don’t have to say anything,” matt added, voice low, rough with something that sounded almost like restraint. “we can just stop. or—”

“or we don’t,” chris cut in, leaning forward. “and we keep going.”

you looked between them, pulse thudding like a drum. you’d never felt so seen. so stretched between two halves of the same thought—matt’s calm, steady heat, and chris’s sharp, hungry edge.

and the worst part?

you didn’t want to choose.

the silence after matt’s earlier question wasn’t silence at all. it was a roar. static in your veins, the hum of the muted tv, the ragged cadence of three breaths holding, then releasing. your skin prickled under their gazes—matt’s patient, smoldering; chris’s sharp, unyielding. the air clung to your throat, thick with the scent of rain still lingering on their clothes, the faint musk of sweat from the drive, the citrus of chris’s cologne cutting through it all like a blade.

you didn’t speak. you didn’t need to.

matt moved first. always the initiator, the one who bridged gaps with a smirk and a steady hand. his fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and his kiss was deliberate. slow. a question phrased as a statement. his lips were warm, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

“you don't need to do anything you're not comfortable with” he murmured against your mouth, the words a low rumble you felt in your ribs. his thumb brushed your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them.

“would never make you do anything you don't want.”

you let him keep going. because as weird, and as new as this feeling, this whole thing was, you wanted it. more than you cared to admit.

chris wasn’t one to watch. you felt him shift behind you, his knees bracketing your hips as he settled on the couch, hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against him. his laugh was a dark puff against your neck.

“you always gotta be first, matt?” his teeth nipped the tendon there, not quite gentle. “already had your fun of being first last night..”

you gasped, arching into the sting, and matt’s grip tightened on your chin.

“eyes here,” he said, softer now, almost apologetic.

his other hand slid into your hair, guiding your mouth back to his. this time, the kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping against yours, deliberate and claiming. you whimpered, torn between the heat of his mouth and the press of chris’s hardening length against your lower back.

“fuck,” chris muttered, palms skimming up your sides, pushing your shirt higher.

his touch was rougher, impatient, the softness of his hands catching on your skin as he found the curve of your breast.

“you’ve been thinking about this, huh? both of us?” he squeezed your tit, and your moan was swallowed by matt’s kiss. “knew it. always knew you'd get turned on by some shit like that.”

matt pulled back a little, his thumb on your lip, pressing in. “can you open up for me, pretty?” you obeyed, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin.

his eyes were fixated on the movement, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he watched you do as he said. “such pretty lips.. you're so beautiful, sweetheart.”

you hadn’t realized he’d undone his jeans until he got up from where he was sat next to you, looking down at you with an unspoken question behind his gaze, making sure you were comfortable with this during every single second of it. his cock brushed your lips, thick and heavy in your hand now. you hesitated—too much, too fast—but chris’s fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you.

“don’t choke,” he taunted, joking because he knew how nervous you were about this whole situation. though his voice wavered when matt’s tip nudged your tongue. “bet she will, though. bet she’s dying to.”

matt’s hand tightened in your hair. “ignore him,” he said, but his hips jerked forward, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. you gagged, tears springing to your eyes at the sudden fullness in your mouth, and he froze.

“shit—” he rasped, thumb stroking your cheek. “just breathe through it. you’re okay. tell me to stop if you need to”

chris was already working your shorts down your thighs, his palm slapping your ass lightly.

“c’mon, baby. y'know you can take it.” his fingers slid between your legs, and you jolted at the contact, already soaked.

“jesus,” he hissed, dragging two fingers through your slickness before pushing them into his mouth. “can't believe you got to taste that pretty pussy before i did..” chris scoffed at matt.

but matt ignored him, fully focused on the warmth of your mouth around him. his cock pulsed against your tongue, precum bitter as he rocked deeper.

“look at me, beautiful” he demanded, and you forced your eyes open, blurry with tears.

his expression was torn—hunger and something almost tender.

“attagirl. taking me so well.” he brushed your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like this was something soft, something sacred. but his hips didn’t stop, each thrust measured, relentless.

chris’s hands returned, spreading you open, fingers now plunging in and out of your wet, needy pussy. you moaned around matt’s length, back arching, but chris held you firm, fingers curling.

“so sensitive,” he mocked, the vibration of his laugh against your neck making you shudder.

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t think. the room narrowed to the stretch of matt in your throat, the bruising grip of chris’s hand on your thighs, the coil in your belly tightening with every tight circle of chris’s thumb on your clit. matt’s praise blurred with chris’s taunts, until you were a sobbing, moaning mess. drool and tears streaking your face.

you barely processed the shift, and matt pulling back, and out of your mouth before chris was grabbing you, pulling you on top of him fully. your back hitting his chest. his fingers gripping your hips tightly. you cried out when his cock nudged your entrance.

“look at him,” chris growled, “look at matt. show him how much better i make you feel.”

matt stood in front of you, one hand fisting his cock, the other tilting your chin up. his eyes were black, fevered.

“you're doing so, so good, sweetheart.” he praised.

your lips part as chris sheathed himself inside you in one not so gentle thrust. the pain was white-hot, exquisite. you moaned, loud. nails digging into chris’s thighs, but matt’s thumb swept over your bottom lip.

“it's okay. y' got it,” he coaxed, though his own breath hitched when chris began to move, your tits bouncing, eyes staring up into matt's. “you’re okay. so good for us.”

chris’s laugh was a snarl. “she’s not okay,” he said, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “she’s fucking desperate for this. always has been.”

his pace was punishing, each snap of his hips driving you onto matt’s cock when he pushed back into your mouth. “yeahhh, taht's it. suck him,” chris ordered, hands fisting your hair to hold you still.

“so fuckin' dirty. lettin' your best friend fuck your mouth like that”

the stretch of matt down your throat, the brutal fullness of chris beneath you, his dirty words, the way their groans harmonized as they used you—it shattered you. you came with a muffled scream, body clamping around chris as he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

“fuck, squeezing me so good—” chris’s hips stuttered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “gonna make me—ah, shit—”

matt’s hand tightened in your hair, his thrusts picking up the pace. “such a good girl, y' got it, oohhh—fuck— y' got it, baby.” he choked out, your throat working around him as he came, bitter and thick.

chris followed with a growl, spilling into you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle his groans.

────୨ৎ────

the living room was quiet again. but it wasn’t the same kind of silence as before. this one was… heavier. not uncomfortable, just thick. like the air itself was holding onto what had just happened.

the couch creaked slightly as you adjusted, still catching your breath, your skin cooling under the weight of the aftermath. pillows askew. one of the blankets halfway on the floor. someone’s shirt draped across the back of the couch—maybe matt’s. maybe chris’s. you couldn’t tell anymore. your body ached in places that hadn’t been touched like that before. not by them, not by both of them. not with that kind of shared want. you sat there, wrapped in the warmth of it, still caught in the glow of what the three of you had done.

what the hell did we just do? you thought, but not in a way that felt like regret.

beside you, matt let out a quiet sigh. it was soft. steady. the kind of sound he made when he didn’t know what to say but didn’t mind the silence, either. you turned your head just slightly, and there he was—arm tossed over his eyes, his other hand resting near your leg, close but not quite touching.

chris was stretched on the other side, head tilted back against the couch cushion, lips parted like he was still catching his breath. one hand on his stomach, the other loosely hanging off the edge of the cushion.

no one was speaking. not yet.

but their breathing—your breathing—still filled the space. like a memory that hadn’t fully settled. you reached for the blanket, tugging it back over your chest as you shifted to sit up a little. your body was still buzzing, raw and real in the aftermath. your heart had finally slowed, but your thoughts hadn’t. you weren’t sure if you should say something. if you should joke about it. laugh. break the weird tension before it had time to stretch too far. but then matt moved. his hand brushed your knee gently, grounding you.

“you okay?” he murmured, voice rough, sleep-heavy.

you nodded. “yeah. just… yeah.”

chris’s voice chimed in next, a little smug, a little curious. “you regretting it already?”

your head turned toward him, and for a second, you thought he was being serious. but the way his mouth curved told you he wasn’t. not really.

“no,” you said, honest. “just… thinking.”

matt shifted to sit up, running a hand through his hair. “we probably should talk about it. we don't have to now, but like... you know..”

no one answered right away. you weren’t sure what there was to say. not yet, anyway. but you knew one thing for sure. things would never go back to the way they were before.

and maybe… you didn’t want them to.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

@tits4matt @loser41ifee @sweetshuga @nickysturnss @courta13 @sophsturns @starsforu @h3arts4nat @emely9274 @chestersturn @watercolorskyy @httpssturns @cherryystemm @adoremattsturns

[robinvomit]

he found you curled against the far corner of the room, your back to the wall like it was the only thing that wouldn't give way. the words from earlier still hung in the air, sharp and cruel, the kind you didn't mean but said anyway because the world had spun too fast, too loud, and it felt safer to push than to fall.

damian stood in the doorway for a moment, silent. he didn’t look angry. he didn't look cold. just… steady. like he always did. he crossed the room without a word, lowering himself slowly until he was knelt down, settling on the floor beside you.

"i'm not going anywhere," he said. not tender, but sure. like a vow. "you could scream at me. tell me you hate me. burn everything we built to the ground.. and i would still stay until you felt safe again." he reached out, palm open, not touching you unless you gave permission. "you don't have to be soft for me. you don't have to be easy to love. you don't have to force yourself to be anything else. i chose you knowing exactly what storms live in you. and i'm not afraid of drowning."

you didn't speak at first but your hand found his, trembling, unsure if you were even allowed. damian's fingers closed gently around yours like he was holding something sacred. that's how he always held you. before and after a split. like he still saw the same person either way.

"the way your mind turns on you," he mumbled, "i've seen it. you tell yourself i'll leave. that i'll grow tired. that i'll use this moment to walk away. but i need you to hear me, beloved, i don't love you in pieces. i love you even when the pieces are sharp. even when they try to cut me. even then, i will never stop reaching for you. i will not step away over something you can not control."

he stayed there long into the night. holding your hand, forehead pressed gently to your temple, grounding you with the weight of his presence alone. not trying to fix it. not offering empty reassurances. just being there. letting you fall apart and still be loved. teaching you that falling apart didn't mean pushing him away.

that he could handle the screaming. the crying. the breaking. because he would still hold you, whisper to you.. he would still be there when the thoughts and aches subsided.

[bluukive]

!MDNI: JJK Men x make-up sęx

warnings: angst kinda, degredation, fem!reader, consensual

ᡣ𐭩 G. Satoru

He talks a big game during arguments, throwing his hands in there like he's in some sort of performance. Satoru's sarcastic, even playful. But it's all an act to conceal how his heart is painfully hammering in his chest. He's hurt, and so are you. Satoru mopes around like a kicked puppy once you essentially tell him to fụck off and give you space. Satoru is terrified of losing you. It's like you've ripped his heart out when you tell him to leave.

Satoru gives you like, an hour max before he's back. More words are exchanged until you're bullied against the corner of some random wall, body smothered by his lanky one. He's begging so sweetly, mouthing wetly at your shoulders, neck, jaw. Anywhere he can get his mouth on. It's embarrassing how you're just letting him rut his hips against your own like it's the last time he'll ever get to touch you like this. It's even worse now that he's laughing a little at how you reciprocate, tịts right up against his. You can act as pissed as you want, but Satoru knows your body better than anyone else ever will.

He taunts you the entire time. Once you're finally dripping all over his cọck, Satoru doesn't let you cụm until he can feel the sting of your nails dragging down his back and chest. That's the least he deserves for being such an ąss to you. But he wants you to cry for him whilst he forces his thumb away from your clịt, edging you repeatedly until you apologise. It's only fair since he did first. He even makes you say thank you after he lets you climax.

Satoru can feel his lips dampen with your tears once you're done taking your frustrations out on each other. You don't even know when you started crying, but he's there to put you back together again. His large palms are squeezing at your waist, running up and down your back as you both collect yourself. Another apology leaves his lips. He won't stop until you're looking at him in the eyes again.

"Are you seriously still mad at me? Let your Toru kiss you better."

"Tell me. Use that sweet mouth of yours and say that you forgive me."

