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goonforgeto · 22 hours ago

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f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2

July, 1955

You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.

The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.

Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.

Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.

She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.

That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.

The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.

You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.

A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.

“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”

Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.

“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?

He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.

“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.

The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.

You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”

That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.

The scent clings to his skin.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”

That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.

“Do I call the police?” you murmur.

He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.

“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”

You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.

“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”

You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”

His mouth twitches again.

“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.

“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”

He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.

“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”

A beat.

Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”

“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”

His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.

“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.

“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.

You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.

“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.

You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.

“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.

“It suits you.”

You blink. “The boutique?”

He glances at you. “The ambition.”

That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”

There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”

You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.

“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.” You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.

Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.

The silence stretches a little.

He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.

You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.

“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”

You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”

“That’s where I got stuck.”

Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”

You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.

You look away first.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”

“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”

“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”

You nod once, quietly filing that away.

“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”

You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials. “Nothing like a little blood in the water.”

“Exactly.”

You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.

You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.

“You picked the right door.”

His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”

He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.

“Maybe.”

You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.

“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”

You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.

Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.

You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.

“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”

You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.

You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”

Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”

“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.

“What are those?”

“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”

You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”

He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”

“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”

He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.

“Hinoki,” he says.

Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”

“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.

You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”

You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.

The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.

You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”

He huffs. “Surprised?”

You tilt your head. “Impressed.”

He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.

“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.

He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”

You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.

“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”

Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.

“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it.

“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.

He nods, like he understands.

You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”

Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”

You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.

You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.

When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.

“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”

Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.

“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”

He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.

You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.

“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”

He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”

You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”

He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”

You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”

He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.

“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.

You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.

“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”

Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”

You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.

“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.” Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.

Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.

How did you not recognize him yesterday?

His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.

The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.

Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:

“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.” Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.

You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:

He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.

He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.

He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.

You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.

The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.

It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.

You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.

Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.

You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.

“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.

“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.

The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.

It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.

You don’t regret leaving it behind.

The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.

You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.

The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.

Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.

Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.

You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.

Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.

You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.

The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.

You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.

A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.

“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”

The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”

You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.

The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”

“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.

“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.

You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.

He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.

The moment he sees you, his steps slow.

The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.

Then he’s moving toward the gate.

“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.

“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”

You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.

“You came,” he says simply.

You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.

“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”

And just like that, you're walking beside him.

The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.

Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.

You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.

Satoru Gojo—Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.

He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.

“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”

“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”

You blink. “How do you—?”

“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”

Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”

You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”

“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”

Nanami levels him with a look.

Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”

He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm.

“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.

You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.

And then back at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.

“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.

You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”

You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.

“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.

“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”

You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”

Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.

“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”

You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.

Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.

“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”

Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”

“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”

He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”

Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.

Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.

When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.

He checks his watch, then glances at you.

“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. “You want to stay?”

You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”

He considers this.

“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”

You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”

That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.

He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.

“You can wait there,” he says.

You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.

And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.

You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.

His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.

You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.

You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”

“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”

He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.

There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain.

He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”

You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”

“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.

Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”

Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.

“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.

And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.

“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”

“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”

You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.

“And you… want to be in front?”

He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”

You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.

“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”

Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”

“And now I know who you are.”

He pauses. “Do you?”

The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.

Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.

“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”

“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”

He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.

Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.

And then the engine starts.

The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.

You take a step back, instinctively.

A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.

You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.

The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.

The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.

You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.

Sector one: green. Sector two: yellow. Final: green.

You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower.

“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”

You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.

Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.

Then he’s back out again.

The next run is faster.

Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Final: green.

The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.

“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”

You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”

“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”

You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.

He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.

Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”

The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.

He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.

And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.

Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.

You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.

“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”

No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.

Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.

“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.

Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”

Nanami raises a brow.

Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”

One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.

You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.

Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.

He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

You blink. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”

Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”

Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”

Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.

Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”

“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.

“Comforting.”

“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”

Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”

“You said that about Imola.”

“And Spa.”

Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”

“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”

“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”

Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.

Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”

Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.

“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”

“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.

Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.

“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”

“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.

Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”

“I’ll take the fine.”

“You always take the fine.”

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”

You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.

Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.

“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”

You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.

“They already know.”

Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”

He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.

The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.

Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”

You nod. “Alright.”

He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.

You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.

Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.

You spot him before he says anything.

His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”

You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”

You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.

“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”

He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”

You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.

He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.

At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.

It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast.

You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”

You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”

You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.

The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.

You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.

You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.

“That’s the point,” he says simply.

The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.

Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.

The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.

“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”

You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”

“I’ve paid worse.”

You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.

For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.

“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes.”

“And me?”

You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.

And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.

“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.

You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”

He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

You look at him, waiting.

“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.

“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”

You mouth hangs open, just a bit.

“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”

You set your fork down, gently.

“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.

He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”

You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.

“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”

He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”

He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.

Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.

The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.

Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.

Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”

You nod.

And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.

He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.

“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”

You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”

Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.

You pause before continuing.

“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”

His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.

“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”

You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.

Just understanding.

“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”

For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.

Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from you.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”

He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Too late.”

You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.

A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.

Nanami reacts before you do.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.

Your breath catches from the nearness of him.

His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.

You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.

He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”

You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”

Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.

Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.

A breath passes between you.

And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.

The moment’s over.

“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”

You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.

You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.

Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”

Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”

A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”

You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”

His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”

He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”

“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”

That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”

You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.

When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.

You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.

“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.

“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”

You glance at it, then at him.

“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.

But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.

It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.

His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.

“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.

“So are you,” he says.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

The silence stretches.

Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.

And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.

His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.

“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”

Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”

He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.

You don’t.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.

But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.

The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.

The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.

He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.

You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.

His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.

And then: “Ahem!”

The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.

You glance to your right.

An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”

Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.

You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.

He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”

You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”

But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.

By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.

He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.

“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.

You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.

“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle.

He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.

“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.

You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.

He takes a beat.

“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”

You smile—slow, surprised.

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I have time.”

“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”

Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”

You glance over at him, waiting.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-three,” you reply.

He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.

You tilt your head. “Your turn.”

“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”

“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.

“Your turn,” he says.

You think for a second.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”

You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”

His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”

The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.

“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.

“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”

He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You glance over. “Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.

“Because you linger, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."

His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.

“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.

You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’d be an idiot to say no.”

You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.

When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.

He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.

“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”

You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”

When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.

You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.

“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.

The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.

Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.

“Not bad.”

You smirk. “You expected worse.”

“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”

You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”

He clinks his against yours.

A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.

“It suits you,” he says.

You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”

“So are most things worth doing.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.

You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”

He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”

You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.

“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”

You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.

Then, he brings it to his nose.

The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.

“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.

“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”

You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”

He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.

“And what will you call it?”

You pause.

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”

He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.

“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You blink, unsure how to respond.

“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.

Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.

And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all.

“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”

You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.

You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.

“I don’t see the point in anything less.”

His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.

It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.

You don’t step away. Neither does he.

The air between you tightens, thrums.

“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.

“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”

You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”

His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.

“I like that you still look at me the same way.”

Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.

Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.

Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Your breath slips out shakily.

“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”

His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.

Measured.

Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.

But then you respond.

Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.

He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.

His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.

You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.

You’re not sure how long it lasts.

Time loses shape.

There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.

By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.

“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.

Just waits.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.

“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”

You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.

He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”

You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.

“I want you, Kento.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.

You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”

You smile, dizzy and breathless.

“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”

He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.

His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.

What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.

He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.

You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.

“Come here,” you whisper.

His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.

You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.

The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.

You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.

“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”

You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”

Fair enough.

He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.

He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.

For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.

“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.

“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”

You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.

His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.

He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.

When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.

And then his mouth is on yours again.

His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.

His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.

You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.

Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.

“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.

Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.

Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.

Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter.

As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.

Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high.

His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.

As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.

His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.

“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”

His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.

Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.

Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.

“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.

His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.

His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.

Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.

His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.

And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.

“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.

Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.

Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.

He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”

You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”

Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.

Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.

His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.

His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.

His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“So wet,” he murmurs.

His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.

He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.

When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.

With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.

His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.

Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.

He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.

His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.

You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.

He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”

You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.

Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”

He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.

Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.

You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.

He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”

A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.

He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”

He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.

You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.

He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.

If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”

You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.

“Just focus on me,” he says softly.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”

Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”

The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.

He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.

“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”

You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word.

You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.

After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”

He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.

He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.

When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.

“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.

You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.

“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.

“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.

The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.

“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”

You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.

“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”

You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”

“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.

He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.

“When do you leave?”

You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”

Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.

His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.

“Why not?”

You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”

There’s a long pause.

“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”

You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.

“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”

You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.

“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”

His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”

“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”

“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”

“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”

You stare at him, and something inside you twists.

“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”

Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”

The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.

Finally, he says, softer, “So that’s it?”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”

He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.

Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.

He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.

The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot.

He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.

He’s P4.

Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.

If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.

Maybe two.

And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.

Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.

He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.

P3.

He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.

Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.

P2.

His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.

Sector three now.

Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.

Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.

The final corner comes and goes in a blink.

He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.

He lifts.

Nanami’s through.

P1.

The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.

The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.

First.

The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.

But Nanami says nothing.

He exhales again, slower this time.

Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He won.

Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles.

He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.

He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.

The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.

His helmet comes off.

His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.

“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”

He barely nods before being pulled away.

First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.

Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.

“Nanami, how does it feel—?”

“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”

“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”

He waves them off, refusing to answer.

And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.

There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.

The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.

Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Nanami takes the top step.

The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.

When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.

The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.

He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.

“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He only nods.

He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.

The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.

The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.

Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.

Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.

“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”

Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”

“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”

Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.

Next weekend.

He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.

But the bouquet?

He leaves it behind on your workbench.

TO BE CONTINUED...

taglist: @bluukive @callme-naomi @seellove @southrasiansandas @roresgf @bxnfire @seokjinfairy @araveticazx @mylilsodapop @nanasrambelingsons @dilfkentolover @papoiyu @hannibuttered @cherryredkissez @tqrxi @angelkiyo @caffine-exe @meikstv @crustyaintdusty

368 notes · View notes

demie90s · 23 hours ago

Note

hear me out,arguing with cc and "ignoring" her after,but then she pass all day needy and obssesed for just a touch,then a smut and aftercare

(i love your writting btw queen)

Totally Sorry

Caitlin Clark x Fem!Reader

MORE | NAVI

Summary: After a petty argument, you decide to ice Caitlin out. She’s losing her mind. What starts with a soft apology ends in needy, emotional smut, and even sweeter aftercare.

Genre:Angst → Fluff → Smut → Comfort

Word Count: ~ 2.5k

Warnings: 18+ smut (fingering, oral, praise kink, dom/sub undertones), tension, light possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, soft aftercare, lots of teasing and begging, reader is stubborn, Caitlin is clingy, some cursing

You’ve never fought like this. Not really. Not the real kind. Sure, y’all bicker sometimes over laundry, over where to eat, over her not charging her phone until it hits 2%.

She complains when you steal the covers. You tease her for leaving wet towels on the bed. But it’s always playful. Always short-lived. Y’all don’t do this.

You don’t ignore her. Not ever. Which is why the silence is so fucking loud.

Starts with something small. Like it always does. You said something offhand on the drive home from her game, something about her barking at the ref again, about how she never lets anything go.

You weren’t even mad. Just tired. Her energy had been off all day. And she, already wound tight from a close loss, snapped.

“You know what? Maybe stop acting like you’re above all of it just because you don’t blow up like I do.”

You looked at her so slow, so blank. “Above it?”

“Yeah, you do this thing—this passive, holier-than-thou thing—and it’s not cute.”

Damn. That hurt. But you didn’t show it. Just stared out the window, nodded once, and didn’t say another word the whole ride home.

She slammed the car door when she parked. You walked in first and never looked back.

That was yesterday. Now she’s losing her damn mind. Good.

Because you haven’t texted her since. Haven’t called. Didn’t kiss her forehead this morning when you got out of bed first. Didn’t send her that stupid TikTok you would’ve normally sent before noon. Didn’t pull her into the bathroom with you while you brushed your teeth, didn’t sit on her lap during lunch, didn’t exist around her the way you usually do.

You’re in the same house. Same space. But Caitlin’s never felt more alone. She keeps checking her phone like she didn’t leave it next to her leg two seconds ago.

She walks past your closed bedroom door five times. Pretends she’s not doing it on purpose. Pretends she’s not pausing outside of it every time.

By the time afternoon rolls around, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter looking miserable, chin in her hand like a child punished during recess. She knows it’s petty. She knows she started it. This is cruel.

“You’re seriously not gonna talk to me at all today?” she calls out, like you’re just gonna yell back from the other room with a smile. Silence.

Her mouth drops open a little. “Seriously?” Still nothing.

Now she’s standing. Now she’s following you, finally catching up when you’re in the hallway with your AirPods in, phone in your hand, looking good as hell like it’s not killing you too.

Caitlin reaches out. Grabs your wrist. You don’t stop walking. Just glance over your shoulder.

She hates that look, the unreadable one. That expressionless look you only use when you’re trying not to cry or trying not to kill somebody. She knows it’s the first one. It always is.

“Babe,” she says, softer now. Following. “Okay. Come on. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.” Still walking. Still no response.

“Hey.” She cuts in front of you this time, stands in the doorway to block your exit. “Can you just—can you please talk to me? This isn’t fair.” You fold your arms. Lean against the wall. Say nothing.

She runs both hands through her hair. “You ignoring me is actually evil. Do you know how weird it feels not hearing your voice all day?”

You raise an eyebrow like you’re finally humoring her. She takes that sliver of attention and clings to it.

“You always talk. You’re always in my space. Always touching me. I like that. I need that. So stop being mean and—”

You push off the wall. Move past her. She spins. Follows. “Oh my God, are you serious?” No answer.

“Baby. I’m dying.”

You chuckle. It slips out, real quiet, and that’s when she knows you’re softening. “That’s not funny,” she mutters.

“It is,” you say without looking back. That’s all she gets.

Until nighttime.

You’re sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone when she finally gives up on pride and walks over slow, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, her face flushed like she just gave up fighting it.

Without a word, she climbs into your lap. You don’t fight it. She wraps her arms around your neck, head tucked under your chin like she hasn’t been craving this all day. She’s clingy. But this is new.

You don’t push her away. You just let her sit there. Let her melt into you. When her fingers trace your jaw, gentle, familiar, you finally lean into her touch.

“I hate when we fight,” she whispers. “I don’t like this version of us.” You nod.

Her voice goes smaller. “You really weren’t gonna talk to me today?”

You sigh. “You hurt my feelings.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you. I don’t wanna be that person to you.”

You look at her now. Really look. “Do you mean that?”

“I’d do anything to make it up to you.” Her hand slides down your side.

She shifts in your lap, slow and careful, like she knows how fragile this truce is. Her hands stay light, just resting on your sides, fingertips grazing the edge of your hoodie. She leans in like she wants a kiss.

You turn your head.

“Still mad,” you mutter, not even looking at her. Caitlin whines, actually whines, like you just pushed her off the ledge she’s been barely hanging onto.

“I know,” she breathes, kissing the edge of your jaw instead. “I know. You should be. I was a bitch.”

You raise your eyebrows, finally turning to meet her eyes. “Oh, so now you admit it?”

“I always knew it,” she says quickly, leaning in to kiss just below your ear. “But I was too stubborn to say it.” You don’t kiss her back. Don’t even smile.

She starts trailing kisses lower. “I missed you all day.” Silence.

“I missed your voice. Your laugh. Your mouth.” Still nothing. Her lips touch your throat, her fingers sliding under your hoodie, just barely tracing skin.

“I missed it,” she says into your neck, voice a shaky little confession. “I’ll never talk to you like that again. I swear. Let me make it up to you.” You don’t stop her when she slides off your lap and sinks to her knees.

But you don’t help her either. Just sit back, legs spread slightly, phone still in your hand like she hasn’t earned your full attention yet.

She looks up at you, bottom lip between her teeth, eyes already glassy with need. Her hands are gentle as she tugs at your shorts, pausing when you don’t lift your hips right away.

“Please,” she whispers. “Let me touch you. I’m sorry, baby.” You wait a beat…then lift, just enough.

She pulls them down slow. Kisses your thighs like she’s praying. Like she’s working her way back into your good graces one inch at a time.

“I hate when you’re mad at me,” she says softly, voice muffled by your skin. “I didn’t mean it. I was just scared. I always get scared when I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

Your face softens for a second. Then she licks one long stripe up your inner thigh and you forget everything else.

She doesn’t go for it right away. She’s teasing herself more than you, dragging her mouth over everything but where you want it.

Kissing the crease of your hip. The softest parts of your skin. You feel her breathing deepen, feel her hands gripping your thighs tighter like she needs you close.

A whisper right against your clit, “Please let me make you cum.” You let out a breath. Low. Almost amused.

“You better,” you mutter. “If you want me to speak to you again.” She moans.

Tongue flat, slow pressure, licking you like a favorite flavor she hasn’t tasted in days. It’s sweet torture, gentle but relentless, her fingers gripping your thighs while she sucks softly, flicks her tongue just right.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull back. Just licks and licks like she could die here happy.

Your hand slides into her hair before you realize it, tugging once, not to guide her, but to remind her who’s in charge. She moans at the pull.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice sticky and desperate between licks. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll never talk to you like that again. I swear. Please.”You feel it building. Pressure low and tight.

But you don’t give her the satisfaction yet.

“Not enough.”

“What?” she whimpers, pausing just long enough to blink up at you.

“You’re not sorry enough.”

Caitlin lets out a shaky breath. Then lowers her mouth again, this time faster. Sloppier. Mouth open, tongue pressing harder against your clit now. She’s damn near crying into it.

You let her. Let her prove it. Let her beg through the strokes of her tongue and the tremble of her fingers when she slides one inside you, then two.

Let her apologize until your body jerks, hips stuttering up against her mouth, hand yanking her hair harder than you meant to.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Please cum. Please, please let me feel it.” You do. You don’t warn her. Just fall apart on her tongue, back arched, hand clamped around her head, thighs shaking.

Still licking. Still whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” into your overstimulated cunt like it’s the only way you’ll ever forgive her.

Caitlin’s chin rests on your thigh as you come down, chest still rising, hands twitching. She’s breathless, eyes wet, face a mess. She’s just looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just brush her hair back from her face, gentle now. Fingertips grazing her temple. Her cheek leans into the touch like she’s starving for it.

“…you forgive me?” she whispers, voice wrecked.

Your nails drag down her jaw, slow. “Get in the bed.” She nods like she expected that answer.

She crawls in after you, sliding under the blanket like a scolded dog and wrapping herself around your waist. But she’s not done. You can feel it. The way she’s shifting. The tension in her stomach. That buzz under her skin.

You pull her face up to yours.

Her lips are soft, hesitant, you kiss her this time. Open-mouthed. Lazy. Deep. Like you missed her even while she was on her knees. Her fingers dig into your hip. Her leg slots between yours, and you don’t stop her when she starts to move. You just press your forehead to hers.

“You tryna get off?” you ask, low.

“No,” she lies, breath hot. “I just wanna feel you.”

“Mmhm.”

Your thigh moves between hers, and she groans. Like her whole body is short-circuiting. You grip her jaw and kiss her again, slower now. Softer. Less performance, more you mine, you home, you safe.

You slide your leg up and over. Straddle her thigh. She gasps. Her hand flies to your waist, gripping hard.

“Holy fuck—”

“Shhh,” you whisper. “You wanna feel me?” She nods, shaky. You grind once. Real slow. Wet on wet. Soaked, sticky heat against her toned thigh. Her hand slides up your back, holding you down.

You don’t let her rush it. You move like molasses, like you’ve got all night. Every pass of your clit against her skin is deliberate. Sensual. She watches your face like it’s a goddamn movie.

Then she moves too. Matches your rhythm, thigh flexing under you, hips rolling up until the pressure is thick and perfect.

She’s breathing hard now. Voice rough. “Fuck, you feel so good like this. So warm. Don’t stop, baby. Please don’t stop.”

You kiss her again. Your hands in her hair. Her thigh right between yours. You’re rocking now, breathing each other in. The pace is slow but wet. You can hear it. Feel it everywhere.

Caitlin’s losing it. You lean into her ear, whispering, “You’re lucky I love you. Lucky I let you touch me again.”

She whimpers. “I know. I know. I love you so much.”

You grind harder. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” she gasps. “I love you. I’m yours. I swear I’m yours.”

Your hips start to stutter, hers too. She’s so close, and so are you, both chasing that same slow wave.

You cum together. Quiet but hard. Lips pressed to each other’s, thighs trembling, hips still moving through it even when it’s too much.

Later, you’re tangled up in each other. Bare. Heartbeats slow. She runs her fingers through your locs, murmuring, “I hate when we fight.”

You press a kiss to her chest. “Then don’t start ‘em.”

She grins, sleepy. “Can’t help it. I get crazy when I think about losing you.”

You look up. “You never will.”

