#but I just don't understand the follow up????

[talisidekick]

Someone tagged this with the following and I actually want to talk about this:

This isn't the first response like this. I've had comments, asks, tags like this one, reblogs, and even comments on other platforms where this has spread to that bring up racism and xenophobia. Whether thats accusing me of being racist or hating immigrants (despite coming from a family if immigrants) or just pointing out, like this person did, the inherent xenophobic attitude the world has for my pharmacist to want to change his first name to an English sounding name. And it gets worse, I was given an English name at birth because my mother wanted me to "have a name that fit in". They weren't English, my last name was German, my great-grandmother who was a pillar in the family used German and Norweigan words mixed in her English that carried into my life and still does to this day. And because I wasn't "English", I still got picked on at school to the point I filtered out the german/norweigan in my vocabulary and learned to mimick accents to remove any germanic lilt I had in my speech.

Point being, I made this post recognizing the inherent xenophobia present. That's one of the reasons I told my pharmacist he didn't need to do that for my sake. I kind of suspected he wasn't just being kind. The way he said it had intent. The next time I saw him, nametag out, proud, it was touching to see the name I was given to protect me from xenophobia going to protect someone else, but also a bit bitter that I know part of the reason for wanting to find an English name was the pressure to blend in and sidestep a LOT of bullshit.

My name now is Germanic, my middle name Italian, my last name Ukrainian, and my nickname I use everywhere to make peoples lives easier is Talia or Tali <- To which I've learned "Tali" is a common short-hand/nickname or name for some in the middle-east (I didn't know, I just mashed up my middle name with my childhood nickname 'T' to get it so my friends would have an easier time transitioning over to my new name and it stuck. I just recently found out from a co-worker who just got back from a trip to the middle east and asked me about it). I'm no longer side-stepping the bullshit, I have noticed a difference in treatment. If people don't know me, and haven't seen me, like when it's over the phone or in email, it takes much longer and I have to be more precise with my wording. In fact, I've noticed it a bit when in person too. Next to my English named co-workers, I am treated by some like I know less and I'm scruitinized a bit more. Now obviously if I was a woman of colour and not off-white canvas, this would be 10-times worse in ways I'm not qualified or experienced to explain or get into. I'll leave that to someone WITH that kind of experience to get into.

I've never mentioned whether my pharmacist is a coloured man or not, and I never will. It's not that it "doesn't matter", every aspect of that man shapes his existence and experience of this life. I'm just not clarifying because the moment I do, I know some of you are going to solely focus on his race and miss the nuance of everything this post is about. It's about transgender positivity, discrimination, humour, and the kind-hearted actions of an incredible man in his journey of immigration. By leaving him faceless, every one of you brings something of yourself to this post. Be it simple joy, or further commentary.

The person who tagged this post is one of many who've accurately pointed out one underlying truth about this post. Not everyone is treated equally in society. This happened in Canada. Do you begin to understand the depths this post goes to with all that I've said here? With what you now know about me? Because I think some of you should now re-read the post again.

A while back my pharmacist saw my deadname on my profile and accidentially called it out, he corrected and deleted my deadname from the system so only my preferred name shows up now. There was a crowd of people behind me, so as he hands over the pills he apologized, in equal tone and volume as when he called my deadname and lied saying it's been a long day and he didn't mean to call out -his own- name. I quietly told him it was fine and he didn't need to do that for my sake.

His response: "No, it's my name now."

I went to the pharmacist yesterday, his nametag is my deadname. He informed me he's immigrating and in the process he's changed his first name to my deadname to have an English sounding name. That's why he's now able to get a reprint of his nametag to be my deadname. And repeated, with the intense seriousness of someone who is going to die on this hill: "It's mine now. Not yours. I'm taking." His tone indicated that decision is final.

Bro literally deadnamed me once, and has committed to flat out stealing my deadname. It's his now. Legally. Officially. I over heard his co-workers call him by the name.

[wardensantoineandevka]

There's been a lot of talk about feeling like Campaign 3 fails to carry through consequences, and that is often met with criticisms framing this talk as just wanting Bells Hells or other characters to die or be punished. In return, the response to that is that "consequences" is not necessarily negative — it simply means a narrative follow through and events positive, neutral, or yes even negative happening as a consequence of what came prior.

I posted prior about what I and many meant by consequences, but generally, "a lack of consequence" means that it feels like events happen without clear connective tissue to previous events or it feels like things happen and don't feel like they're feeding properly into what comes next, that following events aren't properly carrying that weight of consequence.

But, just to further illustrate the discussion, the following is a non-exhaustive list of things I personally wish had consequences (that I could be probably better articulating):

Prism, Deanna, and FRIDA going off to do research at the Cobalt Soul, explicitly intending to try to help Bells Hells. This yielded nothing. Even a written letter to the Hells giving any information would have been great to have as a nod to that decision being made and the effort put into cultivating those friendships. (Given the reveal in the Fireside Chat that a Luxon beacon could've destroyed Predathos should research have been done, this feels even more of a missed follow through.)

The Unseelie Court not reinforcing the Malleus Key having clearer consequences. Obviously, there was a benefit to this, but it's hard to FEEL the consequences of disrupting that message because it is not clear what exactly the Unseelie Court would have provided.

Liliana chose not to broadcast the Downfall memory and what that meant to the sociopolitical scale. There is a clear consequence for her on a personal level, but this information being potentially broadcast was set up as a big looming threat, but it was difficult to really feel what would have happened, like, meaningfully, in terms of the material narrative as it affects Bells Hells, if it was broadcast, so as a result it's difficult to feel that stopping the broadcast was meaningful on a broader level.

Talking about Liliana, it feels strange that she exists within Vasselheim as a top leader of the Ruby Vanguard for, like, days without any comment. There is more (and properly delivered) tension over Opal's presence in the city. I don't think Liliana necessarily should've been arrested, I felt something like a small beat that may have required Imogen vouching for her was missing. The consequences of Liliana's position among the antagonists felt absent.

Ashton getting Shady Sally to agree to get the Nobodies back together to help save Exandria, then they'd all be free of Ashton for good. Nothing comes of this! An appearance at the forward camp in the Hellcatch when they came back from Ruidus or in Vasselheim, after the camp is evacuated there, with another opportunity to settle it with the others in the group would have been a nice consequence.

The Grim Verity, especially outside of Ryn, continued to meaningfully exist and the theft of the texts from Vasselheim mattered past the Predathos, Vordo, and Ethedok reveal exposition. It was a team of three people who stole the texts, and one of them, Arnold, was captured and presumed still held at the Platinum Sanctuary and another, Janina, was keeping tabs on the excavation site in the Hellcatch to keep everyone updated on what the Vanguard was doing. It would have been nice to see the Grim Verity more involved in this campaign, because they're the initial hook into the campaign itself! Learning about them and making contact with them stopped yielding any sort of narrative results. (The thing about research in the first point applies here too.)

Judicators. They are introduced, and then nothing is done with them at all. They factor in so minutely, and we understand so little about them, that it's hard to even talk about them as thematic pieces without engaging in a lot of speculative thinking.

I am known to be frustrated with Ashton philosophically, but I am baffled that the conversation they had in their vision in the earth titan in 110 did not come up again at all in any of their subsequent argumentations about the world changing. I am certain that it would've driven me nuts, but I have liked to see that carried forward. It would've contributed a lot to feeling like perspectives were being built upon as a consequence of interactions.

Generally, the Titans are barely mentioned after that episode, btw. There was a lot of time spent on pursuing the idea of the Titans, even sometimes outright brushing past NPCs who repeatedly said that the Titans were dead, only for it to get dropped so suddenly. It feels especially strange when one of the major points of contention Ashton and Laudna brought up was the war against the Titans. Not even a final note about what this means in the tapestry of history or an acknowledgement that they indeed cannot be restored as they were or what? We spent a lot of time on this discussion, but fail to carry it through into the final thematic and philosophical decisions.

On that note, it's established that there is a destiny in which Ashton is to bestow the spark onto another, and there is a sense of fate then for Fearne in it. Since they both struggle with being locked into a path, I did feel missing an exploration of what it then MEANT for them to pursue this. As soon as these abilities are unlocked, there isn't a meaningfully thorough exploration of what they mean as narrative devices and their implications for Fearne and Ashton, at a personally transformative level.

The anti-resurrection toxin and its antidote. I know that it is used against Keyleth and there is a payoff in that the Hells successfully help her, but I don't understand why this toxin didn't continue to be used, especially given the campaign was supposed to be deadlier. Why wouldn't the Ruby Vanguard, but especially someone as vicious and ruthless as Otohan, continue to use it? It had such a prominent presence in the campaign and then vanished from it. We don't even have a sense of how it locked away divine magic and what connection it has to Ruidians or Predathos, which have similar divine dampening ability. Having it continue to be used in the campaign would've also made it continually rewarding that Bells Hells did that work to help Keyleth because the Air Ashari would have available antidote.

Stopping there not because I ran out of examples, but because this list is getting incredibly long — thought I reserve the right to add more later should I think of really good ones. But this is just some of the plot points and threads and conversations that I wish I felt led somewhere or had consequences, and you can see that not all of them are about punishing characters at all, just a desire for things to feel like they were going somewhere and were properly tied off.

[absurdthirst]

Stupid Cupid {Javier Peña x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: FWB, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, hurt feelings, insults, canon-typical violence, mentions of prostitution, jealousy, embarrassment, Javi groveling, angry words, confessions, oral sex (female receiving), lingerie.

Comments: Valentine's Day turns into a disaster for Javi when he asks a dumb question like why would he take you out for the lover's holiday.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Javier Peña MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, holding tight just like you’ve discovered he enjoys. The kiss passed between you including little nips of teeth, especially by him that makes you moan every time. The room is hot, sticky from the way your bodies move together. Javi’s grunts are music to your ears as he thrusts into you, holding firm to your waist as if he’s scared you’re going anywhere. “Fuck, Javi.” You pant, tilting your head back as he kisses down your throat. You both need this, need the stress relief from the hectic and sometimes overwhelming job of hunting down Pablo Escobar.

He grinds deep into your cunt like it's his haven from the shit show constantly happening outside the four walls of your apartment. It's his sanctuary and he worships you as you let him take what he wants. He leaves indentations on your skin in places that can be concealed by your clothes but he nips whatever inch of skin he has access to. You moan when he adjusts the angle, hitting something that solidifies his identity to your neighbors - as if they don't hear the same cry nearly every night - and you tilt your head back, eyes squeezed shut. "There. Fuck. Right there baby." You plead breathlessly, needing him to keep that angle.

Javi grunts, teeth grinding as he concentrates on keeping that angle. He’s so fucking close to cumming but he wants you to cum with him. You two are so in sync, so tuned to each other. He knows your body as well as he knows his own. Your hand slides from his hair and to his shoulder, wrapping around the firm muscles on the broad length of them. “So close, baby, I’m gonna-“ your breath catches right before you cry out. Body stiffening underneath his and the walls of your cunt clamp down around him, soaking him in your pleasure.

He grunts at the way you squeeze him, his mind going blank to the pleasure of being inside you. Javier pants, his grip tightening as he rocks you on his cock while he clenches his jaw. "Hermosa. Fuck. Feel so goddamn good." He groans, thrusting a few more times until he can't take it anymore. He pushes deep, a low groan of your name echoing in the room while his cock pulses, painting your walls with his hot cum. You sigh, caressing his back as he leans forward to rest his sweaty forehead on your chest. 

“Perfect.” You giggle slightly, basking in the luxurious bliss after an orgasm. Soon you will get up and clean up and light a cigarette, but right now, all you can hear is your mingled panting breaths and the way your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He playfully shifts to bite your chin and you caress his cheek. He looks up at you and leans in to softly kiss you. After a moment, he pulls out of you and shifts to lay down, pulling you into his chest. He kisses your forehead and you curl around him, making him itch for a smoke since he’s so relaxed.

“Three times.” You huff, sliding your hand up his chest and down over the slightly soft pooch of his belly. He grumbles about needing to lay off the whiskey sometimes but you think that he is just perfect. “I don’t know how you are going to top that tomorrow.”

Javier snorts, closing his eyes to just enjoy the relaxation seeping into his bones, “I think I’ll manage. Know exactly what to press to make you fall apart for me.” He smirks, squeezing your ass as you curl around him. His other arm behind his head, and he opens his eyes to look down at you. “I think I’ll manage it.”

You smirk slightly, kissing his chest and humming. “After dinner?” You arch a brow. “I think I deserve more than whiskey for dinner for Valentine’s Day.” You’ve been sleeping together for nearly eight months, and it’s clear that you’ve fallen for your often curt partner, but he has moments where you swear that he adores you. You just want to do something like a normal couple for once, since you can’t openly date.

Javier can’t help it. He freezes under your touch, and he feels like he just swallowed a golf ball. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. He completely forgot about it. He hasn’t gotten a woman flowers or celebrated the holiday since Lorraine practically held a gun to his head and demanded he get her flowers. “Why would I take you to dinner?” He asks, confused and panicking a little that this isn’t just sex for you like he thought it was.

You had been expecting some smartass comment, a joke about buying you a sandwich or something. Not panic and….what sounded like disgust. You stiffen and pull away, finding abject horror in his eyes when you look at him. “Obviously you wouldn’t.” You huff, twisting around to climb out of the bed so you can flee into the bathroom.

He frowns, watching you march into the bathroom, and he takes that as his cue. He reaches for his pants from the floor, pulling the denim up his legs and he zips them up before he searches for his shirt. His heart pounds and he doesn’t know what to say when you come out of the bathroom minutes later to find him putting on his shoes.

You tighten the belt of your robe, not wanting to feel completely exposed. Instead of him waiting to explain for being an asshole, he’s getting ready to leave. You had wondered if you were being too pushy or maybe overreacting to everything until you saw him dressed. Your heart twists and feels like it’s breaking, but you just walk over to your dresser and pick up your pack of cigarettes. Pulling one out and lighting up, taking a long drag before you exhale. “You know where the door is.”

He stares at you, unsure of what he wants. Maybe he wanted you to scream at him, tell him he’s an asshole for not taking you to dinner after he’s fucked you nearly every night for months. He nods, reaching into his back pocket for his cigarettes and he places one in his mouth, patting his shirt for his lighter but he daren’t ask you for a light when you’re looking at him like you want to set him on fire. He leaves without another work, making his way back to his apartment to wonder what the fuck went wrong tonight.

“Fucking asshole.” You ignore the tears that are sliding down your cheeks as you smoke your cigarette, closing your eyes when you hear the door close with a soft click. Tomorrow is going to be miserable.

****

The next day, Javier arrives at the embassy and all he sees are fucking roses and chocolates and cards. Is he the only one who forgot Valentine’s Day? He grunts as he walks down the hall until he enters his office to find Steve fumbling through giving delivery instructions to a driver for a florist. He rolls his eyes and takes the phone, helping to give the man directions to their building and that’s when you walk in. His heart thumps in his chest and you don’t even look at him as you pull your office chair out.

“Morning Steve.” You offer when Murphy leans back in his chair and shoots you a good morning. “You look cheerful.” You tease. “Big plans with the wife?” The blonde man grins even wider and winks. “Hell yeah, I’m going to romance her tonight and make sure that I get laid.” It’s sweet how much the couple loves each other, even with all the shit you are dealing with. “What about Olivia?” You ask, knowing that dealing with the little girl they’ve adopted has been a big change for the young family. “I’ve got a neighbor we trust to watch her.”

“That’s good.” You smile as Steve looks proud of himself. Things have been rocky lately, but he’s hoping tonight will put them back on steady ground. “What about you?” He asks, glancing over at Javier but his question is towards you. He’s not stupid, he knows you two are sleeping together. Javi comes in smelling like your perfume way too often to not know. You are looking down at your paperwork, so you don’t see the look and you hum. “I’ve got a date with Thomas Moore tonight.” You announce. “First date.”

Javier nearly drops the cigarette he’s smoking on his shirt, his eyebrows immediately raised. “From the CIA?” Steve asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. Surely Javier would be taking you for dinner after he’s fucked you for God knows how long. “Yep.” You pop the ‘p’ and Javier huffs as he snubs out his smoke. “Really? When did he ask you out?” Javier asks through slightly clenched teeth.

You shrug slightly. “He’s been asking me out for two months.” You admit. “But he called with some information that he thought I might be able to use last night, and asked again.” You know Javi cares more about the intel you might have gotten than anything else, so you shuffle through your reports. “I said yes.”

Javier taps his fingers on the table, curious why you’d never mentioned that Moore was asking you out. “What’s the intel?” He grunts, trying to show he’s not bothered even when his stomach is twisting in annoyance and jealousy.

You hum as you look through the papers, knowing that Javi is impatient for the information so you don’t rush. Wanting to make sure that it’s a solid lead. When you find the CentraSpy report you grin as you wave it towards Steve, ignoring Javi. “Blackie is making a drop off today. One of the safe houses we stopped surveilling.” You tell him, pushing out of your chair and grabbing your jacket. “Let’s hope he’s on time because I’m leaving early today.”

Steve nods, excitement on his face to finally get a lead after chasing tail for so goddamn long. Javier is more apprehensive. “You’re telling us you basically sold yourself for some intel.” Javier scoffs, crossing his arms after scratching his jaw. He didn’t have time to shave this morning since he barely slept, thinking about you. He doesn’t get up right away, watching Steve shrug on his jacket and he sighs, grabbing his pack of cigarettes as he stands.

You frown at his accusation, but you turn away and start walking out of the office so he doesn’t see you. There’s a sharp retort on your tongue about his own methods, but you won’t let him know that you are bothered by his comment. Thomas Moore is coming down the hall, smiling happily as you come towards him. “Hey, are we still on for tonight?” He asks and you nod. “Seven okay?” You ask, stopping and smiling flirtatiously. “I want to make sure I’ve got time to get ready.”

Javi clenches his jaw, unable to help himself, and Steve smirks, aware of the situation. Thomas nods, winking at you, “I’ll see you then.” You grin and continue walking down the hall. Javier glares at Thomas who frowns, confused about the DEA agent’s annoyance at him. “You seriously want to go out with that prick?” Javier scoffs, “can’t even tell you a damn time.”

“Don’t worry about what I do, Peña.” You huff as the three of you walk out of the building towards your Jeep. Javi normally wants to drive, but you’ll be damned if you let him be in charge today. “It’s none of your business who I date or who I take home with me.” You open the door and ignore his frown of annoyance at not taking his vehicle. “He wants to take me out for Valentine’s Day. Big deal.”

Javier rolls his eyes, “yeah. And get laid.” He scoffs and Steve snorts under his breath at this show you’re both putting on. You unlock your Jeep and Javier - who usually always sits in the front - sulks in the back seat as you drive to the lookout point. Your situation ship began on a lookout. Steve was sick so it was just the two of you. You listened to music, smoked, and then you began to talk…which turned into making out…which turned into you riding him in the backseat of his Jeep. Since that night, you had an unspoken agreement that this was colleagues with benefits. At least that’s what Javi thought.

You don’t look in the rear view mirror as you drive, getting a prime parking spot about a hundred yards away from the safe house front door. You park and turn off the engine, settling back into your seat and checking your watch. “Maybe we will finally get lucky.” You murmur to Steve. “And don’t forget I’ve got some crackers in the glovebox.” You tell him, knowing how much he enjoys snacking during stakeout.

Steve nods, “fuck yes.” He leans his elbow on the window and watches Javier in the wing mirror who has a pout on his face at the turn of events. Clearly the man thought you’d pine forever but you’ve decided to take action and Steve can’t disagree with it. Peña can’t drag you along without putting a label on what you’ve been doing. “The intel was bullshit.” Javier scoffs after a few minutes of waiting. “Clearly that jackass just wanted an excuse to get in your pants tonight so he made some shit up.”

You snort and shake your head, reaching for your cigarettes. It’s apparently going to be a day of thinly veiled insults and attitude. “Doubtful.” You say with the cigarette between your lips and you cup your free hand around the lighter since the window is down. “Better chance of getting in my pants if the lead is good.”

Javier rolls his eyes, “didn’t know it was that easy.” He quips, knowing he’s being an asshole but he is hurt that you’ve already moved on so quickly because he didn’t plan a fucking Valentine’s Day dinner. Like this entire situation isn’t life or death. In Laredo, he could relax and take you for a steak dinner, buy you roses, and make you feel special, but this isn’t home. Any moment, Escobar could find you and hurt you. He can’t take the risk.

Your jaw tightens and your eyes flicker to the rear view mirror, finding him looking at you in challenge. His eyes dark and for a split second you swear you see hurt flash through their depths. “Yeah, well, you should see some of the losers I’ve fucked.” You shoot back coolly, taking another puff of your cigarette. “Thoughtless assholes.”

Javier scoffs, shaking his head, and he knows that he won’t win this argument. He’s trying to keep you safe and if you can’t see that, then you aren’t aware of the dangers Escobar poses. He rubs his forehead, checking his watch, and he swears Steve is trying to piss him off as he crunches on stupid fucking crackers.

You don’t say anything else, just keep watch on the slightly rundown house that has newspapers covering the windows. Ever so often, you glance in the mirror at Javi, starting to feel guilty and hurt, and feeling guilty about being hurt. You haven’t had a conversation about what was happening between the two of you, pretending that it would somehow magically define itself. Javier isn’t one to date, that’s obvious and it’s better that you just get over him now before you do something stupid like confess how you feel.

Time seems to drag and Javier taps his fingers on the window sill, watching and waiting for Blackie to appear. Just when he thought Moore really is full of shit, the sicario appears and Javier sits up straight. “Well I’ll be damned.” Steve comments with a mouth full of crackers.

“Damn right.” You sit up and reach for the camera. Wanting to take photos before you move in for the arrest. Knowing that the documentation will be invaluable. “Finish your crackers, Murphy.” You tell him as you look through the lenses and click photo after photo.

Steve crunches enough to make Javier clench his jaw in annoyance and the blonde man knows that. He smirks and takes a sip of his coffee before you set the camera down. “Let’s get this over with.” Javier demands, opening the back door to get out and he pulls out his sunglasses to put them on.

“Well, I guess we are arresting him now.” You huff, setting the camera down and scrambling after Javier out of the truck. Steve is getting out on the other side and you reach behind you to pull your gun out of the holster at the base of your spine. The three of you spread out, knowing that Blackie will either run or start shooting. It’s only a question of which one he chooses.

Javier rolls his eyes at your tone and he pulls his gun from his back, keeping it low as he strides forward to follow Blackie down the alley. The sicario doesn’t see the three of you for several moments until he spins, gun in hand, and he fires it. The bullet whizzes past Javier and he clenches his jaw, taking off after the sicario while shouting at Steve to cut him off on the other side.

“Fuck!” While you know it’s not Javi’s fault, you can’t help but be annoyed at his impatience. It would have been easier to box him in when he was in the house. You take off another route, knowing that the alleyways connect the neighborhood and you don’t want him to slip away.

Javier pants as he chases after Blackie and it happens so fast. His heart beats then stops as Blackie runs down an alley and you are standing there with your gun aimed at the sicario. You fire your weapon, hitting the sicario in the shoulder and he wastes no time firing his gun back at you. By some miracle, the bullet imbeds itself in the wall beside you, and Javier rushes forward, firing his gun but the sicario runs fast, shoving you to the ground, and he turns the corner. Javier doesn't even think as he kneels down to pull you into his arms. "Fuck! Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He rushes out, desperate to hear that you are okay.

You are breathless, both from the near miss that you had and the way you had fallen when Blackie had pushed you down. It takes you a second to be able to talk and you feel Javi’s hand running all over your body, desperately checking for injuries. For a moment, you melt, feeling his worry but then you remember how he had been so cold last night and this morning. You shove him away and push to your knees. “I’m fine.” You hiss, slapping his hand when he reaches for you again. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

He recoils from you and the way you tell him not to touch you. His stomach twists and he shuffles back, holding his hands up. “Fine. Get the fuck up.” He demands now that he knows you’re not hurt. Steve runs towards you, chest heaving, and he shakes his head. “He got away.” Javier hisses, pissed off at the missed opportunity. He smacks his hand on the wall as you stand up and Steve frowns in worry, his blue eyes flicking between you. “Fuck.” He growls, “we lost him.”

You groan and bend down to pick up your gun, dropped when you had been knocked down. “I hit the fucker though.” You report grimly, tucking your gun back into its holster and sighing as you look around to get your bearings. “He’s not going to go back to the safe house.” It pisses you off that once again the sicarios that you’ve been chasing have slipped away. You know you should apologize for being so hateful to Javi, but you don’t. He wouldn’t. Turning around, you start walking back towards your Jeep.

Javier inhales shakily, his heart pounding in his chest, and he takes a second until he follows you. Steve watches him, slapping him on the back, “we will get the fucker.” He promises and Javi nods, trying to think about what went wrong. He could’ve shot the fucker but the thought of missing and shooting you…he couldn’t do it. He approaches your Jeep and Steve is in the driver’s seat. He gets in the back seat, shutting the door. “Can you drop me off at the girls?” Javier asks, knowing that Steve will know what he means.

You hate how your entire body tenses up and your heart aches when he asks that. You snort in disbelief, mostly at yourself and sink down into your passenger seat. Not looking in the mirrors at Javi and counting down the seconds before you can get away from him. Apparently sooner than you had expected.

Everyone is silent as Steve drives through the streets. You had all hoped this would amount to success. Finally some movement but that didn’t happen. Blackie got away. When Steve pulls up outside the unsuspecting home, Javier opens the door and gets out. “Thanks.” He grunts, looking back at you sitting in the front of the car, and when you turn your head, his heart aches. With a nod, he turns on his heel and makes his way into the brothel.

You bite your lip, facing forward and refusing to watch as he knocks on the brothel door and is let inside. Steve sighs but you cross your arms and try to pretend that it doesn’t hurt. “More time for me to get ready for my date.” You manage to say, but it sounds hollow.

****

Thomas guides you into the restaurant, his hand on your lower back, and he’s already told you three times that you look beautiful. It’s sweet but it doesn’t make you shiver like when Javier has murmured it when he’s inside you. Thomas pulls the chair out for you, letting you sit down, and he rushes around the table to take his seat. “I heard that this is the best restaurant in Bogotá.” Thomas says, clearly nervous, and you offer him a smile, “it’s great.” He beams but his smile falters when his eyes widen. You frown, turning your head to see what’s caught his eye and your jaw drops slightly. It’s Javier and he’s brought a date. Javier has his hand on Gabby’s lower back, guiding her over to the table next to you, and he can’t help but smirk at his luck.

Goddamnit. Your heart lurches and your stomach twists. Gabby is lovely, beautiful and kind, but it’s a punch to the gut that he would be insulted at the idea of taking you out to dinner but would bring the woman he pays to have sex with. Forcing yourself to nod to Gabby politely, you don’t acknowledge Javier. You swallow harshly and your eyes snap back towards Thomas. “I need a drink.” You pant, hating how you are hurt and jealous all at the same time.

