#and they expect us all to just stand in silence

[sosa2imagines]

Are you mine? Part 2

Warning- Angst, little fluff, blood, bruises, protective brother Logan.

Something was wrong.

Steve felt it first, the emptiness, the eerie quiet that settled over the compound like a storm waiting to break. He had gone looking for you that morning, expecting to find you in the kitchen or the training room, but there was nothing.

Then Bucky felt it too.

The bed was cold. Your scent was fading. Your usual presence, a force of nature they had come to rely on was simply… gone.

At first, they thought you were just upset.

That you were cooling off, still angry over the canceled dates and forgotten promises.

But as the hours passed and you remained missing, a sickening realization took root.

You weren’t just avoiding them.

You were gone.

“Where the hell is she?!” Bucky’s voice echoed through the hallways as he and Steve stormed through the compound, checking every possible place you could have been.

“Maybe she went for a run?” Steve muttered, though doubt laced his words.

But you always came back.

And you never left without telling them.

Something wasn’t right.

“Doll!” Steve called again, desperation creeping into his voice.

Nothing.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his heart pounding. He turned the corner and immediately groaned when he spotted her.

Cassidy, sitting on the common room couch, scrolling through her phone like she had all the time in the world.

“Where is she?” Bucky snapped, making her jolt.

Cassidy blinked up at him. “What?”

“Y/n” Steve said, voice tight. “Have you seen her?”

She rolled her eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “She’s probably sulking somewhere. You know how dramatic she can be…”

Bucky saw red, “Shut up.”

Cassidy flinched, her eyes widening as Bucky glared at her with all the rage burning inside of him, “Get out,” he growled.

“Bucky…”

“I said GET OUT!”

Cassidy paled, scrambling to her feet before practically running out of the room.

Steve barely paid her any attention. His mind was already racing, his chest tightening, “We need to find Natasha.”

Natasha was waiting for them.

She didn’t stand. Didn’t speak. Just sat on the couch, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap, like she had all the time in the world.

When they entered the room, the silence was suffocating.

Steve cleared his throat, “Tasha…”

“You finally noticed.” she said, voice low. Steady. Her eyes didn’t even move to meet his.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. “Where is she?”

Natasha lifted her gaze slowly, like it physically pained her to look at them. “Gone.”

Steve’s heart dropped. “Gone?” he echoed.

“She left. What else did you expect?”

The silence stretched for too long.

Steve took a step forward. “We didn’t know…”

“You didn’t care!” she interrupted, voice still calm. Too calm. “There’s a difference.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but Natasha stood, smooth, slow, deliberate. The look in her eyes was lethal.

“You don’t get to speak,” she said, each word precise, like a scalpel carving into flesh. “Neither of you do.”

Bucky shuts his mouth and Steve’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “Natasha, please…”

She walked closer, tilting her head. “Please? You’re asking me for grace? After what you did to her?”

Her lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile. “You let some trainee worm her way into your lives. You sat there, smiling, laughing, letting her take Sweets place. Her spot on the couch. Her seat at the table. Her space between you!”

Steve flinched.

“She didn’t even scream!” Natasha said, her voice quieter now, somehow colder. “Did you notice that? She cried silently. She didn’t beg. She just walked away. That’s how much damage you did.”

Bucky looked like he was going to be sick.

“You let her become invisible,” Natasha whispered. “She trusted you. Completely. And you crushed her. Slowly. Carefully. Like it was nothing.”

“She never told us,” Steve said, voice breaking. “She didn’t…”

“She shouldn’t have had to!” Natasha snapped, but even then, her tone barely rose. “You’re not children. You’re not stupid. You knew what she meant to you and you still let someone else reach for what was hers, without even blinking.”

She stepped back, shaking her head slightly.

“God, every look. Every time I stood between you and that bitch. But you brushed it off. You thought Sweets would just… wait around. Watch herself be replaced. And still stay.”

She scoffed. “That’s not love. That’s possession.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

Natasha met Bucky’s eyes then, and it was the final blow.

“You made her feel like a guest in her own home.” Natasha snapped. “You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to act shocked. You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t do this.”

Bucky flinched at the venom in her voice. “Nat…”

“Shut up and listen.”

They did, because for the first time in a long time, maybe ever Natasha was furious at them.

And she had every right to be.

“You trusted Cassidy,” she spat. “You let her get close. You let her take over. And you let Sweets, suffer in silence while you two stood there, completely oblivious.”

Bucky swallowed hard, guilt clawing at his insides. “We didn’t mean to…”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Natasha demanded. “Didn’t mean to leave her alone? Didn’t mean to ignore her? Didn’t mean to let some girl take her place like she was nothing?”

Neither of them had an answer.

Because there wasn’t one.

“She trusted you,” Natasha continued, voice cold. “Blindly. Completely. And you broke that trust, piece by piece, every time you let Cassidy sink her claws in deeper. Every time you canceled a date. Every time you let her take Sweets’ spot without a second thought. You let her feel like an outsider in her own home. In her own relationship.”

Steve felt sick, Bucky’s fists clenched. They had done that, they had let that happen.

“Where is she now?” Bucky asked, voice rough.

Natasha’s gaze darkened. “With Logan.”

Bucky stiffened. “Logan?”

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “You know, her brother? The one who actually gives a damn? The one who saw what you couldn’t?”

Steve inhaled sharply, guilt coiling around his heart.

“He just took her?” Bucky muttered, shaking his head.

Natasha scoffed. “Logan is her brother and has every right. More than you do right now.”

Neither of them could argue, because she was right. They had messed up and now, you were gone.

The common room was eerily quiet.

Steve sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Bucky stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city, jaw clenched.

Neither of them spoke.

Because what was there to say? They had fucked up, and they knew it.

At first, when Cassidy arrived, they had thought nothing of it. She was a trainee, young and eager to learn. Or so they had believed. But she hadn’t been interested in training. No she had been interested in them.

And instead of noticing it, instead of seeing what was right in front of them, they had let it happen.

They had let her sit beside them, let her take up space that wasn’t hers. Space that had always belonged to you.

They could still see it so clearly now, the way you had lingered in the doorway, eyes flickering to where she sat too close, where her hands brushed against theirs. The way your expression would shift, just for a moment, before you schooled it into something neutral.

The way Natasha had given them warning looks, subtle but sharp. But they hadn’t listened, hadn’t thought.

Hadn’t realized that every moment they spent with Cassidy, every smile, every conversation, every second of attention, was another crack in the foundation of what they had with you.

Another reason for you to pull away.

And then, the dates started getting canceled. Not because they meant to, at least, that’s what they had told themselves.

There was always a reason.

Something came up. A mission. A meeting. Or sometimes, they had just… forgotten.

Because they were too busy.

Too distracted.

Too stupid.

And every time they promised to make it up to you, your smiles became smaller, your words became quieter.

And still, they hadn’t seen it.

Hadn’t seen how Cassidy was everywhere, how she was taking your place, how she had stolen what was yours, and they had just let her.

Until that night.

The movie night, the one they had planned, thinking it would fix things. They had been so damn proud of themselves, thinking they were doing something right, only for you to walk in and freeze. And that’s when they had realized. Because Cassidy had been between them.

In your spot.

In your place.

They had tried to explain, had told you she hadn’t known it was just for you, that they hadn’t wanted to be rude. But you had just looked at them with those broken eyes, nodded once, and walked away.

No fight.

No anger.

Just defeat.

“Fuck.” Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “How the hell did we let this happen?”

Steve swallowed hard, his throat tight. “We weren’t paying attention.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No shit.”

Steve closed his eyes. “She trusted us.” His voice was quiet. Pained. “Completely. And we let her down.”

Bucky turned, his expression haunted. “She left, Steve. She left us.”

Steve’s stomach twisted, because it was true. You hadn’t fought. Hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t told them you were leaving.

You had just… walked away, because you had given up on them.

And that? That was the part that hurt the most.

Bucky let out a shuddering breath, dropping onto the couch beside Steve, his hands clasped together, his metal fingers tightening around his flesh ones.

“We have to fix this.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know if we can.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because neither of them knew the truth. Because neither of them knew if you would even want to come back. Because for the first time since they had met you.

You had chosen a world without them in it and they had no one to blame but themselves.

The drive to Logan’s cabin was long.

Too long.

With every mile, the silence between Steve and Bucky thickened, the guilt like a noose tightening around their throats.

But it didn’t prepare them for what waited at the end of the road.

Logan was already outside.

Standing on the porch like a statue carved out of rage, arms crossed over his chest, claws SNIKT out before their car even rolled to a stop.

The moment their boots hit the dirt, he moved.

“You’ve got five seconds to get off my land.”

Bucky raised both hands slowly. “Logan, we just want to…”

“You want to what?” Logan snarled, voice raw with fury. “Say you’re sorry? Offer some half-assed apology after breaking her like that?”

Steve stepped forward, jaw tight. “We need to see her.”

Logan’s eyes gleamed, feral. “Over my dead body.”

Then he charged. No warning. No hesitation.

His claws slashed through the air too fast.

Steve ducked, barely dodging the first blow, but Bucky wasn’t so lucky. Metal met flesh. He grunted, stumbling back as three deep gashes bloomed across his bicep, blood soaking through his shirt.

“Logan!” Steve shouted, trying to block the next strike but it was already too late.

Logan was a storm. Unstoppable. Every move was brutal, efficient. He wasn’t fighting to scare them. He was fighting to punish them.

Steve’s ribs cracked under a punch, and Bucky barely managed to parry with his metal arm as claws scraped down his side.

“You think she cried?” Logan hissed, claws flashing. “You think she screamed?”

He pinned Bucky against a tree, claws digging into his shoulder. “She didn’t make a sound. You ripped her soul out and she didn’t make a damn sound!”

Steve tackled him from behind, and they rolled in the dirt, a blur of fists and claws and snarls.

“She’s my sister!” Logan roared, eyes wild. “You don’t get to break her and walk in here like it didn’t happen!”

“We didn’t come to pretend!” Steve shouted, panting. “We came because we love her. Because we’re not giving up.”

Logan punched his face harder, claws dripping with blood. “Love? Don’t talk to me about love. You had it. You had her. And you destroyed her.”

“We know!” Bucky yelled, wiping blood from his mouth. “We know, Logan!”

Logan’s claws whipped through the air, stopping just inches from Steve’s chest.

“You know?” Logan’s voice was low, deadly. “Know you ignore her? Know you push her aside for some other woman? Know you made her feel like she was nothing?”

For a moment, the woods fell silent.

Only their ragged breathing and the hum of tension filled the space.

Steve stepped forward, chest heaving. “We don’t deserve it. We don’t deserve her. But we’re here because we want to earn back what we broke. Whatever it takes.”

Logan stared them down, breathing hard, blood dripping from the tips of his claws. Then slowly, deliberately, he retracted them. “You want to see her?” he asked coldly.

Bucky nodded, limping toward him. “Please.”

His glare darkened. “I should gut you both right now.”

Steve’s heart pounded, but he didn’t back down. “We came to fix this.”

“You think you can just fix what you broke?” Logan snapped. “Do you have any idea what you did to her?” His fists clenched, his claws trembling. “She was done, Rogers. She wasn’t even mad, she was gone. You took the light out of her eyes.”

Bucky flinched. “We know…”

Logan scoffed. “No, you don’t. But you’re about to.” Logan narrowed his eyes. “Here’s how it’s gonna go,” he said, voice like ice. “You don’t talk to her unless she speaks first. You don’t touch her. You don’t even sit within reach unless she lets you.”

He stepped closer, eye-to-eye with Steve now.

“And if either of you so much as make her flinch…” His claws clicked out again, glinting in the low light. “I will rip you open from neck to navel, Super Serum or not.”

Steve swallowed, his voice steady. “Deal.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate, he accepted, “Understood.”

Logan held their gaze for a long, brutal moment, then he turned toward the cabin. “Follow me,” he growled. “But don’t forget for one second, you’re only breathing because she hasn’t said otherwise.”

Logan finally turned his back on them, but not before one last glare that promised violence was only on pause, not over.

Steve exhaled shakily and staggered, one hand pressed against his ribs where the fabric of his shirt was slashed open. Blood seeped through his fingers. His face was a mess, his left eye swollen nearly shut, a deep purple bruise blooming from temple to cheekbone. A ragged claw mark carved across his side, oozing with every breath.

Bucky wasn’t any better. He leaned against a tree, panting, blood streaking down his metal arm and soaking into the waistband of his jeans. Logan’s claws had torn through his shoulder and ribcage, deep enough to sting with every movement. His knuckles were split, his lip was busted, and one side of his jaw was turning a sickly violet.

Neither of them complained, neither of them even tried to patch the wounds.

Because it felt right, this pain. Deserved. And if it meant a chance to see you again, to try and fix what they shattered, they’d crawl the rest of the way.

Logan didn’t look back as he walked toward the porch.

He stepped back, motioning toward the porch. “Go ahead. Take a look at what you did.”

Steve and Bucky hesitated before stepping inside.

And there you were, sitting by the window, staring at nothing.

You looked… different, your face was blank, your posture slouched, your eyes, once so bright, so alive were empty.

Lifeless.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. “Doll…”

You didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t even blink. It was like you weren’t even there.

And that was when it truly hit them. They had done this to you.

And suddenly, the pain they had felt since you left was nothing compared to the agony of seeing what they had reduced you to.

Steve swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Doll… please.”

Nothing.

Logan leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. “Still think this is something you can just fix overnight?”

Steve and Bucky said nothing, because they knew now, this wouldn’t be easy. And they deserved every second of it.

The next few days were hell.

You didn’t speak to the, didn’t look at them.

Logan made it clear, “she’ll talk when she’s ready. Not before.”

So they didn’t try to push their way inside.

Instead, they stayed in the car, instead of heading back to the compound.

Every night, no beds and warmth. Just bruises, blood-soaked gauze, and guilt.

Steve sat in the driver’s seat, barely moving, his ribs bound but still aching with every breath. His swollen eye throbbed under the butterfly bandages Logan tossed at him, no more, no less. Bucky sat in the passenger seat, shoulder stitched up by Logan who had done it because you told him to, but he didn’t told that to them, watching the cabin through the windshield like it might vanish if he blinked.

They didn’t leave.

Not to shower. Not to eat.

Logan had to drag them a blanket the first night, tossing it into the dirt with a scoff. “You bleed out here, fine. But don’t fucking die on my property.”

Every morning, Bucky walked to the porch and left your favorite coffee on the step. Every afternoon, Steve left a handwritten note, something short. Simple. Honest.

Sometimes it was “We’re still here.” Other times, “We love you.” Once, it was just “I’m sorry. I will never stop being sorry.”

You didn’t react. Not once. But the coffee was always gone by mid-morning.

And every evening, they sat under the quiet hush of the trees, bruised and broken, but still there. Still waiting. Still fighting.

Because this time, they wouldn’t leave first.

And yet, they refused to leave. Every morning, they were there. Helping. Talking. Apologizing.

Every day, they tried.

Not just with words, but with actions, because they knew they had to earn that back.

Logan watched them carefully, his presence a constant warning.

Meanwhile at the compound, Natasha had enough of Cassidy. She had her own way of dealing with things.

Cassidy barely had time to blink before the fist connected with her jaw. She flew backward, crashing into the training mats with a choked gasp. Blood bloomed across her lip.

“Get up,” Natasha said coldly, standing over her like death itself.

Cassidy groaned, dazed. “What the…”

Another strike. This one landed straight to the ribs, a sharp crack echoing across the room. Cassidy screamed in pain.

“You thought this was a game?” Natasha growled, crouching beside her, her voice low and lethal. “You thought you could slide in, smile pretty, and dismantle a woman’s life for fun?”

She grabbed Cassidy by the collar and slammed her into the wall.

Cassidy whimpered. “I didn’t…!”

SMACK. Natasha’s palm connected with her cheek.

“Don’t lie to me!” Natasha’s voice never rose, but every word dripped with fury. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Cassidy’s lip trembled. “They let me…”

“They were stupid,” Natasha spat. “But you? You were calculated.”

She released her, letting Cassidy crumple to the floor, blood stained her teeth. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. And Natasha straightened her spine, adjusting her sleeves like Cassidy was dirt beneath her boots. “You’re done here.”

Cassidy looked up, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper. “What?”

Natasha didn’t blink. “I already spoke to Fury. Your access is revoked. You’re off the roster. Pack your shit.”

“You can’t do that…”

“I did.”

Cassidy struggled to her feet, clutching her ribs. “You don’t understand…I…”

“I understand perfectly,” Natasha snapped, stepping closer again. “You played with fire, hoping you’d get warm off someone else’s ruin. You didn’t care about Steve or Bucky, you just cared about having something that was never yours.”

She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. “Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

Then she stepped back and opened the door to the hallway. “Now get out. Before I forget I’m done hitting you.”

Cassidy staggered out, clutching her side, sobbing softly. And the moment she crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.

Back in the silence of the training room, Natasha exhaled and pulled out her phone. A quick text sent. One word.

“Handled.”

Back at the cabin, Logan stood on the porch, a beer in hand and his eyes trained on the car parked near the tree line. The same damn car. Still there. Still full of bleeding, broken, stubborn super-soldiers.

His phone buzzed. One word from Natasha.

“Handled.”

He smirked, good. Cassidy got what she deserved. He slipped the phone back in his pocket, then turned his gaze to the window, where he saw you, sitting curled up on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, face half-shadowed by the fading evening light.

You had seen the text too and you knew what it meant, but you said nothing, just turned your gaze back to the window, to the outline of that car, where they still were.

That night, after Logan went to bed, you stayed on the couch, eyes wide open. The blanket felt heavy. The silence pressed against your ears like water.

Your heart ached.

When you had first heard their voices at the cabin, something inside you had broken again, shattered, because it wasn’t enough that they made you feel small.

Now they were here. Showing up. Bleeding for it.

Your brother’s claws had torn them apart. And they stayed.

The first morning, you thought it was a trick. The second, you thought they were just proving a point. By the third morning, when you found your favorite coffee still warm on the step… your fingers trembled as you brought it inside.

You told yourself it meant nothing, that they were just desperate.

But desperation didn’t look like Steve curled in the driver’s seat, shivering through fevered sleep, one eye swollen shut.

It didn’t look like Bucky dragging himself out of the car every morning despite the gash on his side reopening, limping up the porch just to leave a note with shaking fingers.

This wasn’t just guilt, it was grief.

And it was starting to chip away at your anger, but not your pain.

Because you still remembered how Cassidy smiled beside them. How you’d walked into the room, your spot between them already taken.

You remembered the silence. The way they didn’t even blink. You remembered walking away… and neither of them followed.

Even now, days later, a part of you hated that they were making you feel again. They had shattered something sacred.

And yet here they were, refusing to leave until they helped you put it back together.

A war was playing out in your chest. Fury and longing. Hope and heartbreak.

You curled tighter under the blanket, heart pounding, and whispered into the dark, “I don’t know if I can forgive them...”

But part of you wanted to try and that was enough, for now.

It was just after sunset, and the sky was painted in bruised shades of violet and gold when Logan found you sitting on the porch swing, knees pulled up to your chest, a mug cradled in your hands.

You hadn’t said a word, not about them. Not about anything.

Just silence.

Logan sat beside you without a word, the wood creaking under his weight. For a while, he didn’t speak either. The two of you watched the wind shift through the trees in front of the cabin, the whisper of pine needles your only company.

“They haven’t moved.”

Your eyes flicked toward him.

“They’ve been sleeping in that car for five days,” he said, voice low. “Wounds still bleeding. Busted ribs. Swollen faces. And they haven’t left.”

You stared down into your mug, “They should…” you muttered. “They forgot me...”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, “Yeah. They did.”

You expected more, but that was all he said.

After a long pause, he exhaled. “But they’re trying. Not with speeches or flowers. They’re not trying to talk their way out of this. They’re doing the only thing that matters now.”

“Which is?”

“Staying.”

You blinked at the horizon, eyes burning, “They didn’t stay when it mattered.”

“No,” Logan agreed. “But they’re staying now. In the dirt. In the cold. In the blood they earned. That says something.”

You scoffed. “They feel guilty.”

“They should feel guilty.” Logan turned to look at you. “But guilt doesn’t make a man sleep in a rusting car for five nights with broken ribs and half a face. Guilt makes you say sorry and run. What they’re doing out there? That’s something else.”

You didn’t respond.

He leaned back, one arm across the back of the swing.

“You don’t owe them anything. Not your time. Not your heart.” He looked at you then, softer. “But don’t let what they did stop you from seeing who they are now.”

Your lip trembled.

“And if they’re not that man? You’ll let me carve ‘em up myself.”

That earned a breath of a laugh from you, and he grinned. “There’s my girl.”

You wiped your cheek roughly and looked out at the dark outline of the car at the edge of the property. Still there. Still waiting. And maybe, for the first time you didn’t hate the sight of it.

One morning, as Steve placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table, you finally spoke.

Your voice was hoarse. Quiet. “Why are you still here?”

Steve froze.

Bucky, sitting across from you, slowly set down his fork.

You stared at them, your expression unreadable. “I left. You could’ve moved on. So…why are you here?”

Bucky exhaled, “Because we love you.”

Your jaw clenched, “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Steve leaned forward. “We messed up. We know that. And we’re so sorry, Doll. But we’re here because we won’t give up on you. Not ever.”

You looked away.

Bucky’s voice was rough. “We don’t deserve another chance. But we’re gonna fight for one anyway.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then, finally you picked up the coffee and took a sip. And for the first time since they had arrived, you didn’t look so empty.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something. And for Steve and Bucky, that was enough.

For now.

Part 1

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As you all can see, I tried to tag everyone but the tags don't work well, sorry 🥲❤️

[creamflix]

MY BOY ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief he's such a pretty liar — and by that, you mean he swore he’d change, really change, this time. but when an argument cracks the routine open, he starts seeing things he never noticed before — about you, about himself, about the damage that was never really fixed. w.c 6.6k

risk assessment established relationship, female reader, mentions of violence, (resolved) angst with comfort, teeny mention of sex, insensitive jjk men, semi-canon divergence, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, true-form sukuna, sexism & zenin family misogyny, somewhat ooc characters sorry </3, ft! gojo, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, naoya

a/n thank u to the anon who requested this! i'll be writing a smut sequel/alt version of this sometime this month :P for now enjoy the fluff & feels

☆ GOJO SATORU

It starts, as all things do, with your fiancé Gojo Satoru not taking you seriously. 

Not out of cruelty, not out of malice — but with the thoughtless ease of someone who’s never been told no in any way that mattered. 

He says it in passing.

"That dress again?"

He’s got a half-laugh in his voice, the kind he uses when he thinks he’s being cute, elbow nudging yours like it’s some inside joke between you two. "We really gotta get you something new. C’mon, let’s do a shopping day this weekend. Whole spree. My treat."

You don’t even catch it at first. Just a flash of confusion as you look down at the fabric — faded navy cotton, stitched with little forget-me-nots along the hem, a little loose at the sleeves now. You’ve had it for years, since university, as a matter of fact. A group gift from your closest friends on your birthday, who pooled what little they had just to see you smile. A dress you wore to your graduation, to your first job interview, to a night out when you didn’t feel like yourself and needed something to anchor you.

You brush it off at first. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he didn’t know. But when you bring it up later — tentatively, cautiously, like stepping barefoot over glass — it’s worse.

“That dress?” he blinks, expression unreadable for half a second, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Wait, seriously? Baby, I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

You don’t say anything, just sit with your hands curled into your lap, thumbs pressing into the soft fabric.

“It's not about the dress,” you murmur eventually, but he’s already waving you off with a laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look, I get it,” he says. “Your friends bought it for you, and that’s sweet and all. But if it means that much, they can get you another one, right? Hell, I’ll give them the card myself.” he grins. “You’re not gonna tell me you're actually attached to that old thing? When you could have literally any dress you want?”

You lift your eyes to him. Not angry, not hurt. just... tired. And God, that look — he can’t name it at first. Doesn’t understand why his stomach turns, why something ugly coils in his chest. You don’t even look mad. You just look… disappointed. Like you were expecting something more from him, and he came up short. And that? That lands sharper than anything else could’ve.

His smile falters. His laugh dies in his throat. You look away, standing up slowly, brushing invisible dust from the dress as if to gather yourself back into it.

“Not everything can be replaced, Satoru.”

You don’t say it like an accusation. You don’t say it with heat or spite. You say it like a fact. And he just sits there, blinking, the silence stretching, prickling at his skin.

because he knows he’s not good with sentiment. He's never had to be. everything in his life was disposable, interchangeable, fixable — shattered glasses, broken bones, lives even. There was always more. Another version, a better one. What was the point of clinging to something old, something worn, when you could just get a new one?

But he forgot you weren’t like that. Forgot that some things matter not because of what they are, but because of who gave them. When. Why.

He sees your back as you walk away, the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten around the hem. And for the first time in a very, very long time — he feels sick. Like he’s missed something irreversible. Like he might’ve broken something not even he can buy back.

Later that night, the apartment is quiet in the kind of way that feels deliberate — like it’s holding its breath. No hum of the TV, no rain tapping at the windows. Just the soft rustle of clothes being folded and the sound of your fingers brushing over fabric, smoothing it down like it could ease something knotted in your chest. 

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, folding one of his shirts. He watches you from the doorway for a while before stepping inside, socked feet dragging slightly like they used to when he was a boy too tall for himself, trying not to be heard sneaking into places he shouldn’t be. He's got that same awkward energy now — a man who could level cities and doesn’t know how to enter a room where you won’t look him in the eye. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

You glance up but say nothing. Keep folding neat, careful lines.

“I was thinking,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should… maybe take a trip. Visit your friends back home. You haven’t seen them in a while, right? Could tell them about the wedding, make it a thing.”

You pause for a moment, blink once, then keep folding. He swears he sees your shoulders relax, just a little.

“Might be good,” he adds, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie he forgot he was wearing. “Some air. Some space. From… me.” He means it to be light, maybe even self-deprecating, but it lands like a wet stone. 

You don’t laugh. You just fold the last shirt and set it aside, hands resting flat on your thighs. He exhales sharply, flopping down onto the edge of the bed beside you like gravity finally got its way. His elbows go to his knees, head in his hands. He looks like a man breaking and trying not to admit it.

“I don't get it,” he mutters, voice muffled. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. I just… I don't get it.”

He lifts his head, turning to look at you. His eyes are tired, open.

“It’s not just a dress,” he says, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. “It’s — it’s what it means. Who it came from. What you felt when you wore it. I know that now. I just didn’t know how to say that earlier. I don't really know how to say it now.”

You stay quiet, watching him. Waiting. Not for excuses, not for him to stumble over his guilt. Just for truth. He frowns down at his hands, then up at the closet. Your side. The little things you’ve kept—notes, keepsakes, photos tucked into shoeboxes. Things that never mattered to him before, but now feel like landmines he’s been stepping over blind.

“I never had to hold onto things like that. I think I forgot people could.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes glossed over with thought.

“When Suguru died, I couldn't even keep his coat. Couldn’t keep anything. It all felt like too much and not enough. Shoko still has his lighter, I think. I never asked for it.” he exhales. “I didn't know how to carry something that used to belong to someone who wasn’t coming back.”

You turn your head, just slightly. Not fully facing him yet, but listening.

“So I got used to throwing things out. Not letting them mean too much.” his voice drops. “And now here I am, saying dumb shit about a dress I didn't understand.”

He looks at you again, and this time — his expression isn’t cocky or distant or flippant. It's raw. Humbled.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Not a grand performance, not dramatic. Just those two words, laid plain between you like an offering. He leans back on his palms, head tipping toward the ceiling.

“It's a good dress,” he adds, almost like a peace treaty. “You look beautiful in it. You always do.”

You don’t smile, not right away. But your eyes soften. And he sees it, the way your fingers ease from their fists. The way you finally lean back beside him, the warmth of your shoulder brushing his. 

It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s something.

And Gojo Satoru, who has lived through the worst of loss and still come out laughing, feels this quiet shift as something sacred. Something worth remembering, something not to be thrown away.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

There are times you wonder if Nanami Kento even likes you.

Not in the way a husband is supposed to, not even in the way that makes the word affection stretch out and soften in your chest. Maybe just in the way someone appreciates a quiet presence, tolerates it. Like a painting in a room they’ve grown used to. Something familiar. Something that doesn’t make noise.

You’d both agreed to the marriage out of a quiet, mutual understanding. Family friends. Old classmates. Polite nods at weddings, idle conversation at funerals. The kind of person you wouldn’t mind spending your life with simply because they would never ask too much of you.

And when he returned to being a sorcerer — voluntarily, of all things — right around the time the engagement was announced, you took it as fate’s quiet concession: at least it’s someone you already know.

You didn’t expect romance. Didn’t expect flowers or whispered secrets in the dark. But you had hoped for something softer. Something kind.

So when you show up at his office during your lunch break, carefully packed bento in your hands, already nervous about being too much, you tell yourself it’s not about proving anything. Not about being the perfect partner. Just — something nice. You even knock. Twice. You hear him sigh before he answers.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says as soon as he opens the door. You blink, taken aback. “I brought you lunch.”

He stares at the bento box like it’s made of explosives. He doesn’t move to take it. “I told you not to overexert yourself,” he says, frowning. “You work too much already.”

“I—it’s just rice and grilled mackerel. It didn’t take long.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in slow through his nose. “That's not the point.”

Your hands are still outstretched, holding the box. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of something sharp in them. Annoyance, irritation. Like he’s been caught in something he doesn’t want to feel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, quieter this time. 

You draw your hands back. "Okay," you murmur, like a child scolded for something they didn't know was wrong. 

He doesn’t say thank you, doesn't ask if you ate, doesn’t touch the lunch box.

You leave and the fish gets cold.

The next day, you play it safe. You don’t step into Nanami's office building. You don’t pack a carefully balanced bento with pickled sides and pressed napkins. You don’t even text him in the morning. You tell yourself you’re listening, respecting boundaries, giving space. Letting the neat lines he draws between things remain untouched.

But around noon, you feel it gnawing at you. 