You didn’t even have to ask. After the second round, slow, slippery, bodies locked tight and trembling into each other. Caitlin ran the bath without a word. Bubbles. Eucalyptus oil.

Music playing from her phone in the corner. She washed your back like it was sacred. Held your foot in her hand like it weighed nothing and kissed your ankle just because she could.

Clean sheets. Soft cotton.

TV low in the background and Caitlin’s hair still damp, curls tied into a loose bun.

Her hoodie is yours now, hanging off your shoulder while you sit propped up against the headboard, bowl of cookies-and-cream between your legs.

She’s got her spoon. You’ve got yours. But she keeps feeding you anyway.

“Open,” she says, holding out a scoop.

You roll your eyes. “You know I can feed myself, right?”

“Shhh. You forgave me, but I’m still earning back girlfriend privileges.”

You lean over and take the bite from her spoon. She smiles like you just gave her a gold star.

Then—kiss. Right on your cheek. No warning. You blink. Then another one.

“What are you doing?” you ask, pretending to be annoyed.

“Kissing my girl,” she mumbles against your skin. “Is that a crime?”

You huff. Try to focus on the screen. But then her hand finds your thigh under the blanket. Her fingers start tracing little shapes. Lazy. Thoughtless. And her mouth finds your cheek again. Then your jaw. Then your shoulder.

“Babe.”

“What,” she says, all smug and sleepy and in love.

“You act like you weren’t crying in my pussy an hour ago.” She pauses mid-lick of her spoon.

“Exactly why I’m kissing you now. That was life-changing.” You laugh, really laugh this time. Caitlin leans in, forehead pressed to your temple.

“I mean it though,” she says quietly, voice going soft again. “I don’t ever wanna fight like that again. Not with you.” You look over at her. She’s all flushed skin and puppy eyes and sleepy smiles.

“I mean… if the makeup sex is like that,” you tease.

“Y/n.”

You smirk. “Okay, okay. No more fights.”

She hums. Moves closer. “No more silence.”

“No more slamming doors.”

“No more accusing me of being dramatic.”

“Okay well—”

“Babe.” You laugh again. She kisses your cheek once more. And this time, you lean into it.

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harkovsangel · 1 day ago

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okay so i saw ur post for sg reqs!!

OKAY

how bout reader wearing one of the sg boys jacket?! >< lets say smth happened to reader while playing one of the games and things got too violent or wtv so he just puta his jacket around reader and says keep it for now and the next morning their whole friend group just teases them ab it :0

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Wearing Squid game characters jackets ! pt.1

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Characters: HyunJu / Player 120, Thanos / Player 230, Kang Dae Ho / Player 388, Myung Gi / Player 333, Nam Gyu / Player 124, Min Su / Player 125, Kang Sae-Byeok / Player 067

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ A/n: ik u said Squid game boys but i HAD to add Hyun Ju and Sae Byeok i’m sorry 😭 in my eye’s season 3 doesn’t exist idc so very season 2 core for most characters! i also wanted to add a lot more characters, but since my writing motivated is super low right now along with me being busy, i wanted to get this out now. I am definitely going to make a part 2! The rest of the characters i still need to do is Thanos, Kang dae ho, Nam gyu and Minsu(i might add some)

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Hyun Ju / Player 120

It was just after the Six-legged Pentathlon. You were sitting closest to one of the groups when they were shot, which resulted in you getting covered in blood. You tried your hardest to wash all the blood of your coat afterwards, desperately scrubbing- but by the time you got back to the dorms, the blood was mostly dried and stained into the fabric.

Hyun Ju was concerned for you. Her group was one of the firsts to leave so she didn’t see what happened, but she knew something was wrong when she saw finally come back, rushing to the washroom and covered in blood.

“Y/N?” Her voice was soft as she walked her way into the washroom, her eye’s trained on how you were desperately scrubbing at your jacket in the sink. “What happened?”

You jumped when you heard her voice, turning to look at her, small, forced smile forming on your lips as you spoke. “Uh.. someone was shot.. uh, close to me. And their blood got on my jacket.” You murmured, still laser focused on trying to get the blood out of your jacket.

She guessed something like that happened- with the blood splattered in your hair and over your face. She got a bunch of toilet paper from one of the stalls, bunched it up and moved over to the sink next to you. “I’m sorry.” She apologized, wetting the toilet paper. “Are you ok?” Her voice was soft, turning her head to look at you.

“Yeah.” You lied, and it was obvious with the tremble in your voice and your slightly uneven breathing.

“Look at me.” She said, tapping your arm slightly to get your attention. When you glanced at her she started cleaning some of the blood of your face, just hard enough to get the dry blood off.

Her gaze found way back to your jacket for a split second and then she looked back up at you. Smiling slightly as she spoke. “You can wear my jacket if you’d like.” She offered.

You were taken aback by her offer, cheeks flushing. You were crushing on Hyun Ju hard- yeah, but you really didn’t want to steal her jacket from her. But at the same time you really didn’t wanna a wear a blood stained jacket.

You thought for a second before nodding. “Yes please.. Thank you.” You said sheepishly, not looking directly at her as she finished cleaning the blood off from your face and neck.

She smiled at you. “Of course.”

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Myung Gi / Player 333

He swore to find you during the hide and seek game. He’ll kill one person, then get to you. However Nam Gyu didn’t make it easy, constantly messing up his search for you with useless distractions. By the time he finally found you, there was only three minutes left.

You were on the floor clutching your stomach, blood seeping and spreading into the fabric of your jacket. You looked weak.

He could feel his heart physically drop in his stomach, instantly dropping the knife and crouching down to you, ‘who the hell did this?’

He managed to help you, ripping part of his shirt off to wrap it tight around the wound, but your jacket was still covered in blood.

“Hey.” Myunggi spoke from behind you. His eye’s watching your every move as you turned around to look at him.

You noticed he had his sweater slung over his arm. You raised a brow, a look of skepticism crossing your features. Instinctively clutching your injured side.

“What?” Your voice was sharp, wanting to immediately get to the point.

His eye’s glanced towards where you clutched where you were injured and he sucked in a breath, his jaw clenching. “Switch jackets with me.” He said, stepping closer and dropping his jacket onto your lap.

You narrowed your eye’s, glancing down at his jacket then back at him. “Why? I don’t need your jacket.”

He rolled his eye’s slightly, leaning a bit closer as he glanced around before motioning towards the blood stain on your jacket. “The blood. That can make you a target to some people since they’ll see that you’re already injured.” He explained as if it should be common sense.

You scoffed, shoving his jacket off your lap. “I don’t need your pity, i’ll be fine.” You refused.

Myunggi sucked in a frustrated breath, look of annoyance and exasperation flashing over his features. “What if there’s another riot tonight?” He said as he sat down on the bed. “Do you really want to take that chance?” He said as if he was trying to fear you into agreeing.

You thought, wanting to be stubborn and refuse, but at the same time understanding where he’s coming from. You sighed and rolled your eyes, “Fine.”

You took your own coat off, movement slowed due to your injury. Then quickly pulled Myunggi’s over your body, it was a bit larger than yours, but not by much. In an odd way, wearing his sweater made you feel comfortable, more comfortable than when you were in your own.

When Myunggi pulled your coat over his body, he flinched at the damp, cool feel of your blood. He glanced at you, wanting to say something but deciding not to. Instead just muttering a; “Thank you.” before walking away.

But of course he couldn’t walk back to his bunk in peace.

“Yo Myunggi!” An all too frustratingly familiar voice called out. Myunggi rolled his eye’s as he heard the footsteps of the voice’s owner come closer up behind him.

“What?” Myunggi asked, not even bothering to spare Nam Gyu a glance.

“Dude- Did you just give that chick your sweater?” Nam Gyu asked with a laugh, asking the question stupidly. Nam Gyu’s arm finding way around Myunggis shoulders.

“So what if i did?”

“Dude, you are totally whipped aren’t you?”

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ Kang Sae-byeok / Player 067

It was after tug of war. When you guys won and were back on the elevator, your sweater got caught. You didn’t notice- so when you tried to leave the elevator, you completely tore your sweater.

It was practically useless to wear it now- It did nothing to actually keep you warm, which sucked considering how cold the dorms usually are, especially at night. Paper thin ‘blanket’ doing nothing to keep you warm.

So you were crawled into yourself, trying to keep yourself warm while eating sweet potatoes and chugging back water. Still pretty tired from the energy you exerted during the tug of war game.

“Hey.” Sae-byeoks voice cut through your thoughts as you glanced at her, quickly swallowing your food.

“Hey.” You smiled friendly towards her, then noticed her jacket in her hands. A confused look crossing your face.

She followed your eye’s then spoke. “Do you want my sweater? I know you think it’s cold here.” She glanced at her sweater then you.

You raised your brows, surprised she remembered that little fact about, but nodded nonetheless, sitting up more. “Well uh- sure, if you want. But what if you get cold?” You asked with a hint of concern.

“I’m warm blooded.” Her response was simple and dismissive as she handed you her sweater, and you took it. Smiling and chuckling at her response.

“Well, thank you.” You thanked simply and pulled the sweater over your head. Watching as Sae-byeok just mumbled a ‘mhm’ and turn to leave, about to go back towards the group before she stopped.

She thought for a second before speaking, turning to look at you. “Come.” Her words were simple, but you knew exactly what she meant.

You were a bit taken aback and unsure, especially since you didn’t really know any of them. Would any of them even want you over there? “Are you sure?” You mumbled out hesitantly.

As if she could read your mind and knew exactly why you were hesitant, she spoke. “We didn’t know almost anyone else who’s over there.”

You took in her words, thinking to yourself before nodding, getting up and following her over towards where your tug of war group sat.

Ji-yeong glanced towards Sae-byeok as she heard the footsteps approaching, then her attention diverted to you.

A grin immediately made way to her face when she saw you trailing behind Sae-byeok, evidently wearing her sweater by the white numbers, ‘067’ that were across the chest.

She glanced at Sae-byeok to see her already looking her. Her grin widened more as she raised her brows slightly, ignoring Sae-byeoks death glare. Silently teasing her through looks.

⟡ ݁₊ . written by harkovsangel, 2025 on tumblr! © do not repost on any third party website or repost as yours. Doing so will result in me blocking you and reporting.

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cinnxmxngxrl · 1 day ago

Text

“La Sirena” pt 2

Joel Miller x Stripper!Reader

Read part 1 here | Joel’s Masterlist

Summary: Joel wants to be with you, even if it means breaking the club’s rules. But you’re not the stripper waiting to be rescued by a knight in shining armor. Caught between the risk of losing your job and the chance at something real, you’re left torn with a decision to make.

WC: 9k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, lap dance, dry humping, oral (f&m!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, angry sex, mentions of sex work, joel is lonely and touch starved.

It had been three weeks. Three fucking weeks since you last saw Joel. No more booth reservations, and the silence was deafening.

And now? Now he was standing by the front desk, his hat in his hands like a goddamn apology.

“Booth six,” he said quietly.

You caught the receptionist’s glance and rolled your eyes. You didn’t even look at him when you stepped into the booth, just slid in beside him like you were already bored. Of course you weren’t, you’d missed him like crazy.

“You don’t get to disappear and then stroll back in like you just forgot to tip me last time.”

Joel winced. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve said Hey, I’m not coming back. Or this is too much for me. Or even fuck off would’ve been better than nothing.”

“’M sorry,” he said softly. “I really am. I was conflicted, an’ hurt, an’… I know it’s no excuse,” he said, voice low, heavy with guilt.

You looked at him—steady, unflinching. “No, it’s not.”

You kept staring at him, at the way he looked smaller than before — not just older, but more worn out, like the guilt had taken up permanent residence in his body.

“You came here just to apologize?” you said flatly. “Is that it?”

He opened his mouth — and then closed it.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And before he could say another word, you swung your leg over him and dropped into his lap.

His hands immediately went up in a defensive way, “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t ask for this?” you said with a sharp tone. “Well, that's too bad."

Your hips pressed down, grinding slow and firm over his jeans. You felt his thighs stiffen beneath you and his breath caught.

“You don’t get to ignore me for three fucking weeks and then sit here like I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Darlin’—” he breathed, hands still raised, still trembling, like he didn’t know what the fuck to do with you on top of him.

“Don’t darlin’ me. You wanted to feel something real, huh?” you growled, lips brushing his ear, letting your breath ghost down his neck. “Then feel this.”

You rocked your hips harder—firm, deliberate, grinding down right where he was hard and aching, the friction of your soaked panties under your skirt against his jeans was sending sparks through both of you. You moved your body in the only way you knew. Rhythmic. Unrelenting. Precise. Joel’s jaw clenched, hard enough you could see the muscle jump. He gripped the edge of the seat like it might anchor him, but it didn’t, you were pulling him under.

He let out a sound, a strangled, guttural groan, like a man trying not to give in, trying not to beg, but failing anyway. It was low and raw, and it shot straight between your legs.

“F-fuck,” he breathed, his voice barely audible, strangled in the back of his throat.

You rolled your hips again, slow this time, just a filthy, deliberate drag that made his eyes squeeze shut, and his hips twitch beneath you, completely out of his control.

“I didn’t come here to—” he gasped.

“Come?” you hissed. “Too fucking late.”

Your hands slid to his chest, fingers splaying over that soft, worn flannel. You ground down with full weight, cunt pressing into his cock, feeling how it throbbed, how fucking desperate his body had gotten just from that brutal, slow press of you against the bulge in his jeans.

He was rock hard. Straining, desperate, painfully swollen beneath the thick denim, and you felt all of it, every throb, every twitch, every bit of heat he was holding back. You had done this to him, even fully clothed, angry, straddling him like you could grind the apology out of his mouth, like you could ride the guilt out of his soul.

And beneath it all laid the helpless truth:

He liked it, even if he tried too hard to hide it, even if he tried to walk away from it, even if the guilt ate him up. He still needed it, and he wasn’t strong enough to stop you.

“Come on,” you whispered, slowing your hips just enough to make it mean more. “Let go. You already ruined your jeans once, ruin them again.”

“Stop,” he begged. “Please, I—” You knew he didn’t mean it, you knew he didn’t want you to stop. And so you didn’t.

Not until his whole body tensed beneath you, every muscle going rigid, like he was trying to hold back a scream in the back of his throat. His hips jerked, once, twice, subtle but unmistakable, like his body couldn’t help itself anymore.

And then he came. Silently. Shamefully. You felt it pulsing thick beneath you, soaking into the fabric between your bodies, the mess of it caught in his boxers, in his jeans. You stayed right there, straddling him, grinding down with slow, punishing rhythm, not letting him shy away from it, not letting him pretend it didn’t happen.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear again. “That was for disappearing.”

Then you climbed off, smoothing your skirt. Not a single glance back. You left him siting there with the mess in his jeans and the guilt in his gut. He deserved that.

He was back the next Friday. Same flannel, same tired eyes, but this time, he didn’t book a booth right away, he just stood near the bar, hat in his hands like every week, shifting his weight like a man who didn’t belong in his own skin.

You saw him the moment he walked in, of course you did, you felt that unmistakable ache behind your ribs you’d learned to ignore. You still didn’t go to him right away, you were still pissed, so you let him approach you, and when he finally did, he stopped in front of you with that awkward, broken expression.

“I booked booth five,” he said. Voice low. “If you’ll come.”

You said nothing. Not yes. Not no. Just turned away, like you didn’t feel his eyes crawling after you, and slid into the booth across from him. You didn’t sit beside him this time, you weren’t giving him that comfort, not yet.

He looked older tonight, not because of his age, but because of something else — something that weighed heavy behind his eyes, like he’d spent the last week in a fight with himself, and lost every round.

You didn’t smile at him, didn’t offer a lap dance. You just sit there waiting, keeping your arms and legs crossed. The air was heavy with the weight of unspoken things, of the misunderstandings hanging between you, of the things you both tried hard to ignore and the feelings you were trying to bury, feelings you’ve tried to ignore for months cause you couldn’t yet admit.

Until he finally broke the silence.

“Y’know I didn’t mean to disappear.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But you did.”

He nodded. “I know. An’ I felt like shit about it every day. But that’s the thing, I feel like shit comin’ here, and I feel like shit if I don’t.”

You didn’t reply, just let the weight of the silence stretch.

He sighed, rubbing the heel of his hand over his jaw like it ached. “I ain’t good at this. Feelin’ things. Talkin’ about ‘em. It ain’t how I was raised, and I sure as hell never learned how.”

You tilted your head slightly. “That why you ghosted me?”

“No,” he said. “I ghosted you because I didn’t know what the fuck to do with myself. Because I kept sittin’ here, in this booth, starin’ at you, feelin’ like I was losin’ somethin’ every time I left. But I didn’t, cause you were never mine to start with.”

That made your throat tighten.

He swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. “You’re not just some girl workin’ a stage. Not to me. You never were.”

You looked away, that hurt more than it should have.

“So what am I, Joel?” you asked quietly. “Some fantasy you think you’re not allowed to touch?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re someone I want to know without these goddamn rules. Outside this place.”

You stared at him, long and hard. “You still want something real,” you said.

“I do.”

“And you want it with me.”

“Yes.”

“But you couldn’t handle it when you realized it was only ever going to happen in here, on a couch you don’t even want to sit on.”

His jaw tightened. “I left because it felt wrong. Because payin’ for your time made me feel like I was stealin’ it.”

You leaned forward now. “You think I give this to just anyone?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I know better. I just… I wanted you to want me outside of all this. An’ I knew I couldn’t ask for that. Not without breakin’ every line you’ve drawn.”

You didn’t speak for a long time, but he didn’t push or beg, he let you sit with it, just waiting. And something in that — the stillness of him — told you this wasn’t a man who said this kind of thing often. Maybe not ever.

You let out a long breath, looking at him straight in the eyes. “I’ll go out for coffee with you.”

His brow furrowed.

“But,” you added quickly, “only once. And only because I want to. Not because you wore me down or said the right thing.”

He nodded, slow, as if every word needed to be carved into him.

“And you don’t tell anyone. You don’t ask for my number here. You don’t hang around the door. You act like I’m just another girl in this place, and you keep it quiet.”

“I will,” he said. “I swear.”

“You better,” you said, standing. “Because I am breaking the rules for you. And I don’t do that for anyone.”

He stood too, almost cautiously, like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“I’ll find a place,” he said. “Somewhere quiet. Daytime.”

You nodded once. “Next week.”

Then you turned and walked away with your heart pounding and your legs shaky, but eyes straight ahead.

Because yeah, you were breaking the rules. But somehow, with Joel?

It didn’t feel like losing. It felt like finally choosing.

You met in the early afternoon in a small, quiet coffee shop tucked away from the busier streets, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and half-burned candles stuck in old wine bottles, no one here gave a shit who you were or what you did after dark.

And Joel? He looked different in daylight. Less guarded but still heavy, still carved from something hard and weather-worn, but quieter somehow, like the weight on his shoulders was just a little more bearable with the sun on his back.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see ya in the daylight,” you said as you sat across from him, coffee warming your hands.

Joel gave you a crooked little smile, tired, but real. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“You do have clothes that cover your belly button. That’s a surprise,” he said, smirking, taking an appreciative look of your body, not a lewd or obscene one, he always looked at you with soft eyes.

“Hilarious,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes, but the corner of your mouth still twitched like you wanted to smile.

The quiet stretched, but it didn’t sting this time. It settled between you like a blanket, it felt familiar, safe. You both nursed your drinks for a while. Talked about nothing, music, food, how shit the weather’s been lately. You learned he liked carving little wooden statues in his free time, hated phones, and used to play the guitar when his hands didn’t ache so damn much. He learned you liked thunderstorms, collected old postcards, and once dyed your hair blue on a dare. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

At one point, you caught him looking at you, not the way your clients usually looked, not the way men in booths watched, but like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t think he deserved.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothin’. Just… you look different.”

“In a good way?”

“In a real way,” he said softly. “Like ’m actually seein’ you for the first time.”

You swallowed hard. That one landed deep, because you weren't sure if you’d ever let a man see the real you before.

He walked you to your car after, even though it was just two blocks away. His hand didn’t brush yours and he didn’t lean in close to kiss you, he kept space between you like a man still afraid to want too much.

You stopped beside the driver’s side door, turned to him, and let yourself say what was already hanging in the air.

“Do you want to come back to my place?”

He froze, like you’d just handed him something too fragile to touch. Joel looked at you for a long moment, like he didn’t quite trust it, like he wanted to say no, just out of habit, but couldn’t.

Then he gave you the smallest, saddest smile.

“I’d like that,” he said.

⸻

You lived in a quiet building on the third floor. No elevator but he didn’t complain about the stairs. Your apartment wasn’t much, it was clean but lived-in, warm lighting, soft blankets, a shelf full of books and mugs. Joel looked around like he’d stepped into something too soft for a man like him.

You dropped your keys in the dish and turned to him. “You want a drink?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Whatever you’re havin’.”