Thomas nods, unsure of why you look nauseous, and he gestures for the waiter to come over just as Javier sits down on the table next to him, facing you. The waiter comes over and Thomas grins, proudly ordering a bottle of champagne. Javier snorts at the display, and he  knows you’d want a gin and tonic.

You don’t correct him, instead you smile at the gesture and keep your eyes glued to Thomas, almost afraid to look over at Javi. He had apparently found time between rounds with Gabby to change and he looks good. Your cunt clenches and you hate how your body betrays you, knowing that he’s going to go back to the brothel tonight and not be in your bed. “Your tip was good.” You tell Thomas, smiling at him. “I’m going to need you to keep feeding me those tips.” You tease.

The CIA agent smirks, “of course. We got more where that came from. I have plenty of intel…as long as you keep giving me those pretty smiles.” He winks and you giggle. Javier rolls his eyes and Gabby nudges him with her foot, leaning over to take his hand in hers. The waiter brings the bottle of champagne over, popping it, and you soon have a bubbly glass in front of you. “To new partners.” Thomas toasts and lifts his glass.

“To new partners.” You echo, taking a sip of the champagne and hating how sweet it is. Still, you drink half the glass before you set it down, needing the alcohol. “Thank you.” You murmur, watching Javi out of the corner of your eye. You see his and Gabby’s hands intertwined so you reach out and take Thomas’s hand. “This is a very lovely place and the company is even better.” You coo.

The waiter comes over to Javier and Gabby. Your partner orders a whiskey and Gabby gets a vodka soda, squeezing Javier’s hand after she winks at him, knowing that he sees you holding Thomas’s hand. “Thanks for helping me relax earlier.” Javier tells Gabby, picking her hand up to press a kiss to the back of it.

You squeeze the CIA agent’s hand and he frowns slightly. “Everything alright?” He asks, concern lacing his tone. You swallow and smile, ignoring the way your stomach twists since you know exactly how Javier likes to relax. “Just a little sore from earlier.” You admit. “Might need you to help me loosen up.” You give him a suggestive smile.

Javier clenches his jaw and Gabby notices, biting her lip. The waiter sets their drinks down, and Javier immediately picks up his whiskey to take a gulp. Thomas doesn’t notice and smirks, “let’s see how good dinner is and maybe we can get dessert.” He teases and Javier snorts at the lame response. If it was him, he’d be charming you, telling you how he would help you loosen up.

You giggle and slap at Thomas’s hand playfully. “Such a gentleman.” You coo, trying to play it up. “Dessert will be the best part of the night, I promise.” You had made sure your dress was sexy and your make-up alluring. You lean forward slightly to give him a better look at your tits. Opening your menu so you can look at the choices and let him gawk.

His eyes drop down and he swallows harshly. Javier also drops his gaze to your tits and he narrows his eyes. You look fucking gorgeous and he knows it could’ve been him sitting opposite you if he only had the balls to do what he should’ve done. Now he’s sitting opposite Gabby who agreed to help him in his ridiculous plan. “What do you want to eat, Javi?” Gabby asks him, “or should we just skip straight to dessert?” She asks, smirking as she leans closer to him. Her tits pushed together and Thomas’s gaze drifts over to her chest.

“Oooooh, should we have some oysters?” You ask, looking up as Thomas immediately looks back at you, his cheeks flushed at being caught looking at another woman. You don’t say anything, just slide your foot out of your shoe and reach out under the table to rub it against his ankle. Wanting his attention on you. “You know what they say about oysters.” You giggle.

Javier wants to roll his eyes but he doesn’t. He knows when you are genuinely attracted to someone, and he knows you’re forcing the flirting. “Uh, oysters. Yeah.” Thomas nods lamely, making Javier chuckle under his breath at the boring response.

You hear the laugh and your eyes snap over to Javier. Your jaw tight as you glare at him, “what was that, Peña?” You hiss, annoyed that he’s here. He’s distracting you and clouding your thoughts when you should be trying to get over his stupid mustache and the way his cologne smells.

Javier shrugs, “nothing. Just think you shouldn’t be on a date if you need an aphrodisiac to get the blood flowing.” He quips, smirking at Gabby, “oysters ain’t doing anything for me to get it up.”

“You prick.” You hiss, twisting in your chair to glare at Javi. The smug asshole just flicks his eyes over to you in amusement, happy he’s riled you up. “Why the fuck are you even here?” You demand. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Why would you take anyone to dinner on Valentine’s Day?” Your words are dripping with sarcasm as you completely forget about your own date.

Thomas frowns, confused by your annoyance. He thought that you and Javier were just partners…work colleagues. “Gabby is important to me.” Javier counters, “I’ve known her a long time. As for being here…well, I heard this was the best restaurant in Bogotá.”

His jab hits its intended mark and you inhale sharply. “Asshole.” Gabby was important to him, special enough to want to spend time outside of a bedroom. But you were just a convenient fuck. You know that he has to be paying her to take her to dinner and it hurts worse than you expected to learn that he would rather pay for companionship than to do more than fuck you. You turn back towards Thomas, a little desperate. “Do you want to get out of here?” You ask.

Thomas sees how upset you are and he isn’t stupid. He connects the dots. You’re fucking Javier and this date is to make him jealous. He shakes his head, standing up and he pulls his wallet from his pants. “That’s for the champagne. I don’t know what’s going on now but I’m not going to be in the middle of whatever the fuck this is.” He scoffs and tosses some cash down. He looks at Javier, “I don’t know what she sees in you.” He says and strides from the table, shaking his head. Javier scoffs, unable to believe he left like that but he’s also secretly pleased.

You sit there for a moment, staring at the money he had thrown down. Embarrassed and ashamed of how this night has turned out. Your cheeks feel like they are on fire and worse you can feel the tears starting to build in your eyes. “Shit.” You leap up and rush towards the bathroom, unwilling to let Javi see you cry.

Javier watches you rush off and his eyes flick back to Gabby. “Go after her.” She urges and he nods, shifting to stand up. He follows you to the bathroom, knocking on the door. “Hermosa.” He  calls after clearly his throat. He says your name, wanting you to know he’s serious about talking to you.

“Go away, Javi.” You beg, closing your eyes as you try to stop yourself from crying. Of course he doesn’t listen to you and you hear the door open. You press your eyes together harder as you bend over at the sink. “Please just go away.”

He sees you bent over the sink and his heart clenches. “Not until you tell me why you accepted going on a date with that CIA prick. He’s never going to be what you need. Why’d you put yourself through that when you know he could never make you feel like I do. That limp prick couldn’t make you cum like I do.”

That pisses you off and pushes the tears away for a second. You whirl around and glare at him. “The great Javier Peña.” You hiss, poking him in the chest with your finger. “God’s gift to women’s orgasms.” You snort and step away from him. “Sometimes a woman wants more than just a fucking orgasm.” You inform him. “Unless she’s getting paid to fake them.” You smirk coldly. “Enjoy your night with Gabby.” You turn around and walk out of the women’s bathroom, ready to go the fuck home and pretend tonight didn’t happen.

Javier huffs, rubbing his chest, and he knows he’s fucked up. He lets you go, knowing you’ll be okay to get home, and he makes his way outside to Gabby. He follows Thomas’s lead and he tosses some cash down onto the table. “I’m taking you home.” He says and she nods, grabbing her purse. When Javier is driving her back to her place, she turns to look at him. “I wondered why you haven’t been fucking me for a while. Only coming to pay me for intel. It was her. She clearly loves you. Why the hell didn’t you take her to dinner tonight?” Gabby asks and Javier adjusts his hands on the steering wheel. “It’s complicated. I- I’m too fucking complicated for her.” He admits his deepest thoughts.

Gabby snorts and shakes her head. “Men.” She scoffs. “You don’t think she’s complicated? She’s a female DEA agent in Colombia. Tracking down the same dangerous men that you say make you too complicated.” He sighs and she doesn’t cut him any slack. “What do you think they would do to her if they caught her? You don’t think she knows that? She lives with that everyday and the man she loves would rather push her away than risk it?” She reaches over and touches his hand. “Don’t do that to her. Don’t do that to both of you.”

Javier clenches his jaw, imagining too many times what could happen to you if one of Escobar’s men got hold of you. He shudders slightly and Gabby notices but doesn’t say anything. “I’ve fucked up. She hates me now. I took you to dinner after telling her what we had was just sex. She’ll never forgive me.” He murmurs and Gabby scoffs, “she loves you. Get some damn roses and get your ass over to her place to apologize. Grovel.” She adds, “all women like a man who begs.” She smirks and Javier nods, knowing it’s going to be impossible to find roses this time of night but he’s going to try. He drops Gabby off at her place, thanking her, and she refuses the money until he shoves it in her hand. She kisses his cheek and soon he’s speeding to find a florist. There’s one still open and when he strides in, he asks for roses at the same time another man asks for them. “I was here first.” The man argues and Javier tilts his head, reaching for his wallet, “I’ll pay more.” The shop owner glances between the men. “What if you both take six?” She suggests and Javier knows it’s not the grand gesture he was after but it will have to do. He nods and pays, rushing back to his Jeep and soon, he’s standing on your doorstep. His heart pounds as he waits for you to answer the door.

You’ve kicked off your shoes and are spoon deep in a pint of rocky road, trying to bury yourself in ice cream to make yourself feel better. Wallowing in misery, you know tomorrow will be horrible. Thomas is hurt by your selfishness. Using him to get over Javi and he didn’t deserve that. He was a good guy, for being CIA. You fucked up and what’s worse is that you know Javi will be enjoying his night with Gabby, not even giving you a second thought. Dipping the spoon into the carton, you sniffle slightly and then freeze when you hear a knock on your door. You sigh, wondering who the fuck it is and contemplate ignoring it before you get up. Setting the ice cream down, you reach for your gun as you peek through the hole and see Javi.

When you open the door, Javier winces, knowing that you are pissed at him...rightly so...and he holds the flowers up for you to see. "Please don't shut the door." He pleads and you huff, pulling the door back after you try to slam it on him. Your eyes drift down to the roses and you scoff, "couldn't get a dozen?" You ask, wanting to act like a bitch, and Javier chuckles dryly, "yeah. Could only find one florist open and the flowers were split between me and another stupid bastard."

“Stupid is right.” You snort, hating that you are  already softening and opening the door wider so he can come in. “What are you doing here, Peña?” You demand. “Shouldn’t you be showing Gabby how you don’t need oysters to get it up?”

He walks into your apartment before you can tell him to get the fuck out and he sighs, “I was trying to make you jealous. I…I was jealous that you were out with Moore. I was jealous as fuck and I figured - it was fucking stupid. I wanted to make you jealous and I realized this entire situation is my fault because I should’ve asked you to dinner before all of this happened but I was a coward. I’m terrified to - to make this real because if something happens to you, I won’t forgive myself and I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it. I think I’d kill every sicario in Colombia with my bare hands if anything happened to you and that scares the shit out of me. To know that you are the person I love the most…to lose you. It would kill me. I thought if I acted like you didn’t mean anything to me that you’d get sick of my shit and move on and when that happened - I couldn’t handle it.” He rambles more than you’ve ever heard since you met him and he inhales deeply when he’s done.

You inhale sharply, eyes wide at his confession. “You love me?” You whisper and he nods, shifting nervously as he still holds the six roses in his hand like a lifeline. Reaching out, you slap at his chest. “You love me?” You hiss, although it’s more out of frustration than anger. “You love me and you let me think that I meant nothing to you? Just an easy fuck you didn’t have to pay for and you love me?”

Javier shakes his head, "I was trying to protect you. Jesus Christ, I thought - I thought I was protecting you from my bullshit. I didn't want to hurt you but I did anyway and I - I am sorry." He promises, "hermosa...I want you. I love you, but if you want me to go. I'll go."

“I don’t want you to go.” You slap his chest again and your hand rests there as you look into your eyes. “But I don’t want to be your second choice.” You admit softly. “You’ve already been with Gabby today. I don’t-“ you break off, unsure how to explain you didn’t want to have sloppy seconds.

"I didn't fuck her. I haven't...not since before we started having sex." He promises, "I wouldn't do that to you. Especially since we haven't used a condom. I am many things but I am not that big of an asshole." He shrugs one shoulder, shuffling the roses in his hand.

“You didn’t?” You frown in confusion. “You said that she had helped you relax.” You remind him. “Only fucking time I’ve ever seen you relaxed is right after you’ve cum.”

Javier can't help but blush a little, ducking his chin, "I didn't - she just let me talk about anything and everything. She didn't even hug me. I vented and asked if she would go to dinner with me." He confesses, "I wanted to make you jealous." He sighs, "and I was being a prick."

You wilt at his embarrassed confession. He had just tried to make you jealous. “It worked.” You admit. “I was furious, and jealous. I wanted to claw Gabby’s eyes out, and I like Gabby.” You’ve talked to the prostitute many times, double checking on intel Javi’s received or just checking on her woman to woman. You know she’s in a rough line of work.

Javier’s heart jerks at the news that you were jealous of Gabby. “She’s one of the best.” He agrees, “and she told me it was a stupid idea. It was stupid. I love you, baby. I should’ve told you that long ago and I should’ve taken you to dinner tonight. Can you give me another chance? Dinner tomorrow?”

You bite your lip, watching his eyes. They are dark and worried that you might say no. “I had honestly expected you to say something like you would buy me a hot dog.” You admit with a small laugh. It’s something of an inside joke because every time you worked late at Steve’s apartment, Connie would make you hot dogs. It was an innocent joke and some levity that you all sorely needed. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

Javier chuckles and shakes his head, "you're worth more than a hot dog." He promises, "you are everything. I want to show you that." He steps closer, unsure if you want him to touch you or if you need some space.

“Then show me.” You challenge him, biting back a smirk. You reach out and take his hand. “I love you, Javier.” You murmur softly.

Javier sets the flowers down on your table and pulls you into him. He smiles as he leans in to softly kiss you. "I love you, hermosa." He promises, pressing his lips to yours again to deepen the kiss.

You wind your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you as you let him take control. Moaning softly when he licks into your mouth, the previous anger and upset forgotten as his mouth fuses to yours.

Javier groans as his tongue slides against yours. His hands are greedy as they squeeze your ass and he missed you. As ridiculous as it sounds, he’s missed you during the time you were fighting. He guides you backwards through your apartment to your bedroom and his hands immediately find the zipper of your dress, pulling it down. You let it drop to the floor without hesitation and Javier pulls back to look at you. “Lingerie? Was this for that prick?”

“It was for myself.” You shrug, knowing that it’s not necessary to worry about it now. “But if I felt like I could have gone through with it….” You honestly don’t know if you would have been able to sleep with Thomas, but now you are able to stand in front of the man you had envisioned when putting it on.

Javier growls, jealousy making his heart clench, "well, he ain't gonna see this. Only I get to see you looking this fucking sexy." He commands, grabbing your ass to lift you onto the bed.

Your squeal of surprise turns into a giggle as he drops you on the bed. “Is that right?” You prop up on your elbows and smirk at him. “You think I look sexy like this, baby?”

He chuckles, nodding at you, and he fingers the lace of your bra. "Goddamn mouthwatering." He promises, "not that you aren't always the sexiest woman in the damn city but you look like a fucking dessert right now." He murmurs, bending down to take your nipple into his mouth through the lace.

You whimper at the wet heat of his mouth on you. Moaning softly when he runs his tongue over the entire area to wet it more. “Javi- fuck.” You run your fingers through his hair and sigh blissfully when he climbs on top of you and you feel the weight of him on top of you again. “Want you naked.”

He chuckles against your breast, sucking on your nipple, and you whine. Your protest makes him lean back on his haunches and he unbuttons his shirt, exposing his chest for your hungry eyes. He shrugs it off and shuffles off the bed so he can kick off his shoes and unbutton his pants. His half hard cock exposed when he shoves them down and kicks them aside.

“I love that you never wear underwear.” You eye his cock greedily. He’s impressive even when he’s not fully hard, just overall beautiful in your opinion. And now you know that he is all yours.

Javier kneels on the bed again, leaning down to kiss your stomach, and his hands caress your thighs. He wants to taste you. Be wants to hear you cry his name. He kisses down to your mound, nuzzling his nose against the lace covering it, and he shifts lower, pushing your thighs apart so he can press a soft kiss to your clit through the material.

“Javi.” It’s not like you haven’t had oral. Javi hasn’t been selfish when you’ve been together. It’s more than fucking has taken priority over oral. He’s the type of man who would rather be inside your pussy than in your mouth. “You don’t have to.”

He smirks as he looks up at you while he hooks his fingers into the crotch so he can pull them aside. “I know.” He promises before he leans in to slide his tongue through your folds. The tip of his tongue flicks over your clit and he loves the way you cry out and your fingers tangle in his hair.

Shivers race through your body as he dives into you. Javier never does things by half and he feels like he is trying to devour you, pussy first. His tongue alternates between running along your folds and flicking over your clit with teasing, playful motions. It makes you moan as you grind your hips down on his face.

He loves the way you grind onto his face and he moans when you tug on his hair to push his face deeper into your pussy. He sucks your clit into his mouth, loving the way you squeal, and his cock aches as he grinds slowly into the mattress.

He’s obviously trying to kill you. You pant softly as he works his tongue deeper inside you after finally letting your clit go. “Fuck, Javi.” You moan. “So good baby, you make me feel so good.”

Your moan goes straight to his cock and he hisses into your pussy, making your hips jerk. His hands squeeze your thighs, pushing them further apart, and he loves the way you moan his name. He wants to push you over the edge.

All you can hear is Javi lapping at your cunt and your answering moans. Everything outside is muted, forgotten. Even Pablo Escobar and your hunt for him is pushed aside for the way every flick of his tongue makes you want to weep in bliss. “So close, baby, I’m gonna cum.” You babble through the sounds of praise, rocking desperately against his tongue. “Gonna cum!”

You cry out moments later, your thighs squeezing his head, and he groans as he eagerly laps up your slick. His cock now throbbing into the sheets and he works you through until you’re pushing his head away. He kisses your mound, hooking his fingers in the lace panties to drag them down your legs.

“I need you to fuck me.” You are reaching for him, lunging up and pressing your lips to his. Not caring that he tastes like you, that his lips are still wet with your juices. Your hand wraps around his cock and you groan into his mouth when you feel the precum that has beaded up. “I need you right now baby. More than I need air.” 

He feels like he’s gonna explode if he doesn’t fuck you. He groans when you squeeze his cock and shuffles closer. “Fuck, hermosa. I’m here. I’m here.” He promises, letting you guide his cock to your entrance and he slowly starts to push into you. “Goddamn.” He hisses, shifting to his forearms and he ducks his head down to kiss you.

It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Your nails are shorter than you’d want, but they still dig into the meat of his shoulders as he presses into you. Filling you up with a steady determination that has you letting out a curse. “Fuuuuuuuck.” You whine. “No one ever filled me up like you do. So fucking thick.” You praise breathlessly. “Feels like you’re in my fucking guts when you are pounding away.”

Javier twitches inside you at your breathless praise and he loves it. "Baby. Shit. Baby." He pants, starting to move and he kisses along your neck, "so goddamn tight and - and so fucking perfect." He grunts, knowing he's not usually one for talking during sex but you always have him rambling.

You hold him close, letting him set the pace. The sex is still perfect. Maybe more so since you know there is love behind every kiss and roll of Javi’s hips. “You are perfect.” You moan. “Even when you piss me off, I want you.”

He chuckles, kissing your jaw, "that's a good thing because I know it happens a lot." You smirk and he bites your lip, dragging it as he thrusts harder, making you whine. He releases your lip and kisses you, "you are everything. Gotta keep you safe. I'll burn this entire fucking place down to find Escobar if anything happens to you." He vows, "but that ain't gonna happen because I won't let it." He promises against your lips.

“It won’t happen.” You promise breathlessly, rocking your hips up to meet his pace. You can’t guarantee it, but you do everything you can to come home every day. “I love you, Javi.”

"Love you too." He murmurs, shifting to bury his face in your neck. He breathes in your perfume, rocking his hips, and he shifts to his knees and you cry out at the change in angle. He groans at the way you clench around him so he focuses on that angle, wanting to feel you cum for him.

It doesn’t take long for that knot to coil in your stomach. So close to cumming that your thighs tighten around him, afraid he might pull away. “Baby-“ his next thrust pushes you over the edge and you clamp down around his lengths, crying out wordlessly.

When you cum, he groans into your skin, working you through it, and he rocks into you until you stop shaking beneath him. He slides his hands under your ass, lifting you as he shuffles onto his haunches, and he sinks deeper into your pussy. "Shit, hermosa." He pants, starting to rock you on top of his cock.

You whine in agreement. He feels so good inside you. You lean up on your elbows and watch as he fucks you. “Sometime I wonder how you fit.” You moan, clenching down around him and making him hiss in pleasure. “So fucking thick.”

“You take every inch. Like you’re made for me.” He promises, watching his cock disappear inside your dripping cunt. He grunts, getting lost in the sensation, and his eyes flick up to yours. “You’re perfect.” He promises, slowing his pace. He wants you to cum again for him. “How do you want it?” He asks, wanting you to decide how you cum next.

Your brow furrows for a moment, unsure of what he means until it dawns on you. “Hands and knees.” You beg. “I want you to wreck me. Make me realize that I’m still alive. I could have died today.”

How can he deny you when you remind him of what he nearly lost. He nods, pulling out of you, and you shuffle onto your hands and knees. He groans, squeezing your ass and spreading your cheeks. He can’t help it, he leans down to spit onto your puckered hole, watching it slide between your cheeks until it pools at your cunt. “Amor.” He murmurs, gripping his cock and shuffling closer until he’s pushing into you again .

Your gasp is needy, already rocking your hips back when he fills you. You need this, desperate to feel alive and like you are not alone. That you have him. Your fingers dig into the sheets and you moan his name. “Javi.”

Javier grips your hips, dragging you back onto his cock as he thrusts deep. Your cry makes him chuckle and he smacks your ass, watching it jiggle. "Fuck. You're here." He promises, "and I am yours. You're mine. This pussy is mine."

“Yours, baby.” You echo, eyes rolling back as he drives into you. “All yours, just yours.” You are his, despite trying to get over him. You’ll never get over Javier Peña. “Fuck, baby, mooooore.”

He grunts, wrapping his arm around your waist, and he drags you up and back into his chest. He kisses your shoulder, nipping the skin as he thrusts into you in a new angle.

You turn your head and kiss along his jaw, holding on as he makes your tits shake as he fucks you. “Kiss me.” You beg, wanting his lips on yours. “Javi, kiss me.”

Javier groans your name before he kisses you. He thrusts deep and hard, wanting you to feel every inch of him, to make sure you feel alive. His tongue slides against yours and it's sloppy but he twitches inside you at how good it feels.

Your hands grab at his, holding you tight and he curls his fingers through yours. Holding your hand as both of you try to race towards the finish line as quickly as you can with every thrust.

Javier groans into your mouth, no longer kissing just exchanging air, and he breathes you in like a man needing oxygen. You are his lifeline. He squeezes your hand over your breast, grunts escaping through his gritted teeth as he works you higher. He needs you to cum for him now.

Your eyes close and every push of his hips rockets you closer. Spearing up into your soaking walls with devastating accuracy until you are stiffening in his arms. “Oh fuck, oh fuck Javi!” You cry out. “Jaaaaaaviiiiiiii!”

Javi groans when you clamp down onto his cock and practically scream his name, making him hiss. He pants, wrapping his other arm around you to keep you close and he pushes up into you, pace sloppy and fast as he seeks his orgasm. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He growls and finally he lets out a low groan as he pulses inside you. He paints your walls, eyes squeezed shut as his orgasm surges through him.

Javi lets you collapse forward, following you and pressing you down to the bed. Both of you are panting and trying to catch your breath. “I love you.” You murmur softly, smiling to yourself as his spent cock twitches inside you. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Javier.”

Javier smiles, “I promise to take you out for an actual dinner tomorrow. And every night from now on, I’ll show you how much I love you, hermosa.” He vows, leaning in to kiss your neck after he shifts you both to your side.

“As long as we are together, I don’t care what we do.” You promise, reaching out and caressing his cheek. “Stay the night?” You ask softly, knowing that he might still want to go home and sleep on his own bed. He normally did after fucking you.

He nods, curling around you after his cock falls from your soaked cunt. “I’ll stay the night.” He promises, “and I gotta put the roses in water.” He teases, making you giggle. “Happy Valentine’s Day, hermosa.” He murmurs between kisses on your shoulder. “One to remember.” You hum and he hums against your skin. He’s made many mistakes since he arrived in Colombia but he’s not going to lose you. Not again.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Could I pretty please hear what you would think about a platonic Doey X autistic player?

Shoutout to my fellow autistic poppy playtime fans, we cannot be stopped >:)

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me :)

Doey & autistic Player

★ Doey is no stranger to people who are on the spectrum, plenty of his old friends from Home Sweet Home had special needs. You shouldn't feel any kind of shame over who you are! If you did, Doey would be quick to knock some sense into you.

★ In that situation, Doey's playful side would come out. "Alright, listen up! You're incredible, and I won't let you feel bad about yourself. Being a bit different than others is not a flaw—it's a part of you. And personally, I think your pretty great!"

★ Feeling overstimulated? If possible, he will adjust the environment as needed. Turning down lights if they are too bright, giving you a blanket with a nice texture and asking the other toys to play quietly.

★ He always asks for permission before getting close to you. Knowing that sometimes it can be a big no. "Hey buddy, is it okay if I stand here? I don't want to make you uncomfortable." Followed by him hastily adding "If you ever feel uncomfortable, just let me know, okay?"

★ Doey gets really upset if someone messes with you. His eyes narrow, the usually jovial demeanor shifting into something more serious. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his cool before speaking. "Hey, that's not okay. You need to stop. Right now."

★ Internally, Doey is seething with anger. He hates to see anyone treated badly. But chances are the person who was being rude was just a toy who didn't really understand what they were doing. If that's the case, he takes the time to explain why what they did was so wrong.

[calicocreatures]

and the fantasy of being cared for isn't unattainable... but you have to work towards it with those around you, by coaching them in how to understand your needs.

it's like that metaphor for love where you don't just stumble on a beautiful home in the wild; you find a nice clearing and say "well, this looks like a good place to build."

honestly, i'd much prefer someone learning by asking and being told how to care for me than by guessing.

my partner knows that i love being woken up to a cup of coffee, and that the best way to put me in a good mood is to shower me with compliments. they know i don't like being surprised with something i didn't have the energy to prepare for, but i love being surprised with not having to handle the logistics. but they know that because i told them.

and if they had tried to guess by just following what amatonormativity suggests, they might have guessed wrong. they can make me feel more special because i've told them what works.

"No one remembered my birthday-" Well, but did YOU tell anyone it was coming up and you wanted to celebrate it with them?