Guilt? No—maybe pity. Not for him, but for yourself. For the quiet ache in your chest, the soft ache of not being wanted in spaces you hoped to belong to. You linger by the fridge, eyes scanning for anything edible. Half a tray of grilled tofu, leftover rice, a handful of wilted greens. Not much, but enough. 

You don’t arrange it prettily — no sauce cups. no handwritten note. You wrap it in a tea towel and leave your office fifteen minutes before your own lunch ends. By the time you get there, you’re rushing,crossing the threshold of his building like a ghost. The elevator ticks down with an unbearable slowness. 

12:55. Five minutes left.

You knock once and open the door.

Nanami's already standing. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He glances up and then immediately—immediately—frowns.

“You’re late.”

You blink, still holding the food between your hands. A flush rises to your cheeks, slow and uncertain. “I wasn't going to come,” you say, voice cautious. “You made it pretty clear yesterday…”

“And today you decided to show up when lunch is already over?”

There's a sharpness to his words, the kind that doesn’t raise its voice but cuts all the same. He's staring at you like you’ve done something irrational, inconsiderate, even. You look down at the tea towel in your hands. The food’s still warm. Barely.

“I wasn't trying to interrupt. I just thought… you might want something to eat. I threw something together. It’s not—”

“You should’ve come earlier.”

Something small crumples in your chest. Your hands tighten around the cloth. “I didn't think you wanted me to come at all,” you say, quieter now. 

Nanami's mouth presses into a firm line. His jaw twitches like he’s about to respond, then doesn’t. Just exhales, slow and long, and walks past you to shut the door behind you with a soft click. The silence that follows is heavy, full of things neither of you knows how to ask.

He reaches for the lunch, takes it from your hands wordlessly, and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t eat right away, just rests his hand over the towel, thumb smoothing out the edge like it might explain your intentions better than you can. You stand near the bookshelf, not sure what to do. The air between you prickles with something unfamiliar—frustration, maybe. Or the growing tension of expectations unmet, confused for resentment. Finally, he says, without looking at you, 

“I don't dislike when you bring me food.”

You tilt your head. “Then why—”

“I dislike not knowing when you’ll come. Or if you’ll come at all.” his fingers press into the wood of his desk. “I dislike thinking you won’t come. And then you do. Late.”

He finally looks up at you then, and it’s not anger behind his eyes. It’s… conflict. Confusion. Like he’s struggling to piece together a puzzle that changes shapes every time he gets close to solving it. “I'm not used to people doing things for me,” he admits, voice lower now. “I'm used to being left alone, or being expected to handle it myself.”

You feel something twist in your chest, a sting of realization. He's not angry at you, not really. He's angry at himself for wanting something he doesn’t know how to ask for. You step forward, slowly, gently. “Then maybe you could just say it,” you offer. “Say you want me here.”

He doesn’t, not yet. But his hand reaches out, uncovers the food, and he begins to eat. You sit beside him in silence, the tension slowly dissolving into the steam from the rice. He doesn’t thank you, but he eats every bite.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You’re starting to think social protocol should be implanted in everyone at birth.

Just the basics. The unspoken etiquette of not talking through a mouthful, or not cutting lines, or — perhaps most relevant to your current situation — not complimenting another woman’s perfume while your girlfriend is holding your hand.

Choso, for all his softness and sincerity, missed a few memos on the human experience. Which is ironic, because he tries. God, does he try.

He listens to everything you say like it’s scripture. Nods when you explain the importance of making people feel seen. Tries to mimic the tone you use when complimenting baristas and bus drivers and kids with crooked laces. He's eager, warm, just a little awkward—but people love it. You still remember the proud look he gave you after telling a teen at the skate park, “You look so balanced, like a predator watching its prey,” and you’d had to gently steer him toward less feral metaphors.

You’ve guided him since, helping him shape compliments with a little less edge. And you’ll admit — it’s endearing. The way he admired that old lady’s sunflower hat, eyes sparkling like it was the most brilliant invention he’d ever seen. But today, today is something else.

You’re standing next to him in a café. Warm hand holding yours, your pinky tangled with his, your face tilted toward the pastry display. And the barista — a tall woman with kind eyes and long auburn curls — smiles as she hands him the receipt. And choso, like he’s narrating a thought as it passes, says:

“You have very soft lips. The color is… nice.”

You freeze mid-step, her smile stretches awkward. “Uh… thanks?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He turns to you, eyes expectant, like did I do good? You blink.

“Choso,” you say slowly, “What did we say about… complimenting strangers?”

He tilts his head. “To be specific. And polite. And not scary.”

“Right. And were you being… specific and polite just now?”

His brows draw together like he’s doing math. “I didn't say I wanted to kiss her lips. I just said they looked nice.”

You drag him by the sleeve to the corner of the café, behind a ficus plant, heart doing that rapid spiral between jealousy and sheer disbelief. “Okay,” you whisper, “You can’t say things like that to women when I'm standing right next to you.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “But you told me it’s kind to compliment people.”

“Yes, but—” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Some compliments give off the vibe that you’re… interested in the person.” 

His frown deepens. “But I'm not.”

“I know that,” you hiss, waving a hand between you, “You know that, but she doesn’t.” He glances at the barista, then back to you. “So… she thinks I like her?”

“Maybe a little!”

“But I don’t.”

“But she doesn’t know that, Choso!”

His expression twists, hurt and disbelief slowly pooling there. “But… that’s not fair. If I'm being nice, and I don't mean it like that, why is it bad?”

“Because it looks like you mean it like that,” you say, helpless. He folds his arms, sulking now. “So I can’t say a woman smells good, or has nice hair, or lips. even if I’m just appreciating it. Even if I’d never leave you. Even if I said your lips were better.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You didn’t say that last part.”

“I thought it really hard.”

You fight back the sigh. He's pouting now, shoulders squared stubbornly, lower lip jutting out just a bit. like a kid told he can’t have candy before dinner.

“Choso.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It's still dumb.”

“Social cues are dumb,” you agree. “But they exist.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Shouldn’t exist if they make you hide compliments.”

“You’re not hiding them. You’re… redirecting them.”

He mutters something like, “feels like censorship,” and you just stare at him, stunned by how deeply he’s taking this. You press your lips together, watching him glower at the fern beside the espresso machine like it personally wronged him. Then finally, you whisper—

“Just promise me you’ll keep the lip compliments to me from now on?”

He gives you a very reluctant nod.

“…But only because your lips really are the best,” he mumbles.

And you let out the breath you were holding, squeezing his hand. You’ll call it progress. Kind of.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

Sometimes you wonder if it’s in your karmic debt to be tangled with men who don’t know what to do with basic affection.

You never asked Toji where he was going, never asked what he was doing, who he’d kill, what he’d be paid. He'd drop the money on your kitchen table like a lazy thank-you card — some loose bills, a few coins if he felt generous. It clinked against the bowl of sewing needles and antiseptic like a ritual. And you’d patch him up silently, routinely. A cycle you both slipped into like an old sweater that still held the scent of someone else’s cigarettes.

You had history. A past. But calling it a relationship? Maybe in another timeline where men knew how to sit with the ache of being wanted. So god forbid — god fucking forbid — you hand him a glass of water as he’s slipping his cursed tools into his jacket, your fingers brushing his as you press the cool glass against his palm. “It's hot today,” you murmur, “Don’t dehydrate. And—” your voice softens, “—watch your footing this time. That last jump from the balcony nearly tore your quad.” He takes the water but doesn’t drink it. And then, as if your words poisoned it, he sets the glass down without a sip. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Don’t need you fussin’ over me.”

Your brow twitches. “Fussing?”

He exhales sharply, slow and impatient. “I didn't come here for pity.”

And something inside you snaps. Not like a wire, but like a stretched rubber band finally losing tension — a dull, slack kind of tired. “That's not pity,” you mutter, stepping back, your hand brushing against the door. “That's human decency, Toji.” He shrugs. Shrugs, like you’d just offered him a second napkin he didn’t need. “Whatever it is, I don't need it.”

“Oh? Then patch your own wounds from now on. Sew your own flesh. Hydrate your damn self.”

And you open the door and slam it so hard it rattles the frame. He just stands there on the other side, staring at the door like it betrayed him. His hand hovers mid-air, still partially curled around the sheath of his weapon, like he doesn’t know whether to knock again or keep walking.

Toji Fushiguro has taken stabs to the gut with less confusion than the sound of a door shutting on him after a glass of water.

And maybe that’s the problem. He's been surviving so long he’s forgotten what it means to be cared for without condition. But you? You’ve learned enough to know that care without appreciation isn’t love. It's labor. And you’ve worked overtime.

-

It takes him three hits to the stomach. Three clean, deliberate punches from men who didn’t live to brag about it, and Toji finds himself standing in front of your door again. Not knocking, not limping. Just…standing.

Like a big, wet, blood-specked dog who’s too proud to whimper but too injured to run.

And when you open the door — half-expecting a package, a neighbor, a miracle — your eyes nearly pop out of your skull.

“Are you kidding me?!”

You don’t even let him speak. Your fingers clamp around his wrist, yanking him in with a strength he knows better than to question. You march him straight to the bathroom, muttering under your breath like a storm ready to hail hell. He’s not even fully through the door when you’re tugging at his ruined shirt, peeling it off him with all the grace of a garbage disposal. He lets you, mostly because resisting you never ends well.

“You couldn’t have just — I don’t know — gone to a hospital like a normal human being? Oh wait, that would require being normal.”

You slap a wet towel against his chest

“Did you stab them first or were they just really, really enthusiastic about rearranging your insides?”

He's quiet. There’s a faint twitch at his jaw, like he wants to say something, but a bottle of antiseptic in your hand shuts him up real quick. You scrub like your life depends on it, like if you clean him hard enough, the last week will vanish off his skin too. Soap and dried blood swirl around the drain in a gruesome little ballet. His knuckles tighten around the edge of the tub when the antiseptic hits open flesh.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Take it easy—”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you snap, slathering another handful with absolutely zero sympathy, “Did the murderous mercenary just ask me to be gentle?”

He doesn’t reply. Because frankly, the soap in his wounds is making his eyes sting more than any blade could. And maybe — just maybe — that’s not the only reason they’re burning.

“You know,” you mutter, tone softer now, “You act like showing up here isn’t a confession in itself.”

He glances up at you. There’s blood drying at his temple, one gash near his ribs. His voice, when he speaks, is gravel caught in hesitation.

“...Didn’t know where else to go.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you sigh — a long, bone-deep exhale that tastes like surrender and soap.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Fushiguro.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, wincing as you dab his side. “You say that every time.”

“Maybe if you apologized once in a while, I wouldn't have to.”

He tilts his head at you then. eyes calm, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off something between a smirk and a grimace. “This is me apologizing,” he says, voice low. “You think I'd let anyone else see me like this?”

It hits you then. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. And it’s stupid — it’s so stupid — but even drenched in his blood and your bathwater, even half-naked and so frustrating you want to dunk him into the toilet, you reach up and flick his forehead. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t be such a jackass next time. He grunts, and you mutter, “Next time you don’t show up for a week, I’m leaving you on read.”

He nods, like that’s fair. You finish cleaning him up in silence. And neither of you says it — not out loud — but maybe this is love in your own, terribly specific, catastrophically bloody way.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

There are times when you wonder if the internet was right: Never date a man older than you.

And not just older. Your boyfriend—no, courter, as he insists, like it’s the Feudal era—is Sukuna. A walking fossil. A man who pre-dates the invention of glass windows. Someone who’s spent centuries collecting knowledge like magpies collect shiny things.

At first, it was kind of cute. He’d run his fingers through your hair and mutter things like “You know, oak trees like that one were used for sacred offerings in the old capital,” and you’d smile up at him like, wow, what a charming bit of historical trivia. He’d gesture vaguely at your matcha latte, proud as a cat, and say “Tasted the first batch. It was better then. Earthier.” you hum and sip, amused, entertained. It felt like dating a strange, hot encyclopedia. A relic with biceps, even.

But the charm starts to crack around the edges when he watches you cook and breathes through his nose like you’ve personally offended ten generations of farmers. Like now.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, chopping green onions for a stir-fry. And it’s not even that you’re doing it wrong — you’re just doing it your way. And yet, from his perch against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable, comes the familiar, grating hum of—

“You’re holding the knife wrong.”

You don’t look at him. “I've done this a thousand times, Suku.”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And incorrectly, each time.” Your grip tightens on the handle. You focus on your breathing. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“If you cut them diagonally,” he continues, stepping closer like a predator circling its prey, “You increase the surface area. Better flavor absorption. Even a child from the Southern provinces knew that.”

You stop chopping.

“Well, I'm not a child from the Southern provinces,” you say, evenly. He leans over your shoulder, fingers ghosting over yours — not gentle, just correcting, pressing them into what he deems the proper hold. “No, you’re not. Children back then were more attentive.”

That one hits. You pull your hand away, stepping aside and set the knife down.

He blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast. “I'll just… let you do it.”

He looks at the cutting board, then at you. Then scoffs again. That same infuriating little sound. Not mocking, not amused. Just — condescending. Like you’re some soft, dumb thing that tries hard and always fails. And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’ll hold your hand like it’s made of rice paper, trail kisses down your arm, call you petal and little one and say things like “you’re mine to protect.” but he doesn’t see you. Not really, not as an equal. Not as someone who exists in the same frame of experience.

You’re just… small to him. Young. Naive. Ephemeral.

“You’re angry,” he says now, head tilted. You bite your cheek. “I'm fine.”

He narrows his eyes, steps closer again. “You’re not. You’re bristling like a cat.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, finally turning to face him. “Do you ever stop and think about how you talk to me? I made a mistake cutting a damn vegetable, and you acted like I burned down a monastery.”

He straightens, face blank. Then cold. “I'm only trying to teach you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to make you grateful.

“I don't need a teacher,” you snap. “I need a partner.”

His jaw twitches. “And I need someone who listens.”

You stare at him, the silence stretching.

There it is. Not a misunderstanding, not a lost-in-translation moment from someone born before democracy. Just a bitter, stubborn truth. 

You’re not equals. You’re a fleeting flame to him. A girl with knives and heat and too many opinions. And he? He's eternal, ancient. And always, always right. You turn around, quietly gathering your things. His voice doesn’t follow. Not yet.

You’re sitting in the backyard now, arms folded, jaw set, full-blown sun glaring down like even it knows you stormed out without checking the weather. Your phone’s inside, your pride is up here with you, and the back of your shirt is beginning to stick to your spine. You hear the shoji door slide open with that gentle hiss. His voice follows, smug and echoing off the stone: 

“You know,” Sukuna calls out, “This is the part of the day when the earth’s axial tilt brings the southern sun directly overhead. You’ll overheat soon, petal.” 

You ignore him. Dramatically. You close your eyes and lean your head back like you’re immune to axial tilts. And then—

The sun spikes in intensity like it’s been listening to him. A bead of sweat slithers down your temple.

You last about thirty seconds before you’re bolting upright, stumbling in your too-hot socks across the stone path, bursting back into the cool house like a fugitive from your own ego. Sukuna’s waiting, naturally. Leaned against the frame with arms crossed and a smile so arrogant you can feel it searing through your soul.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, peeling off your shirt like a defeated wrestler. He chuckles but doesn’t gloat, not really. His smile lingers, but there’s something else behind it — soft, thoughtful, almost... restrained.

“Petal,” he calls quietly.

You freeze. He only ever uses that voice when his hands are around your waist and the rest of the world has fallen away. You turn, arms crossing over your chest again, less annoyed now, more cautious. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, he picks at the hem of his sleeve like it’s telling him what to say.

“I don't mean to make you feel small,” he starts, slow and measured, the words clearly coming through thorns. “I've spent years — centuries — knowing things no one wants to hear. People die, people forget. And then there’s you.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting yours. “You listen. Even when you’re annoyed, even when you’re fighting me, you listen.”

Your chest tightens, stubborn anger still curling in your gut like it doesn’t want to give up that easily. He steps forward, voice gentler now. “I should be thanking you for even giving me that. For letting me talk. Letting me—” he hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Share. I've been hoarding this knowledge for lifetimes. But now I get to pass it to you.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how quiet it’d been in his world before you entered it, full of tangents and mistakes and kitchen errors. “…You could say all that instead of acting like a patronizing know-it-all,” you say, squinting at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re prettier when you’re irritated. Brings color to your face.”

You huff. But some part of you — some mushy, well-hydrated core — is starting to warm. Maybe you’ll never really be on equal footing. But he wants to hand you every piece of him, and if that’s not love in its own way — what is? And then—because he doesn’t know when to stop while he's ahead—he smirks. “Our children should hear these things too. Pass it down, generation by generation.”

You deadpan. “We don't have kids.”

He grins wider. “Not yet.”

A stalk of green onion whizzes across the room and bounces off his shoulder. “Tch,” he mutters, plucking it off the floor. “Poor cutting technique, by the way.”

You launch a second one straight at his face.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You’re starting to realize that behind every successful man is a woman.

A woman holding a knife.

And being Naoya Zenin’s wife means you live in the tightrope space between bloody respect and bloody disrespect, and frankly, it depends more on whether his mood is sour than anything you’ve done. Today, it’s the latter. And today, you’re the idiot.

You hear it from a maid first, in passing — something about “Master Zenin’s ingenious restructuring proposal.” You think it’s a joke. It has to be. You’d mentioned that idea last week, softly, while rubbing the tension from his neck, your lips close to his temple, your voice even closer to a whisper— 

“You know what would streamline the clan’s expenses?”

And now here it is. His plan, his innovation, his genius. You weren’t called into the meeting, weren’t even informed. And the best part? People act like you should be impressed.

“I thought you’d be proud,” Naoya says when you finally find him, post-meeting, lounging like he owns the air. He's twirling a calligraphy brush between his fingers, careless and smug. “It went over well.” Your throat feels tight, like every breath is wrapped in gauze. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to pitch it.”

He blinks up at you. “You told me, didn’t you?”

You stare.

“So?” he adds with a smirk. “What's mine is yours. And yours is mine.”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny — because if you don’t, you might scream. Or throw something. Or drive that calligraphy brush straight through his arrogant eye. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter. He shrugs, standing with the same irritating grace he carries into every room. “I'm a Zenin.”

You fold your arms. “And what am I?”

His gaze narrows slightly, as if the question confuses him. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, as though it should satisfy everything. “You’re mine.”

You could eat glass and it would go down smoother than that sentence. 

His fingers trail down your arm like he’s granting you affection, not brushing you off. “You give me your thoughts, I bring them to life. I don't see the issue.”

“You don’t see the issue,” you repeat, voice flat. “You didn’t even mention my name.” He frowns a little, like you’re overcomplicating things. “Why would I? The elders don’t care. They barely respect me. why would they listen to a woman?”

Your jaw clenches. He notices the shift, of course. Naoya’s many things — sexist, self-serving, endlessly smug — but he’s not stupid. “Look,” he says, tone lilting into placation. “You’re angry. Fine. I'll give you credit next time.”

You don’t want credit. You want your name said with pride. You want your words to carry weight without being dressed in a man’s voice. You want to be more than the soft-spoken strategist in the shadows of his throne. Sometimes, when he says “we’re one,” you wonder how many pieces of yourself are left unsaid, unthanked, unrecognized — just so he can stand taller in front of his men. And sometimes? Sometimes you wish you weren’t his anything at all.

It takes a week — seven full days, down to the damn hour — for Naoya Zenin to notice something is wrong. Not wrong in the way that he’s cut during training or that the weather’s dreary or the maids used the wrong incense in the bath again. No. 

Wrong in the energy of the house. 

Wrong in the way that every time he steps into your shared chambers, things are in place — dinner laid out neatly, his clothes pressed, his favorite tea at the exact temperature he likes. You even still massage his shoulders when he sits on the mat with a grunt, still trail your hands up his spine like your fingers remember the pattern of his vertebrae better than you remember your own schedule. If he’s lucky, he gets a fuck out of it. Mechanical, but there. Like clockwork. But the silence? That's what’s eating at him now.

No updates, no gentle commentary, no amused huff about how one of his cousins tripped on his own hakama or how the elders butchered a clause in the last contract. None of your insight, your brilliance, that cutting wit hidden under all that practiced poise. You’re just… quiet.

It hits him one night, like a blunt object to the chest. You’re folding your robes across the room, preparing for bed without waiting on him, without your usual retort to his offhand comment about how “the clan couldn’t survive without his guidance.” Usually you’d hum, or scoff, or mumble something clever about how you’re the one guiding the clan by proxy. This time? Just a blink. A soft, flat, unimpressed hum. 

And you keep folding.

He clears his throat. 

“...You didn’t mention what you thought of my handling of the merchant issue,” he tries, casually, like he’s not begging.

“You solved it,” you say. Three words — no tone, just a statement of fact. “Yes, but,” he pushes, frowning slightly. “Was it good? Bad? Tell me what you would’ve done.” 

You don’t even turn to look at him. “It's your clan.” 

Naoya blinks, jaws working. It should’ve felt like praise. 

It doesn’t. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes trailing over to where your futon is — neatly laid out. across the room. Far, as if he’d give you frostbite by breathing too close. You’ve never slept that far before. Not even when you fought, not even when he forgot your birthday and tried to make up for it with a ruby that didn’t match any of your jewelry. “…What’s going on with you?” he asks eventually, voice sharper than he intends. 

You shrug, settling under your blanket with your back turned to him. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been quiet for days. No opinions, no ideas, no…” He stops. Swallows. 

“...No talking.”

You don’t answer. He sits up, shoulders stiff, his hair a mess from laying down. His voice cracks around the edges, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Is this about the meeting? About the idea?”

Silence.

“Look, I—”

He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. I should’ve told them it was yours. I should’ve — fuck, I should’ve —”

You turn, just enough to look at him. Eyes tired. Not angry, not cold. Just... dulled from exhaustion.

“I'm not angry because you used it,” you say, voice finally sliding into the room like warm oil. “I'm angry because you didn’t even consider me. Because in this house, I'm not a person. I'm your reflection. And worse, when I disappear, you don’t even notice what’s missing.”

That hits him square in the chest, and he sits there, stunned, like someone’s pulled the floor from under him.

“…Sorry.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t expect it — because it’s probably the first real apology you’ve heard from him without the word “but” attached.

“I don't know how to fix that,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Not in this house. Not with… them.” he means the elders. The clan. The entire system of misogyny he was raised in like a second womb. “But I can start with this. With you.”

You sigh. Not in defeat, but in release. And you pat the space beside your futon. 

He blinks again. Slow, cautious.

“…Can I?”

“I'm not warming your bed tonight.”

“I'll take it.”

And maybe things aren’t fixed. Not the deep, knotted root of sexism still wrapping itself around the household like a noose. But for tonight, there’s an apology. A shared blanket. A woman who is no longer invisible. 

And a man who, for once, listened.

a/n hello!! this was initially meant to be a make-up sex post but the education system hates me and i had no time to write what i wanted, so i had to cut this fic short by a lot. i'll be publishing a part 2 around the same topic, but maybe with different scenarios for each character :) thanks for reading!  

[cherrychilli]

18+ Eddie Munson x F! reader, established relationship, risky oral sex (f), public sexual acts, implied PIV sex Summary: Eddie needs help getting away from the cops. You know just where to hide him. WC:2.3K

A/N: Been rewatching Desperate Housewives and was inspired by that one scene where Gaby hides Carlos from Victor on her wedding day. iykyk. The image in the middle is not meant to represent the reader's features, skin color, body type or other. It is only meant to help visualize her attire.

It was meant to be a surprise, something you put so much thought into and effort to keep hidden.

You had help too of course. Natalie was a saint in your book, helping to keep your surprise under wraps all while using her skills as an exceptional seamstress to flawlessly execute your design. Even with this kind of outfit being a first for her.

It definitely didn't deter or daunt her though. For as long as you've known her, since way back when you both sported matching gap toothed smiles and scraped knees at the sand box, she was always fueled by a challenge.

So away from the sunlight that beamed in through the store's front window and the mannequins dressed impeccably on display, you take your time getting dressed in the back of the store where all the changing rooms were there in a row. No other roaming eyes around.

Once everything seemed to be in place, you stepped out and up on to the little platform in front of the floor length mirrors and you couldn't help but smile proudly when you saw yourself.

It wasn't finished yet, still needing a few more details to be stitched on but fucking hell, you were so thrilled with it already.

The daisy white blouse ran down the length of your arms and to your wrists, its long, double layered puff sleeves going well with the ruched collar and off shoulder style. It fit well underneath the white and cream colored corset in the middle which kept your waist cinched with gold ribbon laced through it and your breasts lifted up high, almost spilling over the neckline. Exactly how you had asked for.

The corset was held together with more gold ribbon tied off into dainty bows where they connected over your shoulders with thick straps. And the skirt, made of the same material with floral detailing, flowed down, the hem of your dress reaching far enough to cover your toes with your heels on and most of all, the hoop skirt, without which the silhouette couldn't have been achieved, was much easier to handle and get into than what you had expected.

It was roomy and comfortable, making your skirt billow out in a very elegant way. As silly as it might be, It's hard not to feel like a princess or at least, princess-like when you gaze back at yourself in the mirror.

The renaissance fair was still a week away, your first time attending with Eddie, and you had full confidence that Nat could get it done it time. Maybe another fitting or two and the dress should be complete, you guessed.

"He's going to bust on the spot", she tells you plainly with a friendly smirk and your face warms up while you roll your eyes back playfully.

"You think so?" you half joked back.

"Yep. Just make sure. No stains, got it?", she replied, gesturing at the dress and you feign offence, sucking in a little fake gasp and clutching your pearls.

It's not that Nat disapproved. She just knew Eddie that well.

You're both interrupted when the landline in her little office down the corridor starts to ring. It makes her sigh and you smile understandingly as she mouths 'one sec' at you on her way out, leaving you to stand there in your outfit. You knew that with Nat, these phone calls could last anywhere between 5 minutes and 45 minutes.

You didn't mind however. In the silence, you were kept busy, running your hands all over the different kinds of materials and textures and the little detailing here and there. Even wondering if adding a few rhinestones might be overkill or not.

God, you hope Eddie likes it.

And as if on cue, you're startled when the front door flings open, the bell jangling wildly from the force of it. With Nat busy, you step off the platform and take small steps towards the noise, hoping she hadn't accidentally penciled a different client in at the same time as you like she had once before.

You stumble and narrowly trip on the carpet when you see him, whipping in every direction, searching searching searching until...

"There you are!...Jesus fucking Christ".

Whatever kind of rush Eddie was in is forgotten, slowing down to a very abrupt halt.

His eyes become so wide like he could probably take in all the details of your renaissance dress in one blink, his jaw so slack you're a little afraid he might dribble some drool on Nat's nice carpeting like waving a lamb chop in front of a bulldog.

"When you said you were helping Natalie out I didn't think-"

"It was meant to be a surprise" you sigh, shoulders slumping, having kept up the lie for almost an entire month, even with Eddie dropping you off and picking you up from the store every time you came in to having a fitting.

You fibbed about helping with some administrative work at her store and that was enough for Eddie. No questions asked. Why would he? he trusted you.

Though you can't lie about the way you feel when he looks you up and down right now, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch it but he's too afraid of wrecking it somehow.

He gets like this sometimes with you. To him, you're damn near porcelain, something to admire, something to handle very delicately. Not to be carelessly chipped and cracked.

"Wait, what's going on?", you remember to ask him because he's a little too busy staring at your tits in this dress right now.

"Oh, um...OH! right", he hurries up to you, placing his hands on your shoulders, his face close to yours.

"Baby, you need to hide me".

Turning to look out the window, you quickly spot an officer in the distance stalking through the crowd and you know exactly who is responsible the scowl twisting his face.

"Damnit Eddie, were you dealing?", you hiss under your breath.

He winces while holding his index finger and thumb up, keeping only a hair's breadth of space apart between them. "Just a tiny little bit".

Trying to think fast, you know that whichever room you hide him in will be searched. Even in the smallest of spaces, if he were to crouch inside, all it would take was for the officer to lean over and find him huddled there, hauling your boyfriend over to the station to have his mugshot taken...again.

It gets worse when the closer he gets you begin to recognize him. Officer Delridge. Definitely not a fan of Eddie's. Not after that stunt he pulled with the fireworks on the fourth of July. In fact, you're pretty sure that if he were to take his hat off you'll still find the bald spot your boyfriend accidentally singed into his hair still growing back in.

It needed to be somewhere no one would think to look.

"I have an idea", you grab him by the wrist and pull Eddie along.

---

This is definitely the most insane thing you've ever done but you stand as stable as you can, pretending to fix your hair in the mirrors while you keep flicking your eyes around to try and spot Delridge approaching around the corner when the bell rings once more.

You're starting to sweat. That familiar beige uniform and the darker wide brimmed hat coming into view as he stomps over. It looks much better on Hopper than it does on him you can't help but note.

"'Scuse me ma'am", he grunts to get your attention and you turn around carefully and smile as naturally as you can manage.

"Just need to know if you've seen a certain individual come by here. Male. Dark hair. Long. Leather jacket. Jeans. you see anyone like that around?"

He doesn't seem to recognize you thankfully although you're sure most people you knew would have some trouble trying to place you in this outfit.

"Not that I recall", you calmly supply the lie easily. "Doubt I'd run into him here though," you gesture towards all the tailored dresses on display. "Is he dangerous?"

The question prompts a tiny pinch at your ankle.

Delridge looks unimpressed, his eyes still searching. "Only to himself if keeps this up". The man mutters and you press your teeth into your lower lip to keep from reacting.

"I'm still going to need to have a look around", he heads towards the changing rooms before you can even begin to reply, leaving him out of earshot.

"Eddie, you're fucking tickling me", you whisper.

"Sorry", a muffled whisper rises out from under your billowing skirt, his hair still tickling your inner thighs despite how still he attempts to stay. He doesn't mean it, you can tell because you can hear his goony little smile and feel his hands as they start to slope over the curves of your calves, his lips following the same path.

You're ready to reprimand him again but Delridge begins to work your last nerve, roaming near and far around the store, impossible to predict from which corner he might pop up. So you stay silent, stretching on a tight smile while Eddie's hands begin to grow more daring.

It's almost torturous how his breath puffs up at your panties, pressing his nose up against it to breath you in, no doubt to make the most out of this unique opportunity he's been blessed with.