"Honestly? I can't fụcking breathe without you."

ᡣ𐭩 G. Suguru

Suguru hates it when you both fight. He feels like he's failed as a partner when he watches the way your eyes gloss over with tears. He doesn't have a choice but to give you space because if he doesn't, he'll just overbear you with attempts to fix things again.

When he's back, Suguru's on his knees, kneeling between yours. He's quiet and begging with his eyes first before he does anything else, hair hanging down in loose strands. Your eyes are on everything but him, but that does nothing to stop him from gently coaxing your hand in his and kissing your soft fingertips, your wrists, and finally, your thighs. Like he's worshipping you.

You're yelping and throwing your arms around his neck when he finally picks you up and carries you bridal style to the bedroom after your persistant silence. Suguru wants to make it right. But something about the bedroom atmosphere makes Suguru switch. Clothes are discarded and torn off, and your hips are held down as he fụcks you deeply and deliberately. You'll feel him for days after. Suguru gets pịssed if you try looking at anything but him. It's futile to try and hide from his reverent devotion. His slender fingers are harshly guiding your face back up as his large robes conceal you both. He didn't bother taking them all off. There are mutual bite marks littering both of you, and Suguru takes an enjoyment in watching your hips jerk when he licks the sting away with a languid drag of his tongue.

Suguru uses both hands to hold your head in place when your ọrgasm hits you. He refuses to let you look away as you sniffle and convulse beneath him. His own ọrgasm is triggered by yours, but he can't focus on that. All he can do is press his lips in a worshipping manner all over your skin as he murmurs the word 'sorry' over and over again.

"I know, I know. I fụcked up. Give me a chance to make it right, hm?"

"Shịt- you know you're all m-mine, right?"

"Hurt me. I don't care. Just don't fụcking leave me."

ᡣ𐭩 S. Ryomen

Sukuna's so mean. He really does fight dirty when you dare argue back. Usually, he enjoys it. But sometimes, you strike a nerve in him that has him saying cruel things he doesn't even mean. It's all just a defence mechanism he uses to avoid actually being vulnerable for once in his life. You're slamming doors when you think you're both done, hiding in the bedroom you both share. He's busy pacing around alone like a feral animal.

He stalks into the room not long after, though. Without knocking. Sukuna looks like he's about to snap with how stiff he stands if you don't touch him right that second. He's infuriated when you just sit there, sulking with your brows furrowed. There are no apologies leaving his lips any time soon, not when he's manhandling you onto all fours once you give him more of that sass he loves. Your back is in a nasty arch, face pressed against the bed as he fụcks one of his cocks into you, as if he's trying to breed you on the spot. You're drooling, and he just licks it all up after grabbing your hair and pulling you up to his chest.

Sukuna is filthy. He's got you folded, spitting into your mouth and watching your fụcked-out face swallow it all. Some escspes the corner of your lips, which he greedily licks back up again. His teeth are dragged down your throat as he makes you cry to be filled up. Sukuna doesn't accept anything less than you becoming utterly limp after he's done with you. He wants you to depend on him, make you realise that all you need is him.

When you're both done, you can't move. He's fụcked his apologies into you, holding you in place in bed. Sukuna's completely wrapped around you, and you can hear low grunts and tuts leaving him if you even dare to think about moving away from him.

"Little brat. I should have thrown you over my knee the second you gave me an attitude."

"Hate me all you want, wife. You're mine, and you can't do anything about it."

"Don't you dare move. Not even an inch."

ᡣ𐭩 N. Kento

It's rare you both argue, but when it happens? You hate it. He tries staying respectful, but Kento eventually grows eerily quiet. When he does speak, his voice is incredibly low and clipped. He's being snide underneath all that faux politeness, yet he can't stop. Kento forces himself to take a breather.

He HATES himself for it, and you do just as much. Kento's eyes are bloodshot when he's back, much like yours, and his shoulders are hunched. After a brief word of consolation, he's grabbing you and kissing you so heavily, like a dam has burst. As if he'd die without letting you know how sorry he was. Whilst he rips off his own clothes to the point there are buttons scattered all over the floor, Kento undresses you so carefully. He doesn't want to cause you anymore pain since the memory of you looking so hurt by him is burned into his mind.

You're both pent up, it's obvious. Kento keeps sẹx to just missionary, his forehead against yours as a lump forms in his throat. He's doesn't hold a single negative thought towards you, no. He's disappointed in himself that he let the argument go that far. All you can hear is him asking if you still loved him whilst he thrusted as slowly as he could. If you felt good, if you forgave him.

Kento feels it all deeply, much like you do. You can see the sweat mixing with the occasional stray tear coming from your dear husband as he tenderly rubs at your clịt. He's incredibly passionate and tender, but memories of him during that argument has the pleasure you feel ebb away. He notices it immediately, the way your face falls flat. Again, Kento's kicking himself for it, and the rhythm of his hips falter. He holds you tighter, praying that his actions and words are reassuring. He holds your face, murmuring about how devoted he is, how he'll be a better man for you.

"I swear. I never want to speak to you like that again."

"I need to hear it, m-my love. Please, tell me you won't leave."

"You still love me, don't you? I love you, too. I swear, I'll never stop."

ᡣ𐭩 T. Fushiguro

Doors are slamming, he's muttering filthy curses under his breath, saying things he didn't think twice about. Toji's genuinely the worst when he's mad. Even when he returns from his quick breather, he's still seething and unable to voice out how shịtty and sorry he feels. Toji looms over you, both pịssed and impressed at the audacity you have to get an attitude with him. He's backing you up onto the bed, and you don't even realise. You're too busy cussing you out, and he figures a cute thing like you could get it out of her system. He just wants you even more.

You find yourself whining at the sting of his hand connecting with your ąss, and the force of it makes you jolt forward on the bed. Toji lets out a satisfied grunt at the pitiful noises you make, a hand holding the back of your neck as he's fụcking consecutive orgasms out of you. The air around you both is hot and heavy, but also thick with unsaid words. Apologies that both of you are too stubborn to say out loud.

His cọck is heavy inside you, throbbing with the need to make you cụm first. It's his way of apologising without speaking. Toji kisses with teeth, nipping at you and sucking your lower lip into his mouth to get you to cry for him. But with you, he needs to hear you're sorry out loud. He's stopping his own movements completely until you're babbling mindlessly about how you'll never act up again (which is a lie).

He's surprisingly quiet after, his breathing heavy as he smooshes your cheeks together. Toji's calmed down, and so have you. He enjoys the way you try to push his larger body off yours, but he won't budge, because you're right where he wants you. There's no way he's letting you go any time soon. Not until you know how sorry he really is.

"Still being a little bịtch, huh?"

"I see. You just needed some dịck, didn't ya? Is that why you were acting up?"

"Louder, brat. Say you're sorry. Properly."

an - idk how to feel about this one

[rans-prettydoll]

Mechanic!Sukuna (I might continue this if it does good enough. But lemme know what yall think.)

Mechanic!Sukuna who you had met after your other one scammed you and now you’ve been going to him ever since!

Mechanic!Sukuna who came walking over with a cup of soda in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. He looked quite surprised to see someone as pretty as you show up to get your car fixed. New faces were nice because he hoped to not have to see them again. But for you? A pretty thing like you? He was hoping you’d come back again. Making sure to put on his best show so that you would.

Mechanic!Sukuna who was actually the one to explain to you about how your old mechanic had fucked up your car. “Shit, woman. Who the fuck did ya have fixing your car before this? Because they fucked ya up.”

Mechanic!Sukuna who had your hood popped as he checked your oil. He leaned in closer to see, his arms flexing which made your realize his tattoos and how attractive they were. Watching as his hands worked their magic to fix your car.

Mechanic!Sukuna who you didn’t have to go to his shop to get a quick fix up. You could pull up to his house personally and he would come outside in a white tank and some jeans that were stained with oil and grease from cars. Talking to you for a bit as he sarcastically complained about having to work on your car again to which you sheepishly laughed.

Mechanic!Sukuna who likes working on your car because it gives him a chance to see you. He liked how you kinda depend on him in a way, watching as you leaned over his shoulder watching him with curious eyes. Not knowing if he was fucking you over or not. Shit he could be fucking up your car and you wouldn’t even know it. But of course, he wouldn’t do that. He had become fond of his pretty customer who always came in her pretty mini skirts and crop tops. Smelling like strawberries and the sweetest of treats.

[linoxpudding]

Intern (Pt 5)- Lee Know

summary: as the final month of your internship begins, keeping your emotions separate from your professional role becomes harder than ever, with the collaborative concert drawing near, tensions rise—not only on stage but between you and minho, who’s desperate to salvage what's slipping away

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 5261 words

a/n: thank you so much for loving this series! I think this might be my most popular one and it honestly means the world, I really hope the wait was worth it! Love you always, my puddings ♡

Intern Series - Part Four

~°~

Your shoes echoed softly against the polished wood floor as you slipped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty. The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You stood there in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if you were trying to physically hold all your emotions in. You didn’t even know how your legs even carried you there. Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your pulse deafening in your ears. 

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice. 

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be. 

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert 

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated. 

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment. 

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now. 

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall.

It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked Minho's chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

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

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[seospicybin]

CAM.

FINAL CHAPTER

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

CAM MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Struggling to make ends meet as an art student, Hyunjin never expected his quiet neighbor to change everything. Rumored to be an adult content creator, you offer him a deal—help you with your content, and you’ll help with his financial troubles. What starts as a simple arrangement soon blurs into something more, pulling Hyunjin into a world he never imagined. (9,7k words)

Author's note: I want to thank you for following Cam series. It's been fun. Hope you enjoy this one too ♡

Hyunjin shuts the door behind him and doesn’t look back. Each step away from your apartment echoes louder in his head than the last. His chest feels tight, like he’s holding something back—like maybe he should’ve said more. Maybe he should’ve said anything else. But instead, he chose silence and walked away.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. That this is better. That he needs the space. That things were getting too tangled, too fast.

It’s just work, he reminds himself. You were helping me. I was helping you. That’s all it was supposed to be.

But the memory of your smile when you offered him lunch creeps in anyway. So does the look in your eyes when you asked if he was okay—genuine, soft, concerned. Too concerned. He could’ve told you the truth. That it wasn’t just about the job anymore. That he was starting to feel something he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved to begin with. Maybe he should’ve just focused on his art like he always planned. Still… he feels like he’s walking away from more than just work and that’s what scares him most.

Hyunjin spends the rest of the afternoon staring at the canvas. The brush is in his hand, the colors are ready, but the strokes come out hesitant. Disjointed. Aimless. He tells himself to focus—just paint, Hyunjin. Paint anything. And so, he does.

Slowly, shapes begin to form. A curve here. A slant there. He fills in the shadows, soft and warm, and before he realizes what he's doing, he’s painting you. Your eyes, the exact shade he remembers under the afternoon sun. Your lips, curled in a smile he can’t quite forget. Your skin, the way it glowed under the yellow light in the hallway when you said his name like it meant something. He doesn’t stop until your face is there, staring back at him and he hates it.

Not the painting. The painting is beautiful. But the fact that you’re still in his head—still under his skin.

That night, he lies in bed, restless. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside his window. When he finally drifts off, you’re there again. In his dream, you're laughing. You're reaching for him. You're so close that he swears he can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your fingertips tracing his wrist.

And when he wakes up, breath caught in his throat, the ghost of your touch still lingers on his skin.

-

You try to move on. You tell yourself it’s fine—that people quit all the time. That maybe he just got busy, overwhelmed, maybe school is catching up to him. You try to reason with yourself, even smile at the thought of him doing well without needing you. But the truth is, none of that makes you feel any better.

You can accept that Hyunjin doesn’t want to work with you anymore. What you can’t accept—what keeps tugging at your chest like a thread being pulled loose—is that he didn’t even give you a reason why.

No conversation. No explanation. Just that look on his face, distant and closed off, and the way he walked away like everything between you didn’t mean a thing.

You think about how his voice used to sound when he laughed at your stupid jokes. You think about his fingers—paint-stained and warm—fixing the lighting for your shoot like he actually cared. You think about the way his eyes used to linger on you, like he wanted to say something but never did.

Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe you wanted to believe he cared more than he actually did. You spiral—hard. The thoughts come in fast and loud. Of course he didn’t want to stay. Who would?

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone like it holds the answers. But there are no new messages. No calls. No missed anything. Just silence.

You tell yourself to move on. To focus. To film something. Edit. Call someone else to help. But none of it feels right. None of it feels like him. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not that he left, but that he left you not knowing why.

Now you can’t stop thinking that maybe it’s not about work at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want anything to do with you. And maybe... he's right to feel that way.

The curtains are drawn, casting a muted gray over your apartment. You’ve been lying on the sofa for hours, curled up in the same position, the blanket barely clinging to your body as your phone keeps chiming over and over. You know what it is. You don’t even have to look.

Eventually, with a sigh, you reach over and swipe it off the table, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications—all of them from Lustre.

You open the app. Your inbox is filled with flirty, suggestive messages. Compliments on your last post. Requests. Heart emojis. Tips. Offers. You scroll through them with your thumb, barely registering the words. Just eyes glazed over, searching, hoping—waiting—for one name to appear.

But it doesn’t. He’s not there. Not even a silent like. Not even a ghost view.

Your shoulders drop, a quiet, bitter laugh escaping your lips before you toss your phone aside. It lands on the cushion with a soft thud, screen dimming back to black. You drag yourself up, feet cold against the floor as you wander aimlessly around your apartment. It’s too quiet. Too still. And your mind feels just as noisy as it is empty.

As you walk past the makeshift studio, you pause. Something catches your eye. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed as you stare at it—the massive painting that takes up nearly half the back wall. The one you did with Hyunjin. The colors, bold and chaotic. Your brush strokes and his—blended, layered, messy. Your bodies had moved in sync, hands stained with paint, clothes ruined, laughter echoing as you danced around the canvas like kids. Then, the shoot after—bare skin streaked with color, flashes of camera light, his hand warm against your hip as he adjusted the lens.

You remember how proud he was of that piece. The way you both collapsed on the floor after, cracking open cold drinks, toasting with paint-smeared fingers. The initials you both scrawled in the corner, still visible beneath a smudge of deep blue. It was the first of many. A beginning. And now it just feels like an echo of something that’s already ended.

Your heart aches—sharp and sudden, like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You step closer, fingers brushing the dry surface of the canvas, as if touching it might bring some part of him back even though you know it doesn’t and you’re left there in the silence, missing someone who might’ve already let you go.

Squatting down, your eyes catch the initials in the corner: S.H.

You trail your fingers over them, gently outlining the letters. Your voice barely makes a sound as you murmur, “Sam Hwang.”

The name feels strange in your mouth—familiar, but distant, like something you've read in passing but never truly paid attention to.

Sam Hwang…

You say it again, this time letting it roll slower off your tongue. And then you freeze. You straighten up slowly, eyes widening as your mind starts connecting the pieces.

Sam Hwang.

You scramble for your phone, heart thudding as you fumble to unlock it. Your fingers are unsteady as you tap open the Lustre app and pull up the messages from that one user you had grown fond of—the one who always left sweet, thoughtful notes beneath your content. Never crude. Always kind.

You scroll back through the messages. The way they referenced things you never shared online—small details, like the time you wore your hair differently, or when you used a different song in your clips. It felt like they knew you. Like they saw you.

And then your brain syncs it all at once. The flowers.

Those purple tulips Hyunjin brought you, for no reason at all—just because. You thought it was sweet, random and you were too busy to notice it. But then you remember that it's the flowers on his profile picture. You stare at the screen, your pulse racing.

Mag.Shawn.

Sam Hwang.

It's an anagram. It’s him. It’s been him all along. You cover your mouth with your hand, a shaky breath slipping past your fingers as you try to steady yourself. Every message flashes through your mind now, suddenly reframed in Hyunjin’s voice. The compliments. The support. The gentle teasing. The way he never crossed a line.

Your knees give slightly, and you sit back on the floor with your phone still clutched in your hand, your heart pounding as if you just uncovered a secret love letter that was never meant to be found. Now that you know… everything feels different because it was never just about work. Not really. It was always something more.

-

Hyunjin is tired. Not the kind of tired that paint-stained fingers and aching shoulders bring—but the kind that seeps into the space behind his ribs, hollowing out something he’s not sure he’ll find again.

The school studio had been silent all day except for the low hum of music and the scratch of brushes against canvas. He painted aimlessly, moving through motions that didn’t bring the kind of release they once did. He should’ve felt accomplished. But instead, he just felt... alone.

When he finally makes his way back to the apartment building, the sky is a deep shade of navy. He climbs the familiar stairs slowly, dragging his feet, thoughts tangled like loose threads in his mind.

It’s when he rounds the corner, about to take the next flight up, that he sees you. Sitting on the steps, elbows on your knees, fingers nervously fidgeting. And when you look up—eyes locking with his like magnets clicking into place—Hyunjin stops breathing for a second. He knows that look. It's the same one he saw on that night you first talked to him. You’ve been waiting for him.

You rise slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid you might scare him off. But your voice is steady when you ask, “Can we talk?”

Hyunjin clenches his jaw. His heart hammers against his ribs, screaming yes, yes, let her in—but his head tries to keep control.

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” he says flatly. He doesn’t even look at you when he moves past, doesn’t dare. If he does, he knows he’ll unravel.

You don’t give up. Your footsteps echo behind him, too close, too persistent, and your voice comes again, more urgent this time. “I’m not mad that you quit, Hyunjin. I just need to know why.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The words stay lodged somewhere in his throat, too complicated, too heavy to give voice to. His fingers tighten around the doorknob as he unlocks it. He finally turns to face you, his body angled half into the apartment, half still in retreat.

“Can we not do this now?” he mutters. “Just… not tonight.”

He starts to step inside but then you’re pushing forward—determined, fierce—and before he can stop you, you’re inside his apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, and the air between you both thickens.

“I’m not leaving,” you say quietly, “not until we talk.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s no more hiding.

You stand in the middle of the room like it’s a battlefield. You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, trying to brace yourself, trying not to fold. Your voice cuts through the heavy silence.

“Why?”

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. He turns slightly away, jaw tense. “I’m just tired,” he mutters. “I need to focus on school.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just stand there, the weight of his answer settling between you. Then, quietly, you say, “That’s not the real reason.”

Your voice begins to build, unraveling with everything you’ve been holding back. “These past few days I’ve been going over everything in my head, over and over again. I needed to know why, Hyunjin. Why you left like that, without saying a word. I thought maybe I did something wrong, maybe I made you uncomfortable, or maybe…”

Your voice cracks as frustration begins to break through. “Is it because of that night at Sienna’s party? Was it about Felix? Was it... me?”

Hyunjin flinches, hands tightening into fists at his sides. Your words sting in places he doesn’t want to admit. “It’s because I know you don’t want me,” he blurts, louder than he means to. You stare at him, eyes narrowing, confused. He takes a shaky breath, and his voice comes again, rawer this time. “Why haven’t you posted the content we made together? Is it because you didn’t want to do it with me? Because you don’t want me in it? Or is it… is it because you’re ashamed?”

You’re quiet now. The question hangs in the air like smoke. Then you breathe in, shaky and small, and your voice is almost a whisper when you speak. “I didn’t post it because I don’t want this life for you.”

Your arms uncross, and your gaze drops to the floor. “You’re a real artist, Hyunjin. You’re talented. You deserve to be known for your work—not as some guy who makes content with me.”

Your voice is trembling now, your words fragile. “I don’t want to be the reason you get looked at differently. Judged. You’re better than this.”

Hyunjin’s chest tightens. He almost snaps again, but he holds it in. Instead, he takes a step forward, voice low and steady. “Better than what, huh?”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips parting like you might speak—but nothing comes out. Another tear escapes, and without thinking, he reaches for you, gently placing his hands on your elbows.

“Do you even know what I want?” he asks, softer now.

You blink, your breath catching, and you shake your head. “No,” you say quietly. “But I know you’re better than this. I know you deserve more.”

His thumb catches the tear that rolls down your cheek.

“What if this—” he whispers, voice shaking just a little, “what if you are what I want?”

Hyunjin leans in slightly, the words right there, barely held back. “I want you,” He says, breathing through the emotion swelling in his chest. “And whatever comes with you.”

-

The second those words leave his mouth—“I want you. And whatever comes with you.”—you break.

It’s not graceful or quiet. It’s a sudden rush of breath you didn’t know you were holding, and then your face crumples as the tears fall fast and hot. You cover your face with both hands, like that could somehow muffle the sound of your sob, but it doesn’t work.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen with alarm, as if he hadn’t expected that reaction. As if he doesn’t understand why it hurts you so much to hear something so kind.

“You shouldn’t,” you croak between your fingers, voice thick and breaking. “You shouldn’t want me.”

That’s the part that cracks him open too. He doesn’t ask you why. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong. He just steps forward and wraps his arms around you like he means to hold every shattered piece of you together. His warmth surrounds you instantly—his arms firm around your back, one hand on the back of your head, gently cradling you as you cry into his shoulder.

“I do,” he whispers, voice close to your ear. “I want you. I only want you.”

You cling to him, your hands fisting into the back of his shirt as if letting go would undo everything. The weight of everything—the confusion, the distance, the aching loneliness—pours out of you all at once, and still, Hyunjin holds you tighter.

You breathe in slowly, trying to steady the trembling in your chest. The worst of your tears have passed, but your throat still burns and your hands are still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, like you’re afraid to let go.

When you finally lift your head, your eyes meet his—deep, warm, unwavering. And it’s there again. That quiet devotion. That stubborn tenderness he always gives you without asking for anything in return.

“I do want you,” you rasp, voice barely above a whisper. “But I just… I know you deserve better.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his thumb brushes softly across your lips, silencing the words before they can cut deeper into the space between you. He looks at you with something like heartbreak and fierce affection wrapped into one.

“You’re the only one I want,” he says, voice low and sure, as if daring you to challenge him again and then he leans in.

His lips find yours in a kiss that’s tender at first, then deepens with something heavier—something full of things he’s been holding back for far too long. It’s not rushed, not messy. It’s slow, consuming, full of warmth and ache and all the unsaid things that have been living between your hearts.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to cup your face with both hands, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath mixing with yours.

“You’re all I want in this world,” he whispers.

And before you can say anything else, he kisses you again—like a vow, like a promise, like he’s sealing every word he just said with the press of his lips against yours.

You pull away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead still resting against his. Your lips are tingling, heart pounding, and there's something new blooming in your chest—hope, maybe. Or something dangerously close to it.

You swallow, eyes flicking down to his lips before finding his gaze again. “Do you… want to continue?” you ask softly. “Pick up where we left off that night?”

For a moment, Hyunjin just blinks at you—like the question caught him off guard. But then a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, warm and crooked and so undeniably him. He lets out a breathy laugh, voice laced with fond disbelief. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”

Hyunjin kisses you again—deeper this time, with more urgency. Like something in both of you has snapped free and there's no turning back now. His hands slide down to your thighs, and in one swift motion, he hoists you up. You gasp softly, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms looping around his shoulders as you press yourself closer. Your bodies fit together like they remember how it felt—how right it was.

The kiss grows heated, the air between you humming with everything unsaid and everything still to come. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, it feels like the weight on your chest has lifted, like you're exactly where you're supposed to be—held tightly in his arms, kissed like you're the only thing he sees.

Hyunjin carries you down the short hallway with a kind of quiet certainty, his arms secure around you, his breath steady near your ear. Your heart flutters with every step—part anticipation, part disbelief that you're here, that this is happening again but different, deeper.

You glance over your shoulder, peeking into the dimly lit room as the two of you enter. It's the first time you’ve seen his bedroom, and the sight makes your lips twitch. The bed—mattress on the floor, slightly rumpled sheets, a couple of sketchbooks stacked on the nightstand—is exactly what you expected, yet still makes you grin.

You turn your head back to him, raising an eyebrow. “No bedframe, huh?”

Hyunjin just smirks, unbothered. “Didn’t realize I needed one to impress you.”