"I wish someone would see through it when I tell people I'm fine-" Well, but have YOU considered not lying when people ask you how you're doing?

"I am so resentful of my friend because they keep doing this thing that really bothers me-" Well, but have YOU directly communicated that the thing is bothering you?

"I am burning out because my friend keeps expecting me to help them with serious struggles-" Well, but have YOU tried to establish the boundaries you need to feel okay?

"No one ever asks me about this thing I really care about-" Well, but have YOU brought it up yourself?

"I miss my friend but they haven't texted me-" Well, but have YOU been reaching out to them?

Sometimes people are mean, uncaring assholes, in which case you get to be mad. But sometimes you just need to communicate better. Try communication before you assume someone doesn't care!

[strwberri-milk]

can i request the boys thinking mc is cheating bc she’s been acting off and hanging with other people, then they confront her but learn later that it’s something else that’s been going on (like her wanting to keep a problem hidden from them) angsty or fluffy ending it’s up to you im just craving angst 😓

Zayne doesn't want to directly confront you. He's terrified that somehow, he'll mess everything up and that right now, not knowing is better than confirming his fear. He'll just continue observing you for a bit, trying to figure out if there's something that can definitively point towards you actually having an affair. Your behaviour is strange but he won't feel too concerned until you start actively pulling affection away from him. That's when he's going to really start panicking. He doesn't know what he's done or said to make you take such a drastic step in your relationship and this is absolutely going to devastate him.

He'll talk to you one evening after you come home late. He tries to open it up by telling you that if it's something he's said or done to you then he's sorry and he promises he'll do whatever it takes to fix things between the two of you. It's you, and it's always been you. He can't even fathom being with anybody that isn't you. He'll ramble a little for once, not really able to accurately use his words as he tries to express how much he loves you.

You realise very quickly where he's going with all of this, immediately shutting him down as you tell him that you aren't seeing somebody else. He listens with bated breath to try and comprehend everything you're telling him, praying that you aren't lying to him because if you were, it'd definitely break him.

You'd probably have to ruin the surprise if you wanted him to feel fully secure after this conversation, especially since you also were hanging off of people when you normally don't seem to. He might feel a little insecure about your relationship for a while before settling into the routine again with you, but as long as you're wholly honest with him it'll pass fairly quickly.

Xavier wants to follow you around but he also knows it'd piss you off if he did. He'll just start paying more attention to events when the two of you are together and even more attention to things if it seems you're purposefully not inviting him to something. He's trying to understand why and what for, not wanting to directly accuse you but his jealousy definitely ramps up.

You'd have to talk to him as he slowly starts to escalate, becoming more pissy if you have plans with friends or when he responds poorly to you taking calls in his presence. He doesn't really say too much but he does make it very clear just how displeased he is with the look on his face or the way he practically grabs you whenever you're doing things with him.

He gets a little rougher with you overall - not in a painful way, in a distracted, irritated way. He doesn't want to hurt you on purpose and typically you don't really respond to this difference in pressure because it's nothing crazy but you can tell that he's starting to really internalise everything that's happening around him. When you do talk to him he listens with a furrow in his brow, trying to figure out if you're telling him the truth, or this is some elaborate lie for you to throw him off your scent.

He believes you pretty quickly but he is also going to be really skeevy about letting you do things without him for a bit. He just wants to spend time with you after all and after all this emotional turmoil you owe him a few stress-free dates.

Rafayel is not pleased. He makes it clear the second he thinks something is wrong by being colder and less affectionate with you. He isn't wholly above following you and figuring out who you're hanging out with, trying to figure out if there really is a chance that you are trying to have an affair.

You'd get some emotional whiplash from how differently he's acting, how he's making it clear that you've wronged him somehow but he isn't going to talk to you about it. He's avoidant, waiting for you to admit the truth. He's also patient, which means you could be iced out for weeks if you decide not to talk to him about what's happening.

He might spoil the surprise for himself if he goes fully into surveillance after which he'd just tell you that he figured out what you were hiding from him. You'd be a little disappointed but also more concerned as to how he managed to figure it out without tipping you off. He won't tell you at all about how he got the information - just that he did.

If he decides not to stalk you a little you'd have to ask him why he's so mad at you. He'd tell you that he's just treating you the same way you've been treating him, and that as far as he's concerned, this is deserved. You'd have to tell him the truth and why you've been hiding all this information from him - after which he will brighten up significantly. He'll say something about how he's never doubted you, yadda yadda yadda but he's definitely more clingy now than before from his nerves finally starting to settle.

Sylus doesn't want to monitor you either and decides to give you the benefit of the doubt. He's fairly secure in your relationship and knows that he hasn't done anything to make you want to cheat but he does feel himself faltering if you're becoming prone to laughing at your phone or trying to hide it from him. He won't ask for it but you can see that he's starting to get suspicious.

He would leave it alone until you reveal to him your surprise. By then he's still feeling fairly anxious but when you reveal that your behaviour was all just a result of you trying to plan something for him then he'll relax a little, thanking you for the effort you went through. You can tell that he's very glad that you've finally come clean when he holds your hand tightly, practically clinging to you as he thanks you.

He'll plan some more elaborate dates for you after the reveal, making it clear that he's missed your attention being solely on him. You don't really mind though since he's basically throwing money at you, spoiling you silly and reminding you just how much he's willing to do for you.

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER VII: DELECTABLE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (17,5k words)

Author's note: Consider this as my Valentine's gift for you, cuties. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and don't forget to share your thoughts on it ♡

Delectable. /dɪˈlek.tə.bəl/ (adj) looking or tasting extremely good, and giving great pleasure.

This is uncharted territory for Minho. Meeting your father feels like being handed a complex recipe without any instructions. In cooking, he can always rely on techniques, measurements, and experience. But here? There’s no guide on how to impress your dad. No step-by-step process to follow. Just instincts—and his instincts are telling him he’s in trouble.

Awkwardly, he leads the way through the restaurant, glancing back every few steps to make sure your dad is keeping up. He catches sight of you behind him, trailing anxiously, your hands clasped together like you’re holding yourself together.

Once they reach the kitchen, Minho turns to your dad and says politely, “If you take a seat in the hall, I’ll prepare a dish for you right away, sir.”

But your dad doesn’t sit. Instead, he fixes his gaze on Minho and says, “I didn’t come here to eat your food.” Then, he turns to you. “You make it.”

Minho sees the way your body stiffens. The sheer panic that paints your face as you stammer, “Why don’t you try something the chef makes? You don’t always get the chance.”

Minho steps in, offering himself up immediately. “What would you like, sir?”

But your dad waves him off. “No, I want her to bring me the dish she’s been working on lately.”

Minho hears you gasp, a mix of surprise and dread. But you obey without argument, walking to your station and preparing the grilled scallops you’ve been refining. He watches intently as you cook, noting the way your hands shake slightly. When you make a mistake, he silently winces but holds himself back from correcting you.

Next to him, your dad speaks. “I had to come and see for myself,” he says, his voice firm. “She’s never talked about a man she’s liked before.” He glances at Minho. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Minho shakes his head. “No, I don’t mind, sir.”

Your dad hums. “I liked the other guy I sent home earlier.”

Minho stiffens. Chris. Of course that annoying guy makes a better impression on your dad than him. But before Minho can respond, your dad adds, “Not that it matters. She never listens to me anyway.”

Minho almost smiles at that, but then he sees you approaching with your dish, setting it on the chef’s table. “Try this, dad,” you say, your voice carefully controlled.

Your dad doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he asks, “Why are you giving this to me?”

You blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Your dad’s expression remains unreadable. “Don’t you need your chef’s permission for your dish to go out to the hall?”

Silence stretches between you.

“Why do you think I’m eating your food instead of his?” your dad continues. “It’s not because I prefer yours.”

Minho understands then. Why scoldings and harsh words don’t seem to shake you. You’re used to it.

Your dad turns to Minho. “Go on. Taste it.”

Minho nods, picks up a fork, and cuts into the scallop. He dips it in the purée and sauce before bringing it to his mouth. He knows he has to be truthful, no matter what.

“Do it again.”

You freeze, shell-shocked. But then, you snap into motion, nodding quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

You turn back to your station and start over. When you present the second plate, Minho glances at your dad, who gestures for him to try it again. He hates to say it, but it’s still not right. “Do it again.”

This time, Minho sees the disappointment flicker across your face before you drag yourself back to your station. The third time, it’s still not right. With a quiet sigh, he repeats himself. “Do it again.”

Your dad looks away and scoffs. “We’re going to be here all night.”

Minho doesn’t miss the resentment in your eyes. Still, you offer, “I’ll do it again, Chef.”

But your dad snaps. “Is this how you work all day long?”

You shake your head quickly, but then your dad suddenly picks up the rejected dish and sets it down so hard that the spoon clatters against the plate.

He turns to Minho. “You must be giving her a hard time.” His voice is sharp. “Look at her. Does she look like someone who’s in love to you?”

Minho doesn’t know how to answer that. He can’t even decide if he should give himan honest answer or should he sugarcoat it for you.

Your dad exhales, shaking his head. “As soon as I heard she liked you, I couldn’t concentrate on my work.”

Minho bows his head slightly as he mutters an apology. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Your voice comes next, trembling. “Dad, I’m fine. I'm ashamed already. Can you stop now?”

Your dad snaps back, “You think you’re the only one ashamed? I feel the same way too.”

Minho stays quiet, unsure of how to navigate this. Heck, he doesn't even know which side to choose. After a pause, he tries, “Sir, what if we asked to do it one more—”

Your dad cuts him off with a scoff, then turns on his heel and walks out.

Minho hurriedly turns to you. “Go after him. Go! Follow him out.”

But you don’t move. Instead, you glare at him. “Did you really have to do that?”

Minho blinks. “What?”

You grit your teeth. “It wasn’t like I was cooking for customers. That was the first time my dad came here to try my food.” Your voice wavers as your eyes falter. “Did you have to show him that I get rejected all the time?”

Minho’s chest tightens after realizing how upset you are. He lowers his voice and mutters an apology. “I'm sorry, mmh?”

But you keep going, holding back tears. “Just because I don’t say anything and hold it all in doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”

Minho understands. He really does. He steps forward and gently places his hands on your shoulders, pulling you close. “I said I’m sorry.”

But you push him away, hard enough to make him staggering backward. Your tears finally spill over.

Frustration coils in Minho’s chest. “As long as I’m the chef, every dish that goes past my table is mine, even if I didn’t make it myself.” He exhales sharply, his voice quieter. “That was the first dish I made for your dad. I wanted to impress him.”

You shake your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. Even if you’re right, I’m sick of it. I can’t take it anymore.”

Minho clenches his jaw. His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Then why didn’t you do it right the first time?”

Your breath hitches. More tears fall, and Minho’s frustration dissolves instantly. He doesn’t want to make you sad. He steps closer again, his voice softer.

“Stop crying, mmh?” His hands cup your face, wiping away your tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

This time, you don’t push him away. You bury your head in his chest and let him hold you. Minho kisses the top of your head while continuously murmuring quiet apologies, his hands gently rubbing your back. Then—

“Get away from her.”

Minho’s body tenses. He immediately steps back, turning to face your dad, who watches him with unreadable eyes from the doorway of the kitchen. Then, your dad says, “Come to my bakery sometime. I’d like to hear what you have to say about my cooking.”

Minho stares, still freezing in place and giving no response.

Your dad stares back at him and asks, “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

Minho scrambles to respond. “Of course, sir”

Your dad turns to you now and clicks his tongue seeing you cry. “Bring your chef. Or your boyfriend. Or whatever. Just come together.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Together?”

Your dad nods. “Of course. Were you going to send him alone?” Then, he turns and walks away.

You run after him, leaving Minho standing in the kitchen, dazed. He turns to face the chef’s table, staring down at all the rejected dishes. He picks up the fork and have another bite of it, he can tell that you're getting better at it.

“He left,” You announce when you return shortly after, standing next to him.

Minho exhales. He doesn’t know what to say first. The fact that he made you cry. The fact that your dad caught him holding you. Or should he address the whole situation with your dad.

But then, you suddenly turn to him and say, “I think my dad likes you.”

Minho frowns in confusion, “What?”

You smile—shy, small. “He told us to come together. I think that means he likes you.”

A grin tugs at Minho’s lips. His hands find your waist as he pulls you close. “That so?”

You giggle, nodding. You melt into his arm as he pulls you closer. Minho hugs you tight, and as your bodies calibrating into each other, you both bursts out laughing to shake out all the worries and concerns from earlier.

Minho exhales, letting relief wash over him. He has made an impression and it matters because it's your dad. For the first time, he feels like he did something right.

-

Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish.

Renowned chef Choi Sara, once celebrated as the only female chef in the city’s top Italian restaurants, has publicly admitted to cheating in the Piazza dello Chef Contest, a prestigious culinary competition that propelled her to fame. The shocking confession has resulted in her losing several high-profile positions, including her role as the star host of the cable food channel's "The Chef’s Table", her judging seat on the New Chef Culinary Challenge, and her position at Farfalle, the city’s most esteemed Italian restaurant.

Choi Sara confirmed the long-standing rumors of her misconduct, revealing that she sabotaged her rival’s chances of winning by tampering with his key ingredient. The contest’s challenge featured ginseng pasta, with wine serving as the essential element in neutralizing the ginseng’s bitterness. Choi admitted to oxidizing her rival’s wine by placing it in boiling water the night before the competition, rendering it ineffective and ultimately securing her victory.

The chef who was cheated out of his rightful win has now been identified as Lee Minho, currently the co-chef of Farfalle. His loss in the competition significantly altered the trajectory of his career, while Choi’s tainted victory opened doors that have now been abruptly closed.

The scandal has sent shockwaves through the culinary world, with many calling for Choi to be permanently banned from future competitions and culinary institutions. Neither Farfalle nor the New Chef Culinary Challenge has issued an official statement regarding the controversy.

As the culinary industry reacts to this bombshell revelation, Choi Sara's career now faces an uncertain future.

-

The moment you step into the restaurant, you barely have time to process the usual morning bustle before Taesoo comes charging toward you. His eyes are wide with urgency, his mouth opening as if to speak—but no words come out. Instead, he thrusts his phone toward you, his fingers trembling as he points at the screen.

Frowning, you take the phone from his hand, your gaze dropping to the glowing display. An article fills the screen, the headline alone enough to send a jolt through your chest. Your eyes dart across the text, skimming past the formalities, searching for the core of it.

"Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish."

The words slam into you, one after another, but nothing hits harder than the revelation buried in the details. The rival chef she cheated out of a rightful victory—the one whose career could have been different if not for her actions���was Minho.

A sharp gasp escapes you. The abrupt end of their relationship, the distance, the bitterness—it all makes sense now. But why confess everything now, and why to the press?

Your grip tightens around the phone before you shove it back into Taesoo’s hands, your feet already moving before you fully register what you’re doing. Your heart pounds as you sprint toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Chris’s office door looms ahead. You don’t bother knocking—you push it open with force, breathless from your rush. Chris is already on his feet, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly aware.

“Chris—” you manage between pants, but he’s already moving, reaching for his suit jacket as if he anticipated your arrival.

“I know,” he says simply, slipping the jacket over his shoulders as he walks toward you.

“You’re going to see her?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He nods, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “I’m heading out now.” Then, as he reaches you, his hand rests gently on your shoulder. His touch is steady, reassuring. “I’ll let you know when I get back. And I’ll tell Sara you’re worried about her.”

You nod, exhaling a quiet, “Thank you.” Your voice feels small, barely audible over the storm of thoughts in your head.

Chris offers a final nod before stepping past you, out the door.

You remain standing there, watching him go, unable to shake the weight settling in your chest. No matter where she is, you can only hope that Sara is alright.

-

You’ve expected Minho to keep his head down and work as if nothing happened, and he does exactly that. The tension in the air is almost suffocating—everyone in the kitchen knows about Sara’s confession, and Minho knows that they know. But as always, he moves through the lunch service with precision, barking out orders in his usual sharp tone, as if the weight of the news hasn’t touched him.

The last order of the lunch service prints through the machine, and Minho tears it off, scanning it quickly.

“Table 14. Two filet mignon course meals. Make them both rare,” he announces.

Sous-chef Seojun, who handles the steaks, pauses as he reaches for the meat. “Rare? Both of them?”

Before Minho can respond, a service staff member rushes into the kitchen, looking slightly panicked. Just as he opens his mouth, Minho beats him to it.

“Did the customers at table 14 really request them rare?”

The service staff nods quickly. “Chef… it’s them. The food critics—the same ones who complained about the lobster last time.”

A hush falls over the kitchen. Everyone still remembers the criticism Farfalle received, and now those same critics are back. You glance around, noticing how the team has subtly stiffened. Minho sees it too.

“Everyone! Pay attention to your frying pans,” His voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Start the entrée line course, now.”

“Yes, Chef!” everyone answers in unison, snapping back into motion.

The next several minutes pass in focused silence. The steaks are cooked, plated, and sent out. The kitchen moves efficiently, but the underlying unease remains.

Then the service staff returns. “Chef, the food critics would like to speak with you.”

Minho barely reacts. He removes his apron and straightens his jacket. “Clean up,” he orders before stepping out of the kitchen.

But instead of following Minho’s instructions, everyone slowly gravitates toward the chef’s table. Hyunwoo is the first to break the silence.

“Do you think the restaurant’s reputation took a hit because of Chef Sara?” he asks, his voice low but curious. “Maybe they’re here to change our star rating.”

Seungwan hums in thought. “It could be. The new menu, the press conference—it all happened when Chef Sara was still here.”

Taesoo chimes in next. “Or maybe they just want to evaluate Chef Lee alone now that he’s the only head chef.”

Felix, leaning against the counter, shakes his head. “Chef doesn’t care about any of that.”

Taesoo raises an eyebrow. “Why not? A higher rating is always good. I hope we get something better than whatever rating Chef Sara got.”

Felix nods, glancing toward the dining area. “Ah... so that’s why they ordered the steaks rare.”

Taesoo frowns. “Wait… is there a reason why they ordered it rare?”

You finally speak up. “Because when meat is rare, they can evaluate its quality better. The freshness, how it was stored, how well it was prepared and cooked—it all shows.”

Taesoo gasps, as if the realization just hit him. Hyunwoo grins, nudging Seojun. “Good thing we have Sous-chef back there. You’ve got the Midas touch when it comes to the grill.”

Seungwan nods in agreement. “Yeah, when we think of steak, we think of Sous-chef Seojun.”

Seojun, clearly flustered, smiles shyly at the praise. They’re not wrong—if anyone could pull off the perfect steak, it’s him. But you’re not as reassured as they are. Your thoughts linger on the bigger issue.

If the critics are here for a reevaluation, that means trust in Farfalle’s kitchen might already be wavering. And trust, once lost, isn’t so easy to regain.

-

Minho moves through the dining hall with practiced ease, ignoring the curious glances from guests and staff alike. He knows everyone is watching—waiting to see how he’ll handle this. But he doesn’t falter, doesn’t let the weight of their expectations slow him down.

When he reaches table 14, he stops at a respectful distance, straightening his posture. He meets the eyes of the two food critics seated before him and offers a professional nod.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly. “I’m Lee Minho, head chef of Farfalle.”

One of the critics, a man in his late forties with sharp eyes, returns the greeting and slides a small card across the table. “Nice to meet you, Chef Lee Minho. We’re from Culinary Gazette.”

Minho picks up the card, glancing at it briefly before slipping it into his pocket. Straight to business.

The first critic leans back slightly, a small smile on his face. “The filet mignon was well executed. The composition of the course was balanced, and if it had been ordered medium, it would have made for a solid, traditional dish.”

Minho remains silent, waiting.

The other critic, a woman with neatly tied-back hair, tilts her head as she adds, “You used high-quality meat. That much is obvious. But it lacked a clean, light taste. Even when it’s barely cooked—still dripping with blood—the best kind of steak should have that purity in flavor.”

The first critic nods along, placing his utensils down with a soft clink. “A few years ago, this dish at Farfalle was excellent. But now… it’s falling behind.” His expression remains neutral, but his words carry weight. “We can’t give high marks to a kitchen that doesn’t keep up with the times.”

Minho takes it all in, keeping his expression unreadable. He isn’t foolish enough to dismiss their critiques outright. They have a point. But he also knows when someone is testing him.

He pauses for a moment before responding. “Eating rare meat—something even the most seasoned chefs in Italy shy away from—and having such a discerning palate for the flavor of an almost-raw steak…” His lips curl into the faintest of smirks. “I’ll take it as belligerence.”

There’s a beat of silence, then— The first critic lets out a low chuckle, nodding in approval. “You're good.”

The woman beside him smirks, impressed but not entirely won over.

Minho meets their gaze, his smirk never wavering. “A true professional should be able to solve that issue as well.”

The critics exchange glances before the man leans forward slightly. “We know Chef Choi Sara used to be a co-chef here.”

Minho’s smirk barely falters, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture. There it is. He doesn’t look away, keeping his voice even as he asks, “And what does that have to do with Farfalle’s star rating?”

The woman tilts her head, considering him before answering simply, “Can we trust the dishes from this kitchen now?”

Minho knew this was coming. He knew this was the real test. And this—this is what he’s feared the most. People losing trust in his kitchen.

-

Minho sits at his desk, fingers drumming idly against the wood as he waits for the team to gather. One by one, they filter into his office, standing in a semi-circle, some looking confused, others tense. He can tell they’re wondering why they’ve been called in. Good. He prefers getting straight to the point.

Seungwan is the first to speak up. “Chef, why did you call us?”

Minho shifts his gaze to Seojun. “It’s about you, Sous-chef.”

Seojun blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”

Minho crosses his arms, his tone cool and precise. “I’m talking about the steak that went out earlier—rare.” His eyes sharpen. “There was a hint of odor from the fat that I didn’t taste when the meat was cooked medium or well done.”

Seojun tenses at that, his lips pressing into a thin line before he retorts, “Isn’t that exactly why they eat it rare? If they don’t like it, they should order it well done.” He pauses, his expression growing more defensive. “Wait—was this what the food critics told you?”

Before Minho can answer, Hyunwoo interjects, his voice rising in panic. “Did they lower our stars?”

Minho flicks his gaze to him, unimpressed. “Why are you talking about stars when I’m talking about the steak?”

Seojun huffs, clearly frustrated. “But why do they eat it rare? Because they can’t find a problem when it’s cooked medium or well done?” His jaw tightens. “I only hear this as them nitpicking.”

Minho exhales, calm but unwavering. “So you’re not grateful for them pointing out a flaw in your dish?”

Seojun stiffens at that.

Minho continues, voice even. “If we eliminate that odor—if we make the rare steak taste cleaner—then it’s only going to get better when it’s cooked medium or well done.”

But Seojun isn’t backing down. “Perfect taste, best taste—that’s all in the heads of critics.” He exhales sharply, frustration evident. “Why do we have to play along with these people?”

Minho smirks, tilting his head. “We can play along. And if we find a better way, we’ll benefit from it.” His voice is casual, but his eyes gleam with intent. “So let’s play along.”

Hyunwoo hesitates before asking, “Does that mean… you’re going to change the filet mignon recipe?”

Minho shakes his head. “No.”

As if on cue, Taesoo steps forward, handing over a cut of wrapped meat. Minho takes it, holding it up for everyone to see.

“This,” he says, “is meat tightly wrapped in cloth and plastic wrap. By compressing it like this, the blood is squeezed into the corners of the wrap.”

Seojun folds his arms, unimpressed. “That kind of odor can be taken care of with a sauce.”

Minho shakes his head. “That’s like covering up an unwashed, greasy face with makeup.” He lets the words hang in the air before adding, “The best steak doesn’t come from the sauce. It comes from the meat itself.”

Silence lingers—until you raise your hand.

Minho nods at you. “Go ahead.”

You glance at the wrapped meat. “What about the steak losing its juiciness?”

Minho picks up another cut of meat and turns it slightly in his hand. “That’s why we’ll tie it with strings.” He demonstrates, then continues, “We’re also not putting it directly on the grill anymore. First, we sear it on a pan. Then, we finish it in the oven.”

You tilt your head. “So it’s cooked twice?”

Seungwan’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re telling us to start doing all of this during a busy service?”

Minho glances at the team, watching their reactions carefully before announcing, “I want everyone to stay after work and start wrapping the filet like I showed.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. “That’s your homework.”

A collective groan ripples through the group. Taesoo mutters something under his breath.

Before anyone can complain further, Minho points at you and Taesoo. “The two of you are excluded.”

Taesoo triumphantly grin but you raise your hand to offer yourself. “I can help—”

Minho interrupts smoothly, “This requires strong pressure on the meat. But if you want to help, be my guest.”

Hyunwoo’s face contorts in frustration. “Why do we have to do all this?”

Minho meets his gaze, unreadable. “Because you’re in charge of the filet mignon course.”

But there’s another reason—one Minho keeps to himself.

-

Minho stands at the coffee station, cradling the warm ceramic cup in his hand, relishing the quiet moment before the chaos of the kitchen pulls him back in. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills his senses as he takes a slow, deliberate sip. Then his phone rings.

He exhales sharply, already suspecting who it is. When he checks the caller ID, his irritation is confirmed—an unknown number. He answers with a clipped "Hello?"

"Chef Lee Minho, this is Reporter Shin from The Daily—"

Minho doesn’t even let the man finish. The moment he hears reporter, he hangs up. He knows exactly what they want. They want his thoughts on Sara’s public confession, on the scandal, on him.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, but before he can even enjoy his coffee, it rings again—same number. Minho ignores it.

His fingers tighten slightly around the cup as he brings it back to his lips, focusing on the warmth, the taste, anything but the persistent buzzing in his pocket.

Across from him, Felix watches, his eyes lingering for a little too long. Minho doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but he knows Felix isn’t the type to keep his thoughts to himself.

Sure enough, Felix finally speaks. “Why don’t you just meet with the reporters and tell them the truth?” His voice is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Tell them how she screwed you over—how you lost so many opportunities because of her.”

Minho takes another slow sip before setting his cup down, then levels a sharp glare at Felix. “If you ever blab about this to the press, I’m going to kill you.” His voice is even, controlled, but the weight behind his words is unmistakable.

Felix falters, but only for a split second before he recovers with a grin. “I just want to make sure you get the honor and recognition you deserve.”

Minho studies him, narrowing his eyes slightly. He doesn’t expect Felix to hold more of a grudge against Sara than he does.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to something lower, almost amused, but laced with warning. “You’d better stop before I fill your mouth with fillings and steam you in the oven like dumplings. Got it?”

Felix’s grin wavers, replaced by a wary smile. “Okay, okay—message received.”

Minho doesn’t linger. He gets off the stool, intending to head back into the kitchen, but his phone rings again. He nearly ignores it until a notification pops up on his screen.