You stagger for a moment when he fills his palms with your ass cheeks and begins squeezing, his teeth also sinking in to them gently. You consider stomping him as a way to get him to behave while he's huddled down there but if you're being entirely honest, you don't hate it.

The risk only fans the flames.

There's nothing you can do to stop it when you feel him move your panties to the side, or so you tell yourself when his tongue easily glides through your wet slit to taste you.

Now? Now?? Right damn now???

You didn't expect anything less from him.

Your hands slip down the front of your dress, hoping to weave your fingers through his curls but all you can do is grab fistfuls of the creamy material and bunch it up in your hands.

He's even able to wedge himself sideways between your legs, flicking the tip of his tongue over and over and over against your clit before he can get close enough to wrap his lips around it and suck messily.

"Shit- fuck- little more to the left" you hush out, kicking him in the knee when you hear a laugh bubble up from under your dress because he knows he's got you in the palm of his hand no matter how you might try to reprimand him.

"Everything seems to be in order"

You nearly screech when Delridge walks back in looking more pissed than before, clearly upset that he wasn't able to cuff Eddie and throw him in the back seat.

He looks at you. Really looks at you this time and not around you like when he first came in.

You don't like it.

Even Eddie goes still, the only movement being his spit and your slick dragging down your leg.

"Nice girl like you shouldn't get mixed up with that type. You take care now", he tips his hat at you and you paste on another smile, remaining statue still until you hear the bell chime again to signal his departure.

Frantically pulling up the layers of your dress, you unearth Eddie. He quits crouching and lays strewn out on his back, still half covered by your skirt, your feet on either side of his hips while he makes no effort to get back up.

"I wasn't done", he pout, lips pink and glossy with you.

He's quite literally gotten your panties in a twist now as the gusset has been pulled inside out.

"I just saved your ass. Is that all you have to say to me?", you ask surly, appearing more stern than you actually feel.

"No. You're beautiful" he says, looking at you once more like he had when he first set eyes on you like this. Only now he's not scared to touch you the way you like. The only chips and cracks he'll ever inflict on you are the ones you will let him, the ones you yearn for in the name of pleasure. And you know he'll fill them back in all good as new anyway with all the unending affection he'll pour into you. It isn't a maybe. It's a certainty.

"And I'm trying to thank you", he winks back at you.

This wasn't how you wanted him to see the dress but in some way, you ought to have expected something like this to happen. Well, not exactly this but things rarely ever went according to plan with Eddie. But with that came so much excitement, you can't help but like the unpredictability of it all. Besides, he always came through in the end.

"You really like it?", you ask hopefully, swishing your skirt from side to side so he could see it move.

"Are you kidding? darlin' you're a knockout," he moves the hem of your dress out the way so you can clearly see the boner he's got waiting for you behind those jeans.

"How pissed do you think Nat will be if you give me a tour of the dressing room?"

"Eddie there's not going to be a piece of this left if I let you do that", you giggle.

"Oh come on. maybe a little rip or two. nothing she can't fix. I'll be good. I'll be careful, I promise."

You gulp, remembering her warning regarding stains.

It's a good that she's the forgiving type.

"Hmm...somewhat to moderately", you answer his question. "So far as we clean up right and I pay her extra."

With that he plunges his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of 50's secured with rubber bands of all colors.

"Done"

[nerdycheol]

All I Ask || J.W.W

🥀pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader

🥀genre: angst, unrequited feelings(?), lmk if I missed anything

🥀wc: 785

summary: you've been love with your friend Wonwoo for a long time, but what do you do when he comes to your door the night before his wedding

(a/n): reposting this cuz tumblr flagged my content for no reason :|

^^ dividers by @strangergraphics

You’re brushing your teeth when he knocks.

Not a text, not a call–a knock.

It’s nearly midnight, the night before his wedding, and the last person you expect to see when you open the door is Jeon Wonwoo. Hair slightly tousled. Tie undone. Eyes red-rimmed and tired.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s any other night.

You blink. “Wonwoo... what are you doing here?”

He shifts on his feet, glancing down the hall. “Can I come in?”

You step back before your brain catches up.

He walks in like muscle memory. Drops his keys on the little dish by the door, shrugs off his jacket, toeing off his dress shoes in the corner–like he’s done a hundred times before. But this time, everything is different. This time, he's getting married in less than twelve hours.

You stand frozen, toothbrush still in hand. “You know what time it is?”

He gives a half-laugh. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Wonwoo…”

“I just needed to see you,” he says quietly.

That shuts you up.

You return to the bathroom to rinse out your mouth and buy yourself thirty seconds of composure. When you come back, he’s seated on your couch, staring at the photo on your shelf–the two of you in college, mid-laugh, arms around each other, before either of you knew what heartbreak felt like.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.

You don’t disagree.

But you don’t ask him to leave either.

You pour two glasses of wine and sit beside him. Close, but not touching.

“I rehearsed vows today,” he says. “In front of her family. My family.”

You nod. You saw the photos on social media. He looked happy. Happy enough.

“She’s great,” you say.

“...she is.”

You take a sip of your wine.

The silence grows heavy, like a storm threatening to break.

Wonwoo shifts, facing you now. “Do you ever think about it?”

Your fingers still around the glass. “About what?”

“Us.”

Your breath catches.

You’ve buried that answer a thousand times. But tonight? Tonight, everything feels raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah,” you admit. “More than I should.”

He nods slowly, like he’s relieved you said it first. “I thought I could get over it. I thought... marrying someone else would make it easier.”

Your heart pounds.

“Did you love me?” you ask.

“I still do.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You whisper, “Then why her?”

He exhales, hands gripping his knees. “Because with her, it was easy. It was never complicated or scary. You and I… it always felt like a cliff I was too afraid to jump off.”

You try to laugh, but it sounds like a sob. “So you picked safety.”

He looks at you then, like it’s the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. “I picked someone I thought I could live with. But I keep thinking about the one person I might not be able to live without.”

Your chest tightens. It’s too late for this. It’s always been too late.

He swallows hard. “Just for tonight… can I stay?”

You should say no. You should throw him out and tell him to go back to the life he chose.

Instead, you say, “Okay.”

You leave the wine glasses on the coffee table.

When he follows you into the bedroom, you don’t ask questions. You lie down in silence. He hesitates at the edge of the bed–until you reach for his hand.

He exhales shakily and climbs in beside you.

There’s no kissing. No rush. Just the quiet slide of limbs under blankets, the slow exhale of breath when his arms wrap around your waist. The press of his chest against your back. The warmth you’ve had for years, though you never truly had it.

His voice is a whisper in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes.

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

You wake up alone.

The space beside you is still warm, but the sheets are undisturbed. There’s a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. The glasses–washed and set aside.

No note. No message. No goodbye.

Just the quiet hum of a city morning and the knowledge that, by the end of the day, he’ll belong to someone else.

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your hands like they’re foreign.

You gave him your heart years ago–he only borrowed it tonight.

The tears come slowly. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just quiet, inevitable drops that slide down your cheeks and into the collar of the hoodie you forgot you were wearing–his hoodie.

You don’t stop them. You don’t chase him.

You just let it happen. Like everything else.

Because he didn’t choose you.

And you didn’t stop him.

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[wendichester]

more jensen drabbles please omg

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ static between us,

summary. they say to never meet your idols but after today, you're certain the saying doesn't apply to jensen ackles.

pairing. jensen ackles x reader genre. fluff ! purely platonic

wordcount. 751

notes / warnings. jensen being an absolute southern charmer ugh

You don't mean to stare.

Well… okay, maybe you do. Just a little. But in your defense, Jensen freaking Ackles is standing twenty feet from you, leaning against the bar like some devil made flesh in denim and leather, nursing a whiskey with that damn grin like he’s unaware of the effect he has on the world.

The radio event had just ended — you’d scored a ticket last-minute, wrestled through a train delay, nearly sweat through your shirt from nerves. But it was worth it. His voice, all low and velvety and raspy from years of laughter and late nights, had filled the studio space like a warm storm. He was funnier than you expected. Gentler, too. Not that gruff grizzly exterior you’d braced for.

And now, here he is. Alone. No publicist, no barricade. Just Jensen, a half-drunk drink, and a very open spot beside him.

You hover. Close enough to smell the cologne but still far enough to bolt. Maybe he’s off-duty. Maybe he doesn't want to be bothered. You should go. Turn around, disappear into the crowd, and—

“Hey.”

His voice breaks through the static in your brain, crackling like an old record.

You blink up. Oh. Oh. He caught you.

He tilts his head slightly, expression easy but curious. “You good?”

“I—I didn’t mean to, uh…” Your voice shrinks to the size of a thimble. You force your limbs to unfreeze. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t wanna interrupt. Big fan. That’s all.”

Jensen softens instantly, like you just gave him a puppy to hold. “You’re not interrupting. Promise.” He gestures to the empty space beside him. “Come on. What’s your name?”

You tell him, and his grin widens. “Nice to meet you. I'm guessin' you were at the show?”

You nod, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “You were great. Really funny.”

“Aw, shucks,” he drawls, mock-sheepish, which should not make your knees weak, and yet here we are. “Thanks, darlin’. I was just wingin’ it most of the time.”

There’s a pause. But it’s a good one. Comfortable. Like the kind of silence that falls between people watching a fire flicker. You wonder if he feels it too, this soft quiet that buzzes beneath the chatter of the room.

He sips his drink. “So, tell me the truth. You were hangin’ back ‘cause you thought I’d be a dick if you came over?”

You let out a short, embarrassed laugh. “Honestly? Yeah.”

He barks a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ve got a real resting asshole face, I’ve been told.”

“Only a little bit,” you tease, before catching yourself. “I mean—uh—not in a bad way—”

He raises his brows. “Oh, no, you’re good. I like a little sass.”

You bite your lip, heart fluttering somewhere near your throat. It’s not flirting-flirting. Not real. Just playful. Kind. Harmless.

The bartender swings by and Jensen orders another drink, then glances at you. “You want something?”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You hesitate, then reach into your bag. “Would you mind…?”

He lights up when he sees the marker and the small photo you’d brought — an old shot of him from Supernatural days, slightly worn at the corners from living in your drawer for years.

“Hell yeah, I’ll sign it. Want me to make it out to you?”

You nod, and he writes your name in big, loopy letters, adding a little winky face below it. “There you go. Now you can sell it for millions someday when I grow a scandal.”

You laugh. “Never. This one’s staying with me.”

He gives you a wink. “Smart choice.”

You linger a moment longer, not wanting to push your luck, but Jensen doesn’t seem in a rush. You talk a little more — about the weather, your train delay, the weird lady who screamed “DEAN!” during the Q&A. He listens, really listens, and makes you feel like the only person in the room. It’s weirdly grounding. Like running into a lighthouse in a city full of noise.

Eventually, someone else drifts close, clearly waiting to talk to him, and you catch the cue.

“Well,” you say, already clutching the photo like it’s something sacred, “thank you. Seriously. For being so nice.”

He smiles, that warm Texas sun kind of smile. “Of course. Thanks for comin’. Take care of yourself, alright?”

You nod, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling. As you walk away, you hear him call after you:

“Hey!”

You turn.

“Cool bag.”

You beam. And maybe—maybe—you’ll never wash your ears again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[hoonvinx]

✶ THE HEAT BETWEEN US ── Sim Jayeun

High school’s over, and all you wanted was a peaceful girls' trip with your cousin. Just three days at the beach — no drama, no boys. Then her boyfriend shows up… and brings him. Cocky, hot, and totally off-limits. But some temptations don’t care about rules. Three days. One beach house. Zero self-control.

Warning!! ✶- light smut but nothing extreme. Clothed sex. Making out. Jake can be a bit of an ass.(I think that's about it!)

Mentions!! Jake-Enhypen, Manon-Katseye

Length-✶(Part 1)-wc:1100+

(Part 2)-tbd (May 16th)

(Part 3)-tbd(May 22nd)

NOTES!! This is my first storyy... Kind of rushed to be honest.. But I hope you guys enjoy it..! I'm still currently writing part 2 so stay tuned..!

The car windows were down, and the salty breeze tangled through your hair like it didn’t care you just brushed it. Somewhere in the backseat, your cousin, Manon, was screaming the lyrics to a summer playlist you both thrown together an hour before the drive. It was chaotic. Loud. Free.

And exactly what you needed.

High school was done — burned to the ground, no more fake smiles in hallways, no more holding your breath around people who didn’t actually know me. This summer was supposed to be your reset. A weekend escape before life got real.

“Three days,” you said out loud, to no one in particular. “Just us.”

No boys. No drama. No distractions.

You pulled into the beach house driveway, the sun already dipping low like it was sinking into the ocean just for you. And for a second, it felt perfect.

But that was before the second car pulled in right behind you guys.

Before her boyfriend stepped out, he stepped out.

He was the first to step out of the car. Tall. Tan. Shirt half-buttoned like he didn’t believe in rules — or maybe he just liked being looked at.

I tried not to. Really, I did

Your cousin Manon squealed. “Surprise!”

She ran into her boyfriend’s arms like it was a movie, and for a second, you was just… stuck. Watching.

Trying to make sense of the extra person now leaning against the car like he owned the beach.

“You didn’t say anything about this being a group trip,” You said under your breath, dragging your suitcase out of the trunk with a little more force than necessary.

“I forgot to mention it,” she said, eyes wide and innocent. “Don’t be mad. It’ll be fun!”

she’d planned this. Every second of it. And you were just the tagalong.

The guy — him — pushed off the car and walked over like he wasn’t walking straight into your life.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was low, like it belonged in late-night conversations and bad decisions.

“I’m Jayeun but you can call me Jake.”

He offered a smile — not the sweet kind, but the kind that knew exactly what it was doing.

I didn’t smile back. "Cool."

You both stood there, waves crashing in the distance, my cousin already disappearing inside with her boyfriend, leaving me alone with him.

Three days.

Just fucking 3 days.

You was so screwed.

You tell yourself not to stare — but of course you do.

Jake is just pure trouble. He doesn't just walk; he saunters, like he's used to being watched. And now he’s standing a little too close, his eyes scanning you in a way that makes your stomach flip and your walls go up.

“So,” he says, eyeing you with a lazy smirk, “you look thrilled to be here.”

You cross your arms. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

“Yeah? Neither was I,” he replies, leaning against the porch rail.

“Thought it was just gonna be him and his girl. Turns out I walked into a girls' getaway.”

You shoot him a look. “You could’ve stayed home.”

He shrugs. “Could’ve. Didn’t.”

Silence stretches for a second — not uncomfortable, but charged.

“You’re not big on surprises, huh?” he asks, watching you a little too closely.

“Not when they show up uninvited.” He laughs under his breath. “Good to know.”

You roll your eyes, grab your bag, and head inside. If he thinks he can charm his way through the weekend, he’s got the wrong girl.

Or at least… that’s what you tell yourself.

The evening drags on, the sun melting into the ocean like a postcard you’re too bitter to enjoy. Your cousin is all giggles and cuddles with her boyfriend, the two of them tangled together on a lounger like it’s their honeymoon. You’re left sipping a drink that’s too sweet and trying not to look at Jake, who’s lounging across from you like he owns the night.

He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You feel it every time you look away — that heavy, curious stare, like he’s trying to figure you out without asking questions. Like he already knows he’s getting under your skin.

You stand. “I’m going for a walk.”

Manon doesn’t even glance up. “Take a flashlight!”

You don’t. You want the dark.

The beach is quiet, the sand still warm under your feet. Waves roll in steady, like they don’t care about whatever mess is brewing back at the house. You wrap your arms around yourself, finally starting to breathe again.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“Didn’t know you were the sneaking-off-in-the-dark type,” Jake says, his voice low, teasing, like he already knows you won’t send him away.

You don’t stop walking. “Didn’t know you were the follow-girls-at-night type.”

“Only when they look like they need a little… company.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. He’s smirking — cocky, confident, shirt unbuttoned enough to make a point. The worst part? It’s working.

“Bold of you,” you say, facing the ocean again, trying to pretend you don’t feel the heat creeping up your neck. He steps closer, just enough for you to feel him behind you. “Is it?” His voice dips.

“You’ve been looking at me like you want to do something about it.”

You freeze.

He’s not wrong.

And he knows it.

So you don’t deny it. You just look at him — really look at him — and let the silence do the talking.

He laughs softly, like he likes the chase. “Damn. You’re dangerous.”

You raise a brow. “Then maybe you should keep your distance.”

He takes another step, toe to toe now. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The waves crash behind you. His eyes are on your lips.

And for one reckless second, you don’t care if it’s a bad idea.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The air between you hums — sharp, hot, reckless. Like both of you know this is a bad idea, but neither of you care enough to stop.

Then he leans in.

Not slow, not gentle — he grabs your waist and pulls you in like he’s done thinking and ready to feel. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and hunger, tasting like salt and adrenaline. It’s not soft. It’s messy, needy, like he’s been holding it back since the moment he saw you.

You kiss him back, hard.

Your fingers twist in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space between you, until it feels like he’s everywhere — hands on your hips, mouth bruising yours, breath warm and uneven against your cheek.

You break apart for air, barely, your forehead pressed to his.

He’s smiling. “Damn. You kiss like you’re trying to win.”

You smirk, breathless. “Maybe I am.”

He leans in again — slower this time, but no less intense.

And just like that, the line between right and wrong blurs under the moonlight.

Both you and Jake fall into the sand making out like animals, and before you know it you're on top of him and grinding against his bulge.

"Fuck keep doing that" Jake says through ragged breaths.

Then a bright light hits both of you guys.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"What the hell are you guys doing?!" Of course it is Manon.

PART 2 COMING MAY 16TH!!

[h1biscvst3at1m3]

this one isn't my usual stuff but i know like two mutuals who will get me🙂‍↕️. long post, more storytelling.

big brother who's always been more attuned to his family's religion than his little brother ever was. attending church, youth groups and running them himself, he spends a lot of his time thinking abt god and how to help those who have sinned.

meanwhile lil bro transitioned and skipped church days, spending his time in clubs and kissing men proudly as he's learned to be. he's tougher now, he's confident and touchy and rude.

lil bro finally came back home for a family dinner, where he learned abt his brother's ordaining as a priest. he didn't care, they weren't close in any way. but as lil bro goes outside the house to smoke and clear his head after a couple drinks, big bro comes outside to stand near him and chat.

they talk about what's been going on in their lives, how they've changed in the meantime. it's nice, until big bro says "you shouldn't be doing that." as he nods his head at the cig inbetween his lil bro's lips. "who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?" lil bro barks back, pissed.

"i'm your brother." was his big bro's response. in turn, lil bro scoffed and flicked it to the ground before crushing it under his boot. "you happy? you want more from me?", he continued his ranting before his brother could cut him off. "i bet you want me on my knees to repent, huh?"

the suggestion had big bro confused. morally, he should have dismissed the accusation and let his brother make his own decisions. he needed to help him find god within himself, not by his own force. but that devil's tongue sung whispered songs as his own silence was interpreted by his brother.

he watched his own little brother getting on his knees before him. lil bro laughs at his brother's perplexed face as he taps his thigh to try and snap him out of it. "you need to get fucking used to this if you're going to bless people, babe."

he was only able to react to his brother pulling the zipper of his pants down with a hushed groan, stepping slightly away in the tension. lil bro smirked at the attempt of signalling disappointment as he palmed his big bro's cock through the layers. the damn priest's cock with his own hand.

lil bro didn't expect to be shoved up against the brick wall in the cold by his perfect big brother, cock shifted out and pushed into his open mouth. "you do need to repent," he hissed out in a cruel tone "..i'll need to give you a taste of the holy spirit, you poor boy."

he groaned in disbelief and arousal, hand frantically filtering under his own pants to find his tdick and jerk off. maybe, just maybe, he did find the appeal in religion after all.

[ellewritesx]

breach of contract

(part six of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: You give him silence. He gives you the truth.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, lots of feels, that's it really

A/N: hi lovelies! a lot of you had a lot of different opinions on how this part should go. i wrote it in a way that feels natural to harry and y/n, and to me as the author. i hope you guys love it as much as i do!!! a song that really helped me while writing is ''back to december (taylor's version)'' by taylor swift which captures this part perfectly imo, definitely recommend listening to it as you read this x

Word Count: 3,531

...

The gallery is bathed in a soft light, the kind that glazes over skin and oil paint alike, smearing everything in gold. The room is warm with conversation, the low chatter of art lovers sipping cheap wine and throwing around words like ''contrast'' and ''intent''.

You stand somewhere near the center, smiling softly for the camera, one arm thrown around your friend's shoulder as she beams proudly in front of the exhibit wall.

You're in one of the photos. Well, you are the photo. Printed large, mounted on white canvas, your silhouette lit with honeyed shadows and smoke. You helped out with the shoot weeks ago, before everything fell apart. Before Harry stopped asking you to come over. Before you stopped waiting for him to ask.

Your friend had begged to take your photo when one of her models canceled last-minute. Something about an accident on the highway causing ''an impossible traffic jam, Y/N''. Despite your initial reluctance, you agreed. It was mortifying, being in front of the camera. You had felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment when you recalled the events to Harry later that same night.

He'd said he would come. Said it so casually, in passing, fingers brushing your hip absentmindedly in bed. You didn't really believe him then, and you definitely don't now.

You wear something new tonight. Bought with your own money. A slip dress in a color that makes your skin glow and your eyes sharper than usual. You didn't put on much makeup, didn't fuss with your hair, prioritizing your own comfort. It'll be a long night, after all.

You don't see him at first.

But he sees you.

Harry walks in through the side entrance, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark wool coat. His hair is pushed back haphazardly, his jaw unshaven, like he hasn't really slept in a few days. He hasn't. Not properly, not since you walked out. The air in the gallery is cooler than he expected, but the moment he sees you there, speaking animately to a cluster of strangers, lit softly by gallery lights like the portrait of you on the wall, his skin heats from the inside.

He had worried he would never see your face again. He was sure you wouldn't hear him out if he asked, and he wouldn't know what to say to you even if you did. But then he remembered you mentioning it, offhandedly, weeks ago. Laying in his bed, bare-legged and sleepy, lips sticky from wine and your marshmellow lip balm. You had laughed bashfully, said something like, "She's showing her exhibition next month. I think she's using one of the shots I'm in. Can you believe it, Harry? Me? Hanging in an art gallery?"

He'd told you he would come. He wasn't sure if he would. Hadn't cared at the time. Or pretended not to.

But now he's here.

And there you are. Fucking radiant.

You're laughing, head tipped back, a glass of wine dangling from your fingers. There's a group of people around you, friends of your friend, probably. One of the guys leans in a bit too close when he talks, not quite flirting, but not just being friendly either.

Harry doesn't blink. Just watches.

Jealousy washes over his body like a current, but he doesn't move. Doesn't stomp over and drag you by the wrist like that night at the bar. He stays near the back, one hand clenched around a drink that's too weak for he's liking. He's not even sure how he got here. It's like he's been sleepwalking for weeks, just going through the motions, only snapping out of it when he saw you just now.

He doesn't belong here. Not in this state, wrinkled blouse, hair curled messily over his ears, a tiredness under his eyes that's deeper than just insomnia. It's regret. Resignation. But he's not leaving either.

And then you feel it.

That prickle at the base of your neck. The weight of his gaze.

You don't turn immediately, don't give in to the urge to search the room for that presence, looming in a dark corner like a storm cloud. But something in you stills. Anchors. When you finally glance over your shoulder, when your eyes land on the tall figure standing at the far edge of the gallery, spine straight against a wall, you know.

He came.

His eyes meet yours across the room. He doesn't look away.

Your stomach drops.

He looks out of place, like he didn't mean to be here but couldn't stay away. Dark trousers, open collar, silver rings glinting as he tugs his hand through his hair. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. Like he's been unraveling by the hour.

His jaw is set. You know that look. That rigid line of his jaw, clenched so tightly it could shatter teeth. You've seen it in bars and on planes, in arguments that left you breathless and silent treatments that lasted days. It's his tell, his dead giveaway. That he's spiraling. That he's seconds from doing something he'll regret.

And yet tonight, he stays rooted. One hand loose at his side, the other clutching his drink. Breathing through it. Usually he would have stalked over immediately, pulled you by the wrist, caused a scene. But he's not approaching, and that's the strangest part.

Harry Styles doesn't do restraint. Or at least, he didn't. Especially not when it came to you, when it came to his belongings. Every emotion he felt was something he let devour him, let spill onto you like a heavy rainfall: jealousy, fury, lust.

But now, standing across the gallery floor, you see the restraint in every inch of his body. The way he doesn't interrupt. Doesn't insert himself. Doesn't act like he owns you. And that quiet refusal to unravel says more than any apology ever could.

You're not sure why it matters so much, this one, subtle thing. The way he just stands there and watches. The way he lets you laugh and drink and exist without immediately laying claim. But it does matter. It matters because for once, you don't feel like a possession being policed. You feel like a person. Like someone he sees as separate from him. And God, that shouldn't feel revolutionary… but it does.

Your heart kicks up, but you don't let it show. Instead, you lift your chin and hold your ground as you approach him, deliberately, taking your time. And you're surprised he lets you. Doesn't try to assert dominance by beating you to it. Doesn't move to meet you halfway. For once, he just... watches you come to him on your own terms.

''Didn't think you'd come,'' you say, voice light.

His eyes flick toward the man not far behind you, the one who's already engaged in another conversation but keeps shooting you discreet glances, checking you out. He doesn't comment on it.

''You look good,'' he says instead, eyeing you up and down. His face is indifferent, but his voice is soft, vulnerable. You wouldn't have been able to tell if you didn't know him as well as you do.

You nod once. ''Thanks. I bought the dress myself.''

The words land like a knife. A silence stretches between you, taut and sparkling with tension. You don't offer him comfort. He doesn't reach for you. It's the first time you feel like you're equals.

''Well, it looks beautiful on you. You're beautiful,'' he tells you sincerely, offering you a small nod.

You quirk a brow in suspicion and meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. "Why are you really here, Harry?"

He swallows, hesitating. You don't say ''You weren't supposed to come''. Because he knows that. You don't say ''I didn't want to see you''. Because it would be a lie.

He says nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, "I said I'd come."

You stare at him. ''That was before.''

He nods. ''Still meant it.''

You don't know what to say to that. You blink.

Your mouth opens, then closes. He watches you carefully, as if memorizing your reaction. You can tell he wants to say more, it's clear in the way his lips part, the way his hands fidget subtly at his sides, but he stops himself. You notice it.

You glance back at your friends, who are entertaining a group of visitors that has just arrived while sending you looks that scream ''help!''. You're the one who's supposed to be showing people around the gallery, a task you didn't sign up for, but surprisingly haven't minded doing as much as you thought you would.

''They're waiting for me,'' you say quietly.

''I can wait too.''

That makes you pause.

Harry Styles. Waiting. He's been doing a lot of that today. Waiting for you to come to him, for you to speak. Let's see how long he's willing to wait before he loses his patience.

You nod slowly. ''Okay. Then wait.''

You walk away.

...

Harry doesn't know what he expected, showing up like this. All he knows is that when he opened that last box and saw the necklace, the one he'd put so much thought into, just imagining about how it would rest beneath your collarbone, something cracked. And the silence since then has been loud in a way money can't fix.

You had sent everything back. And yet, he still smells you in his apartment. Still hears your soft laughter in the way the air feels at night. Still wakes up reaching for something that isn't there.

He hadn't planned on coming. Not really. But his car pulled up to the gallery anyway, and he was already halfway through the doors before he realized what he was doing. Something about that damn necklace. The cold finality of it. The way it curled around itself in the box like it understood the weight of the gesture.

And now he's here. And he can't stop looking at you.

You're alive in a way he hasn't seen in days. Weeks, maybe. Your lips shine under the gallery lights, and your dress fits you like a glove, accentuating all your features.

Every second you don't look at him slices clean through the center of his chest.

He tells himself this is fine. You're allowed to live your own life. To have your own space. That's what he's supposed to do, right? Give you space? That's what a better man would do. And after that night, after the way he had let himself take out his anger on you, then discarded you like he couldn't even stand to be around you, he knows he doesn't get to decide anything anymore.

Still, his hands curl into fists every time someone leans in too close to whisper something in your ear.

Especially the guy in the grey blazer, who's had his hand on your waist for a beat too long. Harry swears the floor tilts beneath him.

He wants you to know he's here. Wants you to feel his presence, even if you won't touch him.

He wouldn't blame you if this was what you wanted. If that dress, that laugh, that softness you're wrapping the room in isn't meant for him anymore. Because maybe he really did ruin it. Maybe all the years of being wanted for what he could give, not who he was, have made it impossible for him to understand when someone chooses to stay. Maybe he wouldn't believe you ever would.

But he can't stop thinking about the way you curled into his side after he fucked you. The way your fingertips would brush his wrist when you were trying to say something you weren't sure he was ready to hear. The way you always bite the inside of your cheek when you try to stifle a giggle at one of his dumb jokes.

He can't stop thinking about that night in Paris. Not about the sex. Not about the view. Just the way you both stayed up talking long after the room went quiet, wine glasses half-full on the nightstand, your eyes sparkling in the dim light when you told him he wasn't as unreadable as he liked to think. That you saw through him. And that maybe that didn't have to be such a bad thing.

That was the moment he started to lose.

No, started to fall.

He doesn't want to admit it, not even now. He's not sure he's ready. But he's never been able to forget it.

And that necklace? He doesn't want it in a box. He wants it where it belongs, around your neck, where everybody can see it. Not to claim you. But to remind himself that not everything has to be bought to be cherished. That you chose him.

You glance in his direction, your eyes meeting across the room. You've been waiting. Not out of cruelty or revenge. Well, revenge is definitely a bonus. But mainly because you want to know what he'll do if you don't come running to him for once.

The look in your eyes does something to him. Because when you finally look at him, it's not cold. It's not kind, either. It's something in between. Something that tells him you're still deciding.

He straightens.

Because if you're still deciding… he still has a chance.

He takes a step forward. Your facial expression doesn't change. You don't stop him, but you don't turn toward him either.

So he waits. Just one more second. One more breath. If you want him to come to you, you'll make it clear. And if not… he'll stay here. He'll wait all night.