Your laughter is soft, breathy against his neck, and before you can fire back a reply, he’s already kneeling to lower you onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against your skin, but the warmth in his eyes keeps you steady. He leans over you, his fingers brushing your cheek, and for a second, he just looks at you like he's taking you in all over again, like you're his favorite work of art.

You feel it—that pull in your chest, that ache in your throat—as Hyunjin hovers above you, his eyes locked onto yours. There’s something intense in his gaze, something unspoken yet so loud it fills the room. His stare burns through the quiet, says everything he hasn’t said yet and everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

When he kisses you again, his body settles gently over yours, and you instinctively welcome the weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence wraps around you like a second skin. There’s nothing frantic about the way he touches you—his hands glide over your body like he’s relearning every inch. But even within that gentleness, there’s a sense of urgency. His fingers trail down your arm, brushing the side of your waist, and you can feel how much he wants you—how much he’s been wanting you. Still, there’s something soft in his every movement. Like even when he’s aching for you, he’s still being careful with your heart.

You don’t know what gets into you—but the moment your eyes meet his, wide and expectant beneath you, something shifts. A boldness, maybe. A need to let him feel what you've been holding back. You roll over, catching him off guard, and suddenly it's him beneath you. His back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and his breath catches as your legs settle on either side of his hips. His hands instinctively find your waist, grounding himself in your touch.

For a moment, you just take him in. The way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls a little quicker now. You can’t help but trace the shape of him with your eyes, then with your hands—slowly, deliberately. Fingers skimming down his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric.

You start unbuttoning his shirt, one at a time. His muscles tense beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your palm brushes bare skin. When the shirt parts open, your hand slides over the contours of his chest—smooth skin, defined lines, the flutter of his heartbeat under your fingertips.

And then your lips follow. You press gentle kisses against his skin, soft and slow, tasting the warmth of him, the way he shivers with every touch. As your kisses trail lower, his breath grows more uneven. You pause just at the edge of his waistband, the tension between you humming like a live wire. You lift your head just enough to look at him, his lips parted, eyes dark with anticipation, and the faintest tremble in his breath. You smirk.

Then you lean in and kiss him—hard. His lips mold to yours instantly, his hands gripping your waist tighter, pulling you closer, like he needs you there, needs this. And between the kisses, your voice dips low, teasing against his mouth.

“Why are you so nervous?” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “It’s not like this is the first time we’re doing this.”

You feel the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your skin. Still, he doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he surges up, kissing you again. Deeper this time. Hungrier. Like that was all the encouragement he needed.

You melt into it, into him, your body pressed flush against his, his warmth grounding you in ways nothing else ever could. His hands roam—up your back, over your spine, holding you close and you stay there, tangled in him, lips moving together in quiet desperation, slow but insistent, a rhythm you both fall into with ease.

You breathe him in, every kiss tasting like something familiar but new again. And wrapped in his arms, with the weight of his affection holding you steady, the ache in your chest softens.

For now, it’s just the two of you. No doubts, no questions—just this moment, and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing he wants.

-

Hyunjin feels every second of your kiss like it’s being etched into his memory—every soft press of your lips, every shift of your body melting against his. You fit against him so perfectly, like your body was molded to match his. And god, he could stay like this forever.

Even with his mouth busy, his heart races as he feels your hand glide lower, fingers trailing the edge of his jeans. He catches your wrist gently, right before you can slip your hand beneath the waistband. You pull back slightly, gasping in surprise, and the look on your face—wide-eyed and slightly mischievous—makes his chest ache in the sweetest way.

You’re straddling him still, your legs snug around his hips, and he props himself up on one elbow, gazing at you. Your lips turn into an adorable pout. “But we’ve been waiting so long for this.”

He knows you’re right. He knows the urgency, the ache in your voice—it’s the same one he feels burning through him.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low as he reaches up, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face. He lets his fingertips trail along your jaw before settling just beneath it, holding you gently.

He leans in and kisses you. Slowly. Purposefully. Like he’s telling you everything he can’t quite put into words. When he pulls back, barely an inch from your lips, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “But let's make this lasts.”

You let out a quiet breath, your lips curling into a soft smile, and he swipes his thumb gently across your bottom lip, marveling at the way you look at him like he’s worth something, like he matters. And then he kisses you again, capturing that smile with his lips, holding it there between the both of you—this tender, perfect moment that feels like it could stretch into forever.

His hands find the hem of your blouse, fingers brushing warm skin as he gently tugs the fabric upward and over your head. You let him, your arms rising instinctively, eyes never leaving his. He trails his fingers down the length of your arms afterward, slow and reverent, like you’re something sacred, something to be worshiped.

When he reaches behind you, his fingers find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with ease. You let the straps slide down your shoulders, and he watches as you shrug it off completely, tossing it somewhere forgotten. His breath catches when he sees you—bare, soft, and beautiful in the dim light.

He reaches out, fingertips tracing the slope of your collarbone before moving lower. He touches your chest with care at first, almost in awe, and rests his hand flat on your sternum, feeling the rapid thud of your heart beneath his palm. Slowly, he glides it down until it finds home on your ribcage, holding you steady as he leans in.

His mouth follows next—kisses pressed along your jaw, trailing to the curve of your neck, each one lingering longer than the last. He kisses your chest, hands rising to cup your breasts with a kind of reverence, but also urgency. His palms are warm, fingers pressing in gently, fondling and kneading. When he takes your nipple into his mouth, your breath stutters into a soft moan, and that sound alone drives him wild.

He lavishes attention on you, switching sides, leaving behind faint wet marks on your skin—his own quiet claim. He moves higher, up your chest, his tongue smoothing along your skin before he suckles the hollow between your neck and shoulder, and he feels you shiver beneath him.

Hyunjin breathes you in as he buries his face against your sternum, his lips resting just above your heartbeat. It drums steadily against him, louder somehow now that everything else has quieted — the world, his thoughts, the tension that had built between the two of you over the past days. All of it fades as he listens to the rhythm of your heart, like it’s telling him something he already knows deep down.

Your hands come up gently, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him close. Your fingers slide into his hair and he sighs into your skin — the sound barely audible but full of meaning. You don’t speak. Neither of you needs to. It’s not about words right now.

The warmth of your embrace, the bare skin against his, the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek — it feels like a thread, invisible and delicate, tugging the two of you closer until there’s nothing between you. Nothing but the ache of longing finally answered. He presses a soft kiss to your chest, right over your heart, and stays there, still, quiet, content.

For the first time in a long while, Hyunjin feels whole — like he isn’t running from anything anymore. Like maybe this… is exactly where he’s meant to be.

After a long moment, he lifts his head from your chest, his breath warm against your skin as his gaze finds yours — intense and unreadable. Then, without a word, he shifts his weight and catches you off guard, pushing you gently down onto the bed, reversing your positions once more. You let out a soft gasp, eyes wide as you land against the mattress, your hair fanned out beneath you.

His hands frame your face as he leans down and kisses you again — slow, deep, claiming. You can feel the change in him, in the air. It’s not rushed. It’s not just need. It’s more than that now.

As his lips part from yours, his hands begin to explore you again, moving down your sides in a slow, reverent motion. Every brush of his fingers leaves a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When they reach your hips, they linger for a heartbeat before he tugs gently at the waistband of your shorts.

His gaze lifts to meet yours again, seeking permission without speaking, and when you give the slightest nod, he inhales quietly and then continues — slowly peeling them down your legs, your underwear along with them. The air feels cooler against your skin as you’re exposed to him fully, but the way he looks at you makes you feel anything but vulnerable.

He kneels there at the edge of the bed, unmoving for a moment, just looking at you. Not in lust — though there’s desire in his eyes — but in awe, like he’s looking at a painting he doesn’t dare touch, like he wants to memorize every curve of you, every detail, as if you were art in motion. And to him, you are.

His hands are steady as he leans in again, his lips brushing over yours in a soft, lingering kiss before moving lower. He places gentle, fluttering kisses along your collarbone, then down to your ribcage — slow, unhurried. His mouth grazes your navel, then your left hip, each press of his lips last longer than then previous.

You gasp softly when he slips his hand under the back of your thigh and lifts it, his lips finding the soft skin of your inner thigh. He lingers there for a breath, the warmth of his mouth sending ripples through your entire body. Then he trails lower, his lips brushing down your calf, and finally landing on the sole of your foot. The unexpected kiss makes you giggle, the sound breaking through the quiet like sunlight through clouds.

After giving your foot a quick massage, he gently sets your leg down and looks up at you, his expression shifting — no longer teasing or playful, but full of something much deeper. He sighs, almost shakily, and brings his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek.

“I should be the one asking if I deserve all this,” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “If I really deserve every beautiful part of you… to touch you, kiss you, hold you.”

You don’t say anything — the way you look at him already says enough.

Hyunjin reaches for your hand, holding it tenderly in both of his. He brings your wrist to his lips first, placing a kiss there like he’s sealing a vow, then presses one to your open palm. Then he shifts forward, lowering himself over you slowly. His body presses gently into yours, his skin warm, his heartbeat strong and steady against your chest.

This time, he’s not just close. He’s with you — completely, quietly, and fully present. Molding into you, like the final brushstroke that completes a painting.

Just when you’re completely wrapped in him, he suddenly pulls away, sitting up on the bed with a breathless laugh, eyes flickering with something unspoken. You watch him as he impatiently pushes his jeans down his hips, shedding the last barrier between you. His sigh of relief is audible, and the way his chest rises and falls is enough to make your breath catch.

Hyunjin doesn’t waste time to wrap his hand around his swollen length with evident veins coiling around it, pulsating with need. He glances at you through heavy lashes, his hand begins stroking it up and down, then he murmurs, “Do you want to?”

You don’t answer with words—just a slow, sure nod. He reaches for your hand, guiding it gently, curling your fingers around his hot, hard cock.

The moment your hand wraps around him, his jaw tightens, his eyes fluttering half shut. Together, you find a rhythm—pumping his cock at a slow, steady pace, the tension thick between you as your eyes stay locked, every breath shared and every movement deliberate. There's no rush, just this quiet moment of closeness, of trust and want, unfolding between the two of you.

Hyunjin’s breath hitches as your hand continues its slow movements, the tension in his body unraveling under your touch. His eyes stay on you, dark and intense, until they flicker downward. With one hand still wrapped around yours, guiding the rhythm, his other hand trails down your thigh—light, teasing, reverent.

When his fingers slip between your legs, dipping into your wetness. His touch is gentle at first, exploratory, but it doesn't take long before he’s pressing two digits into you, finding the spot that makes you shift and gasp. His lips part as he watches your reaction, his own breathing getting heavier.

“So wet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, “so ready for me.” There’s awe in the way he says it, almost like he can’t believe this is real—that you're here, letting him touch you like this.

The sensation of his fingers working you open while your hand still pumping his cock pulls a shiver from deep inside. It’s a push and pull, each of you responding to the other in quiet desperation, building the tension between you. His forehead presses to yours for a second, grounding both of you, his eyes closed like he’s trying to savor every second and when he opens them again, there’s no mistaking the hunger swimming there—an ache mirrored in your own heart.

You barely have time to react before Hyunjin grabs both of your wrists and pins them gently above your head, his fingers firm but careful around your wrists. His eyes meet yours, hooded and dark with want, and for a moment, all you can hear is your breathing—intertwined and uneven.

Then his free hand slips between your bodies, guiding himself down until the thick heat of his cock presses right against where you need him most. He doesn’t enter—only drags his length along your soaked core, slow and maddening, your essence coating his shaft for every time it sides between your folds. The friction makes your back arch, your body instinctively chasing more, needing more. But Hyunjin just smirks, watching the way you react to him as the tip of his cock pressing right on your clit.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, lips brushing against your cheek as his hips roll forward again, grinding against you in a way that makes your whole body tense and tremble. “This is how much I want you…”

You whimper beneath him, wrists still caught in his hold, entirely at his mercy. Each slow stroke of his hips is deliberate, calculated to tease, and it works—you're writhing, eyes fluttering shut, your legs falling open for him without a second thought.