A text. From Sara. Minho hesitates before unlocking his phone.

“I can finally breathe now. I loved you, Lee Minho. I lost, Lee Minho.”

Minho stops walking. He rereads the message, his grip on the phone tightening. Lost? That sounds like a goodbye. Like she’s accepting defeat.

That’s not the Sara he knows. The Sara he knew for years wouldn’t just—give in like this. Something unsettles in his chest, a frustration, an unease. This doesn’t feel like a win. Without a second thought, his fingers move over the keyboard, typing out a reply.

“What do you mean you lost? The real match begins now. Don't run away. Let's start over. Come back.”

Minho stares at the screen, his message hanging there, waiting, as if his words alone could pull Sara back. But deep down, he knows it’s not that simple.

She should have just accepted the truth and moved on—quietly, without dragging this mess into the public eye. Without making a spectacle out of it. What good did it do, confessing everything like that? It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t undo the damage.

Minho exhales sharply, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket. If she thought this was over, she was wrong. Because this didn’t feel like a win.

-

Minho ordered the entrée line to gather in the kitchen after work, and now here you are, taking out slabs of meat from the freezer and setting them on the counter. The cold seeps through your fingertips, but what’s worse is the glares Hyunwoo and Seungwan are shooting your way.

You grab another piece of meat, and that’s when Hyunwoo scoffs. "Did Chef tell you to keep an eye on us?"

The accusation comes out sharp, like he’s already convinced of the answer. You frown and mutter, "You're impossible."

Seungwan clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Chef acts so righteous all the time, but I guess he’s just another snob obsessed with the star rating."

You don’t take the bait. "Let’s just get this over with. The longer we stand here arguing, the longer this is going to take."

Hyunwoo groans, throwing his hands up. "Do we really have time for this? Everyone else is busy working on new dishes, but no—we’re here, squeezing blood out of perfectly fine meat."

He exhales sharply, muttering under his breath. "We better win first place at the New Chef Culinary Challenge, or—"

Seungwan slaps a hand over Hyunwoo’s mouth. They freeze. Seungwan’s jaw tightens, and Hyunwoo looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

But it’s too late. You already know. You cross your arms. "So you guys are preparing for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Silence. Then—

"Uh—no? I mean, yeah? Wait, no—" Hyunwoo stammers.

You turn to Seojun. Unlike the others, he doesn’t look surprised—just resigned. "Is it true, Sous-chef?"

His lips press into a thin line before he sighs. "Yeah. But since you've already been keeping it a secret, just keep pretending you haven't heard anything."

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. "You know you can't keep this from Chef forever. You're representing the restaurant. He should know."

Seojun exhales through his nose. "I just need you to keep quiet."

You take a step forward. "Why not just ask him?"

His expression hardens. "The Chef? We’d be grateful if he didn’t get in our way."

They don’t understand Minho like you do. "He wouldn't. You guys are wrong about him."

Hyunwoo lets out an exaggerated scoff. "Oh yeah? He thinks we’re wrong too. Apparently, even after all these years, Sous-chef doesn’t know how to grill meat."

You stare at them, pulse thrumming. "Then let me ask him for you."

"Hey! No way." Hyunwoo is quick to shut it down.

"Don’t even think about it," Seungwan adds, crossing his arms.

You look back at Seojun, hoping he’ll be reasonable, but his gaze is sharp as he says, "You should know when to stay out of things. This is not as simple as you think. Please do us a favor. Keep quiet."

Your jaw tightens, but you know when to step back. "Yes, Sous-chef."

Seojun nods, then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan. "Put the meat back in the freezer."

Your stomach churns. "Wait—shouldn’t we still do what Chef ordered?"

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "I’ll take care of it. Just go home."

Before you can protest, Seungwan grabs your arm and pulls you out of the kitchen. He only lets go once you’re outside, turning to you with a finger pressed against his lips—an unspoken command to stay silent. Then, without another word, he disappears back inside.

You exhale, rubbing a hand down your face. This isn’t right. Minho is going to find out eventually. And when he does—

"Hey, why are you standing there?"

Your heart jumps. You turn around to find Minho standing there, already changed, backpack slung over one arm. His gaze flickers to the kitchen door behind you, then back to your face. Did he hear anything?

He raises an eyebrow. "Let’s go home."

For a second, you hesitate as the weight of secret tugging at your chest. But then, without a word, you fall into step beside him.

The car ride home is quiet. You keep your mouth shut, afraid that if you say too much, Minho will find out the truth—that the entrée line isn’t doing what he asked. That they’ve been using the kitchen to prepare for the New Chef Culinary Challenge instead.

You shift in your seat, staring out of the window. The streetlights blur past, casting fleeting shadows inside the car. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine—until Minho’s phone vibrates against the center console.

You glance at the screen out of reflex. No name. Just numbers. It rings once. Twice. Then stops. You ignore it at first, but curiosity gets the better of you. "Why aren’t you answering the calls, Chef?"

Minho keeps his eyes on the road. "Reporters have been calling all day."

You nod, looking away again. Silence lingers between you both, heavy and unspoken, until you can’t hold back anymore.

You turn toward him. "Chef, I know the meat is important, but you have to respect other chefs’ methods too."

Minho doesn’t react so you press on. "You can tell me what to do all you want, because I like you and I know you're trying to help, but—"

"That’s enough." Minho cuts you off, voice firm. He knows exactly where you’re going with this.

But you refuse to stop now. "They’ve been working for years, Chef. They’re experienced. You can’t treat them like they don’t know the basics."

One hand on the wheel, he answers easily, "They don’t know the basics."

You exhale, gripping your hands together. "They just want to improve and do better. That’s why they’re doing New—"

You freeze and feel like slapping your mouth for almost spoiling the secret.

Minho’s eyes flick toward you, sharp and narrow. "New what?"

You shake your head. "Nothing."

He doesn’t push, but you can feel his gaze linger before he focuses back on the road. You let out a quiet breath of relief, choosing your next words carefully.

With utmost caution, you sweetly ask, "Can you at least show them half the affection you show me?"

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. "No."

You blink. "What—why?"

"Why should I share my affection for you with those guys who don’t even listen to me?" He glances at you. "My affection is too valuable. I don’t want to share it."

When the two of you enter the elevator, he reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours with ease. But before you can enjoy the warmth, your phone rings inside your bag.

With a sigh, you pull away and rummage through your things. Dad. You pick up. "Hello?"

Your dad skips the small talk. "Are you done with work?"

"Yes."

"How many times did the chef say 'do it again' today?" he asks. "Did the number go down?"

You sigh. "Actually, it’s been going up."

Instead of comforting you, he scolds you. "You should be doing a better job. Imagine what it’d be like for him if you keep messing up while dating in that kitchen."

Betrayal stings at your chest. You grumble, "Whose side are you on, dad?"

Your dad ignores the question entirely. "When are you going to bring him over?"

Annoyed, you snap, "I don’t know." Then, without waiting for a response, you hang up and shove your phone back into your bag.

Minho smirks. "So, your dad is taking my side, huh?"

Then—he laughs, a devilish little sound that only annoys you more.

You groan, leaning against the cold metal wall. "All the men in my life are so annoying."

Minho’s smirk grows—until you add, "Except Chris."

The smirk instantly vanishes, he shot you an icy glare. "What did you just say?"

Before you can answer, the elevator dings open. You step out and stop to look over your shoulder as you call back, "I said you’re annoying."

And with that, you turn toward your apartment, leaving him behind.

-

The first thing Minho does when he steps into the kitchen is check the meat. He doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t look anywhere else. He walks straight to the freezer, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow.

The moment Minho opens the freezer, his jaw tightens. The meat looks exactly the same as it did yesterday.

They didn’t do a single damn thing. Minho mutters under his breath, voice sharp with irritation. "So they made sauces instead of doing what I told them to do."

He slams the container shut. Crosses his arms. Exhales harshly through his nose. "I told them to tie it up," he bites out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. "They didn’t even do that either."

Taesoo opens his mouth, maybe to explain or make excuses, but Minho doesn’t let him. "Not a single thing I told them to do. Not one."

The anger simmers, but he keeps it under control. He turns to Taesoo, ready to unleash hell—but then he remembers. He told Taesoo not to do it.

At the start of lunch service, Minho stalks to the chef’s table and raises his voice. "Since we're not prepared, we’re not taking any steak orders today."

Murmurs ripple through the kitchen. Some chefs glance at each other, others stiffen, but Minho doesn’t give a damn. His eyes land on Seojun’s station, where containers of sauce sit lined up neatly. He points at them. "Stop wasting your time on useless things and just do as I tell you."

Seojun bristles but Minho’s gaze stays locked on him. "Did you put gold in that sauces? Hm? Why are you so obsessed with them?"

Seojun doesn’t answer. Instead, he glares. "Why don’t you stop picking on us?"

Before Minho can respond, Felix cuts in. "Why do you think he’s just picking on you, Sous-chef? Aren’t we supposed to follow the chef’s orders no matter what?"

Seojun ignores Felix, his anger still focused on Minho. His jaw clenches, eyes burning with frustration. "If your goal was to insult me, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Do whatever you want, Chef. Take filet mignon off the menu if you want—it’s your kitchen, your rules."

Minho scoffs, stepping closer. "Do whatever I want?" He tilts his head. "So if I wanted to pull you guys out of the New Chef Culinary Challenge, I could? Or keep you in? Since, you know, I can do whatever I want?"

Silence. The entrée line stiffens. Their faces betray pure shock—like they never expected him to know. Their heads immediately turn to you. Their eyes accusing.

You shake your head fast, hands raised in defense. "I didn’t say anything, I swear."

Minho lets the tension settle, then continues, voice cold. "You can’t even follow your own chef’s orders. What makes you think you can satisfy the judges?"

His lips curl into a smirk. "You didn’t even bother preparing the meat. If you can’t do that, how the hell am I supposed to believe you can cook a decent steak?"

Silence again. Minho watches them squirm before delivering the final blow. "I know you’ve been practicing for the competition behind my back. But whether you enter or not, one thing’s for sure—you’re going to humiliate Farfalle."

Minho can’t take their defiance anymore and that’s when he makes his decision. He lifts his head, sweeping his gaze over the entire kitchen. His deep brown eyes hold authority, intensity, and absolute control.

"From now on, no one is allowed in this kitchen after business hours. The doors will be locked."

The words drop like a hammer. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but before anyone can protest, the first order comes through the machine. The ticket prints out with a sharp, mechanical beep, cutting through the heavy silence.

Minho grabs it. Starts calling out the order when—

"How could you do this to us?" Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air like a crack of thunder.

Minho watches as Hyunwoo turns to you, his expression full of betrayal. He expects them to think that he knew about it from you just because the two of you are dating.

You shake your head, voice firm. "I didn’t tell him anything. I never told Chef."

Felix frowns, arms crossed. "I knew something was weird about you guys lately." He looks at Hyunwoo. "How long were you gonna keep this a secret? You didn't even tell your own Chef."

Hyunwoo’s fists clench. "Stay out of our business."

Felix doesn’t back down. "How is this just your business?" He looks at the entire entrée line. "If you're competing under Farfalle’s name, doesn’t this involve everyone?"

No one answers and then Felix shakes his head, disbelief in his eyes. "How could you keep this from us?"

Seungwan snaps. His body tenses, ready to lunge at Felix, but before he can move, Minho’s voice slices through the chaos. "ENOUGH!"

Everything stops and Minho glares at them all. "I’m going to read them again and if any of you cannot hear our customers orders, then you should leave this kitchen right now."

He reads the orders loud and clear. The weight of his words presses down on everyone. "Table number 8. One Sicilian eggplant dish, one vongole, one basil pesto."

When he finishes, no one answers. His patience snaps.

"Are you all deaf?" His voice rises, sharp and commanding. "Are you not going to answer me?"

Reluctantly, the kitchen echoes back. "Yes, Chef."

Minho exhales, shaking his head. He knew the entrée line was stubborn, but this? This is worse than he expected. They’re not just disobedient. They’re reckless. And Minho hates reckless chefs.

-

You finish your lunch quickly, not bothering to linger like the others in the dining hall. Minho isn’t here. In fact, you haven’t seen him since lunch service ended.

Something tells you to check his office first, but when you peek inside, the chair is empty. The tension from earlier still lingers in your mind, making you restless as you continue your search. The rooftop is your next stop, and when you push open the door, you sigh in relief at the sight of him. He stands by the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed on the city bathed in the warm afternoon sun.

You approach quietly, coming to a stop beside him. The breeze is soft against your skin, carrying the faint scents of the restaurant below. You lean against the concrete railing, mirroring his posture as you let the silence settle between you.

After a while, he turns his head slightly. His eyes meet yours, and you offer him a small, knowing smile.

“Have you had lunch yet, Chef?” you ask.

Instead of answering, Minho exhales a slow, heavy sigh and looks ahead again.

Curious, you tilt your head. “How did you know about the entrée line entering the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

“I just found out by chance,” he says simply, as if it isn’t a big deal.

You study his face for a moment. “Then why did you give them such a hard time if you already knew?”

Minho turns toward you again, this time lifting his fingers in a familiar motion, gesturing for you to come closer. “Come here.”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

He quirks an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “I won’t flick you.”

You don’t believe him. Your weight shifts back slightly as you take a small step away. “Then why do I have to come closer?” you ask, wary.

Minho doesn’t wait for your compliance. In one smooth movement, he closes the distance himself, looping an arm around you to keep you from slipping away. His head presses gently against yours, his warmth sinking into you as his voice drops to a quiet reprimand.

“How could you just stand there and say nothing while they were all ganging up on me?” he murmurs.

You blink. “Chef—”

“Now that you’re in the entrée line, have you decided to team up with them?” His voice is smooth, but his grip tightens ever so slightly. His eyes are mere inches away, sharp and searching, holding you captive beneath his gaze. “Am I not your priority anymore? Is that it?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. Overwhelmed, you answer in a small voice, “I only did that because I care about you.” You swallow, willing yourself to meet his gaze. “It wouldn’t have looked good if I took your side.”

Minho pulls away, exhaling in frustration. “You never admit when you’re wrong,” he mutters, shaking his head. His arm falls from around you as he turns back to the view.

For a second, you hesitate. Then you inch closer, determined to get back on his good side. You reach out, gently patting his shoulder.

“I trust you, Chef,” you tell him softly but full of conviction.

You pat his shoulder again—harder this time. “Posso farcela!” you exclaim.

A chuckle escapes him, low and amused. Those are the very words he used to encourage you once. Catching you off guard, he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. His voice is quiet, but firm as he repeats the words back to you, his accent crisp—“Posso farcela.” Then, with a teasing smirk, he corrects, “That’s how you say it.”

You giggle as he pulls away, but your hand lingers on his back. Slowly, you rub gentle circles against it. “Cheer up, Chef,” you murmur, knowing he needs to hear it.

Minho smiles, softer this time, before repeating the words once more—“Posso farcela.”

But you know that, right now, he’s the one who needs to believe it.

-

You’ve just finished changing, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you step toward the door. Just as you’re about to exit the locker room, the door swings open with force.

Sous-chef Seojun barges in, his face tight with panic. Hyunwoo and Seungwan follow closely behind, looking equally unsettled.

“Where’s Chef right now?” Seojun demands, slightly out of breath.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “He left earlier. Why?”

Seojun presses a frustrated hand to his forehead. “He locked the doors to the kitchen. We can’t get in to practice for the contest.”

You stare at him, momentarily at a loss. He actually did it. When Minho said he would, you thought it was just another one of his threats—nothing serious. But he wasn’t bluffing.

Your hand instinctively moves to your bag. “I’ll call him.” You hurry to take out your phone, already dialing.

But Seojun stops you. “Don’t bother,” he says sharply. “If he was going to change his mind over a phone call, he wouldn’t have locked the doors in the first place.”

Hyunwoo exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Then what do we do, Sous-chef?” he asks, voice laced with frustration.

Ignoring Seojun’s protest, you press the call button anyway. You start pacing back and forth in the dimly lit hallway of the empty dining hall, fingers tightening around your phone as the dial tone rings in your ear.

After a few rings, Minho picks up. He doesn’t waste time on greetings. “What?”

You don’t bother with formalities either. “Chef, please unlock the kitchen doors. Everyone’s here right now.”

“I told them I would lock the doors.” His voice is calm, unaffected.

You grit your teeth. “Are you really going to stop them from competing?” You press the phone harder against your ear. “This could be a chance to bring peace to the kitchen. It’s good for them, and it’s good for you. Isn't that what you want?”

You let out a slow, frustrated sigh before continuing. “But I don’t understand why you’re doing the opposite.”

Minho exhales, and you can hear the edge in his voice when he finally speaks. “Do you really think they’ll suddenly welcome me with open arms if I offer to help them now?”

You scoff, disbelief bubbling to the surface. “How can you only try to get in your own way?”

Silence stretches between you both. Your heart pounds. You try one last time. “Please, Chef. Just unlock the doors. The kitchen isn’t only for you.”

Flatly, he rejects you. “No.”

Anger flares inside you. Your grip tightens on your phone. “Fine,” you snap. “Then at least give them the key. I won’t ask for your help anymore.”

Silence.

You plead again. “If you're not really trying to interfere, just let them practice here.”

A pause. Then, Minho exhales sharply. “I’m hanging up.”

And then, nothing. The line goes dead.

You lower your phone, chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady yourself before turning around.

They’re all standing there—Seojun, Hyunwoo, Seungwan. Their expressions are tight with expectation, waiting for you to deliver an answer.

When you don’t say anything right away, their hope falters. You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sous-chef, I’m sorry.”

-

Minho exhales sharply, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat after ending the call. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, his gaze flicking downward. The kitchen keys sit inside the center console, glinting under the soft glow of the streetlights outside. His jaw tightens.

Is this really the right thing to do?

Keeping the kitchen to himself—locking them all out—does it actually make things better? Or is he just being stubborn?

He grips the keys, turning them over in his palm, his mind tangled in the same frustrating debate.

Then, his phone rings again. He doesn’t even check the screen. He already knows it’s you, calling to argue with him, to insist that he stop being difficult and return to the restaurant.

With a sigh, he pulls over to the side of the road before answering. “Yes, I’m coming back,” he snaps into the phone. “I’ll unlock the damn—”

A voice he doesn’t recognize cuts him off. “Hello, is this Chef Lee Minho?”

Minho’s expression hardens. He lowers his voice. “Who is this?”

“This is Reporter Shin. We spoke briefly the other day.” A pause. “I’m calling because Sara is here with me. I’d like to interview both of you for the article.”

Minho stares ahead, grip tightening on the keys. The restaurant will have to wait. He turns the car around, heading straight for the café at the address the reporter sends him.

The moment he steps inside, his eyes find Sara.

She’s slumped in her seat, hands clasped together on the table, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere but here. Across from her sits a man in his late thirties, dressed sharply, a notebook and recorder set neatly in front of him.

Minho strides toward the table. “Chef Lee Minho,” he introduces himself flatly.

The reporter stands, offering a polite smile and extending a business card. “Thank you for coming, Chef Lee. I appreciate your time.”

Minho takes the card without looking at it and slides into the seat beside Sara. He feels her eyes on him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“I wanted to write this article after hearing both sides of the story,” the reporter begins. “It’s quite unusual, don’t you think? After everything that happened, you and Chef Sara still chose to work together in the same kitchen.”

Minho glances at Sara, who offers him a small, defeated smile. He looks back at the reporter. “Yes, everything written in the article is true,” he says evenly. “Sara did put my wine in boiling water. I did lose the contest because of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sara sink further into her seat. “However,” Minho continues, turning his gaze back to the reporter, “what your article left out is the most important fact—”

He leans forward slightly. “I was going to lose that contest anyway.”

The reporter blinks. “What?”

“Wine or no wine,” Minho states plainly, “Sara’s dish was better than mine that day.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Sara’s head snaps toward him, her eyes wide and glossy.

Minho doesn’t waver. “The only mistake she made was that she didn’t believe in herself. But what’s even clearer is that she regretted what she did. She worked harder than anyone to prove herself. And now?” He exhales. “Now, she’s an even better chef than before.”

Sara presses her lips together, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Minho shifts his gaze back to the reporter, his voice sharp. “What upsets me is that because of this, an excellent chef might not be able to cook again.” He meets the reporter’s eyes.

The reporter hesitates but then straightens in his seat. “That’s beside the point,” he says. “Chef Sara’s misconduct is evident—”

“I have forgiven her.” Minho cuts him off, his voice firm. “And I stand by what I said. She was an excellent chef then, and she’s an excellent chef now.”

The reporter remains silent but Minho pushes back his chair, rising to his feet. He looks at the man one last time. “That’s my confession.” His voice is quieter now, but no less resolute. “What more do you need?”

The reporter doesn’t answer so Minho turns to Sara. “Are we done here?”

Sara blinks rapidly, as if snapping herself out of a daze. She nods.

Minho extends a hand. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, Sara just stares at it. Then, she smiles—a real one this time—and takes his hand.

-

You pace near the entrance of the restaurant, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Every few steps, you glance toward the street, expecting—hoping—to see Minho approaching with the kitchen keys in his hand. But no. He’s been keeping you on edge for nearly three hours now, feeding you nothing but false hope.

Behind you, Seojun sighs loudly, his impatience mirrored by Hyunwoo and Seungwan, who have been shifting their weight from one foot to the other for the past hour.

Seojun exhales sharply. “Are you sure Chef said he’d bring the keys?”

You hesitate. Truthfully, you’re not sure. Minho never actually promised, but you want to believe he’ll come through. You want him to prove you wrong, just this once.

“Can you wait a little longer, Sous-chef?” you plead, looking at Seojun desperately.

But Hyunwoo finally snaps. “A little longer?” he scoffs. “What time is it now? Chef could’ve gone to his house and come back twelve times already!”

That’s it. They’re done waiting. Without another word, Seojun turns on his heel, leading the other two toward the parking lot. Hyunwoo mutters under his breath as he picks up the bag of ingredients they brought, grumbling, “I swear, Lee Minho must’ve been my sworn enemy in a past life.”

Panic surges through you. You step forward, ready to stop them, to say something—

But Seungwan spins around, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “This is all because of you.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You told Chef about the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

“No! I told you so many times,” You shake your head quickly, your voice rising with frustration. “I didn’t tell him anything!”

Seungwan doesn’t look convinced, but before you can argue further, Seojun turns to face you. There’s no anger in his expression—just quiet disappointment.

“Do we look that pathetic to you too?” he asks, his eyes sad and defeated.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Seojun shakes his head and gets into the car. You watch as they drive away, their frustration, their disappointment, all of it sinking into your chest like dead weight.

-

Instead of going home, you take a detour to the bar, sinking onto a stool with a weary sigh. The dim lighting and quiet hum of conversation offer a moment of escape, and you find yourself nursing a glass of alcohol, letting the bitterness settle on your tongue.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Minho.

Where are you?

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you stare at the screen. You don’t bother replying, choosing instead to grumble at your phone, “None of your business.”

Another buzz. Another text.

I’m sorry.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh and mutter, “Whatever,” before taking another sip of your drink.

Then, another message pops up.

Look at the moon.

You huff at the absurdity of it—you're inside a bar. But curiosity wins, and you turn your head toward the window, eyes landing on the bright, glowing moon outside.

Before you can react, a warm presence settles beside you, and then—soft lips press against your cheek.

Your breath catches as you turn to find Minho grinning at you, his expression smug. You purse your lips, looking away with a pout, pretending his sudden appearance doesn’t affect you.

Minho slides onto the stool next to yours, resting his arm on the counter. “I can see the tower of complaints from a mile away,” he teases.

You take another sip of your drink, the warmth of alcohol making your words bolder. “What did they do that was so terrible, Chef?” you blurt out, the frustration you’ve been holding back spilling over.

Minho raises an eyebrow.

“The sous-chef, the cooks—they’re working hard every day to get better, isn’t that a good thing?” You lean in slightly. “Why do you think they had to hide it from you? Why couldn’t they just ask you to be their manager chef?”

Minho exhales sharply, reaching for your glass. He takes it from you and lifts it to his lips. “Are you their spokeswoman now?” he scoffs before taking a sip, his face twisting at the bitter aftertaste.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “But if you weren’t the Chef, I’d be standing right beside them, feeling the same frustration.”

You meet his gaze, voice softening. “They’ve never been to Italy, never studied at a prestigious culinary school. And maybe you think that doesn’t matter, but it does—to them.” You pause, searching his face. “They don’t have the privileges you and I do, Chef. It’s discouraging.”

Minho stays quiet, his fingers resting against the glass. You take a breath and try again. “Chef...”

He looks at you, eyes guarded. “What?”

You hold his gaze. “Don’t lock up your feelings like you locked up the kitchen doors.” You lean in just a little closer, your voice gentle yet firm. “Can you open up your heart to them like you did to me?”

Minho studies you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose. “Fine,” he mutters, nudging your glass toward the bartender for a refill. “You can stop with the nagging now.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. You lean in further, eyes gleaming. “Do you really mean it?”

Minho sighs, but there’s a suppressed smile at the corners of his lips. “Yes.”

You watch as he gestures to the bartender before muttering, almost menacingly, “The entrée line is dead meat now that I’m going to be their manager chef.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Thank you, Chef.”

He turns to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you thanking me?”

You don’t answer—just smile. But then, out of nowhere, Minho frowns slightly. “But what if... What if they don’t want me to be their manager chef?”

You wave off his concern. “There’s no way.”

Still, he continues, almost pouting now. “It would’ve been better if they asked me first.” His voice lowers. “What if I offer, and they turn me down? I’ll die of humiliation.”

You blink, momentarily surprised. Even Minho has his insecurities and the thought endears you. You chuckle. “That will never happen.”

Minho leans in, tilting his head. “How can you be so sure?”

You smirk. “Because you’re Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scoffs, mumbling, “You never know.”

“But you’re the best chef in the world,” you say simply.

He bursts out laughing, a delighted, almost bashful laugh that makes your heart swell. You notice the tips of his ears turning red, and it only makes your smile grow.

Propping your chin on your hand, you let out a dramatic sigh. “This isn’t good.”

Minho raises a brow. “What now?”

“I wanted you all to myself,” you pout.

Minho nearly chokes on his drink but manages to swallow before laughing again, shaking his head in disbelief.

You keep your eyes on him, the warmth in your chest turning into something softer.

Then, Minho leans in close, his voice low, teasing yet sincere. “Take me then,” he murmurs. “Take all of me. I’m yours anyway.”

There’s something different about him tonight—not just in the way he’s humoring you, but in the way he’s actually listening. You’ve seen it happening, little by little.

At first, Minho was nothing but sharp edges and closed doors. He ruled the kitchen like an untouchable king, and anyone who didn’t meet his impossible standards was cast aside without a second thought. But lately—lately, he’s been changing.