But if you give him the signal, any signal, he'll cross the fucking floor like he's reaching for salvation. He's not sure when it happened, but somewhere between the first payment and the last goodbye, he stopped wanting to own you.

And started wanting to deserve you.

You nod.

A small, almost imperceptible movement, but he catches it like a bullet to the chest. That tiny gesture is all the permission he's been holding out for. His limbs uncoil, and he moves, slow, cautious, like you're a flame he's afraid to smother. Or be burned by.

You excuse yourself from your group, ignoring the teasing grin your friend throws over her shoulder. Your heels click softly against the gallery's marble floors, the sound steady despite the unstable pounding in your chest. You don't wait to see if he follows.

You already know he will.

The elevator ride is silent. You press the button for the rooftop, never turning to look at him. You can feel his presence like a pull on your skin, taut and tense, straining between want and hesitance. The metal doors close and it's just you two now, caught in that strange in-between where anything could happen and nothing might.

When the doors slide open, you're the first to step out into the cool air. The rooftop is empty, just like you hoped. Everyone else is still inside, drinking, mingling, discussing art. The afterparty isn't for a few hours, so it's quiet here, the hum of the bustling city below you like a soft lullaby. String lights cast a faint golden glow overhead, softening the edges of everything.

But not him.

He's all sharp lines and shadows when he steps up beside you. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, jaw clenched, curls ruffled from the wind and repeatedly running his hand through them.

You stand with your arms crossed over your chest, pretending to admire the skyline while your pulse thunders under your skin. He lingers a few feet behind, just close enough for you to feel him. The heat of his body. The heaviness of his stare.

You can tell he's working something out in his head, because he's quiet, but you don't speak right away. Let the silence stretch, let it test him. Because the last time he opened his mouth, you walked out of his apartment with shaking hands and mascara-stained cheeks.

He breaks first.

''I didn't know if I'd ever see you again.''

You inhale slowly. ''And yet you came.''

His eyes flicker to yours. ''Said I would.''

''You said a lot of things, Harry.''

You hear the shift in his breath, a sharp inhale like he's bracing himself. ''You're angry.''

''No,'' you say. ''I'm tired.''

The words hit heavier than they should. He takes a tentative step closer, like he's afraid of startling you over the edge. ''Look, I didn't come here to fight—''

''Then why are you here?” You face him fully now, arms still folded as if to shield yourself from the upcoming conflict. ''Because if you're looking for a reason to punish me again, I'm fresh out.''

He flinches. ''I'm not. I'm not... Fuck. That night, I wasn't trying to—''

''You were angry,'' you cut in. ''And I was convenient. That's the whole point of the arrangement, isn't it?''

''No. It's not.'' His voice sharpens. ''It wasn't supposed to go like this.''

''But it did.''

He looks at you then, and you know he sees it, the shift in you. How this version of you doesn't cry, doesn't beg. You're not trying to change his mind or shrink yourself down just to fit into whatever space he was willing to make for you.

He runs a hand through his hair. ''You think I don't know I fucked up? That night... I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at myself. For letting it get that far. For wanting more. I lashed out. Because that's what I do, isn't it? I ruin things before they can ruin me.''

You look at him then, really look at him. And what you see isn't the controlled, calculated man who drew up contracts and handed you credit cards like they were shackles physically bounding you to him.

What you see is a man who's unraveling in front of you, who's scared, who's hurting, who doesn't know how to ask to be loved without bleeding out.

''You didn't just ruin things,'' you say softly. ''You ruined me, Harry.''

He looks like he might fall apart.

Your voice is steadier than you feel when you continue. ''I spent weeks wondering what I did wrong. What I could've said, or done, to make you want to keep me around. When I didn't hear from you after that night, I told myself that was it. That I needed to be strong. That if this was going to end, I'd end it with dignity.''

That shuts him up.

For a moment, all you can hear is the faint thump of music through the floor, the whistle of the wind around the rooftop. You glance over and find him staring at you like he's never seen you before. Or maybe like he's finally seeing you clearly.

''I got the boxes,'' he says suddenly.

Your stomach tightens. You look away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the concrete beneath your feet. ''Good.''

Something cracks in his chest then. You see it, the way his jaw clenches, how he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek like he's trying not to say something stupid.

''You returned everything,'' he says softly. ''Your dresses. Your perfume. That fucking necklace.''

Your fingers instinctively curl around the necklace you're wearing now. It doesn't mean nearly as much to you as that fucking daisy does. You miss it. The comfort of it, the reminder of Harry.

''You returned everything but the memories.''

You blink. ''What?''

''I've been going insane, Y/N,'' he chokes out, tugging on his hair in frustration. No, desperation. ''I've been moving through my apartment like a fucking zombie. I can't walk into my kitchen without seeing your coffee mug. I can't open my closet without thinking of you in my hoodie. You're not there, but it's like you never left.''

You watch him struggle. Watch him grip the railing before him like it's the only thing holding him upright, before continuing.

''Everything still smells like you. Your shampoo's in the shower. I find your hair ties everywhere. I can't throw out that fucking flower. And those boxes... Those boxes gutted me. Because you didn't just return my money. You returned everything that connected us. Every single thing I used to not lose the privilege of calling you mine.''

You swallow thickly, caught between wanting to scream and wanting to kiss him. ''It was in the contract,'' you say evenly.

''To hell with the contract,'' he spits, voice cracking. ''I'm fucking in love with you.''

The rooftop goes still.

Your heart slams into your ribs like it's trying to claw out of your chest. His eyes widen, terrified of what he just admitted, but there's a strange sense of relief in his expression too, like he just came up for a deep breath after nearly drowning.

You stare at him, lips parted, frozen in place. You don't move. Don't blink. The words hang between you like a match, suspended and burning. Harry stares at you, chest rising and falling heavily, like confessing the truth is the hardest thing he's ever done.

And maybe it is.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet @caynonmoondreams @matildasatellite @ilovezaynmalik08 @looney-goose @call1800coochie @nostalgiainmybones @billweasleyswife @hailiex @lichi-dunkera @tchlamqtsgf @kiszkas-canvas

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices

...

[kier-with-a-k]

BACK TO FRIENDS - C. S.

A/N: second fic! This one was such a fun time to write!

Warning: angst, falling apart

---

— Y/N’s POV —

“Kicking off the covers I see the ceiling while you're looking down at me.”

I’m laying in bed. Empty? Sad? Confused?

No... just blank—like the ceiling above me.

My head turns slightly to the side. There he is. Christopher Sturniolo. My best friend since high school.

He’s standing at the edge of the bed, tugging his jeans up, fingers fumbling with the button.

His brown curls fall messily over his forehead, sticking in places—probably from sleep. He looks like he just woke up too...

But there’s something rushed about the way he's moving.

“Are you leaving already?” I ask, voice low. Not sad. Not surprised. Just... flat.

“Uhmm... yeah,” he replies. The same tone. Flat.

He didn’t think I was awake.

Didn’t expect me to catch him in the act of slipping out.

I push myself up on one elbow, taking a long, steady look at him.

“Do you wanna at least grab some food?”

He doesn’t turn around. Just shakes his head. His hand slips his keys into his pocket, shirt still hanging loosely from his fingers.

And that’s when I see it.

The birthmark.

Lower back. Small, brown. A random shape that means nothing. Still, it feels familiar. Nostalgic. Important.

He showed it to me once, years ago. We were kids then.

---

— Back in High School —

My arms were covered in bruises.

Home wasn’t kind to me. Not like his was.

So I was walking with him.

To his house. Not mine.

We came in laughing at some dumb joke he made. Shoes kicked off without a second thought. The place was quiet—Nick and Matt were out. It was just us.

Chris dashed to his room to “clean up.” When I walked in, it still looked messy... but I guess it passed his standards.

I sat at the edge of his bed. Trevor—his dog—trotted in, nose high like he owned the place. He pressed his cold, wet snout against my leg.

Trevor had always been sweet.

But it wasn’t just him. Chris too.

“You know you can always stay here, right?” he said, flopping down beside me. “My mom adores you.”

“I know,” I replied, eyes on the floor. “I just don’t wanna be a burden.”

“You’re not. Ever.”

He paused. “Besides, I need someone to suffer through that movie I was talking about.”

I smirked. “Which one? Sorry—I wasn’t listening.”

He gasped like I’d just betrayed him.

“Y/N! Wounded. Deeply. Here I was thinking you appreciated my cinematic genius.”

Hand to his chest like he was auditioning for a Shakespeare play.

We burst into laughter. That kind that only really comes when you feel safe.

He gently took my arm, turning it to examine the bruises.

“Is this... okay?” he asked, voice a little tight.

“Yeah,” I answered quietly.

He went silent for a beat, then smiled.

“Y’know, I’ve got a birthmark that looks exactly like this.”

I nearly laughed. “What?”

He grinned, spun around, and lifted his shirt.

And there it was. The little brown mark on his lower back.

It didn’t look like anything at all. But for some reason, it stuck with me.

---

— Present Day —

"How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed"

---

And now, years later, I’m staring at that same birthmark.

He still hasn’t turned around.

Still hasn’t said anything more.

I watch him in silence, wondering if he remembers the night he showed it to me.

Or if that version of him—the one who made me laugh, who made me feel safe—disappeared sometime along the way.

Maybe I disappeared too.

I watch him as he puts on his shirt loosely. The fabric hugging his physique- not tightly, loosely but still keeping his frame.

He turned to me his expression blank but there's hints of affection.

"How can you look at me and pretend, I'm someone you've never met"

"I'm heading out... See you later" he said blankly but I also hear restraint, like he wanna say something but can't spit it out.

While I was thinking about how he said those words, he walks out.

"Wai-" I was cut off by the door shutting.

Now I'm here- alone. Laying in bed asking what happened? When did it start? Before I can spiral further my phone buzzed and lit up.

I ignore it.

My phone buzzed again. The screen glowed with his name.

Chris: “Made it home. Thanks for letting me crash.”

Crash.

Like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t been years in the making.

I stare at the text, rereading it once. Twice.

The way he phrased it—detached, almost clinical. He didn’t even mention what happened. Just brushed past it, like it was a favor, like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

To me, at least.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say something.

Ask him if we’re okay. Ask if he’s okay.

Ask if we just ruined everything.

But instead I lock my phone, letting it fall face-down on the mattress beside me.

The ceiling stares back again, white and indifferent.

I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was that movie night sophomore year when he let me cry without asking questions. Maybe it was the way he always smelled like citrus and sleep. Or maybe it was that night months ago—just a look, just a second too long—that set everything on fire.

But last night...

Last night changed it.

And now he’s gone.

And we’re pretending nothing happened.

I close my eyes, letting the silence fill the room.

I want to go back.

Back to when things were simple. Back when late-night talks didn’t lead to mornings like this. Back when being in his bed meant safety, not confusion.

But we can't go back.

Not really.

Not when you've seen someone differently.

Not when you've felt it.

I wonder if that’s what he meant to say when he hesitated.

Maybe he wanted to tell me it wasn’t supposed to happen.

Maybe he wanted to ask if we could just go back to friends.

But he didn’t.

And neither did I.

So here we are.

Stuck in the space between what was and what we can’t undo.

---

— Chris’s POV —

I shut the door too fast.

Didn’t mean to.

Her voice barely got out before it clicked shut behind me.

“Wai—”

God. I heard it.

I felt it.

But I couldn’t stop.

If I stopped, I’d go back. And if I went back... I wouldn’t leave at all.

The cold air outside hits me like a slap. Not enough to snap me out of it though.

Nothing could.

___

"You were laying on my chest, didn't wanna take a breath, didn't want you to move your head"

---

Not after waking up beside her.

Not after seeing the way her shoulder curled into the sheets, like she still trusted me.

Not after the silence that followed.

I drive home in a daze, headlights smearing through my windshield like ghosts.

I don’t even remember walking through the door.

And now, I’m standing in my room, phone in hand. Watching the words I sent sit there like nothing. Like last night didn’t happen.

“Made it home. Thanks for letting me crash.”

Crash.

It’s such a shitty word.

But anything else would’ve said too much.

I wanted to write:

“Do you regret it?”

“Are we still okay?”

“Did that mean something to you too?”

But instead, I buried it.

Just like I’ve buried every almost-moment between us.

Because we weren’t supposed to happen.

We were supposed to be safe.

She was always my safest person.

And now I don’t know if I ruined that.

My thumb hovers, waiting for those three dots to appear.

Nothing.

I check again.

Still nothing.

I let the phone fall onto the bed, rubbing my hands down my face, trying to erase the feeling of her skin still on mine.

The sound of her laugh in my memory.

The look she gave me that night before it all happened.

Maybe we weren’t ever just friends.

Maybe we just kept pretending because the truth was too complicated.

And now I don’t know what we are.

I don’t know what I want us to be.

But I know this:

I miss her.

And I don’t think we can go back.

Not really.

---

A/N: AHHH I hope y'all enjoy it!!! Another angst fic? Lmao I'm doing nick soon TRUST!!!

I just wanna say thank you so much for the support?! Like my first fic having 100+ likes?!?! Like a HUNDRED people saw it and LIKED it?! Oh who is you?

Taglist: @sturnsblogs @oopsiedaisydeer @thenickgirl @nickssidewitch @bambisturns @sturns-mermaid @sarahsturnn

Deviders by the @bernardsbendystraws

[f1girliefics]

Like a River Flows

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Summary: Carlos Sainz has always been cautious with his heart, and you never expected love from someone so composed and guarded.

You don’t remember the moment you fell for him. 

Maybe it wasn’t a moment at all, maybe it was something that happened gradually, like sand slipping through fingers, slow and silent.

Carlos had always been steady. 

He didn’t flirt like Lando, or charm like Charles. 

He watched. He waited. He listened.

You met through the team, by accident more than design. 

A shared conversation by the espresso machine in the paddock. Then a shared ride to the track. 

Then late-night calls that started about race logistics and turned into talk about family, about pressure, about loneliness.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. And you were almost sure he hadn’t meant to fall for you either.

But still, here you were, on the deck of his yacht, anchored somewhere just outside Mallorca. 

The night was quiet except for the gentle hush of water against the hull and the stars stretched wide above you like a silk sky dusted with salt.

Carlos sits beside you, bare feet brushing yours beneath the table, sipping from a glass of wine he hasn’t touched in fifteen minutes.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you say softly.

His eyes find yours in the darkness. There’s something heavy behind them. 

“I’m always quiet,” he replies, lips twitching into that half-smile you’ve grown to love.

“No,” you say, resting your cheek on your hand. “You’re thoughtful. Not quiet. But this feels different.”

He looks out over the sea, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

“I’ve been trying to tell you something. But I haven’t found the right time.”

Your heart flutters.

“Well, it’s just us now,” you say gently. “If it’s something I should know…”

He turns back to you, and something in his face cracks open. 

He reaches for your hand across the table, and when his fingers find yours, they’re warm.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs. “Not like the others. I don’t say what I feel easily.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“But I look at you,” he says, voice rough, “and I see something I never expected. Something calm. Safe. And I tried to stop it. I tried not to fall.”

Your breath catches.

“But I couldn’t. Like a river flows surely to the sea…”

The words settle in the space between you like soft candlelight.

“I’m falling in love with you,” he says. “And I don’t want to stop.”

Your lips part, your chest blooming with a quiet ache. You stand, walk around to him, and lower yourself onto his lap, your arms slipping around his neck.

“You don’t have to stop,” you murmur into his ear. “I’m already there too.”

He lets out a breath and his hands press to your back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You sit there in silence, wrapped around each other, heartbeats syncing, the world growing small.

Maybe love isn’t loud. 

Maybe it doesn’t have to crash or burn or break. 

Maybe it’s just a man who tries to hold it in, and a woman who never asked for more than the truth.

And maybe that truth is,

Some things are just meant to be.

[alistorz]

FRAGMENT OF US

(Aespa x Male Reader Fanfiction)

Chapter 3 - Beneath The Surface

20841 words

~“Some days don’t hurt loudly—they just weigh more.”~ ---------------------------------------------------

The conference room was stark and sterile, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The only sound was the clicking of pens and the rustling of papers as the panel of interviewers sat around the polished glass table, flipping through resume after resume. Most of the faces were familiar to each other — higher-ups in the company who had done this countless times before.

The head of the panel, a middle-aged man with a short-cropped beard, adjusted his glasses as he read through one particular resume.

"Another one with zero experience," he muttered, his tone flat and unimpressed.

"Not even a manager position anywhere," another voice piped up, a young woman in her early thirties, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "These candidates are all the same. They all have a little internship here, a bit of event coordination there. But... nothing special."

"I know, right?" The middle-aged man sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Honestly, I don’t even know why we’re still interviewing these guys. They all blend together. No one stands out."

"Except for one." The young woman looked up, a slight frown forming on her face. She slid a single resume from the pile, setting it down with a soft thud in front of the head of the panel.

The others exchanged curious glances as the middle-aged man picked up the resume she’d pointed to. He scanned it quickly.

"This one?" He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure about this? He seems... different, but I'm not sure how."

"He’s the one who answered the questions differently," the young woman replied, her voice almost a little hesitant. "He was more thoughtful. Took the time to think things through before responding. And his demeanor... it's like he understands the expectations here — a little more than the rest, I think."

"His background isn't impressive, though," another interviewer commented, flipping through his resume. "Not a lot to go on. It’s mostly... just school work."

The head of the panel grunted in agreement. "But maybe that’s what we need, isn’t it? Someone who hasn’t had too much experience, but can follow instructions and pick things up quickly."

"He’s obedient, at least," the young woman added, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. "He listens, doesn't rush to interrupt, and seems willing to learn. That’s something we haven’t seen much of with the others."

The panel paused for a moment, all eyes on the resume in the middle of the table. The silence stretched on for a few seconds as the others thought it over.

Finally, the head of the panel shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Alright. He’s not perfect, but let’s move forward with him. We can train him. Maybe he’s not the flashy type, but sometimes that’s a good thing. His simplicity might just work for this department."

The others nodded in agreement, one or two reluctant, but they all knew the decision was final.

"Let’s see how he does," the middle-aged man said, settling back into his chair and placing the resume back on the pile. "He's starting soon, right?"

"Yeah, he's starting soon," the young woman replied, gathering up the remaining resumes. "I’ll let the others know."

—----------------------------------------

The morning air was brisk, heavy with the lingering chill of dawn. Y/N stood in front of the towering glass building, the familiar tightness pulling in his chest. In his right hand, slightly crumpled from nervous fingers, was a piece of paper — a printed screenshot of an email. The ink was starting to smudge near the edges, but the important part remained: his name and the simple words welcoming him to the Managerial Department of SM Entertainment.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath mist up in front of him. His old phone, battered and waterlogged from the accident days ago, was now little more than a dead weight in his pocket. It didn't matter — he had gotten used to living without it. Today was more important.

Adjusting the strap of his worn-out bag, he moved forward, the automatic doors sliding open with a muted hiss.

The lobby inside was sleek and almost intimidatingly modern. Bright lighting reflected off spotless marble floors. Employees in pressed shirts and polished shoes moved swiftly from place to place, speaking in hushed tones or typing away on their devices. No one spared him a second glance. No one slowed down.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly by the entrance, before spotting the reception desk stationed neatly at the center. Taking a deep breath, he made his way over.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a little too soft. "I'm... uh, Y/N. Today’s my first day in the Managerial Department."

The receptionist barely looked up from her monitor. "Name?" she asked briskly.

He repeated it, holding out the printout in case she needed proof. With a few quick taps on her keyboard, she nodded without a smile and picked up the receiver of the desk phone.

"Please wait," she said flatly, before dialing an internal line.

Y/N stepped aside, feeling even more out of place as people flowed around him like he was invisible. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. 

It's fine. Just stay calm. You’ve made it this far.

The women on the counter  spoke briefly before hanging up. "Please wait for a moment, someone will be right with you."

Y/N nodded and stood quietly by the counter, feeling the weight of the silence settle around him. A few minutes passed, and a staff member walked over with a welcoming smile.

"Y/N, right? I’ll be taking you to the head of the department," the staff member said. "Follow me."

Y/N followed the woman through the modern, pristine hallways, each step echoing as they passed glass-walled offices and busy employees typing away at their desks. Everything was sleek, professional, yet almost too pristine, making Y/N feel out of place in his slightly worn-out shoes and the crumpled phone in his pocket.

They arrived at a large, corner office with a view of the city, and the woman knocked lightly on the door. "Ms. Seo, your new manager is here."

The staff opened the door carefully, then stepped aside. Inside, a woman in her early forties sat behind a sleek desk, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. Her sharp eyes lifted from the document in front of her, and though she radiated authority, there was no trace of warmth in her gaze.

"Y/N, is it?" Ms. Seo asked, not even standing up from her chair. "Come in. Please sit down and we will get things settled quickly."

The soft click of the office door shutting behind him echoed louder than expected. Y/N stood still for a moment, hands at his sides, as he took in the sleek, minimalist interior of the room. The windows were half-shaded, and the desk at the center was pristine, barely cluttered except for a few neatly arranged folders and a glowing monitor. Behind it sat a woman in her early forties, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed in a dark blouse and muted gray slacks.

“Sit down, Mr. Y/N. I don’t need another statue standing around my office,” she said flatly, eyes not leaving her screen.

Y/N got out of his little distraction and obeyed, settling into the chair across from her. The leather was stiff beneath him. His heart thumped in his chest like it didn’t know how to keep pace with his breath.

The woman finally looked up, clasping her hands together on the desk. “I’m Director Seo Ji-eun. Head of Artist Management and Planning.” Her voice was clipped, efficient. “Congratulations, you’ve been selected.”

It didn’t sound like a celebration. Just a statement of fact.

“Thank you,” Y/N replied, forcing his voice steady.

Director Seo didn’t waste a second. “Do you know why you were chosen?”

Y/N blinked. His lips parted, but no words came out. Slowly, he shook his head.

She gave a short exhale through her nose. “Because the rest were all the same.”

She opened a folder and tapped on the stack of printed résumés inside. “Same answers. Same tone. Same desperation to name-drop artists or claim they’re ‘passionate about K-pop.’ But no real understanding of what this job entails. Most of them just wanted a chance to get close to idols.” Her gaze flicked back up to him. “That’s not what we need.”

Y/N stayed quiet, absorbing every word like a cold wind to the face.

“You… were different,” she continued. “Unrefined. Clearly inexperienced. But calm. Attentive. And you didn’t pretend to know what you didn’t. You listened. That might be useful — if it holds.”

Y/N nodded slowly, unsure if that was meant to be praise or a warning.

Director Seo moved on quickly. She reached for a document and slid it across the desk. “Here’s your initial compensation for the probation period. Standard for new managerial trainees.”

Y/N leaned forward, eyes scanning the numbers. His brows knit almost instantly. It wasn’t awful… but it wasn’t great either.

As the total began looping in his head, he started mentally breaking it down: living expenses, travel costs, and — more urgently — his father's surgery. A knot formed in his gut.

“You don’t like the number?” Director Seo asked suddenly, her tone unreadable.

Y/N jerked slightly, startled out of his math spiral. “Ah, no. It’s fine,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t expecting anything, to be honest.”

He lowered his eyes and mentally scolded himself. Not now. Focus. It’s something. It’s a start.

She didn’t press further. “You’ll be undergoing a three-month probation. Normally it’s six. But given our current staffing issues, we’ve shortened it. At the end of that period, we’ll decide whether you’ll be offered a permanent position — either as an assistant manager, a main, or not at all.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

She leaned slightly forward. “That means I expect you to adapt quickly. Mistakes will happen, but repeated weak performance won’t be tolerated. You’ll be working under tight schedules and even tighter scrutiny.”

Another nod. He was starting to feel the weight of this seat more and more.

Director Seo was about to continue when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

A moment later, the door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with soft waves of chestnut brown hair and a neat, professional appearance. Her eyes brightened slightly when they landed on Y/N — a flicker of recognition.

Y/N stood quickly and bowed. She returned the gesture with a warm, if brief, smile.

“This is Kim Harin,” Director Seo said. “One of our more senior staff managers. She’ll be your direct supervisor for the duration of your probation. Think of her as your lead — and your evaluator.”

Harin turned to Y/N and extended a hand. “Nice to officially meet you.”

He shook it. Her grip was firm, but her tone carried a touch of kindness he hadn’t felt since stepping into the building.

“Try not to give me a reason to write bad reports,” she added, lightening the mood slightly. He gave a small, grateful smile.

Director Seo stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “You’ll start by shadowing her. Learn quickly. Stay out of the way until you don’t have to. Dismissed.”

Y/N bowed once again before following Harin out of the office.

The soft clack of Harin’s heels echoed through the marble hallway as she led the way, her ID lanyard swinging lightly at her side. Y/N followed just a step behind, clutching the thin folder handed to him earlier by the Head of Department—his hands slightly clammy, his nerves still simmering from the stern briefing.

“This way,” Harin said, glancing over her shoulder with a polite smile. Her tone was casual, but there was something efficient in her stride. “I’ll show you around so you don’t get swallowed whole on your first day.”

The interior of SM Entertainment's headquarters was sleek—almost intimidating. Glass walls, clean white corridors, the occasional framed photo of artists mid-performance or on album covers. It felt less like a workplace and more like a curated monument to perfection.

“Pretty clean, huh?” Harin remarked, raising an eyebrow. “They like it sterile-looking here. Makes everything feel controlled, even if it isn’t.”

Y/N let out a soft, polite chuckle. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke or a quiet complaint.

They passed several open workspaces—rows of desks cluttered with papers, half-empty iced coffees, and glowing monitors. Some staff greeted Harin with a quick nod or a smile, which she returned with casual familiarity. Others barely looked up, engrossed in their screens.

“This is the media team. They handle teasers, MVs, all the flashy stuff,” Harin said, motioning toward the rows. “You’ll probably work with them now and then, especially when it comes to coordination for content shoots.”

Y/N nodded, trying to take everything in. His eyes scanned the room—a few heads turned to look at him. Not unfriendly, but curious. Some expressions were unreadable, guarded. One woman in the back gave a glance, then quickly whispered something to a colleague beside her, who glanced too.

He felt a subtle tightening in his chest.

“Don’t worry about that,” Harin said without looking back. She must’ve noticed. “They do that with everyone new. It’s not personal. Just... how it is.”

They moved on.

She showed him the conference rooms, the artist rest lounges, and the tightly secured recording booths. Occasionally, a trainee passed by, bowing quickly before disappearing around a corner. Y/N kept noticing how fast everything moved—people walking with purpose, talking in clipped, efficient tones.

It was nothing like the slow rhythm of his university dorm. Or home.

When they turned a corner near the back corridor, Harin slowed down.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of a nondescript frosted-glass door. “This is the main artist department. Most managers work from here when they’re not out.”

She slid the door open, revealing a somewhat cramped office space with desks pushed close together. A few staff members glanced up. One man gave a look. Another woman barely acknowledged them and continued typing furiously.

“Your desk will be over there,” Harin gestured to a small corner spot near the back. “It’s nothing fancy, but it has what you need. Printer’s busted though. You’ll have to borrow mine for now.”

Y/N gave a small bow in gratitude, though no one was watching.

Eventually, she led him to a wide hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street below. Sunlight flooded in, softening the otherwise sterile atmosphere of the building.

She stopped in front of a side door with a small sign: Vehicle Access – Staff Only.

“Alright,” she said, pulling out a keycard. “That’s enough orientation for now.”

Y/N looked at her, confused. “That’s it?”

“You’ll learn the rest by working. Tour’s over—for now. We need to check something important.”

She pushed open the door, revealing a concrete ramp leading into the underground parking lot. Rows of white and black vans lined the walls, each marked with the company’s logo.

“We’re testing your driving next,” she said, motioning to one of the company vans. “We don’t put anyone behind the wheel unless we know they can handle it.”

“Right,” he replied, straightening his posture as they made their way toward the vehicle.

“Just a quick run around the block,” she added, stepping toward the passenger side. “Simple stuff. Turning, merging, parking. Nothing fancy.”

“You have a license, yeah?” Harin asked casually as she unlocked the doors.

“Yes. International Driving License. I got it before I transferred here.” he said, holding up the printed document from his folder since he couldn’t show it on a phone.

“Good. Then get in,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

Y/N settled into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors and seat position, then took a deep breath. His hands gripped the wheel with a little more tension than necessary.

“Don’t worry,” Harin said, glancing at him. “This isn’t an exam. I just need to see if you can handle a van. You’ll be driving idols around. No pressure, right?”

Y/N gave a stiff chuckle and started the engine.

They eased out of the parking lot and onto the quieter side roads near the company building. Harin gave him a few simple directions to test his handling—turns, merging, parking. As the van rolled along, a short silence fell between them, only the hum of the engine and occasional indicators filling the space.

…

After a moment of turning right and left, Harin leaned back in her seat and said, “So, you probably noticed... things are kind of a mess right now.”

Y/N glanced at her, then back to the road. “You mean... the management team?”

“Yeah,” she said, arms folding. “Most of the experienced staff left. HYBE snatched a bunch of them with better pay and more support. The rest? Burned out, gave up, or just disappeared.”

Y/N nodded slowly, staying focused on the road.

“And the replacements?” She scoffed. “We’ve got people who just want to brag about being close to idols, others who are so lazy they can’t even get a van cleaned, and some who need a checklist for every basic task. Teaching a baby A to Z then teaching this kind of worker. No initiative. No instinct at all. Head straighter than a ruler.”

She paused, watching Y/N’s expression closely.

“The worst part is that higher-ups aren’t doing anything meaningful about it. They just keep hiring new people and hope one of them magically works out. Scheduling a mess. Sometimes the girls don’t even know what they’re doing until the day of. It’s chaos.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. He kept his eyes on the road but his grip on the wheel subtly shifted.

“You’ll see it soon enough,” she added. “You’re not walking into a well-oiled machine. You're walking into a tired, overworked system being held together by tape.”

She didn’t mean to say it all out loud—Y/N could tell by the way she exhaled after, like the words had slipped through a crack in her restraint. A small, frustrated sigh followed.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “You don’t need to hear all this on your first day.”