Hyunjin leans down and kisses your jaw, your neck, then your lips, swallowing every sound you make as he keeps moving, driving you to the edge without even taking you there yet.

Despite the desperate, breathless moans you let out, he doesn’t ease up. If anything, his teasing only grows more deliberate, each slow roll of his hips keeping you right on the edge, never enough to satisfy the ache building in your core. You squirm beneath him, your breaths coming out shaky, helpless—your body begging for what your lips still struggle to say.

“Please,” you whisper. Then again, more desperate. “Please… please…”

Hyunjin lowers his head, brushing his lips against your temple. “Please what?” he murmurs, voice rough with control, eyes glinting with mischief.

You can’t answer—not with words. Instead, you keep whispering his name between each breathless plea, your hands clutching at his arms, your hips lifting, chasing him. A slow, almost smug smile forms on his lips.

And then finally, you manage a broken, “I want you.”

He pauses to look down between your bodies where your need for him is obvious—undeniable. He can see it from how drenched you are, from the way your essence gets all over his thick shaft.

“Yeah?” he says, low and teasing, brushing the crest of his cock against you, slipping just barely in. “I can see that.”

You let out a choked whimper, nodding frantically, pleading again without shame. “Please. I need you.”

Hyunjin releases your wrists, only to grip your hip with one hand and steady himself with the other. Slowly, achingly slow, he pushes into you—just an inch or two—then stops. The pressure is there, intense and lingering, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He looks down at you, lips parted, eyes dark and focused entirely on the way you react to him.

“You want more?” he asks, breath hitching as he holds himself still inside you, teasing you with just enough to drive you wild.

Your back arches, fingers digging into the sheets. “Yes,” you gasp. “More. Please…”

Hyunjin leans in, kissing your neck before murmuring against your skin, “Then hold on to me.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t grant your plea just yet. Instead, he moves with intention—slow, shallow thrusts that never go deeper than your entrance, but it’s more than enough. Each time he rocks into you, it sends a ripple of heat through your body, igniting something that builds faster than you expect. He watches you carefully, his hand gripping your hip tighter each time you clench around him.

You’re unraveling beneath him, your breath catching, moans spilling from your lips in broken, rasping fragments. And he can feel it—how close you are, how your body trembles under the weight of your need.

“You’re close,” he whispers, voice husky as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You nod, unable to form words, completely lost in the feeling. Then it hits. Your back arches, fingers twisting into the sheets as your release rushes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

Your body pulses around him, and you’re still gasping for breath when Hyunjin finally moves again. He exhales shakily—almost a groan—and slowly sinks all the way in, filling you completely in one smooth, careful push. He's giving you what you want when you least expect it.

You gasp, overwhelmed, your body still sensitive from the climax. The sensation of him, so hard, so deep and still inside you, makes your whole body shiver. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, his breath brushing over your lips as he hovers above you.

He stills, just holding you, letting you feel every inch of him as your body adjusts—pulsing, vibrating gently around him. “You feel… unreal,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his voice raw with awe.

-

Hyunjin feels like everything.

Inside you, around you—He is all you can feel, all you can see. And for the first time, it truly feels like the two of you have become one. Every breath he takes, you feel it in your lungs. Every beat of his heart echoes in your own.

You wrap your arms tightly around him, pulling him closer, needing to feel his weight, his warmth, his reality. Your lips find his, and he kisses you like he’s been holding back an ocean of longing—eager, deep, like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You pull away just a little, breath caught, lips still brushing his as you whisper, “Hyunjin…”

The second his eyes meet yours, you know he’s listening—really listening. Like your voice is the only sound in the world.

“Take me,” you say, voice low and trembling. “Make me... Claim me.”

His brows draw together, jaw twitching like he’s trying to hold something back. You reach up and brush the hair that’s fallen over his face, tucking it behind his ear, your thumb gliding gently across his temple.

“Come inside me,” you breathe.

That’s when you feel it—something in him shifts, snaps, cracks wide open. His restraint melts away, and suddenly his mouth is on yours again, desperate, aching. He starts to move, slow at first, but there’s something different now. Every thrust is more than just movement—it’s a vow, a promise, a confession.

There’s no bedframe beneath you, just the mattress pressed against the floor, and for a fleeting second, you’re oddly thankful—because with the way he’s moving, rough and hungry, anything else would’ve fallen apart beneath the weight of it all.

His gaze never leaves you. It darkens when he sees your hands slide up to your chest, fingers teasing over your erected nipples, doubling the pleasure sparking through your body. You squeeze and cup yourself, breath hitching, and when you bring your breasts together for him, he takes them in his mouth in an instant. His tongue swirls, flicks, sucks on your nipples and on the flesh of your mounds, drawing shameless moans from your throat that echo off the bare walls.

Then he grabs your hands gently, pulling them away and placing them around his shoulders like an unspoken message—hold on to me. And you do.

Hyunjin picks up the pace, his breath turning ragged against your skin, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping, moaning, unraveling as his body claims yours with everything he has. There’s no space between you anymore, only heat, only movement, only the rush of him building toward the edge.

And when he finally lets go—when he gives you all of him, coming inside you and fill you full of him just like you asked—it feels like a vow, wordless and sacred. A promise sealed with every part of him. He collapses into you, your bodies tangled, breath shared. In that moment, he is wholly, completely yours. And you are his.

-

The bed is cold when you wake up.

The first thing you notice is the emptiness beside you—no warmth, no steady heartbeat to lull you back into sleep. Just rumpled sheets and the faint imprint of where he lay last night.

You blink against the light, slowly sitting up, the duvet clutched to your chest. It smells like him—something between fresh paint and fabric softener—and you breathe it in like it’ll bring him back. It only makes your heart ache a little more.

“Hyunjin?” you call out softly, voice rough from sleep and get no reply.

Your gaze lands on his sweater, half-draped at the edge of the bed. You reach for it, pulling it over your head, letting the sleeves hang long past your hands. It’s warm. It’s him. And somehow, it helps.

You slide out of the bed and walk through the apartment barefoot, your steps quiet. “Hyunjin?” you call again, a little louder this time and still no answer.

The silence makes the apartment feel unfamiliar like it doesn’t quite belong to either of you without him in it. You wander through the space, and your eyes land on the canvas—that one. The one covered by a white cloth. The one he said was a failure. You hesitate for only a second before stepping closer. Your fingers grip the edge of the fabric, and with one careful tug, you lift it. The breath catches in your throat. It’s… you.

A portrait. A figure rendered in soft colors and tender strokes. The way he’s painted you—it’s intimate, it’s raw. It’s real. Not just your features, but the way he sees you. The way he feels you. And he called this a failure?

Your fingertips trail lightly along the edge of the painting, your chest swelling with something deep and warm. He lied. Not because the painting wasn’t good, but because it meant too much to show. And the fact that he created this—that he thought of you like this—makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

Then you hear it—the click of a lock turning, the quiet creak of the front door opening. You turn just as Hyunjin steps inside, balancing two takeaway coffee cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His sweater hangs a little loose, and his hair is messy from the breeze outside. His eyes land on you in surprise.

“Hey—!”

You run to him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso, and he gasps as he tries to keep the coffee from spilling. His laugh is muffled against your hair as he shifts the cups to one hand.

“Careful,” he says through a breathless chuckle. “Or I have to go and buy coffee again.”

“You left me,” you say with a dramatic pout, burying your face into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I didn’t think I’d be long,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You were still asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—and then you kiss him. A soft, sleepy kiss, full of affection. When you pull away, there’s a smile playing at your lips. “Good morning.”

His own smile softens as he leans in again, placing a longer kiss on your lips, like he missed you in the hour he was gone. “Good morning,” he echoes. “Let’s have breakfast, mmh?”

And just like that, the day starts with him again. Just the way you like it.

-

You and Hyunjin settle onto the sofa, breakfast in your laps and a lazy, quiet comfort hanging in the air between you. The sun filters in through the windows, casting a soft glow over everything. He sits beside you, legs spread just enough for you to slide in closer. After finishing your pastry, you cradle your coffee cup between your hands, still warm and fragrant.

Without a word, you scoot closer to him, draping your legs over his lap and letting them rest comfortably between his. He glances at you, smiling softly, and you return it with one of your own.

“So,” you start, sipping your coffee slowly before turning to face him fully, “I saw the painting.”

His brows lift, amused, and a little sheepish. “You did?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “You lied to me.”

Hyunjin huffs out a laugh. “I did say it was a failure.”

You jab a finger into his chest and grin. “It’s me.”

He tilts his head, playing along. “Do you like it?”

You set your coffee cup down on the table, then fold your arms and pout at him. “I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“I love it,” you say with a wide grin. “So much.”

He chuckles and shifts slightly to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close. “It’s not finished yet.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “When are you going to finish it then?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You pout again, exaggerated and dramatic. “Why not?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft and full of something you can’t quite name—something tender, something warm. “Why should I finish it,” he murmurs, “when I have the real one right here?”

You groan out loud, burying your face against his chest. “Ugh, you’re so cheesy.”

He laughs, a full, unguarded sound—and you can’t help but join him, laughing like everything in the world is just a little lighter when you’re together and maybe it is.

You set your coffee cup aside on the table, shifting on the couch so you can climb onto Hyunjin’s lap. He doesn’t protest—in fact, he opens his arms right away, welcoming you into them. You nestle into him, your knees framing his hips, and he takes a long sip of his coffee before placing his cup down as well. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours.

You tilt your head and kiss his jaw, then press another soft one to his cheek. He turns to look at you, amused and already smiling when you gently grab his chin and turn his face toward you for a quick peck on the lips. Then you settle back into him, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his neck. His warmth surrounds you, his scent familiar, and when you glance up at him, something in your chest flutters.

“We should go on a date,” you murmur.

His thumb brushes along your cheek, soft and sweet. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

You hum as you think. “Uhm... To your favorite place?”

He smirks, his hand playfully hovering on your inner thigh, intentionally brushing his knuckles against your clothed core. “My favorite place is right here.”

You gasp, laughing as you lightly slap his chest. “Hyunjin!”

He laughs too, that bright, boyish sound filling the room. “Just being honest here,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.

You nod, your expression softening. “You know... somewhere that feels personal to you.”

Hyunjin leans in and places an affectionate kiss on your lips, lingering for a second before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I know a place.”

-

Hyunjin pats down the pockets of his jacket, doing a quick mental check—phone, wallet, keys and that thing in the inner pocket of his jacket. All good. He smooths down the front of his shirt and glances once at the mirror near the door, fixing his hair with his fingers before finally stepping out of his apartment.

He walks over to your door, heart thudding just a little faster than usual. It’s strange how it still feels like this with you—like he’s a teenager picking up his crush, not someone who spent the night tangled up in you.

Hyunjin knocks and when the door swings open, He blinks—once, then twice. You’re standing there, looking… breathtaking.

He lets out a soft, stunned laugh, eyes sweeping over your outfit. “Wow,” he says, leaning a shoulder against your doorframe. He says nothing else but his eyes endlessly admiring you.

You laugh, a little sheepish but so proud. “It’s our first date,” you simply point out.

Something tugs at Hyunjin’s chest at that. The honesty in your voice, the way you’re looking at him—it’s soft, real, and he’s suddenly so glad he gets to have this with you.

He grins, stepping closer. “You’re beautiful,” he says, meaning every word. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, “Maybe we should just cancel the whole plan.”

He nudges you playfully, pushing you back a step into your apartment, and you both burst into laughter. But before either of you can say more, he grabs your hand, warm and certain.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go make it a good first date.”

The quiet hush of the gallery wraps around you both like a blanket, softening the sounds of passing footsteps and hushed conversations. Hyunjin walks beside you with his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze darting to you now and then—your curious eyes, the way you lean in just a little to read the small plaques beside the paintings. He’s not sure why his heart won’t stop doing these little flips, but he doesn’t want it to stop either.

Eventually, he stops in front of a painting. It’s large, vivid, a swirling composition of shadows and light that seem to breathe if you look long enough.

You pause with him, sensing something different in his stance, the way he exhales slowly. “This one?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin steps closer, moving behind you and gently resting his hands on your waist. He nods. “Yeah… this one.”