And now, here he is, actually considering what you’ve said instead of brushing it off with another snide remark. Your chest swells with something warm. Pride.

Without thinking, you grab the front of his jacket, pulling him in. Minho barely has time to react before you press your lips to his, the kiss stealing the last of the space between you.

For a second, he’s stunned—but then he melts into it, kissing you back. When you pull away, you look into his eyes and whisper with all of your heart, “Thank you.”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something unspoken. He doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you as if trying to decipher whether you really mean it. And then, he smiles.

-

Minho feels lighter than he has in a long time as he steps out of the elevator, your hand still warm in his. He glances at you, and that same sweet smile lingers on your lips. It makes his fingers tighten around yours instinctively, an urge blooming in his chest—he wants to kiss that smile, claim it, keep it for himself forever. But then, you stop.

Minho halts beside you, following your gaze, and that light feeling instantly dissipates the moment he sees him. Chris.

Your hand slips from his grasp so quickly it almost stings. You step forward, greeting Chris with the same warmth you always have, and Minho clenches his jaw when Chris smiles back at you, his voice gentle as he notes, "You're home quite late."

Minho rolls his eyes. Why does he care what time you get home?

He doesn’t let the moment stretch, stepping into the interaction with a sneer. “You’re obviously not here to see me.”

To Minho’s surprise, Chris doesn’t immediately brush him off. Instead, he looks at him directly and says, “Actually, I am here to see you.”

Minho glances at you, confused, but you only nod, taking this as your cue to leave. You excuse yourself, voice softer now, telling them both goodnight before retreating into your apartment.

Minho watches the door close behind you before unlocking his own and pushing it open. “Well?” he says, keeping it ajar for Chris.

Chris steps inside, following Minho into the dining room. Minho gestures for him to sit before heading to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses. When he returns, Chris is already watching him, his expression unreadable.

“I heard everything from Sara,” Chris begins, voice steady. “Thank you.”

Minho sets a glass in front of him, pouring the wine smoothly. He doesn’t sit down just yet. “I don’t think that’s something for you to be thankful for.”

Chris swirls his glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “Whether you and Sara were in love or not, she’s someone important to me and is a good friend.”

Minho finally takes his seat, pouring himself a drink. “I didn’t do it to get thanks from you,” he mutters. “But how did you and Sara even become friends?”

Chris smiles faintly. “Thanks to you.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris leans back, fingers resting on his glass. “She told me that if you ever came back, she wouldn’t be able to love anyone else. That she still had feelings for you.”

Minho exhales sharply, gripping the stem of his glass.

Chris doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. “Now that she’s hit rock bottom, will you help her get back up?”

Minho’s eyes narrow. “How about you? I thought you were her friend.”

Chris shrugs, a hint of coyness in his expression. “You’d probably be more of a help to her than I would.”

Minho scoffs. “She should get back up on her own from now on.”

For a moment, silence lingers between them, only the faint sound of Chris tapping his fingers against his glass filling the air. But Minho has his own questions—one he’s been meaning to ask for a while.

He takes a sip of his wine before speaking. “I don’t get it.” His voice is casual, but his gaze is sharp. “Why didn’t you tell your feelings for her before I came? Why did you keep it a secret for three years?”

Chris looks caught off guard for a split second, probably not expecting that Minho would ask about you.

Minho smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a step behind me,” he taunts. “It’s too late.”

Chris only grins, and something about his calmness is inexplicably annoying. “I’m not a step behind you,” he says smoothly. “No one knows until the goal gets in.”

Minho tilts his head, lifting his glass in the air as he muses, “If Sara is your friend, then what does that make her?” His eyes narrow slightly. “What is she to you?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t waver. “She’s my chef,” he says, voice steady. “A chef that I love.”

Minho bursts into laughter, the sheer audacity of it catching him off guard. He’s not sure if he should admire Chris for his boldness or pity him for his foolishness.

But as his laughter dies down, Chris’s expression doesn’t change. He remains calm, unwavering, as if he’s already decided—no matter what Minho says, no matter what happens, he’s not backing down. And that’s when it hits Minho.

Chris isn't just saying this to provoke him. He means it.

Minho grips his glass a little tighter. The realization settles uncomfortably in his chest—Chris isn’t planning to stop.

For the first time tonight, Minho feels something unexpected creep in. He should be worried.

-

You're about to step into your room when Sara’s door creaks open. She stands in the hallway, looking at you with an unreadable expression before casually asking how you’ve been—when it should be you asking her that question.

The two of you end up sitting in the living room, cups of tea in hand. Sara lets out a small, content sigh before she speaks. “It’s only been a couple of days, but this place feels so unfamiliar.”

You smile and tell her that everything is the same.

Sara returns the smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The place is the same,” she murmurs, “but maybe it’s because I came back a different person.”

She sets her cup down on the table, then looks at you directly. “Are you disappointed in me?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you tell her the truth. “I was worried about you.”

Something in Sara’s expression shifts, as if she wasn’t expecting that response.

“I admire you,” you continue earnestly. “I knew who you were and looked up to you long before you moved in. That’s why it felt like we’d been friends for years.”

Sara blinks in surprise, and then, to your relief, she looks happy—elated, even.

You go on. “All the female chefs dream of becoming like you. Even back in culinary school, we all did.” You lean in slightly, studying her face. “You’re going to shake this off and get back on your feet again, right? Like you always do?”

Sara hesitates. “I don’t know…” she admits. “Would I be able to do that?”

You shake your head immediately, refusing to accept that. “What do you mean you don't know. You’re Chef Choi Sara.”

Sara lets out a small laugh at that, but there’s something thoughtful in her gaze. Then, her expression turns serious. “I should’ve come forward and admitted my mistakes first. But I think… I changed the order around for my own convenience.” She sighs. “I guess I thought people would forgive me and understand my wrongdoing if I made a fresh start.”

She looks at you again, hesitation flickering across her face before she says, “Minho couldn’t come to you or the cooks because he was helping me.”

Your lips part slightly, surprised.

“He came to speak to the reporter I was with,” Sara explains. Then, as if recalling the moment in her mind, she smiles to herself. “I knew right then that Minho wasn’t the same Minho I used to know.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean?”

Sara looks at you, then smiles. “Minho is an even more wonderful man now. Because of you.”

Your face warms at her words. You don’t know how to respond, but before you can even try, Sara sighs and leans back. “You’re too strong of an opponent for me,” she says lightly. “So I’m going to drop out of the competition now.”

Flustered, an awkward laugh escapes you.

Sara watches you with amusement before her gaze softens. “I’m going to start over from the beginning.” Then, turning to you, she asks, “Will you help me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara frowns at that. “Don’t call me ‘Chef.’ I’m not qualified for that title anymore.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “That’s not true, Chef.”

Sara chuckles, a real, warm laugh this time. The weight of the past days lingers, but for the first time in a while, the night doesn’t feel cold.

-

Minho is startled to see you already waiting outside his apartment door. You’re grinning, your eyes bright as you greet him with a sweet, “Good morning, Chef.”

He suppresses a smile and hoists the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder before walking past you toward the elevator. You follow closely behind, your steps light and eager.

As the two of you wait for the elevator, you turn to him. “What did you and Chris talk about last night?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at you and asks, “How’s Sara?”

“She’s sleeping,” you reply, then add, “She must be really tired.”

Minho nods. “Good.”

The elevator chimes, and both of you step inside. As it descends, you turn to him again, curiosity evident in your voice. “So? What did you two talk about?”

Minho feigns innocence. “Who?”

You roll your eyes. “The two men who growl at each other every time they meet. What could you possibly have to say to each other?”

Minho glances at you, tilting his head. “What did you girls talk about?”

With a teasing smile, you answer, “We talked about you.”

Minho smirks. “We talked about you.”

You narrow your eyes and search his face, trying to get him to look at you. “What exactly did you talk about?”

Minho shrugs. “I don’t know.”

The elevator doors slide open, and before you can press further, he steps out, leaving you to follow.

On the car ride to work, Minho’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and sees Sous-chef Seojun calling. You see it too.

He picks up, skipping the formalities as usual. “What is it?”

There’s a pause on the other end before Seojun hesitantly mutters, “Chef…”

Minho cuts in before he can finish. “Yes, I’m your manager chef for the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

You swat his arm and mutter under your breath, “Be gentle.”

Minho side-eyes you but keeps listening as Seojun stammers, “Are you… serious?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

Minho’s tone turns teasing. “What? You don’t want me?”

“N-No! That’s not what I meant!” Seojun quickly corrects himself.

“Then?” Minho presses. “You do want me to be your manager chef?”

There’s a brief pause before Seojun confirms, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho smirks. “We’re going to start right away.”

This time, he hears the entrée line shouting in unison through the phone, their enthusiasm palpable. Minho leans back in his seat, enjoying the moment before casually warning, “Brace yourselves.”

“Yes, Chef!” they chorus back.

And then, just because he can, he adds menacingly, “You’re all dead meat now.” He hangs up, satisfied—only to yelp in pain when you hit his arm.

“Do you really have to say that?” you scold, glaring at him.

Minho rubs his arm dramatically. “It’s called motivation.”

You shake your head, but a second later, both of you burst into laughter, the sound filling the car as the morning sun casts golden light over the city streets.

-

The moment Minho steps into the restaurant, he heads straight for the kitchen. He expects chaos, hesitation—maybe even defiance. But to his surprise, the entrée line is already working on the meat exactly as he instructed.

He watches them in silence, moving through their stations one by one. His sharp eyes scan each movement, each technique.

When he reaches Hyunwoo’s station, he stops. “You’re not wrapping it properly,” Minho points out, his voice calm but firm. “The juice will seep inward.”

“Yes, Chef.” Hyunwoo doesn’t argue like he usually does. Instead, he immediately corrects his mistake, adjusting the wrap with careful precision.

Minho observes him for a moment, realizing something. The way he approaches the problem changes everything. He’s spent years pushing, demanding, forcing results—but he didn’t know there was an easier, better way until now. A small, satisfied smile tugs at his lips.

Turning away, he strides back to the chef’s table and leans against it. “Taesoo,” he calls out.

Taesoo looks up from his station. “Yes, Chef?”

“Gather everyone in my office before lunch service.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo enthusiastically answers.

Minho watches them for a moment longer before heading toward his office, feeling something settle in his chest—something that feels a lot like pride.

Once everyone is crammed into his office, Minho wastes no time. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, and gets straight to the point.

"Farfalle has been invited to participate in the New Chef Culinary Challenge," he announces. "If we win first place, we'll be given the title of Best Italian Restaurant—and the winning chefs will get the opportunity to study in Italy."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, excitement mixing with uncertainty. Minho lets it settle for a beat before he continues.

He turns his gaze to the entrée line, calling their names one by one. “Sous-chef, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan have been chosen to represent Farfalle in the competition.”

Felix, standing next to you, looks utterly bewildered. He blinks rapidly, his confusion clear. But Minho isn’t done.

“In addition to that, I’ll be their manager chef.”

Felix’s head snaps toward him, mouth slightly open. Minho ignores him.

“We’ll be represented in the contest by our locally trained chefs, but all of us will be preparing for this together,” he states. His tone leaves no room for argument. “I want everyone to stay after hours every day to prepare and practice.”

Felix points at himself, then at you. “Wait—does that include us?”

“Yes,” Minho confirms without looking at him. “Which also means everyone will have to partner up.”

Felix looks even more surprised. “Partner up as in—”

Minho hisses through his teeth, cutting him off. Felix immediately quiets down, mumbling an apology.

Minho exhales sharply. “You two already have three years of experience in Italy. You’ll share your skills with your partners, step by step, course by course. Got it?”

A chorus of groans rises from the entrée line, but only Seojun has the nerve to voice his complaints. “Chef, we don’t have time for this, and we don’t even get along. Are you doing this to us on purpose?”

Minho’s expression remains blank. “Yes.”

Seojun gapes at him then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan but they're just as bewildered.

“And to make it worse, I’m pairing you with the person you hate the most,” Minho adds casually.

The room erupts in protests. Minho tunes them out. Taesoo raises his hand and Minho gestures for him to speak.

“What about me, Chef?” Taesoo asks.

“You just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Minho answers. “You don’t need to worry about the contest.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo replies immediately.

Minho gives them all a sharp look before concluding, “That’s it. Get back to work.”

A collective, reluctant “Yes, Chef” murmurs through the room as everyone drags themselves toward the door.

Minho notices Felix hesitating, clearly about to protest, but before he can open his mouth, you grab his arm and pull him along, laughing. “Come on, it’s going to be fun.”

Felix groans dramatically, but Minho catches the small, amused smile he’s trying to hide.

-

After dinner service ends, everyone takes a one-hour break, but once the clock runs out, they gather back in the kitchen, ready for after-hours practice. Minho walks in, eyes sweeping over the group, noting their varying levels of exhaustion and determination. Good. They’ll need both.

He steps up to his chef’s table, resting his hands on the edge as he speaks. “There’s only one ingredient we can predict with some certainty,” he begins. “Beef. But we don’t know which cut it’ll be.” His eyes scan the room. “Could be tenderloin, could be sirloin—but one thing’s for sure: the main dish is beef.”

A few nods. No one dares to interrupt as Minho continues. “The hors d’oeuvre, soup, pasta—every course has to complement the main. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef,” they all respond in unison.

“For tonight’s practice, we’re working with tenderloin you guys have prepared. Each of you will come up with a full-course meal to go with it.”

Another unified, firmer, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho wastes no time assigning partners. “Felix, you’re with Seungwan. Hyunwoo, you’re with her.” He jerks his chin in your direction before turning to his own station. “I’ll partner with Sous-chef.”

With that, practice begins. Minho heads to Seojun’s station first. “Cook the meat rare, medium rare, medium, medium-well, and well-done. I want you to cook all five.”

“Yes, Chef,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho lingers, watching as Seojun methodically seasons each cut with salt and pepper. There’s a rhythm to his movements, precise but almost too careful.

Minho studies him for a moment before casually asking, “Sous-chef, have you always been this brusque?”

Seojun glances at him and—unexpectedly—smiles. He doesn’t answer.

Minho slyly smiles and moves on. At Felix and Seungwan’s station, Felix is deep in conversation with himself. “We could do a tomato-based starter. Or maybe something lighter—citrus?”

Seungwan nods. “Sounds good.”

Felix hums. “Or we could go with mushrooms. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.”

Minho sighs. He strides up behind Seungwan and gives him a light smack on the back of the head. “Stop saying sounds good to everything,” he scolds. “Think before you answer.”

Seungwan swallows and nods quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho turns to Felix. “And you—stop giving him multiple-choice. Make him answer your question.”

Felix straightens, nodding. “Yes, Chef.”

Satisfied, Minho moves on to your station, just as you return from the pantry with tagliatelle. He barely makes it two steps before you whip around and snap at Hyunwoo.

“Why did you put in the spaghetti?” you ask with your eyes widened.

Hyunwoo doesn’t even look up as he nonchalantly says, “Why does it matter?”

You exhale sharply, incredulous. “Because it’s a cream sauce pasta.”

Minho steps in before you bore a hole on Hyunwoo’s head with your laser glare. “Spaghetti is good with olive oil sauces,” he explains, crossing his arms. “For cream sauces or bolognese, use wide pasta—like tagliatelle.”

Hyunwoo nods, but you suddenly point at the pan and scolds, “At least, shake the pan. The pasta’s getting mushy.”

Hyunwoo startles and hurriedly shakes the frying pan to salvage it.

Minho exhales through his nose and walks back to his chef’s table, observing the kitchen as everyone continues working. It’s still rough. Not perfect. But at least it’s a start.

-

Minho lingers in the kitchen, arms crossed as he leans against the chef’s table, watching you and Taesoo clean up after practice. The kitchen is quieter now, save for the sound of running water and the occasional clang of metal against metal. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

Then, the peace is disrupted as Chris walks into the kitchen.

Minho lifts a brow but doesn’t straighten up. “What brings you here?”

At the sound of Chris’s arrival, you and Taesoo pause mid-task, glancing over in curiosity.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls out a credit card, placing it on the chef’s table with a small but deliberate motion. “This is for the contest preparations,” he announces. “I don’t know how else to help, but I want to do something. And I figured this way, I can actively support both the harmony and quality of this kitchen—especially for the competition.”

Minho picks up the card, turning it between his fingers before giving Chris a flat look. “So, this is your way of pressuring us to take first place?”

Chris only smiles, coy and confident. “Weren’t you going to take first place anyway?”

Next to you, Taesoo grins, clasping his hands together in exaggerated admiration. “Wow, that was so cool. Giving Chef the credit card like that,” he gushes.

You lean forward on the counter, propping your chin on your hand. “Right? That's our manager.”

Minho glares at you. You, of course, are too busy swooning over Chris and his stupid credit card to care. Annoyed, Minho turns back to Chris. “If you were just going to give me this, you could’ve done it privately. Why make a big deal out of it?”

Before Chris can respond, Taesoo cuts in. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You let out a soft sigh. “It is a big deal.”

Minho hisses at both of you, but you and Taesoo only grin in response.

Chris, ever composed, simply adds, “Since I did make a big fuss, I’ll say this too—let's not overwork everyone. I don’t want the contest interfering with regular kitchen duties.”

Minho nods and shifts his gaze to Taesoo. “As a matter of fact, Taesoo, you can go home now. From now on, just focus on your regular duties.”

Taesoo brightens immediately. “Seriously? Thanks, Chef!”

Minho turns back to Chris, exhaling through his nose. “How about you go home too, Mister Manager? Wouldn’t want this interfering with your regular duties.”

Chris slyly smiles, giving everyone a casual, “Goodnight,” before leaving the kitchen with Taesoo in tow.

Now, it’s just you and Minho in the kitchen. He looks down at the credit card, rolling it between his fingers again before glancing at you. “If we don’t win first place, Chris might tell me to reimburse him for all this.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head. “We’ll win first place.”

Minho raises a brow and leans in slightly. “How do you know?”

You playfully bump your shoulder against his, a small, easy gesture. “Because you’re managing the team.”

Minho hates how easily you can make him smile—but that’s exactly why he loves you. You stay when everyone else can’t stand him for long.

-

It’s early in the morning, and the restaurant is still empty. The silence stretches through the halls, interrupted only by the soft hum of a computer. As expected, Chris is already in his office, his brows slightly furrowed as he reads something on the screen.

You pop your head through the door, a bright smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning.”

The moment he looks up and sees you, his face lights up—like it always does. “Hey,” he greets, his voice warm. “Come in.”

You shake your head. “Actually, I want you come with me?”

Chris blinks, confused, but doesn’t hesitate to push his chair back and stand. As you lead him toward the kitchen, he falls into step beside you, eyeing you curiously. “You’ve been working late nights,” he comments. “Aren’t you tired?”

You glance at him and reply softly, “It’s not like I’m the only one tired. Everyone, including the chef, is working hard.”

When you arrive in the kitchen, you turn to him with a small grin before stepping aside to reveal a plate of mini spinach lasagna—the dish you know is his favorite.

Chris stares at it, momentarily stunned, before his lips stretch into an elated smile. “Wait—is this what I think it is?”

You nod, confirming, “Your favorite spinach lasagna.”

Grabbing a fork and a napkin, you place them beside the plate and gesture toward it. “Go ahead, have some.”

Chris narrows his eyes at you playfully. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, keeping your voice light. “No occasion. Just felt like making it.” You don’t tell him the real reason—that you made it as a quiet thank-you for everything he’s done.

Chris eyes you again like he doesn’t quite believe you, as if he’s about to tease you for it, but instead, he mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” before digging in.

You watch as he eats, a contented smile plastered on his face. The sight of him enjoying the food makes something warm settle in your chest. But as he nears the last few bites, curiosity tugs at you, and you finally break the silence.

“What did you and Minho talk about last time?”

Chris glances at you mid-chew so you continue. “At his place, the other night,” you clarify. “Chef said you guys talked about me. Is that true?”

Chris spears the last piece of lasagna with his fork, shoving it into his mouth as a sly smile curves his lips. He chews slowly, deliberately dragging out the suspense. Then, finally, he answers. “It’s true. We talked about you.”

You tilt your head. “What did you say?”

Chris dabs his mouth with the napkin, casual as ever. Then, in that same effortless way, he says, “I told him that I love you.”

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, okay,” you chuckle, shaking your head, assuming he’s joking.

But then Chris meets your gaze—steady, unwavering. “I’m serious,” he says.

The smile slips from your face but he holds your stare, his voice gentle yet firm as he repeats, “I love you.” A beat passes before he continues, “I’ve always been in love with you. Since the moment I met you.”

Your breath catches as Chris exhales, almost like he’s relieved to finally say it aloud. “That’s why I offered you the job—because I wanted you close to me.”

You knew he liked you. But this—to say that he loves you—it’s something you never even dared to consider. And now, your heart aches in your chest because you know the answer he wants from you isn’t one you can give.

Chris watches you, his expression unreadable. When you fail to find the right words, he simply smiles again, softer this time. “Thanks for the food,” he says before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

You stand frozen, your mind spinning as a lump forms in your throat. The sadness settling inside you isn’t just sadness—it feels more like guilt. Guilt that you can’t return his feelings.

Before you can think twice, your feet move on their own, and you break into a run. “Chris!”

He stops in the hallway, his back still to you. Slowly, he turns, his eyes meeting yours. You search his face, desperate to say something, anything that will make this feel less heavy.

But in the end, all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Chris smiles. Not in disappointment, not in pain—just a simple, understanding smile. He nods.

Your own lips curve into a faint, wobbly smile, even as tears prick at your eyes. This time, you say what you can say. “Thank you.”

Chris holds your gaze a moment longer before murmuring, “Just stay close to me. That’s enough for me.”

You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat, and as you stare into his eyes, you let them say all the things you don’t have the words for.

-

Minho steps into the restaurant, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. His eyes scan the room instinctively, pausing when he spots Chris sitting alone at the coffee station. With a quiet sigh, Minho makes his way over, grabbing the stool beside him without a word. He reaches for the pot, pouring himself a cup, the rich aroma curling in the air between them. Neither of them speaks at first. The silence lingers, comfortable in a way that only comes with familiarity.

Then, Chris calls him. “Chef.”

Minho barely glances at him. “What?” His tone is indifferent, automatic.

Chris sets his cup down, fingers loosely curled around it. “She told me that I’m not for her.”

Minho expected this. He knew it was coming. And yet, hearing it out loud still catches him off guard. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before he says, “Let’s have a drink later.”

It’s not a suggestion, more of a casual invitation, the kind that doesn’t need much thought.

But to his surprise, Chris shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

Chris doesn’t elaborate. He just sits there, sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just turned Minho down flat.

Minho scoffs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Chris is annoying but now that he’s used to it, Minho thinks he is not that bad.

-

The clock creeps past midnight, but the kitchen is still alive, filled with the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, the sizzle of pans, and the quiet murmur of focused conversation. Minho moves through the space, eyes sharp, hands tucked into the pockets of his apron as he surveys the progress of the night’s practice. He stops first at Seojun’s station, dipping a spoon into the sauce meant to accompany the steak. The rich aroma fills his senses as he tastes it. The balance is almost there, but—

“Add more brandy,” Minho says, licking the remnants off his lips. “The meat’s already tender, so I’m not sure about all this sweetness.”

Seojun hums in thought, nodding. “I agree. I’ll fix it, Chef.”

Minho moves on, his steps light but deliberate as he approaches Seungwan’s station. Felix is there, nodding approvingly as he tastes the cauliflower soup. “The sweetness is perfect,” Felix comments. “And the aroma’s nice.”

Minho watches for a moment, the satisfaction settling in his chest before he continues his rounds. At your station, he stops in front of the stove, lifting the pan of pasta he’s been working on and holding it out to you. “Here. Try it.”

You grab a fork, testing the pasta first before twirling a portion coated in sauce and popping it into your mouth. Minho watches as Hyunwoo waits, anticipation written all over his face. Then, your lips curve into a grin. “It’s a success.”

Hyunwoo grins back, holding up a fist. You bump it without hesitation.

Minho exhales through his nose, amusement flickering in his chest, before turning back to his chef’s table. He surveys the kitchen one last time, then announces, “Let’s finish up here. Clean up and get some rest. We have an important day tomorrow.”

The kitchen shifts—knives are set down, stations wiped clean. But before anyone disperses, there’s a quiet moment of camaraderie. Pats on the back, murmurs of “Good luck,” and tired but proud smiles exchanged between teammates.

Minho watches all of it. No matter what happens tomorrow, this—his kitchen—has done well. And he’s proud.

-

Minho doesn’t have to look to know that you’re asleep in the passenger seat. Your soft, steady breathing fills the quiet space, the faint rise and fall of your shoulders confirming just how exhausted you are. You don’t even stir when he shifts the gear into park.

He exhales, leaning back against his seat for a moment before deciding not to wake you. Instead, he unclips his own seatbelt, steps out into the night air, and rounds the car to your side. When he opens the door, the dim streetlights cast gentle shadows over your sleeping face.

Minho watches you for a beat longer than he should. There’s something about seeing you like this—unguarded, peaceful—that makes his chest feel tight in a way he can’t explain. The corner of his lips tugs upward as he reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with careful fingers.

Then, he leans in, unbuckling your seatbelt with the same tenderness. He takes your bag first, slinging it over his shoulder, before positioning himself to carry you on his back. With practiced ease, he lifts you, adjusting his grip as he straightens up. The car door swings shut with a quiet thud behind him.

You stir, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you slowly wake. Your voice is groggy when you mumble, “You can put me down now. I can walk.”

Minho scoffs and tightens his hold on your legs. “Just stay still.”

You obey, resting your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. He starts walking, the cool night air contrasting the warmth of your body pressed against his back.

After a moment, he asks, “Do you know why it’s tough for women to become chefs?”

You hum in question, still half-asleep. “Why?”

Minho shifts your weight slightly before answering, “Because women aren’t stupid.”

There’s a pause before he continues, his voice softer now. “Only stupid people would dig for a well in a dry desert. And as a chef, it feels like you’re endlessly digging, never knowing if you’ll find water.” He slows his steps, turning his head slightly toward you. “You’re beautiful to me because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You blink sleepily at him, but he doesn’t stop. “You turned down a rich guy. You take whatever impossible task I throw at you just so I can hold my head up as a chef. You helped me be a good chef.” Minho smiles to himself before adding, “I’m so grateful for you… because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You look at him then, a quiet smile forming on your lips. Your eyes hold something deep—something that makes Minho’s pulse stutter for a second. He holds the gaze, but then you move first, leaning in just slightly—just enough for him to meet you halfway.

His lips capture yours in a slow, tender kiss. It lingers, warm and unspoken in its meaning, a silent gratitude that words could never quite hold.

When he pulls away, he finds you smiling at him. You place another soft peck on his lips before resting your head against his neck again, sighing in contentment.