Y/N blinked, unsure at first what to say. He gave a small nod, then managed a quiet, “It’s fine.”

His voice was calm, if a little uncertain. “You’ve probably had to deal with way bigger problems than me just sitting here listening.”

That got a small smile from her. Not quite relief, but something softer—like she appreciated that he didn’t shrink away from the weight of it.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Another moment passed before Y/N quietly asked, “So… Do you know which group I’ll be assigned to?”

Harin nodded, her expression unreadable. “Aespa.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m sorry… who?”

Harin turned to look at him, surprised. “You don’t know them?”

He gave an awkward smile, eyes still on the road. “I… only know some older groups. BigBang, Girls’ Generation… stuff from back then. I used to sneak into a music shop near my town when I was a kid. That’s all I really knew.”

“Wait—so you don’t know anything about current K-pop?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

He shook his head honestly. “Didn’t even know it was still a big thing. My life’s been… kinda far from this world.”

There was a pause before Harin gave a small breath of disbelief. “Well. That’s rare. Most people are desperate to get this job because they’re fans.”

“I’m not here to be a fan,” Y/N said quietly. “I’m here because I need to do well.”

Harin studied him for a moment longer. There was no arrogance in his tone—only sincerity. She looked back out the window, her voice softening just a little.

As they waited at a red light, Y/N glanced briefly toward Harin, then back to the road. The silence in the van had settled comfortably, but the weight in his chest hadn’t left.

He cleared his throat. “Can I ask… what are they like?”

Harin looked at him, one brow slightly raised.

“The girls,” he added quickly. “What’s it like working with them?”

She seemed to consider the question for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the window.

“They’re… good people,” she said finally, her tone quieter now. “Been with them since their debut. Out of everyone I’ve worked with in this industry, they’re some of the most genuine I’ve met.”

Y/N’s grip on the steering wheel eased a little. He didn’t interrupt.

“They’re professional. Polite. Sharp when they need to be. But that’s not attitude—it’s survival. They’ve learned how to draw lines, how to protect themselves in a world that doesn't always treat idols like people.”

There was a trace of something in her voice. Respect, definitely. But also understanding.

“They’re not the type to fake kindness just to look good. If they like you, they’ll show it. If they don’t, they’ll still be respectful—but distant. It’s not arrogance—it’s caution.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “So… they’re not difficult?”

“No,” Harin said firmly. “They’re not difficult. Just tired. Just be careful. This job burns through people—fans, staff, even idols. But those four? They’ve held on to something real. That’s rare.”

Y/N kept his eyes on the road, but he felt something in him settle at her words. The anxiety was still there, but it wasn’t aimless anymore—it had a shape, like armor he could learn to wear.

“They’ll give you what you give them,” Harin added. “Respect, effort, honesty. You start with that, and you’ll be fine.”

She then turned slightly toward him. “You’re nervous.”

He smiled awkwardly. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” she said with a small grin. “But it makes sense. You’ve got a lot to learn. And not a lot of time.”

“I just don’t want to mess this up.”

Harin leaned back in her seat again. “You won’t. As long as you commit and stick with me, I’ll help you.”

Y/N turned to glance at her for a moment before looking back at the road. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” she added. “You help me, I help you. We pull each other through. That’s the only way to survive in this department.”

There was something in her voice—not softness, not sympathy—but quiet resolve. Y/N couldn’t explain it, but he felt it too. A silent agreement forming between them. Not friendship. Not trust. Not yet. But a kind of shared understanding.

—------------------------------

As the van approached the familiar parking lot of SM Entertainment, the sun was already starting to lower behind the tall buildings. The company exterior looked the same as when they left that morning, but something felt different now—heavier, more final.

Harin glanced sideways from the passenger seat, one leg casually crossed over the other. “You survived the driving test,” she said with a smirk. “That’s already more than some of the trainees can say.”

Y/N gave a dry chuckle, still gripping the steering wheel even though they were already parked. He couldn’t tell if the weight in his chest was from the drive or from what came next.

As he turned off the ignition, Harin unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched. “Alright,” she said, voice a touch softer now. “Next comes the part some of the past staff used to call ‘the best part.”

Y/N looked over. “The best part?”

She looked out toward the company entrance, her gaze focused somewhere distant. “Meeting them. The girls.”

He swallowed—half nerves, half anticipation.

“They can be intimidating at first,” she added, her voice lowering. “But don’t let that shake you. Just remember what I told you earlier. Be honest. Be respectful. And try not to look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’ll do my best,” Y/N muttered under his breath, stepping out of the car.

Inside the building, the air was different. Busier. Tighter. Every corner buzzed with muted conversation, with the low rhythm of music coming from behind closed doors, with hurried footsteps of staff running errands.

As they moved through the hallway, Y/N could feel it—people staring. Whispers followed them like shadows.

“Is that the new manager?”

“Looks too young. Probably just want to be with the girls.”

“Foreign?”

He tried not to react, keeping his gaze forward and glued to Harin’s back. She didn’t seem bothered by the attention, walking with quiet confidence through the maze of corridors. But he caught one staff member casually passing them, someone holding a tablet and a takeout coffee, who stopped just briefly to greet Harin.

“This the new guy?” the man asked, flicking his eyes toward Y/N.

Harin gave a small nod. “Yep. First day.”

The man gave a quiet whistle and turned to Y/N, clapping a hand lightly on his shoulder as he walked past. “Good luck, man. It’s either you stay for the girls or you quit after your first day. No in-between.”

Y/N blinked in confusion, but the man was already gone.

“What was that supposed to mean?” he asked Harin.

She just smiled, and Y/N were asked to just ignore the comment.

A few steps later, something glinting on the floor caught his eye. Right beside the hallway baseboard, a small, silver object lay unnoticed. He slowed down and knelt to pick it up—an earring, delicate and detailed, and clearly expensive. He turned it between his fingers. There was a small, almost invisible engraving on the back.

Harin noticed him lagging behind and turned. “Something wrong?”

He held it up. “Found this just now. Seems... valuable?”

Harin leaned forward to glance at it. “Hmm. We’ll ask the girls if it’s one of theirs.”

..

They stopped outside a studio door marked Practice Room 3B. Muffled bass pulsed faintly from within, followed by the cadence of light footsteps and idle conversation.

Y/N stood still for a moment, pulse quickening.

This was it.

After weeks of struggling, nights spent scouring job boards, waking up before dawn to chase possibilities that led nowhere—this was the moment he had been building toward. He could still remember the desperation in his bones, the way his heart had sunk when he almost gave up. But now, just a thin door separated him from the very people he'd be responsible for.

Harin rested her hand on the knob and glanced at him. “Ready?”

No. Not even close.

But he nodded anyway.

The door creaked open.

The music stopped almost instantly. Four girls were scattered across the room—one sitting by the wall stretching, two fixing their ponytails, another sipping water near the mirror. None of them looked up right away, caught in the rhythm of their routine.

“Hey,” Harin called out casually, stepping into the room. “I brought someone with me.”

The one by the mirror—Ningning—was the first to glance up. Her gaze fell on Y/N. She blinked, then called out, “Unnie, there’s someone new here.”

That single sentence shifted the entire room.

The others turned, their movements slowing as their eyes landed on him—curious, quiet, guarded. Y/N straightened instinctively, heart pounding. This was Aespa. The global phenomenon. SM’s rising pillars. And somehow, by a strange turn of fate, they were now his responsibility.

The four girls moved together in a loose line, facing him and Harin. He swallowed.

“Girls, this is Y/N,” Harin said. “He’s our new probationary manager. He’ll be working closely with me—and that means spending a lot of time with you all.”

There was a moment of pause. No smiles. No greetings. Just silence and unreadable expressions.

Y/N stepped forward and bowed. “Uh... hello. I’m Y/N. I just started today. I’m new to all of this, so I’ll probably make mistakes. But I’ll do my best. Please treat me well.”

He lifted his head slowly, feeling the weight of their silence press down on him.

And then—Ningning smiled.

“Are you a foreigner?” she asked, voice light and curious.

“Uh… yes,” he replied.

Ningning turned to the others. “Told you he sounded different! You’re the first foreigner manager I’ve seen here.”

The tension cracked, just slightly. A breath of warmth slipped in. The others didn’t say anything yet, but something shifted—a softening in their shoulders, a flicker of amusement in their eyes.

Then Y/N remembered. “Oh—before I forget.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the earring.

“Does this belong to any of you?”

The room stilled.

Karina’s gaze snapped to it instantly. She took a sharp breath, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. She stepped forward quickly, her reaction unguarded. “Where did you find this?”

“In the hallway. Just a few minutes ago.”

She took the earring delicately, as if it were made of glass. “I’ve been looking for this since morning—I thought I lost it forever.”

Then, without thinking, she reached forward and clasped both of Y/N’s hands.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, her voice low but full. “Really. You have no idea how important this was to me.”

Y/N froze. Not because of the touch, but because of the sincerity. For a split second, everything else faded—the company, the nerves, the pressure—and he saw just a girl, thankful and surprised.

Karina suddenly blinked and let go, flustered. “Ah—sorry! That was… kind of dramatic.”

Ningning giggled. “That was dramatic.”

Even Giselle chuckled, and Winter’s lips curved faintly upward.

Harin stepped in again. “Alright, let’s introduce ourselves properly.”

“I’m Giselle,” the one with sharp features said with a polite nod.

“Ningning,” said the youngest, still grinning.

Karina hesitated, then gave a softer smile. “I’m Karina. And thanks again.”

Winter was last. “Winter,” she said, quiet but not cold.

Y/N nodded at each name, silently repeating them to himself.

And in the back of his mind, a thought clicked into place.

Okay… this is it. These four girls. This is where I start. This is where everything changes. Don’t mess this up, Y/N.

—----

As they stepped out of the practice room, Y/N followed a step behind Harin, his mind still processing the surreal moment of meeting Aespa in person. He could still feel Karina's hands briefly clutching his. The moment had barely passed, but reality was already rushing back in.

Harin glanced over her shoulder. “You’re a student, right?” she asked suddenly, her voice calm but with a shift in tone—more grounded, more serious.

Y/N blinked, a little caught off guard. “Yeah. I just finished my first semester.”

She nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Hmm.”

They kept walking. But something about her silence made the hallway feel longer than it really was.

After a few seconds, Harin added, without looking at him, “We’ll talk about that later. But I’ll just say this now—this job isn’t something you can just squeeze into your schedule. It’s demanding. In a way most people don’t realize until they’re already drowning.”

Y/N looked at her, but she was already facing forward again, her pace steady. And though she said nothing more, the weight of her words lingered behind them like footsteps that didn’t belong.

The first task sounded simple on paper: pick up some coffee and snacks for Aespa during their short break.

But as Y/N stepped out of the convenience store, the weight of the tray in his hands didn’t feel light at all. The coffee cups wobbled with each step. He could feel sweat forming along his back despite the cool air-conditioning. The paper bag of snacks dug awkwardly into his arm, and he didn’t even want to imagine what kind of judgment he’d face if he spilled anything.

He entered the company lounge where Harin stood waiting with her arms crossed. She glanced at the tray, then at his face.

"You took long enough," she muttered, but her tone wasn’t cruel—more like she was testing him.

“I—there was a line,” he said sheepishly.

She nodded toward the hallway. “They’re in the practice room. Go give it to them. Try not to trip.”

Y/N gulped and moved down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the clean tile. As he reached the door, he paused.

Behind it, faint laughter echoed—familiar voices now, but still distant from him.

He knocked lightly.

A second later, the door opened. It was Giselle.

“Oh—coffee?” Her eyes lit up. “Nice! Come in.”

Y/N stepped inside, carefully placing the tray and snack bag on the side table.

Karina glanced up from where she sat stretching on the floor. “Thank you,” she said, her tone polite but distant. Winter and Ningning murmured similar thanks, distracted as they sipped water and scrolled through their phones.

Y/N stood awkwardly for a second, unsure whether to linger or leave.

Giselle chuckled, sensing his uncertainty. “You can sit for a bit if you want. We’re not scary.”

He gave a weak smile and lowered himself onto a bench near the wall, not quite joining the circle, but not entirely excluded either.

Ningning peeked into the snack bag. “Oooh, corn chips and those honey butter sticks.”

“That’s so much better than what the last guy got,” Winter said under her breath, drawing a quiet laugh from the others.

Y/N looked down, unsure if that was a compliment or criticism of someone else. Still, it warmed something in his chest.

Then, Karina glanced at him. “You’re… new, right?”

Y/N straightened. “Yes. I’m Y/N. Probationary manager.”

She studied him a moment longer. “You seem nervous.”

He hesitated. “A bit. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“That’s okay,” Winter said with a small grin. “We’ll break you in gently.”

The girls laughed, and Y/N gave a short chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

They began chatting among themselves again, the atmosphere light and relaxed, but Y/N noticed how Winter occasionally glanced toward him, and how Giselle seemed to speak a little louder, subtly including him in the conversation.

For a moment, he let himself breathe.

He still felt like an outsider. But at least he wasn’t invisible.

And somewhere beneath the small talk and laughter, he caught a glimpse of the world Harin had warned him about—unpredictable, layered, and incredibly human.

This wasn’t just a breakroom delivery. This was his first step in earning trust.

And with that, he promised himself: he would not waste it.

—--

They were alone in a side hallway near the company’s back exit. Harin leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching him with a look that wasn’t quite stern, but not relaxed either.

“So,” she said. “You are a student.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I… I’m on a scholarship here. I study in Seoul. Business major.”

Harin exhaled through her nose and looked away for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to say. When she finally met his eyes again, her expression had shifted—slightly softer, but also… worried.

“Look, I don’t know what the real reason is behind why you’re so desperate for this job,” she began quietly. “I mean, you accepted the offer without even flinching. No hesitation. No concern.”

Her words struck something in Y/N’s chest. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he stayed silent.

She studied his face for a second longer, then continued, more firmly. “…But you really need to think this through. I’m not trying to scare you, but you’re a student. You’ve got classes. Assignments. Exams. And now you’ve got this—being a manager. Arranging schedules, attending shoots, preparing for tours, managing idols’ personal needs and moods, dealing with sudden crises. It’s not just logistics—it’s mental warfare.”

Y/N looked down. The fire in his chest from earlier—the excitement—now flickered, shadowed by a creeping chill of doubt.

“You won’t always be here,” she said. “There will be meetings and work that happens while you’re in class. And the higher-ups? They won’t ask why you weren’t present. You’re a probationary hire. All they’ll care about is your evaluation at the end of the trial.”

She paused. And then:

“And if you’re absent too often, or you can’t keep up… I’m afraid your score won’t make the cut.”

That line hit him like a punch to the stomach. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He had no safety net. No backup plan. This wasn’t just about failure—it was about his father’s life. His family’s hope. And now it all felt like a rope walk over fire.

Harin saw the shift in his eyes. She softened a little and called his name gently.

He looked up.

“I don’t say this to scare you,” she said. “I say it because I want you to succeed. Honestly, there’s something different about you. The way you handled things earlier… I’ve never seen a rookie respond like that. I can’t explain it, but I want to believe you have something. So if you ever need help—ask me. I mean it. I’ll be there. But you need to give this everything.”

There was a long silence. Then slowly, Y/N’s gaze turned to the hallway where Aespa had disappeared minutes ago.

And for the first time, not just as idols, but as people, he felt something settle inside him. A responsibility. A resolve.

He looked back at Harin and nodded once, firmly.

“I will,” he said. Then again, with more weight: “I will.”

As Harin turned slightly, preparing to return inside, she glanced back at him, as if remembering something.

“This might surprise you,” she said, her tone gentler now, “but… that’s all you’ve got for today.”

Y/N blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “That’s it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re done.”

He glanced at the hallway clock. It wasn’t even 1 p.m. “Wait—are you sure? It’s still early.”

“I’m sure,” she said, folding her arms again. “Today’s schedule is mostly continuation work from an ongoing campaign. The team handling it is already familiar with the process. There’s nothing you could contribute without context, and honestly, it’s better not to throw you into something mid-way.”

He hesitated, unsure if he should be relieved or worried. “So… I just go home?”

“Up to you,” she said casually, then added, “Oh, and before I forget—give me your phone number. Then text me your class schedule when you get the chance. I’ll need to know when you’re available.”

Y/N’s face shifted, a flicker of discomfort passing through him. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and held it up between them.

It was a phone—old, scratched, with a cracked screen that looked like it had been stepped on more than once. It buzzed faintly, the backlight flickering, barely holding on.

“Actually… that’s kind of a problem,” he muttered. “It still turns on sometimes, but it’s almost completely unusable now.”

Harin stared at it, caught off guard. She let out a breath, not of frustration but something closer to sympathy, pressing her lips together before speaking again.

“I see.” Her voice was quieter now, less managerial, more human. “That’s… definitely going to be an issue. You’ll need to fix it. Fast. This job lives and breathes on communication, and without a phone, you’re flying blind. Calls, schedule changes, emergencies—everything depends on staying connected.”

Y/N nodded slowly, the weight of his situation suddenly feeling heavier again. He didn’t try to explain himself—he knew how it must have looked. A rookie showing up without even a functioning phone.

Harin seemed to sense something in his silence, but she didn’t press. Instead, she shifted gears, asking, “Do you have class tomorrow?”

He looked up, thankful for the change of topic. “No. Tomorrow’s clear.”

“Good,” she said, nodding. “Then consider tomorrow your first proper day. Full-time. Real tasks. You’ll be shadowing and assisting as we prep for an upcoming event. Be here before nine.”

That familiar flicker of anxiety stirred in his stomach, but he forced a nod. “Got it.”

There was a beat of silence between them—nothing uncomfortable, just the pause that comes when something begins to feel real.

Then Harin extended her hand, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Bit late for this, but… welcome to the Aespa management team. For now, at least.”

Y/N blinked, then reached out and took her hand. Her grip was firm and brief.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” Her voice carried more confidence than he expected.

With that, she turned and walked back into the building, the glass door closing behind her with a soft click.

Y/N was left standing in the quiet, sunlight casting long shadows across the pavement. For the first time since setting foot in the company, he was truly alone. No noise, no voices, no eyes on him.

He looked down at the broken phone in his hand, the fractured screen catching the light. It felt like a metaphor—fragile, outdated, barely holding on… but still working, somehow.

He slipped it back into his pocket and glanced up at the building’s logo above the door, its bold letters reflecting gold in the afternoon sun.

Tomorrow, it would begin for real.

As the glass doors closed behind Harin, the distant echo of her footsteps faded, swallowed by the ambient hum of late afternoon traffic. Y/N stood there for a moment just outside the building, the sun hanging low and tired in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. The warmth that had filled him during the handshake now lingered faintly in his fingers, already beginning to cool.

He pulled out his phone—its screen still cracked, faintly flickering, struggling to stay alive. A soft sigh escaped his lips. It was no good. Even trying to restart it seemed like waking a dying machine. He stared at it for a few seconds longer, then quietly lowered his hand.

The streets weren’t crowded. Just the occasional car passing, a cyclist riding lazily by, a mother dragging a stubborn child along the sidewalk. Y/N’s feet moved before his thoughts could catch up, and he found himself wandering past the front gates and into the smaller roads nearby. The energy of the day was winding down; the sun dipped lower, brushing the sky with that golden hue that always made things feel more fragile.

A few blocks away, nestled beside a shuttered flower shop and a small convenience store, he spotted something out of place in a modern city—an old public phone booth. The kind you walked past a thousand times and never noticed. Faded blue paint. A scratched-up plastic hood. The phone inside hung like a relic, disconnected from the world buzzing around it.

He paused, staring at it like it was something from another life. Then he stepped inside, quietly sliding the door shut behind him.

The air inside the booth was still—too still. He dropped a few coins into the slot, fingers pausing over the numbers like he was holding his breath. Then he dialed. The tone rang out into the silence, each chime echoing in the enclosed space, loud enough to feel like it might break something inside him.

One… two… three.

“Hello?” A tired voice, cautious. Worn thin. “Who’s this?”

He swallowed. “It’s me. Mom… It’s Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—an inhale so sharp, he could almost hear the way her hand flew to her mouth.

“Y/N?” Her voice cracked around his name. “Oh my god—where have you been? I’ve been calling and texting for days. I thought—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, trying to sound steady, like everything was fine. “My phone… it’s dead. Broke completely. I couldn’t answer anything.”

A tremble carried through the line. “I thought something happened to you,” she said, softer now, like she was trying not to cry. “I’ve barely been sleeping. I kept checking my phone, praying you'd answer…”

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against the cool glass. His eyes stung. “I’m okay, Mom. Really. That’s actually why I’m calling.”

He drew in a breath, long and slow.

“I… I got a job.”

“A job?” Her voice rose slightly, full of surprise, tangled in cautious hope. “What kind of job?”

“Managerial work. It’s temporary, but... there’s a chance it might turn into something more.” He tried to keep it light, but each word was wrapped in quiet desperation—desperation to give her something to believe in.

There was a pause. Then her voice returned, gentler.

“Can you handle that? With school? And everything else?”

“I’ll make it work,” he said, forcing a small smile she couldn’t see. “I have to. For Dad… for us. I’ll figure it out.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Just the sound of both of them breathing.

Then— That cough. It came low, scratchy, rough. Not once. Again. And again.

He stood straighter, his whole body tensing.

“Mom?” Another cough. Then a muffled breath. “Mom, what was that? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, brushing it off like a fly from her shoulder. “Probably just a cold. You know how it is.”

He didn’t respond right away. Because now he heard it—really heard it. The weakness in her voice. The breathlessness. The way she’d slowed her speech to keep from triggering another cough.

A cold certainty settled in his chest.

“…Mom. Are you… working?”

Silence.

He closed his eyes. Prayed she’d laugh. Tell him no. Tell him he was being dramatic.

But her answer came quiet. Measured.

“I had to, baby. I’m sorry. What you’re doing out there—it’s everything. But one person can’t carry the weight of a whole family alone. I had to help too. Even just a little.”

He pressed his lips together. The words twisted inside him.

She should’ve been resting. She should’ve been warm at home, reading her book, drinking that awful ginger tea she always made too strong. Not pushing her lungs and legs just to make a few extra bills stretch further.

“I thought… you promised,” he whispered. “You said you’d take care of things at home.”

“I am taking care of things,” she replied, and somehow her voice was still tender. Still kind. “I’m helping. That’s what mothers do, sweetheart.”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the sting reached his eyes. The sky above the booth was deepening now—gold bleeding into violet. A wind passed outside, rattling the phone wires.

She kept speaking, softer now.

“Don’t carry this guilt, Y/N. Please. I know you… You always feel like it’s your job to hold everything. But you’re already doing more than I ever hoped. I’m so proud of you, my love. So proud. Just promise me one thing, okay?”

His breath caught. “…What is it?”

“Promise me you’ll eat well. That you’ll sleep well when you can. That you’ll be kind. Even when people aren’t kind to you. Kindness doesn’t disappear, baby—it lingers. It plants itself in people, and sometimes it blooms when you least expect it.”

His grip tightened on the receiver. His eyes burned. His throat was locked up with everything he couldn’t say.

“I love you, Y/N. No matter how far you are, no matter how quiet the days get—I love you. You’re never alone, okay? I’m always with you.”

He nodded, fiercely. Like if he nodded hard enough, it would carry across the line and hold her hand through the wire.

“I love you too, Mom.”

They didn’t say goodbye all at once. They lingered. Neither wanting to hang up first. They lowered their voices, like they were afraid of waking the sorrow resting quietly between them. Then finally, the line went still.

And the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

He lowered the receiver slowly, letting it rest in the cradle with a faint click. The booth was quiet again, still bathed in the last warm rays of sun. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest.

And then, the tears came.

Not loud or dramatic—just steady, like rain slipping from a roof after a storm. His shoulders shook quietly as he leaned against the glass, his sobs muffled into his sleeve. All the pain he’d held back—the pressure, the fear, the helplessness—it all bled out of him in that silent, fading light.

His knees nearly buckled. He sank down a little, crouched in the corner of the booth, holding his arms tightly around himself.

His mother—sick, working.

His father—waiting for a surgery they couldn’t afford.

And he, stuck in a foreign country, chasing the one fragile opportunity that might save them.

But even in that moment of grief, something inside him hardened—not with bitterness, but resolve.

When the tears finally stopped, he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, stood up, and stepped out of the booth. The sun had dipped lower, brushing the sky in orange and indigo. He took a long breath, then another.

Tomorrow would be the real beginning.

And no matter how heavy it got… he would carry it.

All of it.

For them.

—

The sun hadn’t even finished rising when Y/N found himself standing in front of the SM Entertainment building again, his breath faintly visible in the crisp morning air. A slight breeze brushed across his face as he stared up at the structure. Compared to yesterday’s late-afternoon warmth, today’s early morning felt sharper, more demanding. It was his first official day on duty—no more shadowing, no more observing from a distance. He was in it now.

He stepped through the glass doors into the lobby, which was mostly empty aside from a security guard sipping from a steaming mug and a clerk behind the front desk, typing idly at a terminal. Y/N glanced around uncertainly. Harin hadn’t arrived yet. He remembered her saying to be here before nine, and he’d taken it seriously—arriving just before eight-thirty. But now, with no clear instruction, he stood awkwardly near the lobby's side, unsure if he should sit, wait, or look for someone.

The clerk looked up and seemed to recognize his confusion.

“You must be the new guy, right?” she asked, standing up slightly from her seat.

Y/N blinked and nodded. “Yes, I’m... supposed to meet Harin-ssi, but I’m a bit early.”

“She mentioned that,” the clerk replied, reaching below the counter and pulling out a sleek black tablet. “She said you’d be coming in today. Told me to pass this to you first thing.”

He stepped forward and accepted the tablet with both hands, bowing politely. “Thank you.”

“She also said you need to pick up the girls by nine and make sure they arrive at the music show location before ten. So… you might want to get moving.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh—yes, of course.”

“She already entered today’s schedule in there, so just follow the itinerary. Good luck.” The clerk gave a small smile before returning to her screen.

Y/N turned toward a bench and sat down, tapping the power button on the device. It flickered to life. The interface was clean but foreign to him—everything labeled in Korean, with unfamiliar apps and a custom calendar system synced to the entertainment division. After a few moments of trial and error, he managed to locate today’s agenda. The first entry was marked in bold:

09:00 — Pick up Aespa at their residence.

10:00 — Arrival at KBS Studio, Yeouido (Pre-recorded Stage for Music Bank).

10:30–12:00 — Makeup & Preparation.

12:15 — Soundcheck.

13:30 — Performance Recording.

Y/N let out a small breath. It was real now.

He got back on his feet and made his way to the underground parking area where the vehicle department was stationed. After checking in and explaining that he was assigned to Aespa’s schedule today, the staff handed him keys to one of the company vans. He bowed and quickly made his way toward the designated parking slot.

The van was surprisingly large and clean, designed with spacious seating and privacy-tinted windows. The dashboard still smelled faintly of new car interior. Y/N climbed in, adjusted the seat, and checked the directions to the girls' residence.

It didn’t take long before he was parked just outside the entrance to a high-security apartment complex—modern, minimalistic, and clearly expensive. A small guard booth sat near the gates. Y/N stepped out of the vehicle and approached the guard booth, trying to appear confident despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

The guard, a stocky man in his fifties with a permanent scowl etched into his features, glanced up from his seat with suspicion. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up Aespa,” Y/N said, bowing politely. “I’m their manager—well, probationary manager. From SM Entertainment.”

The man didn’t return the bow. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s see your company ID.”

Y/N froze. “Ah… I don’t have one yet. I just started yesterday.”

The guard raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Then a temporary pass?”

“No, I wasn’t given one either.”

That was enough to make the man lean fully back in his chair, already done with the conversation. He scoffed.

“You come here claiming you work for SM, and you don’t have an ID? No temp pass? No nothing?”

“I swear, I’m supposed to be here—Harin-ssi, the head manager, she—”

“I don’t care who you say sent you,” the guard cut him off, voice sharp now. “You’re wasting my time.”

Y/N felt his throat tighten. “Please, I’m not lying. You can call them. I just need to pick the girls up for their schedule.”

“Enough,” the guard snapped, standing up from his chair. “This is private property. I don’t entertain people who show up pretending to be staff. You think this is the first time I’ve seen this?”

“I’m not—”

“I don’t care.” The man pointed firmly toward the exit. “Turn around and leave before I call security. And if I have to report you to the police, I will. You’re not getting in here.”

Y/N took a step back, heart pounding. He could feel the humiliation crawling up his spine. He looked at the guard, eyes pleading.

“Just call them. Please. I’ll leave if they say they don’t know me, I promise. Just one call.”

The guard stared at him like he was an insect on the glass. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, with an irritated sigh, he grabbed the landline on the desk and jabbed a number into it. “You better pray they answer,” he muttered.

One ring. Two. Three.

Silence.

Y/N clenched his hands behind his back.

“If they don’t pick up, I’m calling this in as a trespass attempt,” the guard warned coldly. “And don’t try to argue. I won’t listen.”

Then—a click. The line connected.

A drowsy, slightly hoarse voice answered on the other end. “...Hello?”

The guard straightened slightly. “Sorry for the early call. There’s a guy down here saying he’s with SM, here to pick you up. No ID. No proof. Says he’s your manager. Do you know anyone like that?”

A long pause. Too long.

Y/N held his breath. The guard glanced at him, his eyes full of skepticism.

Then came the reply. Still sleepy, but clear: “Yeah�� yeah. That’s him. He’s with us.”

The guard narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Mmhmm. He’s the new guy. It’s fine.”

A beat of silence passed. Then the guard slowly hung up the phone and looked back at Y/N.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered. “But next time? You don’t come here without ID. I don’t care what story you have. You try that again, I’ll report it before you open your mouth.”

Y/N bowed deeply. “Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you.”

The guard buzzed the gate open without another word.

As Y/N jogged back to the van, he let out a sharp breath, his nerves still on edge. He’d barely cleared that hurdle, and the day had only just begun.

Y/N guided the van through the tight turns of the apartment complex, his eyes flicking between the signs and the GPS. It was early, the kind of still morning where the city hadn’t quite shaken off its sleep yet, but his pulse was already uneasy. After a short drive through the maze of buildings, he pulled up in front of the Aespa dorm tower. He parked by the curb and cut the engine, then sat still for a moment, staring up at the building.