You poured two glasses of whiskey, you both needed something to ease the nerves. Then you settled onto the couch beside him. Close, but not touching, not yet at least.

The glass was cool in your hand, in contrast with the hot tension between you two.

“You okay?” you asked.

Joel stared at the floor. Then: “I don’t remember the last time I was in a woman’s place.”

You didn’t say anything, just let him sit with that truth.

“But this—” he said quietly, looking at you, “—this feels different. And that scares the hell outta me.”

You set your drink down and reached out to touch his knee gently, grounding.

“It scares me too.”

He looked down at your hand, his rough fingers curling around your wrist, not pulling it away, not holding it there, just feeling it like he didn’t quite believe you were real.

Then his voice dropped lower. Hoarse. “What happens now?”

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his.

“That depends,” you whispered. “Are you gonna kiss me, Joel Miller?”

His breath hitched.

And then, finally, finally, he did.

His mouth was on yours like he needed it to breathe, like something in him had snapped the moment you said his name, the moment you tilted your chin and invited him in with that low whisper and the weight of weeks behind it.

And suddenly Joel’s hands were everywhere, on your waist, your face, your thighs, grabbing you like he didn’t trust you to stay in his arms otherwise. You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees bracketing his hips, hips grinding down against his already hard cock pressing up through his jeans, just like you had done many times before at the booth in the club, except this time it felt different, it felt real.

“Fuck—” he muttered against your mouth, his voice so low it was barely there. “You sure bout this?”

You nodded, already tugging his flannel off his shoulders. “Been sure since the first day.”

He groaned when you rocked your hips again, hard enough to make him jolt, hips bucking up against you like he couldn’t help it. His fingers dug into your ass, holding you there, trying to slow things down even as his body betrayed him.

“Jesus,” he grunted. “’M not—not gonna last if you keep doin’ that.”

You grinned against his jaw. “Who said you had to?”

Joel’s head dropped back against the couch like he was suffering, his breath was so ragged it looked like he was struggling to breathe. “Shit.”

You rolled your hips again, slower now, grinding yourself against the thick outline of him. His hands were trembling. Actually trembling.

You kissed his throat, bit it. And that’s when he snapped. He grabbed you by the waist and flipped you, laying you down on the couch, covering your body with his own as he kissed you again, deeper now, messier, no more hesitation. Your shirt was gone in a second. His mouth was on your collarbone, your chest, sucking a bruise just above the curve of your breast like he needed to leave something behind.

“Been thinkin’ bout this every damn night,” he rasped, dragging your pants down. “Bout you. Bout the way you look on top of me—fuck—bout your voice in my ear.”

You reached for his belt, yanked it open with one firm pull, and he groaned like you’d punched the air out of him.

“Please,” you whispered. “Need you.”

“I, uh… I’ve got condoms. In my wallet,” he said softly.

“Well, look at you coming prepared, Miller.” You gave him a sly smile. “I thought this was just a coffee date.”

Joel felt heat creep up his neck. “I—uhh, sorry.”

You chuckled, reaching for him. “I’m just messing with you.” Your voice dropped. “Forget the condoms. I wanna feel you.”

Joel let out a low grunt, his mind racing. “Ya sure?”

“I’m on the pill,” you reassured him. “Don’t worry.”

That’s all it took. He shoved his jeans down just enough, hand fumbling, frantic, and then he was lining himself up, gripping the base of his cock, and pushing into you in one rough, hungry thrust.

You gasped, body arching, nails digging into his shoulders. He was thick, hot, too much all at once, stretching you open like he couldn’t wait another second.

Joel grunted, loud and raw, his whole body already shaking, barely holding himself together.

“Jesus—fuck— I can’t—baby, ’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him deeper, your hips tilting up to meet every frantic thrust. Joel groaned loud and desperate as he slammed into you, it was fast and clumsy, but so fucking deep it knocked the air from your lungs. He wasn’t polished or slow, it was messy, hungry, fucking real. All breath and sweat and need, his forehead pressed to yours, panting like he couldn’t catch up to his own body.

He was already close from the second he first pushed inside you. You could feel it in the way he couldn't keep his rhythm, the way his thrusts stutter, erratic, frantic— and then it all snapped.

Less than two minutes, just enough to fuck you through a handful of brutal, uncoordinated slams before his whole body went rigid. He buried his face in your neck, a growl got caught somewhere between his teeth and your skin. He shuddered hard as he came, cock pulsing inside you, hot and thick and helpless.

“Fuck—fuck—’m sorry—” he gasped, voice cracking as he came inside you, still grinding slow thrusts through it.

You held him, one hand in his hair, the other pressed flat against the center of his back. “Don’t be. That was great.”

You weren’t lying, it had felt amazing, maybe you’d want it to have lasted a bit longer, sure, but that wasn’t what mattered. You knew how touch-starved Joel was, how desperate, so you found it heartbreakingly sweet.

Joel let out a shaky breath, still buried inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“Didn’t mean for it to be like that,” he murmured. “Wanted to take my time with you. Make it good.”

You turned your face into his hair.

“It was good. It was you.”

He didn’t answer right away, just lay there, catching his breath while feeling your heartbeat pounding under his cheek. The air was thick with sweat and sex, your skin felt tacky, your heart was thudding in your chest like it hadn’t quite caught up with the fact that it was over, that it had happened, fast and rough and honest.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You good?”

His voice was muffled in your shoulder. “I shouldn’t’ve cum that fast.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Joel, it’s okay. I liked it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you with his cheeks flushed and brows furrowed, something like guilt swimming in his eyes.

“Don’t feel right, leavin’ you like that,” he rasped. “Was s’posed to take my time. S’posed to… fuck.”

Your lips twitched. “So do something about it.”

That was all it took. Joel slid down your body without another word, his big hands trailing along your waist, thumbs brushing your ribs as he settled between your thighs. He spread you open like he was starving, not rushed now, but determined.

You propped yourself up on your elbows. “What are you doing?”

He glanced up at you through his lashes.

“Makin’ it up to you.”

Then his hot mouth was on you, so slow you couldn’t stop a whimper from escaping your mouth as soon as you felt him. Joel kissed your aching cunt like a man trying to worship it, like he could erase the shame in his chest by drowning in you. His tongue wasn’t rushed, he licked like he had all night, like he’d crawl inside you if it meant you’d let him stay.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head falling back. “Joel—fuck—”

It was clear at first that he was a bit out of practice, but as soon as he heard your moans, his confidence grew, finding a delicious rhythm. Long, dragging strokes, each one deliberate, from the bottom of your cunt to your clit, he lingered there, lips parting, sucking gently like he needed to pull something out of you. He dragged his nose against your clit, breathing you in like he was starving for it, before flattening his tongue and pressing up again, harder this time, wetter, letting it slide slow and deep.

You felt his hands on your thighs, holding himself steady with you as his anchor, like he couldn’t stand the idea of you pulling away. He wasn’t just eating you out, he was devouring you.

One hand slid between your legs, slow at first, thick fingers parting you with a kind of aching tenderness, like he needed to feel everything, memorize everything. And then he pushed them inside you in one deep and firm motion, in perfect time with the flick of his tongue over your clit, methodical and filthy and so, so focused.

The rhythm he found was unhurried, like he wasn’t just trying to make you cum, he was trying to undo everything he’d done wrong, one wet stroke at a time. Each curl of his fingers brushed your walls, dragging slow and deep while his mouth worshipped every inch of you he could reach.

“Feel that?” he murmured against your heat. “That’s how you should’ve been cummin’.”

Your moans cracked, high and broken, and it made something in Joel snap, not with panic, but with pride. Your thighs clamped tight around his shoulders and he growled, sounding like a man who’d won, who’d found the part of you that came undone for him.

He added a third finger, easing in beside the others like he already knew you could take it, like he’d felt the way your walls clenched around just two and begged for more. He curled them up, just so they were hitting that spot that made your breath hitch, that made your whole body go tense and trembling. And still his mouth was on you, his lips soft, tongue deliberate, sucking just enough to keep your eyes rolling back.

You were panting now, begging him.

“Joel—Joel please—fuck I’m—”

Your hands flew to his hair, your body arched, and when it hit you, it hit hard. A wave of heat rolled through your belly and crashed between your legs, your muscles clenching around his fingers. You came with a helpless and wrecked cry and even after that, he didn’t stop. He helped you ride it out, his tongue still working your clit through the aftershocks until you were gasping and pulling harder at his hair, feeling too sensitive to keep going.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were shiny, beard damp, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

You reached for him, tugging him up until he collapsed onto the couch beside you. You kissed him, long and messy, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Yeah,” you whispered, grinning against his mouth. “You’re forgiven.”

Joel smirked, a little cocky now, a little proud of himself. “Next time I’ll last more than a minute.”

You rolled your eyes. “Talk big after round two, cowboy.”

He kissed your temple. “Challenge accepted.”

⸻

A few hours passed like that, you had moved to your bed, your limbs tangled together, sheets kicked down to your waists, the hum of your heater filling the room. Joel had fallen asleep for a while, and so had you, drowsing in and out with your head on his shoulder.

But at some point he rolled around, and his hands were back on you, subtle at first, warm palms skimming your back, down your hip. Then they got firmer and hungrier, like his body had finally caught up with everything it had wanted hours ago.

You shifted, slid one thigh between his legs, and felt him, already half hard and getting there fast.

You grinned against his collarbone. “Didn’t think you had another round in you, old man.”

He let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “Takes me a minute. But yeah, darlin’. ’M ready now.”

His hand gripped your hip, and he rolled you gently beneath him, mouth finding yours again, softer now, unhurried, but still heavy with want. He kissed you deep, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other sliding between your thighs to check if you were already wet.

And of-fucking-course you were.

“Christ,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through the slick mess between your legs. “Already?”

“You’ve been sleeping on me all night,” you teased. “But I’ve been waiting.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain. His cock, now fully hard, pressed against your thigh. “Turn around f’me,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wanna see your back. Wanna fuck you slow.”

You didn’t even hesitate, you rolled onto your stomach, your cheek pressed to the sheets, allowing your knees to part just a little wider. Your breath caught when you felt his hand on your hip, and those strong, grounding fingers curling tight as he pulled you back, lifting your ass just enough to arch your spine.

Joel knelt behind you, silent for a moment, except for the sound of his breathing already ragged, already thick with need. You felt the heat of him, the weight, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, spreding your wetness all over him.

One hand stayed firm on your waist, anchoring you, while the other slid between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open, giving him that glorious sight of your dripping pussy ready for him to take.

A groan rumbled out of him, guttural and rough, as he sank into you in one long, endless thrust. Your mouth parted in a gasp, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you, completely, unbearably. Joel stayed there, buried to the hilt, savoring the feeling of the stretch, the heat, of how tight and deep he was inside you.

“Goddamn, baby,” he panted. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

This time, he did last. It wasn't rushed or desperate, it was measured and every move fully intentional. He moved slow, achingly slow, each stroke dragging out like he was trying to etch the feeling into memory, like he wanted to learn every reaction you gave him, from the way you gasped when he pushed in deep, to the way your back arched when he hit just right, or the way your breath caught every time he bottomed out and stayed there.

His hands were strong, gripping your hips just tight enough to steady you, to keep you exactly where he wanted you, but his mouth, God, his mouth was so delicate. He leaned over your back, his soft lips brushed your skin as he whispered into it, half-words, half-sighs, things like “so fuckin’ good” and “can’t believe you’re mine right now” and “don’t want this to end.”

You could feel him shaking, trying to hold back, trying to savor it. By the time you came, face buried in the pillow, moaning his name like a confession, your body trembling and twitching under the weight of him — Joel was wrecked. You clenched around him so tight he choked on a groan, hips stuttering as he tried to hold on, tried to give you every last second of it. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t stand another pulse of you around him, couldn’t bear the heat and the slick and the way you pushed your hips back into his like you needed him even deeper.

And then...

"Fu—Shit—baby, s’goddman tight," Joel moaned. "Gonna cum.. gonna fill this pussy… fuck you feel too fuckin' good."

With a low, broken growl and one final, sharp snap of his hips, he came. It was slower this time, letting the pleasure drag through him, pulse after pulse as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there.

You both stayed like that for a long time, your bodies sweaty and spent, letting the quietness surround you. Joel lay down beside you, arm curling around your waist, one hand stroking your thigh.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he murmured.

You didn’t say anything, didn't feel like you had to, you just reached for his hand and held it against your chest, right where your heart was still pounding.

You didn’t notice the shift at first, the club was loud as ever, music pulsing, lights dim and heavy. The usuals were there — the old creeps, the quiet loners, the birthday blowouts. You worked the floor like you always did, smile painted on, skin shimmering under the low glow.

But the eyes were different tonight, they were sharper. The manager’s assistant, Stacey, was watching you like a hawk from the bar. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, lips pursed in that I know something way that always spelled trouble.

You tried not to let it rattle you, until she called you over.

“You got a second?” she asked flatly, already walking toward the back office. The way she said it didn't sound like a question, like you had a choice. Your stomach twisted, but you followed her anyway. The hallway behind the dressing rooms felt colder than usual, the hum of bass music faded behind the door as it clicked shut behind you.

Stacey didn’t sit. She leaned against the desk, arms still folded.

“So,” she said. “You been seeing clients outside the club?”

Your mouth went dry. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s funny. ’Cause a little bird said you’ve been real close with that older guy. The one who keeps booking you, every week. The one who disappeared, then came back all moody and soft. And now, apparently, you've been out and about with him.”

Your heart thudded.

Stacey’s tone turned clipped. “That is against policy. You know that.”

“I didn’t sleep with him for money,” you said quickly. “It wasn’t a session. We just… got coffee.”

She gave you a look that could cut glass. “We’re not his fucking therapist, sweetheart, and we’re not a dating agency. You know how this works. Doesn’t matter if you got paid or not, you still broke the boundary. If a client finds out they can see you outside the club, what happens next? We lose control.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You did. You made a choice and now you gotta deal with it.”

You swallowed hard. “Am I fired?”

She didn’t answer right away, she ust stared at you for a long, heavy beat.

“Take a week off,” she said. “Come back and we’ll talk.”

You nodded, blood rushing in your ears.

“Leave now.”

You walked out with shaking hands.

⸻

Joel was waiting by his truck in one of the farthest parking lots, tucked away beneath the shadows of the night, where no one from the club could spot him. It had been like that for weeks now, your routine. He’d wait for you after work and drive you out to a diner on the edge of town, somewhere quiet, so you could grab a bite after your long shift. Most nights, you ended up at his place, or he’d crash at yours. Just to crawl into bed and hold each other until sleep came. He hadn’t touched you since that first night at your apartment, you had a feeling part of him was still carrying the guilt. Guilt over how things started, over keeping it quiet, about the fact that you still worked at the club, and this, whatever this was, had to stay a secret.

When he saw your face, he stood up straighter “What happened?”

You didn’t speak, just walked up to him, gripped his shirt, and buried your face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around you instantly, warm and steady.

“They know,” you said into his shirt. “About us.”

Joel’s arms tightened. “What d’you mean?”

“They know we saw each other outside the club. I broke the rules.”

You felt him go still.

Then: “Do I need to talk to someone?”

You looked up, brow furrowing. “Joel—no—”

“I ain’t gonna let ‘em treat you like shit. Not over me.”

You shook your head. “It’s not about how they treat me. It’s the rules. I knew what I was doing, I just didn’t care.”

He exhaled, jaw clenched. “But I care. I never wanted to get you in trouble.”

You smiled weakly. “Well, it’s a little too late for that.”

Joel cupped your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek.

“Joel, I don’t think I can see you anymore.”

Joel’s brows drew together.

“What?”

“I broke the rules,” you said, your voice tight. “And it’s not just about time off. If I go back and someone’s still watching me, if they think we're together then I’ll lose everything. Not just a paycheck but my safety, my freedom. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am.”

Joel’s jaw tensed.

“I never wanted to take that from you.”

“I know you didn’t,” you said. “But that’s what’s happening, whether you meant to or not.”

He exhaled, rubbed a hand down his face. “Then don’t go back.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Stay with me.”

The silence that followed was so loud it hurt.

“I’m not some wounded bird you get to rescue, Joel,” you said, eyes sharp now. “I don’t want a man with a house and a truck and a savior complex to fix me. That’s not love, that’s a cage.”

Joel flinched, just barely, but you saw it.

“I’m not tryin’ to fix you,” he said, his voice so low you could barely hear him. “I’m tryin’ to keep you safe.”

“I’ve kept myself safe,” you snapped. “For years. Before you even walked in that club lookin’ like you hated every second of being there.”

Joel swallowed, but said nothing.

You stepped closer. “I like you. God help me. But I don’t know you. Not really. And if you really cared about me, you’d understand why that matters.”

He looked at you, like he was trying to memorize your face, then he nodded, just once.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you need.”

You stared at him, heart hammering.

“I need time,” you said. “And space. And maybe… someday. But not now. Not if the price is my freedom.”

Joel didn’t argue, didn’t beg, he just stepped forward, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, and kissed your forehead.

Then he got into his truck.

And let you go.

You thought space would help, but all it did was open the door to silence. Joel didn’t text you, didn’t call you. You told him you needed time and he listened, you should’ve been grateful, should’ve felt respected.

Instead, it felt like being left behind. Who were you trying to fool? Maybe you were only ever a fantasy to him — the poor stripper who needed rescuing. And once he realized you didn’t want saving, that you didn’t need it… he got bored. Left you behind.

But then he showed up again — four days into your week off — standing at your door with a stiff jaw and tired eyes, and the wrong words came out before you could stop them.

“You really didn’t think I meant it, huh?” you snapped, arms crossed in the doorway. “That I’d just cave and come running back?”

"What's gotten into you?" Joel’s eyes narrowed. “I came to check on you.”

“Yeah? Bit late for that. Don’t you think?”

His nostrils flared. “You said you needed space.”

“I said I didn’t want to be rescued,” you corrected. “Didn’t mean disappear off the face of the fucking earth.”

He took a step closer. “Ya wanted time. I gave it to you. Now you’re mad I respected that?”

“I’m mad you didn’t fight for me!” you shouted.

That stopped him cold, and the worst part was that you didn’t even plan to say it. It just spilled out of you — the cold, ugly truth. You’d tried to push him away, building walls as high as you could. But deep down? You didn’t want him to walk away. You wanted him to break through those walls, to prove he was willing to fight for you. That he could take it all, the mess of your life, the fear and the damage — and still want you anyway.

“I don’t understand you. First, you want me to leave you alone—say you need time. An’ when I give that to you, you get pissed at me,” he said, voice tight with frustration. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t know what she wants.”

You flinched. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t. You were truly lost, you wanted Joel, but you didn't want to lose everything you've worked so hard for.

You both stood there for a second, breathing hard.

Joel’s voice dropped cold. “You said no and I listened. Ain’t gonna chase someone who thinks bein’ wanted is a threat.”

You flinched, but Joel didn't stop.

“You think I’m tryin’ to own you? Tie you down? Maybe I just wanted to make sure you had somethin’ solid for once. A soft bed. A goddamn quiet night.”

“I never asked for that.”

“No,” he growled, “but you liked it when it was my hands between your legs and my arms around you when you slept.”

That landed like a slap. You stepped back, fury rising like bile.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

Joel’s eyes burned. “Yeah, fuck me, darlin’.”

Your chest rose and fell with heavy, panicked breaths. He looked furious and hurt, but so were you.

“You think because you came back that it means something. But you only did it to feel good about yourself.”

Joel’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “Maybe I shoulda stayed gone.”

You stared.

“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe you should have.”

He slammed the door shut without looking back.

⸻

You didn’t expect him to come back again. After the door slam and after what you said, but around midnight, there was a knock. You told yourself you wouldn't answer, but you opened it anyway. Joel stood in the hallway, still wearing the same denim jacket, like he hadn’t gone home, like maybe he’d been pacing around your block for hours, wrestling himself.

“‘M not here to fix anythin’,” he said, voice rough. “Not here to fight.”

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying not to tremble. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were wild and pinned on you.

“I shouldn’t’ve said what I did,” he added. “Any of it.”

You bit your cheek, but your voice still cracked. “Right.”

Silence stretched between you, until Joel exhaled, stepped past the threshold without waiting for permission.

You didn’t stop him, couldn't even if you tried, because your chest was tight, your eyes burned, and your whole body ached with it, not just the fight, but the way it felt after. The emptiness that came when he walked away, the helpless, the hollow guilt after having pushed him away again and again. So when he stepped closer, you didn’t argue, you grabbed his jacket, dragged him in by the collar, and kissed him like it hurt, like you needed to make it hurt.

Joel groaned against your mouth, hands already rough on your hips, walking you backwards into the wall with the weight of him pressing into you like a punishment.

“Still mad?” he rasped.

You nodded. “So mad.”

“Good.”