Minho exhales, warmth overflowing in his chest. Without another word, he tightens his grip on you and keeps walking, the weight of you on his back feeling a little lighter than before.

-

The night is quiet, save for the faint rustling of the sheets and the soft cadence of your breaths. The world outside feels distant, insignificant, as if nothing exists beyond this room, beyond the warmth of Minho’s skin against yours.

He takes a moment to worship you, how your body is a vision against the white sheets, so perfect, so divine but at the same time, he feels the temptation to ruin you.

Minho aligns his cock with your entrance, he pushes just enough before withdraw it and then pushes it back inside, this time not stopping until he fully sheathed inside you.

His face hovers only a few inches above you as he murmurs, “How do you always feels so good?”

He thrusts slowly, deliberately, as though memorizing the way your body responds to him—the way your breath hitches when his fingers trace the curve of your spine, the way your lips part when he leans down to kiss you, deep and unhurried. His hands explore you with reverence, as if he’s searching for something he never realized he was missing until you.

Minho has never been like this before. Never taken his time like this, never felt the urge to savor each moment as if it’s something fleeting. But with you, it’s different. You make him want to stay in this moment, to drown in it, to lose himself in the warmth of your body and the way you whisper his name like it means something more.

“Minho...”

His forehead presses against yours as he moves, his breath warm against your lips. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he’s trying to etch this feeling into his bones.

He’s had lovers before, but this—this is something else. This is intimacy in its purest form, a connection that seeps into him, filling the hollow spaces he didn’t even know existed.

When he looks into your eyes, half-lidded and full of something he’s almost afraid to name, Minho knows.

He’s never been this into someone before. And he doesn’t think he ever will be again.

The night wraps around you both, quiet and intimate, the world beyond these walls forgotten. The only thing that exists is the warmth of Minho’s body against yours, the slow rhythm of your breaths mingling in the still air. His movements are unhurried, each touch deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him.

Then you look at him, eyes hazy, searching.

“What are you thinking, mmh?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

Minho stills. His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, like he’s anchoring himself. He could say it—could tell you that you make him feel things he never thought he would, that this is different from anything he’s ever known. But the words don’t come, not yet. He isn’t ready.

Instead, he answers with a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. His lips move against yours as if trying to tell you everything he can’t say. His hands trace over your skin with purpose, lingering, savoring. He holds you close, pressing his forehead to yours as he stills completely, just staying like that, connected, feeling every bit of you against him.

Time stretches, the moment suspended in something weightless, something sacred.

Then, with a breathless murmur, he finally thrusts into you again, pouring every unspoken word into the way he touches you, into the way he loves you.

-

The competition hall buzzes with tension, the air thick with the quiet hum of anticipation. Minho surveys the crowded space, noting the presence of teams from some of the city’s most renowned restaurants.

The competition is stiff, but he isn’t here to lose. He glances at the trio seated next to him. Seojun, as always, maintains a calm exterior, but Minho knows him well enough to see the flicker of nerves behind his eyes. Hyunwoo and Seungwan, on the other hand, don’t bother masking their anxiety—it’s written all over their faces.

Beyond them, Minho catches sight of the small group of supporters from Farfalle. You’re nestled between Felix and Taesoo, talking quietly. Minji and Yura sit nearby, also here to cheer the team on.

The announcement comes: it’s time to unveil the secret ingredients.

Minho steps forward, his pulse steady as he rounds the table. His hands are sure as he lifts the lid off the box, revealing the ingredients inside. He hears the sharp intake of breath beside him as Seojun spots the meat—tenderloin. Good.

Minho digs further and pulls out a pack of fresh squid. The second Hyunwoo sees it, he sighs in frustration. "Squid! But this is the cheap kind," he mutters under his breath.

Minho doesn’t even look up as he replies, “It’s a contest. They want us to prove we can turn cheap ingredients into something worth serving.” His gaze flickers to the panel of judges, landing briefly on Chef Rossi. He has a feeling the challenge stems from him.

Turning back to his team, Minho straightens. “The judges are testing us,” he says, voice firm. “But this is where we show them our skills.”

He grabs the board and pen, holding them up for emphasis. “Listen, once we submit our course menu, we can’t change it. So think carefully. Look at the ingredients. What dishes work?”

He gives them a moment to think before turning to Seojun first. “Main course?”

“Tenderloin steak,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho nods, writing it down before shifting his attention to Seungwan. “Hors d’oeuvre?”

Seungwan hesitates, rifling through the ingredients, his expression frustrated as he picks up the squid. “What am I supposed to make with this?” he sighs.

Minho clicks his tongue. “Don’t start that.” He levels Seungwan with a look. “You’re the most optimistic person in this damn kitchen. You always find the best in any dish. Do the same here. What’s the positive in these ingredients?”

Seungwan’s brows furrow. He looks back at the squid, fingers tapping against the packaging. A few seconds later, his expression shifts—realization dawning. “Squid carpaccio,” he says. “There’s a unique taste to squid when it’s fresh. I can work with that.”

Minho smirks. “Are you confident with it?”

Seungwan meets his eyes. “Yes, Chef.”

The four of them continue finalizing the menu, the tension in the air shifting into focus and determination. Once everything is set, Minho hands their submission to the panel, his mind already calculating the next steps.

They have little time before heading into the kitchen. He turns back to his team, gaze sharp as he looks at each of them.

“This is it,” he says. “Soon, there won’t be any chef to answer to. No one yelling at you to do it over. You’re on your own.” His voice lowers slightly, just enough to make them listen. “I hope this is the last time I’ll have to curse you out. Go out there and take first place. Got it?”

The three of them answer immediately. “Yes, Chef!”

Minho exhales. “From here on, it’s all up to you guys. I’ve done what I can to help.”

Another firm, unwavering reply: “Yes, Chef!”

Minho glances at each of them before nodding. “Come on, let’s do this properly.”

He extends his hand, and they all gather in, hands stacked together in a show of unity. He looks at them one last time before murmuring, “Good luck.”

With that, he watches them leave for the competition kitchen, a rare smile tugging at his lips. No matter what happens next, he’s proud.

-

The tension in the competition hall is almost suffocating. Minho watches as the chefs return with their finished dishes, the air thick with anticipation. From the sidelines, he sits with you beside him, your warmth grounding him amidst the pressure.

“The final round of the New Chef Culinary Challenge is about to begin.”

The words echo across the hall, and Minho exhales sharply. It’s time. He feels your fingers tighten around his hand, a reassuring squeeze before you lean in, your breath warm against his ear. "Posso farcela."

Minho glances at you, smirking at your whispered encouragement. Without another word, he stands and strides toward the table marked with Farfalle’s name.

Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo are already there, standing stiffly in a line. Minho claps each of them on the shoulder, his touch firm, steady. “Good work.” It’s all he says, but the weight behind it is clear.

The judges begin making their rounds, moving from table to table with slow, deliberate steps. Each contestant watches with bated breath as they meticulously sample every dish, jotting down scores with unreadable expressions.

Minho stands still, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on one judge in particular—Chef Rossi. The old man tastes each dish in front of him with careful consideration, his gaze revealing nothing. Minho has always respected his palate; in a room full of critics, his opinion is the only one that truly matters.

But when Chef Rossi finally sets down his fork, his expression remains cryptic—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes before he turns away, leaving Minho grasping at straws.

A slow, simmering frustration builds in Minho’s chest. What the hell was that? Approval? Disappointment? Amusement?

As soon as the judges move to the next table, Minho wastes no time. He grabs a fork, slicing into the tenderloin and lifting it to his mouth. The moment the flavor bursts onto his tongue, his mind is made up.

The judges would have to be idiots not to give them first place.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the judges tally their scores. The murmuring in the hall grows restless. Beside him, his team is standing stiff, their confidence wavering in the face of the unknown.

Finally, the host steps forward, microphone in hand. The murmurs die instantly. “It is now time to announce the winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

Minho’s fingers curl slightly against the table. He’s not the only one holding his breath. A pause. A beat too long.

“We will now announce the first place winner.”

Minho doesn’t blink. He already knows. But then—

A flicker of something in the host’s expression. A hesitation. A subtle shift in the air.

Minho’s heart kicks up—just slightly.

“The winner of the 8th New Chef Culinary Challenge is...”

-

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[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Hello again wonderful person of the Internet!

Thank you for answering my previous question! But I have came to you for another one.

So I’ve seen a little bit of dialogue from Ford, but how does he speak? Like what is his speaking mannerisms? Is it all gibberish? Does he stutter? Does he repeat words?

Keep on making your art and being awesome! :)

~ Question asked from the Tiniest Cyclops ~

Hello, hello again, tiny cyclops in my inbox!

As I mentioned in this post where I go a bit more in depth on Ford's brain injury, Ford suffers from aphasia! Which is basically the loss of one's ability to express language and communicate, while not losing the ability to understand it. But I'm sure you already knew this; and if not, the more you know!

How does he speak? It really depends when you were to go up and talk to him in the timeline. His speech mannerisms the few following years right after his head trauma is very different from how he speaks now in canon! He's had 30 years to recover, after all.

Ford's speech right after his injury was practically non-exitstent. He was smacked in the face with all of the textbook definition symptoms of aphasia, ramped up to 100.

Speaking in short or incomplete sentences.

Speaking in sentences that don't make sense.

Substituting one word for another or one sound for another.

Speak unrecognizable words.

Have difficulty finding words.

Conversations with him back then were not "gibberish" per se, but more so just... slow. And frustrating for everyone involved, although no one could ever be more frustrated than Ford himself. I mean, can you imagine? He could barely say anything without monumental effort, and whatever meager words he managed to squeeze out of his throat were lackluster, to say the least. Every part of his speech were hindered: grammar, pronunciation, heck, even the tone, volume and rythm of his speech didn't always come out correctly.

Due to how recent his brain injury was, there was also the added physical impairments to his speech. The muscles involved in producing speech were weakened, affecting Ford's control and clarity of his words (this is also called: dysarthria).

From an outsider's perspective, listening to him would have felt a little like listening to an extremely corrupted audio file, or a faulty record player. He would often take long pauses in the middle of his words; his words sometimes blended into one another; and his sentences were short, and simple. I think this quote from this website explains it best.

"Speech may be 'telegraphic' omitting small words such as 'the'. So, 'tomorrow I'm going to the pub with my wife for our anniversary', may be expressed as 'tomorrow...pub... wife... anniversary'. This requires the listener to accurately piece the message together."

So, yeah! As you can imagine, speaking for him was extremely hard. Often times, the townfolk he tried to speak to didn't have the patience to stick around while he finished a sentence, and gradually even Ford lost patience with himself, so he just. Gave up. Which was why he used to be much quieter in the beginning, lurking around town wordlessly, not even really bothering even when someone tried to initiate conversation with him. For a genius who once prided himself so much of his eloquence, losing that ability was a huge blow for him.

How fast one recovers from aphasia really depends on the severity of the injury. It can either take up to a few hours, days, maybe even weeks to fully reover with no long term repercussions, or the symptoms can last months, even years to shake off, and occasionally it's a lifelong condition. Ford, due to the severity of his injury, drew the short end of the stick, and was stuck with the lingering aftereffects of aphasia pretty much forever.

BUT, he evenutally managed to find the will to speak again! At some point during his 30 years of recovery, he decided that he'll figure this shit out himself, goddamnit, he was a scientist. He outsmarted a demon! He didn't have time to be depressed, he needed to relearn how to SPEAK!! (fuck yeah, determination, baby).

And learn he did. Very painfully, very gradually, Ford became basically his own speech therapist for a few decades and relearned everything his body and brain forgot. And although the results aren't perfect- he still stutters, he still gets stuck on words and he still stumbles over them- considering the fact that he had no professional treatment from a clinic or doctor available, it was good enough.

Now he won't shut up! (lovingly)

[emptymanuscript]

I admit I'm on the fence about AI in general... well, on the I have never used it and am not sure if I ever should but I've got the deep fear of missing out side.

But in the context of learning, it strikes me as falling in the same landscape as a calculator or Excel. I use a calculator or (actually more commonly) Excel to do any math because I'm not particularly good at math and never really have been.

BUT

When I was growing up, you did NOT get to use a calculator until you knew how to calculate. This was not a thing to make us suffer or just make life more difficult.

I also had stupid tests where I had to solve 100 math problems in 3 minutes, and I'm not about to argue that was good for me, helped me, or should be inflicted on subsequent generations.

I had to learn how to calculate BECAUSE of the above. If YOU don't know how to calculate, then it is impossible to tell if the calculator gave you the correct answer or not.

Back when I used to post to r/excel, I used to get flack for not showing the "EFFICIENT" way to solve problems but instead would show things step by step. But this is the same thing. If you do things in a big complicated group, you either get the right answer or the wrong answer. If you do things step by step you can CHECK your answer step by step and see if they make sense.

Do I need to know how to do 87^2 in my head in 30 seconds or less? No. I really don't. But I do need to know what is going on and why it is happening.

87^2 = 7,569 is great for a calculator to do. The calculator absolutely can do it faster than most people can. But if I just plug in 87^2 and get 689, how do I verify it? How do I check? Can I even realize, hmmm, that doesn't look quite right. Are my functions all right?

Knowing what is going on is the insurance for that. I can probably catch that, oh, I was trying to use a clever trick and forgot some steps.

The answer isn't all that is important.

And yes, it absolutely can make you dumber. Like I got to hear a discussion between two lecturers I really liked. And one just went off on a tangent and the other was clearly wondering why the hell she was there, this isn't science. BUT because I knew the details of how they were both dealing with the basic problem they were talking about - current science not being able to successfully predict certain phenomenon without numbers to fudge the situation that represent things that can't be proven independently of the need to fudge the numbers - I was able to follow the miscommunication while they, themselves, could not. His tangent made perfect sense in the context of his field of interest and made zero sense in hers. And if all you have the answers with no information of how you got to them, there's zero way to connect "I think the Sun might be conscious" and "I think half of the standard model is based on incorrect assumptions." They were in fact talking about the same things and differing solutions but there's no way to align that without talking about the assumptions, which needs to be laid out in order to UNDERSTAND the answer.

And struggling with my FOMO on writing, there's the basic truth that the reason I fear like I'm missing out is in part because I AM an expert. I have a graduate degree in TEACHING creative writing. I know my shit. So if I ask ChatGPT or whatever to spit out a scene for me, I not only can tell if it is good or bad, I can explain WHY it is good or bad and what needs to be done to improve it. I have zero fear of amateurs asking ChatGPT to spit out a novel for them and getting a novel of quality that I will be competing with. I am scared of people with enough knowledge of how writing works and knowledge of how ChatGPT creating the equivalent situation of me doing long division on paper while they're plugging the equations into a calculator.

A calculator, used as a tool, by someone who understands what they're doing, can do calculations faster and with less errors than someone who also understands what they're doing but isn't using a calculator. But it's not the difference of one being able to do it and another not. It's a difference of speed and accuracy.

It's an entirely different set up when it's someone who understands what they're doing versus someone who doesn't. You can give someone who doesn't know what they're doing all the tools in the world and it will still take them longer and produce an inferior product because they can't understand what they're doing.

And that's the basic problem with using ChatGPT for education. Yes, it can give you an answer. But because you don't know how, you simply have to trust that it is the correct answer. With no way to double check, no way to gauge, and no way to adjust the workflow to better suit your needs.

It absolutely is shooting themselves in the foot. Because school is the point where access to help with process and WHY things work the way to do is easiest to get. It does simply get harder to find the farther away from educational opportunities you get. And when you need it to work isn't the best time to be trying to figure out what you're really doing instead of already having that education and skill under your belt.

It's also relying on the fatal assumption that tomorrow is going to look like yesterday. My earliest datable memory is June 1st 1982. The world is so profoundly different in February 13th 2025, that I am very comfortable promising you that the idea that you can depend on the world looking the same for your entire life WILL get you into trouble because that's simply not the way the world works. Certainly not now. The assumption that it is safe to use ChatGPT now because you will always be able to use ChatGPT is a set up for failure. Will there always be tools? Yes. Will you know how to get future tools to work the same way as ChatGPT? Probably not. I grew up using Dos and then Window's machines. These days, the programs are so different, I find it easier to use a Mac instead of learning the new way that Windows does things.

If you rely on a particular tool solving a problem for you in a way you don't understand beyond that tool giving you the answer, you will be relearning the tool every large iteration. And eventually it will be different enough that it will set you back. That you will essentially be starting from nearly scratch. And then what? If you don't know what kind of answer you should get, how are you going to know if you're using that new tool correctly because some engineer decided that it is more efficient to move in a different direction?

Even novels have changed over the course of my life. Every book I've read that was published in the last 15 years breaks fundamental rules I was taught back in the early 90's. The conventions that I would have insisted that ChatGPT follow have changed. But if I didn't know WHY those conventions existed how would I even know? How would I adjust? Why would it even occur to me that I needed to adjust? ChatGPT sure doesn't know.

That's probably fine if it's just something you're doing for fun.

But if it is your job? Getting things wrong can be the difference between keeping that job and going hungry. It is not a good idea to be utterly dependent on your tools. Tools are to make what you're doing easier, not to do the task for you all together.

Yeah, just don't. The grades are not as important as what you will be able to do (or not be able to do) later in life. And sometimes that later can be a LOT sooner than you anticipate. I watched a LOT of people wash out or nearly wash out of college because they didn't know the whys and hows of what they were doing academically. I saw straight A students flunk out because they just learned the cheat or because their schools were crap and only taught one way to do things or taught nothing at all and just let the cards fall. I had a good friend who came in with a 4.2 GPA and nearly flunk out because she wasn't taught basic skills I had gotten in middle school.

Which was intentional.

Because she was black and poor and I wasn't.

Her schooling was designed to fail her because the best way to make sure someone as smart as her STAYED black and poor was to let her fly without ever teaching her the skills to do better when she needed to. And she was damned smart. And she worked damned hard. And she pulled through and got a master's before I did. But she was in the extreme minority and had a lot of help and still slid through by the skin of her teeth. Most people in her position crashed and burned and ended up WORSE off than they started. Which is great for the powers that be because it makes them a demonstration of why you shouldn't even try. It shows that society is stacked against you. Because it is. Because it is designed to fail.

Understand that ChatGPT is the same set up. It will make things easier. For now. It will give you the answers. It will work. Until it hits the level it can't anymore. And that WILL happen. It is inevitable. And then you have no supports and you ARE going to crash and burn.

There is a reason that ChatGPT is cheap and being forced on everyone. It is controlled by the people who are being served by the current societal structure.

Are you being served? Are you sure? Because if there is ANYTHING about you they can benefit by crushing, washing you out, setting you out to sacrifice, they're going to do it. Anything that is free in our society is a tool to make YOU the product. And they're damn good at doing it. So think long and hard about using that tool when they have so much history and investment in making you crap out for their benefit. Don't rely on them to save you.

I just started grad school this fall after a few years away from school and man I did not realize how dire the AI/LLM situation is in universities now. In the past few weeks:

I chatted with a classmate about how it was going to be a tight timeline on a project for a programming class. He responded "Yeah, at least if we run short on time, we can just ask chatGPT to finish it for us"

One of my professors pulled up chatGPT on the screen to show us how it can sometimes do our homework problems for us and showed how she thanks it after asking it questions "in case it takes over some day."

I asked one of my TAs in a math class to explain how a piece of code he had written worked in an assignment. He looked at it for about 15 seconds then went "I don't know, ask chatGPT"

A student in my math group insisted he was right on an answer to a problem. When I asked where he got that info, he sent me a screenshot of Google gemini giving just blatantly wrong info. He still insisted he was right when I pointed this out and refused to click into any of the actual web pages.

A different student in my math class told me he pays $20 per month for the "computational" version of chatGPT, which he uses for all of his classes and PhD research. The computational version is worth it, he says, because it is wrong "less often". He uses chatGPT for all his homework and can't figure out why he's struggling on exams.

There's a lot more, but it's really making me feel crazy. Even if it was right 100% of the time, why are you paying thousands of dollars to go to school and learn if you're just going to plug everything into a computer whenever you're asked to think??

[puppyscatorccio]

idk if i either want to be in melissa's or shauna's place or be in between because oh my lawddd 😩

imagine reader accidentally stumbling upon them and shauna threatens you too but melissa's already coaxing you to join in

-🐈‍⬛

i've been riding the "melissa is fine as fuck" train since s2. i need to be sandwiched between them! i'm actually obsessed with that scene, so i started working on this request as soon as i got it. / mdni, knife use (appropriately this time. somewhat.)

you didn't even want to be here. you just saw melissa going off somewhere by herself, and you couldn't help but be a little worried (and curious). with mari already lost, it just wasn't smart to go out wandering alone.

so, you followed her. silently, without her even noticing you were there. creepy? a little bit, sure, but you didn't think about it. when you saw her talking to shauna, you instantly hid behind a few bushes.

the second shauna had a knife to melissa's neck you were ready to step in, even if it would meant that you'd get stabbed too. right as you were about to jump up and (attempt to) tackle shauna down, but melissa was way faster than you with her own reckless counter-attack. that was already enough of a shock on it's own, but to see shauna kissing her back even more fiercely? you almost didn't believe it.

the sight had your legs a little wobbly, and with how awkwardly you were crouched, it wasn't long before you fell back on your ass and on a branch, snapping loudly and making a pair of eyes instantly go to you. shit.

you were ready to run, the words "sorry, i'll leave" right on the tip of your tongue, but you weren't fast enough to do so because shauna was already pulling you up and putting the knife to your neck, while melissa just stood there and watched.

"what the fuck are you doing here, you weirdo? you were fucking stalking us?" shauna's voice rang, loud and harsh just how she had been speaking to melissa a minute ago, and even as you look to the blonde for help she seems a little clueless on what to do. you're left to fight on your own for now. "no, i wasn't— i just wanted to make sure everyone was safe."

the cold steel against your neck was suffocating, your breath coming out in short gasps. this is it, this was the end for you, all because you saw shauna and melissa making out.

"if you tell anyone about this, i swear, i will slit your throat and cut you up—" "shauna, it's fine. they won't tell anyone, right?" melissa's voice finally came through, your savior in that moment of panic. except that her idea of help seems a little different from yours, because instead of freeing you she's just pulling you up straighter, patting the dirt away from your clothes and practically handing you over to shauna.

"yeah— yeah, i won't!" your panic is obvious to the both of them, but melissa's hands on your shoulder seem to somewhat calm you down. that, and the realization that you're squished between them, a little too close for comfort.

"see, shauna? look, if you're worried, we can just keep her quiet in... other ways." you can feel melissa shrugging behind you, also a little nervous, but you don't move to look in her eyes to try and understand what the fuck she meant. shauna's knife was still against your skin, so close to cutting, and you didn't want to risk it.

melissa's hands go down to your arms, back up to your shoulders, go to your chest and eventually settle on your waist. all the protests in your throat die out the second she has her lips dangerously close to the back of your neck, almost kissing but not quite there. that seems to work to convince shauna pretty damn well, because even though she doesn't drop the knife, she's not pressing it quite as harshly against your throat and she's leaning in to crash her lips against yours.

there's no affection in it, really. shauna is aggressive, taking what she wants how she wants. she's almost angry, you think, but you let it happen. it's not like you can pretend it doesn't feel good either. melissa is a bit more gentle, though her hands are locked on your waist with nails digging in. if it weren't for the shirt you were wearing, it would definitely hurt. bad.

you're stuck between shauna's aggressive kisses and melissa's firm grip while she waited for her turn, barely giving you time to catch your breath before she's grabbing your chin and pulling you in. shauna's eyes are on you, crazed and lustful, like she wants to devour you. you don't doubt that she would.

just when things were starting to go further, with melissa daring to slide her hands under your shirt, you hear someone's voice a little farther away, calling for your names. great. you're forced to disentangle from eachother, the sound of clearing throats and fixing clothes being all that there was for a moment. but with the looks shauna shoots to both you and melissa, you can't tell she won't let this go unfinished for too long.

[robertsfloyd]

More lando and oscar with clingy puppy reader?

landoscar and puppy are my favourites btw

the monaco grand prix.

you held lando's hand as he walked through the paddock, headed towards the mclaren garage. your ears were hidden beneath an orange hat, your tail sticking out from beneath your skirt.

"c'mon, angel," he mumbled as he pulled you along. you went willingly, your tail wagging as you went. why were you so happy? because you were going to see your oscar.

your oscar. as soon as he saw you, he would kiss your nose and pout at the number on your hat. and then he would hold you until he and lando got called away.

"lan?" you called as you squeezed your hand.

"what is it, puppy?" he asked, pulling you around the people in his way. you copied him, going anywhere he went.

"i like going to races with you," you mumbled as you followed him into the mclaren garage. your nose worked, sorting through the smells until you found him. until you found oscar.

letting go of lando, you rushed forward. you threw yourself at him, wrapped your arms around him, and buried your face against his chest. it knocked your hat from your head but you didn't care as you held oscar

"hey, sweetheart," he said gently as he wrapped his arms around you. he grabbed your hat, held it in his hands as he rubbed your back. he had been the first one to leave that morning, and you had been understandably pouty.

but he was here now and he was holding you. "i missed you this morning," you whispered through pathetic whines. "don't like it when you're not there to help me pick out my outfit."

oscar didn't care much for his own fashion sense. but he loved helping you. loved helping you pick out your outfits before he took you to a cafe or a park.

He stroked the top of your head. you wanted him to kiss you, but you knew he wouldn't. not here, not now.

"Let's get your hat back on," he whispered and pulled you away from his chest. you blinked up at him, looking so damn sweet.

smoothing your hair down, Oscar placed your hat back on your head. "should be on of my hats," he mumbled as he tucked your ears in.

your hat wasn't just stylish, wasn't just to show who you belonged to. it protected your sensitive, delicate ears from all of the loud noises around the circuit.

he kissed the top of your hat, the closest you could get to him kissing you while out in public. you just wanted him to hold you and kiss you, but he wouldn’t. not here. not now.

lando strode up to the both of you. his hands met your hips, pulled you towards him. "should we go and get your earplugs, pup?"

nodding, you reluctantly let go of Oscar. you just wanted a kiss from either of your owners, but it was the one thing you couldn't have.

you whined pathetically.

[gangstalkerbarbie]

You're not a god, technically. A god is one of them big ones, the extraterrestrials, see?

You, like everything else in the world, were born here; your beginning is not before time and outside the world. Not a god. You're a daimon. It's a common misconception.

Still, in the space of that misconception there's honest work.

You're not sure the council upstairs (if it's even a council anymore) pays much attention to most of mortalkind, really, otherwise there wouldn't have to be witches to do work scholars are jealous of, but doesn't someone have to?

Sometimes the ones that do enough of it become angels. Sometimes the ones that do something better than anyone else become... well, just what is Silence, actually? Is that still what he goes by? When he was Death All-Devouring he had a few more teeth, you think.