You both stand there in silence for a moment, staring at the canvas. And then, in that quiet space, he begins to speak.

“There was a time I used to come here almost every week,” he says softly. “I'd just stand here and look at it. For hours, sometimes. I didn’t even understand everything about it—I still don’t. But something about it made me feel… seen. Like it understood what I was going through even when I couldn’t say it out loud.”

You listen, still and patient, your fingers brushing lightly over his where they rest on your waist.

“When I couldn’t eat, when I was too tired to sleep, when I was too overwhelmed to paint… I came here. I used this painting to hold myself together.” His voice falters for a second. “But now when I look at it, all I feel is everything I tried to suppress. Exhaustion. Pressure. Loneliness.”

He pauses. You can feel the weight of the memories in his breath.

“I want to change that.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out something small. A glint of silver and a soft charm catches the light as he holds it up—it’s the bracelet you once tried on absentmindedly at that jewelry shop weeks ago. You’d joked about him buying him for you and he hadn’t said anything then, just smiled.

Now, without a word, he gently slips it around your wrist and fastens the clasp.

“From now on,” he murmurs, “when I look at this painting, I’ll remember this moment instead. You. Us.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him, your eyes glistening with emotions you can’t quite name. Happiness. Sadness. Love. Grief. Hope. All tangled up into one beautiful ache.

“Thank you,” your voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

You kiss him, just a brush of lips—but it’s enough to make his breath catch. Then you take his hands and wrap them fully around your waist, holding them there like a promise.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you say gently. “I’m here. You have me now.”

Hyunjin looks at you like you’ve just handed him the sun and then he leans in and kisses you—not in a rush, not in desperation, but with everything he’s been carrying in his heart. Quiet gratitude. Relief. Love. It’s a kiss that says, I see you. I feel you. I’m yours.

And in that gallery, under the gaze of a painting that once held all his pain, he lets it all go—and chooses to remember this instead.

The kiss lingers long after it ends, warmth spreading through Hyunjin’s chest like a sunrise. He stays there for a beat longer, arms wrapped around you, your head resting against his shoulder as the painting stands silently before you—no longer a mirror of pain, but now a witness to something new.

Eventually, you both pull away, your fingers still tangled in his, your bracelet catching the light with every little movement.

Hyunjin glances down at it and smiles softly. “Ready to go?” he asks, brushing a thumb across your knuckles.

You nod. “Where to next?”

He pretends to think, lips twitching. “Somewhere with less staring eyes and more delicious food?”

You laugh, and the sound echoes faintly through the quiet halls of the gallery.

Hand in hand, you walk out together. The doors open, and sunlight spills across the marble floors, welcoming you into the rest of the day.

And as the two of you step into the light—your shoulders brushing, your smiles easy, your hearts just a little fuller than before—it feels like the beginning of something beautiful, something real and it's just getting started.

-

✨ A bonus chapter to Cam is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[leriexoxo]

TRAFFIC JAM

Bff! Jisung x Reader

Tags: aphrodisiac trope, accidental drugging (non-malicious), public setting (car), masturbation, voyeurism, fingering, desperate!reader, panicked but horny!jisung, unprotected sex, creampie, Smut, Slow Burn, Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Drug-Induced Arousal

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You and your best friend Jisung go to a party. Nothing crazy. Nothing new. Until you take a drink that wasn’t meant for you. It doesn’t hit until you’re in the car on the way home, stuck in traffic, rain pounding on the roof—and suddenly, your body is on fire. Sweating, squirming, overstimulated… and Jisung is right beside you, panicking, blushing, painfully hard, and utterly unequipped to handle what you’re doing in the passenger seat.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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

Jisung was already side-eyeing your outfit when you stepped out of your room. He didn’t say anything—just blinked too many times and tried to fix his expression when you caught him staring.

“Too much?” you asked, doing a little spin.

It was. A tight, black mini-skirt that hugged your hips and rode dangerously high when you walked. Your top was some sheer lacy thing that left little to the imagination. But you were confident. And Jisung was your best friend. He could handle it.

“Just enough,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “I mean—it’s fine. You look hot. Not that I’m saying that like—ugh, never mind.”

The party was already in full swing when you got there. Red cups, loud music, too many people packed into a too-small house. You got separated for a bit. Some guy from the friend circle handed you a drink—rum and soda, probably. You sipped it without thinking. It was cold, sweet, a little syrupy. A nice buzz settled in after the first few gulps.

By the time Jisung found you again, you were perched on the arm of a couch, giggling too much, legs crossed like a show, your hand on someone’s arm as they talked. But your eyes lit up when you saw him.

“There you are!” You reached for his hoodie sleeve, tugging him down to sit beside you. “I missed you.”

His eyes darted from your bare thigh to your flushed cheeks. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” you said, a little too quickly. “I feel kinda warm, though. Probably just the booze.”

He squinted. “What did you drink?”

You blinked. “Umm… the cup on the counter. I thought it was mine.”

He stiffened. “You sure?”

You shrugged. “Eh. Tasted fine.”

But a little while later, you started getting really warm. Not just drunk-warm—sweaty, tingly, overly sensitive. Every brush of your skin felt like static. Your clothes were suddenly suffocating. You tugged at the lace edge of your top and leaned against Jisung’s side without thinking, cheek pressed to his shoulder like he was your personal AC unit.

“Jesus, you’re burning up,” he muttered, frowning. “You wanna head out?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Please.”

He helped you up with a hand at your waist, and you leaned into it a little too eagerly, like you needed his body to stay upright. Like you needed contact.

The rain had started by the time you made it to his car. Big, heavy drops hitting the windshield as he drove, music low, your body curled in the passenger seat. You rolled the window down just an inch to get cool air, but it didn’t help.

You were sweating. Your thighs were sticky. And deep in your core, something throbbed.

You didn’t know what was happening yet. But you knew one thing:

You were not just drunk.

The rain was steady now. Heavy, rhythmic, blurring the windshield in waves. Wipers swiped back and forth in a lazy beat as Jisung drove, eyes on the road but stealing glances at you every other second.

You had one knee pulled up onto the seat, your skirt hiking even higher in the process. The window was cracked an inch, letting in cool air that barely helped. You pressed your cheek to the glass, trying to regulate your breathing.

“I feel… weird,” you whispered.

Jisung’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Still?”

“It’s not the alcohol,” you said, voice shaky. “It’s something else. I’m hot—like really hot. Everything feels… sensitive.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time. “Wait—are you okay? What do you mean sensitive?”

You hesitated. Embarrassed. But the pressure between your legs was building, and you were squirming, shifting every few seconds in the seat because nothing was giving you relief.

“My skin’s on fire,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the rain. “Even my thighs—I can feel my heartbeat there.”

His face twisted. “Did someone spike your drink?”

You blinked at him slowly, like your brain was catching up a few steps late. “Maybe,” you breathed. “I don’t know.”

You reached down, pressing the heel of your palm between your thighs—like you could squash the feeling away.

You couldn’t.

Your hips twitched at the contact. A soft, breathy whine slipped from your lips before you could stop it. And Jisung—poor, sweet, repressed Jisung—nearly swerved into the lane divider.

“*Jesus—okay, okay, um—fuck,” he blurted, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel like it personally offended him. “D-Don’t do that. Or do. I mean—shit, I don’t know what I’m saying—”

You moaned again, softer, clenching your thighs as your fingers teased the inside of one. “It hurts. I can’t sit still.”

“I—There’s a traffic jam up ahead,” he stammered. “Accident or something. We’re gonna be stuck for a bit. Can you—like—breathe through it?”

You nodded, but your hand slid further up your thigh, bunching the edge of your skirt. “I can’t,” you whispered. “I need something. I need more.”

You were unraveling—shaking, whining, breath hitching with every wet slide of your fingers.

And beside you, Jisung was gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something unforgivable.

The traffic hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Red brake lights glowed against the fogged windshield. The rain kept falling, relentless and loud, turning the car into a little cage of heat and heavy breathing.

Your legs wouldn’t stop shifting. Thighs rubbing. Hands clenched in your lap. But no matter how you moved, it didn’t help—it just made it worse.

“I feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin,” you whispered.

Jisung glanced at you, worried. “Is it still happening?”

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip. “It’s getting worse.”

He didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened as his eyes flicked back to the road. But you saw it—the way his fingers twitched on the steering wheel. The way his knee bounced like he couldn’t sit still either.

You tried pressing your thighs together. Hard. But the pressure between your legs was so intense now it was making your stomach clench.

A soft whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Jisung flinched. His voice cracked. “Are you—are you okay?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” you murmured, eyes squeezing shut. “I didn’t mean to drink it. Whatever was in it. I can’t—my body won’t calm down.”

He exhaled, shaky. “Fuck.”

“I keep getting these… spikes. Like waves of heat. And my—” you paused, swallowing thickly. “My body feels so empty. Like I need something.”

You turned away from him, facing the passenger window. The rain was cool against the glass. But it didn’t help. Not enough. You were sweating. Trembling.

And getting wetter by the second.

Your hand slipped down, slow and hesitant, and when your fingers brushed against your inner thigh, your hips jerked.

“Shit—” you gasped, barely above a whisper.

You looked down. Your panties were soaked. Practically see-through. You could feel your heartbeat inside them.

You slid your hand beneath the fabric.

And whimpered.

Jisung made a sound—a quiet, choked noise that he tried (and failed) to smother with the back of his hand.

“Are you—” he cleared his throat. “Are you… touching yourself?”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t want to say yes. Not to him. But you couldn’t lie either. Your fingers were already sliding through your folds, slow and shaky, collecting slick.

The first circle over your clit made your legs twitch and a broken moan spill from your lips.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He made a strangled noise. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.” You closed your eyes. “That’s why I shouldn’t—but I can’t stop. My body won’t listen.”

He groaned, low and tortured. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually doing it. Right next to me.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your hand was moving now—steady, tight circles, hips shifting just enough to chase the pressure. The heat was coiling low, tighter and tighter, until it was all you could focus on.

“I can look away,” he whispered, but didn’t.

You moaned again. Higher. Shaky. Embarrassed.

“I’m trying to be quiet,” you said, trembling. “But it feels too good. Everything feels too good.”

He cursed under his breath. His hips shifted again, and you knew—you knew—he was hard. Probably painfully so. His leg was bouncing, his fists clenched on his thighs, and his jaw was so tight it looked like it hurt.

You turned slightly toward him, eyes hazy. “Are you okay?”

His head dropped back against the seat. “No. Not even close.”

The car was fogged with your moans and the smell of your arousal. Every soft sound you made—every shaky breath, every wet shlick of your fingers—it all had Jisung spiraling deeper.

“Why does it feel like this?” you asked, breathless. “It’s like I can’t get enough.”

“You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he hissed.

Your fingers moved faster. You gasped, moaning his name without thinking.

He jolted.

“You’re saying my name while you—” He cut himself off with a groan, throwing his head back. “Oh my god.”

You whimpered again, head rolling back, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t stop,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Sungie.”

He looked at you.

Really looked.

And saw it all.

Your legs spread. Your skirt bunched. Your hand moving frantically between your legs as you arched into your own touch, flushed and wrecked and so, so close.

“I shouldn’t be watching this,” he said, but his voice was hoarse. Hungry.

Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing over you, hips jerking, back arching, mouth falling open in a desperate cry. Your fingers worked you through it, thighs trembling, breath coming in gasps.

Jisung stared.

Frozen… And painfully hard.

—

The car was dead silent except for your breathing.

Heavy. Sticky. Tired.

Your thighs were still trembling.

You tried to fix your skirt, hands unsteady, the fabric clinging to the sweat on your skin. You didn’t dare look at Jisung. Couldn’t.

Not after that.

Not after the sounds you’d made.

Not after the way your fingers had moved.

Not after the way his name had ripped out of you mid-orgasm.

You heard him exhale beside you. A shaky, broken breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, still facing the window. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

His voice was rough. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. I—” You winced, pressing your forehead to the glass. “God, it was so embarrassing.”

“It wasn’t,” he said quietly. “It was… it was a lot. But it wasn’t embarrassing.”