His hand fisted in your hair. His mouth crushed yours, teeth grazing, tongues colliding, unsteady and unrepentant. You didn’t bother with the bedroom, just yanked his belt open and dropped to your knees right there in the hall.

His back hit the wall with a dull thud, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to touch you or hold on for dear life. You pulled him free, thick, hot, already half-hard and twitching with need, the head flushed dark and glistening with precum. He groaned when the cool air hit him, when your hand wrapped around the base and your lips slid over the tip in one long, deliberate pull.

You sucked him slow, with purpose, your tongue swirling lazily, lips tight and warm, working inch by inch down his length while your eyes never left his, you wanted him to see it, to feel the way you worshipped every inch of his glorious cock, to feel the way your jaw went slack just to take more of him.

His fingers finally found your hair, not yanking, not forcing, just curling in tight, like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. You hummed around him, let the vibration run down the length of him like a promise, and then sank deeper.

“Fuck—” he groaned, bracing one hand on the wall above you, the other still gripping your hair. “Don’t deserve this.”

“No,” you whispered, tongue dragging along his slit. “You don’t.”

You pulled back just enough to tease the tip with your tongue, just a soft flick, a slow circle, and then took him deep again, letting him feel all of you, the heat, the pressure, the control. Your fingers gripped his thighs as you worked him, unrelenting but tender, every motion a deliberate promise.

“Jesus—shit—you got the most perfect mouth, baby.”

You pulled off just before he could finish, stroking him slow, then fast, eyes locked on his while you licked your lips.

“Fuck me,” you said. “Right now.”

Joel grabbed you without warning, hauling you up like you weighed nothing. He spun you around and bent you over your couch, shoving your chest into the cushions, your ass up and waiting for him, you were already dripping wet from just sucking his cock, from just hearing the little moans and groans he let out.

He yanked your panties to the side and drove into you in one brutal, desperate thrust. You cried out, the sound half-pain, half-shock, your body stretching around him so fast it burned.

“Fuck—” he growled through clenched teeth, already slamming into you again, harder this time, deeper.

Your cheek was crushed into the cushions, breath punched out of you with every thrust. One of his hands pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, pinning you in place like he couldn’t risk you pulling away. The other gripped your hip, bruising, fingers digging into flesh as he used your body like it was the only way he knew how to say I’m sorry, like if he fucked you deep enough, hard enough, fast enough, he could undo everything.

There were no words, just the sound of skin slapping skin, your soft gasps, his low groans, and the thick, obscene drag of him inside you.

“What bout now? Mad?” he growled, panting against your neck.

You whimpered. “Yes.”

“Stay mad. Want you like this.”

He was thick, and heavy, and deep, splitting you open with every punishing thrust, your soaked pussy was gripping him tight, fluttering around him like your body couldn’t help it. You clenched down every time your name spilled from his lips like a curse, broken and breathless.

“Oh, fuck, Joel—Don’t stop.”

"’M not stoppin’ till I’m fuckin’ empty. Gonna fill you up n’ make sure you feel it f’days."

He snarled low against your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp, not quite biting, but just a warning. His rough and hungry fingers found your clit, rubbing fast, sloppy circles that made your hips jolt against his.

You came with a loud and uncontrollable cry, your back arching like a bow, hips jolting as your body clamped down around him, dragging him over the edge with you. Joel lost it, he cursed, pulling you back hard onto him with a bruising grip as he spilled inside you, painting your insides with warm ropes of his thick cum.

“Ngggh. Fuck—fuck—take it, baby—”

He collapsed over your back, his chest heaving, arms wrapped tight around your waist as if he could hold the moment there, keep it from slipping away. You were both slick with sweat, still trembling, your breaths coming in uneven bursts.

Neither of you spoke for a long time, when he finally pulled out, you felt the slick mess of him dripping down your thighs. Joel turned you, cradled your face with his rough palms, his thumb brushed your lip.

“I’m still mad too,” he whispered. “But I’d rather be mad with you than nothin’ at all.”

Your chest ached, and you nodded, letting him kiss you soft, letting him stay. No matter the uncertainties clouding your mind, tonight you needed him by your side, the doubts could wait until tomorrow.

You didn’t sleep much, Joel did, eventually. His breath heavy against the back of your neck, his arm slung over your waist like it had always belonged there.

You watched the ceiling, because even with his body tangled up in yours, nothing was fixed, the rules hadn’t changed, you were still on thin ice at the club. You’d broken the unbreakables: no dating clients, no seeing them outside, no taking anything personal. The kind of rules that got people dropped fast.

He stirred just after dawn, grunting softly, pressing his face against your shoulder with a raspy, “Mornin’.”

You didn’t answer right away. He felt it, the tension creeping back between you, no longer fueled by sex or anger, just reality.

“Y’okay?” he murmured.

You turned slowly to face him. Joel blinked at you, brows pulling together, voice low and tired but sincere.

“You regrettin’ it already?”

“No,” you whispered. “It's not like that.”

His hand brushed down your side. “Then what?”

You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest.

“I can’t do this.”

Joel sat up too. “You just did.”

“No, I mean I still can’t… be with you.”

“Because of your job?”

You nodded. “If we keep this up It's not gonna be a week off next time I show up, I’m probably gonna get fired.”

Joel frowned, voice sharp. “Then don’t go back.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure as hell is. You don’t owe them shit.”

You scoffed. “I owe myself. That job pays my rent, my phone, my groceries. It’s mine, Joel.”

“And what, I’m supposed to just sit here while you get punished for bein’ with me?”

You looked away.

His voice softened. “I can take care of you. It ain’t charity, it’s me wantin’ you safe, wantin’ you happy.”

You laughed bitterly. “So what, I quit, move in with you, and what? Let you pay for everything while I sit around hoping I don’t piss you off someday and get left with nothing?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “That what you think I’d do?”

“I don’t know!” you snapped. “I don’t know you that much, Joel..”

That shut both of you up, the room went quiet except for the hum of the heater. You rubbed your hands over your face and whispered “I want you. That’s not the problem.”

Joel’s voice was low. “Then what is?”

“I want you without giving everything else up.”

He watched you carefully, his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t.

“I can’t go from surviving to being saved,” you said. “Even if it’s you.”

He nodded slowly, a heavy kind of understanding in his eyes.

Then: “You ever think maybe there’s a way it ain’t one or the other?”

You blinked, and Joel leaned back, hands braced on his knees, thinking out loud now. “What if you quit the club, yeah? But not for me, for you. And in the meantime, we figure out somethin’ else. Some other way you work, stay on your feet, and on your terms. I help, sure, but not as some white knight. Just… someone who gives a shit.”

You stared at him, he looked tired but sincere. No pride or ego in his voice, just the warmth of someone who cares.

“You’d really be okay with that?” you asked, wary.

Joel huffed. “You think I want you miserable just so I can say you’re mine?”

Your heart tugged. He didn’t want a damsel in distress to rescue just so he could play the hero and soothe his ego. No, he wanted to help you without taking away the independence you’d fought so hard to build. All your life, you’d believed that relying on other people made you weak, that needing someone was a flaw, a crack in your armor, because they could leave at any moment, but maybe… maybe accepting help from someone who genuinely cared didn’t make you weak at all, maybe it made you stronger.

“Let me help without takin’ your power from you,” Joel said. “Please.”

You looked up, finally.

“I’ll try.”

Joel reached for your hand and you let him hold it, for the first time since all this started, hope felt real.

⸻

The next morning, Joel came back. He knocked like it was his house already, with a bag of diner coffee and two breakfast sandwiches that were too heavy on bacon and eggs.

You blinked at him in the doorway, still in a tank top and underwear, sleep in your eyes.

“I don’t remember asking for greasy meat in my mouth before 9 a.m.,” you mumbled, but took the bag anyway.

Joel smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped back to let him in.

He looked… energized, like he’d actually slept, like his wheels had been turning all night, and he’d finally settled on something.

“So,” he said, sitting at your tiny kitchen table while you sipped your too-hot coffee, “I had an idea.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh oh.”

He ignored that. “I got a renovation job comin’ up. House flip, just outside of town. Empty place, full gut. Nothin’ fancy, just sweat work. But it’s mine start to finish.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay…”

Joel leaned back. “Come work it with me.”

You blinked. “Come what?”

He looked dead serious. “Work for me. With me.”

You laughed out loud. “Joel, I don’t know how to build houses.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t need you to. There’s all kinds of work on a job site. Cleanup, paintin’, hell, I’ll teach you how to lay tile if you want.”

You stared at him. “This is your big plan?” you asked. “Make me your construction intern?”

Joel shrugged. “It’s a job. One that don’t involve you bein’ gawked at by drunk assholes or threatened with rules that ain’t fair. You said you wanted independence, so here, work with me. I’ll pay fair n’ you'll learn somethin’ new. An’ we don’t have to pretend not to care about each other.”

You looked away, unsure what the hell to even say. It sounded ridiculous, you, swinging hammers and hauling trash bags, Joel in his beat-up flannel, wiping sweat off his brow while you fumble your way through using a power drill.

It also sounded… oddly nice, maybe even safe, safer than you've ever been in your entire life.

“You really think I could do it?” you asked quietly.

Joel’s voice softened. “I know you could.”

You let the silence stretch while you stared at your coffee cup, the steam curling upward like it might hide your thoughts.

“Listen, darlin’, it doesn’t have to be forever if you don’t love it. Just somethin’ steady f’now. Safe. It can give you time, y’know? Time to figure out what you really wanna do with your life. I’ll be here while you do.”

Finally, you said, “If I’m terrible at it, you can’t fire me.”

Joel smirked. “We’ll put that in the contract.”

“You’re gonna make me sign a contract?”

“Damn right, can’t have my newest hire causin’ HR problems.”

You grinned, and for the first time in what felt like days, the weight on your chest lifted just enough for you to breathe.

Joel leaned across the table, his fingers brushing yours.

“Let me build somethin’ with you,” he said softly. “Even if it’s just drywall n’ sawdust for now.”

Your heart thudded stupid and loud, and you nodded once. “Alright, boss.”

"Don't start callin' me boss, darlin’." He chuckled warmly, the kind of sound that made you feel like everything was gonna be okay. "If you do, there won’t be any work gettin’ done."

You weren’t his to save, and he wasn’t your hero. But maybe, just maybe, there was something worth building between you. Not out of pity or guilt, but out of something real. Something honest. For Joel, you were willing to try. Willing to let him in, piece by piece.

A/N: I’m seriously head over heels over the amount of sweet comments the first part got, seriously like ????? You guys are amazing and I love y’all sososososo much. Not exaggerating, you made my entire week, month, year🥹🩷

I really hope you enjoyed this second (and final) part too!! And if you were expecting a sad, angsty ending… well, too bad, because I’m simply incapable of writing that.

Thanks again for all the likes, reblogs and comments, it’s so nice to know you enjoyed it!!

Might do an epilogue one day? We’ll see, I’m not opposed to the idea.

taglist: @pillow-princess-69 @glitterspark @maiamore @sophiagladiator @lostboys1987girl @thecatgurly @pedrofan @untamedheart81 @billionairecowgirl @bueschibaby @babyangelc @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @joelsslvts @pinkiec6-rubi @preciosapascal @aquanatalie @elanorasdiary @littledes1re @bit3mebabyx @glitterfartz08 @lunarlilith @theoraekenslover @danika1994 @chrrypascal @puduvallee @ainhoetaaa @yournameiswhat @idfkimhereforsmut @millercontracting @professional-fangirrrl @athena-shifterx @havensucks @wand-erer5 @thaliagracesgf @ashleyfilm @warmdragonfly @pedros-wifey @ivyinthesun so sorry if I forgot anyone.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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sourkiki · 3 days ago

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THE BOY WHO STAYED.

VOL. 15: jungwon had enough of you going on many failed blind dates, when he's right in front of you the entire time.

wc: 1535 𑁛 friends to lovers non-idol au 양정원 x fem! reader mentions of m*n being m*n failed blind dates ⪩⪨ jungwon's smitten with reader confession tooth-rotting fluff ❀ catalogue

note. idk why but jungwon is meant for the friends to lovers troupe and i asked moot aka @emisluvr to pick so this is how this drabble is born. i have another fluff drabble coming soon hehe (coughs its for riki coughs)

Another failed blind date. Another arrow fired at your chest, mocking you for your horrible taste in men. You weren’t sure why you were in the wrong. You did everything perfectly: dressing nicely, planning the venue to meet your blind date and even going as far by checking whether the other has any food allergies or not. You had texted your best friend; Jungwon, informing him that you were heading out for your date. The first sign was when your blind date arrived thirty minutes later than the agreed time, not bothering to apologize for his lateness.

But that was only the beginning.

The second sign was when he didn’t care about you at all. He didn’t ask questions about your hobbies, your future or anything that’s about you. The third sign was he wasn’t keen on engaging in any conversations, mostly either humming, scrolling through his phone or looking out the window, paying you no mind. The fourth sign was when he made you pay for the date and at that point, you were done. You wanted to leave as soon as possible.

And here you are, standing in front of Jungwon’s home, hesitant to knock on the door. You were about to leave, only for the door to open, revealing him standing on the other side. All he needed was one look to your face and that was enough to tell you everything. Jungwon wordlessly moved aside, letting you enter his home.He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants after closing the door. You didn’t turn around to face him, not yet. Or maybe, you didn’t have the courage to face him.

Sniff, sniff.

Jungwon’s eyes widened, crossed arms dropping to his sides. “(Name)..”

You slowly turned, showing your teary eyes with tear droplets trickling down your face. Your eyes were already swollen but to Jungwon however, you’re the most gorgeous person he has seen. He closed the distance, pulling you into his chest without hesitation. At first, you stiffened up. But you relaxed in his gentle, loving hold when he ran his hand through your hair and rested his chin on your head.

“Shh, it’s alright. Let it out, don’t try to hide from me,” he murmured, whispering sugar-coated words to you.

And just like that, the waterfall broke. You cried your eyes out, bawling like a newborn child into Jungwon’s shirt, not caring about how you’re soaking the fabric with your tears and snot. Besides, it’s not like he will complain. After all, he’s too smitten to tell you off. He gently rocked you side to side, like how a mother does to her child while comfortingly patting your back. It took you a while to calm down and he led you to the couch, disappearing into the kitchen to pour you a glass of water.

Jungwon sat beside you, leaving some distance between you, your clothed knees brushing against one another. None of you said a word, until you broke the silence with your small, trembling voice.

“Am I that unloveable?” You asked.

Jungwon’s breath hitched, heart shattering into pieces at how insecure you sound. “What makes you think that?” Instead, he forces himself to ask, despite how he was tempted to say something else.

You weakly shrugged your shoulders, tightening your grip around the half-empty glass. “I don’t know. It’s just.. all these blind dates I went, none of them are interested. It’s like they see me as a joke. I tried my best to appeal to them but they ignored me, treating me like I’m invisible. Some even mocked me.”

Jungwon clenched his fists, jaw tightening at the mere thought of them laughing at you, insulting you when they don’t even deserve to be in the same room as you. To breathe in the same air as you. To even lay their eyes on you, they aren’t worth it. They were not worth the effort and time you put aside for them in the first place.

Swallowing, he inched closer so he could place his hand on your shoulder. Jungwon gave you his signature warm, dimple smile that cutely peeks out from his cheeks. “Don’t think too little of yourself. It’s not your fault they can’t see how pretty you are and how you deserve someone better.”

He didn’t know what he said until he saw your eyes widened slightly and he knew he had fucked up, causing something that had ruined your long-term friendship. Jungwon withdrew his hand, about to splutter some random, flimsy excuse but you were faster.

“..Wonie, do you have feelings for me?” You asked.

His mind blanked out.

Out of everything and anything he had thought of, he didn’t expect you to directly ask him that question, face-to-face without any fear. That was one thing why Jungwon fell in love with you. You were fearless, not afraid to step out of your comfort zone and try new things, even if it might put your life in danger. He would have started spiralling if you didn’t cup his face with your bare hands. Just the simple contact was enough to make his head spin.

Time paused when you leaned in closer, not close enough to kiss him but close enough to give him a heart attack. He’s able to get a whiff of your signature perfume—the very same perfume he had gifted you when you turned eighteen. That was three years ago and you still used it on a daily basis.

“Wonie? Are you alright?” You asked again, furrowing your eyebrows with your lips curled down in a pout.

Fuck.

That’s all he could think of. Jungwon awkwardly cleared his throat, eyes averted to the side. “I—uh, yea, I do have feelings for you. In fact, I’ve fallen in love with you when we were young.”

“..Why didn’t you say anything?” You murmured, thumb drawing invisible lines on his cheeks. It takes all of his will to not lean into your touch, his eyelids fluttering shut as he savors it. The sweet, little moment he has with you before it’s forever gone.

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I hated having to see you cry over someone who doesn’t deserve you. I hated watching you shed tears over someone who doesn’t care about you,” he confessed, words slipping from his mouth like water. It was like you had unlocked Pharaoh's Box and he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t give you time to reply as he continued rambling.

“Do you know how painful it is, watching you from afar as you go on blind dates, one after another, when I’m right here? I loved you the day I met you. You’re my whole world. My everything and it pains me to see you going on blind dates,” he said, now clutching onto your hands that cupped his face.

You were rendered speechless. You knew Jungwon sees you differently but to hear him admit it out loud caught you off-guard. You didn’t know what to say, only staring at him with a dumbfounded look. To Jungwon however, your silence says everything you didn’t have to say. He let out a long, heavy sigh and was about to pull away when you tugged him towards you.

“Wha—!?”

He exclaimed, only for him to be cut off by your lips firmly pressed against his. Jungwon went as still as a statue, eyes wide open while yours were squeezed shut. He didn’t even get to kiss you back when you pulled away, looking at him with a familiar feeling. The feeling of love.

“Jungwon, I love you. I really do. I’m sorry it took me this long to realise it,” you murmured, saying his name like a prayer when it should be the opposite. To Jungwon, you’re more of a Goddess that has blessed him with your presence.

He didn’t speak, pulling you closer until you ended up on his lap and kissed you again. Unlike before, the kiss was intense as he focused on pouring his pent-up feelings towards you. Jungwon swallowed your startled gasp, tongue sliding in to explore your mouth, greedily drinking your breathless mewls and whimpers that you had to offer him. He swore he could get addicted to the taste of your soft, pillowy lips. If he could, he wished to spend the rest of his life kissing you.

Unfortunately, the dire need of oxygen pulled him away. A string of saliva snapped into half when Jungwon leans back to get a clear look at you. Your lips were swollen, makeup slightly smudged and your eyes were already dazed, like he had kissed you breathless. Seeing the effect he has on you made his stomach tightened. However, he didn’t want to push you. Instead, he hugged you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he kissed your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of this,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around him and rested your cheek on his head. “I think I do. But we’re together now. And I think your wait is worth it.”

Jungwon chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, it is.”

tags list: @chuhees, @byshens, @hoonstqr, @doucious, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v, @jun2ki, @rikisoup, @i-love-hannah-more-than-chan.

#ㅤ⠀⠀ ㅤ⸺ 情书 .ೃ࿐#enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enha x reader #enha imagines #yang jungwon x reader #yang jungwon imagines #yang jungwon x you #yang jungwon x y/n #jungwon x reader #jungwon imagines #jungwon x you #jungwon x y/n #jungwon fluff #jungwon scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen scenarios

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jkwrites-m · 1 day ago

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Daddy Kookie (5)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.6k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, smut, fluff, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, tension, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, stress, exhaustion, apologies, fear of backlash, trauma response/PTSD, self-worth crisis, press, fear of doxxing, industry manipulation, slight public announcement explicit: praising, kissing, missionary, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, body worship, post-sex intimacy

A/N: things are really picking up 😭 pls lmk what you think! 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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In every version of this moment I imagined, I cried at the gate.

I thought I’d step off the plane and dissolve into memory, into regret, into whatever you call the feeling of coming back to something that used to hurt.

But instead, I was calm.

Tired.

Focused.

Eun Ae clutched my hand as we made our way through immigration, her little backpack bouncing with each step. She kept whispering questions, half excitement, half nerves.

“Do you think he brought snacks?”

“Will Daddy Kookie speak Korean all the time now?”

“What if he forgot what I look like?”

“He didn’t,” I said softly. “He’s been waiting.”

And then he was.

Standing just beyond the barrier.

Black hoodie. Hair tucked into a cap. Mask low around his chin like he’d forgotten to pull it up. A bouquet of wildflowers in one hand. A nervous, open smile on his face like this was the first breath he’d taken in years.

I froze.

He didn’t.

He walked toward us carefully, like he was afraid to move too fast and scare me off.

Eun Ae saw him first.

She dropped my hand and ran.

I barely had time to exhale before she was in his arms, her voice ringing across the arrivals terminal.

“DADDY!”