Anyway: when official channels fatfinger a prayer, you have to know, and it's just sort of the case, ethically speaking, that you're to do something about it. Even if only to keep up the illusion that the world-machine works. That's kind of a duty incumbent on all of you immortals, these days. Just until the big boss ... well, the big boss cannot be said to ever be doing or thinking or going to do or think anything, so you're not sure where that was going.

And that's why you're here at this wedding — because a hundred, two hundred years ago they realised the big kahuna might not be listening, deep down, somewhere, and so now you are the wight of the marriage bed. Some say the angel. They're not sure. You're not sure either; you have perhaps a dot more free will than angels tend to, but you find yourself doing a lot of angelic kinda work.

Is the Immanence here, like She's supposed to be? Doctrinally (you are a daimon, you don't really care about doctrine outside the mechanics of your own existence) She doesn't fuck with mixed marriages, but She also conveniently is present every time two men talk about lofty matters, yes, even if they're talking objectively heinous anti-sense about women and children and beasts. So, you know. It's kind of touch and go here. Is mixed marriage more bad than womanhatred? Very important scholars debate the issue even now. Six thousand years of debate have yielded the answer 'yeah idk probably'. You cannot perceive the Immanence. You wouldn't know.

You do, however, know the future, and in the next thousand years, thankfully, they will perfect the shaping arts and learn to make men into women, and maybe they'll all be women then, what the hell. It's an optimistic thought. The other immortals kind of snicker at you and tell you to go look forward at what they do with chymics, self-made new forms of life, in that future, and what they themselves go mad with pain and grief and loneliness and do, for which reason you kind of don't want to.

You might go and listen in on some of those last debates instead, except, again: wedding.

To your profound disappointment, this wedding expects to make you co-in-laws, sort of, with a small unfriendly god, one of the daimons that really believes in it, waves their essence around. This is... about to get really annoying.

You actually don't even dislike Sowulo. Everything you know about them boils down to the fact that they've been experimenting with themself after their mortal followers degendered them — that's the trouble with the overreliant ones, the essence moulds to the understanding of the souls they shepherd and then you end up in no end of annoying circumstances. This would be why personally you've never investigated what gender you're supposed to be. Less for your people to contradict that way. Maybe you predate gender, how's that for a thought exercise? (You don't; you were born in the middle of the Age of Chitin; they don't have to know you're something smaller and duller wearing an old god's pelt.)

And, well, it's just... they're a little weird? OK. They're a lottle weird. You are pretty sure they are, like, super mega ultra weird. The situation is like this: their people, their little guys, they used to be these peaceful cattle nomads. Then the Aeon of Sails and the Great Industrialisation, and the dire circumstances that led them into the ghettos, and so on — and somewhere in that transition, the travelling spirit of the warmth of the sun that was their constant companion came into conflict with the new State doctrine that the stars are unfeeling miasmas of incandescent plasma. (Is that doctrine? That's how you understand most things. You're not sure of the semantics.)

So now: degendered, deprived of influence, a cold light, not a warm one. Invoked, at best, at afterbirth burials, confirmations, weddings, cremations, premarital haircuttings, housewarmings, slaughters, and for the end of winter when it dies under their hand. They're annoying and dangerous and haggard and raw-voiced as a hungry buzzard because they are starving, because they have lost themself, because they don't remember what they used to be and they don't know what they want to be now.

Sometimes a ship launches from the harbour of this city, and you are there because you have one of your people to look after, and they look out at you from shore, forlorn, jealous, abandoned, so hungry. So hungry. Mourning something they half remember, something they are convinced you have. That's why they incite their sophonts to kill yours, maybe. You wouldn't know. You've never asked. You're busy doing your job, keeping those sophonts safe.

They envy you your vitality. They wish they knew what they were. They think you know what you are, and they want you to get off your inconceivably tall high horse.

You're not on a high horse. You just are, and you try to make sure your sophonts can just be, too. But Sowulo doesn't know that.

Sowulo knows that their people are small and broken and scattered, and that each wedding with any other people weakens them — weakens the people and weakens their god.

Sowulo hates you.

And, like, you don't really play favourites, all mortals are the same to you deep down, but you understand that there is a Teensy Weensy little problem, perhaps, with the favourite son of their most warlike clan's Great Chanter running away from home to elope with a witch-midwife from beyond the Pale. Not because she's yours, but that doesn't make it better. Her own huntedness and fear and old pain doesn't do anything for the situation either. Sowulo doesn't understand yet that suffering is a universal condition of settled life.

Your marriage priest, a jolly little roundish woman in veils against the interference of spirits with her work, pounds her cowhide drum and begins her chant. Sowulo's shakes his solar rattle, completely unaware that his god is seething in the rafters of the fane. Are you going to have to save his life, then, before the sun is up? This is going to be a very long, unnecessarily laborious, and probably also very interesting night.

You are a god whose most devout follower is marrying your rival God’s follower. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem except you both are asked to bless the union, and for that both of you must attend.

[merrybloomwrites]

We Know Where We Belong

Summary: When your brother starts working with Harry Styles, you're so excited to see him accomplishing his dreams. What you don't expect is the way this will change your life, and all for the better.

It may take time to get your happy ending with Harry, but when you do, the wait is completely worth it.

Word Count: 9.4K

CW: attempted assault leading to injury that needs surgery, allusions to sex, pregnancy & mention of childbirth

AN: I started this last June and it was originally just supposed to be a cute family story about reader as Mitch's sister, but then decided I wanted to make it a Harry x reader instead.

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Your whole life, you always looked up to your two big brothers. Beckett is the oldest, thirteen years older than you, and one of your first memories is of him getting his first car when he was sixteen. He was always nice to you when he was around, but truthfully that wasn’t a lot. He had his group of friends that he always went to hang out with, and he left for college when you were only five years old. 

Mitch was the opposite, hanging home most of the time, though often hidden in his room. There was always music playing, whether from his radio, or from his guitar. He was always practicing, and you thought he was the best guitar player in the whole world. Sometimes, when Beckett was out, Mitch would play on his drum kit. You were sworn to secrecy, which didn’t always suit you. As the little sister, the baby of the family, you felt it was your duty to stir the pot. But when Mitch promised to teach you guitar in exchange for you staying quiet about the drums, you had to agree. 

The guitar lessons were your favorite activity. Mitch would teach you different skills, always patient when you needed extra help to understand something. Plus, you got to watch him play, and he would test out new song ideas on you. It wasn’t the best idea if he wanted constructive feedback, since you thought everything he played was the coolest thing ever, but it made you feel so special that he trusted you so much.

When Mitch got his driver's license, the first thing he did was take you to get ice cream. Instead of disappearing with friends all the time like Beckett had done, Mitch would take you on some sort of outing each week. But his schedule started to fill up with school, and work, and practicing music with some other boys in the neighborhood. Though he still made sure to hang with you, your guitar lessons and trips to the ice cream parlor started to become less frequent. 

And then he left for college. And you tried to ignore your sadness at how much you missed him. You got into new hobbies which kept you busy and introduced you to new friends. You continued practicing guitar, and all your hard work paid off when Mitch came home to visit and was impressed by your progress. He was always there for your big moments, like when you won the spelling bee and that time your softball team went all the way to states. 

He came back home for a bit after college, but he spent most of his time working and practicing music. You were busy as well, having grown to love your extracurriculars and you had a solid friend group that you were always hanging out with.

But when Mitch announced he was moving to Los Angeles you were devastated. Him going to college was hard enough, and he was only two hours away. But California? This time you didn’t hide your feelings. To fourteen old you, this was the end of the world. Instead of hanging with his friends the night before he left, he spent it at home, having a movie marathon and reassuring you that he’d never be more than a phone call away.

It was hard saying good-bye, but you were proud of him for following his dreams. Your high school years both dragged on and flew by at the same time, and before you knew it you were getting college acceptance letters. While your friends were excited for their Ivy League acceptances or admittance to the biggest party schools, you had your eyes set on one place in particular. 

You called Mitch when the letter came, opening it on Facetime. You screamed in excitement when you saw the words “You’re In!” 

It was official. You were going to UCLA, and were going to live in the same city as Mitch.

Of course your parents worried about their eighteen year old moving so far away, but knowing your brother was close by eased their fears. You flew out that summer, working a waitress job and staying with Mitch who insisted he sleep on the couch so you could have his room. He pretended to be put out and annoyed, but you could tell he was happy to have you there.

And then he got the call. The big break he’d been waiting and working his whole life for. He didn’t tell you the details at first, since you were both busy and didn’t see each other much over those first few days. He mentioned he was working in the studio, but that was all. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that you two finally had some time together to hang out. 

“How’s the new gig?” You ask. 

“Honestly, it’s pretty sick. I’m working with Harry Styles,” he replies casually. 

You stare at him for a moment, thinking you must have misheard him. No way has your brother been working with Harry Styles for the past week. 

“Are you serious?” You finally ask. 

“Yea.”

“Harry Styles?”

“Yes.”

“From One Direction?”

“Mhmm.”

“Mitch! Are you serious?”

“Yes, Y/N, I’m completely serious. Why?”

“Why? Because it’s Harry Styles! You’ve met him? You’re working with him? Mitch this is insane! He’s like- he so- oh my god!”

“I’m not following,” Mitch says after your outburst. 

“Mitch, Harry is from one of the biggest boy bands in the world! I was obsessed with them! How do you not know this? And he was always my favorite. And then he grew his hair out and got even hotter.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you but he just cut it.”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re lying.”

“Sorry, but no. He went yesterday, here,” Mitch says and pulls up a picture on his phone. It is without a doubt Harry, his long locks gone. It takes a minute to get used to but you finally reply, “Well, he still looks damn good.”

“Glad to know you’re thirsting over my boss,” he says in a teasing voice. 

“Your boss. That’s so bizarre.”

“You want to meet him?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Stop asking that.”

“I mean, obviously I want to meet him!”

“Ok. I’ll talk to him. Maybe you can visit the studio next week.”

“Holy shit. Wait. No. Don’t do that.”

“So you don’t want to meet him?”

“I do! But no! Cause that’s terrifying.”

Mitch laughs at that and asks, “How is that terrifying? He’s super nice. Very chill. I promise.”

“Ok fine. Yes, I'd like to come and meet him.”

“Then I’ll set it up.”

“Can I ask about the music you guys are working on?”

“You can ask. But I’m probably not supposed to say anything yet. Maybe you can get a little preview when you visit,” Mitch says.

The two of you continue to talk, though Mitch is reluctant to share more details about Harry or his work. 

You’re busy with your job most of the week, but somehow manage to get Friday off, which is perfect because Mitch has set it up for you to come visit the studio and meet the others. 

You head over with your brother mid-morning, and ignore the way he’s teasing you. Of course you’re nervous to meet Harry Styles, but does Mitch really need to point that out?

Luckily Harry isn’t there when you arrive at the studio, giving you some time to look around at all the equipment. Mitch asks you to tune one of the guitars for him and you do so happily, enjoying having something to focus on.

When you finish that, Mitch grabs another guitar and the two of you play together for a couple minutes. It feels like all those times back home, and any anxiety you had earlier has melted away.

When you finish the song you’re playing you hear someone clapping behind you. The person then says, “Good to know there’s a backup Rowland if we ever need one.” 

Your eyes go comically wide as you realize the person behind you is none other than Harry Styles. Thankfully your brother decides to have pity on you, and instead of teasing you he simply says, “Harry, I’d like you to meet my sister, Y/N.”

You stand and turn, and Harry says, “Hello Y/N, I’m Harry. It’s nice to meet you.” He puts out his hand and you reach forward to shake it, and reply, “It’s nice to meet you as well.”

“While I’d love to chat a bit more, I had this idea last night and I’m itching to get started. You’re free to hang out. It’s pretty casual here. And then maybe you and Mitch can join me for dinner tonight?”

“Sounds good,” you say. “Thank you for letting me watch today, I’m excited to see what you guys are working on.”

“Of course. It’s good to have an audience, get some feedback.”

With that, you take a seat and spend the next couple of hours watching with fascination as they work. The time passes quickly and before you know it you’re seated with Harry and your brother at a nearby restaurant. 

It’s a great evening, and while you’d been nervous to meet Harry, you quickly discover that wasn’t necessary. He’s so friendly and welcoming, and the two of you keep getting lost in conversation, Mitch occasionally managing to get a few words in. But he doesn’t mind. He’s just interested in watching the two of you interact, keeping a big brother eye out. 

After stretching out the meal as long as possible you and Mitch say goodbye to Harry. You don’t expect the hug Harry gives you, and you really don’t expect it to be so prolonged. But you’re not complaining. 

Mitch, however, has some questions once the two of you get home.

“So, what’d you think of Harry?” he asks.

“He’s nice,” you answer simply.

“That’s all? You don’t have a major crush on him or anything?”

You roll your eyes and reply, “Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? He’s attractive, talented, kind. Pretty much the whole package.”

“I just don’t want you getting your feelings hurt.”

“I know. And I promise this is just a silly crush. I’m not gonna act on it and like, lose my mind and ask him out. Plus I’m sure these feelings will pass if I spend more time with him.”

As it turns out, your feelings do not pass. Over the next couple of weeks you see Harry on occasion, and each time, those feelings only grow. You just love everything about him. And he always makes you feel special, and happy. 

When you move into the dorms to start freshman year, Harry is there to help carry your things inside. He texts you after your first day asking how your classes are going. He checks in, and he sends food to your dorm that weekend to celebrate a successful first week.

And then he leaves. Well, him and his whole team, including your brother, for a two month writing retreat in Jamaica. You’re sad to be left behind and to have to say goodbye to them, but college is keeping you busy. While you miss them a bit, you’re focused on classes and you’ve made a great group of friends, so you don’t really have time to dwell on it.

That being said, you are excited when they come back. 

You spend time with both Mitch and Harry, but midterm season is a lot, so you tend to be hunkered down in the library or your dorm studying.

Even when your exams are finished, you still have one project hanging over you, so you spend one more evening focused at the library. You finally complete and submit it, and check the clock for the first time in hours, surprised to see it’s almost 10PM. 

You quickly pack up your things and head out, not wanting to interact with the library worker who would kick you out if you stay another five minutes.

It’s a quiet night on campus as you walk back to your dorm, and you’re enjoying the fresh air when all of a sudden someone roughly grabs and twists your arm. You turn in shock and the man pulls you off the path and into a dark alley.

Through the panic in your mind, you can’t help but think of how much of a cliched situation you’ve gotten into. But then he twists your arm even harder and you cry out in pain. That’s when his mouth roughly covers yours, both to try and quiet you, and to start what he’s obviously trying to do to you. 

Refusing to give in you do the one piece of self defense you can think of, and knee him in the balls as hard as you can. It works, and he backs away, but not before shoving you back so your head hits the wall. You cry out in pain, and thankfully that is heard by a group of students walking by. 

Two girls rush over to help you while a few boys surround your attacker, ensuring he can’t get away. 

“Hey, let’s sit for a minute,” one of the girls says and helps you to the ground. You can hear the other girl on the phone, presumably to get emergency services there. 

“Is there someone you want us to call?” 

“Uhm, yea. My brother.” You take a deep breath, trying to keep the panic and shock at bay in order to open your phone and click on Mitch’s contact.

It rings, and Mitch answers with a cheerful, “Hey, what’s up?”

For some reason, hearing his voice breaks through the barriers you’re trying to build, and you start to cry, too hard to even get any words out.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks, now clearly panicked. 

Realizing you won’t be able to explain, the girl wraps an arm around you and takes the phone, saying, “Hi, my name is Layla. My friends and I were walking on campus and heard a commotion. Your sister, she uhm, there was a guy. I think he hurt her arm, and uhm-” she stops for a moment and turns to you, asking if you were hurt anywhere else.

“Yea. My head. He hit it against the wall,” you manage to explain.

She nods and turns back to the phone, “She says he hurt her head as well.”

You don’t hear Mitch’s response but then Layla says, “I’ll send you a message with our location, hold on. Okay there, you should be able to find us. We have police and an ambulance on the way. My friends and I will stay with her.”

A moment later the phone is handed back to you. The call is still going so you put it up to your ear to hear Mitch say, “We’re on our way. We’re just down the street, we'll be there soon, I promise.” 

“Okay,” you choke out through your tears. 

It’s relatively calm for a minute or two, and then the scene becomes chaotic. The police and ambulance both arrive, and a moment later so does Mitch. You’re so happy to see him that it takes you a moment to realize Harry is there as well. 

You reach out your uninjured arm to your brother and he quickly sits beside you. He holds your hand and gently strokes your hair out of your face, wanting to comfort you but still way of any injuries you have. 

“Hi, I’m Colleen,” says a paramedic as she crouches down to your level. Before she can say anything else there’s a commotion. The police officers are cuffing your attacker and leading him to the car. 

As this happens, the man looks at you and shouts, “This is all the stupid sluts fault! You bitch!”

You turn to Mitch and tuck yourself into his chest to hide, but still hear the voices around you all yelling at the man to drown him out. One voice stands out, and Harry clearly says, “You’d better stop talking right now, or you’re going to regret it.”

“Harry!” Mitch shouts, calling him off before he can make an even bigger scene. Mitch knows that Harry Styles attacking anyone, even such a lowlife, would not do well for his image. 

Harry quickly walks over and kneels on the ground. You pull away from Mitch a bit and Harry gently places a hand on your cheek and asks, “Are you alright?” The concern is clear on his face, and though you’ve been friends for months, you're still surprised by the intensity of how much he cares for you right now. 

“I’m okay,” you say quietly. “Just wanna go home.”

“I’m sorry,” Colleen says beside you. “By the looks of that arm you’ll need a stop at the hospital first. And I’m told you hit your head as well so we’ll need to check that too.”

Harry steps back to let the paramedics do their work, and you pout at the distance. Your tears return as they splint your arm, and the next thing you know you’re being placed on a stretcher. 

Before they can get you in the ambulance, a police officer walks over and asks for your statement. 

“Does this have to be done right now?” Harry asks.

“We can wait up to 48 hours, but it’s best to do it now. It’s easier to get it done, and the memory is most fresh now,” the officer explains. 

“It’s alright, I’d rather just get it over with,” you say. 

You tell them exactly what happened, your grip on Mitch’s hand tightening as you do so. By the time you’re done explaining, tears are rolling down your cheeks again and your brother gently wipes them away. Harry turns his back to you, but not before you see the angry expression he’s obviously trying to hide.

You look at Mitch and see that his expression is mostly concerned, but he’s definitely mad as well. That’s when you realize that up until now, you hadn’t mentioned the man forcing himself on you. But now that Harry and Mitch know about the kiss, their worst fear is confirmed. This wasn’t a mugging, or someone trying to scare you. No, this man had nefarious plans, and if Layla and her friends weren’t nearby, this would have ended so much worse.

“Thank you,” the officer says, pulling you out of your swirling thoughts. “We have your contact information and we’ll be in touch with any updates or further questions.”

Colleen speaks next, saying, “Let’s get you taken care of so you can get home, hm?”

“Sounds good to me,” you reply, comforted by her calm and straightforward demeanor. 

“Which hospital?” Harry asks, and after hearing the reply, says, “Great, I’ll meet you guys there.”

The next few hours are a blur, and yet also pass in slow motion. Even with Harry pulling strings, it takes forever to get the tests and scans needed. And while you get the good news that you don’t have a concussion, it turns out your arm is worse than expected.

You have what you’re told is called a Galezzi fracture, so not only is the bone broken, but there’s a dislocation at your wrist as well. The worst part is that this requires surgery to fix. But at least it’s considered emergent, and after a few more tests, you’re taken into surgery. 

By that evening you find yourself settling into a comfy bed at Harry’s home. You’re quite fuzzy on the details, since the pain meds in the hospital are rather strong, but Mitch explains that your surgery went great and there was no need for you to stay overnight. And apparently Harry insisted that you all stay with him for a little while, since his place is most secure. 

It’s not even dinnertime, and yet you’re exhausted. Mitch helps you settle in bed and says, “Get some rest. I might run to the store to grab ingredients to make grandma’s soup, but I shouldn’t be gone long, and Harry is downstairs if you need him.”

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, and you’re completely unaware of the conversation happening downstairs.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” Mitch asks, sitting down at the kitchen table across from Harry who’s sipping a cup of tea.

“Yea, of course,” Harry replies.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all of your help since last night. But you’ve really gone out of your way for me and Y/N. I mean, coming with me, staying with us all night at the hospital, and now having us stay with you? It’s very kind of you, but it’s also a lot. It’s more than I could expect.”

“Mitch, I don’t mind at all. It’s truly not a bother. I have the means to help, and, well I care about you and Y/N.”

They sit quietly for a moment, then Mitch says, “Y/N likes you. The only reason I’m telling you is because those drugs they gave her are pretty strong and I’m almost positive she’s going to spill the beans in the next day or two. But she does. You were her celebrity crush, and she swears that she doesn’t see you the same way anymore. But now I think it’s just a normal crush on a guy she’s friends with. And here you are, as a knight in shining armor, taking care of her after a traumatic experience. I just don’t want her getting hurt.”

“I promise, I would never hurt her,” Harry says emphatically. 

“I know. I also know that I’d kill you if you ever did. I don’t care that you are my friend and my boss.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Harry says, thinking of his own sister and how he’d react in that situation.

“Just, let her down easy, okay?”

Harry is silent again before finally asking, “Can I be honest here?”

“Of course,” Mitch says, curious to hear what comes next.

“I uhm, I like Y/N too. I know that she’s my best friend's sister and all, but I’ve liked her since that first time she visited the studio. But my life is so complicated right now, and I’ve been trying to keep my distance and keep my feelings at bay, but they’re definitely there. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Take me out of the equation,” Mitch says. “I know people say not to date friend’s siblings, but don’t let me hold you back. Obviously I wouldn’t recommend asking her out until she’s recovered from this situation, and you should figure out if it could work with the tour you’re planning. But, I think you’re a good guy. And, uh, I think you and Y/N could be happy together.” 

Silence falls over the pair again. Seeing that Harry is deep in thought, Mitch says, “I’ll let you ponder on that a bit. Is it okay if I run to the store? I told Y/N that you’d be here if she needs anything.”

“Absolutely, of course that’s fine. See you in a bit.”

Harry continues to sit at the table, after Mitch has left, after he’s finished his tea; he sits there and thinks about the conversation with Mitch.

The only thing to break him out of his reveries is the sound of someone in distress. He stands up and immediately heads to the stairs, running up them two at a time when he hears you cry out again. He walks into the bedroom at the exact moment when you finally wake up from your nightmare. 

For a moment he stands there, waiting for you to indicate what you need. At the same time you freeze, reorienting to where you are. Once your brain finally catches up, you reach out to Harry with your good arm. He understands your request for comfort and sits next to you, carefully helping you shift so you can settle in his arms. 

He holds you gently, wiping away the tears that have started falling once again. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you, love.” You slowly relax until you’re able to fall back to sleep, cuddled against Harry. 

When Mitch arrives home he unloads the groceries and promptly checks on you. He’s surprised to see Harry in bed with you and whispers, “Everything alright?”

Harry nods and replies, “Yea, she had a bad dream but she’s good now.”

“Alright, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Mitch leaves, and Harry continues to hold you, imagining what it would be like to be able to wrap his arms around you in better circumstances. 

He desires a relationship with you, has for months now. But he knows it wouldn’t be fair to start something when he’s planning to travel so much so soon. He can’t ask you to leave school and come with him, but he can’t leave you behind. 

As you continue to sleep, he comes to the conclusion that the time isn’t right. He’ll release his album, do his tour, and then he can ask you out.

It’s a smart decision. But it’s one he’ll regret for years to come. 

Early the next year, Harry is busier than ever, getting everything ready for his album release. He’s put together a band that he’s excited to perform with, each member showing extreme talent while still remaining down to earth. 

Your arm has healed, but the nature of the injury has made your left hand weaker. No matter how much you try, you can’t play guitar the way you used to. You simply don’t have enough strength in your left hand to press down hard enough on the strings to make the clear sound needed.

You spend time at the studio, watching the band practice and then practicing yourself when they finish. Mitch stays with you, trying to help you retrain your hand, but even with the physical therapy you’ve been doing, you just can’t get it. 

The others are aware of your struggle as well, and all give encouragement. But it’s Sarah who does more and says, “Have you tried drums? You don't need quite as much strength in your fingers, just need to be able to hold the sticks. 

The three of you stay for hours that evening as Mitch and Sarah work together to teach you the basics. It’s fun, and therapeutic, and you can’t help but feel that you may be playing matchmaker. You know your brother, and it’s easy to see the way he looks at Sarah, how he acts around her. 

And from what you can tell, Sarah feels the same way. You admit you’d love for that to be true. Sarah is so nice, and always makes you feel at ease. You wouldn’t mind having her join the family, and it would be nice to finally have another girl around. 

But as always, the next journey begins. Harry, Mitch, and all the others have a busy year ahead of them. 

They leave to travel the world and play concerts for all of Harry’s adoring fans. You dive into your studies, and by the end of the fall semester of sophomore year, you’re happy to report to Mitch that you have a boyfriend. 

It’s amazing how quickly time can fly. Life has changed throughout your time in college, and you’re now in the fall semester of senior year. 

Mitch has helped Harry with his second album, which will be released in just a couple of months. Just like last time, you occasionally got to hear songs as they were being written, giving feedback but mostly being amazed. 

Unfortunately, your boyfriend was not all that happy with you spending time at the studio. After nearly two years together, his bad side reared its ugly head, in the most unexpected way. The last thing you thought you’d see when bringing coffee to his dorm was him in bed with another girl. And yet, that’s exactly what you walked in on.

The fight that ensues isn’t pretty, and it ends with you single and heartbroken, immediately making your way to the studio where Harry and his band are rehearsing. 

“What’s wrong?” Mitch asks the second you walk in.

“Nothing,” you state, clearly lying.

“Liar,” Mitch replies.

“I broke up with Aaron.”

At this news, Mitch and Sarah sit on either side of you on the couch. The rest of the band heads to another room to take a break. And Harry, well, he seems busy, fiddling with a notebook nearby.

“What happened, love?” Sarah asks as she wraps an arm around your shoulders, God, you’re grateful to have her in your life right now.

“I caught him in bed with another girl,” you explain.

If you weren’t so upset, Mitch and Harry’s reactions would probably be comical. 

“He did what?” they shout in unison, clearly outraged on your behalf. You expected this from your brother, but you’re thrown by how angry Harry is. 

“I was bringing him coffee, because he said he was working on a project. That ‘project’ ended up being named Margo. And it turns out he lied to her because she was very surprised to find out there was a girlfriend. So he’s the only asshole here. Margo punched him in the dick, so that was appreciated.”

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Sarah says.

You want to brush it off, say you’re fine. But it’s not. “Two years together and he just goes and does this? I mean, I thought he was the one! That we’d get married and have kids and all that shit. And now I have to start over?”

“At least you found the truth now before wasting any of your time,” Sarah says.