You finally looked at him.

His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were wrecked. His jeans still tight around the hard-on he’d been trying to hide for the last ten minutes.

You swallowed. The heat was fading—just a little. You thought maybe it was over. Maybe you could survive the ride home.

But then it came back.

Harder.

Like a flame licking up your spine. Like your nerve endings snapped awake and screamed for more.

You gasped, grabbing the edge of the seat. Your knees pulled in, thighs clenching together, your hips twitching involuntarily. It felt like lightning, sharp and heavy and deep, right between your legs.

“N-no—no, not again—” you whimpered.

Jisung sat up straight. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—fuck, it’s coming back,” you sobbed. “It’s worse this time. I can’t—I can’t—”

Your hand darted to his sleeve, gripping his shirt in a panic. He turned, saw your eyes—glassy, desperate, pleading.

“Sungie,” you cried out, voice barely holding together. “Please.”

That broke him.

Without a word, he yanked the steering wheel and swerved into the emergency lane. Rain hissed on the pavement. He threw the car into park, hands shaking.

Then silence…

Breathing… Tension so thick you could taste it.

And then he said: “Friends help each other, right?”

You blinked at him.

He was already climbing over the console, into your space, cupping your face with both hands.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “Tell me this is too much and I’ll back off. I swear.”

You couldn’t.

Your thighs rubbed together again. “I need something,” you said, voice trembling. “I need you.”

That was it.

He pulled your seat back with a sharp click, his hands already under your skirt, dragging your soaked panties down with a speed that had your breath catching.

“You’ve been suffering for too long,” he muttered, kissing your throat. “You were sitting here—right fucking next to me—touching yourself while I couldn’t do a goddamn thing.”

You gasped, your head tipping back against the seat.

“I couldn’t stop watching,” he groaned, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your shoulder. “You moaned my name and I almost came in my pants. Do you know how insane that is?”

Your legs spread instinctively as he slid between them, one hand stroking your inner thigh, the other cradling your face like he was still in denial this was real.

“Sungie,” you whimpered, writhing against the seat, “please, I can’t—I need your fingers, I need something—”

He didn’t make you wait.

One hand moved between your thighs, his fingertips grazing your soaked folds, and he let out a raw, choked groan.

“Holy shit. You’re still dripping.”

His fingers slipped inside you like they belonged there. You cried out, hands gripping his arms, hips bucking up to meet his touch.

“Oh my god—yes—yes—fuck, right there—”

He moved faster. Deeper. Curling his fingers the same way you had earlier—but better. More controlled. More deliberate. The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every stroke, dragging a filthy moan from your lips every time.

Your body was on fire.

Your back arched.

And your best friend was fucking you with his fingers in the front seat of his car, rain pouring outside, traffic crawling past behind tinted windows—and none of it felt real.

“You needed this,” he panted against your neck, as if trying to justify himself. “You needed someone to help. So let me. Let me take care of you.”

“Sungie—please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping until you cum on my hand,” he growled. “Not again. Not like that. I want it now—I want to feel it.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit so hard you nearly screamed, thighs clamping around his hand, nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t stop—not for a second—fingers fucking you through it while you rode every pulse and tremor and cry, hips rolling, mouth open, body wrecked.

When it faded, he leaned in close. His forehead pressed to yours.

Both of you were breathing like you’d just sprinted through a storm.

“…We’re still best friends, right?” you whispered.

He laughed—breathy, wrecked, delirious.

“Sure,” he said. “Just best friends who make each other cum in parked cars now.”

—

You were still panting in the passenger seat, your skin warm and glowing, legs spread lazily with your skirt rucked up around your hips. Your panties were somewhere on the floor, forgotten, soaked.

And Jisung…

He hadn’t moved.

He was staring down at you with wide, dazed eyes. His chest was heaving. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. And his jeans?

Still on. Still tight. Still miserable.

You reached for his belt.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. “W-wait—what are you doing?”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You didn’t cum.”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” he breathed. “This wasn’t—this wasn’t about me.”

You sat up just enough to lean close, lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“It is now,” you whispered. “I want you to feel what I felt.”

He shook his head, desperate. “I’ll lose control.”

“Then lose it.”

You pulled his hand between your legs again—still soaked, still throbbing—and moaned softly as your walls clenched at the contact.

“I want you inside me, Jisung.”

His eyes widened. His whole body stiffened.

“I want you to use me,” you whispered against his ear. “Just for a little. I can take it. Please—please, I want to feel you.”

That was the final straw.

He moved so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs.

Your seat went all the way back with a sharp click. His belt hit the floor. His jeans and boxers shoved down just far enough for his cock to spring free—hard, red, glistening at the tip.

And fuck, he was big.

Thick. Desperate. Veins throbbing down the shaft, heavy with need.

He fisted himself once, twice, then leaned over you, bracing a hand beside your head.

“This isn’t gonna be slow,” he warned, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been hard since you said my name back then.”

You nodded. “I don’t want slow.”

His hips snapped forward.

You gasped as the head of his cock slid through your folds—slick from your arousal—and then pressed in, inch by inch, until he was stretching you open.

“Holy shit,” he choked out. “You’re so fucking wet—so tight—I can’t—”

He sank in all the way, and both of you groaned—loud. The car shook slightly under the sudden movement. Rain pounded the roof. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

“This is insane,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“But it feels good,” you whispered back, kissing the curve of his jaw. “Doesn’t it?”

He lifted his head. Looked at you.

Something broke behind his eyes.

And then he started to move.

Not careful. Not hesitant. Just fucking.

Desperate, hungry thrusts that had your body rocking up the seat, your hands gripping his back, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

You moaned his name again—and he snapped.

“You don’t get to say that,” he growled, fucking into you harder. “Not like that—not when you’re letting me fuck you in my car.”

“Sungie—ahhh, fuck—it’s so good—”

“Yeah?” he panted. “Is this what you needed?”

You nodded, eyes rolling back as his cock hit deep, angling perfectly inside you.

“This what best friends do now?” he murmured, mouth hot on your neck. “Do we just fuck when we’re frustrated?”

“If it’s like this?” you gasped. “Yes. God, yes.”

He let out a broken moan, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum so fast.”

“Do it,” you whispered. “Cum inside me. Please.”

His thrusts grew erratic. Rough. The windows were fogged completely now, the air thick with sex, the scent of sweat and skin and need.

You dragged your nails down his back and tightened your legs around him.

“I want to feel it,” you moaned. “Want to feel you fill me up, Sungie.”

He groaned—loud, wrecked—and then he slammed into you one final time, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, gasping and panting and shaking as he came harder than he ever had in his life.

The second he was done, he collapsed on top of you, forehead pressed to your collarbone.

His voice was muffled when he finally spoke. “We’re so fucked.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair.

“But you feel better, right?”

He laughed—hoarse and breathless.

“Yeah,” he said. “Way better.”

—

The traffic was moving again.

Barely. Slowly. But the world had started turning while you were half-naked in the passenger seat of Jisung’s car, legs spread and body full of his cum.

And now… now the silence was unbearable.

You’d pulled your skirt back down.

Tried to sit normal.

Tried not to squirm even though his cum was sticky and warm between your thighs, and every bump in the road made it shift a little more inside you.

Jisung gripped the wheel like it had personally offended him.

His knuckles were white.

You snuck a glance at him. His jaw was clenched. His hair was messy. He had scratches down the back of his neck from where you’d grabbed him—and the mark your mouth left on his collarbone was definitely visible under the collar of his shirt.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“…Do we talk about it?”

He exhaled through his nose. “What, now?”

You shrank slightly. “I mean. We just—kind of had sex.”

He turned to look at you.

His eyes dragged down your body. Landed on your thighs—still sticky, slightly trembling. He swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Kind of.”

You chewed your lip. “We’re still good though, right?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Yeah. Of course.”

But his hand reached over.

Landed on your knee.

Squeezed gently.

And didn’t move.

You didn’t say anything about it.

Didn’t say anything when his thumb started brushing little circles into your skin. Or when the heat in your belly started coiling again—not sharp, not desperate this time. Just simmering. Warm.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re quiet. I’m just… I dunno. Making sure you don’t regret it.”

You paused. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he whispered, “No. Not even a little.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“But,” he added, voice tighter, “I do regret not getting to see your face when I made you cum like that.”

You turned to him slowly, wide-eyed.

“Jisung—”

“I’m serious,” he said, finally glancing at you again. “It was dark, and I was too far down, and you were pulling my hair so hard I thought I was gonna pass out—”

Your thighs clenched. Visibly.

“—but I still wanted to look up. Just once. Just to see you.”

You squirmed in your seat again.

He smirked. “Still sensitive?”

You crossed your legs. “A little.”

“I could help with that again,” he offered, voice low. “If we weren’t still like, thirty minutes from home.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked out the window and whispered:

“…What if we didn’t wait that long?”

His hands jerked on the wheel.

He choked. “Don’t fuck with me.”

You turned to him, eyes innocent but voice dripping with heat.

“I mean,” you said softly, “you already came in me once today. Might as well make it a real habit.”

The car swerved slightly before Jisung gripped the wheel tighter and growled, “We are not doing this again on the freeway.”

You giggled. “Fine. Then get us home.”

And God help you both, by the time you stumbled through the door of Jisung’s apartment, your hands were already on each other.

Shoes kicked off. Jackets hitting the floor.

His mouth found yours before the door even clicked shut.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like he couldn’t believe he’d waited this long. Tongue deep, lips bruising, fingers sliding under your shirt, pushing you back step by step until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He broke the kiss, panting, staring down at you like you were a dream.

“Get on the bed,” he said softly.

You did.

You crawled back until you were sprawled across the pillows, chest rising and falling fast, skirt riding up your thighs again. The room was dim, but the glow of the hallway light still poured in—just enough for him to see everything.

Jisung stood at the edge of the bed, eyes dark, chest rising in heavy, controlled breaths.

“You look so fucking pretty like that.”

You bit your lip, spreading your legs just enough to make him groan.

“I still need you, Sungie.”

He stripped fast—shirt over his head, jeans kicked away, boxers shoved down. His cock was already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip, twitching when he caught the way your thighs squeezed together.

He climbed onto the bed, hovering over you. One hand cradled your face.

“I’m gonna go slow this time,” he murmured. “I want to feel all of you. Every inch.”

You nodded, lips parted. “Please.”

He kissed you again—softer now. Deeper. Like a promise.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers brushing your soaked folds, and he moaned against your mouth.

“You’re still wet,” he whispered. “Still messy from earlier.”

He pushed two fingers in slowly, watching your face.

You gasped, hips rolling. “Fuck. Jisung—”

“I wanna see you fall apart this time,” he breathed, curling his fingers just right. “No distractions. Just you and me.”

You were already whining, eyes fluttering shut—but he caught your chin gently, made you look at him.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he said. “Wanna see you when I make you cum.”

You nodded weakly. “I’ll try. Just—please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

When he finally lined up at your entrance, sliding in slow, every inch was torture.

You clung to his arms, gasping into his neck, your body stretching open to take him again.

“So tight,” he hissed. “Fuck, you feel unreal.”

And then he started to move.

Deep, slow thrusts that rocked your body beneath him. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy, lips brushing your mouth every time he pulled back and pushed in again.

You held his face with both hands, moaning softly.

“Feels so good, Sungie.”

“Yeah?” he whispered, fucking into you a little deeper. “You’re taking me so well. You were made for this.”

You whimpered, walls fluttering around him.

“F-for you,” you gasped. “Only you.”

His hips stuttered.

“Say that again.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“I want it to be you. I want it to always be you.”

He growled—deep and low—then started thrusting harder. The bed creaked, your moans growing louder with each roll of his hips, each pass over that sweet spot inside you.

“Don’t stop—please—don’t stop—” you cried, nails clawing at his back.

“I’m not,” he panted. “I’m gonna make you cum on my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

You were so close.

Your hands gripped his hair, eyes locked on his, mouth falling open as the pleasure built like a tidal wave.

“I’m gonna—oh god—Jisung—!”

“Look at me,” he whispered, thrusts sharp and deep. “Look at me when you cum.”