He dropped to his knees to catch her, flowers still clutched awkwardly in one hand, her backpack slipping from her shoulders and landing at his feet.

He held her so tight I thought they’d both disappear.

“I missed you,” she said over and over again.

“I missed you more,” he whispered into her hair.

And I just stood there.

Still.

Watching.

Trying to memorize the way it felt to finally witness the thing I used to dream of when the nights felt too long and the crib beside me was too quiet.

When he looked up at me, he didn’t move.

He just searched my face like a man trying to remember what solid ground felt like.

Then - slowly - he stood.

We stared at each other for a second too long.

Then he held out the flowers.

“They’re probably squished.”

I took them.

“I like them that way.”

He smiled, and it was familiar.

Familiar in a way that didn’t feel like falling back.

It felt like… forward.

We didn’t hug.

We didn’t kiss.

We just stood there while Eun Ae danced between us, tugging on our sleeves and demanding we look at everything: the posters on the walls, the vending machine with weird soda, the sign that said “Welcome to Seoul” like it knew.

Outside, the car was warm. Clean. Quiet.

The drive passed in a blur of blinking lights and highway lullabies.

And then we pulled into the driveway.

His house.

Ours now.

Eun Ae looked out the window, wide-eyed.

“We’re really here, huh?”

That’s when I cried.

Not loud.

Just enough.

Because yeah… we were.

Really, truly, finally here.

═══════

They walked through the door like the wind.

No announcement. No trumpets. Just soft steps and wide eyes, their presence rewiring the air, shifting the weight in my chest I didn’t know I’d been carrying.

Eun Ae ran in first, feet thudding against the hardwood, her voice echoing in every room like she already belonged to the walls.

Y/N followed slower.

Eyes on everything.

I stayed by the door, trying not to hover, trying not to make it about me, even though every room in this house was about them. Every lamp, every plate, every drawer full of Band-Aids and crayons and chopsticks.

“This is real,” I whispered under my breath, and for the first time since I bought this place, it actually felt true.

Eun Ae ran straight into her room.

I followed just in time to watch her see the mural again- the one she helped me design over FaceTime months ago and promptly forgot about.

She gasped.

“Oh my gosh! You did it!”

She turned, eyes huge.

“Daddy, you really did it!”

I knelt down. “I told you I would.”

She launched herself at me.

I caught her.

And I nearly broke.

Y/N stepped into the doorway a second later.

She didn’t say anything.

Just looked.

The wildflowers on the wall.

The tiny desk.

The bed with the bunny blanket folded neatly at the edge.

I wanted to tell her how many nights I sat in that room imagining what it would sound like when they walked in. What it would smell like with her shampoo and Eun Ae’s fruit snacks. What it would feel like to not be alone anymore.

But I didn’t have the words.

So I just stood there and watched her heart start to settle into the space I’d made.

Later, after Eun Ae passed out mid-sentence on the living room rug, I tucked her in.

Y/N lingered in the doorway again.

“Need anything?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just a second.”

I gave her that.

And went to bed.

I left my door cracked open.

Not as a message.

Just as a reminder- I’m here. You can come in, or not. You’re safe either way.

I lay in the dark for a while. Listening. Breathing.

And then the tears came.

Not loud.

Not broken.

Just soft.

Relieved.

Because this could’ve never happened.

Because I almost ruined everything.

Because they were here now.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was waiting to be forgiven.

I felt like I was allowed to stay.

═══════

The first full day in Seoul felt like jet lag and emotional vertigo.

The sun hit differently here. Brighter, flatter. The light through the windows didn’t feel like mine yet, even though the curtains were ones I helped choose on a video call weeks ago.

Eun Ae, of course, adjusted instantly.

She danced barefoot down the hallway, opening every door like she was discovering treasure. “Look, Mommy! The shower has buttons!” “We have slippers with ears!” “This toilet says hello!”

Her joy carried me through breakfast.

Until it didn’t.

Until the silence came.

Until I opened the cabinet to find the same brand of ramen I used to live off of in high school and, somehow, it felt like it belonged to someone else now. Until the kitchen smelled like him and not like us. Until I walked down the street to pick up garbage bags and turned the wrong corner, and the air smelled like a city I loved but didn’t yet trust.

It wasn’t culture shock.

It was something quieter. Trickier.

Like being in a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved just enough to make you stumble.

By mid-afternoon, my patience frayed. Eun Ae asked if we could paint the kitchen and I told her too sharply, “Not right now.” She didn’t pout, but her shoulders sank.

That’s when Jungkook stepped in.

“I got dinner,” he said from the hallway, holding two bags of groceries. “But I need help. I bought mushrooms I’ve never cooked, and the rice cooker’s giving me a complex.”

“You bought a rice cooker that confuses you?”

“It has a voice. It talks, Y/N.”

I cracked a smile. He handed me a cutting board like it was a peace offering.

Eun Ae turned on music. Something fast and upbeat. Jungkook dropped a carrot on the floor. I added way too much sesame oil. The rice turned out edible but clingy like it had abandonment issues.

Halfway through prepping a veggie stir-fry, I laughed.

Like really laughed.

The kind that happens when you’re not trying to fix anything- just letting something good happen without permission.

Eun Ae danced around the island, wearing a plastic bowl as a hat. Jungkook offered a dramatic bow when the stove didn’t explode. For the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel like I was walking on someone else’s carpet.

I felt like I belonged.

That night, after dinner, I tucked Eun Ae into her new bed. She fell asleep with her arms around her flamingo drawing like it was a map.

I kissed her cheek.

Turned off the light.

And stood in the hallway listening to the sound of her breathing.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t panic.

I just… felt okay.

Maybe not entirely steady.

But maybe that wasn’t the goal.

Maybe this wasn’t about landing perfectly.

Maybe this was about letting something good begin.

═══════

She laughed tonight.

Really laughed.

The kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes and forces her to lean forward like her ribs can’t hold the sound in.

I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it filled the kitchen.

We were trying to cook something that looked like a stir-fry and ended up tasting like chaos. Eun Ae danced with a soup ladle. Y/N rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look tired for once.

She looked here.

And that- more than the mural, more than the keys she held, more than her suitcase by the door- made this real.

She was here.

But I still hadn’t said it.

Not fully.

Not the words.

I love you.

I want to marry you.

You’re the mother of my daughter and the woman I ruined my life by losing.

Every time I got close, something held me back. Not fear. Not shame.

Just… respect.

Because I already said those things before. And back then, I let her down.

So maybe this time, the words don’t mean as much as the showing up.

So I did.

I showed up.

I washed the dishes. Took out the trash. Let Eun Ae brush my hair into spikes and pretend I was a sea urchin named “Daddy Kookie.”

I watched Y/N sneak a photo of it and pretend she didn’t.

I didn’t push.

Even when she stood close.

Even when she lingered after dinner, her hand brushing mine when we reached for the same towel.

I didn’t rush.

When she said goodnight, I stayed in the kitchen.

I wanted her to come to me.

I wanted to earn her choosing this- not because it was easier than starting over, but because it was better.

I went to bed with the door cracked open again.

Not as a question.

As a promise.

I lay there in the dark and whispered the words into the pillow instead of her skin.

“I love you.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And if I had to say it a thousand more nights before she believed it with her whole body, I would.

I’m not in a rush.

I’m just… ready.

═══════

I couldn’t sleep.

Not from anxiety, not from noise- just from the hum under my skin. The weight of the transition is still settling.

It wasn’t insomnia. It was awareness.

Of the house.

Of the man sleeping down the hall.

Of the choice I made.

The choice I was still making- moment by moment.

I got up quietly.

Padded into the kitchen with bare feet, wrapped in the thin blanket I hadn’t unpacked yet. I made tea I didn’t want. Sat on the counter. Let the quiet wrap around me.

Then I heard him.

Soft footsteps.

Jungkook turned the corner in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded.

He froze when he saw me.

“I was trying not to wake anyone,” he whispered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed the room slowly. Gave me the chance to move.

I didn’t.

He leaned on the counter across from me, hands gripping the edge like if he let go, he’d reach for me.

We didn’t say anything.

The silence between us was warm now.

Not distant.

Just full.

I looked at him - really looked - and it hit me all at once:

This wasn’t the boy who left me.

This was the man who stayed.

Even when it got hard.

Even when I doubted.

Even when I didn’t know how to ask him to.

“Do you want me?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite the storm of nerves in my chest.

His eyes closed for half a second, like he was gathering himself, before he opened them again, his gaze locking onto mine. “Yes. But only if you want me too.”

“I do,” I whispered, reaching out to take his hand.

His fingers were warm and calloused, and when our skin touched, it felt like coming home.

I led him down the hallway in silence, the weight of the moment heavy between us. His room was still dim, moonlight slicing across the floor in pale ribbons, casting shadows on the walls. The air felt thick, pregnant with anticipation.

We didn’t rush.

Every movement was deliberate.

Every touch a question

Every kiss a reassurance.

Jungkook’s hands moved slowly over my body, like he was memorizing every curve, every dip, every inch of skin he’d missed for so long.

His touch was gentle, soft, like I was something precious, something he was afraid to break. I shivered under his fingertips, my breath coming in shallow gasps as he traced the line of my collarbone, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

I reached up to pull his shirt over his head, my fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, the ink that snaked up his arm.

Clothes came off slowly, piece by piece, until we were both bare, exposed, vulnerable.

Jungkook’s gaze was hungry but tender, like he was seeing me for the first time all over again. He dipped his head to kiss me, his lips soft and insistent, his tongue teasing mine in a way that made my knees weak.

I moaned into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes dark with desire. “Can I-”

“Yes,” I interrupted, my voice hoarse. “Please.”

He nodded, his hands moving down my body, his touch deliberate, worshipful. He knelt in front of me, his gaze never leaving mine as he pushed my legs apart, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.

My heart was pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the most intimate part of me.

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my hands gripping his shoulders as he kissed me there, his tongue teasing, his mouth hot and wet.

He took his time, savoring every inch of me, his touch slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every nerve ending, every secret place that made me shudder and moan. I felt myself unraveling under his mouth, my body tightening, coiling like a spring, until I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Jungkook, please,” I begged, my voice desperate.

He hummed against my skin, his fingers pressing into my hips as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that had me crying out, my body arching off the floor.

My orgasm crashed over me like a wave, intense and all-consuming, and I heard myself screaming his name, my hands tangling in his hair as he held me there, riding it out until I was trembling, boneless, completely undone.

When he finally stood, his eyes were soft, his expression almost reverent. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

I reached for him, pulling him close, my hands roaming over his body as I kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. “I want you,” I murmured against his mouth. “Now.”

He nodded, his hands gripping my hips as he guided me back to the bed, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the room.

We moved together slowly, every touch, every kiss, every breath a reminder of what we’d lost and what we’d found again. When he pressed into me, it wasn’t desperate- it was worshipful, like I was something holy and fragile and entirely his.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he moved inside me, his eyes locked onto mine. “You’re everything.”

I held his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as he thrust into me, slow and deep, his body moving with mine in a rhythm that felt like coming home.

“I’ve missed this,” I breathed, my voice shaking. “I’ve missed you.”

He moaned into my skin, his lips trailing kisses down my neck, his hands gripping my hips as he moved faster, harder, his body driving into mine with a desperation that belied his earlier gentleness.

“I’ve missed you too,” he groaned, his voice raw. “So much.”

I felt myself building again, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, until I was crying out his name, my nails digging into his shoulders as my body shook with another orgasm.

He followed soon after, his name on my lips, his body pressing into mine as he came, his breath hot against my neck.

We stayed wrapped around each other for a long time.

His forehead on my shoulder. My fingers tangled in his hair.

He didn’t ask what it meant.

I didn’t pretend it wasn’t what I wanted.

Because this wasn’t about the past anymore.

It was about now.

And I was finally ready to live in it.

═══════

I woke up warm.

Not in a metaphorical way. Literally warm- sheets tangled around my legs, sunlight in my hair, the soft weight of an arm across my waist and breath on the back of my neck.

Jungkook.

Still asleep.

Still here.

It was the first time I’d woken up like that in years.

I didn’t move for a long time.

Just listened to his breath, slow and uneven. The faint chirp of birds outside the window. A distant truck reversing somewhere down the street.

This wasn’t a hotel bed.

Wasn’t an accident.

This was our life now.

His fingers twitched against my hip. He shifted, nuzzling into my shoulder with a low, unconscious groan. I turned slightly to face him.

Eyes closed.

Mouth parted.

Hair a disaster.

I brushed a strand off his forehead and whispered, “You snore, you know.”

His eyes opened instantly. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Only a little.”

“Like a baby elephant.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Kill me.”

“No. I like the noise.”

He peeked up at me.

There it was again- that soft, shy smile he only gave me in the morning. The one that still didn’t quite believe this wasn’t a dream.

“Is she up?” he asked.

“No. Let her sleep a little longer.”

We lay there a few minutes more before I finally swung my legs over the edge and sat up.

The room looked different in daylight.

Less like his and more like ours. My sweater draped over the chair. My earrings beside the lamp. The book I was pretending to read half-open on the nightstand.

He watched me from the bed like he was memorizing something.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to write a ballad about my messy hair and morning breath.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

I laughed and tossed a pillow at him before slipping into the hallway.

The kitchen smelled like soap and lemon and coffee beans. He followed a few minutes later, hair wet, a towel slung over his shoulder, wearing sweatpants and a sleepy kind of confidence that made my stomach twist.

He poured two mugs of coffee and slid one toward me. “Toast or rice?”

“Toast.”

He made both.

Because that’s who he is now.

Halfway through plating eggs, Eun Ae stumbled in, her hair everywhere, one sock on, eyes still foggy.

“Is it school today?” she mumbled, climbing onto a chair.

“Yes, baby,” I said. “First full week.”

Jungkook kissed the top of her head. “We’re gonna crush it.”

I stood at the stove, flipping toast, watching them from over my shoulder.

My daughter.

My ex-boyfriend.

My maybe-again future.

And I didn’t feel scared.

Just still.

Like the noise had finally stopped.

═══════

I hadn’t danced like that in months.

Not just training. Comeback training. Which meant:

6 a.m. call time.

Ten-hour rehearsals.

Three choreographers yelling at once.

And exactly zero room for error.

By the end of the second day, I was running on coffee and willpower, crashing on the van ride home with my mouth open and my phone buzzing in my lap with missed messages from Y/N.

But I still got up.

Every morning.

No matter how late I came in or how heavy my legs felt, I got up when she did. Helped make breakfast. Brushed Eun Ae’s hair (badly). Walked them to the door with shoes untied and a protein bar in my pocket, trying to pretend I wasn’t blinking through exhaustion.

It mattered to me.

Not because I thought she needed me to.

But because I needed to show up.

I missed dinner twice that week.

Once because dance practice ran long, and once because I just… fell asleep in the studio break room with my hoodie pulled over my eyes.

Y/N never complained.

She just left food on the stove. Covered. Labeled.

The second time, I saw a sticky note beside my plate that read:

“Still proud of you. Love, E + Y.”

There was a tiny crayon heart beside it.

That almost made me cry.

The next morning, I dropped a pan in the kitchen because I hadn’t slept and couldn’t feel my fingers properly. I didn’t yell. Just froze. Stared at the eggs on the floor. Y/N knelt to clean them without a word.

I wanted to say, I’m trying.

But she already knew.

That night, I forgot to sign Eun Ae’s school form.

Y/N found it.

Signed it.

And said nothing.

But I could tell from the way her shoulders moved as she folded laundry that it hit a nerve.

She wasn’t angry.

She was… tired.

And suddenly, I remembered what tired meant when it was just her.

All those years.

All those nights.

All that silence I left her to carry.

I lay on the couch that night and stared at the ceiling, guilt chewing at my chest.

I hadn’t meant to drop anything.

But I was starting to slip.

═══════

It started small.

A form unsigned.

A load of laundry forgotten.

The wrong lunchbox in the wrong bag.

None of it was worth fighting over.

Not when I saw the bags under Jungkook’s eyes. Not when I heard the way his bones moved after rehearsal, like even standing up was too much to ask.

He was trying.

Really trying.

He made coffee before I asked. Brushed Eun Ae’s hair like it was a skill he was studying in secret. Left me voice notes on my lunch break just to ask how my first week was going.

And still, the balance was tilting.

I didn’t blame him.

But I knew the signs.

I’d lived this whole storm once already- sleepless nights, missed messages, invisible weight on my back while the other person chased something that didn’t leave room for me.

Only this time, he was here.

This time, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening while also pretending I was okay.

I found the school form Thursday night while putting away crayons. It was crumpled, unsigned, tucked into a backpack pocket next to a juice box that had leaked all over a spelling test.

I cleaned it up.

I signed it.

I folded the laundry while he showered and tucked Eun Ae into bed because he’d fallen asleep again, curled up on the couch, shoes still on.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t spiral.

I just felt the smallest, sharpest whisper of something I hadn’t wanted to hear again:

Don’t let this become a pattern.

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But I knew what it felt like to be the catchall. The default. The one who quietly keeps everything upright while the other person tries to survive their own life.

I wasn’t mad.

I wasn’t scared.

I just… noticed.

That night, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote a single sentence in my journal:

“Love isn’t supposed to feel like carrying.”

Then I closed the book.

And kissed him goodnight without waking him up.

═══════

Rehearsal was brutal.

Three run-throughs, two interviews, and a choreography tweak that had my knees questioning every life decision I’ve ever made.

By the time I made it to the break room, my hoodie was stuck to my back and my calves were screaming. I dropped into the couch like a man twice my age and didn’t move for a solid minute.

Jimin passed me a bottle of water and said, “You look like you’re ten minutes from flatlining.”

“I am flatlining.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you used to recover faster?”

“I also used to live off convenience store ramen and get eight hours of sleep,” I muttered.

The guys laughed, but I didn’t join in.

Instead, I rubbed at my temples and said, “I’m trying, but I feel like I’m failing. I come home and I’m exhausted, and there’s homework and lunches and bills and Y/N doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she notices. She’s tired too. And Eun Ae’s too young to understand why Appa’s so quiet some nights.”

They all looked at me.

Silent.

Then Taehyung- who had been lying on the floor, chewing gum and pretending not to care- said:

“Yeah. Sounds hard. Imagine doing it completely alone, right after being abandoned, in a new country, as an eighteen year old.”

The room went still.

I stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t soften it.

Didn’t have to.

Because it was true.

That was Y/N’s life.

For years.

While I was training.

While I was on stage.

While I was too ashamed to even unblock her number.

I stood up too fast, heart pounding, guilt rolling through me like a tide.

“I gotta go.”

Namjoon reached out. “Jungkook- ”

“I just… I need to go home.”

═══════

The front door slammed louder than I meant it to.

Y/N and Eun Ae were in the kitchen- painting or making soup or doing some combination of both based on the smell and the paper towels everywhere.

They looked up at the same time.

Y/N opened her mouth to say something.

I didn’t let her.

I crossed the room, dropped my bag, and kissed her.

Right there.

Hard.

Full.

Like the apology I hadn’t made and the thank-you I didn’t know how to say.

She gasped but didn’t pull away, just melted for a second, her hand in my hair, her body soft against mine.

When I pulled back, I cupped her face and said, voice shaking, “I love you. And I’m sorry. Thank you. For doing it all. For not giving up on her. On us. I love you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then from the side:

“Whoa!”

Eun Ae was staring wide-eyed, paintbrush still in hand. “Was that a real kiss?”

Y/N flushed crimson and gently pushed me back. “Okay, okay, maybe not in front of her.”

I nodded, breathless, trying to smile, but her face had changed.

She wasn’t mad.

But she wasn’t glowing, either.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly, glancing at Eun Ae.

My stomach dropped, but I nodded.

Of course we could.

Because the truth deserved more than a dramatic declaration.

It deserved space.

═══════

We waited until Eun Ae was asleep.

She didn’t ask many questions, thankfully. Just giggled about the kiss for a while, made Jungkook promise never to do “grown-up stuff” in the kitchen again, and fell asleep under her flamingo blanket, clutching a crayon drawing of the three of us.

When I came out of her room, Jungkook was already sitting on the couch, hands clasped between his knees, bouncing them nervously.

He looked up the second I walked in.

“Are you mad?”

“No,” I said, sitting beside him. “Not mad.”

He let out a slow breath.

“Then why does it feel like I just ruined something?”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said gently. “But… you did rush it.”

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

I tucked my knees beneath me, turning toward him fully.

“I know you meant it. And I believe you. I do. But saying ‘I love you’ in front of our daughter? Kissing me like that without warning? That’s not wrong, Jungkook. It’s just… a lot.”

“I panicked,” he admitted. “I was at rehearsal, and I just- Taehyung reminded me about how much you did. How much I left you to do. And I realized I hadn’t said thank you. Not really.”

“You don’t have to panic to love me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to prove anything with a moment. We’re past that.”