“You’re young, you have plenty of time to find someone who isn’t a total dick,” Mitch adds. 

“Ugh, I guess you’re right. But,” you pause, collecting your thoughts before saying, “But why wasn’t I enough for him?”

“Hey, don’t even think like that,” Harry says. “You are more than enough. He isn’t good enough for you, you understand me?”

Once again taken aback by his intensity, you nod to show that you’re listening. 

“C’mon, let’s go,” Harry says.

“What? Go where? You guys are in the middle of rehearsal.”

“We rehearsed all day yesterday, we’ll rehearse all day tomorrow. We can end a bit early today. I bet everyone could use a night off. We’ll go out, get some food, get some drinks, it’ll be fun!” 

And that’s how you find yourself in the middle of an L.A. nightclub on a Thursday night, grateful that your schedule for this semester does not include any Friday classes. Because while the night starts pretty tame, things… escalate.

You’re newly 21, and heartbroken, and you’ve had drinks in hand all night, though you haven’t bought a single one for yourself. It’s the perfect formula for things to get crazy. 

Mitch and Sarah head out after a couple hours. They worry about leaving you, but you reassure them a dozen times that you’ll be fine, and Harry tells them he’ll keep an eye on you. That’s enough for them to leave you alone with Harry. In your tipsy state you admit to yourself that this is, in fact, the desired outcome.

You thought you’d gotten over this crush years ago, but being here with him, recently single and a few drinks deep, you know that was a lie. You’d simply pushed down your feelings, told yourself you only liked him as a friend.

And then a song comes on that you love, and you pull Harry out to the dance floor. He goes willingly, happy that you’re no longer in a relationship and he doesn’t need to feel bad about being attracted to you. He hasn’t had much to drink, since his goal for the night is to make sure you’re safe and having a good time, but he’s had enough to feel a little loose. 

Which explains why his hands find your waist just seconds after yours loop around his neck. He pulls you close, until you’re nearly flush against him. The two of you get lost in the music, moving together to the beat, unaware that you’re pulling each other closer. 

It isn’t until his lips brush against yours that you realize your proximity. But neither of you pull away. Instead, Harry presses forward, his lips meeting yours in a surprisingly sweet kiss. It only lasts a second and then he’s gone, stepping back and saying, “We shouldn’t.”

You know he’s right, and part of you feels rejected. But another part of you rejoices in the fact that he kissed you. Not the other way around. Your mind wanders with possibilities, the possibility that he likes you, that he finds you attractive. Maybe he really does want you, but he’s being a gentleman. Afterall, you’ve been drinking, and you just got broken up with. 

This theory is backed by the fact that he still has a hand on your waist, making sure he remains in contact even just a little bit. 

“It’s getting late. We should get going,” he says next.

You pout and say, “Don’t wanna go back to my dorm.”

“Mitch and Sarah’s then?” He suggests.

“So I can see them being annoyingly in love? I’d rather not.”

“Okay. Do you want to stay in my guest room?” he asks, and you light up at the suggestion.

“Yes, please!” you say excitedly. You’ve spent some time at his place, having slept in that bed before after events at his house, and it’s the comfiest, coziest bed you’ve ever slept in. It’s exactly where you want to end this long, emotional day.

Harry picks up his phone and after a minute, says, “Cars on it’s way. Let’s get some water and head outside.” You follow his lead and soon find yourself next to him in the back of a luxurious car. You’re starting to get sleepy, and without thinking about it, you rest your head on Harry’s shoulder. With your eyes now closed, you miss the warm smile that spreads across his face at the gesture. 

A little while later you arrive at his house, and he wraps an arm around you to help you inside. He briefly ducks into his room and comes back with some clothes for you to wear to bed. 

“Go get ready, I’m gonna grab a couple things and leave them in the guest room for you,” he says. 

You go to the hallway bathroom to get changed and do a cut back version of your bedtime routine. When you get to the room, Harry is there placing water, snacks, and some painkillers on the bedside table. Noticing you look at him he says, “Just in case you need anything,” as explanation. “I’ll be in my room if there’s anything else you need.”

He goes to leave but you ask, “Can you stay? For a little while, I mean. Just until I fall asleep?”

His face goes soft at the request, and he replies, “Of course, love.”

You climb into bed, surrounded by the softest blankets in the world. Harry sits on top of the covers, his hand moving to stroke your hair until you quickly fall asleep. He stays for a little bit to make sure you’re really out, then presses a barely there kiss to your head before pulling himself away and going to his own room.

The next morning you wake up feeling better than you should considering how hard you went the night before. You still eat the granola bar that Harry left and take the pain relievers, downing the rest of the water as you do so. 

You sit there and can’t help but think about all the people who would kill to be in your position. Relaxing in Harry Styles’ bed, having kissed him the night before. God, you cannot believe you and Harry had actually kissed. You’d been single mere hours and already kissed another man. 

You’re conflicted by this. You’d spent years with Aaron, thought he was the man you’re going to marry. But you have to be honest, there was always a part of you that remained attracted to Harry. You know that you probably would have left Aaron if you had any chance with Harry, and that leaves you feeling incredibly guilty. 

Picking up your phone you see a number of texts and missed calls from Mitch. Without even reading through everything you text him saying, “I’m fine, crashed at Harry’s. Can you come pick me up?”

He replies, “On my way,” almost immediately. 

You wait a few minutes before heading downstairs, knowing you’ll see Harry but now knowing what to say. You finally suck it up and leave the guest room, bumping into him almost immediately in the hallway.

“Hey. Good morning. How are you feeling?” he says.

“Good, I’m good. Thanks for looking out for me last night. It was fun.”

“Yea, it was a good night. Can I make you some breakfast?” 

“Oh, that’s okay. Mitch will be here in a couple of minutes,” you reply. 

“Got it. That’s good then.”

The two of you stand there awkwardly, more timid around each other than usual. You can only assume he’s ignoring the kiss that happened just like you are. 

Thankfully your phone dings with a message that your brother is there.

“Guess I should get going,” you say.

“Of course, I’ll let you out.”

Harry walks with you to the front door, but before he opens it he turns to you and says, “I know it’s hard to heal from a breakup, so just, you know- I’m always here for you. If you need anything.”

It’s shockingly earnest, and takes you by surprise. This man who is more busy than anyone you know, willing to help you through a broken heart. You don’t know what to say so you just wrap your arms around his neck in a quick hug. He’s barely returned the gesture when you pull away, thanking him once again and heading out the door and into your brother’s car. 

Mitch waves to Harry as you buckle your seatbelt, and once you’re ready, he starts driving. 

“So what happened last night?” he asks. 

“Nothing.” 

“Y/N.” 

“I mean, not nothing. But like, nothing to worry about. So don’t worry about it.”

“Okay well now I am worrying.”

“It’s fine!” 

Silence falls over the two of you, an awkward air permeating the car. It wears you down, and finally you break and exclaim, “Okay, fine! Harry and I kissed! But just like, a little bit. So tiny. Like, blink and you miss it. So it’s no big deal, got it?”

“Oh shit,” is his only reply.

The silence is back, and has you feeling restless. 

“Mitch?”

“Yea?”

“Are you mad?” you ask.

“What? No,” he answers immediately. “I’m not mad. But you just had your heart broken. And any relationship with Harry would be complicated, especially a rebound.”

“He’s not a rebound! I like him. It was just one kiss. That’s all. I don’t plan on going further, I swear.”

“Okay. Did you have breakfast? I can make pancakes.”

“Pancakes sound good,” you answer, once again grateful for your brother who knows exactly how to support you through anything. 

Pancakes with Mitch and Sarah are just what you need. And when you do go back to campus and tell your friends what happened, they help you even more by cursing Aaron’s name, saying they’ll make sure word gets out that he’s a cheater.

You move on from that relationship, but no one new catches your eye. You’re finishing your second to last semester at college, starting to focus on job hunting, and spending time with your brother, Harry, and the band before Fine Line’s release in December.

They’re busy of course, but take a break for the holidays before picking things back up in the new year. You’re prepared to say goodbye to them for months, so it comes as a shock when a pandemic shuts down the world and leads to you moving in with Mitch and Sarah when your dorm closes. 

After only a couple weeks Harry moves in as well. He’d been living alone in his big house and you all knew it was weighing on him. He is clearly relieved to be staying with people, and the four of you make the most of this time in lockdown. 

Since the house isn’t that big, Harry ends up sleeping on the pull out couch in the living room. This naturally leads to the two of you spending a lot of late evenings together watching movies after Mitch and Sarah have called it a night. You guys both make fun of them for becoming an old married couple, but they clearly don’t mind the teasing.

You and Harry grow even closer during this time. Since your classes have switched to online, and Harry rarely has anything scheduled, you tend to stay up late talking about anything and everything. 

May comes, the world still shut down, and you officially graduate college. Mitch, Sarah, and Harry manage to surprise you with a graduation celebration to mark the big occasion. As always, you and Harry stay up late, talking about hopes and dreams and big plans. All the things that a graduation has people thinking about.

It’s even later than usual, and you and Harry end up sliding closer and closer as the minutes tick by. Just like the time at the club, you don’t notice how close you’ve gotten until you feel Harry’s breath ghost across your skin. 

This time you do pull back, just enough to look in Harry’s eyes and confirm he wants this too. When you see the determination there, you lean in again. There’s a slight pause, just enough to build the tension, and then your lips brush. 

And then you hear a noise, jumping back a second before Sarah walks in the room. The three of you look at each other, no one speaking a word for an agonizingly long time.

“Just grabbing some water,” Sarah says as she walks to the kitchen. 

When she walks back through the living room to go upstairs you feel you need to explain and say, “We were just talking. Lost track of time.”

“I’m sure you did,” she replies with a knowing smirk before she walks away. 

The moment having passed, you say, “I should probably get to bed.”

“I guess so,” Harry answers as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The gentle contact makes you blush and he says, “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Harry,” you reply.

You lay in bed, thinking about how close you came to kissing once again. It was clear he wanted it, and there was no alcohol to blame this time. You’ve been single for months, you start a totally virtual job soon, and all the reasons for staying away from Harry in the past, don’t seem like reasons anymore. 

You remember years ago promising Mitch you would never ask Harry out, but now you’re determined to break that promise. Your brother will understand. You hope.

The next day Sarah invites you and Harry to join her and Mitch on a walk. You decline, saying you planned to facetime with your mom. Harry decides to stay home as well, claiming he needs to catch up on some emails he’s been putting off.

You ignore the knowing smirk that Sarah once again sends to the two of you, grateful that Mitch still seems oblivious. 

Once you and Harry are alone in the house he asks if the two of you can talk.

Seated at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in hand, Harry begins. “I don’t really know how to say this. But I feel like I should just be honest.”

He pauses, and your mind swirls with what it is he’s going to be honest about. 

He takes a large breath, exhaling loudly before saying, “I like you. Have for a while. You just- you’re one of my favorite people to hang out with, and you’re so smart, and kind, and funny, not to mention talented and so, so pretty. And if you’ll agree, I’d love to take you out on a proper date.”

You sit there, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in shock. Sure, you were just last night thinking all those things about Harry, but to find out he feels the same way as you? Even with the sweet moments and the chemistry you’ve been feeling, this admission still hits you like it came out of thin air.

Harry starts to squirm and you realize you should probably answer him. You compose yourself and manage to say, “Yes. A proper date. That sounds lovely. And, uhm, I like you too.” The end comes out at barely a whisper, but you know Harry hears it as he smiles so big both dimples appear on his cheeks. 

But then a thought occurs to you, and you ask, “How are we doing a proper date in a pandemic? We can’t go out anywhere.”

“Don’t worry about that, I have a plan,” he says with a pleased expression. 

And that, the fact that he’s obviously put thought into this, proves that he’s felt this way for a while, just like you have. 

“Then I’m looking forward to it,” you reply.

“How about tonight?” He asks.

You’re surprised by that, and he must notice because he backtracks and says, “Or we can wait a couple days. I don’t mean to rush you, I just, we’ve waited so long-”

You cut him off and say, “Tonight is perfect.” You agree, enough of waiting around. 

“Wonderful! Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date,” you confirm. 

The two of you finish your tea in companionable silence before you get up to actually call your mom as you’d promised her. 

For the rest of the day you can’t help but wonder what Harry’s plan is. He does tell you to get a little dressy, so you spend much of the afternoon getting ready. Harry leaves for a couple hours and goes back to his house, leaving you with a very nosy Mitch and Sarah.

They know something is going on between the two of you, and keep asking questions, but you repeatedly brush them off. Truthfully you don’t have many details to give. 

When Harry gets back he’s dressed in slacks and a blouse, one of your favorite looks on him. It’s the perfect combination of casual and fancy, just enough buttons undone to tease. He’s holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, which Sarah helps you find a vase for. While the two of you are busy with that, Mitch takes Harry aside to give the typical big brother talk. 

Finally, Harry is leading you out to the car, Mitch and Sarah watching on like proud parents. Harry continues to keep the plan a secret, so you’re curious when he pulls into the driveway of his home. He parks the car and comes to open your door like a true gentleman. 

The two of you walk through the house and out to the back patio, where you see the beautiful surprise Harry has planned for you. He’s decorated the whole area, a bottle of wine ready on the table, and he explains that dinner he’s prepared.

He pulls out your chair and helps you settle in before bringing out appetizers. All of the food is delicious, and you enjoy every minute of the meal. There's a moment as you cut your food that your left hand slips a bit, never having regained full strength after the attack your freshman year. Noticing this, Harry quickly reaches over to finish the task for you before gently reaching out to hold your hand, his thumb stroking over the scar from your surgery. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bring it up, but comforts you all the same. 

The rest of the meal passes without incident, and the sun sets just as you’re eating dessert. It’s perfect, and romantic, and truly is the best date you’ve ever been on. The night ends in Harry’s bed, both of you too impatient to wait any longer after years of wanting one another. 

Since you and Harry have been friends for so long, it only feels natural to slip into this new relationship status of boyfriend and girlfriend. You start spending more and more time at Harry’s house, which apparently gives Mitch and Sarah more alone time together, since at the end of summer they share the news that Sarah is pregnant. 

The next three years are the most exciting whirlwind for all of you. Mitch and Sarah get married, then have a baby just days after they all perform together for the Grammys. Love on Tour begins a few months later, and you're so excited that your remote job allows you to travel with them for every show. 

Sarah makes sure you know all of her parts, making you her backup in case something happens and she needs to miss a show. You’re confident that won’t happen, and then one night, it does. 

It’s August 2022, night 5 at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Sarah comes down with what seems to be a nasty bout of food poisoning, and you’re asked to perform for her. You sit backstage before show time, an absolute mess of nerves. But then Mitch comes and sits with you, quietly hyping you up. The two of you sit and talk about playing music together when you were kids, and soon enough your nerves switch to excitement. 

Harry asks that you stop by his dressing room before going on stage. When you stop in he wraps you in his arms, telling you how happy he is that you’ll be out there with them. Having him be so confident in you and your skills boosts your energy even more, and you can’t wait to get out there.

The show goes perfectly, and Harry gives you a special shout out during the band intros, thanking you for filling in. Hundreds, possibly thousands of cameras film the interaction, which is why it’s no surprise that people are making theories about your relationship with Harry by the next day. You’d managed to keep the fact that you’re dating a secret for two years now, but the look he gives you on stage is undeniable. The truth that Harry is dating his guitarist/best friend’s sister is out, and honestly, you’re relieved. Especially since people seem to be happy about it, and have apparently some fans even shipped the two of you together before. 

With the success of that show, Harry asks you to fill in for Sarah on the entire Australia and Asia leg of tour. She and Mitch are taking a break, focusing on other projects and giving their now two year old a break from traveling for a bit. 

Now that people know you and Harry are dating, you’re nervous that they might think you got this gig because of that. Luckily it seems most people are just saying that Harry is lucky to have found the Rowlands, since they seem to be a very talented family. And well, that’s the best compliment you could have ever hoped for. 

You now better understand the post-concert adrenaline Harry always has, and truthfully, your sex life has only benefited from this development. 

There’s a part of you that’s sad that you won’t be on stage with Harry for the last leg of tour, but that feeling fades away the second he comes out on stage in Denmark and you get to watch in amazement once again. You’re especially glad to be in the audience for Slane Castle, and Wembley, and most importantly, Italy. 

The pride you feel watching him up there is overwhelming. The years that you’ve been together have been the happiest of your life, and you feel so much love for him. 

Which is why, two days later, when he gets down on one knee and asks you to marry him, there’s no question. You immediately say yes.

While the last two years have been all about tour, the next few years are all about building your lives together. You get married in a small ceremony, just family and close friends. Watching Mitch and Sarah’s son interact with Gemma’s baby girl practically kick starts your biological clock. 

You and Harry make sure to enjoy the honeymoon phase for a while, but the desire to become parents grows more and more every day. When you decide to start trying it doesn’t happen right away, but after a few months, you excitedly call him into your room.

He finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling and holding what is clearly a pregnancy test.

“Is it? Are you?” he asks.

“I’m pregnant,” you confirm and immediately he begins to cry and smile all at once, wrapping you in his arms and holding you tight.

“I love you so much,” he says before sliding to kneel on the floor. He places his hands on your hips and looks at your belly before saying, “And I love you too, little one.” It’s when he places a kiss on your stomach that you finally start to cry happy tears as well. 

Neither of you can wait to tell your families, who are ecstatic by the news as well. The biggest surprise is when you tell Mitch and Sarah, who share that Sarah is pregnant as well. Knowing that your child will grow up with cousins so close in age sends you into another bit of hormone induced happy tears.

The surprises continue when you go to your first OB appointment, and you learn that you’re having twins. And when you learn a couple months later that they’re both girls, Harry quickly settles in his role as a girl dad.

As expected, he is the best partner through all of this. He gets any craving you may have, does the hard work around the house, does anything and everything he can to help you be as comfortable as possible. He never stops telling you how beautiful you are, even when you’re six months along with two babies and feeling like a beached whale. 

You talk to Gemma and Sarah nearly every day, getting advice and reassurance from them, especially as you get closer to actually giving birth. Sarah has her baby just as you get to seven months and holding your new nephew in your arms is like a reality check that you’ll have two of these little ones in just a few weeks.

Harry continues to support you however he can, but as the weeks go by you start to admit that you’re just going to live in this discomfort until the babies are here. You just remind yourself that each day of heartburn and back pain is another day your babies get to cook inside you. 

When you do go into labor at 36 weeks, Harry remains calm and steady. His presence is grounding, and he gives you the strength to give birth to two beautiful and healthy baby girls. 

A few weeks later your house is full, both yours and Harry’s families there to visit. Some people might find it overwhelming, but in this moment, you’re simply filled with joy. You watch as Harry holds his niece, Gemma and Sarah each have one of your babies, and your parents entertain Mitch and Sarah’s sons. It’s crazy, and chaotic, and it’s like a dream you never knew you had has now come true. 

Mitch sits next to you, not saying anything, but putting an arm around your shoulders for a moment. He doesn’t need any words for you to know he’s taking it all in too. You’re grateful to have him by your side. Your big brother, your protector, and most importantly, your best friend. 

Harry hands his niece off to his mother and sits on your other side. Mitch smiles, gives you one last squeeze and goes to play with his toddler. Harry presses a kiss to your head and you sink into his side. You can’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world to experience all this love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thank you so much for reading! I really loved writing this one. Side note, chose that picture because I love smiley Harry, but also, love smiley Mitch in the background.

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

Let's Not Make A Big Deal Valentine's Special!

GHOST when you are A Strong Independent Human Who Don't Need No Man.

You just, y'know...want one.

Simom, whether by nature or dubious military nurture, is a lean, mean, left brained freak* of a partner.

Blunt; pragmatic; Simon.

It's not that he's not gentle, or sweet, or doesn't love you to hell and back. He does - oh god does he, and he needs you to know - but classic romance is a notion that has routinely evaded apprehension.

He didn't exactly have stirling examples growing up.

He is, therefore, understandably imbalanced when he forgets valentine's entirely, and Soap and Gaz are the ones to remind him. They spend the whole morning razzing him about how "every partner needs attention for valentine's."

It gets to him.

He powerwalks out to the phone lockers at the first opportunity, to text you and apologize. He's ready to hit send when his thumb freezes and he thinks better of it. He should call you instead, to schedule something for tonight. A make-up session.

And then he remembers he's being stupid, because Soap and Gaz and even Price have been right precisely once when giving him relationship advice - just that first day, when they convinced him to give you a chance after you'd asked him out.

You're already seeing each other tonight, anyway.

He slams the locker shut and twists the dumb little key in the big paw of his hand. You're fine, you and him are fine, he is a big bad emotionally mature man and he's not going to let his teammates make him insecure over a fucking hallmark holiday.

He's not.

But maybe he's relieved, just a little bit, when you kiss him at the door like nothing is wrong, ask him with a smile how his day was.

...Only to have it dashed when he walks past and sees a new floral arrangement on the table, one of those tacky red boxes open next to it.

He stops dead in his tracks, sniper quiet in an instant, an all quiet tension. You have to double back for him when you realize he didn't follow, looking between him and the table, a question in the air.

"I could've done that," he grumbles, looking forlornly at the flowers. He's scowling so hard he's building a unibrow, cursing himself and his team, but mostly himself for failing you.

It takes you slapping a little piece of plastic against his chest to snap him out of it, and even then all he does is stare.

"This is called a credit card, love. I'm big kid who makes real, adult money, and when I want flowers or candy, I take this baby to the store and buy it myself. S'not a test."

You have to remind Simon that he does things. Little things, constantly, that let you know he appreciates you. You can pull a whole list of examples off the top of your head.

In the end, you apologize to him - let him know that you know. And, by the way...you love him, too.

You wouldn't share your hard earned bourbon chocolate cherries with just anyone, after all.

*I love you my left brained people ♡

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Dae-Ho X Reader: Warmth

A/n: just needed to write some flully Dae-ho. He's such a sweetie

Warnings: just fluff, no use of y/n, gn reader

Word count: 652

You were curled up into a ball on the cot. Your body felt tired from the games but sleep couldn’t seem to consume you. You were shaking in the darkness, not sure if it was due to fear or  the sudden cold that had consumed the room. You were sure they had changed the temperature. Perhaps it was a way to make sure you were uncomfortable and unable to rest properly. But you didn’t really care about the reason behind the sudden drop of temperature. All you knew is that it was almost unbearable. 

Something touched your arm, causing you to turn your head. Dae Ho stood before your bed, crouching slightly so you could see him.You lifted off the bed a bit,leaning on your hands as you whispered to him.

“Is it my turn to look out?”

“Oh no. Jung Bae and Gi hun are still up. I just noticed noise coming from your bed and wanted to check if you were alright.”

You opened your mouth to answer him but before you could your teeth began to clatter. Dae Ho’s eyes widened, finally understanding what the problem was. 

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, it’s freezing in here.”

Dae-Ho was naturally warm blooded so the cold wasn’t bothering him. He actually preferred the chill air rather than the warmth. 

“Have you been able to sleep?”

You shook your head, body shivering silently as you continued to look at him. He could see from your face that you were tired. He tried to think of a solution. 

“I have an idea. Lay down.”

You did as he asked, continuing to face him as you rested back into the bed. He ducked under the metal cot, moving his body to rest on your bed. Slowly he lay down beside you pulling the cover over both of your bodies. The bed was small for one person and with the two of you sharing there was barely any space between you two. You didn’t mind the proximity, Dae Ho was a nice guy and you felt safe with him. 

“Scooch closer.”

Again you follow his request, moving until you could feel his breath on your face. The warmth that radiated off him was so strong. Unconsciously your body moved closer, trying to get impossible closer. Dae ho wrapped his arms around you, tugging you into his chest. You let out a sigh of relief as his warmth engulfed you. Your hands made their way to his back, slipping beneath his jacket.

“Aeee!”

You froze at his sudden yelp, eyes wide as you stared up at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Your hands are freezing!”

It was then that you noticed that you’d accidentally placed your hand beneath his shirt instead of his jacket. Your cold hands making contact with his skin. You began to move away, afraid that you’d caused him discomfort.

“No, don't take them out. It’s okay, I just wasn’t expecting it, that's all.”

You relaxed at his words, pressing your head into his chest as your hands continued to touch his bare skin. 

“Think you can sleep like this?”

“Yes.”

You raised your head so you could look up at him, a small smile on your lips.

“Thank you Dae-ho.”

The ex-marine smiled down at you, placing a small kiss on your temple.

“Now rest. You need it.”

“Wake me up when it’s our turn to look out.”

“Okay.”

With that you moved your head to Dae ho’s chest, eyes closing as his warmth lulled you into a deep sleep. Later that night Jung Bae made his way to your bunk, prepared to let you know it was your turn to look out. The sight he saw made him stifle a laugh. Dae-ho had his back turned to you, his body curled up as yours wrapped around him. Who would have thought the ex-marine liked being the little spoon.

[scandalaciousintentions]

You know when I keep telling everyone I am not back in this fandom and then I keep reblogging the bejesus out of everything I see? I'm not quite buying it either and I must try harder.

But before I do.

This is such a beautiful collection of chapters. This is not ship-bashing; it is relevant to the essay that follows. I'm not personally a fan of Wolfstar and that purely comes from the way I read these chapters, the way I've always read them. (I also accept this is a personal interpretation and I am open to others.)

That said, the way that I have interpreted what we're told is that these two have not been close. Arguably not for years, but I'd go so far as to say that they've been bound together by James alone. There's not just 12 years between Sirius and Lupin in this moment, there is a chasm of distrust, enmity, possibly even fear.

Which is not to say that either one of them is personally afraid of the other. I think for Lupin it's going to be a fear of completely misreading this man for ten years, a fear that becomes introversion, a fear and a distrust of his own instincts on which he can usually depend. For Sirius, it's a little more tangible - the fear that this man will kill him. In this line alone, there is the immediate understanding that the traitor must die and for the first time, we understand that Lupin is, and always has been, ruthless.

But Peter's sudden emergence on that map changes everything. The world stops spinning on the same axis and this is not just a bonding moment; it's a binding moment. The vengeance killing of Peter Pettigrew is going to bind them together for all time. It's going to bring them a hell of lot closer together from now on.

The fact that Harry steps in and stops it throws a spanner in the works for how this relationship moves forward. I am fascinated by what the first interaction post-PoA looks like. It has floated around my head for years. Because, from everything the narrative tells us about a proud and defiant Sirius and a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher literally fleeing confrontation in the closing chapters, it's not going to work.

I love this one particular piece of dialogue precisely because it tells us so much about their relationship. It even tells us exactly where it's headed. And what I love most is that they get there anyway with the act itself never having taken place.

I've been waiting for someone to bring this up for a while. I don't know what gave it away...

"Shall we kill him together?"

Sirius literally dropped that line after twelve years apart from Remus and I think that's such a meaningful bonding activity for them 🤗