You did.

And the second you locked eyes with him, your body exploded.

You came with a cry, walls clenching so hard around him it dragged a broken moan from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck— I’m gonna—”

He kissed you again, hard and messy, then groaned as he thrust once more and came deep inside you, filling you up with thick, hot pulses, hips grinding as he milked every drop into your still-quivering cunt.

When it was over, he collapsed onto you, both of you gasping, sweaty, tangled in each other.

The room was quiet except for your heartbeats and the soft sounds of your breath.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t move.

Then, finally, in a soft, dazed voice—

“…We are so doing that again.”

You laughed, breathless. “We’re not just best friends anymore, are we?”

He smiled against your skin.

“Nope,” he whispered. “You’re mine now.”

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

Authors note: I think at this point ive written a best friends to lovers fic for all the members 😂 i’m so loving it!

I know i enjoyed writing this one but if you did too, give it a like and drop that comment, let me know what you think!!! Reblog too ❤️

[p1astr81]

ahhhh I love your work!! i need THIS https://x.com/yovremine/status/1871164598306677111?s=46 for oscar in order to survive pretty please 😭💗

Lemme tell you I was terrified to open this link but OUUUUU this would fix me I fear

It wasn’t meant to be like this. You didn’t climb into his lap while he was sitting on the couch and straddle his thighs just to sit there for the better half of an hour. You did it so you could fix his unruly hair (it was more unruly than usual).

But then he started talking, and you couldn’t be rude. You couldn’t interrupt him by sliding off his lap. And you definitely wouldn’t think about moving when his hands were roaming all over your sides, thighs, and back. His warm palms making contact with your skin under your shirt, warming your whole body.

“Wait, what’s a v8 again?” You asked, tilting your head. You knew. But he just sounded so good when explaining it to you. He wasn’t condescending, didn’t talk to you like you were an idiot. It was just pure interest.

“It’s a 8 cylinder engine-“

“What’s a cylinder?” He squeezed your hips at the question.

“It creates the power. There’s 8 of them, so it’s more powerful and you can accelerate better, faster compared to an engine with 6 or 4 cylinders.” His hands slid up and down your sides while he paused. “They used them in F1 in 2006, up until 2012. They’ve talked about bringing them back for the 2030 regs which would be amazing actually.”

Your fingers drummed against his chest before your hands settled around his neck. “How come?” They were his favorite engines. You knew that.

“They’re my favorite. And the sounds… uh, you’d just have to hear it. It’s like,” he took his hands off you for a moment, making wild gestures.

Whatever he said next was tuned out as you studied his face. Every micro expression demonstrating his love for the technicalities. Your fingers curled in his hair, leaning in to connect your lips to his neck.

He paused. “What’s up?” He laughed.

“Nothin’. Just keep talking.” You mumbled, your lips brushing against his neck as you spoke.

“About what?”

“Anything. Anything you want to.”

He paused, blowing a shaky breath through his nose. “Okay well… Mercedes think the engine that they’ve made for next year is good, which is good for us. And our car is looking strong for next year, too.” His hands traced the curves of your spine.

“You’re such a stupid nerd.”

“Those are direct contradictions, baby.”

You laughed against his lips.

[snzunii]

love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.  

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room,  you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat. 

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing. 

The door clicked behind you. 

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair. 

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember. 

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages. 

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up. 

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest. 

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him. 

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady.  His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning. 

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could. 

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit. 

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all. 

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word. 

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it. 

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so. 

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return. 

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to. 

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe. 

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him. 

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in. 

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back. 

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion. 

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good. 

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast. 

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him. 

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface. 

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go. 

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair. 

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message, 

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him. 

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and  looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to  look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else. 

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise. 

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided. 

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either. 

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony. 

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show. 

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy. 

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse. 

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself. 

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma. 

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping. 

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.” 

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.  

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again. 

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room. 

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient. 

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save.  But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours. 

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible. 

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely. 

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud. 

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years. 

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself. 

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already.  Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one. 

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds. 

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara  blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something.  “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings. 

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you. 

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him? 

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation.  “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true. 

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you. 

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you. 

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter. 

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated. 

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms. 

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down. 

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you. 

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control. 

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take. 

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips,  “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.” 

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it. 

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him. 

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part two

Info : Reader is a healer, canon typical violence, slow burn, one sided beef to lovers type beat W / C : 1.6k.

A / N : silas actually uploading an entire fic??? this is unheard of!! uncharted territory!!!!! jk though. i was burnt out for NO reason and suddenly got a surge of spite against my depression and wrote this. lol. it WILL in fact be a series, this is only part one i fear

The first time Mark meets you is after the fight with his dad.

Cecil had told him he’d be fixed right up—in the physical aspect, at the very least. “The kid hates sob stories. Try not to say too much.”

So, he took the old man’s advice, and hadn’t said much to you while you were healing him. He’d argue that the silence was awkward. Foreign and strange, and he didn’t know how to not sit there and manage to not look out of place. The room you primarily worked in wasn’t like a hospital room, no.

It didn’t have those weird posters of kittens with something that said ‘believe in yourself,’ or something dumb like that, it wasn’t just pristine white walls with blinding fluorescent lights that gave patients headaches, and it didn’t smell like pure bleach and chemicals. No. It smelled of something floral and sweet, almost like fruit; but not quite there. The walls were more a peach color than anything, easier on the eyes than the standard American hospital. Not to mention that the walls were decorated.

All in all, it was strange. Like someone as bruised and bloody as Mark didn’t belong in there. Somewhere sweet and almost gentle, and the wounds that had made him feel as though they’d stay forever—stay etched into his skin, down to the bone, alongside the blood that wasn’t just solely his—mended themselves back together. The bruises and aches faded away.

The smell of blood lingered.

“Well,” the sound of your voice nearly startled Mark off the bed you’d had him laid across. “Take a shower and do a rain check with Stedman, and you’re all good to go, Invincible.”

“. . . What? Just- that’s it? That’s all?”

You’d stared blankly at him, arms crossed in the chair you were seated in. Though you were a healer, you did look as though you belonged amongst the official medical staff that’d be seen literally anywhere else. The slightest tilt of your head had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Did you want there to be more?” The question comes across as somewhat annoyed. Mark could see why you’d probably be agitated—but it was a genuine question!

“It’s just, uh,” he starts, swallowing nervously. “I expected it to take longer or something. Like an actual healing process, precautions I’d have to take and stuff.”

The hum of acknowledgment you let out as you nod your head makes him look at you again, and you speak. “Not when I’m the one healing you. My power is called that for a reason, and it’s so heroes like you can get back out on the playing field. To skip the healing process. If I hadn’t been here, it would’ve taken you months.”

Right. A healer. Mark himself had never really thought someone like you could exist. He’s seen powers like that only in his comics, and there weren’t any other supers capable of doing whatever you just did. The way you move is skilled and practiced, years of experience and heroes in and out of your ward showing through it.

“Huh. Okay, wow. Thanks?”

“Go home, Invincible.”

“Invincible.”

Mark grimaces. “I am begging you—literally just call me by my government name.”

He doesn’t miss the way your nose scrunches ever so slightly as your eyes never leave the clipboard in your hands, clearly focused; but not too focused. “You and I are not on friendly terms. We’re associates by definition.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up slightly in mock surrender, contemplating his response. Over the past few months, he’s noticed that you don’t quite like him. At all. You’re annoyed by how thick his file has grown in such a short amount of time, annoyed by all the times you’ve documented the amount of injuries he’s had, how much energy it takes you, and whether or not you want to quit working for the GDA after making his acquaintance all those months ago.

“. . . But hear me out.” Mark adds on, noticing the way your hands clutch even more at the wood and paper. “We’re associates when we’re on duty. By definition.”

“And I am on duty,” you retort, setting your papers down and pressing a hand to the bridge of your nose. “Constantly. The same way I’m on duty while watching you get your ass beat on live television, all because you seem to love pulling your punches. Like a fucking idiot.”

He winces at that, unable to deny the blatant distaste in your tone as you remind him of all the times Cecil has sent him your way, all the times you’ve scolded him and downright berated him because you watched as he actively held back.

“Your strength went up over one hundred percent, and you don’t even use it properly. Every fight you have, your file gets ridiculously thicker, Markus.” The way you say his name—

“Don’t say it like it’s a slur.” Mark pleads, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, “and it’s Mark. Just. . . Just Mark.”

“Get. Out.”

“Markus.”

“Mark.”

“Why are you here?” You sigh out the question with exhaustion, annoyance, and a dire need to rip your own hair out as Mark sits there on one of the patient beds, uninjured this time—shockingly. He’s sitting there like a lost puppy, just. . . Much larger, more awkward, and disgustingly pathetic.

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his response carefully. “I’m benched for a while. At least until Cecil figures out what to do with me.”

The sound you make is unsurprised. “Good. Sick of seeing you bleeding whenever you come here.”

“I know.”

“So stop doing it.”

Mark’s lips purse into a thin line. You’re so mean, and it’s not like he can’t see why. But you haven’t asked him to exactly stop talking to you (yes you have), and it’s not like you genuinely hate his guts. . . At least, in his eyes, you don’t. The Teen Team would beg to differ after seeing the way you speak to him.

“I’m just wondering,” he starts, unwilling to leave. “Are there like, any other heroes you’re sick of seeing? Besides me?”

You pause at that, and turn your head towards him. As always, your eyes are narrowed and tired, a little scrunch in your brow and a slight frown on your lips as you look at him. He’d really give anything just to see you smile—just once. He wonders if you have dimples. What your laugh sounds like, what you look like when you’re peaceful and calm for just a moment.

“Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Mark states simply. And to be fair, it is just that. Surely you don’t just dislike him and solely him, there has to be another hero you hate. Maybe even multiple. Mark likes hearing your voice, even if you’re just talking about the things you dislike.

He wonders what you do like. What you find solitude in.

“Hm.” For a moment, you exhale, and push away from your desk to think about your answer. “. . . Immortal,” you hum, thinking about it. “Can’t seem to keep his head on. Or stop charging into fights he can’t handle.”

“Like me?”

“No,” you shake your head and go back to focusing on your work. “You can handle your fights. It just seems to be a deliberate choice of yours not to handle them.”

“Ouch.”

“I hate it when Rex comes in here.” You ignore his little comment and continue, actually giving some thought to your responses. Usually, your conversations with Mark consisted of you insulting him endlessly before telling him to go home and sleep it off. Rinse and repeat.

“He can talk someone’s ear off. It’s sickening, really,” the last part is a mutter as you sort through a barrage of papers, clearly going back to focusing on what you were doing before he’d come and interrupted your rather quiet day. He’s been dropping by more often, and over time, you’ve began to hold actual conversations with him that didn’t involve you telling him how you should let him heal on his own, and him begging you to not leave him stranded in such a state—

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

You pause for a second, pretending to not have heard, before ultimately you set your papers down again and turn your swivel chair to face Mark. “What?”

“Your favorite kind of food,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “Like, do you like spicy, or?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” You grumble, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. Just for a moment, you glance back up at him, watching him pout ever so slightly at your answer.

“I’m serious. It’s just a genuine question, y’know?” The two of you enter a staring contest of sorts when you glare at him, looking genuinely offended at the fact he was asking about something so minuscule and stupid. As though the two of you were friendly. . . .

“Fruit.”

Mark blinks at your response, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again, gears turning in his head. “Okay. . . So, sweet stuff?”

“Sweet stuff,” you mutter, turning back around. “Not artificial sugar. Natural. It’s better for my energy, helps me heal better.”

He nods as though that makes sense. You seemed the type to prefer natural things over the overproduced, sickeningly and overly sweet candies that left a bitter aftertaste. It makes sense in Mark’s mind—as though he should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell. The room you work in smells soft and sweet, just like honey and strawberries.

You smell like strawberries. Ripe, sweet. Tinted a dark red and soft when bitten into.

“Okay.” Mark whispers, more to himself than anything. A confirmation. A new alignment in the stars, the very universe itself as a whole. “Yeah, that seems like you.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Invinci-Boy.”

“Oh my god.”

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