He looked down. “I’m scared I’m doing it again.”

“You’re not.”

“But I’m tired. And distracted. And- ”

“You’re here,” I said softly. “You’re trying. That matters.”

We sat in silence for a long moment.

Then I added, “But trying isn’t everything. Sometimes it’s timing. Sometimes it’s pacing. I’ve spent a lot of time learning to trust myself again. I don’t want to lose that by rushing into the version of us we used to dream about.”

“I’m not trying to go back.”

“I know. But I need to go slow. For me. For her.”

He nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. No more surprises.”

I smiled. “Well, maybe some surprises.”

He leaned in a little. “Like what?”

I kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Steady.

No performance. No rush.

Just yes.

When I pulled back, he whispered, “Was that a surprise?”

“That was a reminder.”

He nodded like he understood exactly what I meant.

Later, after we crawled into bed and the lights were off, he reached for my hand under the blanket.

I let him find it.

And I didn’t say anything when he whispered, “I’m in this. As long as it takes.”

I just squeezed his fingers.

And thought:

Good. Because this time, we don’t fall in love.

We build it.

═══════

The happiness felt suspicious.

Not because it wasn’t real but because it was so real.

So soft. So safe. So… steady.

Like walking on glass that somehow hadn’t shattered yet.

Our mornings had rhythm now. Toast, hair ties, mismatched socks. Jungkook learned how to braid- with lots of groaning and YouTube tutorials- and started insisting on doing it every other day, even when he got it crooked.

I’d never seen him more proud than the morning Eun Ae shouted, “Daddy! It’s not even bumpy!”

He packed her lunches when I worked early shifts. I left little notes in his hoodie pockets for rehearsals. On days he had a lot of time, we’d pile into the car with no plan: parks, bookstores, drive-thru fries, holding hands across the console like teenagers.

It was peaceful.

Unearned, maybe.

But desperately needed.

And I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, we were going to be okay.

Until people started looking.

It was subtle at first.

A teenage girl at the playground who kept glancing between Jungkook and Eun Ae like she was solving a puzzle.

A cashier who froze when I handed over my card and asked, “Sorry, but… are you…?”

Two women at the bakery whispering behind their phones after we left.

I didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

But it curled around the edge of me like smoke.

When I picked Eun Ae up from school one afternoon, another parent smiled and said, “She must look so much like her father.”

I smiled back.

But my heart tripped over itself.

They didn’t mean anything.

But they could.

That night, I stood in the hallway after brushing my teeth and watched Jungkook asleep on the couch, TV still flickering against his face, remote dangling from his fingers.

And I felt it.

That old fear.

The one I buried deep under logistics and laundry and forgiveness.

The one that whispered:

What happens when they all find out?

What happens to him?

What happens to her?

What happens to us?

I didn’t wake him.

Didn’t say a word.

I just turned off the TV.

Pulled a blanket over his chest.

And tried to ignore the chill in my own.

═══════

The meeting room was already full when I walked in.

I knew it was serious before the door even closed.

Namjoon was standing. Jin and Yoongi were seated, arms crossed. Taehyung looked worried. Jimin looked pissed. Hobi kept his arms folded like he was ready to catch fire. Our manager was pacing, and two HYBE execs were seated at the end of the table, folders and iPads in front of them like this was a press conference I didn’t know I’d walked into.

Then I saw the screen.

Four photos.

Me. Y/N. Eun Ae.

At the grocery store. Outside our house. Me holding her hand. Y/N standing behind her at pickup.

I froze.

“Sit,” one of the execs said.

I didn’t.

Jin spoke first. “These leaked about three hours ago. Low engagement right now, but it’s picking up.”

“Picking up how?” I asked.

“Trending on some army forums. A few gossip Twitter accounts. Nothing verified,” Yoongi said. “But they’re asking questions.”

And then the exec’s voice cut through the tension like a scalpel.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?”

I blinked. “I took my daughter to school.”

“You exposed yourself,” she snapped. “You went out without a disguise. You were photographed in public holding a child’s hand and smiling like no one in the world has ever heard of Jeon Jungkook.”

My throat tightened.

“That’s my family.”

“That’s a risk.”

Jimin stepped forward, but Namjoon grabbed his arm.

“You’re not just Jungkook anymore,” the exec continued. “You are a brand. You are a cornerstone of a multimillion-dollar strategy. And you think you can just wander into cafés and play house without a single consequence?”

Taehyung muttered, “He is a house. With a child. That’s the point.”

“That child,” the other exec cut in, “is now in the line of fire. She is a minor. She is traceable. And if you don’t do something now, this will explode. And when it does, you won’t be the only one caught in it. You’ll drag BTS, this label, everyone down with you.”

Silence.

My fists clenched.

“So what?” I asked. “You want me to pretend she doesn’t exist?”

“We want you to not confirm. Don’t speak. Don’t post. Don’t hint. You don’t respond at all. The moment you give this oxygen, it catches fire.”

I looked at my members.

Namjoon - torn, but steady.

Jin - protective, jaw tight.

Yoongi - angry, but strategic.

Jimin - holding back rage.

Hobi - quiet, hands white-knuckled.

Taehyung - already shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

No one said anything.

Because what could they say?

“I’m not hiding them again,” I whispered.

One of the execs stood. “You will if you want to keep your career.”

The silence that followed said more than anything.

I turned to leave.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon called, voice low.

I didn’t stop.

I just kept walking.

Out of the room.

Down the hall.

Into the parking garage.

I got in the car and closed the door before my chest cracked open.

I didn’t just cry.

I broke.

Because I’d finally rebuilt everything I ruined.

And now I was being told to burn it all down again.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know how to tell her.

═══════

He came home different.

Not late. Not angry.

Just… off.

The door opened the same way it always did- keys clinking, shoes kicking off, soft sigh through his teeth but the air shifted the second he walked in.

I was making dinner. Something simple. Rice, bulgogi, sliced apples on the side the way Eun Ae liked. She was on the floor drawing pictures of “Appa’s dance stage,” narrating each crayon stroke like she was designing a world we could live in.

“Hey,” I said, smiling.

Jungkook looked up from the entryway.

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey.”

That was it.

No kiss.

No teasing comment.

No pause to scoop up Eun Ae like he always did, even when his body was barely holding itself upright after rehearsals.

I watched him walk into the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and down it like he hadn’t had anything all day.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered, already heading toward the bedroom. “Just tired.”

Something about his voice made my stomach turn.

It wasn’t just tired.

It was something else. Thicker. Heavier.

Like regret.

Dinner was quiet.

He sat across from me but barely touched his food. Nodded when Eun Ae showed him her drawing but didn’t comment on how she’d drawn herself with purple pigtails and wings. That used to make him laugh for five minutes straight.

I tried to catch his eye.

He didn’t look up.

Not once.

After we put Eun Ae to bed, I waited.

I thought maybe he’d open up. Maybe he was just decompressing and didn’t want to talk in front of her. I made tea. Sat beside him on the couch, not touching but not far.

Nothing.

No conversation. No explanation. Just silence, tense and buzzing like something unsaid was crowding the room.

I hated how fast my thoughts turned.

Did I do something?

Did I say too much last night?

Is this the beginning of the end again?

Was all of this just a fantasy we couldn’t hold?

I didn’t ask.

Not because I didn’t want to know.

But because I didn’t want to beg for reassurance again. Not after everything we promised we’d do differently.

He fell asleep on the couch with the TV playing some variety show neither of us was really watching.

I stood there for a long time, watching him breathe.

His mouth twitched once, like he was dreaming something he didn’t want to tell me.

And I felt like a stranger in my own story.

Not because the love wasn’t real.

But because it suddenly felt too far to reach.

I curled into bed alone that night.

The space beside me stayed cold.

And I couldn’t help but wonder:

Was I always easy to leave behind?

═══════

I woke up with a headache and guilt crawling down the back of my throat.

Y/N was already up.

I could hear her in the kitchen. Gentle clinks, soft footsteps, the hum of her voice while she helped Eun Ae pack her bag for school. I didn’t get up right away. I stayed on the couch, eyes closed, letting the silence punish me.

I should’ve told her.

About the meeting.

About the threats.

About the way they said her name like it was a liability.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Because the second I tell her, it’d become real for her, too. And I wasn’t ready to see fear in her eyes again.

I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and caught them at the door.

“I’ll walk her today,” I said, voice still rough.

Y/N looked at me for a second too long.

Then just nodded.

Eun Ae grabbed my hand without hesitation. “Daddy, I made you a heart sandwich today in my dream.”

I smiled. “Best dream I’ve ever heard.”

═══════

We passed two people on the street who did double-takes.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull my hood up.

Didn’t drop her hand.

Didn’t act like holding my daughter’s hand in daylight was something to be ashamed of.

The label told me to lay low.

I’d decided the opposite.

If they wanted silence, I’d give them softness.

Visible, public, undeniable softness.

═══════

Later that afternoon, I stopped by the café near our house. The one where the barista knows Eun Ae’s weird milk preference and draws bunnies in foam when he sees us coming.

I ordered two drinks.

I didn’t wear a hat.

Didn’t wear a mask.

When they asked for a name on the cup, I said, “Jungkook.”

I felt the girl behind the counter freeze.

But I smiled anyway.

And when I walked out holding both cups, hers with a pink straw, I didn’t rush. I didn’t duck.

I just existed.

═══════

The interview was filmed the same evening.

Nothing big- just a pre-recorded segment for an upcoming radio appearance.

Toward the end, the host smiled and said, “Jungkook, you seem really grounded lately. Is it the new album? Or… something else?”

I could’ve lied. Dodged.

Instead, I smiled.

Tilted my head.

And said, “Could be the album. Could be the two girls I get to come home to.”

My manager flinched in the corner.

The host blinked.

The crew laughed like it was just a joke.

But it wasn’t.

I didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t give the label a soundbite they could bury.

Just the truth.

Quiet. Steady. Intentional.

═══════

That night, I stood outside our front door, with two new drinks still warm in my hands.

I hadn’t answered a single message from HYBE all day.

I didn’t care.

I’d given them enough of my silence.

Now it was my turn to choose what mattered.

And every step I took toward our home was a vow:

I will not pretend this isn’t mine.

I will not be ashamed of them.

Let them see me.

═══════

He came home with coffee and guilt in his hands.

He didn’t say anything when he walked through the door and just pressed the warm cup into mine and looked at me like he’d already written the apology a hundred times in his head.

And I hadn’t even asked for one.

I hadn’t asked for anything.

That was the problem.

I’d been so scared to tip the balance that I’d let the distance grow and named it patience.

But I was tired.

Tired of guessing.

Tired of pretending I didn’t notice the tension in his shoulders or the unread texts piling up on his phone or the way Eun Ae asked, “Why’s Appa sad today?” like it was just another weather report.

I set the cup down on the counter.

“Talk to me.”

He blinked.

“Not about work. Not about rehearsal. About this. About what’s happening between us. Because something is, and I’m not going to pretend it’s fine anymore.”

He looked like he wanted to run.

Instead, he nodded.

We sat on the couch. Close, but not touching.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then-

“I didn’t tell you what happened the other day. At HYBE.”

My chest went still.

He told me everything.

The photos.

The meeting.

The way they said Eun Ae’s name like it was a headline.

The words: brand, liability, risk.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just let it settle over me like rain on a rooftop- inevitable, soaking, not fatal but still cold.

“And you didn’t tell me because…”

“I couldn’t make you carry it.”

I stared at him.

“I already carry her.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But now I want to carry you, too.”

I looked down at my hands. At the way they curled into each other, tight and unsure.

“I don’t want her to be a secret,” I said.

“She isn’t.”

“But the world will treat her like one. And you. And me. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to live like that again.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What if they come for us?”

“They already are.”

“And?”

He leaned in.

Soft. Steady.

“I let them come for me. Not you.”

I swallowed hard.

“I’m scared, Jungkook.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t want you to be either.”

Silence hung heavy between us, a tangible weight in the air.

Then I whispered, “If it all breaks open…”

He took my hand.

“If it breaks open, we break it open together.”

We didn’t kiss right away.

We just held each other for a long time, forehead to forehead, breath to breath. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Slowly, I pressed my mouth to his, the kiss unhurried, a silent vow of our own. It wasn’t desperate or hungry. It was a choice, a reaffirmation of everything we’d been through and everything we still hoped to be.

He kissed me back with the weight of that vow, his lips soft yet firm, his hands cradling my face as if I were the most precious thing in the world.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine, and I saw the same fear I felt reflected in his brown irises, but also something else- determination. He took my hand again, leading me to the bedroom, his steps deliberate, slowed.

The room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me gently until I stood between his legs. His hands rested on my hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where my shirt rode up.

I felt his gaze on me, heavy and tender, as if he were seeing me for the first time all over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down my spine. “Always have been.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Jungkook-”

“Shh,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to my lips.

He stood then, his hands moving to my shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, his touch gentle, reverent. I let him undress me, my breath hitching as the fabric slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet.

His eyes trailed over my body, lingering on the curves he’d once known so well, as if he were rediscovering every inch of me. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but also cherished.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his hands moving to my bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

It fell away, and I stood before him, bare, my chest rising and falling with my quickening breath. He didn’t look away, his gaze intense, worshipful.

“So fucking perfect.”

His words were like a balm, soothing the edges of my fear. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me against him.

I could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his chest against my breasts, and I tilted my head back, closing my eyes as his lips brushed my collarbone, my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, filled with an emotion so raw it took my breath away.

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Always have, always will.”

Those words were a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink of my fears. I leaned into him, pressing my body against his, needing to feel his warmth, his strength. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, his lips finding mine again, the kiss deep and hungry, yet still tender.

When he finally pulled back, his hands were moving, unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans down his legs. I watched him, my heart pounding, as he stepped out of them, standing before me in nothing but his boxers. His body was lean, muscular, a testament to the hours he spent training, but it was the vulnerability in his eyes that undid me.

He reached for me again, pulling me closer, his hands sliding down my body, over my hips, my thighs, until he was kneeling before me. My breath caught as his fingers brushed the waistband of my panties, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he slowly slid them down my legs. I stepped out of them, feeling exposed, yet safe in his presence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a husky whisper. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

His hands moved to my thighs, spreading them gently, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I shivered, my breath coming in short gasps as he leaned in, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the juncture of my thighs. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he kissed his way up, his tongue tracing patterns that made me squirm.

“Jungkook,” I moaned, my head falling back as his mouth found my cunt, his tongue delving deep, his hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against my skin, his words sending a jolt of pleasure through me. “So sweet, so fucking perfect.”

His praise was like fuel, igniting a fire within me. I moaned louder, my hips bucking against his mouth as he sucked, licked, and kissed, his tongue skilled and relentless.

He knew exactly where to touch, how to touch, his fingers joining in, sliding inside me, stretching me, filling me.

“Oh God, Jungkook,” I gasped, my body tightening, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. “I’m close-”

“Cum for me, baby,” he urged, his voice a low growl. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words were my undoing. My body shattered, my orgasm ripping through me, my cries filling the room as he drank me in, his mouth and hands never stopping, milking every last drop of pleasure from me. I collapsed against him, boneless and breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He stood then, pulling me into his arms, his lips finding mine in a kiss that was both tender and fierce.

“I love you,” he whispered against my mouth, his hands cradling my face. “Always.”

He laid me down on the bed, his body hovering over mine, his eyes searching mine as he positioned himself at my entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

I nodded, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss.

He entered me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, his hands bracing himself on either side of my head. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, our bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time.

He kissed me, his lips soft, his tongue tangling with mine as he thrust into me, his movements deliberate, unhurried, yet filled with a passion that left me breathless.

“You feel so good,” he murmured against my lips, his hips snapping faster, his body glistening with sweat.

His words were like a spell, binding me to him, body and soul. I moaned, my nails digging into his back, my body arching against his as he filled me, claimed me, loved me.

The world outside ceased to exist, there was only him, only us, our hearts beating as one, our breaths mingling, our bodies moving in perfect harmony.

“Jungkook,” I cried, my body tightening around him, the pleasure building again, overwhelming. “I- I can’t- ”

“Cum with me,” he growled, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you.”

His command was my release.

My body shattered around him, my cries filling the room as he followed, his own orgasm ripping through him, his name on my lips as we fell apart together, bound by love, by trust, by a connection that transcended words.

And when it was over- when we lay tangled in each other, sweat-damp and quiet- he whispered into my skin:

“Let them see everything.

Because I’m not ashamed of us.”

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 07/10/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @mygukkiebaby @roseda @hottigerboba @xmiaacxio @emmie2308 @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @dragonflygurl4 @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @busanbby-jjk @prilnextdoor23 @ecomidnight @annpeachy @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94

#jkwrites m #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts ff #bts ffs #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook idol au #jungkook angst #daddy kookie m

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allsteddie · 2 days ago

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Richard Harrington is not happy when he finds out his son is queer. Even less so that he’s not only queer, but also fooling around with the town freak. Disappointment doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels; disgust is a little closer, but still not enough.

And Steve is not surprised when his father proves to be exactly the fucking discriminating asshole he’s always known he was. Their confrontation after his dad found out about him and Eddie is not pretty, but goes just how Steve expected it would.

Steve is not welcome in his father’s house anymore, and he is officially cut out of the Harrington money for good. That’s okay, though. Again, Steve has been expecting it to happen sooner or later, so at least he’s had time to prepare for it in advance.

He packs his things and leaves the house without looking back. That place has stopped being his home years ago, finally leaving it behind is pretty easy, almost a relief.

He and Eddie move in together. Steve has quite a bit saved up from his jobs at Scoops Ahoy and Family Video, and Eddie has been working with his uncle since he graduated, so between the two of them they can easily afford a small apartment downtown. It’s nothing fancy, far from it, but Eddie is not a fancy guy and Steve honestly doesn’t care at all; he’s learned a long time ago that money really doesn’t equal happiness.

Life is not easy. There’s no upside down anymore, but there are so many people still judging Eddie for things he didn’t do, and also so many people judging both of them just because they decided they’re not afraid to love each other openly. They face everything together, as always, but things get harder when their friends start going away to pursue their personal goals and they are the only ones left stuck in Hawkins, with no back up if needed.

Almost a year after they drop Dustin off at college, Steve and Eddie make a decision. They pack everything they have, load it into Steve’s car and move to Indianapolis to start over, this time without the weight of unfair misconceptions hanging over their heads for once.

It’s the best decision they could have made. Eddie finds a job at a record store, a dream come true for him, really, and Steve has enough experience with customer service (and the face and hair) to land a position in a designer store not that far from where they live. Money is not a problem, their past is just that, past, and the two of them make a real home out of their modest apartment. For the first time in a while, life is good.

Then, a couple of years after they leave Hawkins, Steve’s mom shows up at their doorstep, unannounced.

Eddie prepares himself for the worst. He hadn’t been there the night Steve left his parents’ house, but he had seen the bruises and the split lip the asshole had left behind when their argument escalated to something more physical. And even though Steve has never said bad things about his mother, not the way he’s said about his father, Eddie can’t bring himself to trust someone who doesn’t fight to protect their only son.

So imagine Eddie’s surprise when the first thing the woman says when she opens her mouth is, “I’m going to leave him, Steve. I can’t take it anymore.”

And Steve clearly also wasn’t expecting that because the “What?” he lets out is more a squeak than anything else.

Steve’s mom (‘Laura. My name is Laura. It’s nice to finally meet you, Eddie’) spends the afternoon at their place and the three of them have a very long, very needed talk.

She apologizes. She says she recognizes she should have said something when her husband was being a dick, that she should have intervened when he tried to kick Steve out, but she had been so afraid that she just couldn’t.

“I know this is not an excuse,” she says. “You’re my son, I should have fought for you. But believe me when I say I’ve regretted it every single day since it happened.”

She also hands Steve a small piece of paper with the name of a bank and a bunch of numbers scribbled on it.

“This is the bank account I opened for you when my mother died and left you half of her money,” the woman explains before either of them can ask. “You probably don’t remember her; you were three when she died. You were also her only grandchild, so half of the inheritance went to me, and half to you.”

“And how much money is that?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Over four hundred thousand dollars, I think. Close to five hundred, because I put part of it in a fund, but I don’t know exactly how much.”

“What the fuck!?” Eddie wheezes.

“Mom, I don’t want your money,” Steve argues.

His mom shakes her head. “But it’s your money,” she insists. “Your grandmother left it to you, so it’s yours.”

She doesn’t stay much longer after that. Steve asks if she’s gonna be okay facing his father by herself and Laura brushes off her son’s concern.

“I doubt Richard’s gonna care if I’m gone. I’ve barely seen him these past months, too busy with his new mistress, I guess.”

She hugs Steve goodbye, promises she’ll keep in touch from now on and leaves. Just like that. As if giving her son almost half a million dollars was something she did every freaking day.