Should he go up and greet them? Would that be too forward?

It didn’t feel right. He barely knew them—hadn’t even exchanged proper introductions yet—and showing up at their door felt intrusive. A manager or not, he was still a stranger. So, he stayed in the van, deciding to wait it out. Even if it meant standing around for a while, it seemed like the more respectful choice.

He stepped out of the van and stood beside it near the front lobby, hands in his pockets, quietly waiting as the cool morning air brushed against his face.

..

Time began to stretch.

Twenty minutes passed.

Not a shadow moved near the building entrance. No rustle of footsteps. No door creaked open. Just stillness.

He checked the digital clock glowing softly on the dashboard. The minute hand ticked toward danger. They were going to be late if they didn’t leave soon.

A twinge of panic crept up his spine. He glanced at his phone, instinctively thinking about sending a message—only to remember, once again, that he didn’t have their numbers. His phone could barely handle messaging apps anyway.

Another ten minutes crawled by, and just as anxiety truly began to coil in his chest, a figure emerged from the building.

A girl in a white mask, black hoodie, and loose jeans walked toward the van casually, eyes scanning the lot. Winter.

Relief swept over Y/N like a wave. His shoulders dropped just slightly as she approached. 

“Good morning,” he said, trying not to sound too eager or nervous.

Winter returned the greeting with a brief nod, her eyes unreadable behind the mask. “The others are still upstairs,” she murmured, not breaking stride. She walked past him and climbed into the van without another word.

Her coldness wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly warm either. Y/N paused for a second, letting the sensation settle before brushing it off. He wasn’t here to be liked—not yet, anyway. This was work. They were idols. He was a new guy. That’s all there was to it.

A few minutes later, more footsteps followed. One by one, the rest of Aespa made their way outside. Ningning was next, stretching as she walked. Giselle followed soon after, hair still slightly damp, holding her phone with both hands. Karina appeared last, hood pulled up, barely glancing his way.

Y/N bowed slightly to each of them, offering quiet good mornings as they passed. Some responded with soft smiles or half-hearted waves; others gave a small nod in return. He didn’t press for more. They were tired—he could see it in their eyes, the way they moved, still waking up as if their bodies hadn’t caught up to the day yet.

As soon as they were all in the van, Y/N hurried inside and shut the door. He turned slightly in his seat, speaking gently.

“Is everyone ready?”

A few thumbs up appeared in the rearview mirror. No one spoke.

“Would you like to stop anywhere first? Maybe grab something to eat or drink?”

No answer. Their attention was locked on their phones. Karina scrolled absently, while Ningning leaned her head against the window with her eyes closed. Giselle tapped away quickly, earphones in. No one even looked up.

He gave a small smile, quiet and understanding. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they just needed space to gather themselves. Either way, he didn’t take it personally.

He faced forward, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

But the universe had other plans. The moment he merged into traffic, the road ahead was already jammed—bumper-to-bumper cars crawling at a glacial pace. His eyes snapped to the navigation screen, which now blared the truth: they were going to be at least fifteen minutes late.

Panic pressed at the edges of his composure.

He glanced up at the rearview mirror. Ningning had fallen asleep. Winter had her head leaned back, eyes closed. The others were still glued to their screens. No one seemed aware. Or maybe they were used to it.

But he wasn’t. Not on his first day.

His knuckles tightened slightly around the steering wheel as he willed the traffic to move faster. This couldn’t be happening. He had done everything right—or tried to. But the morning was spiraling out of his control, one missed step after another. And no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing he could do now but drive.

To his bad luck, time hadn’t been on his side. The moment he glanced at the clock again, it was already past the designated time, and the heavy traffic earlier had only made things worse. By the time they reached the music show building, they were fifteen minutes late.

Y/N shifted in his seat, frustration quietly brewing beneath the surface, though he kept his expression still. As he made the turn toward the authorized staff parking entrance, a hand raised from the checkpoint post, signaling him to stop. The van came to a smooth halt as the security guard walked toward his window, his face stern and unreadable.

"Purpose of visit?" the guard asked flatly.

Y/N rolled the window further down and quickly explained, trying to stay composed. “I'm part of the manager team for Aespa. I was assigned to bring them here.”

He motioned toward the rearview mirror, where the girls sat in silence behind their masks and sunglasses.

The guard squinted, then peeked through the tinted windows, recognizing a few faces. After a moment of quiet hesitation, he gave a small nod and waved them through, though his eyes lingered on Y/N with a sharpness that stung a little.

“Go ahead. Try to be on time next time,” he muttered as he stepped back.

“Thank you,” Y/N said quickly before pulling forward.

He found the nearest available space, parked swiftly, and unbuckled his seatbelt in one fluid motion. Without wasting a second, he stepped out and pulled open the sliding door. The suddenness of it made one of the girls flinch a little.

“Ah—sorry,” Y/N said, lowering his voice. “Let’s go.”

He led them through the underground lot and into the lobby, keeping his pace calm even though his heart was racing. They moved together, silent, the only sounds being the faint clack of their shoes and the low buzz of chatter from nearby corridors. But just as they passed the main entrance hall, Y/N realized something—he had no idea where to go.

He slowed to a halt.

The girls followed instinctively, stopping behind him.

Giselle leaned in slightly, her brow raised. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N turned slightly, hesitating. His eyes darted around for any visible sign, a label, someone familiar—anything. But nothing looked familiar, and the more he searched, the tighter the anxiety gripped his chest. His mouth opened slightly, trying to form a reply, but no sound came out.

“He doesn’t know the way, right?” Karina said suddenly, her voice calm but firm. She didn’t wait for a response and took the lead confidently down the hallway.

Y/N let out a quiet breath through his nose, both embarrassed and grateful. He followed behind them, keeping his eyes low as the girls took control of what should’ve been his responsibility.

As they reached the corridor near the dressing rooms, the atmosphere shifted. Staff were rushing around, adjusting lights, carrying makeup kits, organizing wardrobes. It was a flurry of motion, commands, and chatter. Amidst it all, one of the older male staff—maybe a department lead, judging by his clipboard and attitude—turned his head and called out loudly with clear annoyance.

“Finally. They’re here.”

Y/N winced slightly at the tone, but said nothing.

Ahead of him, Harin emerged from the hallway leading to the green room. Her expression was unreadable, but she gave a small nod toward the girls as they passed her and entered the room. Y/N stepped aside to let them through, catching a quick glimpse of them already moving toward the makeup stations, slipping into routine like they’d done it a thousand times.

Before he could fully follow them in, the same older staff member stepped in front of him, expression twisted with annoyance. His tone dropped slightly, but the edge of it remained.

“Yah, new boy,” he said, tapping the face of his watch with a finger. “Do you know how to do your job or not? First day and you’re already slacking off. You were supposed to be here a while ago.”

The words struck deep even though the man wasn’t shouting. It was the kind of scolding that didn’t need volume to hurt. Y/N kept his gaze respectful, trying not to flinch. He opened his mouth to explain, but someone else stepped in before he could.

“Don’t think about it too much, Woojin,” Harin said as she approached, her voice calm but cutting enough to make the man glance toward her.

“Now they’re here, and that’s all that matters. Go to your designated spot and start your work—with your sidekicks.”

The man gave an annoyed shake of his head but didn’t argue further. He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway, grumbling something under his breath.

Around the room, a few murmurs started to rise. Y/N could feel the stares—even if no one looked directly at him, the air carried their judgments. He stayed quiet, shoulders stiff, trying not to let the weight of embarrassment sink too deep.

Harin gave him a short look, then gestured with her head.

“Come with me,” she said, already turning toward the hallway.

Y/N followed, still wordless, the thrum of shame trailing behind him like a shadow.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors of the backstage hallway. Harin led him past a row of dressing rooms and into a quieter corner tucked near a service door—just out of earshot from the others, but not completely secluded. The kind of spot where short conversations happened, the kind people didn’t really want overheard.

Once they stopped, Harin turned to face him, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her expression wasn’t angry, but there was a cool edge to her tone—firm, composed, and disappointed in a way that didn’t need raising her voice.

“You’re late,” she said, pausing long enough for the words to settle. “Thirteen minutes.”

Y/N lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling toward the ground. His lips parted as instinct kicked in, but the apology caught in his throat before it could fully form.

“I’m—” He stopped himself.

There was no point. Saying sorry wouldn’t change the fact. It wouldn’t take back the delay, the awkward moment outside, or the small storm he’d already caused in the green room.

Harin let the silence hang just long enough before continuing. “I told you to be here by ten. I left instructions with the front clerk and even programmed the reminder into the tablet I handed you.”

Y/N stayed quiet, the weight of responsibility sitting heavier on his shoulders now. She wasn’t yelling. She didn’t need to. Her calmness did all the work.

“This is why I told you to get your phone situation sorted out,” she added. “It’s a problem when you can’t be reached. Especially in this department. Communication is everything here, and I can’t always be running back to check on you.”

Still quiet.

But not for long.

He drew in a small breath, just enough to lift his shoulders slightly, then finally spoke.

“I’m sorry. I actually arrived on time,” he said carefully, voice steady. “I got to the dorm around nine-thirty, but the guard at the gate wouldn’t let me through. Said I didn’t have any ID verification and blocked me.”

His eyes stayed low as he spoke, but his tone was earnest.

“I tried to explain, but it didn’t matter. Took a while before he agreed to call the apartment upstairs. Luckily, someone answered, and only then he let me in. I picked them up, but…”

He hesitated slightly, glancing to the side.

“There were just… a lot of cars on the road. Traffic was packed. It slowed everything.”

As he spoke, Harin’s expression shifted slightly—not softened exactly, but she wasn’t just listening now; she was reflecting. And when he mentioned the guard and the ID, her lips pressed together into a thin line, and her eyes briefly closed.

“Ah… shit,” she muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t loud, but he heard it.

She let out a slow exhale through her nose, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a bit. Her fingers flexed against her arms, and the realization hit her fully.

“I forgot your ID card…” she murmured. It was more to herself than to him. She had meant to hand it over that morning—had even set it aside on her desk before the day began. But in the rush of coordinating schedules and checking with the floor manager, it had slipped completely from her mind. And instead of keeping him at her side like she originally planned, she gave him a solo task—without the one thing he needed to complete it smoothly.

Her jaw tightened. She was disappointed—not in him, but in herself. That one oversight had caused a chain of problems for someone who didn’t even have proper footing yet.

“Is something wrong?” Y/N asked gently, noticing the change in her expression.

Harin shook her head, snapping out of it. “No. I’ll tell you later,” she said, her tone flat but not dismissive.

She let the silence settle for a moment again. Y/N stood still, respectful, but waiting. She looked at him—really looked, as if measuring something in her mind. Then she asked, calmly and clearly:

“Just one more thing…”

Y/N lifted his head slightly, eyes meeting hers.

The conversation hung there, ready to shift.

Back in the green room, the atmosphere remained tense, though no one was shouting anymore. The energy had shifted into something quieter, murkier—a low hum of whispers and sidelong glances that clung to the walls like static. Staff moved around with focused efficiency, sorting garments and laying out accessories, but the murmurs floated just beneath the surface, like a low tide never quite retreating.

Near the makeup chairs, the girls were seated in a line, heads tilted back slightly as the makeup artists worked on their foundation and base. Brushes swiped across their faces, dabs of concealer and powder pressing into their skin with practiced rhythm. Despite the calm motions, their expressions weren’t relaxed.

From the other side of the room—near the clothing racks and a table filled with neatly labeled hangers—some of the stylists had slipped into conversation.

“Is that the new guy?” one of them whispered, tone not malicious but sharply amused. “Wah… already starting with something bad.”

Another chuckled, pinning a brooch onto a navy stage outfit. “He didn’t even look like he knew what he was doing. Just standing there like a lost puppy.”

“Yeah. I mean, maybe he likes it, being late like that. Gets to spend more time around the girls or something.” A soft scoff followed, as if the idea was both predictable and disappointing.

The words weren’t meant for the members to hear—spoken in that careless, too-loud whisper that only came when people thought they weren’t being listened to. But of course, the girls heard. They always did.

Giselle’s eyes shifted slightly in the mirror, her brows furrowing for just a second before she turned her gaze back forward. Karina’s fingers, which had been resting lightly on the table, curled slowly into her palm. Ningning didn’t say anything, but her lips parted as if she was about to. Only Winter reacted more directly, subtly glancing toward the source of the voices before pressing her tongue against the inside of her cheek and looking away.

None of them said anything aloud—but the mood around their chairs had shifted.

Because they knew.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t the new manager’s fault.

He was just doing what he was told.

The real reason they were late—the reason those whispers had even started—was sitting with them now, in each of their minds, impossible to brush away. When Winter picked up the phone earlier that morning, they’d barely opened their eyes. Half-asleep, slow to move, tangled in blankets. They hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.

The only reason they usually made it on time was because Harin always came up, knocking on the door or even stepping inside, telling them to hurry, reminding them of the clock. That had become their rhythm—someone pushing them from behind, always keeping them moving.

But today, Harin hadn’t come. And none of them had thought much of it at the time. They’d taken their time getting ready. They weren’t even dressed when Winter answered the intercom.

He waited outside.

And still, he didn’t complain.

Now he was probably getting scolded for it, and people were already making assumptions—joking, whispering, reducing him to nothing more than “the guy who made them late.” When in truth, he was the only one trying to hold it together.

Karina let out a quiet sigh, deep enough that her stylist glanced at her briefly, unsure whether she’d moved. But she stayed still. She didn’t want to draw attention to it.

The same thoughts moved silently between them. The same guilt.

He didn’t deserve that.

He didn’t deserve the looks, or the mutters, or the way he had to stand there alone in front of a room full of strangers who had already decided who he was.

Not after he waited patiently for them.

Not after he smiled and asked if they wanted anything before the ride, even when none of them responded.

They were the ones who slacked.

And now, sitting in front of bright mirrors while other people judged him behind his back, they could feel the weight of that mistake.

Not on him.

On themselves.

Inside the makeup room, the quiet hum of blow dryers, light chatter from stylists, and the rustling of hangers filled the air. The girls sat in their respective seats, letting the staff work on their faces and hair, but their expressions were faintly tight — a tension they weren’t voicing.

Behind them, near the racks of outfits, some murmurs could still be heard from the clothing team.

“That’s the new guy? Wah, already started with something bad...” “He doesn’t even look like he knows what he’s doing.” “Probably enjoying being late... gets more time with the girls, doesn’t he?”

They didn’t even bother whispering. The staff weren’t exactly trying to be cruel, just speaking their thoughts as they always had — but it landed wrong. This time, the girls heard it. And for once, it didn’t just breeze past them.

Karina lowered her gaze to her phone, her screen dimming as her thumb stopped moving. Giselle glanced at the mirror briefly, her jaw tightening slightly. Ningning let out a breath and fiddled with her fingernails, eyes unfocused.

Because deep down, they knew. It wasn’t on him. It was on them.

When Winter picked up the intercom call from the front lobby earlier, none of them were even dressed. They were barely awake. They moved slowly, took their time, thinking Harin would eventually come up to rush them — like she always did. That was the routine. That was what they were used to.

But this time was different. They forgot.

Harin walked into the room not long after, quietly stepping past racks of outfits and motioning for one of the stylists. As she passed the girls, Ningning called out from her chair, eyes watching her through the reflection.

“Unnie… where’s Y/N?”

Harin glanced at her through the mirror. “I sent him to go check the stage layout with the venue staff and the other managers. Told him to observe and learn.”

Karina hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, “...You’re not… mad at him, are you?”

Harin stopped near the edge of the vanity row, arms crossed loosely. “Why?”

Ningning, more direct, chimed in before Karina could answer. “Because he was late, right? But unnie, please… don’t be mad at him. He was late because of us. We all woke up late. We didn’t even start getting ready until after he called.” She looked toward Harin earnestly. “We just didn’t think. We thought you’d come upstairs like always…”

But Harin raised a hand gently, stopping her. “I know,” she said. “I figured it out as soon as I saw your hair still damp and your faces half bare when you arrived.”

She didn’t sound angry. But there was something in her tone that wasn’t there earlier. A quiet disappointment — not toward Y/N, but the room in general.

“That’s why I wasn’t mad,” she continued, looking between them. “I wasn’t angry at him. Just… frustrated.”

The room stilled. Even the stylists slowed a little, sensing the shift in the air.

“You all know he’s new. This is his first real day. He barely knows how the system works yet. You didn’t greet him. You didn’t guide him. You didn’t even give him a chance.”

Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it struck.

“Did any of you even say sorry to him when he got to the dorm?” she asked, not accusing — just asking.

No one answered. They didn’t have to. The silence told the story.

“I’m not saying this to guilt you or to make you feel bad,” Harin added after a beat, her voice softening. “But you girls know how hard this job is. You’ve seen managers come and go. You’ve seen the stress. And this one—he’s trying. I can see it.”

She let out a small breath and shook her head. “All I’m asking is—try to meet him halfway. That’s all.”

There was nothing more to say after that.

Harin looked over at Winter, who had just finished her touch-up. She sat with her eyes closed, face unreadable, arms crossed lightly in her lap. She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t even nod.

And that, perhaps, spoke louder than any apology.

The room had settled into a quiet rhythm after Harin’s words. Stylists worked in focused silence, brushing powders and adjusting curls, the earlier mutters dying out beneath a layer of quiet guilt. Though no one said it out loud, Harin’s message lingered like a weight in the air—one they all felt.

Karina sat still under the soft tug of her hair being curled, her eyes lowered to her lap, not her phone. Her thoughts lingered. She didn’t even notice Harin quietly exiting the room again, probably to get back to her chaotic rounds. Instead, Karina found herself thinking about what had been said—and more importantly, what hadn’t.

Y/N hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet, he stood there outside the van that morning, waiting awkwardly, never pressuring them, never raising his voice, not even when Winter brushed past him with barely a glance. That image returned to her now, and it didn’t sit right.

She exhaled slowly, earning a concerned glance from the stylist who thought the curling iron had been too hot. “Sorry,” Karina whispered, offering a polite smile.

Ningning, whose face was half-done beside her, turned slightly. “You okay?”

Karina gave a light nod. “Yeah… just thinking.”

The girls didn’t speak further, but a subtle shift passed between them—less playful, more aware.

Outside, Y/N trailed behind a mid-level stage coordinator and two other junior managers. The girl leading the group was brisk and sharp-tongued, clearly someone who had been under pressure since sunrise. She pointed at marked areas on the stage, barked instructions about schedule slots, entrance timing, exit placement, and emphasized everything twice “in case the newbie gets lost.”

Y/N nodded, took mental notes, nodded again. His old phone was useless for this—no tablet, no fast way to jot things. But he remembered. He had no choice but to remember.

When they were done, the coordinator dismissed them with a quick flick of the wrist. “You—newbie. You stay back and double-check the props by the left wing. Someone forgot to label them.”

Y/N obeyed quietly.

Unbeknownst to him, Karina had finished her makeup early. And with Harin still absent, and no other staff paying attention to her, she stepped out quietly. Maybe she told herself it was for fresh air. Maybe that’s what she believed. But her feet brought her to the stage wing anyway, where muffled voices and soundchecks were underway.

She spotted him crouching by a crate, peeling back a flap of gaffer tape to read a barely legible label. Alone again. Just like earlier in front of the dorm.

Karina hesitated. Something about this felt oddly familiar. The way he worked silently, trying to make himself useful without making himself seen. She could’ve turned back right then—but something kept her rooted.

Instead, she called out softly, “Y/N.”

He looked up, surprised, nearly knocking into the side of the crate. “Oh—Karina-ssi.”

“You don’t have to be so formal,” she said, stepping closer. Her tone wasn’t warm exactly, but there was no ice either. “Just Karina is fine.”

He blinked, then nodded slowly. “Karina.”

A small pause. A technician passed between them, rolling a light stand, the silence filled briefly with the hum of equipment being tested.

“I just wanted to say...” She fidgeted slightly with the cuff of her sleeve. “About earlier... you know, at the dorm—we weren’t ready. Not because of you. It was us. I should’ve said something. So... sorry.”

Y/N straightened a little, caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”

“No, I do,” she said, more firmly. “You’re new. And you still showed up on time, even though no one made it easy for you. That says something.”

Her words were simple, but they landed deeper than she knew.

Y/N smiled faintly, the first real smile of the day that didn’t feel forced. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Karina nodded. She looked like she wanted to say more—but a call echoed from the hallway.

“Karina! Come on! Run-through starts in ten!”

She gave a half-grimace. “Duty calls.”

As she turned to go, she stopped and glanced back. “You’re doing fine, you know. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

And then she was gone.

Y/N remained for a moment, the sound of her footsteps fading behind the curtain. Then he looked back down at the half-labeled crate and let out a small exhale.

It was still a rough day. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a bad one.

The echo of Karina’s footsteps faded behind the curtain, leaving Y/N standing in the semi-dark wing of the stage, half-hidden among crates and coiled cables. He blinked once, then exhaled slowly, grounding himself again. The weight on his chest felt just a little lighter now.

From the stage, a staff call snapped him out of thought.

“Soundcheck starting! Managers, get your artists lined up!”

Y/N stood upright and quickly moved toward the entrance where aespa would be guided onto the stage. He wasn't leading them—he didn’t have that authority yet—but he still needed to be present, helpful, attentive. As always.

A flurry of footsteps approached. The members were being ushered down the corridor by one of the mid-level coordinators. Harin trailed closely behind, clipboard in hand, speaking in a low voice to one of the sound technicians. She caught sight of Y/N and gave him a brief, distracted nod.

The girls were in their stage rehearsal outfits—casual, comfortable, but still styled enough for any surprise behind-the-scenes footage. Karina was among the last to enter, her earlier warmth toward Y/N now folded away behind her usual quiet professionalism.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

As the group gathered on stage, Y/N stood to the side, just outside the visible frame, hands clasped behind his back, observing silently. He noted the mic placements, the subtle handoffs of in-ears and backup packs, the sequence of positioning for each girl.

The soundcheck was efficient, but never rushed. The girls moved through their choreography markers, checking spacing and timing. The audio team adjusted levels mid-performance, nodding between each other with raised thumbs.

Y/N’s eyes tracked every movement—not just of the girls, but the staff around them. Where people stood. Who handed what. Where cables snaked dangerously across the floor. He memorized as much as he could, even as his stomach tightened slightly from hunger he was trying to ignore.

The performance wrapped with a final run of the chorus. The music cut, and the coordinator raised his hand. “Alright, good. Take five—then we’ll prep for the lunch break announcement.”

The girls stepped offstage one by one. Karina passed by Y/N without a glance this time—too focused. Giselle tugged off her in-ear and flexed her neck. Winter said nothing, as usual. Ningning gave Y/N the faintest smile—quick, almost like she didn’t mean to. But it was there.

And then the murmurs started.

Not from the idols. From behind them.

A couple of younger managers had gathered near the equipment cases, whispering low.

“…did you see how Harin was watching him during soundcheck?”

“She always defends him.”

“She never did this with any of us when we were new.”

“Maybe he’s got something on her. Or maybe he’s playing some pathetic act to get sympathy.”

Y/N pretended not to hear it. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t react.

But it was impossible not to hear.

From the far side, the same male staff member who had been curt with him that morning—the one who had sent him off to organize props—stepped closer to Harin, tone quiet but clipped.

“You’ve changed, you know that?”

Harin blinked, caught off guard.

“With the new guy,” the man continued. “You’re hovering. You’re defending him. I’ve never seen you like this with a newbie before. Not even close.”

Harin raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

“He’s using you. I don’t know what story he’s spinning, but you’re eating it up. And now the others are starting to talk.”

She stood still for a moment, then set her clipboard down on the edge of a case, folding her arms. “Let them talk.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You’re seriously going to put your neck out for some kid we barely know?”

Harin didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked briefly across the stage, where Y/N was standing by himself again, checking the side panel curtain like it mattered more than the whispers behind him.

Then she looked back at the staffer. “I’ve been in this job long enough to know when someone’s pretending. And he’s not.”

The man scoffed. “You’re blinded. Sympathy can be a dangerous thing.”

“Or maybe you’re just too used to ignoring people unless they’re useful,” she shot back, her voice low but sharp.

The tension buzzed between them like static.

A radio cracked to life on the belt of one of the assistants. “All right, announce lunch break now—prep the main hall for meals.”

The moment broke. The staffer backed off without another word, but his expression made it clear this wasn’t the last of it.

Meanwhile, Harin picked up her clipboard again and gave a signal to a PA.

“Let’s move. Lunch break starting now.”

And as the announcement echoed through the backstage hall, Y/N quietly began to fade into the background again—unaware of what had just been said, or how the gossip about him was starting to spread.

The energy backstage had mellowed into a rare lull as the staff finally called for a lunch break. The soundcheck had gone smoothly enough—no major hitches, no complaints from the sound team. With the stage cleared and the schedule briefly paused, the usual flurry of movement shifted into a different rhythm: one filled with the scent of packed meals and the soft rustle of convenience store bags.

Laughter echoed from one corner where some of the crew had already settled into a cluster, digging into boxed lunches. Others wandered toward the catering table or found quiet spots to eat alone.

Somewhere amidst the bustle, Y/N remained unseen.

Inside a dim corridor near the equipment loading area, Y/N crouched beside a stack of vinyl storage cases. His shirt clung slightly to his back with sweat, and the tips of his fingers were sticky from old masking tape. The mid-level staff member—the one who had snapped at him before—had approached him just before the break with a clipboard in hand and a tight voice.

“Label those prop bins. They’re a mess. No one logged what’s inside. Should’ve been done earlier, but since you’ve got free hands…”

The man hadn’t said it was lunchtime. Y/N, eager not to disappoint anyone again—especially after the tension earlier—had simply nodded and gone straight to work.

He peeled, logged, re-taped, and rearranged crates under dim fluorescent lights, too focused to notice how quiet the hallways had become.

Back in the main green room, aespa had gathered with their stylists and a few younger managers, food containers opened before them. Karina sat cross-legged beside Winter, lazily sipping cold soup through a straw while occasionally poking her rice with chopsticks. Across from them, Ningning flipped open her sandwich wrap and took a big bite, cheeks full as she chewed with closed eyes like she was in paradise.

Only Giselle glanced up, then looked around.

“Huh?” she said, swallowing quickly. “Where’s Y/N?”

Karina blinked and sat up straighter. “He’s not eating with the others?”

Ningning looked toward the door. “He was here after soundcheck, right? He left with some of the other staff.”

“I think I saw him talking to that grumpy guy with the clipboard again,” Giselle added, brushing crumbs off her hands.

“Maybe he went to the restroom?” Karina suggested.

The group’s eyes slowly shifted to Harin, who sat a few steps away with her own small lunch set balanced on her lap. She looked up mid-chew, surprised.

“I didn’t assign him anything,” she said after swallowing. “Last task I gave him was… maybe ten, fifteen minutes before the break got announced.”

Karina frowned. “So you haven’t seen him either?”

“No.” Harin closed her food container slowly. “I just assumed he was on a break like the rest of us.”

The girls exchanged glances, a quiet unease settling between them. The room, previously light with the buzz of conversation, seemed to cool slightly.

“…Did he get lost?” Ningning asked, half-joking. “Or maybe he’s asleep somewhere?”

Karina wasn’t smiling. “He doesn’t seem like the type to just wander off.”

Minutes passed. The food was nearly finished. Makeup artists began packing up their kits again. Stylists rose to check hair settings and mic placements. The break would end soon.

But Y/N still hadn’t appeared.

The energy backstage had mellowed into a rare lull as the staff finally called for a lunch break. The soundcheck had gone smoothly enough—no major hitches, no complaints from the sound team. With the stage cleared and the schedule briefly paused, the usual flurry of movement shifted into a different rhythm: one filled with the scent of packed meals and the soft rustle of convenience store bags.

Laughter echoed from one corner where some of the crew had already settled into a cluster, digging into boxed lunches. Others wandered toward the catering table or found quiet spots to eat alone.

Somewhere amidst the bustle, Y/N remained unseen.

Inside a dim corridor near the equipment loading area, Y/N crouched beside a stack of vinyl storage cases. His shirt clung slightly to his back with sweat, and the tips of his fingers were sticky from old masking tape. The mid-level staff member—the one who had snapped at him before—had approached him just before the break with a clipboard in hand and a tight voice.

“Label those prop bins. They’re a mess. No one logged what’s inside. Should’ve been done earlier, but since you’ve got free hands…”

The man hadn’t said it was lunchtime. Y/N, eager not to disappoint anyone again—especially after the tension earlier—had simply nodded and gone straight to work.

He peeled, logged, re-taped, and rearranged crates under dim fluorescent lights, too focused to notice how quiet the hallways had become.

Back in the main green room, aespa had gathered with their stylists and a few younger managers, food containers opened before them. Karina sat cross-legged beside Winter, lazily sipping cold soup through a straw while occasionally poking her rice with chopsticks. Across from them, Ningning flipped open her sandwich wrap and took a big bite, cheeks full as she chewed with closed eyes like she was in paradise.

Only Giselle glanced up, then looked around.

“Huh?” she said, swallowing quickly. “Where’s Y/N?”

Karina blinked and sat up straighter. “He’s not eating with the others?”

Ningning looked toward the door. “He was here after soundcheck, right? He left with some of the other staff.”

“I think I saw him talking to that grumpy guy with the clipboard again,” Giselle added, brushing crumbs off her hands.

“Maybe he went to the restroom?” Karina suggested.

The group’s eyes slowly shifted to Harin, who sat a few steps away with her own small lunch set balanced on her lap. She looked up mid-chew, surprised.

“I didn’t assign him anything,” she said after swallowing. “Last task I gave him was… maybe ten, fifteen minutes before the break got announced.”

Karina frowned. “So you haven’t seen him either?”

“No.” Harin closed her food container slowly. “I just assumed he was on a break like the rest of us.”

The girls exchanged glances, a quiet unease settling between them. The room, previously light with the buzz of conversation, seemed to cool slightly.

“…Did he get lost?” Ningning asked, half-joking. “Or maybe he’s asleep somewhere?”