“Babe, no offense, but your mother is crazy,” Eddie says after the woman leaves, still pretty stunned by how things turned out.

“She married my dad, of course she’s crazy.”

There’s a total of $357,461 in the bank account his mother handed him, plus $183,972 in the fund she mentioned. They don’t touch the fund money, but they do use a good chunk of the rest to open their own record store in Indianapolis; Eddie taking care of everything music related, while Steve handles the boring business side of things.

And although running their own business is hard work, it’s something they enjoy because they can do it together. They faced literal monsters together, for fuck’s sake, dealing with annoying costumers is child’s play.

(As for Laura Harrington, she does leave her husband. The money she gets out of the divorce, plus her inheritance money, is enough that she’s never gonna have to worry about working a single day in her life. She visits Steve and Eddie occasionally, as she promised, but most of her days are spent travelling all around Europe. Eddie still thinks she’s crazy, but he admits she’s also kinda fun to have around now and then.)

#this was supposed to be a headcanon #haha #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #steddie headcanon #my writing #steddie fanfiction

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g00d--m0urning · 2 days ago

Text

Final Destination: Your House (CH.2)

You get rejected. Twice! (somebody really needs to have a chat with Reggie)

Everyone in the house is acting weird, you can't help think it's your fault.

Everybody is stock still when you put the glasses on. You’ve got that one look you get when you’re on a mission. They’ve all seen it multiple times: Dorian when you made it a point to explore all of his forms, Betty, Kopi, and Florence when you set out to help Holly, Celia when she employed you to find out what was going on with Florence, etc, etc.

You help so much around the house, traversing up the stairs constantly, bumping into walls, going into the breaker box, going down to the crawlspace, so many times to get hurt.

You find yourself in front of Closet Dorian, staring at him with your brows raised, “Hey, dude. Are you good? You were kinda locked earlier. You’re never locked--except when the attic door used to be locked, and the backdoor, and sometimes the front door- ok, so you’re locked a lot, but not this door.”

Dorian frowns slightly, reminded of the way he accidently sent you staggering into the wall, “No clue what you’re talking about, love,” he tells you, unwilling to admit the truth.

“… Y’know, earlier? I didn’t have the glasses on, but I thought you guys could still see me and shit,” you remind, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. He may be a hard read, but you’ve been working on cracking said book open.

“Ah, that… Wasn’t locked… My door knob was stuck,” he states, internally face palming at the excuse.

“Oh! I’m sorry, do I need to oil you or something? I know I haven’t done that in…Ever,” you apologize, suddenly realizing that you haven’t broken out a can of DW-40 in a while now.

“No.. No, love. It’s fine, just- do you need something?” he stammers, sighing at your apology. Of course, you’d feel guilty.

“Oh! Yeah! I wanna check on Eddie and Volt, the power was out this morning, so I want to make sure they didn’t blow a fuse,” you explain, gesturing at the box behind him, smiling brightly at him.

Skylar winces to herself, knowing they didn’t blow a fuse, just simply turned themselves off, at her request.

“Should they be going in there? The place is quite literally a breaker box,” Phoenicia asks, watching the interaction with her app buddy.

“We can’t stop them, they’re already suspicious enough,” Skylar sighs, pouting at the fact that she’s unable to keep you from doing things.

“Eddie, Volt!” you call out, looking around the empty bar. It’s too early for anyone to come in, but one, if not both of them are usually walking around cleaning or fixing something, “I just wanted to check in, make sure you're both ok.”

There’s still no response, causing you to frown. You check the storage closets, in case they are doing stock, then the backroom. Still, nothing. You nearly bump into Eddie on your way up the stairs to their little apartment above the bar.

“Hey, are you ok?” you ask immediately, grabbing onto his arms to steady yourself from the bump.

“Am I ok, are you?” he asks back, looking you up and down in an almost panicky way, “You could’ve fallen, live wire.”

“I’m… fine. I promise,” you assure, giving his arm a light squeeze. His attitude reminds you of when you almost fell off the ladder helping him. That feels so long ago now. “Where’s Volt, is he ok? Are you ok? Did you guys blow a fuse?”

Volt’s heart aches at your questions, listening to you through the door. He and Eddie decided it’s best for you to stay away from him. He’s quite literally electric. One wrong touch from him and it could burn you or fry your nerves.

Eddie holds onto you, scared to let you go, if not to make sure you don’t fall. He’s beginning to notice you do that a lot around here, “He’s fine, live wire. We’re fine. Just tired,” he tells you, looking over his shoulder at the door.

“So, not to be rude, but could you… Go?” he asks, hating the way your face drops. As much as he jokingly offers to kick you out of the bar, he hates having to actually do it.

“Of course, yeah! Give Volt a kiss for me, and tell him I hope he feels better. I hope you do too, Eds. Don’t overwork yourself,” you lean in to give Eddie a kiss goodbye once you’re at the door, but he keeps you firmly at arm’s length.

“I’m not feeling it, sorry,” he apologizes, lightly squeezing your arms again before releasing him. He’s not as sparky as Volt is, but he’s still electric and he can’t risk it. Can’t risk you.

“No worries, feel better, both of you.”

You don’t get to say anything else before Eddie shoves you out of the bar, practically slamming the door in your face. You stare at the Breaker Box door in shock, taken aback by his behaviour. You trip on something on the floor, landing on your butt.

“Ah, shit! You ok, doll?” You look up to see Tony hovering over you, hands outstretched like he wants to help you up, but isn’t completely sure.

You laugh softly, nodding at his concern. It isn’t the first time you’ve tripped over him coming out of the Breaker Box and probably won’t be the last, “I’m fine, Tone. You know you’re really good at getting me to fall for you,” you flirt playfully, laughing at your own joke.

“A-ha, yeah, good one,” he mutters, seemingly having made his decision to lean down and help you up. He brushes nonexistent dust off your shirt, fixing the red fabric back into place.

“What, no laugh? It’s your joke,” you pout, poking his chest. He makes the joke every time you trip over him, you thought you’d beat him to the punch this time.

“Yeah, it is and I’m pretty sure I told you I like people being original,” he snaps, slapping your hand away from his chest.

You pull your hand back when he slaps it, tucking both of your hands into your pockets, “I’m sorry, I didn’t… You’re right, yeah…” you stammer, trying to swallow the growing lump in your throat.

Tony immediately regrets his actions; he hadn’t meant to snap, but seeing you act so casually about falling made him angry. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt! He’s got sharp tools on him, what would’ve happened if you landed on one, or knocked one out of him and it impaled you? He’d never forgive himself.

“No, doll…” he groans, reaching for your hand again, stopping himself midway. He shouldn’t get to touch you after that, “the bossman finally got on my ass and I’ve been stressed, ok? Ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

It’s a flimsy excuse and a worse lie because it’s got everything to do with you. He’s been working overtime to actually put effort into fixing things around the house: Celia’s drip, the rusty pipes, Florence’s loose boards, anything that could affect you.

“It’s ok, I understand, Tony,” you whisper, reaching out to touch him, probably to grab his bicep the way he likes.

He doesn’t like the way you hesitate, and he hates it even more when you pull away completely, like you’re scared of him. You should be, but it doesn’t make it any better.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” you murmur, leaving him with that soft smile that always softens his heart (and hardens something else).

Tony closes his eyes, running a hand down his face, “Fuck, fucking, fuckity, fuck,” he swears, kicking his toolbox.

“Would that be considered self-harm?” Volt inquires in jest, peeking around the corner, looking around to make sure you’re truly gone. He steps out of the Breaker Box, Eddie close behind him.

“Buzz off, zap-head,” Tony scoffs, adjusting his tool belt around his waist to busy his hands.

“Don’t get pissy, you’re not the only one who’s doing this, y’know?” Eddie cuts in, glaring at the tool box.

“Well last I checked, you weren’t the one who almost made them cry,” Tony retorts, stepping closer to Eddie, almost toe-to-toe with the taller man.

“Both of you knobheads need to knock it off,” Dorian states, stepping between the two and pushing them apart, “we’re doing this for their own good.”

Neither of the black-haired men argue with that, scowling at one another, but returning to their respective jobs.

You curl up with Mateo and Koa downstairs, trying to keep your tears at bay. You figured you’d be tougher by now; after managing to make the concept of rejection love you and your existential dread tolerate you, you should have tougher skin. It’s not like Tony was purposefully mean, he said it himself: a.) you stole his joke, b.) he’s stressed out. It’s also not your fault that Eddie rejected your kiss: he’s tired, he’s allowed to reject affection.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Koa coos, carefully brushing his thumbs over your cheeks to catch the tear you didn’t realize had fallen, “Do you want to talk about it?”

That makes you snort; the couch who lives for comfortable silence and not talking, asking if you want to talk, “No, not really,” you shake your head, running a hand through Mateo’s hair, “Ok, maybe a little bit.”

“Talk away then, buddy,” Koa urges, gently rubbing his hand up and down your back in a soothing manner.

“It’s just… Everyone seems to be acting so weird since last night and I don’t get it!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up, your bottom lip wobbling, “was my choice in movies really that bad?” you ask, more sarcastically than not.

Koa and Mateo both look at you sadly, knowing that your movie choice was, in fact, that bad. Neither of them know how to explain it to you, if it’s even theirs to explain. Mateo snuggles closer into your side, while Koa continues rubbing your back while you rant.

“It’s not your fault,” both of them tell you, glancing at each other before trapping you in a big hug. They may not be able to tell you, but they can certainly do what they do best: comfort.

You can’t help but giggle as you’re squished between the two of them, wiping your nose with your sleeve. You want to think that they’re telling the truth, but the thoughts can’t help but linger.

“Thanks,” you yawn, rubbing your eyes. The dateviators beep at you, almost dead already, “Do you mind if I sleep here?”

“Not at all, buddy, you know I love napping with you,” Koa promises, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“So do I,” Mateo chimes in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

The affection makes you melt, it’s the first bit you’ve gotten from anybody today and it’s nice, “Thanks guys,” you return the chaste affections, then take the dateviators off.

You set the glasses on the side table, laying down fully and pulling the blankets up to your chin. You fall asleep quickly, though it seems you have a visitor this evening.

#doug date everything #date everything dorian #date everything x reader #date everything #date everything eddie #volt x eddie x reader #tony date everything #tony date everything x reader #koa date everything #date everything mateo

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all-my-love-for-harry · 2 days ago

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Fresh Out The Slammer

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; You were his almost once, a long time ago. Years later, trapped in the wrong love and haunted by what could’ve been, you finally break free — and run straight back to the only person who ever truly felt like home.

word count; 6.8k

warnings; emotional cheating!, angst, happy ending

a/n; it ended up being a fresh out the slammer x guilty as sin fic, my apologies lol also, i swear some of these piece i wrote weeks ago, i'm not writing like a maniac

masterlist

Six Years Ago

Somewhere near Pensacola

The beach was half-empty and golden, late sun soaking everything in that syrupy light that makes memories feel sweeter than they really are. You had sand between your toes, a solo cup of cheap beer in your hand, and a stupid crush burning a hole in your chest.

Jake Seresin was stretched out on a ratty old towel, aviators perched on his nose, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest in the humid breeze. He looked like every bad decision you’d ever talked yourself out of—until now.

He grinned over at you, lazy and dangerous. “You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you’re in love with me.”

You scoffed, tossing a bottle cap at him. “Please. You wish.”

But you had been looking. All day. All week. Since the second your roommate introduced you to her cousin’s cocky Navy friend, the one who was going through flight school like he’d been born with wings.

And Jake? Jake had been looking right back.

“You heading back to campus soon?” he asked, sitting up, arms resting on his knees. His voice was quieter now. Sincere. The shift made your heart stutter.

You nodded. “Classes start Monday. Last year.”

Jake whistled. “Smart and pretty. How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?”

“You don’t have to,” you said before you could stop yourself. It came out soft. Half a confession, half a dare.

Jake looked at you then—really looked—and for a second, the space between you felt electric. Charged. Like the whole world might tilt off its axis if he reached out and touched you.

“I ship out in two weeks,” he said after a beat. His tone made it sound like an apology.

“Then I guess we’re stupid if we start something now,” you said, even though you didn’t mean it.

He nodded, slow and reluctant. “Yeah. Stupid.”

But he leaned in anyway. So did you.

Your lips never touched, but your foreheads did. Close enough to breathe each other in, close enough to want it more than you’d ever wanted anything, and far enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything when you finally pulled away.

You never kissed.

But you thought about it for years.

And so did he.

[...]

You blink, and the memory burns off like fog in sunlight.

That beach. That summer. Jake.

You’re not there anymore. You’re at a kitchen island in San Diego, staring at the flickering light over the stove while Bradley’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“You gonna answer me or just keep zoning out like a weirdo?”

You flinch, almost dropping the fork in your hand. “Sorry. What?”

He takes a sip of water and sets the glass down gently. “I asked if you wanted to come with me to the Hard Deck. A bunch of the Daggers are getting together.”

His tone is casual, but you can tell it matters to him. You’ve never really meshed with his last squad, not the way he hoped you would. And it’s not their fault. It’s not even yours.

Still, you hesitate. You’ve been saying yes to everything lately. Going through the motions. Smiling when you don’t mean it. Laughing when the silence starts to feel too loud.

But right now, your chest feels heavy. Jake's name still echoes in your mind like a whisper you’re not supposed to say.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “I’ve got a deadline for work.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You always have a deadline.”

“And you always expect me to be available whenever it’s convenient for you.”

That hangs in the air. It wasn’t meant to come out sharp, but it does. And it lands. Hard.

He leans back in his chair and scoffs. “Jesus. What’s your deal today?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t know how to say you don’t make me feel anything anymore. That you’ve been thinking about someone else more than you should. That maybe you’re still half in love with a moment that never even happened.

Instead, you gather the plates and walk to the sink. Your hands shake as you turn on the faucet.

Bradley mutters something under his breath, then heads into the living room, already pulling out his phone. You know he won’t speak to you again for the rest of the night. He never does when you fight.

But the silence? It’s easier than explaining how loud your thoughts are. How every time you close your eyes, you’re back on that beach. Sand between your toes. Jake’s voice in your ear.

"You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you’re in love with me."

Maybe you were.

Maybe you still are.

You hesitate, blinking down at your hands. The faucet is still running, lukewarm water rushing over a plate you’re not really washing. For a second, you think about saying no.

But then Bradley sighs behind you — not sharp this time, just tired — and your shoulders drop. What’s the point of starting another fight over something so small?

“Okay,” you say, flicking off the tap and drying your hands. “I’ll go.”

You hear the shift in his voice before you see it on his face.

“Yeah?” he asks, and when you glance over, he’s already standing, already moving toward you like he’s forgiven everything — like the tension from earlier never happened.

“I’ll even try not to look miserable,” you add with a small, practiced smile.

Bradley chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek, his hands resting lightly on your hips. “You’re gonna love them. They’re idiots, but good people.”

You hum, leaning back against the counter as his arms loop casually around you. It’s easy, this closeness. Familiar. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It feels like autopilot.

“They still gonna haze me for not being military?” you tease softly, trying to mask the ache that hasn’t quite left your chest.

“Nah. Well, maybe just a little,” he smirks. “You already know Nat. Bob’s basically a golden retriever. And just steer clear of Payback when he’s been drinking.”

“And your archnemesis?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t you say there’s one you can’t stand?”

Bradley snorts. “Hangman.”

You blink. “That’s really what he goes by?”

“Unfortunately.” He pulls back slightly to grab his water. “Cocky, reckless, talks too much — you’ll see. The guy thinks he’s God’s gift to naval aviation.”

You grin a little at the sarcasm in his voice, but something tugs at your gut. The nickname sparks something — a distant tug in your memory — but it slips away before you can catch it.

“Hangman,” you repeat. “Sounds charming.”

Bradley scoffs, heading back toward the couch. “He’s an ass.”

You linger in the kitchen, running your thumb along the rim of your glass. The room feels quiet again — not heavy, just still. But your mind is loud. It has been all week.

Bradley flops onto the couch and flips on the TV, already absorbed in whatever game is on. You follow a moment later, curling up on the other end.

And even though he’s right there — even though he’s trying — all you can think about is a pair of green eyes and a summer you never let go of.

Hangman.

Why does that name feel familiar?

You swipe a brush through your hair, watching your own expression in the mirror — half there, half elsewhere. The soft afternoon light filters through the bedroom window, warming the floor and your bare shoulders, but there’s a cold ache beneath your ribs that no amount of sun seems able to chase away.

Your phone buzzes once — a text from Bradley:

Leaving base. Picking you up in 20.

You don’t reply right away. Instead, you set the phone down on the dresser and go back to putting on mascara, slow and methodical, like if you focus hard enough on getting the perfect curl in your lashes, you won’t spiral.

You met Bradley three years ago. Florida. He was magnetic — loud in the way that made people lean in, but soft in the moments that counted. At least, he was then.

You remember thinking he was a clean slate. Solid. Simple. No messy history, no lingering ghosts. Just him — confident, charming, so very there. You were tired of pining, tired of unfinished stories, and Bradley Bradshaw was the kind of man who always finished what he started. He was easy to say yes to.

And for a while, you really thought it would work.

You went out for drinks once, then again. Then a dinner that turned into a weekend, and a weekend that turned into a drawer in his apartment. His mustache made you laugh. His voice made you feel safe.

And eventually — with enough distance, with enough distraction — you actually believed you were moving on.

You almost convinced yourself Jake Seresin was just a blip. A sweet, stupid dream of what might’ve been.

But lately… you don’t know. You don’t know what’s changed or when exactly it started falling apart. Maybe it’s been slow, gradual — like watching paint crack under the sun until suddenly the whole wall is peeling. It’s not that Bradley’s done anything dramatic. There’s been no betrayal, no explosive fights. Just… indifference. Distance. The sharp edges dulling into silence.

You slip on a sundress — pale blue, soft fabric that hits just above the knees. You used to love wearing things like this for him, but now you catch your reflection and think about someone else. Someone who looked at you like he’d never get tired of it.

Jake.

God, it’s so unfair how easily his name slips back into your bloodstream.

You grab your purse and your phone, hesitating at the door. You could still cancel. Tell Bradley you feel sick. You’re sure he’d be annoyed, but he’d get over it. Eventually.

But some part of you wants to go. Not because you’re ready to see his friends, or sit at a table and pretend your relationship is fine, but because that restless ache in your chest won’t go away.

Maybe it’s been there since the day you watched Jake walk away without ever saying what you both were too scared to admit.

Maybe it’s always been there.

You check your lipstick, blow out a breath, and head downstairs.

The Hard Deck is already buzzing when you and Bradley pull up. Golden-hour sun spills across the beach like molasses, tinting everything in warm amber, and you feel that familiar flutter of nerves kick up in your stomach. You smooth down your dress before stepping out of the car, trailing just behind Bradley as he walks toward the entrance, easy and relaxed like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Trust me,” he says, holding the door open for you with a grin. “You’re gonna love them. Bunch of degenerates, but lovable ones.”

You give a tight smile. “Sounds like my kind of crowd.”

Inside, the bar is loud. Not in a chaotic way — in a full, lived-in, glowing kind of way. There’s music playing, glasses clinking, laughter echoing from the pool table. You barely have time to take in the salt-stained floors and strings of lights when Bradley’s hand settles low on your back, steering you toward the group at the corner booth.

They see him first. There’s a chorus of cheers, Fanboy shouting something sarcastic, Coyote flipping him off. Rooster’s grinning like a golden retriever as he leads you into the fray.

“You guys, this is my girlfriend.”

Your smile is polite, warm even. “Hi.”

They start introducing themselves. Mickey. Reuben. Bob. Javy. There’s a little teasing, a few jokes at Bradley’s expense, and you manage to laugh in all the right places. Nat hugs you thightly.

And then — you feel it.

That shift in the air. The burn of a gaze on your skin like the sun through a magnifying glass.

You turn your head.

And there he is.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning back against the bar, a bottle of beer dangling from his hand. The same easy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. But his eyes — god, his eyes — they’re wide, like he’s been slapped, like he wasn’t ready to see you either.

Your breath catches.

He looks older. Not in a bad way — just more real. Still unfairly beautiful, but there’s something in his face now. A little more gravity. A little more weight.

His gaze locks with yours, and the rest of the world dissolves. There’s no music. No chatter. Just the roar of blood in your ears and the echo of all the things you never said.

“Earth to babe,” Bradley chuckles, nudging you. “You good?”

You snap your eyes away. “Yeah, sorry. Just—zoned out for a second.”

He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. Bradley’s halfway to ordering drinks before you even sit down.

Jake still hasn’t looked away.

You don’t know what to do. Your fingers twist in your lap. There’s a scream rattling in your chest, some combination of oh my god and not now and please say something.

Jake doesn’t move. Just lifts his beer in a quiet, subtle toast.

And you nod.

Barely.

Your heart is a wild animal against your ribs.

He’s here. He’s real. He’s still devastating. And suddenly, you’re not sure how the hell you’re supposed to survive this night.

jake's pov -

He turned, and there you were.

Hair catching the light like it remembered how to glow just for him. That familiar mouth, that same tilt of your head when you smiled. His lungs stalled somewhere between inhale and collapse.

It was you.

Not the memory of you. Not the what-if that had haunted the back of his mind for years.

You, in his bar. On Bradley Bradshaw’s arm.

And just like that, Jake Seresin forgot how to breathe.

He knew better than to react. Knew better than to let the glass in his hand slip or to curse out loud — but Jesus Christ, he hadn’t prepared for this.

He hadn't thought you'd still look exactly like the ghost of his best almost — still devastatingly beautiful, still entirely out of reach. Especially not wrapped up with Rooster, of all people.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

Jake didn’t move. He leaned on the bar like he hadn’t just had the floor yanked out from under him, bottle dangling from his fingers, knuckles white around the glass. He stared. Couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.

It hit him all over again. Like a right hook to the ribs. Years collapsed into a heartbeat. He could smell your shampoo. Taste that night on the beach at Pensacola. Hear your laugh. Hear himself saying nothing when he should’ve said everything.

And then, you smiled.

Small. Tight. But real.

He lifted his beer slightly. A gesture that felt ancient between you, reverent. Like a prayer to a god he didn’t believe in.

You nodded.

Jake didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His whole body was humming with the urge to go to you — to walk across the room, take your face in his hands, and kiss you like the universe owed him something.

But you were with Bradley.

Jake nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Of course it was Bradley. The guy who had it all — the career, the squad, the charm, and now the girl Jake had never gotten over.

His grip on the bottle tightened.

He hadn’t realized Javy was watching him until he nudged his elbow. “You good?”

He tore his eyes away. “Yeah.”

He looked toward where your group was settling. “Huh. Didn’t know Rooster was bringing his girlfriend tonight.”

Jake swallowed. Hard. “Neither did I.”

Javy raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

Jake stared straight ahead. Focused on the bottles behind the bar. On the flickering lights. On anything that wasn’t the way you looked at him like maybe you still remembered too.

He knew he couldn’t go over there.

Couldn’t pull you into him and say all the things he should’ve said years ago. That he’d changed. That he hadn’t. That no matter how far he’d come, one look at you and he was twenty-one again, tongue-tied and lovesick.

Instead, he said nothing.

He just stood there, heart on fire, trying not to fall back in love with the same woman he never stopped loving.

your pov -

You were doing your best. Really, you were.

Laughing when Payback cracked another joke. Nodding politely when Bob offered you a napkin because your drink had started to sweat down your fingers. Even grinning when Bob said you must be a saint for putting up with Rooster — her words, not yours.

Everyone was nice. A little loud, a little chaotic, but warm. The kind of camaraderie that made you ache. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen Bradley this relaxed. He had his arm slung around your shoulders, beer in his hand, recounting some story about ejecting out of a Hornet, which — honestly — sounded like bullshit, but no one called him on it.

Still, your attention drifted.

Back to him.

Jake sat at the corner of the bar, long legs stretched out, beer in hand, posture too easy to be real. You hadn’t even been here a full hour and yet you could feel him. Like gravity. Like static. Every time you looked away, some invisible thread tugged your gaze back.

And every time you glanced his way, he was already watching you.

Like he hadn’t stopped since you walked through the door.

Jake Seresin, the man you’d nearly loved once. The one who let you go — or maybe you let him — back when the world was wide and the future was still something you thought you could outrun.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

But one minute you were smiling at something Phoenix said, and the next, he was beside you. Close enough to smell that warm cedar cologne you remembered too well. Close enough to feel his voice more than hear it when he leaned in.

“Can I steal you for a second?”

Bradley was too deep into a debate with Coyote to notice. No one questioned it. You weren’t even sure you did.

You just nodded. Jake led you outside.

The salty breeze of the ocean hit you immediately, soft and cool against your flushed skin. The Hard Deck’s lights flickered behind you, the muted thump of music bleeding through the walls. He stopped by the railing, just out of sight. Far enough from the noise. Far enough from Bradley.

You crossed your arms, not because you were cold, but because you suddenly didn’t know what to do with your hands.

“Jake—”

“You look exactly the same,” he said, voice rougher than you remembered. “Except you don’t. You look…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Never mind.”

You blinked. “I wasn’t sure it was you until I saw the smirk.”

He smiled at that — soft, crooked, a little sad. “Guess some things don’t change.”

“No,” you said. “Some things really don’t.”

He nodded. Hands in his pockets now. Shifting on his feet like the floor was tilting under him. “I didn’t know you’d be here. With him.”

You looked out toward the ocean. Anything to avoid the way he was looking at you — like you were both a surprise and a memory. Like you were something he still wanted but didn’t know how to reach for.

“I didn’t know you were Hangman,” you said. “He just calls you an asshole.”

Jake laughed — dry and sharp. “Sounds about right.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “Is he good to you?”

You glanced back at him. The question wasn’t casual. It was laced with something heavier. Older.

“He was,” you said softly. “I think he was. I wanted him to be.”

Jake nodded, slow. His jaw worked for a second before he looked down. “I thought I’d see you again one day,” he murmured. “Just… didn’t picture it like this.”

You let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Another silence. This one longer. Charged.

You could still feel him beside you, just like you used to — when everything felt like it almost mattered. When you were both still figuring out who you were and what you wanted. Before life had hardened the edges of you both.

You turned toward him. “Why didn’t it ever happen? Back then?”

Jake looked at you then — really looked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Of how much I wanted you. Of ruining something before it even had a chance.”

You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat.

“And now?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Now I’m just wondering if I’ve already missed my chance.”

Your heart clenched.

From inside the bar, Bradley’s laugh echoed. Loud. Oblivious.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

Jake stepped back first.

“Go back inside,” he said, gently. “They’ll notice we’re gone.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly cold.

But before you could turn, he reached out and touched your hand. Just briefly. Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You were never just another girl to me.”

Then he let you go.

[...]

You were in that place again — that not-quite-real version of the Hard Deck, where the air always smelled like salt and sunlight, and the jukebox only played soft, sultry blues. Time moved slower there, like honey pouring down glass, and everything felt lighter.

Jake was there, too.

But this version of him wasn’t haunted by history. He wasn’t standing across a crowded bar, hands in his pockets, wondering if he’d already missed his chance.

No — in this dream, Jake Seresin was yours.

You were in his lap, arms around his neck, his hands warm and wide on your hips. He looked at you like you were made of starlight and sin, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry, voice low and hoarse as he whispered your name — not in a rush, not desperate, but reverent. Like a promise. Like he’d waited years just to say it against your skin.

"Missed you, darlin’," he murmured, mouth ghosting along your jaw, your throat, the shell of your ear. "Should’ve never let you go."

You moaned softly when his lips met yours. Not in that careful way he kissed you outside the bar — this was different. Deeper. Hungrier. Familiar, like you’d kissed him a thousand times already, in a thousand other lives.

Your fingers slid through his hair. His grip tightened on your thighs, guiding you slowly against him, making your breath catch.

“Jake,” you whispered into the space between kisses. “Jake—”

And then—

The warmth vanished.

You jolted awake with a sharp gasp, heart pounding in your chest, skin damp with sweat.

It was dark. The dream evaporated like fog in the sun, leaving only the burn of wanting behind.

Bradley lay beside you, shirtless and unbothered, snoring softly into his pillow. His arm flopped carelessly across your waist like he hadn’t a worry in the world.

But you couldn’t breathe.

Your hands trembled as you pushed back the sheets. Your legs were tangled, your skin too warm, your mind still spinning.

It had felt so real. His voice. His touch. The way your body responded to him like it remembered him.

You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, pulse still racing.

Bradley murmured something incoherent and rolled onto his back.

You didn’t look at him.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was suddenly, painfully clear: You were no longer wondering what if.

You were wondering how long you could keep pretending.

The café was bright, too bright for someone who’d barely slept. The morning sun filtered through the wide windows in golden beams, catching on the rim of your coffee cup and making your head throb just a little more. You stirred the cream into your latte, eyes fixed on the swirl of color, trying not to look like you were unraveling.

Across from you, Natasha Trace — Phoenix to everyone but you — tilted her head, watching you with those sharp, calculating eyes. The ones that made her a damn good pilot and a terrifying poker opponent.

“You look like hell,” she said, biting into her toast without a hint of delicacy.

“Wow. Thank you. That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear after dragging herself out of bed for brunch.”

Phoenix shrugged. “I’m just saying — either you didn’t sleep, or you’re hungover, and either way, I want the story.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile, reaching for your coffee again. “Bradley snores.”

“He does,” she said, like she was filing that away, “but I’ve seen you tired before. This is… something else.”

You paused.

She leaned forward on her elbows, gaze narrowing. “Something happen last night?”

The question was casual. Too casual. But there was a flicker of something under it — not quite accusation, but close.

You forced a laugh. “Define ‘something.’ Did I spill a drink? No. Did I get into a bar fight? No.”

“I was thinking more like… did you and Hangman have a conversation? A moment, maybe?” she asked, and took a slow sip of her mimosa, watching your reaction closely.

Your throat tightened.

“Why would you ask that?” you said, trying to sound light, but it came out thin and stretched.

Phoenix arched a brow, unimpressed. “Because Jake’s been weird ever since Rooster introduced you to the squad. And Jake Seresin doesn’t do weird.”

You fiddled with your spoon. “Maybe he’s just thrown off by how blissfully happy I am with Bradley.”

The smile you gave was all teeth and no heart.

Phoenix didn’t laugh. She just kept looking at you like she could see something beneath the surface. Like she was trying to figure out what it was.

After a long moment, she sat back and crossed her arms. “Look, it’s none of my business. Really. But I’ve known Jake a long time, and that man doesn’t get rattled unless there’s history.”

You swallowed hard.

“Whatever you think is going on,” you said carefully, “there’s not.”

Phoenix hummed — not a yes, not a no, just a sound that said I hear you, but I don’t believe you.

Then she picked up her fork and changed the subject, like she hadn’t just sent your heart into a tailspin.

You forced yourself to nod along, smile when you had to, but your chest felt too tight, your thoughts still tangled in last night’s dream and Jake’s hands and Phoenix’s suspicion.

You weren’t sure how long you could keep walking this line.

Or if you even wanted to anymore.

[...]

You were in the passenger seat, legs curled under you, chin resting on your fist as the city blurred past the window. It was golden hour, that brief, burning stretch of light that used to make you feel alive. Now it just felt like a spotlight on everything that had quietly started to go wrong.

Bradley was humming along to the radio — some Springsteen deep cut — fingers drumming against the steering wheel. His aviators reflected the road ahead, not once glancing your way.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, like he’d remembered you were there.

You blinked. ��Yeah. Just tired.” He nodded. “Long week.”

That was it. No follow-up. No “Do you want to talk about it?” No hand reaching across the console to squeeze yours.

You turned back to the window.

A few minutes later, he said, “Oh — I was thinking we could do karaoke night at the bar next week. Penny loves it when we go.”

You hesitated. “Can we maybe just… do something quiet? Just us?”

He smiled. “We are doing something just us. Right now.”

You didn’t answer.

Because technically, he was right. But it didn’t feel like just the two of you — not in the way it was supposed to. It felt like being alone in someone else’s presence. Like you could’ve vanished into the passenger seat and he wouldn’t have noticed until the red light turned green and he didn’t hear you laugh at whatever joke he told.

Later that night, he was in the kitchen reheating leftover pasta. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to find the words. You thought about telling him. About the ache under your ribs, the quiet loneliness blooming in spaces he never saw.

Instead, you said, “Do you remember my favorite book?”

He didn’t look up. “Uh… is it that one with the sad girl and the ocean?”

You waited.

He opened a cabinet. “The one with the painting on the cover. You read it twice last year. It’s…uh…”

You said the title quietly.

He snapped his fingers. “Yes! That’s the one. I was close.”

But he wasn’t. He’d never asked why you loved it. Never noticed the tearstains in the spine or the note you wrote yourself on the inside cover. He just saw a book with a pretty cover.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Close enough.”

And when he came over and kissed the top of your head, completely unaware of the conversation that hadn’t really happened, you felt like you were fading again. A little more each day.

Not because he was cruel. But because he didn’t see you.

Not like Jake did.

It was a Tuesday. Nothing dramatic ever happened on a Tuesday, and maybe that was the problem. You were both home early for once — Bradley on the couch with his iPad, headphones in, watching some old documentary about naval aviation for the hundredth time. You were at the kitchen table, laptop open, your untouched coffee growing cold beside you.

You watched him over the rim of your mug. The soft buzz of his laugh. The way he ran a hand through his hair without thinking. He looked happy. Content. Comfortable.

And you weren’t any of those things.

“Hey,” you said quietly, closing your laptop. “Do you think we’re… good?”

He looked over, blinked, tugged his headphones down. “Huh?”

“I said,” you repeated slowly, “Do you think we’re good? You and me.”

His brows pulled together like you’d asked him to solve a math equation. “What do you mean? We’re fine.”

“Fine.” You repeated the word like it tasted bad.

He didn’t catch the bitterness in your voice. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “Yeah. I mean… no big fights. We’ve both been busy lately, but that’s normal, right?”

Normal.

You hated that word. You wanted something more than normal. You wanted to feel like he saw you — the real, messy, aching you — and still chose you. Not out of routine. Not because it was easier than starting over. But because he couldn’t imagine not choosing you.

You looked down at your coffee. “Do you even know I’ve been seeing a therapist?”

That made him sit up a little. “What?”

“I started last month.” You shrugged, not sure why you were telling him now, like it had been sitting on your tongue for weeks. “Because I haven’t felt like myself in a long time and I thought maybe I could figure out why.”

He was quiet. For a moment you almost believed he might say something meaningful.

Instead, he replied, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wish you would’ve said something earlier. You know I’m here for you.”

You looked up. “Are you?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud — just hollow. Like an echo with nothing left to bounce off of.

“Of course I am,” he said, but his voice was thinner now, like he was trying to convince himself too.

You stood. Walked toward the bedroom. Stopped in the hallway.

“I asked you once if you knew my favorite book,” you said without turning. “You didn’t. That’s okay. But do you know what day I started seeing the therapist?”

No answer.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The bedroom door closed behind you with a soft click. Not a slam. Just final enough to say: this wasn’t a fight.

But it still hurt.

You spotted him before he saw you.

Jake Seresin. Standing at the coffee truck like some golden mirage in a worn navy tee, sunglasses perched on top of his head, thumb scrolling lazily through his phone. He was just like you remembered — tall and sun-drenched and completely unaware of the way he commanded a space without even trying.

It should’ve been fine. You’d already seen him again, after all. That night at the bar when Bradley introduced you to his squad, casually dropping names as if one of them wasn’t the boy you used to almost-love.

You’d played it cool. Said hi, shook his hand, pretended the world didn’t tilt sideways when your palms touched. Bradley hadn’t noticed a thing.

But now, here — no Rooster, no crowd, no distractions — it felt different.

Jake glanced up and caught your stare. His entire expression changed in an instant.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough with surprise and something softer.

You smiled, polite but wary. “Hi.”

He took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same.”

“I thought you were more of a ‘buy overpriced lattes in air-conditioned cafés’ kind of girl.”

“I grew up,” you said, smiling faintly. “And stopped dating guys who thought sarcasm was a personality.”

He laughed — full and warm and real — and it hit you right in the chest.

“Still sharp,” he said. “And still beautiful.”

Your smile faltered. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. Not now. Not when you’d just spent the morning listening to Bradley complain about the laundry and how you “never actually relax.”

“I’m surprised you said hi,” you admitted, quieter now.

Jake shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged back, trying not to feel too much. “Thought maybe we were pretending we don’t know each other.”

“I’m not good at pretending,” he said, and this time, there was no humor in it. “At least, not with you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He stepped aside as your name was called and you grabbed your drink, hands trembling just slightly around the lid.

“I, uh… should go,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

Jake nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

But just as you turned, he added, “You look happy.”

You paused.

Then, over your shoulder, you answered with a soft, uncertain smile. “Do I?”

Jake didn’t reply.

He just watched you walk away.

And neither of you said it out loud — but you both knew the truth.

You didn’t.

Not really.

You were washing dishes when Bradley’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and impatient.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You blinked, coming back to yourself, hands trembling under the water. “What?”

He let out a frustrated sigh from the kitchen table. “Jesus, never mind. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks. I'm just talking to myself at this point.”

You turned the faucet off, slowly drying your hands. “I’m tired, Bradley. I had a long day—”

“No,” he interrupted, rising to his feet. “Don’t pull that. This isn’t about today. This is every day lately. You don’t laugh at my jokes. You don’t talk. You don’t even look at me unless I ask you to. So what the hell is going on?”

You stared at him, heart pounding. You hadn’t meant for it to happen this way — not like this. Not in your cramped kitchen, not under the sickly yellow glow of the overhead light. But your mouth opened before you could stop it.

“I don’t love you.”

The silence afterward was so sharp it rang in your ears.

Bradley blinked, jaw working like he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. “What?”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I care about you. I always will. But I don’t love you, Bradley. Not the way you deserve.”

He stood still, like he'd been hit in the gut and hadn’t caught his breath yet.

“Is there someone else?” he asked finally, and it came out quieter than you’d expected.

Your eyes dropped. “Not like that.”

“Not like that?” he echoed, with a humorless laugh. “So what? You’ve just been playing house while dreaming about someone else?”

You flinched. “I didn’t plan this,” you said, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I tried. I wanted to forget him—”

“Him,” Bradley spat.

You closed your eyes. “I owe you the truth. That’s all I’m trying to give you now. I didn’t cheat. Not physically. But emotionally? Yeah. I did. And I’m sorry.”

Bradley didn’t yell. He didn’t throw anything. He just stood there, looking at you like you were a stranger.

You grabbed your keys off the hook, tears burning behind your eyes. “I’m not going to make excuses. I’ll come back tomorrow to get the rest of my things. You don’t have to see me again if you don’t want to.”

And he didn’t stop you.

He didn’t say a word as you opened the door and stepped into the night, your heart thundering in your chest. You didn’t even wait for the elevator — you took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning with every step.

Because you knew exactly where you were going.

And as the cool air hit your face and you climbed into your car, there was only one thing running through your mind, steady and sure like a heartbeat:

Jake Seresin.

You were done trying. Done pretending. Done lying.

It was time to run home.

To him.

It was pouring.

Not a soft drizzle or a summer sprinkle — but the kind of rain that painted the world in streaks and soaked you to the bone in seconds. Jake was in his garage, sleeves pushed up, grease on his hands, crouched beside his Mustang with a wrench in hand when he heard tires on gravel.

His head lifted instinctively.

There, through the sheet of rain, headlights cut across the driveway — and then your car door opened.

You stepped out without an umbrella, without a coat. Just you in a t-shirt and jeans, already drenched, eyes wild and shining with tears and rain and something deeper — something desperate.

Jake dropped the wrench with a heavy clatter and was on his feet in an instant.

“Hey!” he called out, stepping into the rain without thinking, boots splashing in the puddles. “What are you—”

“I left him,” you said, loud enough to cut through the storm.

Jake froze.

“I left him, Jake,” you said again, voice trembling. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I tried, God, I tried so hard to forget you, to make it work — but every night I saw you in my dreams. Every day, I felt like I was living someone else’s life. I couldn’t lie to him anymore. I couldn’t lie to myself.”

He stared at you, rain dripping from the brim of his soaked ball cap, lips slightly parted like he couldn’t believe you were really standing there.

“I don’t care that I messed it all up when I didn't say yes to you in Pensacola,” you went on, voice cracking. “I don’t care that I waited too long, or that we lost years we’ll never get back—” You stepped closer, chest heaving. “But if there’s still time… if there’s even a sliver of a chance… I want to be yours. Please tell me I didn’t ruin it.”

Jake’s heart felt like it might break through his ribs.

His cap flew off with the wind, but he didn’t care. He crossed the space between you in three long strides, hands lifting to frame your face, and for a moment, he just looked at you — water dripping from your lashes, your mouth trembling, your eyes pleading.

“Darlin’,” he said, and it was barely a whisper. “You didn’t ruin a damn thing.”

And then he kissed you.

Hard, desperate, years of longing pouring into that kiss like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. His hands tangled in your hair, your arms wrapped around his neck, bodies pressed together under the weight of the storm.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “Not for one damn second. I don’t care what it takes. I’m yours, always have been.”

You let out a choked sob of relief, clutching at his soaked shirt, laughing through your tears.

“I came home,” you murmured.

Jake nodded, smiling through his own tears. “Yeah, you did.”

And as thunder rumbled above you and the rain came down harder, neither of you moved — because right there in the storm, you found what you'd both been missing for years.

Each other.

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