Karina wasn’t smiling. “He doesn’t seem like the type to just wander off.”

Minutes passed. The food was nearly finished. Makeup artists began packing up their kits again. Stylists rose to check hair settings and mic placements. The break would end soon.

But Y/N still hadn’t appeared.

The lunch break ended with a quiet chime echoing down the hallway speakers. Stylists and managers returned to their positions with clipboards and curling irons in hand. Harin, ever punctual, clapped lightly to get the girls’ attention.

“Alright,” she called. “We’re back on the clock. Quick prep, and then let’s head down for the first recording.”

The members rose one by one, brushing off crumbs and stretching lightly. As Karina disappeared into the wardrobe corner, Ningning stood and whispered to Giselle, “I’ll be back. Just gonna hit the restroom real quick.”

She slipped out before anyone responded, the hallway air cooler and quieter now that it was mostly empty. She rubbed her arms lightly as she walked—something about the building always gave her the chills. As she turned a corner near one of the side corridors, she stopped mid-step.

There he was.

Y/N emerged from the far end, stepping out from a storage area with a folded checklist in his hand and a faint layer of sweat clinging to his temple. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, and though he didn’t look disoriented, there was something about his expression—still, quiet, and just a little too calm—that made her pause.

He didn’t even look surprised to see her.

“Hey,” he said, almost relieved. “Where are you heading?”

Ningning blinked. “Oh, restroom. Just for a bit.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Ah. That makes sense.” Then, as if realizing something, he added, “By the way… you and the other girls—and the staff, too—you’ve all had lunch already, right?”

Ningning tilted her head, puzzled. “Yeah, we just finished. Everyone else is getting ready again.”

He offered a faint smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “So… it is break time now, right?”

There was a beat of silence.

Ningning’s smile faltered, her expression stiffening. “Um… actually… the break just ended.”

Y/N blinked. “Really?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “We’re all heading back now. Harin-unnie already called us.”

He didn’t say anything at first, eyes dropping slightly as if trying to process the timing. “…Oh. I thought… I thought it was just starting.” He let out a small laugh, dry and brief. “Bad luck, I guess.”

Ningning took a small step forward, glancing behind him. “Where were you just now?”

He shrugged lightly. “Just had something to finish up.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of something?”

“…A staff member asked me to label and sort some props.” He finally admitted it, voice low but not bitter. “One of the guys who was in the green room earlier. Tall. Square jaw. Kind of talks like he’s always half-bothered.”

Ningning’s face hardened. She knew who he meant.

“He told you to do that during lunch?” she asked.

Y/N shook his head slowly. “Didn’t say anything about lunch. Just handed me the task and walked off. I figured I’d eat after.”

Ningning didn’t answer at first. She felt a tiny knot form in her chest—guilt, annoyance, and a hint of protectiveness all rolled together.

She looked away. “Some of them… They’re not great with newbies.”

Y/N waved it off with a small smile. “It’s fine. Not the worst thing to miss.”

She didn’t agree, but didn’t argue either.

Just as he was about to say something else, Ningning turned back toward the restroom and muttered, “Wait—can you stay here for a sec? Just until I’m done?”

He blinked. “Uh, sure. Something wrong?”

She gave a sheepish laugh. “Nothing big. Just… kinda realized I walked here alone. And I don’t like the vibe of these halls.”

He smiled again, this time more warmly. “Got it. I’ll be here.”

She hurried to the restroom around the corner, and a few minutes later returned, adjusting her jacket. He straightened up when he saw her.

“All good?”

She nodded, then added more softly, “Thanks for waiting.”

They started walking back down the hallway side by side. The silence felt a little heavier this time, not awkward—but thoughtful.

After a minute, Ningning asked, “Hey… when that staff gave you the task, you really didn’t know it was lunchtime?”

He looked at her, then shook his head.

“No one told me. I guess I should’ve asked.”

She didn’t know what to say. Something about the way he said it—so calm, so used to it—made her feel even worse.

Ningning didn’t speak again until they reached the door to the green room. She touched the handle, then glanced back at him.

“Next time,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “just come eat with us. Even if someone tells you to do something.”

He looked surprised, but nodded quietly.

The door opened. The chatter inside greeted them again.

The moment Ningning and Y/N stepped back into the green room, the warmth and noise washed over them again—hairdryers whirring, stylists moving briskly, makeup brushes tapping palettes. Ningning turned to him briefly and gave a small, sincere smile.

“Thanks for waiting.”

Then she was off, heading straight to the makeup corner without another word, joining Karina and Giselle, who were already touching up their faces under bright mirror lights.

Y/N lingered by the door, hands awkwardly tucked into his sides as he scanned the room. Every staff member seemed locked into a rhythm—adjusting wires, carrying equipment, ticking off notes on laminated sheets. No one needed him at the moment.

But his throat was dry. Scratchy, even. The subtle dehydration from skipping lunch and working through break had finally caught up to him.

He looked around, careful not to draw attention. A few people held paper cups or half-empty bottles. Maybe there was a box somewhere—some shared supply.

There. Near the wall, beside the rolling garment racks. A familiar cardboard box with the label for mineral water printed on the side.

He moved casually, as if he had a purpose—like he belonged in the flow of things. Kneeling beside the box, he pulled the flaps open.

Empty.

His chest sank slightly. He let out a quiet breath, but didn't let frustration show on his face. He scanned again—spotting a lone bottle left on a makeup station nearby. He stepped toward it instinctively, but before his hand could even reach, one of the hair stylists picked it up and took a sip.

Gone again.

Before he could think of what to try next, a sharp voice cut through the room.

“Y/N!”

He turned quickly. One of the assistant stage directors gestured toward him with a clipboard.

“Bring the girls to the stage. We’re setting up now.”

Y/N straightened, masking the dryness in his throat behind a professional nod. “Yes, right away.”

He moved toward the members, who were now all standing, grouped together and nearly stage-ready. Stylists gave them final checks—fluffing skirts, adjusting earrings, re-securing mic packs.

He stopped a few steps away, eyes lingering for a second too long.

The four of them stood glowing beneath the fluorescents—Karina adjusting her earring, Winter rolling her neck to loosen tension, Giselle checking her in-ears, Ningning fixing the fold of her top. Polished, poised, radiant.

Y/N blinked, snapping himself back.

Karina noticed him and called out, “Where did you go?”

He offered a light smile. “Just had some stuff to do.”

She nodded, too busy with her earring to press further.

He cleared his throat gently. “Everyone ready?”

A round of soft yeahs followed.

“Alright,” he said, voice stronger now despite the dryness, “let’s head to the stage.”

The five of them moved together—him walking just slightly behind, trying not to think too much about the thirst or the weight still sitting quietly in his chest.

The muffled buzz of the crowd echoed faintly through the thick curtains as aespa arrived at the backstage area. Without needing direction, the girls made their way toward the mic station, where a crew of sound techs stood ready to strap on their transmitters and fit in-ears.

Y/N stopped a few steps behind them, letting them move ahead. They were used to this—every movement, every adjustment, already routine.

He took a small breath and called out just loud enough to carry over the hum of backstage voices, “Good luck out there.”

His voice wasn’t forceful, but it was steady.

Giselle turned and flashed him a grin. Ningning raised her hand in a quiet wave. Karina glanced over her shoulder and gave a small, grateful smile.

Winter didn’t turn.

But she paused.

Just slightly—an imperceptible beat that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. Then she kept walking, her posture rigid, straight into the hands of the mic tech.

Y/N lingered for a second, watching them all from behind.

They looked composed. Effortlessly professional. And for a moment, he didn’t feel like he belonged in that frame. Not really.

He pulled himself away from the thought and turned toward the side, spotting Harin speaking with one of the stage crew managers.

She was halfway through gesturing at a clipboard when he approached. As he stepped beside her, her eyes darted toward him, a flicker of surprise lighting up her expression.

“Hey—where were you?” she asked, concern tucked beneath her professionalism. “You disappeared during the lunch break.”

Y/N hesitated. The truth sat on the tip of his tongue, bitter and unspoken. He didn’t want to cause more tension—didn’t want her to go digging into the way certain staff had treated him, especially after everything earlier.

“I had a task to finish,” he said carefully, trying to sound offhand. “It was something I forgot about from earlier. Figured I’d squeeze it in during the break.”

Harin’s eyebrows scrunched, confused. “But I didn’t give you anything after the lighting notes, and that was—what, forty minutes before lunch?”

Y/N nodded, not missing a beat. “Yeah. That’s the one. I just remembered a part I didn’t do properly, so I went back to fix it.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, unconvinced, but didn’t press.

Before she could say more, the low thrum of music kicked in from the stage.

The screen beside them came to life with a live feed from the main camera, catching the opening seconds of aespa's intro sequence.

“Ah—we’ll talk later,” she said, attention shifting to the monitor. “Go standby by the right wing in case they need anything.”

Y/N nodded and stepped aside, quietly.

As the girls appeared onscreen, all synchronized movement and confidence, he stood just behind the curtain—unseen, unnoticed, and exactly where he was expected to be.

The crowd’s cheers still echoed faintly behind the stage curtains as aespa took their final bows and waved goodbye to the sea of fans. The energy was electric—buzzing through the air like a current that refused to die down.

As they walked offstage, the girls immediately unhooked their mics, handing them back to the sound crew with practiced motions. Sweat clung to their temples, but their expressions held that glow only performers wore after a successful stage.

Y/N stood a few steps back, watching them with quiet awe. The lights, the synchronized movements, the command they had over the stage—it wasn’t just skill. It was presence.

He didn’t realize how long he had been staring until a light nudge on his arm pulled him back.

“Come on,” Harin said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Green room.”

Y/N blinked. “Right. Sorry.” As they walked, he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Harin to catch: “They really are something else…”

She didn’t say anything, but he noticed the way her smile deepened.

When they reached the green room, the energy changed immediately. Staff members swarmed in, showering the girls with congratulations and praise.

“That was amazing out there.”

“You killed it!”

“Seriously—best stage of the night.”

The girls offered polite bows and tired smiles, eventually retreating to the comfort of the couches like it was a finish line they’d been racing toward all day. Within seconds, Ningning had kicked off her shoes, Winter had slumped into a cushion, and Giselle was already asking for her phone.

Karina let herself melt into the corner seat, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath since before the opening VCR.

Y/N turned to Harin, lowering his voice. “Is there anything else for now?”

“Nothing for the next twenty minutes,” she replied, checking her watch. “After that, the girls will prep for the post-show segment.”

He gave a quick nod. “Alright. I’ll head to the restroom real quick.”

“Don’t vanish again,” Harin added with a light but knowing tone.

Y/N gave a faint smile and slipped out of the room.

The restroom hallway was cooler, quieter—an escape from the chaos. Y/N took care of what he needed to, but as he exited the stall and walked toward the sink, something in his body wavered. His step faltered near the entrance. The walls felt like they tilted for a second, and he reached out, steadying himself on the corner.

A soft breath escaped his lips.

Lightheaded… again. His muscles ached. His arms were sore. His whole body felt like it had been running on fumes since morning.

He leaned against the cold tile for a moment, closing his eyes and drawing in a slow, measured breath. The silence in this place—it wasn’t peaceful, but it was the closest thing to calm he’d had all day.

When the spell finally passed, he pushed himself off the wall and turned back toward the green room.

But something caught his eye.

Down the hallway, near the emergency exit, a small stainless-steel drinking fountain stood out like a beacon. He walked toward it—slow, hesitant steps at first, as if it might vanish if he moved too fast.

He pressed the button. The thin arc of water rose. No hesitation—he leaned down and drank.

The water was lukewarm. Metallic. Not ideal.

But to him, it tasted like heaven.

He closed his eyes as he drank—just for a few seconds.

Not because he was tired, or dehydrated, or overworked.

But because in this moment, in this quiet hallway with no one watching, it felt like the only place in the world he was allowed to exhale.

The last sip of water lingered on his tongue, and for a moment, Y/N just stood there—one hand still resting on the cool metal of the fountain. A low hum buzzed through the hallway lights above him, paired only with the faintest sounds of distant movement.

With a soft breath, he straightened up. Time to head back.

Just as he turned, a soft echo of footsteps tapped against the tile from the other end of the hallway.

He froze.

Rounding the corner came Winter—alone, with her phone in hand, her eyes briefly glancing up as their paths crossed.

She paused, just for a moment.

Y/N blinked. “Oh—uh, hey.”

Winter didn’t answer. She gave a small, almost unreadable smile, and nodded once before walking right past him, her steps quiet and unfazed.

As she moved by, the faint scent of something floral brushed past—something clean and faintly familiar, maybe her perfume or a lingering trace from their earlier prep.

He turned slightly, watching her walk away. The moment was brief, but oddly hollow.

There was no greeting, no comment—no usual spark in her expression.

He didn’t take offense.

Just confusion.

Maybe she was distracted. Maybe something was on her mind.

He let out a short breath through his nose, gave a slight shrug to no one in particular, and started his way back toward the green room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor behind her.

—

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

Y/N stepped into the green room, where the energy had shifted entirely. The earlier buzz was gone. In its place was the quiet fatigue that always came after a long stage — the girls were scattered around the space, slipping off their earpieces, sipping from water bottles, softly chatting among themselves in fragments too gentle to catch.

No one looked his way.

He moved to the side and busied himself with anything he could find — folding discarded towels, coiling mic cables, lining up water bottles that were already half empty. His hands moved automatically, but his mind still lingered on Winter’s awkward reaction. Her avoidance. The look in her eyes when he tried to speak.

From across the room, Karina glanced at him through the mirror.

He caught the look but pretended not to. Her expression was unreadable anyway—half-blank, half-something-else. He busied himself checking if their backup batteries were packed.

“Y/N,” came Harin’s voice from behind him, quiet enough that it didn’t startle. “Van’s ready.”

He turned toward her. “All right.”

One by one, the girls began gathering their things. Light bags slung over shoulders. Phones checked. Water bottles capped.

Karina was the first to rise. She didn’t say a word but gave a small stretch and yawn as she walked past Y/N, her eyes flickering in his direction—brief, quick, then gone.

Giselle followed next, mumbling something in English under her breath, too fast to catch.

Ningning, last to get up, tugged on Winter’s sleeve. “Unnie, let’s go.”

Winter barely nodded, then rose and quietly trailed behind the others. She passed by Y/N without a word. No glare, no smile. Just… blank.

Y/N watched their backs as they filed out, his lips parting slightly like he was about to say something—maybe “Good job again,” or “Take care,” or maybe just “Bye”—but the moment passed. The words stuck.

He let out a small breath and reached for the door.

Harin gave him a light nudge on the arm. “You did well. Not perfect,” she said, teasing softly, “but well.”

Y/N smiled, a little unsure. “Thanks…”

As they stepped into the hallway and the green room door clicked shut behind them, the hum of noise from the venue was quieter now—more distant. The world was calming down.

—

The van hummed quietly as Karina and Winter were the first to arrive. Karina slid into the seat, tired but still alert. She gazed out the window for a moment before her eyes drifted over to Winter, who was hunched over her phone, typing away with a quick rhythm, clearly focused on something or someone.

Karina let out a soft sigh, her mind drifting back to today—and yesterday. She hadn’t really gotten the chance to properly assess everything, the way she'd acted around Y/N. There had been some awkwardness, sure. A bit of shyness, maybe even hesitation. But... it wasn’t like her to be so distant. She’d tried to talk to him, slowly breaking down the barrier, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was still off between him and the rest of them.

She’d known Winter for years. Since their trainee days, in fact. Winter had always been hard to read, but Karina knew her better than anyone. And now, she could tell there was something bothering Winter about Y/N.

Karina shifted in her seat, her eyes scanning Winter carefully before calling out her name softly.

“Winter.”

Winter glanced up from her phone, her gaze meeting Karina’s for the first time in a while. There was something guarded in her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

“What do you think of the new manager?” Karina asked, her voice careful, as if testing the waters. “Y/N, I mean.”

Winter was silent for a moment, her eyes shifting towards her feet. She hesitated, as if weighing her words before responding, her tone flat. “Hmm... he’s... okay, I think. I don’t know.”

Karina raised an eyebrow, a slight frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Winter’s response wasn’t exactly surprising, but it was definitely... vague. “That’s it?” Karina asked, her curiosity piqued. She had expected a little more than that.

Winter shrugged her shoulders, a nonchalant gesture that almost felt like a barrier. “I don’t really care, to be honest.”

The casualness of Winter’s tone struck Karina, but she wasn’t done yet. There had to be more to it. Something deeper. She leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Is something wrong with him? Like... is he bothering you or anyone else?”

Winter released a deep sigh, her eyes dropping to the floor. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” she murmured, the words coming out slower now. “Don’t you feel weird about him? I mean... the way he does his work, it feels like he doesn’t even have the qualifications. Like he’s just... faking it. And the way he acts—don’t you think he’s trying to gain sympathy, like he’s looking for pity from all of us?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. Karina froze, stunned by the intensity of Winter’s confession. Her brow furrowed as she tried to process it. “What... what do you mean by that?” Karina asked, her voice a little shaky, not quite sure how to react.

Winter flinched slightly, as if realizing the weight of what she had said. Her shoulders tensed, and she quickly turned away, looking out the window. “Nev—never mind...” she murmured, her voice trailing off. “Forget what I said. I... I was just tired, okay?”

Karina stared at Winter, unsure of how to respond. The words that had come from Winter’s mouth seemed out of place—too raw, too blunt. Karina wanted to press her, to ask for clarification, but the moment was gone, replaced by the quiet hum of the van.

She opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by the sound of the others arriving. Ningning and Giselle were the first to step out of the building, followed by Y/N and Harin. Winter, still silent, quickly readjusted in her seat, her posture stiff as if trying to retreat into herself.

Karina swallowed her words, her thoughts still swirling. But she let it go—for now.

—

On the way to the apartment, the van hummed quietly as Y/N drove, the rhythmic sound of the engine filling the silence between them. The city lights flickered past the windows, casting soft glows against the dark sky.

Y/N glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing the girls relaxing, some still catching their breath from the performance, others silently scrolling through their phones. He cleared his throat lightly, attempting to ease the quiet. "You girls tired? I mean, I’d guess that’s an obvious answer," he said with a small chuckle.

Karina, who had been looking out the window, turned her head toward him. "I mean... it's been a long day. But we’ll survive. You look more tired than us, though," she teased lightly.

Y/N gave a small, modest smile. "It's nothing, really. Just... a new job," he replied, steering the van through another intersection. "I’ll get used to it."

Giselle, who had been staring out of the window, suddenly shifted in her seat and looked up, catching Y/N’s eye through the rearview mirror. "How’s the first day going for you?" she asked, her voice playful but with a hint of curiosity.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, thinking about the chaos of the day, the mix of excitement and nerves. "It’s... overwhelming, but in a good way, I guess? I didn’t think managing idols would be so... chaotic," he said with a half-smile, trying to make light of the stress.

Giselle snorted softly, clearly amused. "Welcome to our world," she said, her tone light, though there was a trace of fondness in her voice. "We’re full of surprises."

Y/N laughed lightly, a bit self-conscious. "I can already tell. But it’s good. I’ll get the hang of it. If I don’t, you guys can just give me a call, right?"

Karina chuckled at that. "Yeah, we’ll give you some pointers. At least we know you're trying. A lot of other managers... not so much," she added, her voice lighter.

Y/N appreciated the hint of encouragement, though he wasn’t sure if she was joking or serious. "I’ll try not to disappoint, then."

There was a brief pause before Giselle added with a mischievous grin, "Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you keep up. If not, we might have to tie a leash on you."

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at the idea, shaking his head. "I think I’ll be fine without the leash."

Karina snickered from the front. "We’ll see about that. We move fast, you know."

Y/N gave a small chuckle, trying to match her teasing tone. "I’ll try my best to keep up. No leash necessary."

The conversation seemed to settle into an easier rhythm after that. The mood was lighter now, but still tentative, as if they were all testing the waters, trying to find a balance between being professional and easing into a more casual camaraderie. It wasn’t quite there yet, but it was a start.

As the city passed by and the van rolled closer to the apartment, the conversation trailed off, but the atmosphere felt a little less stiff. It wasn’t the same kind of ease that came with close friends, but it was a small step—a crack in the ice between them.

Y/N just smiled quietly to himself, grateful for the small, unexpected moments of connection.

Arriving at the dorm, the van slowly rolled into the parking lot, the lights from the building casting a welcoming glow. Y/N parked the van and stepped out, sliding open the door for the girls. One by one, they hopped out, offering polite bows toward him.

"You did well today," Karina said with a smile, her tone light but sincere.

Y/N gave a small chuckle, bowing his head slightly in return. "Thanks. I’ll do my best."

Karina added with a teasing grin, "Yeah. Keep it up, and maybe you can become the leader of all the staff here."

Y/N chuckled and shook his head. "I don’t think I’m quite ready for that level yet."

He gave another bow, the small gesture showing his appreciation for their words. "Have a good rest and make sure to rest properly. Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be worse... or better... I don’t look at your schedule, so don’t believe everything I say."

The girls chuckled in response, the playful exchange easing the tension of the day.

Winter was the last to hop off, but she paused at the door. Y/N noticed her stop, her gaze fixed for a moment before she seemed to snap out of it and look at him.

"Need something?" he asked, a slight curiosity in his voice.

Winter blinked, as if coming out of a trance, then shook her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "No, it’s nothing," she muttered, bowing her head lightly. "Good night," she said before turning and heading toward the building.

The other girls waved goodnight to Harin as they made their way to the lobby, and Harin waved back, a soft smile on her face.

Y/N closed the van door and, just as he was about to slide into the driver’s seat, a voice suddenly called out to him.

"Y/N!" Ningning’s voice rang out, and he turned to see her speed-walking back toward him, her expression a little frantic. She rummaged through her bag before pulling something out.

He raised an eyebrow. "What’s this?"

Without missing a beat, Ningning handed him the object—a chocolate bar. "Here," she said with a small, flat tone. "It’s a chocolate bar. Duh."

Y/N looked at the chocolate bar, a bit taken aback. "I know it’s a chocolate bar," he replied, trying to make sense of her sudden gesture. "But... what’s this supposed to mean?"

Ningning grinned at him, a playful gleam in her eyes. "You didn’t eat yet, right? I know it’s not much, and it probably won’t even satiate your hunger, but take this as a reward for your good job today."

Y/N was caught off guard by her kindness, his eyes softening slightly. He opened his mouth to say something, but words caught in his throat for a moment. "Wow... I mean... thank you..."

He took the chocolate bar from her hand, still a little stunned by the gesture.

"You really don’t have to do this," he stammered. "I literally did nothing on my first job, just... went here and there."

Ningning shook her head, her smile still warm. "Don’t sell yourself short," she said with a hint of seriousness in her voice. "I’m good at reading people. And I can tell you’re pretty rare. A genuine guy."

Y/N was even more surprised by her words, his heart feeling a little lighter. "Thank you... again..."

There was a brief pause, and he looked at her with a small, sincere smile. "I’ll make sure to repay you for this."

Ningning’s eyes sparkled as she smiled back at him. "Repay by keeping up your good performance. Like today."

Y/N chuckled softly, nodding. "I’ll do my best. Promise."

"You should get going," Y/N said with a gentle, caring tone. "You’re tired. You need a really good rest. Make sure to sleep well."

Y/N nodded, his smile widening. "You too, Y/N."

With one last smile, Ningning waved goodbye, her small figure turning as she made her way toward the building, her footsteps light and quick. Y/N watched her for a moment before he climbed into the van, the weight of the day finally settling in. As he started the engine, he felt a little bit lighter, a little less out of place.

The streets were quieter now, the city winding down under the cloak of late night. The inside of the van was dim, the dashboard glowing faintly as Y/N kept both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the navigation. Harin sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling lazily through her phone, but she occasionally glanced his way.

“You did well today,” she said finally, her voice calm but sincere.

Y/N gave a small smile, the fatigue behind it impossible to hide. “Thanks. Honestly, I’m just glad I didn’t crash the van or misplace anyone.”

Harin smirked. “You’re aiming for survival, not excellence?”

“Let’s be real,” he muttered, “it’s day one. Survival is excellence.”

She let out a small laugh. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause before she asked, “What did you think of the girls?”

Y/N’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. “They were… nice. Actually nicer than I expected. But maybe that’s just them being polite. I mean, it’s not like I did anything to earn their trust yet.”

Harin looked at him for a moment. “You really think they’re just being polite?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged lightly, eyes still on the road. “Maybe they’re just trying to be nice to the new guy. Or maybe they feel sorry for me or something.”

“If that were the case,” she said, “it’d still be impressive. I’ve seen staff go months without the girls saying more than the bare minimum to them. But today? Karina joked with you. Giselle bantered. Winter seemed unusually soft. And Ningning…” Harin tilted her head. “She gave you chocolate, didn’t she?”

Y/N glanced at her, caught off guard. “How’d you—”

“I have eyes,” she said casually. “I saw her run back to you.”

He went quiet.

“I’m not saying they love you already,” she added, “but this is a better start than most people ever get. Don’t downplay that.”

A moment passed before Y/N nodded, quietly taking her words in. He didn’t know what it meant yet, but hearing it from someone who knew them well… it mattered.

Eventually, they pulled into the company’s underground garage. Y/N parked the van slowly, making sure it was perfectly aligned before cutting the engine. The hum died down, replaced by a still silence. He leaned back in his seat, letting out a long breath. Every part of him ached.

Harin reached for her bag but paused. “Hey, are you available tomorrow?”

He blinked, as if remembering something. “Ah—wait.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded, slightly crumpled sheet of paper. “My class schedule. For this semester.”

She took it, unfolding it under the overhead light of the van. Her eyes scanned the page quickly, brow furrowing slightly. “You still haven’t gotten the phone fixed?”

He gave a sheepish nod, scratching the back of his neck. “I… haven’t had the chance. Doesn’t even turn on anymore.” His hand hovered over his jacket pocket for a beat, then dropped. “I just keep it around out of habit. Guess I’m too used to it.”

She let out a breath, not angry, but clearly troubled. “Y/N… I know you told me about this yesterday. But today really proved it’s a serious issue. There were so many moments when I needed to reach you, and I just couldn’t. It wasn’t just inconvenient—it was dangerous. What if something had gone wrong with the girls and I couldn’t get through to you?”

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to figure something out. Maybe find a second-hand one somewhere, or... I don’t know.”

“Just… don’t put it off too long,” she said, folding the schedule and tucking it into her bag. “I understand you’re in a tough spot. But in this job, communication isn’t optional. It’s survival.”

Her eyes paused at the schedule. “So you’re not available at all for the next two days?”

He nodded. “They’re my worst days. Completely packed. After that, I have afternoon classes. Mornings and evenings should be okay.”

Harin sighed softly. “It’s not ideal, especially this early. Evaluation-wise… it might count against you.”

“I understand,” he replied, voice quiet but firm. “I’ll do better when I’m back.”

She folded the schedule again and tucked it into her bag. “Then rest up. And fix that phone, Y/N. Trust me—it’s gonna be a nightmare for you if you don’t.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Thanks… for today. For guiding me through everything.”

She nodded and gave a short wave before walking off.

The van now empty, Y/N climbed out and started making his way to the nearest bus stop. The city had grown colder in the hours since sunset, and the streets were mostly deserted except for the occasional passing car or couple walking home. The weight in his body had finally caught up with him. His shoulders sagged, legs slightly heavy with each step.

On the bus, he sat near the window, leaning his head against the cold glass. His eyes drifted to the passing buildings and glowing storefronts, but he wasn’t really looking. His mind kept rewinding the day in pieces—first meeting Harin, the silent stares from the girls at the start, the mess of navigating his role, the small laughs they shared in the van, and finally, Ningning’s quiet act of kindness.

That chocolate bar still sat in his bag.

He hadn’t eaten anything all day. He hadn’t even realized it until now—his stomach tight and hollow, the kind of hunger that made everything feel dull.

When the bus reached the university stop, he stepped out and walked past the main gate. His dorm was only a short walk away, but he found himself slowing near the convenience store at the corner. The windows glowed warmly. Inside, shelves lined with ramen cups and triangle kimbap looked like little luxuries.

A college student inside was slurping noodles at the table, face flushed from warmth. It smelled good even from here.

Y/N stood outside the door, unmoving.

It would be so easy. Just a quick tap of his card. Just one meal.

But he shook his head.

He remembered the promise he made to himself—after that phone call with his mother a few nights ago, when he realized how bad things were getting. The scholarship allowance wasn’t much, but it had to stretch. If he added his salary on top and saved every single won, there was a chance—just maybe—that he could help fund his father’s surgery.

And to do that, there were no luxuries allowed.

He had decided: only two meals a week. The bare minimum. Ramen if needed, crackers if lucky. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t even smart. But it was the only way he could think of to fight back against how powerless he felt.

If his father had once gone without meals to feed him, then this—this was nothing.

He turned away from the store and kept walking, heart heavy but determined.

Back in his dorm, he didn’t bother turning the lights on. He tossed his bag on the chair, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed face-first onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him. His stomach growled again, louder this time, but he didn’t flinch.

He reached toward the desk, hand brushing around until his fingers landed on something smooth and wrapped in thin foil.

The chocolate bar.

He sat up slowly, holding it in his hands.

A stupid little thing.

But to him, it wasn’t just chocolate. It was something he hadn’t expected—kindness, maybe. Recognition. A small reward that told him maybe he wasn’t invisible.

He unwrapped it carefully and took a bite. It was sweet, cheap, slightly melted from the day—but it tasted like a small victory.

He smiled, the first real one of the night, without even realizing it.

Maybe it was a sign.

Maybe not.

But right now, it was enough.

...

To be continued...

Notes:

Thank you once again for spending your time to read my story. 

This is probably the longest chapter that I have wrote so far, since I feel like I want to fit everything here. But hey, it kinda work (maybe).

And finally... Y/N finally met the girls...yay..

This chapter honestly, is more to task heavy chapter (dont know if I describe it correctly), some people may like it, some people may not.

But hey, we finally got some Aespa interactions. I know its not much, but it is a start. So more to come in the future.

Thank you once again for all of your likes, votes, reblog, and the comments. It is highly appreciated.

See you in the next chapter.

[inkformyblood]

punctual delays (MoShang, SVSSS)

If Shang Qinghua would rewrite the world again, he wouldn’t bother including An Ding Peak. It felt necessary the first time around, an easy way to silence the literary course critic on his shoulder who squeaked through the early chapter doubts about the logistics of things, where did the peaks get their food, general safeguarding practices around flying swords, a generic catch-all for all the mundane day-to-day workings, an overworked and underappreciated department. Jokes on him.

“—and that’s not even factoring in the claim made by Qiang Xia  about the state of her stock. If she decides to stop trading with us and renegotiate then we can expect an increase of forty percent.” Zhì Huì makes another lap of Shang Qinghua’s office, steps over the same pile of reports that she had originally walked around, and returns to her haunt at his other shoulder. “What do you think?”

Shang Qinghua is on his third day of a headache, his fourth day of sleeping at his desk, and his second favourite threat to his past self for spending hours slouched over a keyboard. He doesn’t answer her immediately, pressing his hands behind his hips and leaning back until something catches and releases, a set of guttural cracks echoing from his spine. Zhì Huì flinches, scowling as she adjusts her grip on the report to better use it as a potential weapon. Clearly been spending too much time around Shen Qingqiu.

“If Qiang Xia wants to fuck around, then she can find out.” Shang Qinghua straightens, turning to meet Zhì Huì’s gaze. She’s one of his better disciples, exactingly blunt with a press of her thumb on the scales and one of the few he can spare to chase Bai Zhan disciples around the peak to try and get them to explain what ‘mission-critical requests’ meant to them and why three packs of fresh rose petals wasn’t it. His curses get a blink and another tally added onto a chart in the disciple quarters, their own personal version of a doomsday clock. Shang Qinghua stands, a wash of static skittering down his leg and he braces one hand on his desk as he turns toward the window. It’s shuttered, a thin band of light slowly creeping across the ceiling towards a dark mark etched into the wood.

Fuck.

Shit.

Okay, it’s fine.

…Fuck.

Shang Qinghua claps his hands together, ignoring the debris tipping off the side of his desk, the uneasy swirl just behind his eyes. He’s spent longer than this crouched in front of his computer screen, bleeding out onto a blank word document for the sake of scraps thrown his way, worse somehow than hopping into a bin to search for his next meal because he is witnessed because of it. 

He has so much to do. Dying hadn’t alleviated the weight of his to-do, only altered it slightly. 

Another glance at his ceiling, sunlight wavering closer to the mark. 

“We have some contracts with the Huang family. It’s not quite the same prospects as Xia, but if we also reach out to Pan’s trading post out on the outskirts—” He wrote this shit, it isn’t insider trading if he created the marketplace in the first place “—as they’ve been wanting to get a foothold.” 

Zhì Huì’s stylus scrawled across the wax tablet at her waist, her tongue clamped between her teeth. She’s barely breathing in case it disturbs the ideas condensing in the air like a storm cloud, a few strands of hair coming loose from the tie at the nape of her neck and sticking to her cheek. 

Another glance at the ceiling. Shang Qinghua is running out of time. He’s worked himself to the bone, balancing the reports cascading over his desk from An Ding peak and every petty power struggle that the merchants want to engage in with the tower of assassination plots and other general dick-measuring that the demons want to try with their king’s, with Shang Qinghua’s king’s, human spy. He’s sick, he’s done. He wants air conditioning and enough caffeine to nuke his stomach and make him regret the life choices he hasn’t even made yet. “Okay. I’m done for the next few hours.” 

Zhì Huì nods once, her gaze flickering between Shang Qinghua and her tablet. He can’t even guess at what she sees as she looks at him; an imposter wearing a stolen shape of his own fucking creation, like seriously, Shang Qinghua, of all his characters, fucking why? 

“Get some sleep, Shizun.” She bows once and leaves the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

Shang Qinghua abandons his desk, his one constant in this shitstorm, and staggers the few steps to his bed, kicking a loose pile of papers out of his way. His king should be arriving soon, his arrival marked on the ceiling after one too many close calls with other disciples or Peak Lords now that he has forced his way through the ranks. It is a sequence they plot their lives around, a singular constant like the moon hanging heavy in the sky, a more constant companion for Shang Qinghua than the sun these days. He’ll sit and wait for his king. Close his eyes for a few minutes.

Just a few. 

There’s a hand in his hair, carefully skirting around the shell of his ear as the person, the man, thigh solid beneath his cheek, woodsmoke clinging to his clothes, carefully works through the tangles he finds. Shang Qinghua shifts, grumbling some nondescript complaint at the slight sting in his scalp, and the man stops. 

Wait.

What?

“My king!” Shang Qinghua yelps, throwing himself upright. It’s a scramble, limbs deadened by his impromptu nap, the desire to just stay where he is like he’s napping beneath blankets with the air conditioning going just because he fucking could, but he’ll never recover from it if he does.

Mobei-Jun watches him carefully. “This king was delayed,” he says, his voice tight. “He apologises for making Qinghua wait.”

The sun slants across the ceiling, several feet from the dark mark. Shang Qinghua doesn’t know how long he’s slept for, he can’t remember the last time he slept that well. “My king, this servant begs your forgiveness for missing the start of our meeting! He never intended to make you wait—“ Shang Qinghua apologises on reflex, his mouth moving and words spilling forth as he studies his king beneath lowered lashes.

There’s a faint flush on Mobei-Jun’s face, anger beneath the surface or the warmth of the Peak, if he had to guess. Shang Qinghua lowers his face to the bedsheets. He’s going to have to change them if he ever wants to sleep again, dammit. 

Still, it was the best sleep he’s had since he woke up in this world, and it’s all because of his king. 

[mikkomacko]

What did Mob Nico and the girls do for reader on Mother's Day?

The sun is barely peeking through the bedroom curtains when you blink your eyes open, immediately expecting to find your husband next to you. It takes a moment for you vision to clear, to make out the fact that you can see the room around the big pair of brown eyes staring back at you.

Brown eyes that match Nico’s but don’t belong to him.

“Hi,” you whisper, a lazy smile lifting your lips at the baby girl sitting in front of you amongst the crumpled sheets. “How’d you get here, huh?”

The question is answered by another pair of brown eyes coming into view, Nico plopping Luna onto the mattress alongside her sister. She curls forward, chubby little baby hands reaching for your face and you laugh, shifting onto your back and scooping her up to sit her on your stomach.

Nico is standing at the edge of the bed, still in just a pair of shorts and his hair messy. Those dark eyes his daughters inherited are heavy with sleep but still shine with happiness when you meet his gaze.

“We’re spending the morning with Mama, huh?” He explains, kneeing his way back onto the bed until he’s sitting by your hip. Bella reaches for him, slurring a happy noise at him and he gently places her on his thigh, her back against his chest so she’s still looking at you.

“Mmm woken up early on Mother’s Day,” you grin, “I’m so lucky!”

Nico rolls his eyes, laughing softly as grabs at your knee through the blankets and squeezes. “The boys will be here soon. Figured you deserved a bit with just your girls before they burn the house down.”

It’s sweet that he thought of that. The boys have alway taken in upon themselves to give you the Mother’s Day special, hovering and yapping around you all day. And while you’d never deny them celebrating with you, they are your boys after all, it is nice to just have a breath with the twins you brought into the world before the crazy gets here.

“Daddy is so smart,” you coo to Bella, taking her little fists in your hands and waving them. “And he’s so sweet huh? Did he wake you up without making you cry?”

You’ve never known what it is but Nico seems to have a magic touch for waking the girls up without creating a tsunami of tantrums. They’re cry and grumble for maybe a moment but as soon as he’s holding them, all is right in the world. Even if they scream at you every time you disturb their naps.

Sitting up on the pillows, you snuggle Luna into your chest, her soft baby hairs tickling your cheek when you lay your head on top of hers. She lets out a smacking yawn, one of her hands rubbing at the soft skin under your bicep.

Nico’s cheeks dimple, eyes twinkling fondly as he takes in the sight of you. Half asleep in his t-shirt with your hair falling out of the bun you put it in last night, your baby falling back asleep on your shoulder. He hefts up Bella when you reach for her too, arm outstretched so he can sit her on your other leg. Cradling your arm around her, you rub at the base of her neck as she too cuddles into you, coming face to face with her sister.

“Thank you,” you tell Nico, nudging him with your knee and he shrugs. Fitting himself back into his side of the bed, he lays facing you on his crumpled pillow, tucking under the blankets again.

“Happy Mother’s Day baby,” he murmurs, laying a hand over yours on Bella’s back. You hold the girls for a moment longer, you and Nico sitting in silence until their breathes even out. Then your sliding over and with Nico’s help laying them on the mattress between you, heart swelling at the way they still cling to each other, chubby arms tangled together.

Lying back on your pillow, you meet Nico’s gaze over the top of their sleeping heads. The two of you share similar smiles, full of love and happiness. Under the sheets you stretch your legs over until your cold toes are meeting the fuzzy hair of his calf, him flinching just the slightest bit but you simply giggle and use him as a heater. Snuggling back into the sheets, you let your eyes fall shut again, slipping back into sleep under Nico’s watchful eye with the daughters that look just like him snoring softly next to you. A quick little early morning nap before you spend the rest of the day with all of your kids.

[reverie-starlight]

kuroo won the poll, so have this draft that’s been sitting in my notes app since November :3

gn!reader, no physical descriptions. fluff fluff fluff. you and kuroo have a dog, I gave her a name.

“tetsu,” you call out from the doorway, dread evident in your tone.

the man in question looks up from his newspaper and sighs. he knows exactly what’s about to happen and the very idea makes his stomach churn.

the air grows thick with silence as he takes in the gravity of the situation. “we have to, tetsu. it’s time.”

he meets your eyes for the first time this morning with a nearly unreadable expression. he’s guarded.

you are too.

“do we… do we really have to?”

this annoys you, just slightly, but you don’t bother picking at it.

so you nod. “yeah, tetsurou,” you cross yours arms. “we have to give her a bath.”

he groans and throws his head against the back of the sofa. when he’s done his temper tantrum, he stands up and stretches his arms above his head, rolls his shoulders and other (unnecessary, in your opinion) preparations for the task ahead. “man, they weren’t kidding when they said parenting was hard.”

you snort and start walking to the bedroom to change. the child in question, of course, is your dog, peach.

your dog who absolutely hates baths with a passion.

she has since she was a puppy, and while you’ve tried to get her used to them, every attempt seems to end with water all over the bathroom floor, screaming and enough sweat to warrant you needing to bathe right after.

and on this fine sunday morning, she happened to run through a muddy puddle when you took her for a walk.

so a bath was unavoidable.

peach, none the wiser, pants happily in the hall just outside your bedroom (with a towel you found in an attempt to wipe her paws that she’s since claimed as her prize). she has no idea what’s about to happen and you almost feel bad, but then you recall how she was moments away from dragging you through the mud with her and the guilt goes away pretty quickly.

once you’re changed, your fiancé whistles. “didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of seeing you in your swimsuit again so soon.”

you roll your eyes. he’s wearing an old tank top and some swim trunks himself, so he’s one to talk. “it’s either a swimsuit or risk getting my clothes soaking wet. I’m trying a new method today.”

he shakes his head in faux disappointment, grabbing the bottle of dog shampoo from one of the cabinets. “swimsuits in november. the things we do for our dog.”

you pat his shoulder and herd peach into the guest bathroom- there’s no way you’re letting her into yours in this state. “c’mon girl, c’mere! hey tetsu,” you call.

“yeah?”

“can you bring the treats with you?”

he pokes his head in the doorway and holds up a bag. “already got ‘em.”

you take a deep breath in when he shuts the door behind him and sets the stuff down. you act as casual as possible as you take her collar off and try to calm her.

you cup her furry face and shush her gently when she whines, clearly staring to realize what’s happening. “alright princess peach, you’re going to be good, right? you got all messy, we’re just gonna clean you up!”

you nod at kuroo, who’s already standing in the shower, and he picks her up with ease, placing her in the tub with him.

she is not happy with this and immediately tries to claw her way out until you feed her a treat and she settles down slightly. it breaks your heart to put her in distress, but this is a non negotiable task.

so you start the water and let chaos reign.

fifteen minutes later, she’s finally calm and prancing around the bathroom, avoiding the towel and treating it like a game.

you and kuroo are both soaked, as expected, and you’re so glad you prepared for it.

you dry her off as much as she’ll allow and let her out, towel in her mouth, to go lay down in the living room.

you tilt your head to glance at him and snort. “you have fur on your face.”

you get it for him and he examines yours. he picks some off of your nose and flicks it into the trash. “well,” he starts. “that could’ve been worse.”

an hour later you’re both dried off and there’s towels on the floor drying up any water that spilled out of the tub.

kuroo took peach on another walk to dry her off faster and tire her out some more, so you’re curled up on the couch with a book and sipping on a warm drink.

the door opens not long after and when you glance up to greet him, the words die in your throat.

standing in the entrance is a very muddy kuroo and somehow (you don’t know how this is even possible) a mostly clean peach. only her paws seem to be muddy, thankfully, nothing like earlier.

“tetsurou… what happened?”

the man in question purses his lips. mud falls from his hair down onto the floor and you wince a little. “she saw a squirrel and dragged me through a puddle of mud.”

you cover your mouth with your book in an attempt to hide your smile. he suffered the same fate you narrowly avoided earlier. “and she stayed clean?”

“she wasn’t interested in anything other than that damn squirrel.”

you finally let out a laugh and rise from the sofa. “alright, just leave the dirty clothes by the door, I’ll wash them after you’re done showering.”

he gives you a look that makes you feel uneasy. “you’re not gonna comfort me after what I went through?”

alarm bells ring in your head and you slowly start backing up. “tetsu, don’t even think about it.”

peach trots off happily and you don’t even bother worrying about the paw print stains she’s tracking in. it’ll probably be the least of your worries in a few moments.

your fiancé grins menacingly and slips his boots and sweater off. “whaaaat? c’mon baby, give me a hug. I really need it.”

you shriek and start running when he darts at you.

peach, deciding she’s too tired to get in on the action, curls up and falls asleep to the familiar sounds of chaos and shared laughter as her dad chases you around.

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

this one goes out to my dog who nearly floods my bathroom and ruptures my eardrums whenever I try to give her a bath <3

[koyagifs]

the talk

pairing: ot8 x f!reader au: 9th member | poly genre: fluff | slight angst ? with comfort synopsis: seems like baby fever is in the air ~ word count: 1.4k warning(s): baby fever, talk of pregnancy.

You were casually scrolling through Instagram when a video of a baby with her mother popped up on your feed. You stared at it in awe, your heart softening as your mind drifted. What if your life had taken a different path? What if you hadn’t debuted with ATEEZ?

You turned in bed, eyes settling on the pile of plushies you’d collected over the years. The room was quiet, your thoughts getting deeper—until a knock on the door pulled you back to reality.

“Coming!” you called, tossing the blanket off as you rushed to answer.

When you opened the door, you found Hongjoong standing there with a small, knowing smile.

“Hey,” he said. “How was the shoot with Seonghwa, Wooyoung, and San?”

“It was amazing,” you beamed. “Pretty sure Seonghwa oppa is still scrubbing yellow nail polish off his skin.”

You both laughed, the warmth of the moment easing the weight you’d been carrying just minutes before.

Hongjoong nodded toward the hallway. “Can you come out to the living room?”

Your smile faltered slightly. “Am I in trouble? Did I do something?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Of course not, baby. Just a small meeting for all of us.”

His reassurance soothed your nerves a bit, but curiosity bloomed in your chest as you followed him down the hall, wondering what could be important enough to gather everyone together.

You moved to sit beside Wooyoung, who didn’t hesitate to pull you gently into his lap. You settled against him with ease as Hongjoong stood at the front of the room, eyes scanning the group to make sure everyone was present.

“So,” Hongjoong began, “we all know Seonghwa, San, Wooyoung, and Yn just wrapped up filming for The Return of Superman.”

“Ah, I miss them so much already,” you sighed, turning to look at Wooyoung. He nodded in agreement, the fondness in his eyes mirroring your own.

Hongjoong gave a small smile, his expression softening. “Well… I figured since we’ve never really had the talk—not seriously anyway—about, you know… kids.”

The room fell into a quiet pause, the weight of his words settling over everyone. You felt Wooyoung’s arms tighten slightly around you, a silent show of support. Across the room, San sat up a little straighter, and Seonghwa tilted his head, clearly listening.

You nodded, glancing around at the boys, trying to lighten the mood just a little.

“Well,” you said, lips twitching into a small smirk, “if I were to get pregnant, we’re not doing a DNA test.”

A beat of silence—then laughter broke out across the room.

“Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t all just claim the baby anyway,” Wooyoung grinned, arms still loosely around you.

“Just imagining Yn pregnant…” Yeosang said with a dreamy sigh, resting his chin in his hand.

You gave him a look, trying not to laugh. “Why did you say that like it’s a daydream, Yeosang?”

Before Yeosang could answer, Yunho leaned forward, one brow raised. “Okay, but… there are eight of us. Would you really want to carry eight kids?”

The room fell silent for a beat. All eyes turned to you.

You looked down at your hands, then slowly raised your eyes to Hongjoong. “I mean…”

He tilted his head, waiting—gentle, patient.

You let out a short laugh. “Realistically… we’d have to consider a surrogate if the others wanted kids too. There’s only so much a woman’s body can handle.”

The boys nodded slowly, the laughter fading into a warm quiet.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, voice softer now. “We’d never expect you to go through something like that multiple times. Not unless it was what you really wanted.”

“It’s not just about having kids,” Hongjoong added. “It’s about making sure you’re safe, happy, and supported—whatever path we choose.”

San reached over and gently squeezed your hand. “You don’t have to carry eight mini-us to prove anything.”

“Good,” you snorted. “Because I love you all, but I’m not trying to repopulate a village.”

“Yeah, and you’ll see Hongjoong and Seonghwa pulling their hair out trying to chase after a mini you, Mingi, and Yunho,” you snorted, nudging Wooyoung with your elbow.

That set the room off again.

Hongjoong ran a hand through his hair dramatically. “Just the thought of that gives me stress wrinkles.”

“Mini Mingi would disappear into a wall and come out with a frog and a jar of peanut butter,” Seonghwa added, shaking his head but smiling fondly.

“And don’t forget mini Wooyoung,” Jongho chimed in. “That one’s getting banned from school in a week. Tops.”

“Hey!” Wooyoung pouted. “My kid would be well-behaved.”

“Sure,” Yunho drawled. “Just like you were.”

You leaned your head against Wooyoung’s shoulder, a grin tugging at your lips. “Well, if our future is full of chaos and love, I think I’m okay with that.”

He glanced down at you, voice softening. “As long as it’s with all of us.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, one no longer filled with jokes but something deeper—genuine, unspoken understanding. A shared dream. A future none of you had quite planned for, but were slowly beginning to imagine.

Then Hongjoong cleared his throat, his expression shifting slightly. “Okay, seriously though. We’re still idols. KQ doesn’t care that we’re dating, but if Yn ever announced she was pregnant, ATINY would have questions. About her. About us.”

“Then you two should go public,” Jongho said with a shrug and a small smile.

Wooyoung immediately sat up. “What? No way! It should be me and Yn. We’d break the internet!”

“Sorry, Youngie,” you teased, patting his thigh. “But it makes more sense for Hongjoong and I to go public first.”

Hongjoong nodded, thoughtful. “Yeah… it might soften the blow, at least. But how would we announce it?”

Yunho raised a brow. “You two could perform Matz together. And at the end… just kiss.”

“Ohh,” San grinned. “That’s bold.”

You slid off Wooyoung’s lap and settled onto the couch. “But Matz is Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s song. It wouldn’t be fair for me to join in.”

“Baby,” Seonghwa said, his voice soft and eyes pleading, “we’ve been dying to have you be a part of Matz.”

San leaned forward with a mischievous smile. “Do you know how hot it would be to see you rapping Hongjoong-hyung’s or Seonghwa-hyung’s lines?”

Your cheeks flushed as you quickly looked away, laughter bubbling up in your throat. “Oh, stop it.”

“I think we’ll end up putting a baby in you,” Mingi said with a smirk—only to yelp a second later as Hongjoong smacked his arm.

You burst into laughter, leaning into Wooyoung, who was laughing just as hard.

“Look,” you said through your smile, voice softening, “I definitely have baby fever—but I think we should take our relationship slow. Filming the Superman episode helped with that a bit. I want to keep growing with all of you. I want to enjoy our honeymoon phase while we have it.”

Jongho smiled gently, his voice steady. “And we always will. Even if we get tired, our love for you won’t fade.”

Wooyoung pressed a kiss to your cheek, grinning. “You’ll be a mama one day, sweetie.”

Yunho leaned back with a smirk. “Well, one of us is already called ‘daddy,’ so…”

Your face turned scarlet in an instant, eyes widening as the room went dead silent for a single beat—before it exploded.

Wooyoung and Mingi immediately started shouting over each other, both determined to be the loudest voice in the chaos. “What do you mean already called—?” “Since when?! By who?!”

Yunho shrank into the couch, arms raised in surrender as he tried—and failed—to stifle his laughter. His smug grin didn’t help his case. Jongho just shook his head, biting back his own chuckle as he muttered, “Unbelievable…”

Meanwhile, Yeosang and San were doubled over, clutching their sides in laughter. Taking full advantage of the distraction, you quietly slipped off the couch, trying to make your escape unnoticed—only to yelp when a hand caught your arm.

You turned, eyes wide, only to find Hongjoong standing behind you, his grip gentle but unyielding on your arm. That knowing smile on his face made your stomach flip.

“Not so fast there, princess,” he said smoothly. “We’ve got a score to settle with everyone.”

[iyannatrip]

— chapter 07.

this chapter will contain: mentions of emotional vulnerability, heavy emotional moments (including crying), physical altercations, implied trauma and personal struggles, strong language and some raw conversations.

series summary: in a small, run-down psychiatric facility, two patients—both broken in their own ways—are forced to share a room. reader, a twenty-three-year-old whose been in and out of these places for years, is used to being alone. matthew, a twenty-one-year-old with a history of violence and instability, is just another lost soul thrown into the mix. neither of them expects to get along, but as they clash and navigate their painful pasts, a connection forms—one that could either break them or give them a reason to fight for something more.

the next few days were rough. back to back. you and matt might’ve been scared of getting separated after last time, but that didn’t mean you suddenly knew how to get along. the fights never really stopped—just shifted. glares replaced screaming. long, sharp silences replaced words. today, neither of you had spoken a single thing. not even a glance.

yesterday, though… yesterday had been bad. another fight. a physical one. it didn’t get far this time—you both snapped out of it before the aides had to get involved—but your knuckles still ached from where they’d connected, and the sting in your chest hadn’t faded either.

now, it was near lights out. the room was dim, that same heavy quiet stretching between you. matt laid flat on his back on his bed, arms crossed, staring blankly at the ceiling like he couldn’t care less. like you didn’t exist.

then the door clicked open.

an aide stepped in, face unreadable. your stomach dropped.

“come on,” they muttered, jerking their head toward the hallway. “need to talk.”

you caught matt’s eyes flick over, just for a second, before he went back to ignoring everything. didn’t move, didn’t speak. typical.

you swallowed hard and pushed off your bed, following the aide out into the hall. the air felt colder out here. tighter. whatever they said—it was a blur. you barely heard it over the rush in your ears. by the time you made it back to the room, your throat burned and your eyes stung.

tears threatened to fall, but you blinked them back hard. no way. not here. not in front of him.

you took a shaky breath, climbed back into your bed, and turned your face to the wall—away from matt. away from everything. your chest felt tight, like it might split open if you even breathed too deep.

the silence dragged on, thick and uncomfortable.

then, matt’s voice broke it. rough, low, but quieter than usual. “you good?”

it was the first time he’d spoken to you all day.

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. if you opened your mouth, the tears would win, and that wasn’t happening. you clenched your jaw, staring harder at the wall like it could swallow you whole.

another pause.

then, the creak of his bed. soft footsteps. your pulse jumped.

when you finally glanced over your shoulder, matt was there—standing at your bedside, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, looking down at you. his face wasn’t cold this time. just… guarded. confused. maybe even a little concerned, though he’d never admit that out loud.

he didn’t say anything else right away. just stood there, eyes flicking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were really okay or if you’d just keep ignoring him like always.

your throat felt raw. your fists clenched in your blanket.

the air felt tight again, but not because of anger this time. it was something else.

something heavier.

matt shifted his weight against the wall, still watching you. his jaw worked like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how. the silence stretched so long it made your skin itch.

finally, he muttered, voice low, “was it bad?”

your chest clenched. you kept your face to the wall, blinking hard. “leave me alone, matt.”

he let out a breath through his nose, sharp but not angry. “i’m not trying to start shit. just… you look like you’re gonna fall apart.”

that made your throat tighten worse. you squeezed your eyes shut. “i’m fine.”

“you’re not.” his voice dropped even lower. “you always say that, but you’re not.”

the way he said it—quiet, but firm—made something in you crack. your shoulders tensed like you could physically hold yourself together if you just stayed still enough.

matt sighed, pushing off the wall. “whatever. just… if you wanna talk, i’m here.”

those words made your eyes snap open. you weren’t used to hearing that. especially not from him.

he stepped back toward his bed, flopping down with a heavy exhale. the room went quiet again, but it felt different now. your heart pounded against your ribs, too loud, too fast.

you swallowed hard and whispered, barely audible, “they said my mom’s not coming this weekend... again. said she canceled.”

matt didn’t answer right away. then, softly, “that’s messed up.”

you let out a shaky breath, hating that it made your voice crack. “it’s whatever. i’m used to it.”

another long pause.

then matt muttered, almost too quiet to catch, “you shouldn’t have to be.”

the silence after that was heavy, but this time it didn’t feel like it was choking you. it felt like… something cracked open between you two. small, but real.

you swallowed hard, your throat burning now. your back stayed turned to him, but your fingers clenched in the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. you hated this feeling—raw, exposed—but it was already too late to shove it back down.

matt shifted on his bed, the springs creaking. “i get it,” he muttered. “people let you down. over and over. makes you stop expecting anything.”

your chest tightened so hard it hurt. you didn’t want to agree, but the silence stretched, and that alone was enough of an answer.

he let out a breath, sharp and tired. “it doesn’t make it hurt less though.”

his voice stayed low as he kept going, like he wasn’t even sure why he was still talking. “it just makes you better at pretending it doesn’t.”

the room stayed still, but he caught it—the soft, shaky breath you pulled in. too uneven. too quiet. his eyes flicked down, and that’s when he heard it. faint sniffles, muffled against your blanket.

matt’s jaw tightened. he shifted, leaning heavier against the wall. “people think if you’re quiet, you’re fine. like silence means strong or some shit.”

the sniffles hit again, softer this time, but they made his chest twist in a way he didn’t like.

he dragged a hand through his hair, sighing. “but it just means you got no one to let it out to. so you hold it in till it eats you alive.”

he glanced down at you again, your shoulders tense and shaking just the slightest bit. his voice dropped even lower. “you don’t gotta do that right now. not with me.”

the silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint sound of you trying—and failing—to steady your breathing.

matt pushed off the wall with a slow breath, his steps quiet as he crossed the room. he stood by your bed for a second, watching the way your back stayed turned and your shoulders trembled. then his voice came, low and rough. “move over.”

you stiffened, but your body shifted without thinking, leaving just enough space. matt climbed in behind you, the bed creaking under his weight. his arms wrapped around you, firm but careful, pulling you back against his chest. his chin rested near the top of your head, breath warm against your hair.

“you can let it out,” he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “it’s okay. i got you.”

your hands gripped his arm on instinct, and the tears finally slipped free, hot and fast against your skin. matt’s hold tightened a little, grounding and steady. “it’s alright,” he whispered again. “i’m here. just breathe. let it out.”

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your side, and every time your breath hitched, he whispered the same thing—soft reassurances, over and over, like he wasn’t gonna let go no matter how hard you cried.

matt stayed still, his arms gently wrapped around you as you cried. the soft hiccups of your breath were the only sound in the room, and he didn’t say anything more, just let you get it out. he could tell you were exhausted, the sobs turning into sniffles, and then nothing at all. you were quiet, but the occasional shudder still ran through you.

he glanced down at you, your face buried in his chest, and his heart thumped in his chest—harder than usual. something about the vulnerability in your tears… it hit him harder than he was ready for. maybe it was because he was so used to seeing you with that tough exterior, the one that never showed any signs of weakness. and here you were, letting it all go. in his arms.

the quiet stretched on, but he stayed there, not moving, not pushing, just letting you take your time. he’d never been good at this comforting thing. hell, he’d never even tried. but somehow, this felt… right.

after a while, your breathing finally evened out, the tension leaving your body. he could tell you had finally cried yourself to sleep. he gently adjusted his arm around you, careful not to disturb you too much, but you were out cold now, your soft breaths steady against him.

matt let his thoughts drift as he stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows play across the walls in the dim light. it was hard to ignore the way his chest felt tight, something foreign and new simmering inside him. he had never thought much about feelings—hell, he’d tried to bury them most of his life. but now, with you in his arms, something was changing. it wasn’t just the fight you’d had, or the way you were leaning on him now. it was the whole damn thing. how close he’d gotten to you, how much he knew about you now. how everything felt different.

he exhaled slowly, his mind racing, but his body still, frozen in place.

“this is fucked,” he muttered under his breath. but the more he thought about it, the less it seemed like it was. maybe it wasn’t fucked. maybe it was just something he had to accept.

he glanced down at you one more time, your face relaxed in sleep, the tear stains still visible on your cheeks. he couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness. he wasn’t sure when that had crept in. maybe it had always been there.

finally, after what felt like forever, he allowed his eyes to drift closed. he hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but there was no way he was going anywhere. not now. not after everything you’d just shown him.

and so, in the still of the room, with the quiet of the night surrounding them both, matt let himself fall asleep, his thoughts still tangled up in everything he was starting to feel.

a/n: this is probably my favorite chapter so far.. buttt, i'm starting a taglist for this series, so message me if you want to be added! :)

@kitty-meow-meow44 @courta13